A Bloodsmoor Romance (94 page)

Indeed—the revelation comes as a considerable surprise!

Yet more surprising still, the unlook'd-for development, which had its clouded origins in the early autumn of 1898, that the spinster Miss Zinn (now supporting herself on the meager salary of an amanuensis, for a retired Islamic scholar) was being courted by not
one,
but
two,
gentlemen, both possessing considerable fortunes!—and that she did not so much hesitate between them, but shrank from both, out of a fastidious dread that she might marry, simply from fear of poverty; and out of the more reasonable dread, that she was
unworthy
of either gentleman, and, indeed, of the sacred matrimonial state itself.

One of the suitors for her hand was Dr. Stoughton; the other, I am most reluctant to report, was the swarthy-skinned Hassan Agha, who, having returned to the States after some years of meditation in India, had made a display of renouncing his Theosophical ties, and, more generally, his interest in “all things Oriental and tiresome,” and had most desultorily taken up the Anglican faith of his deceased mother: the which he also rejected, after a shamefully brief period, tho', shrewd as he was, and blessed with that craftiness we oft note in the pagan, he did not reject the handsome fortune that had come to him, by way of his mother.

The blond, upstanding, selfless Christian physician, on the one hand; and the olive-skinned, black-eyed, part-Indian ne'er-do-well, on the other: and yet, such was the unwholesome nature of Deirdre's judgment, she dared hesitate between them,
as if they were equals.

“I shall not press my suit, Miss Zinn,” spoke Dr. Stoughton, the modesty of his bearing scarce concealing a tumultuous heart that beat within, “for, I believe you well know, the
breadth,
and
intensity,
of my high regard for you: and I shrink from bringing more discomfiture to your troubl'd life.” Thus the courteous Dr. Stoughton, upon several occasions, and numerous times, employing divers language, in formal epistolary guise.

Now hear by contrast the rude imperatives of Mr. Hassan Agha, whose years of ascetic discipline, as a
chela
of Madame Blavatsky's, and as a novice, more generally, in one of the most austere of the Hindoo sects, had scarce had any discernible effect, upon his latent animal nature: “Miss Zinn, I shall not let you rest, until you have given me an answer: nay, until you have given me the only answer that
your
nature, and
mine,
as well as the curious adventures that bind us, require. I declare myself with pride the son of an Indian prince, and an Englishwoman of excellent breeding, and commendable passion (if little common sense): with no slackening of that pride, I declare myself your slave, one who has known himself under your spell, since that prodigious morn at Landsdowne House, where, upon a beauteous grassy slope, I discovered your reclining, and insensible, form, and succumbed at once to your authority. Yes, even amidst that crowd of fools, quacks, dupes, and charlatans, in which I enacted some dictated role, which only the grotesquerie of
karma
-wisdom might explain, I had manliness enough, to realize my passion for
you.
”

Coarse words!—and accompanied by a hot dark gaze, and an intensity of manner, of such visible animalism, I cannot even attempt to convey, in the verbal art, its effect.

That Deirdre fully felt the barbarism of such utterances, is to be inferred, since, her silken cheeks flaming crimson, she sent Mr. Agha away with dispatch: that she wavered in her judgment, and succumbed to no little anxiety, during her insomniac nights, is clearly evident, in that she failed to
forbid
this importunate creature to indulge his passion for her, in sending voluminous missives to her, the which made disquieting reading, and struck a very exotic, and jarring, note, in the unadorned solitude of the single room which Deirdre now rented, in a modest, but altogether respectable, rooming house for “single ladies.” (This stolid brownstone on Stuyvesant Square, very near St. George's Episcopal Church, accommodated some ten or twelve spinster ladies, all of good middle-class families, and most of an age advanced beyond Deirdre's. Without exception, all were employed in those feminine skills—that of teaching the very young, or tutoring the invalided, or acting as librarians, or pastoral assistants, or amanuenses—which, tho' by tradition affording but meager financial reward, are nevertheless gratifying as occupations, and inestimable, in their quiet contribution to our industrious society. And not only was the subdued atmosphere of this excellent rooming house a palliative to Deirdre's uncertain nerves, and vexing memories, but the tranquillity of East Seventeenth Street, and, indeed, the genteel atmosphere of the square itself, mercifully free of that bustling traffic that, elsewhere on the island, so plagued and endangered the lives of the city-dwellers, could not fail to act as a restorative, to her soul.)

“I shall not press my suit,” declared the one, in a manly voice made tremulous, by emotion; “I shall not let you rest,” declared the other, scarce minding that his animal exigency, and the smold'ring black gaze he bent upon her, were deeply distressing, to one of virginal status.

As if there were any reasonable grounds for the slightest hesitancy, in choosing between them!

Yet hesitate the perverse Deirdre had done; and continued to do; all the while further taxing her fragile nervous constitution, by inquiring as to whether, “fallen” as she was in so many respects (I refer to the egregious worldly
career
she had forg'd for herself, out of vanity and ambition, as well as to the outlaw nature of her flight from Bloodsmoor), she deserved
either
man for a husband; or
any
man at all.

“It is my fate, I am sure,” Deirdre languidly mused, many a night, in the frugal solitude of her spinster's abode, “to dwell alone: husbandless, and childless. And, tho' I feel naught but relief, how apt it now seems, that even my ‘spirits' have abandoned me!”

(For, indeed, those diabolical creatures
had
abandoned their “medium”: and had not even teased her, during the long months of her convalescence, when, one might think, her enfeebl'd state might have tempted them.)

Plagued by sleepless nights, and rarely soothed by the robust tolling of the bells, of old St. George's, Deirdre nonetheless absorbed herself in a subtle species of
pride,
in musing thusly; and in so fastidiously interrogating herself, as to whether, impoverish'd as she was, and granted so very little in the way of security, as to the future of her employment (her elderly master, the retired professor of Islamic studies, being both forgetful, and ill-tempered), she might not, in spinster desperation, marry for
money:
the mere possibility of which repulsed her.

“While it is the case that Dr. Stoughton has, I believe, a more modest yearly income than Mr. Agha, I can hardly make
that
the basis for choosing,” Deirdre tormented herself, “and who can say, but that a spirit of malevolence continues to haunt me, and would misdirect me, even when I dared to fancy I was behaving well!”

So troubled was this young lady, she found it increasingly difficult to enjoy the company of others; and, upon one singular occasion, greatly surprised, and offended, her landlady's daughter, when after the evening repast one night, this pleasant-voiced girl sat herself at the piano in the parlor, and sang but a few words of a song, with the consequence that Miss Zinn
fled in tears up to her room.

A mystery to that startl'd gathering, no doubt; yet hardly a mystery to
us,
for the song was that heartrending melody by the musical genius Paul Dresser, to become so deservedly popular in the late Nineties:

'Tis the grave of an outcast who died long ago,

Who has sinned, and no mercy was shown;

So one cold winter's day, her soul passed away,

And they buried her there all alone.

—this classic being, I hardly need inform the reader, “The Outcast Unknown,” whose words struck very deep in poor Deirdre's heart.

 

THAT IT WAS
Dr. Lionel Stoughton who advised Deirdre to contact Mr. Miller in Philadelphia, as the numerous advertisements bade, suggests a certain intimacy between them: which, I must hasten to clarify, was not the case.

On Dr. Stoughton's part, there was the continuance of a
professional
concern with the erstwhile medium, which, whilst not uncontaminated with romantic aspirations, was noble in itself, and disinterested. After her ignominious collapse at the Fairbanks estate, Deirdre was, for some eighteen months, a patient at a private sanatorium in the Adirondack Mountains: this enforc'd convalescence, in salubrious surroundings, being initially paid for out of her own savings, and, as these rapidly dwindled, by funds from an “anonymous well-wisher”—none other than that very same doctor of medicine, and President of the New York branch of the Society for Psychical Research, who had, years previous, warned “Deirdre of the Shadows” against embarking upon her perilous career!

Yet, when at last they did meet, Deirdre's condition having substantially improved, and her melancholy having partly lifted, this considerate gentleman naturally did not press his advantage; nor did he allude to her former life, and her notorious “career,” which was still avidly discussed in Spiritualist circles—and may be, for all that I know, still discussed today, if such occult enclaves exist. Dr. Stoughton's conversation had to do with positive matters: primarily with Deirdre's future, whether she would now return to her family, or whether she would seek employment in some wise, appropriate to her talents. “I cannot return to my family,” Deirdre said quietly, “for, in truth, I have none: I was but an
adopted
child, and was never allowed to forget it.
Zinn
is my adopted parents' name;
Bonner
my real parents' name; and all, alas! are lost to me now. So I shall seek employment in the city, Dr. Stoughton, and hope to lay by some savings, so that, in time, I may repay you, at least in part, for the kindness you have shown.”

“Not at all,” Dr. Stoughton said, reddening. (For he had imagined his secret safe—that the object of his Christian beneficence might never guess his identity.) “I cannot—I will not—hear of
that,
Miss Zinn!”

So pitiful were the wages Deirdre received for her labors, as the assistant to the Islamic scholar, that, to her extreme embarrassment, she was able to save but a few pennies a week; nor did the future look brighter. Ah, what a queer dream it had been, the years of her relative wealth! She could scarce believe she had once commanded such exorbitant fees, and had believed them but her due: for now she had naught to show for those years save certain items of clothing, of resolutely sombre hue; and some very upsetting memories.

“Nay, I count myself blessèd,” she oft murmured, in solitude, “tho' I be near-penniless, I am my own woman at last:
and I am not mad.
”

Nor did she miss the intoxicating powers, her wicked spirits had once afforded her. Was it a dream? Had she imagined all?
Father Darien,
and
Mrs. Dodd,
and the
Raging Captain,
and
Bianca,
and fork-tongued
Zachariah?
And, beyond them, the black silken balloon that had borne her so silently away, from the peaceful countryside of her birth?

Ofttimes she queried herself:
Had Bloodsmoor itself been naught but a dream?

 

IT WAS NOT
many weeks after her discharge from the sanatorium, and the establishment of her residency, in the spartan brownstone at 207½ East Seventeenth Street, that her benefactor, Dr. Stoughton, tendered to her his proposal of marriage: worded, at the first, in such abash'd and recondite language, she scarce grasped its import.

Dr. Stoughton made haste to assure her, that he wanted nothing less, than to bring further upset into her life; and that she should bear in mind that he was, first and foremost, her devoted
friend,
who desired only her
happiness,
and
well-being.
“If you should ever consent to return my love,” he murmured, his gaze affixed to the floor, “and to be my wife, why, I would be transform'd into
the happiest man on earth:
but you must feel no obligation, toward that end, nor any pressure whatsoever.”

Thus spoke one of the most magnanimous gentlemen, who ever drew breath: his thick blond hair but lightly touched with silver, and his forceful countenance betraying but a very few lines and creases, to indicate the deepening maturity of his years.

Deirdre's reply was faltering, and near-inaudible. “I cannot consent,” she murmured.

“You cannot consent,” Dr. Stoughton slowly repeated. “And yet—dare I hope?—
you do not absolutely deny me?
”

At this the agitated young woman could not force herself to speak: to indicate
yes,
or
no,
would have cost her weakened constitution far more strain, than it might have endured.

Yet, if she did not accept his plea, she did not reject it: and if she did not banish the hot-blooded Hassan Agha from her life, she did not encourage him either: and seemed, indeed, to her own way of thinking, near-helpless in her fate, as a fly entrapped in a spider's elaborate silver-tinged web.

Dr. Stoughton first called her attention to the classified notices in the
Tribune,
which she read with great alarm: and a rush of emotion, in which regret, and guilt, and fear, and a sense of prickling curiosity, were commingled. Her initial response was violently negative: nay, she
would not
comply. But, as days and weeks passed, and she turned the prospect over in her mind, she bethought herself that the tyrannical old lady, Miss Kidde­master, had not been
altogether
cruel to her: perhaps—ah, perhaps!—there had even been some affection, but awkwardly expressed, and never reliable.