The atmosphere having grown most unpleasantly strained, Basil Miller cleared his throat, somewhat nervously, and, adjusting his spectacles, began to read, weakly at first, and then gaining strength, as, it would seem, the spirit of Edwina Kiddemaster was evoked, and certain of her voice rhythms observed. “ ‘Now that you are all, at last, assembled together, in our great ancestral home, as God has intended you to be—by ties of blood, as well as sentiment and loyalty—I will resist chiding you, my dear nieces, for your divers acts of ingratitude’ ”—thus read Mr. Miller, glancing up, of a sudden, at the drawn faces of the principals, and all the rest, who stared at him most blankly, “ ‘resist chiding you, and come directly to the point: I have passed many a month in torment, communing daily—nay, hourly—with Almighty God, Whose will, in every particular, I am bound to confess I did not always scrupulously observe, in my long life: I have humbled myself upon my knees, in the privacy and sanctity of my bedchamber; I have made many a surreptitious visit to churches, as the bells of midnight lugubriously tolled; I have sought the wise pastoral counsel of divers gentlemen of the cloth, ofttimes veiled, and under an assumed name. I have, in short, plumbed the depths of my own heart, to discover there not a malevolent, nor even a wicked, demon, but ah! how more humiliating! a crabbèd and penurious creature, not unlike a humped dwarf, luridly ugly of visage, and of an odor redolent of Dr. Eupep’s Black Draught and Rhubarb Compound, left o’erlong in the bottle.’ ” At this point Basil Miller paused, to draw breath, and, doubtless, to steady himself, for, tho’ we must remember that, as Edwina Kiddemaster’s attorney and confidant, he knew all, he was, nonetheless, greatly affected by the arduous tension in the room, which seemed to be increasing minute by minute; nor was his refined sensibility oblivious, to the poignancy of the words he was reading aloud.
So he drew breath, and dabbed at his warm forehead with a handkerchief, and resumed: “ ‘And it was also the case that Almighty God, in His infinite compassion and mercy, allowed me to realize certain Truths, the which, in my worldly vanity and frippery of prose, I had oft presented, with but a modicum of inward conviction: alas, oft with very little conviction at all, but much secret jesting, and mockery! These are the sacred and fundamental Truths of our abode here on earth, and must not be sported with, else God’s wrath is a terrible thing, as it rains upon our incredulous heads. Had I time, my dear nieces, I would instruct you with greater wisdom, and greater patience, than I did, in my lifetime: but this can be neither the time, nor the place, and I am obliged to insist upon brevity, in the matter of penury, and generosity; and Christian charity; and the sacred obligations of the nobility (by which, I hasten to explain, I mean a nobility of the spirit, as well as one of the blood); and the riddling question with which I have wrestled, both as an authoress, and a woman, upward of seven decades, What constitutes a lady? Ah, the fool responds with alacrity, to declare that a lady is no less, and no more, than what we have been taught from the cradle onward: a Lady is this, a Lady is that!—she is not this, nor does she do that! Jabber, jabber, jabber like monkeys in liveried vests, their furry tails atwist about their heads! Chatter, and gibber, and prattle, and rattle, and babble, repeating by rote all we have been instructed! A Lady embodies all that is high, holy, and pure in strength of intellect, clarity of heart, uprightness of moral principle; and that winning grace which makes every word and action seem “wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, and best” (to quote the Bard), to the beholder. All this, freely granted. We cannot subscribe to the vulgar arriviste notion, so promiscuously held, by those barbarian millionaires in our midst (whose names, do not fear, shall not appear in this sacred document, to sully it), that wealth, ostentation of dress, abode, and manner of living, and station (of a coarse political and financial type), make the Lady: or even, I insist, make her possible. Nay, this is repulsive. This is blatant ignorance. This cannot be allowed. . . .’ ”
The pretty French clock now striking the half-hour, Basil Miller again paused, tho’ halfway dreading to glance up, to see the rigid countenances of his kinsfolk, and those others, who, seated immobile in their chairs, continued to stare with unblinking eyes, in whose glazed depths a curious commingling of fatigue, and anxiety, might be beheld.
Nevertheless, this sensitive gentleman did feel obliged to pause, and to inquire of a servant, whether he might have a glass of iced water—nay, perhaps a small glass of sherry, the hour now being well past noon—and again he wiped decorously at his dampening brow, and at his handsome curled mustache, before resuming his professional duty: all the while, I should make clear, standing proudly erect, behind the escritoire, in a fashionable but by no means gaudy black dress suit possessed of four cloth-covered buttons, and admirably wide lapels, the which crossed over very high on his chest, to hide, unfortunately, the black silken waistcoat he wore, and to reveal little of the plaster-of-starch stiffened shirt, which announced to the eye, at collar, and cuff, a most remarkable dazzling whiteness.
The servant bringing him his glass of sherry, he sipped lightly from it, and, again adjusting his spectacles, drew breath, to resume: “ ‘This cannot be allowed. Nay, is not a Lady one who, tho’ being of the female persuasion, ne’ertheless feels, in her pulsing veins, the moral strength (if not the physical), of the male? Nay, and is not a Lady one who, tho’ dwelling in a humble rustic cottage, or in a marbl’d palace, ne’ertheless submits to Our Saviour’s enjoinders, as to charity, and love, and compassion, and giving alms to the poor—“alms,” it may be, of the heart, and not merely of the pocketbook? Does not a Lady exhibit symmetry of character? nobility of purpose? refinement of taste? generosity to all? virtue in its broadest respects? Is not a Lady one who, tho’ perhaps lacking a splendid equipage, and showy finery, and all the idle pretensions of wealth, ne’ertheless displays to the world a richness of sentiment? I believe it is not an exaggeration to say that personal merit alone, should be the sole test by which to try the pretensions of all “Ladies,” and water will not more certainly find its own level, than will the numerous classes of society, when subjected to so searching a test! (By which bold utterance, I am not pleading for a leveling system, of that invidious sort known as “socialism,” or “communism,” which shall break down all necessary distinctions in society; and reduce them to a common mass of insipidity, and vulgarity. Nay—the Bible itself recognizes these distinctions; and they are as essential to the order and harmony of the Body Politic, as are the divers members of the human frame, to form one perfect whole.) Personal merit alone then being our measurement—’ ”
Poor Basil Miller was interrupted, of a sudden, by a fit of coughing: and was able to calm himself only after some troubled minutes, during which Narcissa Gilpin, and one or two other of the elder ladies, hovered about him, greatly concerned for his well-being. It was feared that his throat was being scraped raw, by both the protracted speech, and the profound import of the words, which could not fail to instill apprehension in the speaker. But, the coughing spell abating, and another glass of sherry quietly supplied, Basil regained his attentive posture, and continued, in a voice only slightly enfeebl’d.
“ ‘Personal merit alone then being our measurement, I believe it is not remiss to state that a Lady is one who, in defiance of the opinions of conformist society, and even in defiance of the wishes of her own family, is courageous enough—nay, Christian enough—not only to acknowledge her sinful failings, but to make redress for them, to the best of her ability. That I have been guilty for upward of three decades of a lamentable penuriousness of spirit, is my secret sin: the which, I have reason to know, Almighty God will forgive me, if I truly repent; and if, as He has bade, I offer a public confession, posthumous if needs be (for, I feel, I am not altogether strong enough, to step forward with the Truth, in my own lifetime). Thus—’ ” Basil Miller read, his voice breaking suddenly, so that he was forced to clear his throat, and drain his glass of sherry, and, now alarmingly red-faced, plunge forward, to the heinous part: “ ‘thus I declare this document to be my sole
Will and Testament, executed by me, with no coercion, in the seventy-eighth year of my life, and, being of sound mind and body, and animated throughout these proceedings with a bounteous love for Our Lord and His Only Begotten Son, and all His creation, excepting of necessity the villains, blackguards, communists, reprobates, anarchists, gamblers, immoralists, Free Thinkers, unnatural Suffragettes, divers members of the Popish Church, and, indeed, all manifestations of the Antichrist, in our time—I do hereby, on this 23rd day of September 1898, declare that I wish to divide my estate, including all its moneys, properties, and investments, in this wise: to my niece Mrs. Prudence Zinn, and her husband John Quincy Zinn, I shall erase the debt owed to me, of some several thousands of dollars, lent by me, from my estate, over a period of years: this erasure to constitute an outright gift, bearing with it no obligations or responsibilities, on the part of the heirs.’ ” (Basil Miller hurried onward, not daring to draw breath, and certainly not daring to glance up at his kinswoman Prudence Zinn—nor could anyone else look her way, out of very shock and mortification. Poor Prudence! It is not for me to say, the consternation that flooded her heart at this moment; it is not for me even to hint, the mingled rage, shame, bafflement, nausea, incredulity, benumbedness, and simple animal desire for violence, that churned within her upright figure, even as Basil Miller made haste to proceed!—save only to remark that, from this instant forward, she was to be a changed woman.) “ ‘To my four nieces, Constance Philippa, Malvinia, Octavia, and Samantha—’ ” and here, tho’ Basil did not pause, a decided ripple ensued, throughout the room, and one might have observed the stiffening of Deirdre’s slender frame—poor Deirdre realizing, in such wise, that her great-aunt by adoption had not, evidently, considered her a niece: nor even—for so her shamed, fluttering thoughts ran—a rightful member of the Zinn family! “ ‘—to my four belovèd nieces, I hereby leave, to be divided equally among them, all my personal possessions of a literary and bibliographical nature: by which is meant, original manuscripts of my books; drafts; revisions; note-cards; galleys; and other valuable matter, the which has been, over the decades, meticulously filed and indexed, and stored against harm, by humidity, heat, solar rays, the incursions of insects and other natural phenomena, in a vault adjacent to my bedchamber, and kept under strict lock and key—’ ”
It was an involuntary intake of breath, a sharp hissing sound, from one of the sisters, that, for a moment, disconcerted Basil Miller: coupled with, but a scant moment later, the muttered words: “The deuce! The hell!”—which, no one wishing to acknowledge, was passed by in silence; nor did these unfortunate eruptions repeat themselves. (It may have been the case, judging from Octavia’s stunned and slack expression, and Samantha’s quizzical green stare, that these two sisters failed entirely to absorb the import of the words, which Basil Miller had read.)
“ ‘The remainder of my estate—the remainder of my estate—’ ” the agitated attorney read, in a voice sadly faltering, even as the document in his hands betrayed a nervous trembling, “ ‘—I wish to leave to’ ”—and here again he paused, to clumsily swallow, “ ‘—to leave to my daughter: that blameless child so cruelly abandoned by her mother, in a paroxysm of moral cowardice, and unspeakable penury of spirit: abandoned, unacknowledged, near-forgotten, but legitimate!—LEGITIMATE, I say, in the eyes of God, and of the Law.’ ” Basil Miller now paused, to drain his glass of sherry, and, not wishing to look out at his audience, plunged at once back into the document atremble in his hands: “ ‘—and of the Law. After many troubl’d years, ah! so gaily clothed in outward material success, and the high regard of my peers, during which the ignoble action of my youth continued to gnaw at my soul (tho’ proudly unrepentant even to myself); and after some months, this past year, of especial spiritual anguish, in which Almighty God oft conferred with me, in the privacy of my bedchamber,—I am moved to reconsider not only all previous existing wills, pertaining to my estate, but my previous life as well, in which the sacred role of MOTHER was forsworn. But Almighty God, in his wisdom, mercy, compassion, and ceaseless diligence, regarding my sulli’d soul, has seen fit to allow me this small act of penitence, and reparation: that I must leave the remainder of my estate, whole and unencumbered, to this long-despisèd daughter—unacknowledged, but legitimate—the personage known firstly to the world as Deirdre Bonner; and, latterly, Deirdre Zinn.’ ”
I CANNOT CONVEY the effect of this declaration, as it fell through the air: save that, as Basil Miller could not, for the moment, bring himself to continue, the beauteous Golden Oak room was plunged into a silence so preternatural, you would think all the human figures had turned to stone!—nor could a breath be heard.
In fact, after some stunned moments, when a single expletive “Deirdre—!” sounded, to shatter the stillness, it would have been most difficult to say, who, precisely, had made the utterance: whether it had erupted from one of the beings in the room, or from out some unfathomable occult realm, the abode of bodiless spirits!
SEVENTY-SIX
It were best, I believe, to follow the guiding aesthetic principle of this history, pertaining as to brevity, and thus to o’erlap the scene at hand, in the Golden Oak room—one whose startling disorder involved some fainting, on the part of the ladies (not excluding Deirdre herself, who slumped forward insensible, to sink to the floor in a helpless swoon, not many seconds after Basil Miller concluded); and much murmured, and muttered, stupefaction; and several unthinking expressions of ill-will, blurted out, as it were, involuntarily.
Instead, we will concentrate upon the reading of Edwina Kiddemaster’s “secret priz’d shameful & glorious document” (for so the elderly lady called it, in her many conferences with Basil Miller, and in the privacy of her heart), the which transpired but some ninety minutes after the preceding scene, and in the selfsame place; all the principals in attendance, save the Reverend Hewett and his wife, who, tho’ courteously saying very little, gave it out that they were so grievously offended by the disclosures, by the “once-esteem’d” Edwina Kiddemaster, that they felt it obligatory, out of consideration for Mr. Hewett’s ministerial status, to remove themselves at once from the premises. But no one else chose to depart, not even the pouting Philippe Fox, who presented a somewhat stormy countenance to all who chanced to gaze upon him; nor the crimson-faced Dr. Moffet, who was heard to murmur beneath his breath, with an alarming persistence of repetition; “—betrayal—treachery—quackery at the spas—female senility—hysteria—wantonness—no shame—” Indeed, the principals evinced a most energetic interest in what Basil Miller offered as a “nobly forthright explanation, to be read, in submission to the deceased’s dictates, by himself, in the presence of all concerned”—and I am relieved to report that, summoned by his wife, John Quincy Zinn himself deigned to reappear, pallid of complexion, and now more visibly tremulous: but dignified nonetheless, and refusing to give vent to those haphazard expressions of emotion, of divers sorts, to which most of the others surrendered, the while Miss Deirdre Zinn remained isolated, now more clearly excluded than before.
Herewith, “The Confession of a Penurious Sinner”:
What is that melody, vile in its very beauty, & tempting, across e’en the span of 38 years!—what is that loathsome song, which nightly assails my ears, & will not give me rest? Ah, to hear it; and again hear it; to thrill to it; & sink upon my bed, in mute despair; to hear it, & to suffer it—the while, with all the outward display of majestic calm, the years pass!
That my heart, so long ossified in other respects, might be, yet, prick’d to a secret frenzy, by this simple melody—this most haunting of immortal songs, by the German composer of uncontested genius Franz Schubert!—ah, what sorrow, what grave irony, and yet, I am compelled to say, what justice: for, tho’ much confus’d at the time, I was not blameless, and take pen in hand, upon this wind-tormented midnight, to confess: to confess to the world, as Almighty God has gently bade me, both the gravity and penury of my sins, in the hope that, God having promis’d forgiveness, a
nd restitution to His bosom, in that other realm we know not of, the world might pity me, and forgive me: and my long-lost daughter might comprehend the motives of my sin—tho’ I scarcely expect forgiveness, let alone daughterly love, after my crime.
Adieu! Adieu, indeed! And yet, was it not a salutation as well, upon that momentous eve, in the great house of the Buffs, of Mt. Buff, Annandale-on-Hudson, not six months after the rebel assault upon Ft. Sumter?