Yet, I cannot any longer procrastinate, but must, in a single outcry, publish my unspeakable truth: the which no one amongst the Zinns and the Kiddemasters was ever to know (God having determined to spare them!), and no one in this narrative, indeed, saving Mrs. Delphine Ormond (whose sentiments on the subject will remain unknown), was ever to guess: that the mysterious Philippe Fox was not, as all quietly believed, the womanly Constance Philippa, in disguise, but, in incontrovertible fact, a man.
That he was once the Constance Philippa we have known, and, as such, was consequently female, I do not deny: for during the first two and a half decades of his life he, or rather she, was indeed female. Yet—this does not gainsay the fact that, from approximately 1887 forward, and certainly during the period at hand, Philippe Fox was a man in every particular: that is, no matter the happier life he, or she, had led before, in our belovèd Bloodsmoor, he was a male being in 1899: which is to say, a creature, in our species, of the masculine persuasion!
EIGHTY
Our scene rudely shifts to a setting not far distance from the regally proportion’d Kiddemaster Hall, to one we have not before visited, the smaller, yet still gracious, Mt. Espérance, the ancestral abode of the Ormonds: and to that hellish night, in late October, when, against all the constraints of common decency, an adulterous elopement ensued—the stealing-away of the former Delphine Martineau, by our blackguard Philippe Fox.
Well may you recoil in disbelief, and in intrinsic disgust: yet it was so: and I cannot but think, greatly as it grieves my heart, that Miss Deirdre Zinn did irreparable, tho’ unintention’d damage, by allowing the Fox creature one-seventh of Edwina Kiddemaster’s massive fortune. (How much, dear reader, would one-seventh of that inheritance be?—granting even the woeful incursions of death taxes? As the precise calculations of the estate’s worth were to involve some five years of labor, on the part of Basil Miller and a small, but keenly dedicated, staff of assistants, there being innumerable complications, not excluding the vicious contesting of Sir Reginald Burlingame’s will, by certain of his spiteful English scions, and as the final settlement—ah, after so much costly labor!—lies well beyond the scope I have determined for myself, of this history, that is, into the Twentieth Century, I believe I shall confine myself to speculation, of the sort rampant, in 1899, amongst the inhabitants of Bloodsmoor, Philadelphia, and the East more generally, as to the final worth of the estate—which is to say (so Basil Miller thoughtfully hazarded), some eighteen billion dollars, albeit in the inflated currency of the time, which would divide into more than two and a half billion dollars, for each of the sharers! And whilst this staggering sum was by no means accessible, at present, to the Fox creature, he was nonetheless able to borrow from Philadelphia sources such sums as he calculated might be necessary, to aid him in his immoral scheme—indeed, it was nothing short of scandalous, how gentlemen of divers rank and station, and, one might have thought, of principle, jostled with one another, in shameless eagerness to lend Philippe Fox money!
Our scene having been most reluctantly established, at the sombre Mt. Espérance, so close by Kiddemaster Hall that, upon that gusty October night, the depraved “lover” of Mrs. Ormond could in fact hear the bells of Trinity Church tolling the hour, I suppose there is no recourse but to continue: and to illumine, with as little graphic detail as possible, how the illicit lovers in loathsome stealth fashioned their plan, to circumnavigate the numerous obstacles Mr. Ormond had devised, to keep his wife captive; and how Fox made bold entrance into the very citadel of Mr. Ormond’s sanctified marriage, his ancestral home; and how, brandishing a pistol, of o’erlarge proportions, he freed Mrs. Ormond from her turret “sickroom,” and, before the astonish’d eyes of her husband, bore her away into the storm-toss’d night, in a carriage hired for that very purpose.
Mt. Espérance, erected at about the same time as Kiddemaster Hall, tho’ in a less scenic part of the Bloodsmoor Valley, owed much to the Greek Revival style of architecture, then in fashion, yet possessed, withal, a gloomy and even fanciful air, as a consequence of old General Ormond’s preoccupation with Rhenish castles of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. To the solid, foursquare, and, in my opinion, incomparably eurythmic, Greek Revival structure, the General had caused to be added upward of a half-dozen turrets, in handcut stone; as well as ornamental walls, ramparts, and bastions.
It was in one of the larger turrets, at the northeast corner of the house, that Mrs. Ormond, now a mature woman in her late thirties, and the mother of two children (an angelic girl of seventeen, very pretty, and small for her age; and a somewhat dull-minded, tho’ husky, boy of fifteen), was ensconced, by Mr. Ormond’s solemn decree. For it was the case, and evidently had been so, for upward of six years, that, inclining as she did toward alternating periods of melancholy and hysteria, and frenzied accusations of divers sorts, made against her husband, Mrs. Ormond was most prudently kept in an invalid’s bower: so that the unhappy woman could not cause harm to herself, or, by spreading scandal amongst the household, contaminate others, whom, before her enforced convalescence, she had sought to enlist on her side. (The accusations Mrs. Ormond had made against her lawfully wedded spouse, having to do with his habits of gambling, alcoholic imbibing, and consorting with females of a certain rank, are not the sort I care to enumerate, in a chapter in which there will be, I fear, far too much deference made to vice, as it is. That there may have been some small kernel of truth, to Mrs. Ormond’s proposals, cannot be seriously doubted; yet, withal, it was given out by many of Mr. Ormond’s gentlemen friends, and business associates, that the hysterical woman exaggerated—an inclination, I am sorry to say, rampant in our sex. In any case, given the sanctity of the marriage vows, and the promise made by the bride, to love, honor, and obey, as well as the law of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, regarding property, the rights of married women, and of women in general, I cannot see but that it was an act of grievous error, on Mrs. Ormond’s part, to so noisily protest against her husband’s real or imagin’d vices.)
Thus—the once-vivacious Delphine Martineau, now the invalided Mrs. Justin Ormond, held, by order of her physician Dr. Popock, to a regimen of quiet, bedrest, and medicines of sufficient efficacy, to still her raised voice, and calm her tempestuous spirit.
IT WAS WITH uncanny alacrity that Philippe Fox, not two days after his arrival in Bloodsmoor, came to know of Delphine Ormond’s fate: how he made the discovery, and who was so reckless as to speak openly with him, I cannot guess.
Brashly he confronted Octavia, and interrogated her: What did she know of Delphine Ormond? Was it true, that the woman was imprison’d at Mt. Espérance, under her husband’s lock and key? And why did no one, in her family, or elsewhere, spring forth to her aid?
Octavia, flush-cheeked, found it most difficult, simply to meet the Fox personage’s eye (for, like the others, she fancied “he” was but Constance Philippa, in grotesque disguise); to be involved with him, in a heated discussion, was exceedingly unpleasant. “I cannot say,” Octavia murmured, vigorously fanning herself; and stooping to plant a kiss, on the forehead of her little boy, Lucius Quincy, that winsome child who was, with the passage of time, called more and more frequently simply Quincy, as he expressed an adamant dislike to the name Lucius, for childish, and, it may be, inexplicable reasons. “I cannot say; I do not know; pray, excuse me, Mr. Fox.”
Yet he rudely detained her, and, scowling most ferociously, said: “But, Mrs. Rumford, have you no sympathy for the poor woman? No sense of horror, and shock, and concern, at her distress? Have you,” and here the abrupt-manner’d individual paused, giving Octavia a most withering look of contempt, “no gossipmonger’s interest?”
His querying of Malvinia was of course to no avail: for Malvinia knew less than he did, of the lost Delphine Martineau. In a speculative voice Malvinia spoke of Delphine’s marriage, many years back: how she, Malvinia, had thought the match a fairly good one, by Bloodsmoor standards, so far as the groom’s wealth, family background,
and social graces were concerned. “That the marriage has turned out tragically, as you seem to have learned, Mr. Fox, is perhaps less a matter for surprise, or concern, here in Bloodsmoor, than it might be elsewhere,” Malvinia said. And then, with no alteration in expression, she continued: “Our eldest sister Constance Philippa—with whom, of course, you are intimately acquainted—has surely told you of her tragic marriage?—the which was not, I believe, lacking in its comedic aspects, tho’ the insulted Baron von Mainz was, I daresay, but slenderly amused. You have not, by any chance, ever had the pleasure of making the Baron’s acquaintance—?”
Mr. Fox’s hesitation was scarce perceptible, and his response, tho’ hurried, altogether admirable: “I have not, Miss Zinn, had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of any European nobleman, in my entire lifetime: that is not precisely the word one might choose.”
Samantha was naturally of little aid: she seemed most perplex’d, to be asked to recall Miss Delphine Martineau, from girlhood days; and had no awareness of, or evident interest in, Delphine’s fate in subsequent years. “Have you inquired of our mother, Mr. Fox? It is unlikely that she will be helpful, no matter how great the extent of her knowledge: but, of us all, Mother can be relied upon, to know the very worst there is to be known, of Bloodsmoor scandals.”
Mr. Fox’s gaze visibly darkened, and his creased brow grew yet more furrowed. In a low breathless voice he spake: “Of all of you—that woman—that lady—of all of Bloodsmoor—she cannot be approached!—or, at any rate,” he said with a mirthless laugh, the while dabbing at his damp mouth and throat with a handkerchief, “I am not the one, to dare it.”
NONETHELESS, THIS RESOURCEFUL stranger was able, within a scant week, to discover a great deal about Mrs. Ormond, by means of the bribery of treacherous servants, in Mr. Ormond’s employ at Mt. Espérance.
The comely and vivacious young mistress of the household, belovèd by all the staff, had learned, to her horror, that her husband enjoyed a kind of secret, or double, existence, in the “low haunts” and “houses of ill repute,” of Philadelphia and elsewhere: this shocking discovery being made whilst Mrs. Ormond was with child, and so dumbfounding her, she sank into a swoon, and suffered a miscarriage, and would perhaps have bled to death, had it not been for the midwifery skills of one of the servants.
Mr. Ormond, made known of his wife’s discovery, surprised all the staff by his fury. So far was he from repenting, and begging Mrs. Ormond’s forgiveness, that he strode violently into the bedchamber, and slammed the door behind him, and locked it, there to confront his wife, in her pallid and weakened condition—the precise words of their dialogue naturally being not known, even to the most inquisitive of servants.
Whereupon there followed many weeks, and months, of turbulence: for, once recovered, Mrs. Ormond would not allow the matter to rest, but oft returned to it, to confront her wayward husband, against all the dictates of prudence. (For Delphine Ormond, née Martineau, remained a most spirited woman: at one time a near-match for the lively Malvinia, in wit, and gaiety, and beauteousness of countenance: nor was her intrinsic intelligence dull’d, by numerous pregnancies, miscarriages, births, and female maladies, of a commonplace nature; or by upward of a decade as Mrs. Justin Ormond.) She made her tearful accusations—she ordered the servants to pack her clothes, and those of her children—she threatened “public disgrace,” and even, in her recklessness, “legal intervention”: whereupon the florid-faced Mr. Ormond naturally opposed her, and shouted at her, and laid hands upon her, until, in one most unfortunate episode—Mrs. Ormond physically fighting back, with fists and nails—he rendered her unconscious with a blow!—and afterward carried her bodily to the master bedchamber, snarling at the terrified servants, that they should be gone, and forget about the matter entirely, for it was but a trivial episode.
Some days passed, during which Delphine Ormond did not stir from her bed: only one servant being allowed admittance, to bring her food. Dr. Popock was summoned by Mr. Ormond, to prescribe proper medicines, that Mrs. Ormond might be calmed, and her hysteria dealt with; and it was most unfortunate, that the imprudent wife should seize this opportunity, to recommence her accusations, and threats, and scornful weeping, so that the startl’d Dr. Popock was forced to deal with this agitation. (And I cannot think it to have been a pretty sight: a wife and mother in her early thirties, no longer a naïve bride, ranting against her husband to a third party, and displaying such vehemence, and unsanctioned knowledge, as to make one wonder at her breeding.)
In time, a sickroom was established, in the largest of the turrets of the mansion, and the invalid forcibly brought to it, by Mr. Ormond, Dr. Popock, and two of the more muscular menservants: this chamber declared to be ideal, from the standpoint of salubrity, in that it was freely ventilated, with fresh breezes from the countryside; and its distance from the rest of the house beneficial as well, as Mr. Ormond aptly noted. (For, despite certain failings, of temperament rather than of character, Mr. Ormond was a devoted father to his son and daughter: and trembled to think that, as a consequence of the “madwoman’s” ravings, they might form distorted views, of either their sick mother, or himself.)
“And she has been imprisoned, like that, for years?” Philippe Fox exclaimed. “For years, Delphine Martineau has been kept under lock and key, and no one has protested, and no one has thought to come to her aid?” Thus the o’erwrought man queried, his eyes dilated, and his voice rising to an unnatural pitch.
The bribed servant did not know how to respond, save to offer, feebly, the explanation that the Martineau family, having suffered other disappointments in recent years, including grave financial losses of an undetermined sort, had not the energy, or the will, or the interest, to intervene; and that the Reverend Hewett, who visited the invalid at least once a fortnight, and dined with Mr. Ormond, did not offer any strong opinion, as to whether the mistress of Mt. Espérance was being forcibly detained, or therapeutically.
“By God, then—by God, I shall act!” Philippe Fox declared, bringing a small but manly fist down, on a tabletop, with such passion that the servant flinched in alarm. “I shall act—I shall rescue her—and you shall help me—and it will be accomplished—it will be consummated—I swear, before another week transpires!”
(Tho’ in his braggart’s impetuosity, Mr. Fox was wildly mistaken, about the length of time the abduction would take, he was correct in other particulars; and must be granted some small respect, for the alacrity with which he formed his plan.)
THE LAST GLIMPSE we were afforded of Constance Philippa Zinn, that desperate young woman was, in fact, the bride of Baron von Mainz: tho’ she was never to be his—or any man’s—wife.
Heavily veiled, clad in dark-hued clothes of such unfashionable shapelessness they might have belonged to an elderly woman, or to a nun, Constance Philippa departed from the Hotel de la Paix as stealthily as possible, by night; and, in the morn, might have been observed in one of the small private compartments of the Baltimore & Ohio, headed out of Philadelphia, bound for the West.
She had purchased a ticket for Cleveland, scarce knowing what she did, or even where, precisely, Cleveland was: being so distraught at the time, and so terrified that the Baron might pursue her, that she behaved in a most eccentric manner, not wishing to meet anyone’s eye. It is important, I suppose, for us to recall that, in 1880, Constance Philippa had never ventured out of Bloodsmoor by herself—it was rare even that she was allowed a solitary walk, in the benign woods and meadows belonging to the Kiddemasters!
Thus, her criminal recklessness, to board a train unescorted, and to plunge into she knew not what!—adventure, or folly, or catastrophe, or serendipitous circumstance. It did not seem to her altogether real, that she was alone in a private compartment, on a train hurtling noisily westward: she half fancied, with a lifting heart, that, when she turned, she would see her mother; or her kindly smiling father; or Great-Aunt Edwina, fixing her with an earnest, contemplative gaze; or Narcissa Gilpin; or any of her othe
r chaperons.
Her bosom heaved with a tumult of warring emotions: a gloating joy at having escaped the Baron, whom she detested; a paralyzing terror at the irreparable nature of her act; a childlike giddiness, and befuddlement, at the prospect of freedom.
“Freedom!”—so her benumbed lips shaped the alien word, which could not have sounded more strangely to her ear, were it an utterance of Russian, or Turkish. “Is this freedom!” she murmured, frightened and exhilarated, as the disorderly suburbs of the city fell back, and away; and the lumbering train, gathering speed the while, moved at last into the hilly countryside, so very like the idyllic landscape of Bloodsmoor, yet so very different: unfixed, vigorous, bold, fluid of motion, to her staring eye. This, at last, was freedom: the pastoral wooded hills—the deep-shaded ravines—the sun shining with yolklike splendor in the eastern sky—the noise of the train, yet the privileged secrecy of the compartment—the exuberant anonymity of speed—the o’ercoming of Constance Philippa Zinn!
“I shall never go back,” the reckless young woman spoke, flinging back her veil, and unpinning her heavy hat, that she might toss it down on the seat beside her. “I shall never be that person again.”
She then drew forth, from one of her several bags, a pretty miniature case in kidskin, decorated with purple velvet trim, and a scattering of tiny golden roses around an engraving of “The Crystal Palace”: this case being from the workshop of the renowned Mathew B. Brady, and a birthday gift from one of her sisters, not a year before. Inside, on the right, Constance Philippa had inserted a likeness of Deputy U.S. Marshal Wild Bill Hickok, taken from a newspaper (this photograph showing the notorious scoundrel when he was in his early thirties, with hair parted in the center of his broad thug’s head, and falling limply to his shoulders: its most striking aspect, apart from the grim-brow’d resoluteness of Hickok’s expression, and his stance of virile authority, being the weapons he had thrust conspicuously into his belt—two white-handled pistols, and an unsheathed knife, of that wicked variety known as the “bowie”); on the left, she had inserted a somewhat indistinct daguerreotype of Mr. Zinn, seated in a rigid, yet noble, posture, against a backdrop of dark velvet curtains. His posture was no less manly than that of the blackguard ruffian Hickok, but his strong-boned countenance radiated intelligence, and kindliness, and mental ingenuity; and his gaze bespoke paternal love. Yet such was Constance Philippa’s callousness, that, with but a moment’s hesitation, she removed Mr. Zinn’s likeness from the case!—and hid it beneath the discarded hat.