A Bloodsmoor Romance by Joyce Carol Oates Page A

ill-mannered gaze, Malvinia delicately cleared her throat, and dabbed at her nose with a lace-trimmed handkerchief, and inquired of Samantha, with as much propriety as if they were two Philadelphia dowagers at a tea: “Dear Samantha, please excuse me, for I freely confess my ignorance!—but I neglected earlier to inquire, as to the purpose of Father’s perpetual-motion machine?”
    Samantha looked up from her elaborate cross-stitching, and a smile illuminated that oft-peevish countenance, as, grandly, she spoke these words: “Its purpose, Malvinia, is nothing more, and nothing less, than to run forever. ”
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    IT WAS AT this precise moment, the sisters afterward testified, that Deirdre, of a sudden, having given no warning, rose to her feet and allowed the unfinished antimacassar to fall to the floor.
    The sisters stared; Octavia may have spoken Deirdre’s name; yet, in the confusion of the moment, nothing was clear, save that the impetuous young lady made her way out of the gazebo, and down the little steps to the lawn, with not a backward glance, or so much as a murmured apology, for the unseemliness of her exit, or for having brushed her skirts and heavy train so rudely against Constance Philippa that her hat was dislodged!
    In amaz’d alarm the four sisters stared after the fifth, as, with bold resolute step, she made her way down the grassy slope to the riverbank, choosing not to walk on the gravel path, her head held high, and the many ribbons of her yellow dress aflutter. She had left behind her gloves, and her fan, and her sunshade; and it would have been clear at once, to any eye, that her hat was no longer set correctly on her head, but had shifted some degrees to the side.
    â€œWhy,” Malvinia breathed, pressing a hand against her straining bosom, “why, the vulgar creature is near-trotting! ”

FOUR
    I slept, and dreamed that life was Beauty;
    I woke, and found that life was Duty.
    Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?
    Toil on, sad heart, courageously,
    And thou shalt find thy dream to be
    A noonday light and truth to thee.
    T hus, the noble words of Mrs. Ellen Sturgis Hooper, penned not long before her tragic death, at the age of thirty-six.
    Beauty there is, in this Bloodsmoor chronicle; but Duty as well— Duty, I am bound to say, at the fore.
    Therefore, whilst the sisters stare at Deirdre’s retreating back, I shall force myself to illumine them, as clearly, and as briefly, as possible. (Alas, force is not inappropriate here, for, knowing well the prospects that lie ahead, for each of the sisters, I suffer to recall their fresh young faces, upon that September afternoon of 1879!—and wish only that it were given me, as chronicler of this history, some measure of omnipotence, that I might guide their destinies in happier directions.)
    Nevertheless, I shall begin, turning my attentions first to Constance Philippa.
    Amidst the charming Zinn girls, and their numerous female cousins, it was, perhaps, the eldest Miss Zinn who was most striking: as a consequence of her unusual height, which she carried with reluctant grace; and her mercurial manner, which wavered between outright truculence, and a sudden childlike warmth; and the Grecian cast of her features—stubborn, noble, haughty, chaste—which would have done honor to a bust of antiquity, executed in white Italian marble.
    At the advanced age of twenty-two, Constance Philippa was possessed of a surprisingly narrow, and angular, physical self, with nether limbs both long and sinewy, having very little agreeable plumpness to them, nor felicity of proportion. Her profile was hard, and regal, and had about it at times a somewhat predatory air, as a consequence of her long patrician nose; her forehead was high, showing the strength of bone, that gave to Mr. Zinn, as well, an appearance of dignity, and calm authority.
    Her hair was very dark, lacking in natural wave, and lustre; but of so pleasing a