Dragonwyck Read online

  They made their way toward the desk, which was half-hidden by a newly arrived family from Philadelphia; Mama in black satin, a young girl in a Paisley shawl and green silk bonnet, and Papa, large and pompous, who was arguing with the clerk about the accommodations.

  'Excuse me—' began Ephraim, craning over the stout back which cut him off from the clerk, when an indefinable murmur ran over the crowded lobby. There was a bustle around the door.

  Miranda, conscious of the heightened interest, turned with everybody else.

  A tall man walked through the door, and even in that first glimpse against the light, she received an instant impression of careless dignity and of an almost regal indifference.

  She wondered vaguely who it might be, when she heard a whisper behind her. 'That's Nicholas Van Ryn, you know.' And at once the place seemed full of whispers as one told it to another. She heard the name Van Ryn repeated a dozen times.

  The family from Philadelphia had ceased arguing, for the clerk, darting out from behind his barricade, had run to greet the new arrival.

  'That's the Van Ryn patroon, Nellie,' said the Philadelphia mother importantly to her daughter. 'He lives on his manor up the Hudson like an English belted earl. I can't think what he's doing in an hotel; they say he's very proud and exclusive.'

  'Oh, Ma!' answered Nellie in a subdued squeal, staring with all her might. 'Mercy, but isn't he handsome!'

  And he was, thought Miranda, bewildered by this development, and trying rather frantically to rearrange her ideas.

  Followed by the smirking clerk and perfectly indifferent to the gaping around him, he came straight to Miranda and Ephraim with his hand outstretched in cordial greeting. 'How do you do, Cousin Miranda and Mr. Wells. Let's go at once to my sitting-room where I can greet you properly, for this is too public a place.' And his lean dark face which was somber in repose broke into a charming smile.

  As Miranda responded to it sudden excitement possessed her.

  While they walked down the hall to Nicholas' suite she stole glances at him through her lashes. He was tall, over six feet and of a slender build. His fawn-colored trousers strapped to Wellington boots, his brown coat and traveling cape, were worn with the easy grace of a man who buys the best, is dressed by a valet, and then thinks no more about the matter. His hair, nearly as black as his boots, was abundant and slightly waving. He wore in his buttonhole a very small red rose, and she was later to learn that the flower in his buttonhole was almost as much a part of him as his long narrow hands.

  As for his face, it was so nearly the embodiment of the descriptions of heroes in Miranda's favorite books that she was awed. Here were the full flexible mouth, the aquiline nose with slightly flaring nostrils, the high and noble forehead accented by stern black brows. There was only one discrepancy. Heroes invariably had dark eyes, large and flashing. But Nicholas' eyes were not large and they were blue—evidence of his Dutch ancestry. A peculiarly vivid light blue that was startling and somehow disconcerting in a face that might otherwise have belonged to a Spanish grandee.

  When they were settled in a sitting-room which was even more luxurious than their own, Nicholas said: 'I beg your pardon for not being here to greet you, but the Swallow has only just now docked. I trust you've been comfortable.'

  'Oh, to be sure, Mr. Van Ryn!' cried Miranda, so carried away with gratitude that she interrupted her father. 'Everything's wonderful and grand!'

  Nicholas noted the faint provincialism in her clear voice and he turned and looked at her swiftly, the briefest glance, but it missed nothing: the tall grace of her slim body under the clumsy clothes, the delicate face with its unrealized potentialities for real beauty, the long hazel eyes innocent of any emotion but excitement and a transparent admiration for himself. She shows her blood, he thought with satisfaction. Thank Fortune she's not a hulking farm girl.

  He had had misgivings about the invitation after it had been sent. Strangers were not lightly introduced at Dragonwyck, and despite the relationship, which was the only reason he had acceded to his wife's request for a companion to the child, he would have suavely packed Miranda back to Greenwich, had he thought her impossible.

  'You're a powerful sight younger than I thought for,' exclaimed Ephraim suddenly. He had been examining Nicholas, and his conclusions though based on the same evidence were different from his daughter's.

  Nicholas laughed. 'I'm thirty-one.'

  'Well, ye don't look it,' answered Ephraim doubtfully. This fellow had the kind of slimsy looks that might turn a silly girl's head, and he certainly didn't have the feel of a good solid family man. Was it proper to let the lass go off with him tomorrow on a daylong trip? And what was this dumfool business he'd let the women talk him into anyway, thought Ephraim with a spurt of baffled irritation.

  This irritation and its cause were obvious to Nicholas, who could usually read people's minds when he troubled to do so. He was completely indifferent to anyone's opinion, and the viewpoint of a New England farmer interested him not at all, but this man was his guest and the father of his kinswoman. It therefore amused him to charm Ephraim out of his doubts. So he talked a while of Johanna, his wife, and little Katrine, stressing the pleasure they anticipated from Miranda's arrival.

  Then he flattered Ephraim by asking his opinion on politics and listening with intent interest to the answers.

  Ephraim believed in the annexation of Texas and rather favored Henry Clay as candidate for the presidency in the coming election. Nicholas did neither, but politics bored him, and beyond a wish to see his old friend and neighbor Van Buren back in office, he took no part in them, so he agreed courteously with all of Ephraim's opinions.

  Even when Ephraim outlined the religious observances which he would expect from Miranda and tried to exact a promise that she would be kept up to the mark, Nicholas remained smoothly gracious and reassuring, though he committed himself to nothing. As it never occurred to Ephraim that there could be a respectable family which did not hold morning and evening prayer and attend church twice on Sundays, the real though unrecognized obstacle to Miranda's departure on the morrow was averted.

  For Nicholas was a hedonist and an atheist, and Ephraim would have regarded him with greater horror dian he would a leper had he known. But he did not know, and by evening after they had supped, he had come to feel that Van Ryn was pleasant and solid enough after all.

  They disagreed once. In speaking again of the elections, Nicholas said casually: 'My farmers will of course vote for Van Buren, unless this unknown Polk should get nominated. In that event I shall decide what would be best for them to do.'

  Ephraim sat up with a jerk. 'Your farmers! What in tunket d'you mean by that?'

  'Why my tenant farmers on the manor land,' answered Nicholas. 'There are nearly two hundred of them.'

  'Don't they own their own land?' asked Ephraim, frowning.

  Miranda, who had sat quietly in a corner unnoticed by either man during the lengthy conversation, which did not interest her, turned her head from" the window where she had been entranced by the coming of evening to New York and the myriad lights that leapt from the windows. She saw Nicholas' eyebrows raise, and an expression of annoyance on his face.

  'Of course they don't own the land,' he said. 'It belongs to me as it did to my father before me and straight back to Cornelius Van Ryn, the first patroon, who took title in 1630. The tenants pay a very small yearly rent, and in return we have done a great deal for them.'

  'How much land have you altogether?' pursued Ephraim.

  'Only a few thousand acres; my grant is not nearly so large as that of the Van Rensselaers or the Livingstons.'

  "Can the farmers not buy the land they've been working if they have a mind to?' Ephraim was still mulling over this new problem.

  'No,' said Nicholas curtly, and Miranda saw, as her father did not, that behind his polite expression Nicholas was displeased. She saw no reason for it; all this talk of land and tenantry conveyed nothing to her. She had no means of k
nowing that Nicholas, who preferred to forget the matter, had of late had unpleasant evidence of unrest amongst his tenants. He refused to believe that the richly productive and gratifying feudal system which had supported himself and his ancestors for two hundred years could ever be seriously threatened. He treated his farmers with aristocratic indulgence, built them schools and chapels and bridges, bought them new machinery, entertained them with feastings, settled their differences, and kept a disciplinary eye on their lives. In return he expected them to be grateful and loyal as they always had been, and to share with him a just proportion of their produce.

  'I would rather,' said Ephraim suddenly, 'own one half-acre of barren stony land myself free and clear, than work the richest farm in the country for someone else.'

  "Then you're very foolish,' said Nicholas sharply, but controlled himself at once. 'I daresay it's just that we don't understand each other's viewpoint.— This must be very dull for you,' he added, getting up and walking over to Miranda.

  'I don't know what it's all about,' she confessed. 'But I'm happy looking out the window, the park looks so pretty and cool with all the lights and that fountain. What's the big building, Mr. Van Ryn?' She pointed. 'And that one?'

  'You mustn't call me Mr. Van Ryn, Miranda; call me Cousin Nicholas,' he said, smiling. He stood close beside her and a warm delightful sensation came to her as they looked out onto Broadway. "That's the City Hall,' he answered her question. And that building across the street is the Park Theater.'

  'Oh—' she breathed. 'How dearly I'd love to see a play.'

  'Ranny!' exclaimed her father angrily. 'She knows better than that, Mr. Van Ryn. I can't think why she often talks so wildly.'

  Miranda flushed and lowered her lids, but not before she had seen the amusement on Nicholas' face. Was it for her or her father or what, she thought unhappily. She couldn't bear it if he were laughing at her, because already she wanted desperately to please him. Of course he was really quite old, and married for so long. But someone like him, only younger and with dark flashing eyes, would fit perfectly into that daydream where souls commingled as they had for the lovely Esmeralda.

  3

  MIRANDA SLEPT LITTLE THAT NIGHT. EVERYTHING was strange; the street lights that filtered through her tightly drawn curtains, the amazing softness of the bed, the absence of a bedfellow. It was the first time in her life that Miranda had slept alone, and she would have missed Tibby's breathing and restless little mutters except that there was so much unaccustomed noise. There was the ticking of an onyx clock on the mantel, the rattle of wagons over the cobblestones, the hourly peal of bells from Saint Paul's Church next door, and there was the voice of the watch on the street below. 'It's one o'clock of a fine summer's night. All's well in the Third Ward.'

  And later as dawn was breaking, the watch, as though inspired by near release from his duties, became more eloquent. 'It's Tuesday of a June morning. Four o'clock and all is well. John Tyler's still our President. The weather's fine, bless the Lord.'

  By five o'clock Miranda gave it up.

  She had been dressed and at the window for an hour when the waiters appeared in the sitting-room with breakfast. She was too excited to eat much, and when Nicholas appeared, smiling and courteous, telling her that his barouche was waiting at the door, she suppressed a belated instinct to cling to her father.

  Ephraim had no stomach for sentiment this morning. The girl was going, and he was impatient to get back home. He also had slept badly, and he was not of those who enjoy a break in routine.

  So their farewells were hurriedly said on the steps before the Astor House. God in His providence'll guard you, Miranda. Remember always that you're the Lord's handmaiden. Serve him diligently,' said Ephraim, putting his round beaver hat firmly on his head. And farewell to you, sir.' He turned to Nicholas, who stood beside them, his uncovered dark hair slightly ruffled by the morning breeze. 'Chastise her when she needs it. I pray that you'll make her useful to you and your wife. She's inclined to be lazy, I'm warning you. See that she writes home often, and don't let her neglect her prayers.'

  Miranda flushed and Nicholas bowed gravely, saying, 'I will treat her in every way as though she were my own daughter.'

  But I couldn't be, thought Miranda, he's but thirteen years older than I. And this sudden thought startled her.

  'Good-bye to ye, then,' said Ephraim. He picked up his straw basket and walked rapidly away down Broadway.

  At once a sensation of forlornness seized Miranda. He might have kissed her, she thought, aware that this was folly. Ephraim did not hold with cozening and cuddling. And he's not very fond of me, anyway, she thought wistfully. She knew that Ephraim was, so to say, through with her for the present. He had done his duty, albeit unwillingly, had turned her over to her new cousin, and was anxious to get back to his real interests.

  She sighed as Nicholas handed her into the barouche. As they rode west on Barclay Street she was too despondent to notice her surroundings. She had never been in a private carriage before, but even the liveried coachman on the box and the two sleek bay horses did not capture her attention.

  She vaguely supposed them to be hired, having no conception of the way men of Nicholas' standing lived. He kept a full stable and two carriages in New York for use during his infrequent visits. And he had recently built himself a town house on Stuyvesant Place for the same purpose. The house had been closed, its furniture swathed in dust sheets, and it had not seemed worth while to have it opened for one night, hence his choice of a hotel.

  But when they reached the Hudson River pier and Miranda saw the enormous white-and-gold steamboat which awaited them, she was startled out of her depression. 'Oh, do we sail on that?' she cried. 'I never saw a boat so big—and beautiful.'

  Nicholas smiled. Her naivete amused him. It would be interesting to form this immature mind, to teach it and mould it. She would have much to learn before she would do him credit as his cousin. Those hideous clothes must be rectified. She must lose the flat drawl that proclaimed her Yankee upbringing. He had noticed her uncertainty with forks and knives; her table manners in general needed correction. She must learn how to walk with dignity instead of apologetically. She was unpoised, her movements were jerky, she seemed not to realize that she must always precede a gentleman and hung back in an awkward way whenever he tried to usher her through a door. But she would learn easily. Fortunately Nature had given her delicate bones and a graceful slenderness—very different from Johanna.

  As always at the thought of his wife a black curtain descended in his mind.

  They reached the gangplank, an ornate affair of mahogany and red plush carpeting. Miranda stopped uncertainly at its foot, instinctively waiting for Nicholas to lead the way.

  He shook his head. 'You must go first. Always a lady precedes her escort.'

  'Oh, to be sure,' she said quickly. Pa had always led his flock but this was different, the ways of gentry. She would not make that mistake again.

  The Swallow was overpowering to Miranda. It was, as the newspapers proudly called it, a 'floating palace.' From the carved golden eagle on the bow to the gaily flying flag at the stern, every available surface had been embellished with scrollwork painted white and tastefully accented with gilt. Inside the main saloon—two decks high—Corinthian pillars supported Gothic arches which merged in turn into a vast ceiling painted with cupids and garlands. The satin draperies, the inch-thick carpets, and enormous chandeliers eclipsed even those at the Astor House.

  Whereas, yesterday, Miranda had sat on a sack of potatoes in the market boat, today she had a rosewood-and-velvet armchair in a sheltered recess of the broad white deck. And there was music. A German band in the saloon rendered one after another, without interval, the popular tunes.

  'An infamous racket,' commented Nicholas disdainfully as he sat down beside her, so that she did not dare admit that she thought the music beautiful. But as the Swallow got under way the band's efforts were drowned out by the swishing of the paddle wheels
, the pounding of the walking beam, and chugging blasts from the smokestacks.

  They gathered speed after they passed Yonkers, and Miranda was grateful for the protected place which Nicholas had found, for the firemen brought up pressure by the addition of fat pine knots to the anthracite, and less sheltered passengers must either be deluged with soot and flying sparks or seek the stuffy saloon.

  When they left the Tappan Zee, Miranda gave herself eagerly to admiration of the scenery. Nicholas pointed out to her the peaks of Dunderberg and Anthony's Nose, the tiny Pollopel's Island, on which in Dutch times a goblin had dwelt to plague the sailors. He told her this and other legends of the river so that she listened in wide-eyed fascination. Nicholas, when he chose, was a brilliant talker, with that inborn and unreachable gift for making any topic interesting. At the moment it amused him to entertain Miranda.

  The Swallow was leaving the Newburgh landing when several passengers ran down the decks to the stern and the boat seemed to leap forward, the pistons banged to a new frenzied rhythm, and sparks flew thick as red flies from the stacks.

  Nicholas stood up and gazed down-river where another ship had appeared around the jut of Denning's Point. 'It's the Express,' he said. 'She's after us. Now we shall doubtless race her to Pough-keepsie.'

  'Race?' questioned Miranda, surprised. 'Whatever for?'

  'For the pleasure of proving that the other boat is inferior.'

  She looked at him quickly, thinking it an odd reply, and wondering if he were laughing at her, but he was intently watching the Express's progress as she gained on them. The Swallow's pounding and straining increased until it seemed that her decks would burst open, and the sparks from the smokestack coalesced into tongues of actual flame. Suddenly the race frightened her.

  'Isn't it dangerous?' she cried as the deck grew hot under her thin soles.

  Nicholas shrugged, never taking his eyes from the pursuing boat whose bow was now flush with their stern. 'There's danger everywhere, I suppose.'