Dragonwyck Page 6

  Nicholas, at the head of the table, scarcely spoke except to make conventional inquiry as to her comfort. It seemed impossible that he could have been the entertaining companion of the first part of today's journey.

  As for Johanna, she concentrated on her food and her only remarks had to do with that subject. The roast was overdone, but the potato cakes were tolerable. Annetje must remember not to get the jellies so hard. When she had mopped up the last bite of honey puff, Johanna looked up at Miranda. 'Where's Katrine?' she asked.

  'I don't know, ma'am, I'm sorry. I've not seen her yet,' answered the girl nervously, wondering if she had already failed in a duty.

  Johanna frowned. 'That child—she's always down with the servants. Now that you're here I hope you can keep her upstairs where she belongs. That's why I wanted a companion for her.'

  'I'll try hard, ma'am.'

  Johanna gave Miranda a dissatisfied look. 'You're not quite the type I expected, but I suppose you'll do your best. You seem very sweet,' she added with a vague smile and a quick glance at Nicholas, who was peeling himself a nectarine and had not looked up.

  Johanna heaved herself up from her chair and waddled on her tiny feet into the adjoining room.

  'Send Miss Katrine in to us, Tompkins,' ordered Nicholas, rising and motioning Miranda to follow his wife, who had already en-sconed herself in an armed rocker by the central table.

  This was one of the many rooms that Miranda had not yet seen. It was called the Red Room from the color of its carpet and plush curtains, and it was comparatively small because it was part of the original house and Nicholas had left it alone. Around its fireplace ran still the old blue and white Dutch tiles representing the story of Adam and Eve and the Fall, and the furniture was simple for Dragonwyck; besides the center table with its fringed red velvet cover there were only three chairs, a horsehair sofa, and in the corner an old and shabby harpsichord.

  At first Miranda decided that it was more homelike and cosy than the rest of the house. She sat timidly in the corner by the harpsichord, Johanna rocked while jabbing with a clumsy hand at the white lawn handkerchief she was embroidering. Nicholas with his back to the unlit fire buried himself in the morning Tribune which he had brought from New York. Ten candles lit the room and in their soft light the reflected reds glowed warmly. It was a reassuring domestic scene, but as she sat there an indefinable discomfort crept over Miranda, and at the same time she shivered from a sudden sensation of cold. Dare I ask them to light the fire, she thought, and knew that she did not. The June night was warm, and she could see Johanna's forehead and upper lip glistening.

  Miranda shifted uneasily in her seat, and the formless discomfort mounted within her until between one second and the next it ceased to be discomfort, and she knew it for blind unreasoning fear. Fear of what? She moistened her lips and looked about her. There was nothing but the comfortable room. Nicholas turned a page of his newspaper, and the small rustle mingled with the rhythmic creak of his wife's rocker; both these sounds seemed to Miranda to come from a vast and chilly distance. She clasped and unclasped her hands, struggling with a violent urge to run headlong from the room.

  The door opened and a little girl walked in dragging her feet. At once the fear and the feeling of cold vanished.

  'Oh, there you are, pet,' said Johanna vaguely. You're a naughty girl to stay away so much.'

  Nicholas took the child's arm and led her over to Miranda. 'This is your new cousin, Katrine.'

  The child put her finger in her mouth and gaped at Miranda, who smiled and held out her hand. Katrine would someday be a replica of her mother. She was a plump and stolid child now, with the same scanty tow-colored hair and small colorless eyes like pebbles.

  'Shake hands with your cousin,' said Nicholas sharply, and Katrine slowly obeyed.

  "We'll be friends, won't we, dear?' said Miranda, trying to draw the child toward her, but the chunky little body resisted.

  'Yes, Cousin M'randa,' answered Katrine without interest. 'Can I go find my kitty now, Mama?' she added, scuffling her slippers and twisting a corner of her plaid skirt.

  'Oh, I suppose so—' began Johanna fretfully, but the child did not wait for more. She gave her father a quick, apprehensive glance, and seeing that he was not going to stop her she darted from the room away from the mother who was always discontented and ineffectual, and the father who frightened her, back to the simple delights of the kitchen and Annetje's welcoming presence.

  Nicholas' eyes followed his daughter, and Miranda saw that the dull, unprepossessing child was a disappointment to him, though how bitter a one to a man of his nature she could not guess.

  Johanna sighed and bent over the monogram she was embroidering, Nicholas' monogram, Miranda now saw, and saw also that the letters were botched and straggling.

  'I can't think,' said Johanna, 'why Trine's always wanting to run to the servants. She can't get those tastes from my side, or yours either, Nicholas, except possibly the Gaansevants; they were certainly common people.'

  Miranda looked up startled. Johanna must be aware that she was insulting her guest, whose only connection with the Van Ryns was through these same Gaansevants, but one look reassured her. Johanna was simply following a familiar train of thought and was perfectly insensitive to any overtones or ramifications which it might develop.

  'No one could possibly doubt that your ancestry is of the bluest and most aristocratic, my love.' And again Miranda was struck by the extraordinary sweetness of Nicholas' tone.

  Johanna smiled. 'My papa,' she said to Miranda, 'always used to say that he despaired of finding a suitable match for his girls in view of the sad way the country had gone lately. There are so few of the fine river families left. But he was pleased when I married Nicholas. He thought that a Van Ryn would do very well, though he would perhaps have preferred a Livingston or Van Rensselaer.'

  'I'm profoundly grateful that he found me acceptable,' said Nicholas. 'Miranda, do you play the pianoforte? We might have some music.'

  She shook her head. 'I'm sorry.'

  'Well, anyway, come and turn the pages for me.'

  She looked at the harpsichord, but Nicholas shook his head. 'No one ever touches that old instrument. It belonged to my great-grandmother, Azilde de la Courbet.'

  'I wish you'd get rid of the thing, Nicholas,' said Johanna suddenly, putting down her work. 'It's not in keeping with the rest of the furniture and then there's that old story. I vow the servants are afraid to dust it.'

  'Servants are always superstitious,' answered Nicholas indifferently. 'You know very well that I never "ger rid" of anything that belonged to my ancestors. Their material possessions are as precious to me as the blood and traditions which I also inherited.—Come, Miranda, let's go to the music room.—You don't care to come, I suppose, my love, since you never do.'

  Johanna bent her fat neck and stared down at the embroidery. 'Isn't it rather late? Miranda must be tired; you said yourself she was tired.'

  'I'm not tired now,' said the girl quickly with some resentment, for why should she be sent to bed like a child when Nicholas had paid her the compliment of wishing her company? Besides, there was an undercurrent here that she did not understand.

  Without further words Nicholas led the way to the music room, a nearly empty chamber with a vaulted ceiling and an oriel window beneath which stood the pianoforte.

  As they entered the room a figure slid out from the shadowy hall and lit the tapers. Miranda soon grew accustomed to the noiseless and almost invisible service at Dragonwyck, though it took her some time to realize that it was part of Nicholas' plan of esthetic living. The machinery of labor must never intrude. The synthetic perfection of his surroundings must seem to spring effortlessly into being as from the touch of an enchanter's wand. For this reason the pleasure gardens, even the lawns and fruit orchards, were always romantically deserted. The necessary digging, weeding, hoeing, and trimming was done at night by an army of gardeners with lanterns and torches.

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sp; Nicholas sat down on the piano stool and it soon developed that she could not possibly turn the pages, for though she read the soprano parr of hymns, she could not follow the complicated sonatas which suited his mood that evening.

  He was a musician of distinction; he played with passion and a fastidious brilliance. These qualities she felt, though the cascades of sound meant nothing to her uneducated ear. She watched his flexible hands and his profile against the green curtain behind the piano. His eyes were fixed on the distance, a point far beyond the instrument, and she knew he had forgotten all about her, but she felt again at ease with him.

  He executed a chromatic run and stopped. 'That was Beethoven, Miranda.' He turned and giving her an understanding look, smiled at her. 'But here's something you will like, I think.'

  He drew a sheet of music out of the carved chest beside the piano.

  'This is something new from England, an opera called the "Bohemian Girl." I'll play the air through once and then you sing it. Oh, yes, you can; it's very easy.'

  So Miranda stood beside him and sang, 'I Dreamt that I Dwelt in Marble Halls.' And when her first self-consciousness wore off she thrilled to the singular appropriateness of the words. Had he guessed her dreams and was that why he had picked this music? But the song was about love as well, and her voice wavered as she thought, Love there can never be for me in these marble halls—this is then not my dream, how could it be?

  The song ended and Nicholas raised his head. Their eyes met for a second and a faint color flowed under her white skin.

  'You have a pretty voice,' he said softly. 'And you sing with feeling. Is there perhaps someone at home whom you've promised to "love just the same"?'

  She shook her head, and turned away, gripped by an obscure unhappiness.

  Nicholas nodded, satisfied. It would be a pity to educate Miranda from a farm girl into a lady only to have her go back to some yokel on whom everything would be wasted. I must try to find her a worthy husband, he thought, and rising abruptly he closed the piano. Good night, Miranda.'

  What have I done now, she thought, that he should dismiss me so sharply? She murmured something, confused because he stood motionless beside the piano waiting for her to precede him from the room.

  'Pay your respects to Mrs. Van Ryn and then you may retire,' he said, seeing her uncertainty.

  In the Red Room, Johanna still sat, but the embroidery had disappeared. She was engaged in sipping port wine and munching sugar biscuits.

  How greedy she is, thought the girl with distaste, while she politely said good night. Johanna responded amiably, smiling her indeterminate smile, but her pale eyes slid from Miranda's face to seek those of her husband. He, however, had his back turned to both women while he riffled the pages of a new copy of Graham's Magazine which had been lying on "the table.

  He bowed as Miranda left them, then returned to his magazine.

  To her mortification Miranda could not find her way back to her own room. She took the wrong turn in the great hall and missed the staircase which led up through an archway. She wandered through a maze of dark rooms until she encountered die silent young footman who had lit the candles.

  'This way, miss,' he said tonelessly, and directed her up the stairs to her own door.

  She noted with amazement all die things which had been performed by the invisible hands in her absence. The sheet turned down on the bed, the coverlet neatly folded, candles lit long ago, judging by the length that had burned. Her basket had disappeared and her poor little toilet articles were laid out upon the dresser, where diey looked lost and unappetizing on the brocaded scarf. There were hot water steaming in a copper can and fresh lavender-scented towels, and a silver pitcher of drinking water placed beside some luscious peaches on the table by her bed.

  Peaches—in June! But she was long past amazement. A delicious sensation of comfort lapped around her, enfolding her as softly as did the immense bed. The sheets were of a linen so fine that they felt like silk, and they were also scented, not with lavender, but with rose petals and verbena.

  Miranda stretched voluptuously like a little cat. It was warm in the room and she had a sudden desire to feel the cool silkiness upon her body. Her cotton nightdress seemed hot and coarse. On impulse she took it off, thinking how horrified Tibby would be. She flung her bare arms above her head and gloried in her privacy. No one to tell her to move over, no one to tell her to hurry and go to sleep. No need to get up at five and cook, and wash. She felt a pang when she thought of her mother and the baby. Still, they'll do all right without me, she thought, and after all I'll be back soon—but not too soon. Not until she had sated herself with the strangeness and the adventure and the delectable savor of great wealth and luxury, not until—

  She sat up, clutching the sheets tight around her neck, for there was a sharp tap at the door.

  'Who's there?' she quavered.

  The door opened and a strange woman walked in, shutting the door behind her. A thin old figure in a shapeless black dress who came over to the bed and gazed down at the frightened girl. The woman was nearly six feet tall and erect, her coarse black hair, which showed no gray, drawn back into a scraggy knot, her face a ruddy brown crisscrossed with wrinkles from which peered two shrewd little eyes as black as dewberries.

  'What do you want?' whispered Miranda.

  'Me old Zélie,' said the woman in a harsh accented voice, touching her slab-like chest. I want to see what you look laike.'

  Miranda let her breath out. Cousin Nicholas had mentioned Zélie on the boat, someone who might try to frighten her with tales of spooks and witches. It must be an old servant, a bit touched in the head, no doubt, though the unwinking black eyes looked sane enough. They traveled slowly from the girl's apprehensive face to the masses of golden hair which fell across the bare shoulders and down to the bed.

  Zélie shook her head. 'Pauv'e petite.' She spoke with a sort of sad resignation. 'What for you coming in dis house? There will be badness. Azilde will laugh again.'

  'You're talking nonsense,' said Miranda. 'Please go away; I want to sleep.'

  The shriveled lips parted in a grim smile. You been in Red Room tonight. I think you feel somesing. Yes?'

  'I don't know what you—' She stopped. Those few seconds of cold and unmeaning fear had certainly been imagination, they had not recurred, and now she doubted that they had happened. 'Of course not,' she finished angrily. 'Do go away.'

  The old woman nodded. 'Yes, you feel someting. But you no listen. You will rush into trouble wiz open arms singing as you go. Maybe it is the Will of God!' She made a gesture in the air, palm ap, and then the sign of the cross.

  'Why do you want to frighten me?' cried Miranda, trying to laugh.

  'Not frighten, p'tite, but warn.' Zélie's gnarled hand shot out and closed around a strand of Miranda's hair. The old woman held the bright curl gently, almost tenderly, in her closed hand. She shut her eyes and over her seamed face there stole a listening look. 'You must believe—' Her voice rose to a higher note, a sing-song chant. 'There is blackness, and badness and bloody water round about you. There is love too, two kinds of love, but you not knowing in time.' She opened her eyes, and the strand of hair fell from her hand. You think old Zélie crazy, hein? You lie there with naked body and your gold hair like a web and you not knowing what I mean. Pah! you are a child yet, and your soul is blind, blind as the little mole that burrows beneath the lawn out there_the beautiful quiet lawn.'

  The black eyes glittered with a contemptuous pity. The gaunt figure turned and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

  'She is crazy,' whispered Miranda.

  She got out of bed and locked the door. It had not occurred to her before, for there were no bedroom locks at the farm. Then she put on her cotton nightdress and braided her hair into tight plaits. She clambered once more into the high bed, but this time she took with her the Bible her father had given her, and which she had forgotten to read earlier.

  She said her prayers, a
nd then opening the Bible read the Ninety-First Psalm with a passionate and guilty concentration.

  4

  IT WAS POSSIBLE TO LIVE AT DRAGONWYCK WITH the Van Ryns and twenty servants and yet be virtually alone, Miranda soon discovered. Nicholas was busy with estate affairs, and divided the rest of his time between his study on the top of the high tower and the greenhouses where he pursued his hobby of horticulture. A hobby shared by many wealthy landowners at that time, but astonishing to Miranda, who perfectly understood a man's growing plants for food or barter but found it hard to comprehend an interest in ornamental and quite useless shrubs.

  It was Nicholas' pride to have one example of every tree which could be grown in that locality, and many of these he had imported by schooner from Europe and the Orient straight to the Dragonwyck dock—the Incense Cedar, the Weeping Cypress, the Judas Tree, the Ginkgo with its fan-shaped leaves, and the delicate bronze Japanese Maple—these were hardy enough to live outside; but the palms and aloes, the oleanders and the orchids, grew in the elaborate greenhouses or in the conservatory off the dining-room.

  Johanna too had her own pursuits, if food and spasmodic attempts at genteel handiwork—china painting, purse netting, or crochet—could be called pursuits. Her weight made her lethargic and she kept much to her room unless there were guests.

  Miranda accepted this sense of separateness in the household, just as she accepted the surprising discovery that husband and wife occupied different rooms. Here at Dragonwyck all was to her strange and surprising, no one aspect more than another. These were the ways of aristocracy, the exalted group whom she envied, and to whose pattern she longed to shape herself.

  She seized upon die luxuries of her new life with the avidity of a kitten after cream. It was delightful to sleep until eight, and then to eat delicious food of which she need never think until it was on the table. It was amazing how soon she got used to having other hands make her bed and clean her room, and how many charming ways there were of filling the leisure thus acquired. For Nicholas had made her free of the music room and library, and if one tired of strumming the piano or reading the Waverley Novels—which he had recommended and she found to be nearly as exciting as her contraband romances—there were always walks through the gardens or along the river where the boats passed endlessly up and downstream.