Dragonwyck

by Anya Seton

  Jeff helped carry Bill Rifenburg to his mother's house and did what he could for the widow. Then, heartsick, he too returned to town.

  Big Thunder was in jail, but the authorities were nervous. The tooting of horns continued all that night from the near-by hills. The down-renters sent threats. They would release their leader by force. They would burn the town down. The Hudson Light Guards mobilized, the Albany Burgesses came down river to help. Finally as the panic grew a message was sent to New York City, and Captain Krack's troop of German-American cavalry steamed up the Hudson on a chartered ship.

  Jeff stood on the doorstep of his house and watched the dashing troop prance from the dock along Front Street toward Warren They were preceded by a brass band whose martial din made eloquent accompaniment to the splendor of gold epaulettes and braid, metal helmets with white plumes and gilded eagles, dangling scabbards, and glossy patent-leather boots.

  All this to subdue a handful of farmers in bedraggled shirts and one small imprisoned man. Jeff turned wearily and went back to his surgery. He sank into a chair and rested his head on his hands.

  Rillah, the grizzled old colored woman who tended him, shuffled into the room and put a mug of mulled wine at his elbow. 'Drink dis here, massa,' she said. 'Den you won't be so down in de mouf.'

  'What would I do without you, Rillah?' said Jeff.

  'Sames you done befoh I come, but I ain' gwine let you try,' announced the old woman, wagging her turbaned head. She was an escaped slave from a Georgia plantation who had managed three years ago to reach this particular station on the underground railway to Canada before collapsing with exhaustion and pneumonia. Jeff had cured her and she had attached herself firmly to him ever since. 'Now you stop studying 'bout dem pore farmers,' she added, patting his shoulder. 'Dey time foh freedom comin' someday just like niggahs' time comin' someday. Never did see such a man foh frettin' ovah other people's troubles. Quit it now, dis minute.'

  Jeff drained his mug and smiled absently. He was used to her affectionate scoldings. No, the time is not yet ripe, he thought. Someday the farmers will surely win, but it can't be done with rioting and violence. We're fighting for democracy and we must use the democratic system. Election's the only way. We'll put our own man in the Governor's chair, fair and square.

  He sighed. That would take a lot of doing and in the meantime the Manor lords had won again. Boughron's trial was postponed until March and Jeff had no hope of the outcome. Against the little doctor and his farmers would be all the power of wealth, prestige, and established fact.

  Jeff got up and putting on his hat and greatcoat walked out of the house toward the jail, where he intended to console his friend as best he could. As he forced his way through the crowded streets, jostling gaudy uniforms at every step, he thought of Nicholas Van Ryn. The man would be more arrogant than ever now. 'Damn him,' said Jeff under his breath. He had a second of impotent hatred.

  The Livingstons and the Van Rensselaers had finally bestirred themselves in the anti-rent war; their complacency had been shaken, they had even been frightened. But not Nicholas, entrenched in superiority, so sure that nothing could change the world which he had inherited, or threaten his own supremacy.

  I believe the man's really dangerous, thought Jeff. God help the person who thwarts him, if indeed anything can pierce his armor. And he thought of Miranda. Affected little ninny! Perversely clinging to that atmosphere of decadent luxury, pretending she was an aristocrat, openly worshiping the dark, unpredictable ruler of Dragonwyck. Her wings would be badly singed before she got home where she belonged. Honest work, she needed, with those smooth white hands she was so obviously vain of, honest work and a simple, honest man. to knock the nonsense out of her and give her a houseful of babies. She's healthy enough for all that she needs a bit more meat on her bones thought Jeff irritably.

  So preoccupied was he that after crossing First Street he bumped squarely into a soft body. There was an explosion of giggles and a pair of black eyes looked up into his. 'Mercy on us, Doctor Turner, thee needn't run a person down!'

  It was Faith Folger, her seductive figure clothed in Quaker gray, no cherry-colored ribbons today in the dark curls beneath the demure bonnet, because her mother had caught her before she left the house and inflicted severe chastisement. But Faith needed no ribbons to catch and hold the male eye. Even now while Jeff laughingly apologized for his clumsiness, two of the cavalrymen had drawn their horses to the curb and were ogling her hopefully.

  'And what are you doing, my girl, running about in this mob of bawdy soldiers?' asked Jeff with a teasing inflection.

  Faith tossed her head, not neglecting a sidelong glance at the two cavalrymen. 'I'm but going on an errand to the pharmacist's for Ma,' she said demurely, pouting her lips and looking up at Jeff through her lashes.

  Jeff glanced at the red mouth, as he was meant to. He had several times stolen kisses from it and enjoyed the process immensely. Now, suddenly, Faith did not tempt him as she usually did. She seemed a bit lush and full-blown.

  'Well, mind you don't break any military hearts,' he said lightly, and raised his hat.

  The girl was startled. 'Will thee not escort me, Jeff?' she asked. Always he had been eager for her company. And though nothing definite had been said as yet, she knew that her family approved and she herself was more than willing to settle down as Mrs. Turner.

  'I'm mortal sorry that I can't now,' said Jeff, who could have perfectly well. 'I'm on my way to see poor Boughton.'

  'Oh,' said the girl. She gave him a small, bewildered smile. For the remainder of her walk to the pharmacist's, she kept her eyes cast down as a Quaker maiden should and ignored the two cavalrymen, who walked their horses on the street beside her making to each other loud complimentary comments on her charms.

  It had always been the Van Ryn custom to close Dragonwyck after New Year's and embark with servants for New York and the town mansion on Stuyvesant Street. This year Nicholas vetoed the plan.

  'But why not?' asked Johanna pettishly. 'This place is dreary enough in winter, and I can't see reason for owning a town house if we don't use it. Besides, I'm quite longing for the theater.'

  It was evening and they were sitting in the Red Room. Johanna, having decided to make good use of Miranda's proficiency with the needle, had loaded her with a great pile of new damask napkins to hem. The girl sat sewing in the far corner by the harpsichord in a small straight chair which had gradually, by an intangible ruling, become her only rightful place. Katrine was in bed. The evening differed from a dozen recent evenings in which Johanna yawned, read a word or two in a magazine, and yawned again while the gold-and-ormuiu clock ticked off the minutes to bedtime, in that Nicholas was with them.

  Usually now he left them the instant dinner was over, and they heard his steps ascending the winding staircase to the tower. Unless he went to the pianoforte in the music room and played to himself, sometimes softly, sometimes with torrential chords and dissonances. But tonight he sat in a chair opposite his wife.

  'This winter I prefer to remain at Dragonwyck, my love,' he repeated. "If you need new clothes you may send for a dressmaker to come here.'

  Johanna's big face puckered, she moistened her lips. 'But why, Nicholas? I had made so many plans.'

  He rose from his chair, walked around the center table, and smiling slightly stood looking down at his wife. Her red-slippered foot, which had been beating an irritable tattoo on the footstool, gradually ceased to move.

  'It can't be because of the rebellion. You said yourself that was all over now Boughton is imprisoned,' she persisted, but her voice had grown fainter. 'And it's damp here in the winter, I shall get one of my heavy colds—'

  Nicholas made a hardly perceptible motion with one hand. 'That would be most unfortunate, my dear. You must take every precaution. But we'll stay at Dragonwyck.'

  Johanna shifted in her chair. Her eyes dropped under her husband's gaze. For a moment Miranda felt sorry for her, an emotion immediately eclipsed by relie
f. The move to the city would certainly have resulted in her being sent back to Greenwich. They would hardly have included Miranda in the New York household too.

  Yet why don't I want to go home! she thought passionately. What is there that keeps me here? She lifted her head and looked at Nicholas. The soft candlelight cast his shadow against the red-papered walls. He dominated the room as he dominated the two women. As though he felt her gaze he turned his head and looked at Miranda.

  Again the girl felt a little shock that in that dark face the eyes should be so light and vivid a blue. It was this anomaly that gave the curious effect of blankness, of shuttered windows which showed no sign of the life which moved inside. A chill passed over her, but with it a fascinated compulsion so strong that had he held out his arms to her she would have run to him, blindly forgetting Johanna and all decency.

  Instead he bent over and picking up Johanna's handkerchief, which had fallen to the floor, restored it to her with a bow.

  'Good night, ladies,' he said softly. "May you rest well.' And he left them.

  For the remaining half-hour until Tompkins came in with wine and cakes the mistress of Dragonwyck sat silent in her chair, her eyes fixed on the handkerchief which lay where Nicholas had placed it on her lap.

  January and February passed swiftly for Miranda. The river was blocked with ice and the roads nearly impassable, so that there were no visitors. The days were ourwardly monotonous, but she did not find them so. There was tension at Dragonwyck. A subtle sense of mounting expectancy which seemed to have no cause. Each morning she awoke to excitement which each quiet winter evening denied. There was no change, and yet the excitement recurred.

  In the middle of March there was a blizzard, and Johanna kept to her bed nursing one of the heavy colds which she had feared. The sounds of coughing and violent nose-blowing penetrated even through the shut door of the great bedchamber. Miranda, passing the door on her way to the schoolroom, saw Magda run in with a basin of mustard and water and a pitcher of steaming negus; heard Johanna in a clogged voice demanding fretfully whether the buttered toast were not ready yet.

  Even when she's sick she thinks of nothing but eating, thought Miranda contemptuously, and passed downstairs to call Katrine for her lessons.

  The schoolroom was bright with a fire on the hearth; snow piled up softly against the windows, though the wind blew with diminishing force. The two blonde heads, flaxen and amber gold, were bent together over a scrawled slate when the door opened. Nicholas walked in and the child's round eyes repeated Miranda's astonishment.

  'How nice to see you—Cousin Nicholas,' she stammered. 'We—I was just correcting Katrine's sums.' It was the first time he had ever entered the schoolroom. And her amazement was increased to see a trace of uncertainty in his manner. She felt that he had wanted to say something to her, but that now suddenly he had changed his mind.

  He walked over to the window, stood a moment staring out toward the gray river which was nearly hidden by eddies of snow.

  'Is the child doing well?' he asked without interest.

  'Oh, yes. She's learning fast. She's good at figures. I think she's ready for a textbook on arithmetic. Perhaps we could send to the city—?'

  Nicholas glanced at his daughter. Her cheeks were flushed, her fingers whitened with pressure as she nervously clutched her slate pencil. He gave a short laugh.

  'Why bother with a textbook! A little addition and subtraction are enough for a girl.'

  Still further bewildered by the bitterness in his tone, which seldom betrayed any emotion, Miranda said timidly, 'It—I suppose it must be disappointing that you have no son.'

  A peculiar expression ran over Nicholas' face. 'I do not brook disappointments,' he said, and going to the fireplace held his hands out to the blaze.

  She colored. It had been presumptuous to mention such matters to him. But did he mean that he would not allow himself to feel disappointment over the failure of an heir to carry on the unbroken Van Ryn line, or did he mean that he and Johanna yet might—?

  The pain that shot through her at this unfinished thought rushed her into speech.

  'I think it'll stop snowing soon; I mean there seems to be a lightening in the west.'

  'I trust so,' said Nicholas. 'Or the doctor will be delayed.'

  'Doctor?' she repeated blankly.

  'Certainly,' he answered with increased coldness. 'Mrs. Van Ryn is ill, and I have naturally sent for a doctor to attend her.'

  The girl was hurt by his tone as well as by his saying 'Mrs. Van Ryn.' It was as though he were deliberately putting her in her place.

  'I didn't realize that Cousin—that Mrs. Van Ryn was that ill.'

  Nicholas did not answer. He deserted the fire, walked with quick restless steps back to the window. He jerked together the heavy portières, turned back into the room, and said to Katrine: 'When you are through with your lessons go to your mother. You pay her little enough attention.'

  'Yes, Papa,' said the child. She hesitated, then overcame her awe of her father and asked, 'Will Doctor Hamilton let me play with his chiming watch like he did last year when I had measles?'

  Nicholas frowned. 'It won't be Hamilton who's coming. I've sent for Doctor Turner.'

  Miranda raised her head quickly. Why? she thought. Why that Turner, who is a boor and a down-renter? There were other doctors available besides Hamilton.

  Jeff, in Hudson, when he opened his door to a stable boy in the Van Ryn livery and received the summons to Dragonwyck, had wondered the same thing. He had made a rueful face at the snowdrifts and thought of refusing. But curiosity had won, curiosity and a feeling of gratification. If Nicholas had so much faith in him as a doctor as to overlook their clash, he might well be generous too.

  Jeff saddled his horse, and lashing his carpetbag full of pills and instruments to the cantle, plodded away after his guide through the snow.

  It was dusk by the time Jeff reached Dragonwyck village. Lights from scattered windows looked warm and comforting. The parsonage in particular gave an impression of cosiness. The Dominie, Mrs. Huysmann, and three of their children were gathered around the lamp on the center table, which was covered with a cheerful red cloth. As Jeff's tiring horse walked past the window he noticed many homely details, a moon clock on the mantel which chimed five times, an iron kettle steaming on the hob beside the fire. The pastor's pinched face looked relaxed. He peered benevolently over his spectacles at his wife, who was mending a small pair of breeches while a sleepy baby leaned against her knee.

  It must be pleasant, thought Jeff, shivering in his greatcoat. A scene like this to come back to after long hours in the saddle. Instantly he pictured Faith in the place of Mrs. Huysmann; the babies that would be with them were nebulous, but there was nothing vague about his reconstruction of another scene. Faith and himself upstairs in a billowing feather bed shut in against the world. Here there would be warmth and vitality and comfort.

  Tomorrow, he thought, I'll ask her.

  The horse dragged himself up the last long slope and stumbling a little on his snow-packed shoes rounded the bend before Dragonwyck.

  In the twilight the great pile of stone looked gigantic as its turrets and gables loomed against the dark sky. The portieres had all been drawn and no light showed. Here there was neither warmth, vitality, nor comfort. It's evil and unhealthy, this place, thought Jeff. It belongs to a dying age.

  Though he was the most practical of men, Jeff had an instinct of repulsion so strong that he very nearly turned his horse before they reached the porte-cochère. He could ask for shelter at the parsonage or at one of the farmhouses—and give what excuse for having covered all those miles to no purpose? thought Jeff, angry with himself. Ridiculous fancies, my lad.

  Besides, there was a sick person inside who needed him, and this call Jeff would never deny.

  He banged the silver door-knocker. At once the door was opened by Tompkins.

  'Good evening sir. I fear you've had a nasty ride. They've been expectin
g you this two hours.'

  Jeff blew on his fingers and advanced to the farther end of the long hall, where there was a fire. Firelight and candlelight did little to relieve the effect of luxurious gloom. Jeff pulled up his coat tails and tried to warm his chilled legs.

  'I hope Mrs. Van Ryn's not very ill,' he said. 'How's she feeling now?'

  'Better, I think, sir. But my lord has been anxious for you to come. He's always so solicitous for his lady's health.'

  Is he indeed? thought Jeff. He couldn't picture Nicholas as a solicitous husband. But he might be wrong. With unusual humility Jeff admitted to himself that he didn't understand these people.

  Tompkins ushered him upstairs and Magda received him at her mistress' room door. Johanna greeted him sulkily.

  'I can't think why Mr. Van Ryn didn't call Doctor Hamilton as usual.' She held out a fat hand, which she withdrew at once, letting it fall to the bed as Jeff touched it.

  'I'm sorry, ma'am,' he said with some embarrassment. 'But I'll do my best to cure you.' And he proceeded to make a thorough examination, undetetrred by Johanna's grudging co-operation, or by Magda's disapproving eyes.

  Except for the heavy cold there was nothing wrong with Johanna. Considering the vast bulk through which it was required to pump blood, even her heart was in good condition.

  'Nothing to worry about, ma'am,' he told her cheerfully. 'Take these drops three times a day, and a bit of scraped onion in sugar for the cough. You'll soon feel right. One thing more, though—' said Jeff, seeing a sodden pile of nibbled sweetmears on the bedside table, 'The diet should be light for a few days. Gruels and tea, a boiled egg or so. Nothing more.'