by Anya Seton
'No doubt,' said Nicholas.
She would have pursued the topic, for her imagination was caught by that girl, who even younger than herself struggled alone in a strange land to force a living from a country which would be hospitable only if she allowed herself to be exploited.
But shouts and screams of laughter assailed them from around a bend in the path. The irrepressible Benton family from Boston flocked into view. The children in pantalettes and round straw sailors swarmed over the rocks like monkeys, snatching at wild flowers and shrieking. The smallest, a five-year-old boy in a pinafore, shrieked as loud as the others, but his scramblings were impeded by a small Spaniel puppy which he hugged to his chest.
The parents, in stout boots and dust coats, followed more sedately, but they made nearly as much noise as their offspring. 'Willie!' screamed Mrs. Benton to her youngest, 'come away from that tree, there's poison ivy.' 'Samantha—see the pretty butterfly! Girls, put your gloves on again at once, you'll get warts! Willie, put doggie down; you'll hurt him squeezing him like that.' As Willie reluctantly obeyed, Mrs. Benton discovered the Van Ryns. 'Oh,' she cried to her husband in the same piercing tone, 'here come the honeymooners. How romantic!'
Nicholas made an exclamation of annoyance. 'Let's turn back,' he said to Miranda, ignoring the fact that they were already surrounded by Bentons. The lady bore down on them beaming, determined not to miss this excellent opportunity for meeting the unapproachable couple. She had held out her hand and begun,
'Isn't this a superb day for a stroll—Mr. Van—' when everyone was electrified by a blood-curdling yell from Willie. Its anguish quieted the other children who ran up.
'Oh, what is it, dearie?' cried Mrs. Benton, frantically feeling her child for injuries.
'Doggie, gone—' sobbed the little boy, pointing at the cliff beside the path. Everyone peered over the brink. There was a sheer drop of twenty feet and then a ledge. On this ledge lay a small brownish blob, and a faint whimpering noise came from it.
All the children began to cry; Willie buried his face in his mother's bosom. The puppy's doom seemed certain.
Mr. Benton tugged at his side whiskers and blew his nose. 'Poor creature,' he said. 'Hush, children. We'll get another doggie.'
Willie raised his swollen face, his eyes dilated with horror. 'You got to get him, Papa, you can't just leave him there. He's crying. I hear him.'
'It's impossible, Willie,' answered the father, peering down the cliff, and made brusque by his own distress. 'No one can get him.'
'I'll get the dog,' said Nicholas.
All the children stopped crying, and stared with their mouths open.
'It's very good of you to offer, sir,' said Mr. Benton, 'but I couldn't let you risk your life for a puppy. Besides, it's quite impossible.'
Nicholas raised his eyebrows. 'I never undertake to do anything that I can't carry out.' He took off his coat. 'Kindly give me your two coats.'
Confused, the two Bentons silently took off their long dust coats. Nicholas knotted them together with his, fastened one end to the root of a sapling.
'Nicholas, don't—please don't,' whispered Miranda.
He paid not the slightest attention to her. His mouth was set, his black brows drawn together, but his eyes held a glint of excited exultation. She had seen that expression before—on her first trip up the Hudson when the boats had raced each other, and the night when he had confronted the anti-renters.
The combined coats reached far down the cliff, and as Nicholas started down them hand over hand, Mrs. Benton gave a shriek and shut her eyes. 'He'll be killed—'
Miranda's heart hammered against her ribs as she watched, but she had no real doubt that Nicholas could do it. She knew so intimately the reserves of power that dwelt in that taut body, his ability to control his muscles by the force of his will. She realized, as the terrified Bentons never could, that his apparently miraculous descent of that cliff-side was possible because he had no fear and, unhampered by that, his quick eye and quicker brain could discover and use foot- and hand-holds in the rock's irregular surface. In sixty seconds he had reached the ledge and tucked the puppy into the bosom of his frilled shirt.
In two more minutes he stood again beside them on the path, his breathing scarcely quickened.
'That was m-marvelous, sir,' stammered Mr. Benton. 'I don't know how to thank you.'
The children clustered around, gazing at Nicholas with awed hero-worshiping eyes. He put the puppy on the pine needles, where it gave a little whimper and feebly licked at his hand. 'I daresay it will live; the bush down there broke its fall.' He put on his coat.
While Willie cradled his puppy, crooning to it and kissing the furry ears, Mrs. Benton joined her husband's paean of gratitude and admiration, but Nicholas would not stop to listen. He smiled briefly, and taking Miranda's arm hurried her down the path to the hotel.
'I'm so proud of you,' she whispered, when they had rounded a corner and the Bentons were left behind. 'Oh, Nicholas darling—I didn't think you—' In the aftermath of the excitement she felt sobs rising in her throat. She would not have thought it in his nature to risk his life for a puppy and a small boy's misery. He was then not as indifferent to sentiment as he professed to be.
'Won't you stop hurrying and let me tell you how brave and wonderful you were,' she said coaxingly, for Nicholas had not turned his head and continued to stride down the path. He did pause now.
'Miranda, my dear one, I applaud your wifely flutterings, but let's not wallow in syrup.'
Her hand dropped from his arm. For a moment she knew doubt, but only for a moment, then her consuming desire to believe in his essential goodness reassured her. Men were always embarrassed by reference to their brave deeds; to minimize them even with anger was natural.
'All right,' she said, smiling up at him, 'I won't say another word. But just the same it was a grand thing to do.' Never had she loved him so much.
Her conviction that she had found a secret softness in his character sustained her through Nicholas' cold refusal to recognize the Bentons, who had naturally expected that the morning's episode would establish acquaintance with the Van Ryns. It sustained her too through his indifference to the recovery of the puppy he had saved.
On the following morning at seven, Nicholas left the hotel by stage for Catskill Landing and the boat to Dragonwyck. After he had gone she moved restlessly around their rooms, unable to settle down to the few activities which Nicholas had permitted her. She might go out for a walk at eleven, but otherwise he expected her to remain in their suite. Young Mrs. Van Ryn must not wander unescorted around the public rooms of a hotel.
Well, there were letters to write home, plenty of books to read, and a copy of Godey's in which to study the latest fashions. There was her embroidery tambour on which she was creating a masterpiece of garden flowers in colored silk. And there was the view to admire. Enough diversions surely for three days.
But as the morning passed, she found that none of them appealed to her. Gradually she realized that part of her restlessness came from physical discomfort. There were fleeting twinges of nausea, a heaviness in her stomach.
Could it be the fish last night? she wondered. She went to the marble-topped washbasin behind the screen in her room and searched amongst the bottles of lotion and toilet water. There were so many that she had forgotten what they all contained, but she had no real hope of finding any medicine. Both she and Nicholas enjoyed superb health.
I must send out for some of Hutching's Stomach Bitters, she thought, remembering Abigail's pet remedy for digestive disturbance. The effort of ringing and giving the order seemed, however, tremendous and she lay down instead.
After a two-hours sleep she awoke feeling much better and extremely hungry. She ordered for herself an immense dinner, roast beef, cold tongue, chicken in aspic, cream kisses, and syllabub. When this meal arrived and the waiter had set the round table in the parlor, she found that after a few mouthfuls all her appetite had vanished. The sight
of the laden dishes and hot plates revolted her.
She pushed back her chair and rang for the waiter, who had gone elsewhere on business of his own thinking that he had a clear hour at least before Mrs. Van Ryn could possibly do justice to that meal. So it was Peggy that answered the bell.
'Yes, mum?' she said, curtsying. You'd be wanting something?'
Miranda nodded, gesturing feebly toward the food. 'Get rid of this stuff please—at once!' She leaned her swimming head against the antimacassar and shut her eyes.
Peggy gave her a puzzled look and obediently limped to the table. She looked at the thick slices of rare beef in the congealing gravy, the mountain of fluffy mashed potatoes down which ran rivulets of butter, the half ox tongue, the jellied chicken garnished with truffles, and she made a queer little sound.
Miranda opened her eyes. Whatever is the matter, Peggy? You can't clear away all those dishes yourself. Get the waiter—'
'Yes, mum.' The voice was muffled, and surprise pierced through Miranda's concentration on her own discomfort. Tears were rolling down the little maid's cheeks.
'Peggy!' cried Miranda starting up. 'What is the matter!'
The other girl bit her lips, began piling the dishes under the Britannia metal covers. 'It's just my foolishness, mum. It came over me all at oncet how just one wee part of all this, would've—'
'Would have what?' persisted Miranda, putting her hand softly on the maid's shoulder.
Peggy raised her head. 'Mither and the baby died of starvation on Saint Patrick's Day,' she said dully. 'There's famine in Ireland, mum.'
Miranda stared at the girl appalled. There had been occasional newspaper mention of food shortage in Ireland, but it hadn't impressed Miranda, nor as yet the rest of America, which would not begin to ship cargoes of corn meal to the starving people for another year when the potato blight had reached devastating magnitude.
'But that's awful,' she stammered, feeling how inadequate were any words to express sympathy for a condition she could hardly imagine. An abundance of food was an automatic part of life, plain food at the farm, elaborate dishes with Nicholas, but always plenty.
She realized how cruel it seemed to Peggy—this lavish display of food which had been wantonly ordered to no purpose.
'You're not hungry now, are you?' she cried, looking at the thin arms and cheeks.
The other shook her head. 'The pigs feed better here, mum, than does the Earl of Kenmare at home. Only it's hard to eat when you've lost the knack and your heart lies heavy as a millstone.' She looked up at Miranda with her quick sideways glance and smiled sadly. 'For why must I be ever worriting you with me troubles, I wouldn't be knowing, mum; it's the kind, beautiful face that you have.'
'I wish I could help you,' said Miranda slowly. Money, she thought, a huge tip, but she had no money, no more than a dollar in her purse. Nicholas would fee the hotel servants in exact proportion to their efficiency, and he had already remarked that Peggy was careless, and not well trained.
Peggy smiled the warm smile that illumined her plain little face. 'I'm needin' no help, bless you. I've got me two hands and soon I'll have enough to pay back to Father Donovan the passage money he lent me,' she said sturdily. 'Sit you down, mum; you look a bit white. Here I'm blabbering instead of doing what you told me.' She whisked around the table, vanished for a moment and came back with a tray, uttered an exclamation of concern as she saw Miranda, who had suffered a violent attack of nausea and tottered to a chair where she slumped, panting.
The maid flung the tray down and rushed to help. Even through the spasms of retching and vomiting Miranda was conscious of the gentleness of the hands that held her head, and of the soothing little murmurs. 'Poor pretty darlin', you'll do fine now. Put your head on my shoulder; here's a wet rag for your poor face. Now to bed with you—quick.'
Miranda found herself on the bed, the comforter tucked tight around her exhausted body, and Peggy anxiously leaning over her and stroking her hair.
'Thank you,' whispered Miranda, trying to smile. 'I'm so sorry. I guess the fish last night was tainted.'
The little maid's eyes twinkled. 'I wouldn't be thinking it was the fish, mum.'
'It couldn't be the cholera starting—' cried Miranda, alarmed.
Peggy laughed outright. 'Nor the cholera neither, I'll be bound.' She leaned over and whispered a question.
'Why, yes—' answered Miranda, mentally counting days and still puzzled. 'But what would that—?' She checked herself in astonishment. She had no biological knowledge whatever except that derived from observation of the farm animals, but suddenly she had a dim memory of Abigail's sufferings in the months before Charity was born.
'Well, then, mum,' said Peggy, both amused and touched. The dear, pretty lady, as innocent as a lamb, she was, with her tainted fish and her cholera. Peggy, the eldest of seven children, had been raised without genteel reticences. She had been spared no grimmest detail of either birth or death, and an unquestioning acceptance of these was as much part of her as the Irish sympathy and humor which had made them endurable.
'I can't believe it,' murmured Miranda, half to herself. There was no gladness, no realization of the inevitable changes, no thought even of Nicholas, nothing but this blank unbelief.
'It's nature, mum,' said Peggy briskly. 'First the bed and then the cradle, as me poor mither used to say. I'll be leaving you to rest now.'
'No, don't go, please.' Miranda held out her hand. 'I don't want to be alone. I'll make it all right with the housekeeper if you're worrying about the work; only stay and talk to me awhile.'
The maid looked at the pale face on the pillow. The forlorn note in Miranda's voice sped to her heart. As far as Peggy could see the poor lady had naught in the world to trouble her beyond she was a bit queasy in the stomach. And yet she was troubled; a blindfolded bat could see that. And to be sure the rich weren't always happy, hard as it was to believe.
'What'll I talk to you of, mum?' she asked gently.
'Tell me about your home in Ireland—unless it hurts you to speak of it.' Miranda cared little what the other girl said; she wanted companionship while she tried to adjust herself to this startling possibility that she was not ready to face.
So Peggy talked, her brogue thickening as she forgot herself and the lady on the bed in memories of home. She came from one of the loveliest spots in Ireland, the banks of Lough Leane at Killarney. Beneath the thatched roof of the sod shanty there had always been poverty, but there had been merriment too. No matter how thin the milk in the wooden bowls, nor how few the potatoes, there would be a crackle of wit from the handsome red-headed mother to make them forget the emptiness of their bellies. And then the little Kerry cow died, and there was no milk at all. Soon there were no potatoes either. One day the red-headed mother quietly lay down on the straw pallet with her month-old baby in her arms. Nor did she get up again. They would all have starved—for the neighbors were in like case—without the help of the parish priest and the squire. These two men, distracted by the increasing misery in their town, did what they could. They sent Peggy's father to Belfast, where there was still work and food. They boarded the three surviving O'Malley children in the charity school, and they contrived to ship Peggy and other grown youngsters from their district to America, the land of plenty.
But it was not on the past dreadful spring that Peggy dwelt, nor on the twenty-one days she had spent jammed into a stinking hold with other immigrants. She told of the beauties of Killarney and its three lakes shimmering like magic jewels in the soft haze beneath the mountains. She told of the roses that grew of their own accord and scarcely needed tending in that warm, moist climate, and of the arbutus wood which she and her brothers had delighted to whittle into fragrant boxes.
Then crossing herself, and flattered by Miranda's continuing interest, she lowered her voice and spoke of the ruins of the tower and church at Aghadoe. 'No mortal man has lived there since the time of the Black O'Donohues hunnerds of years a gone, but they do say the lit
tle folk dance in the tower at the turn of the moon.'
'The little folk,' smiled Miranda. 'D'you mean the fairies?'
'Hush, mum!' cried Peggy, looking around nervously. 'Don't you be naming of them; that makes 'em come.' She paused, then her eyes danced and she giggled. 'But 'twould be a brash wee one, indeed, would cross that heaving ocean packed in tight like kippers in a basket, and he'd never survive the poking and peering of the im-i-gration men at journey's end. Sure and I don't think we need worry at all, at all.'
Miranda laughed. 'Peggy, you do me good.' She had ceased thinking of her as an ignorant and handicapped little chambermaid; somehow during the past hour she had come to think of her as a friend. The sympathy between them cut through the difference in their upbringing and their stations. And yet their stations were not originally so very far apart, thought Miranda, with a shock of surprise. She too had been reared on a potato farm.
'How much do you make a month here, Peggy?' she asked suddenly.
The girl looked anxious. Trouble often swooped down from unexpected quarters. And the job was so precious. 'Four dollars a month, mum—not counting me tips when I get 'em.'
Miranda sat up in bed. 'Will you leave here and come to me as my maid? I'll give you—' she hesitated, knowing well that there would be difficulty with Nicholas. She went on quickly, Twenty dollars a month. That'll help with the younger children and to pay back Father Donovan, won't it?'
Peggy drew away from the bed staring at the lady whose face between the long braids of wheat-colored hair was as pleading as though she begged a favor.
'Holy Mither of God, you'd not be making game of me, mum?'
'Of course not. I want you, Peggy.' And as she said these words they crystallized her desire. She wanted Peggy desperately, as an ally, someone that belonged to her in a world dominated by Nicholas. Particularly at Dragonwyck, nor until this second had Miranda realized how much she dreaded the return to Dragonwyck.