Dragonwyck (19 page)

'There is nothing to fear from my tenants. Nothing. Do you think we can't guide and control them as we have done this two hundred years? This hysteria will pass as it has before.'

The Dominie, after a quick glance at his patron's face, bowed his head. 'Yes mynheer. Doubtless you are right.'

The ladies subsided. After all, this was men's business, and if the Lord of Dragonwyck believed the matter unimportant it must be so. None of them had had any first-hand contact with the down-renters. Only Miranda was not so sure. She had the memory of the sullen meeting in Jeff Turner's surgery, of the pitchfork rebounding from the carriage roof—and the pistol shot. Could Nicholas possibly be wrong?

Nicholas was not wrong in so far as the immediate outcome of the rebellion affected him personally. And no broader consideration interested him. That the events of the next few days—events in which he took no part and ignored until they were over —were eventually to mould his life he neither knew nor would have believed.

The unrest in Columbia County culminated outside of Dragonwyck Manor on Van Rensselaer lands. On December 12, in Copake, Sheriff Henry Miller and a deputy attempted to dispossess two farmers who were behind with the rent. They were met with violent opposition. The little doctor, Smith Boughton, disguised as Big Thunder, inflamed three hundred of his calico Indians with his oratory. They seized the sheriff and burned his legal papers in a tar barrel. After this they allowed the disconsolate officers to ride back to Hudson with jeers and the tooting of horns for accompaniment.

By December eighteenth matters had come to a head. Big Thunder called a mass meeting at Smoky Hollow near Claverack. Nearly a thousand Indians gathered on the square before the tavern, a whooping, yelling mob in masks and gowns. This time there were many guns and the tavern's cellar full of whiskey was raided. The combination produced tragedy.

While Doctor Boughton from the tavern balcony vainly tried to quiet his rioting Indians, a stray shot killed one of them—young Bill Rifenburg, a gentle boy from a near-by farm, the only son of a widowed mother.

The suddenly hushed crowd flocked around the still figure on the ground gaping at the spreading stain of red on the calico shirt. Someone snatched off the boy's fox-shaped mask. Jeff, not yet disguised, had been upstairs with Boughton. The two doctors exchanged a look of horror. 'That's done it!' cried Jeff. 'See if you can quiet 'em down, while I do what I can for that boy.'

Big Thunder leaned over the balcony railing; Jeff pelted down the stairs and knelt by the quiet body. There was nothing to be done. Jeff was still kneeling there wondering how to break the news to Mrs. Rifenburg, and bitterly regretting the tragedy and inevitable blow to their cause, when Sheriff Miller and five deputies galloped through the subdued crowd.

'So it's murder too, along with the other charges!' cried the sheriff, taking in the situation. Then seeing the figure up on the balcony he cried exultantly, 'Come, boys—we've got Big Thunder at last!'

With pistols cocked the officers rushed into the inn. They found Boughton flattened against the fireplace in the upper room, his mouth twisted with despair. For a few minutes he resisted arrest, exerting his slight strength and cursing. The six men hustled him downstairs and bundled him on a horse.

Jeff watched helplessly. He could do nothing for his friend then, and a further brush with the law would damage them irreparably. The sheriff paid no attention to him. He had no warrant for Doctor Turner, whom he knew and liked, and he was in a hurry to get away from the dazed, silent mob before they turned threatening. He slapped the rump of the horse on which Boughton was tied: he and his men mounted swiftly and herded their prize down the road to Hudson.

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 relief. 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.