Dragonwyck (38 page)

'I kind of like that greaser of yours too,' remarked Doctor Francis grimly. 'You needed a bullet to knock some sense into you. Now you're here, you'll stay this time, my lad. Move into my office tomorrow, start learning the ropes. I'll not work ye too hard till your brains've got unaddled.'

Jeff sent the old doctor a look of affection. He perfectly understood the little plan to give him rest at a salary. For a moment he was tempted. If he went in with Doctor Francis, it would mean a big society practice, the idea of which he loathed, but it would also mean money enough for research, and association with a man whom he deeply admired.

But that was just the trouble. Jeff's fiercely independent soul wouldn't stomach the thought of being beholden to anyone, or of slipping easily into a ready-made practice. Besides, he was needed at home. He had been startled and touched at the dismay of his patients when he had enlisted.

The old man read his face. Yes, there you go,' he grumbled. 'I see that mule look. Independent as a hog on ice. Go on back to your little jay town, kill yourself for a parcel of flea-bitten yokels.' He blew his nose stertorously. Jeff's second refusal was a grievous disappointment. Every man of achievement longs for a disciple, a younger edition of himself with whom to share the accumulated wisdom and experience of the past. That few men ever find this disciple, Doctor Francis well knew. And now having found him it was hard to be balked. Still he understood Jeff's reasons and honored him for them.

Both men were companionably silent for a while. The old doctor wreathed himself in clouds of tobacco smoke, and the young one gazed absently at the ceiling.

'Saw a friend of yours last summer, seemed mighty interested in you,' offered Francis suddenly.

Jeff turned and looked his question.

'Right pretty girl; married, though—so you needn't get all het up. Mrs. Nicholas Van Ryn, wife to that high mucky-muck what-you-may-call-him up on the Hudson.'

Jeff expelled his breath and sat up. Where'd you meet Miranda?' he said sharply.

The other raised his bushy eyebrows. 'So, it's Miranda, is it! I met her at the Poes' cottage and she made me a cup of tea with her own lily-white hands.'

'How was she looking?'

The old man snorted. 'Far as I remember she'd a pink satin dress and some darn fool feather in her bonnet; she'd a mighty trim ankle and a mighty trim waist—all right, all right,' he said in response to Jeffs ejaculation. 'She looked healthy enough, if that's what you want to know.'

The old man gave him a satiric look and grinned. 'Waist's not so trim now, I'll be bound; she must be two months from term.'

'What!' cried Jeff violently.

Doctor Francis chuckled at Jeff's air of stupefaction. 'Anybody ever tell you about the stork, Jeff? Bird that's likely to come moseying along when a young couple's married? Or when they're not, for that matter.'

Jeff made an impatient gesture. 'How do you know she's—she's pregnant?' He had managed to forget Miranda quite completely during his months in Mexico, had shut the memory of her away in an air-tight compartment and thought that any sentimental yearnings he had had for her were done with. He was therefore annoyed to discover how much he disliked the thought of her bearing a child to Nicholas.

'I know,' answered Doctor Francis, 'because the great Mr. Van Ryn wrote me about it. He favored me with a request—more like a royal command at that—wanted me to move up to his manor and hang around for weeks until his lady takes a notion to produce this marvelous infant.'

'Are you going?' asked Jeff slowly.

'I am not! I told him most politely that I'd better use for my time than to fuss over one healthy girl, counting every pulse beat. He can find himself some other tame puppy. Plenty'd be glad enough to get the fee he offered. Come to think of it, you can do it yourself now; you'll be right handy.'

'No!' said Jeff explosively.

The old doctor leaned back and contemplated the young man. 'Little bit smitten with the lady's charms, aren't you?'

'It's not that. But—well, Van Ryn wouldn't want me. I attended the death of his first wife.'

Doctor Francis nodded. 'What'd she die of, anyway? Wasn't it kind of sudden?'

'Acute indigestion. Very sudden,' Jeff answered curtly. The memory of his suspicions of Nicholas now shamed him. They must have sprung from unrecognized jealousy. His face grew hot when he thought of those bungling little experiments he had made on the tipsy cake.

'Whyn't you get married, Jeff?' The old man put down his cigar and laid an affectionate hand on Jeff's good shoulder. 'Must be some tidy little woman around who pleases you. And if you're not so fond of her at first, you'll get to be once she's yours.' He chuckled. 'Lots of truth in what old Benjamin Franklin said, "All cats look gray at night." '

Jeff smiled and thought of Faith Folger. On the day he had sailed down-river to join the army she had stood at the Hudson dock beside her mother. The black eyes had been full of tears. Til be waiting for thee, Jeff,' she had whispered, 'until thee comes back.'

He had kissed her quickly while her mother pretended not to see. The kiss had meant little to him, for his mind had been full of Miranda, and in any case he had not really expected to come back. But now the thought of Faith was comforting.

'I think I'll take your advice, sir,' he said to Doctor Francis, 'as soon as I have two whole arms and a steady head to offer a woman.'

Hudson welcomed Jeff home with wild enthusiasm. Had he permitted it they would have made a hero of him, but as he refused to be lionized they contented themselves with flocking to his little house on Front Street and bringing gifts; calves'-foot jelly, pound cake, ducks and chickens already roasted. The old black Rillah had nothing to do but fuss over Jeff and serve the dainties which were provided.

By New Year's Day, it seemed to Jeff that he had never been away at all. His left arm was stiff but had regained its usefulness, the spells of vertigo diminished in frequency, and he could ignore them enough to take on a restricted practice.

He had not yet proposed to Faith. He did send her a New Year's present. 'The Golden Chalice—or Mental Draughts from Many Fountains'—a popular gift book that year, prettily bound in red leather tooled with gilt. Faith was encouraged. 'The Casket of Love' or 'The Wedding Guest' would have been more significant, to be sure, but any gift book was indicative of serious intentions, and she made her plans for a June wedding. Now that he was home again, she must on no account allow their relationship to slip back into the old half-teasing, flirtatious state. She wanted Jeff, and had turned down three flattering proposals for his sake. It was high time that he speak the decisive words.

But January passed and Jeff remained unaccountably elusive. He refused invitations, pleading the need for rest. When Faith, growing desperate, invented a persistent headache and trudged through the snowy streets to consult him at his office, he received her warmly, even tenderly, but he didn't 'speak.' He told her to avoid fried foods for a while and take a dose of calomel, then sent her away again baffled but not quite disconsolate. For she knew men, and there
had
been a special note in his voice, an admission of intimacy in his manner, and besides she knew she had no rival. There was hardly a girl in Hudson who hadn't tried to interest Jeff, and he paid no attention to any of them.

In fact Jeff intended to propose eventually, but he had a male reluctance to being stampeded or to committing himself irretrievably.

He finally decided that on Saint Valentine's Day he would take the plunge. Send her one of those sugary, sentimental effusions which delight the girlish heart, follow it up by a formal call at her parents' house.

But when the fourteenth of February came, poor Faith received no Valentine from Jeff. He was at Dragonwyck.

During the first weeks after his return he had heard nothing of the Van Ryns. He had rejoiced to find that the manors were at last to be broken up and that his friend, little Boughton, was to be pardoned, but aside from this general news, the inhabitants of Dragonwyck might have been in Kamchatka for all one heard of them in Hudson. The shore road was blocked with snow as the river was blocked with ice.

Jeff had again made up his mind to forget Miranda and succeeded quite well. An epidemic of grippe inflicted itself on Hudson, and in consequence he was too busy and too tired to think at all.

Then he got a letter from Doctor Francis in New York. Following the usual greetings and inquiries it said:

Don't be surprised if you're called to the Van Ryns' after all, for I've taken the liberty to write the Grand Seigneur heartily recommending your skill. He's got Brown there for his wife—Doctor William Brown from Gramercy Park. I know the man and he is able enough, but the trouble seems to be Van Ryn has got him terrified. Brown is in a funk, thinks matters aren't progressing just right and doesn't dare tell Van Ryn. He sneaked a letter out to me begging for advice, but I cannot make head nor tail of it. Sounds like a normal pregnancy to me. I wrote back to the poor numbskull—(my private opinion is that the size of his fee has addled his wits)—telling him not to worry, delivering babies is simple as rolling off a log. Dame Nature does it for you (though we can't let the laymen guess that), but I ended up by telling him to get in touch with you if he needs help. Then I got a letter from Van Ryn himself complaining about Brown and begging me to go up there after all. So I handed you to
him
too All this pother! The Grand Cham of Tartary would not make half the rumpus about an heir, I'll be bound.

Jeff threw the letter on his desk. Even if they did send for him, he wouldn't go. Nothing would induce him to involve himself again with Miranda or the dark intricacies of Dragonwyck. Doctor Francis was right and it was all a ridiculous pother. She had one qualified physician on hand to attend her, and there was doubtless nothing wrong with her anyway. She had always been a healthy farm girl, strong as a horse despite her air of fragility.

It's all nonsense, thought Jeff angrily, rolled up his sleeves and went into his surgery to open a boil on little Jimmy Coffin's neck.

Next morning at eight his bell pealed and he opened the door to see Nicholas muffled in a fur coat standing on his doorstep, and behind him a red sleigh and panting horse.

The two men looked at each other silently a moment, then Nicholas held out his hand. 'Will you come back with me, Turner?' he said almost humbly. 'We need you.'

Jeff frowned and receded from the door.

'You have a doctor up there; I could do nothing more than he will,' he answered coldly. 'Doctor Francis wrote me.'

Nicholas shook his head. 'Brown's a fool. I don't trust him. I beg of you to come—to hurry. There are certain symptoms; Brown says labor is starting.' He spoke in jerks. His face was haggard. His eyes, devoid now of all condescension or irony, were simply pleading.

Jeff had dealt with many an anxious father, but Nicholas' tension seemed excessive.

'What reason have you to think that Mrs. Van Ryn is in danger?' asked Jeff gravely.

Nicholas looked at him. 'Miranda?' he said doubtfully. 'I don't know that Miranda's in any danger. Do hurry, Turner—I beg of you.'

Jeff was startled. Was this frenzy of apprehension then only for the baby? Why did this man never seem to be motivated by a normal understandable emotion? He felt a sudden sharp pity for the girl immured there at Dragonwyck.

He sighed and reached for his greatcoat, cramming his stiff arm into the left sleeve with difficulty. 'I don't know what I can do, but I'll come with you.'

They were silent on the breakneck ride back to the Manor. Nicholas drove with headlong violence and he lashed the horse unmercifully. The runners made a hissing sound on the packed snow, the silver sleigh bells jingled with an effect of hysterical merriment which suited neither of their moods. The cold wind beat on their faces, now and again icicles fell from the overhanging trees, but Nicholas never slackened; his jaw was set, his narrowed eyes strained on the white road ahead.

Jeff sunk deeper in his greatcoat and was unpleasantly reminded of the last time on which he had hurried to Dragonwyck through the snow. My so-called skill was of no use then, he thought bitterly; it's a marvel Van Ryn still trusts to it.

As they whirled up under the porte-cochere and Nicholas yanked the trembling horse to a stop, the door flew open and Peggy stumbled out.

'Oh, Master,' she gulped, her mouth working, 'Missis is took bad and they won't let me near her. Please let me go to her.'

Nicholas pushed her roughly aside, not troubling to answer, and together the two men hurried up the stairs.

Two people hovered over the great bed on which Miranda lay moaning, Doctor Brown and the German wet nurse whom Nicholas had also imported from New York. The doctor was normally a dapper little man with an ingratiating bedside manner which had won him many influential patients. But now his pomaded locks were in disarray, his neat beard glistened with the sweat that had run down his face.

'What's the matter?' cried Nicholas, turning on him furiously.

The little doctor gave his patron a look of concealed terror. 'N-nothing wrong, Mr. Van Ryn,' he stammered. 'Labor has started but everything is quite all right, oh quite—quite.' His air of false brightness deceived no one, not even the wet nurse, who muttered,
'Ach bimmel!'
under her breath and stared round-eyed at Nicholas.

'Mr. Van Ryn, would you and the nurse mind going out while I consult with Doctor Brown?' interposed Jeff with a calmness designed to quell this atmosphere of hysteria. 'I'm sure there's no need for alarm.'

As soon as the door closed, Doctor Brown mopped his face and heaved a sigh of relief. 'Thank God you're here, Turner. I can't take the responsibility alone.' He no longer cared that he might have to share his magnificent fee; he would gladly have foregone the whole fee if he could have been allowed to return with honor to his safe and placid Gramercy Square practice. 'The man's a maniac,' he added somberly. 'I think he'd kill me if anything went wrong.'