Dragonwyck (40 page)
He flung back the coverlet, staring at the small, still figure. His face was convulsed; he wheeled on Peggy, who crouched by the bedpost weeping quietly. 'It's you who've done this, you loathsome cripple!' he shouted, advancing on her. 'You've handled him roughly, you've let him fall—'
'Mother of God—' Peggy whispered, shrinking. Her hands flew to her throat, she backed inch by inch from that blazing murderous face.
'Nicholas!' Miranda screamed, trying to rise from the bed.
For a moment he hesitated, and Peggy drew a rasping, terrified breath. Then the fury drained from his face, leaving it gray, and he strode out of the room.
For three days he did not reappear; he locked himself in the tower room, which had been long unused. Frantic at her helplessness, for she was still too weak to get up, Miranda sent repeated messages and pleas by the butler and Mrs. MacNab. She didn't dare send Peggy. To these messages he answered through the locked door that she might make whatever arrangements she liked, nor would he say more.
The tiny white coffin traveled to the churchyard accompanied only by the wailing servants and Peggy, who had forcibly prevented her mistress from going.
On the morning after the funeral Nicholas came downstairs. He entered Miranda's room and greeted her with a brief kiss. 'Good morning, my love. You look very well. White always suits you.'
She stared up at him, stupefied. Her eyes turned blankly to her white bed jacket, then back to his face. It was thin and drawn and had a sallow tinge which it had never had before. His suit was rumpled, as was his cravat, and about him there was a very faint sweetish odor.
'Nicholas,' she cried, 'I've been so terribly worried about you.'
'That was foolish,' he answered, and he smiled. Behind the smile there was a warning. He walked to the window and parted the curtains.
'The ice must be three feet deep in the west channel, and deep enough by our pier. We must give a skating party. I'll make out a list at once.'
'Party—' she repeated—'Oh, I don't understand you—' She turned her face from him. She had been sure that when the first violence of his grief had passed then they would comfort each other, be drawn together closer than they had ever been by their mutual sorrow.
And now as Nicholas continued to talk lightly of invitations, of the state of the roads and the possibility of more snow, she saw with anguish how it was to be.
During the remainder of their life together he never referred to the baby, nor seemed to hear on the few occasions when anyone else did. It was as though it had never been.
THE RIVER FAMILIES WERE MOLLIFIED BY THE VAN Ryns' tragedy. One brisk March day the Widow Mary Livingston arrayed herself in the most imposing of her fluted white caps, and having passed the night visiting a friend in Valatie, she drove over to Dragonwyck.
After that visit she told everyone that Mrs. Van Ryn was a sweet little thing and had grown most ladylike.
'I don't blame Nicholas in the least for marrying her,' the Widow told Mrs. Robert Livingston of Linlithgow, who had come to 'The Hill' for tea. And for my part I think he's lucky. From a child he's always been difficult, you know. I remember how his poor mother—Katrina Brinckerhoff she was, from Rhinebeck—used to worry about him. He'd have gloomy fits, wouldn't speak to anyone, and pig-headed! She was the only one could manage him. He'd never listen to his father.' She paused to replenish her visitor's cup, and added reflectively: 'She was a pretty creature, Katrina was. Don't know as I ever saw such masses of lovely golden hair on anyone. Come to think of it, this new wife of Nicholas' is something the same type.'
'Is she?' said the other lady politely, helping herself to a seed cake.
'I wonder,' said the Widow Mary, pursuing her own line of thought, 'if Johanna was ever really happy with Nicholas.'
'Oh, but surely!' cried Mrs. Robert. 'She was mad about him, and he was always so devoted.'
The Widow inclined her stately head. 'I know, but Johanna told me once long ago before she got so—so corpulent and—' mindful that she was speaking of the dead, she suppressed 'stupid' and substituted 'slow,' 'she told me that he'd never forgive her for not bearing him a son. Those were her very words, "He'll never forgive me." Of course she couldn't have another try at it, you know—' The Widow leaned forward and whispered. The old lady had flourished in a franker age and was sometimes indelicately outspoken. Mrs. Robert Livingston blushed.
'Oh, well,' she said hastily, 'a disappointment, of course, but it happens to many.'
'That's what I told Johanna, but she just sat and stared at me with those pale round eyes of hers. "You don't know Nicholas," she said. The way she said it gave me quite a turn.'
'Indeed?' said Mrs. Robert, growing bored, for she had never known the Van Ryns very well. 'No doubt he'll have a healthy son yet. And if you think the new wife is acceptable, I too will call when I'm in the neighborhood.'
She did call, and the rest of the local gentry followed suit.
The young Van Ryns entertained constantly that year. Nicholas seemed possessed of feverish energy. Gone were the quiet domestic days they had enjoyed before the baby came. He invited people for weeks at a time, all kinds of people—New York or Albany aristocracy, English noblemen—there was always in New York at that period a stray foreigner or two with a portfolio of notes entitled 'My Observations of American Life.' He invited soldiers too, though no one below the rank of captain. In September Mexico surrendered and the Eastern States were crammed with returning victorious heroes.
Dragonwyck hummed with voices from the time that guests straggled down to the huge buffet breakfasts until after midnight, when they straggled up again, exhausted with festivities.
Most of them were dazzled by the constant entertainment provided for them—the boating parties, the rose fetes in the gardens, the musicals and charades, the dances and elegant picnics on horseback accompanied by a cart and four servants to dispense hampers of capon or boned shad. Only a few of the more sensitive ones grew weary of constant regimentation, or sensed despotism in their host's arrangements.
One of the critical ones was Lady Hermione Basset, daughter to an obscure English earl. She was a middle-aged virgin and she was, of course, keeping a journal of her travels. It was called 'Little Gleanings from Across the Great Atlantic,' and it was written with an eye to publication once she should have finished gleaning and returned to London.
On the twentieth of September, 1847, Lady Hermione having arrived two days before and having since then danced, boated, inspected the greenhouses, ridden cross country, and taken part in archery contests, excused herself firmly, retired to her room, and vouchsafed to life at Dragonwyck some of her most penetrating observations.
'Situated upon one of the most picturesque of American estuaries,' began Lady Hermione cautiously, 'there rears itself a noble pile, a veritable castle, not inferior in magnitude or embellishment to some of the smaller seats of the aristocracy in England. The edifice is composed of gray stone upon which a creeping vine whose exact botanical nature I have not yet determined—(memo, must ask)—tenderly nestles, and this taken with carved gables and a commanding turret lend an air of antiquity. Imagine my astonishment to learn that the building was so constructed not ten years ago!
'In truth there is much to astonish the visitor in this estate. An esthetic taste and unlimited purse have combined with wild primeval nature to produce an effect of luxurious exoticism. How charming these bosky dells beneath the hemlocks! How moving to the responsive heart these marble gazebos by rippling silver streams, these velvety emerald lawns, this exquisite profusion of multicolored blossoms!
'Within the hall too, all is of a Gothic and tasteful magnificence. And here the feast of reason and the flow of soul mingle around the groaning board with delicately seasoned viands, and the most impeccable of wines!'
Lady Hermione nibbled the tip of her pen and frowned. Was Impeccable' precisely the word? Well, no matter, she could fix it later. She hastened on to the really interesting subject.
'You will be wondering, dear reader, what type of denizens inhabit this delightful abode, and I shall hasten to apprise you. Mr. X—my host, is a gentleman of singular personal beauty. In stature he is tall and somewhat slender, luxuriant raven locks bestrew his lofty brow; his flashing eyes stir and startle the beholder, for they are of the most fiery and cerulean blue. Imagine if you will the prepossessing appearance of Lord Byron allied to the suavity of a Chesterfield and thus gain a partial impression of this gentleman, but only partial, for in my host I fear there is lacking the innate repose, the contemplative serenity which are the hall marks of true gentility.
'Alas, it is a flaw which I have frequently observed in this country! This restlessness of spirit, this headlong pursuit of one activity after another! Mr. X—excels in physical exercise, he rides like a centaur but at a pace which suggests that the Furies are pursuing him; he swims like Leander, surpasses all other contestants at archery or bowls, but—'
Lady Hermione laid down her pen. The point she intended to make was rather subtle, and was it after all particularly pertinent to philosophical comments on the United States? She was astute enough to realize that neither Dragonwyck nor Mr. Van Ryn were in the least typical, and perhaps it was not in the best of taste to criticize a hospitality because she found it demanding and excessive; because she had the uncomfortable feeling that the guests were by Nicholas shuffled and moved like pawns and had for him despite his surface courtesy no personal interest whatever.
There was pique in Lady Hermione's reaction. She had been very much smitten with Nicholas. It had seemed on her first evening at Dragonwyck that she and her host were entering upon a flirtation—oh, quite proper, of course, but exhilarating. He had given her a cluster of artemisia and made allusion to the flower's name and her own resemblance to the chaste and lovely moon goddess. She had felt feminine and seductive. But it hadn't lasted. His interest had disappeared just as suddenly as it started. She had watched with jealous eyes while he transferred all this flattering intensity to a Mrs. Gates—a little nonentity from New Jersey.
In Miranda, Lady Hermione was not interested. She saw simply a pretty young wife, exquisitely dressed but rather quiet, who expressed no opinions and did as her husband wished. No wonder she seemed tired, thought Lady Hermione, rubbing her wrist, which had been twisted in the last archery contest. This hectic atmosphere would tire anyone. She would leave in the morning, she thought while she shut and carefully locked her journal. She would go to Boston. There she had been told that she would find earnest thinking. It would be rather amusing to direct one's trenchant pen to the dissection of cultural pretensions. It would at any rate be restful.
Lady Hermione could leave, but Miranda could not. Life for her at this time resolved itself into a skimming along on the surface obedient to Nicholas' will. She was neither happy nor unhappy; it was as though she had started with him upon a frenzied race toward an unspecified goal. There was neither direction nor purpose, but the ceaseless activities, the pressure of people, and Nicholas' dominance gave her no time to realize it. It was only in dreams that she sometimes knew a bitter sadness and sense of catastrophic loss. From these she would awaken to find herself crying.
She had no time to consult her soul, and no privacy. Outside of her room there were people, and within it there was always Nicholas.
She had no friends. Several times one amongst the hordes of guests had attracted her; she had thought that here at last was someone who saw her as an individuality apart from Nicholas. But the situation never ripened. Without ever seeming to do so, Nicholas intervened, and soon the guest would depart again, having seen in Miranda just what Lady Hermione had—only a pretty young wife who adored her husband and had nothing much to say for herself.
In the same way the visit from Miranda's mother was repeatedly postponed. Abigail could have come now at any time; her theumatism had improved, Tabitha's baby was doing well. When Abigail had received the letter telling of the death of Miranda's own baby, she had expected to leave for Dragonwyck at once. But the months went by and there was no more talk of her coming. Miranda's letters became very infrequent and brief. They read like society bulletins. 'Yesterday we entertained ex-President Van Buren and a host of others who have interest in the election,' or, 'Tomorrow we go to a ball at the Astors. I believe it is to be a brilliant affair.' Nothing personal in them.
Abigail hid her hurt under brusqueness of manner. Ephraim, the boys, and even little Charity suffered under the increased sharpness of her tongue.
And as for Jeff, until the fall of 1849 Miranda did not see him at all. She had thought for a while after the baby's death that she would see him often, that Nicholas—who must like the young doctor, for had he not twice called him in a crisis?—would invite Jeff to Dragonwyck.
Nicholas not only would not invite Jeff, but he forbade Miranda to see him for any reason. She might not take Peggy to have the leg looked at. She was to have nothing more to do with Doctor Turner.
Miranda had long since ceased trying to find reasons for all her husband's behavior, but she understood that he wished to see nothing and no one who reminded him of the baby's death. And she submitted in this too, all the more readily because she had a feeling of guilt about Jeff. Her interest in him, and her tenderness and gratitude, were not entirely fitting to a wife. So she did as Nicholas wished.
It was Peggy who suffered during this time. She tended her mistress faithfully, and Miranda was always kind, but the old close relationship was obscured. The missis was always in a hurry, morning, noon, and night. She seemed to think of nothing but her lovely clothes and the occasions for exhibiting them. There were no more little confidences and no more chance for them, because master was always in the way. And Peggy was afraid of Nicholas. He ignored her; when she was assisting Miranda with some detail of the toilet, he looked through Peggy, and almost never addressed her. She knew that he allowed her to remain because she had become very useful to Miranda—she had learned to sew and to press, she kept every detail of the elaborate wardrobe in exquisite order—but she never forgot the look in his eyes on the night the baby died. She understood that that outburst had been a reaction of blind rage at Fate, for which she had been the temporary and unwitting scapegoat; she understood even that as much as it was in his nature to regret anything, he probably regretted that loss of control. Nevertheless, she was constantly uneasy in his presence.