Dragonwyck (8 page)

'I wish you'd get rid of the thing, Nicholas,' said Johanna suddenly, putting down her work. 'It's not in keeping with the rest of the furniture and then there's that old story. I vow the servants are afraid to dust it.'

'Servants are always superstitious,' answered Nicholas indifferently. 'You know very well that I never "ger rid" of anything that belonged to my ancestors. Their material possessions are as precious to me as the blood and traditions which I also inherited.—Come, Miranda, let's go to the music room.—You don't care to come, I suppose, my love, since you never do.'

Johanna bent her fat neck and stared down at the embroidery. 'Isn't it rather late? Miranda must be tired; you said yourself she was tired.'

'I'm not tired now,' said the girl quickly with some resentment, for why should she be sent to bed like a child when Nicholas had paid her the compliment of wishing her company? Besides, there was an undercurrent here that she did not understand.

Without further words Nicholas led the way to the music room, a nearly empty chamber with a vaulted ceiling and an oriel window beneath which stood the pianoforte.

As they entered the room a figure slid out from the shadowy hall and lit the tapers. Miranda soon grew accustomed to the noiseless and almost invisible service at Dragonwyck, though it took her some time to realize that it was part of Nicholas' plan of esthetic living. The machinery of labor must never intrude. The synthetic perfection of his surroundings must seem to spring effortlessly into being as from the touch of an enchanter's wand. For this reason the pleasure gardens, even the lawns and fruit orchards, were always romantically deserted. The necessary digging, weeding, hoeing, and trimming was done at night by an army of gardeners with lanterns and torches.

Nicholas sat down on the piano stool and it soon developed that she could not possibly turn the pages, for though she read the soprano parr of hymns, she could not follow the complicated sonatas which suited his mood that evening.

He was a musician of distinction; he played with passion and a fastidious brilliance. These qualities she felt, though the cascades of sound meant nothing to her uneducated ear. She watched his flexible hands and his profile against the green curtain behind the piano. His eyes were fixed on the distance, a point far beyond the instrument, and she knew he had forgotten all about her, but she felt again at ease with him.

He executed a chromatic run and stopped. 'That was Beethoven, Miranda.' He turned and giving her an understanding look, smiled at her. 'But here's something you
will
like, I think.'

He drew a sheet of music out of the carved chest beside the piano.

'This is something new from England, an opera called the "Bohemian Girl." I'll play the air through once and then you sing it. Oh, yes, you can; it's very easy.'

So Miranda stood beside him and sang, 'I Dreamt that I Dwelt in Marble Halls.' And when her first self-consciousness wore off she thrilled to the singular appropriateness of the words. Had he guessed her dreams and was that why he had picked this music? But the song was about love as well, and her voice wavered as she thought, Love there can never be for me in
these
marble halls—this is then not my dream, how could it be?

The song ended and Nicholas raised his head. Their eyes met for a second and a faint color flowed under her white skin.

'You have a pretty voice,' he said softly. 'And you sing with feeling. Is there perhaps someone at home whom you've promised to "love just the same"?'

She shook her head, and turned away, gripped by an obscure unhappiness.

Nicholas nodded, satisfied. It would be a pity to educate Miranda from a farm girl into a lady only to have her go back to some yokel on whom everything would be wasted. I must try to find her a worthy husband, he thought, and rising abruptly he closed the piano. Good night, Miranda.'

What have I done now, she thought, that he should dismiss me so sharply? She murmured something, confused because he stood motionless beside the piano waiting for her to precede him from the room.

'Pay your respects to Mrs. Van Ryn and then you may retire,' he said, seeing her uncertainty.

In the Red Room, Johanna still sat, but the embroidery had disappeared. She was engaged in sipping port wine and munching sugar biscuits.

How greedy she is, thought the girl with distaste, while she politely said good night. Johanna responded amiably, smiling her indeterminate smile, but her pale eyes slid from Miranda's face to seek those of her husband. He, however, had his back turned to both women while he riffled the pages of a new copy of
Graham's Magazine
which had been lying on "the table.

He bowed as Miranda left them, then returned to his magazine.

To her mortification Miranda could not find her way back to her own room. She took the wrong turn in the great hall and missed the staircase which led up through an archway. She wandered through a maze of dark rooms until she encountered die silent young footman who had lit the candles.

'This way, miss,' he said tonelessly, and directed her up the stairs to her own door.

She noted with amazement all die things which had been performed by the invisible hands in her absence. The sheet turned down on the bed, the coverlet neatly folded, candles lit long ago, judging by the length that had burned. Her basket had disappeared and her poor little toilet articles were laid out upon the dresser, where diey looked lost and unappetizing on the brocaded scarf. There were hot water steaming in a copper can and fresh lavender-scented towels, and a silver pitcher of drinking water placed beside some luscious peaches on the table by her bed.

Peaches—in June! But she was long past amazement. A delicious sensation of comfort lapped around her, enfolding her as softly as did the immense bed. The sheets were of a linen so fine that they felt like silk, and they were also scented, not with lavender, but with rose petals and verbena.

Miranda stretched voluptuously like a little cat. It was warm in the room and she had a sudden desire to feel the cool silkiness upon her body. Her cotton nightdress seemed hot and coarse. On impulse she took it off, thinking how horrified Tibby would be. She flung her bare arms above her head and gloried in her privacy. No one to tell her to move over, no one to tell her to hurry and go to sleep. No need to get up at five and cook, and wash. She felt a pang when she thought of her mother and the baby. Still, they'll do all right without me, she thought, and after all I'll be back soon—but not too soon. Not until she had sated herself with the strangeness and the adventure and the delectable savor of great wealth and luxury, not until—

She sat up, clutching the sheets tight around her neck, for there was a sharp tap at the door.

'Who's there?' she quavered.

The door opened and a strange woman walked in, shutting the door behind her. A thin old figure in a shapeless black dress who came over to the bed and gazed down at the frightened girl. The woman was nearly six feet tall and erect, her coarse black hair, which showed no gray, drawn back into a scraggy knot, her face a ruddy brown crisscrossed with wrinkles from which peered two shrewd little eyes as black as dewberries.

'What do you want?' whispered Miranda.

'Me old Zélie,' said the woman in a harsh accented voice, touching her slab-like chest. I want to see what you look laike.'

Miranda let her breath out. Cousin Nicholas had mentioned Zélie on the boat, someone who might try to frighten her with tales of spooks and witches. It must be an old servant, a bit touched in the head, no doubt, though the unwinking black eyes looked sane enough. They traveled slowly from the girl's apprehensive face to the masses of golden hair which fell across the bare shoulders and down to the bed.

Zélie shook her head.
'Pauv'e petite.'
She spoke with a sort of sad resignation. 'What for you coming in dis house? There will be badness. Azilde will laugh again.'

'You're talking nonsense,' said Miranda. 'Please go away; I want to sleep.'

The shriveled lips parted in a grim smile. You been in Red Room tonight. I think you feel somesing. Yes?'

'I don't know what you—' She stopped. Those few seconds of cold and unmeaning fear had certainly been imagination, they had not recurred, and now she doubted that they had happened. 'Of course not,' she finished angrily. 'Do go away.'

The old woman nodded. 'Yes, you feel someting. But you no listen. You will rush into trouble wiz open arms singing as you go. Maybe it is the Will of God!' She made a gesture in the air, palm ap, and then the sign of the cross.

'Why do you want to frighten me?' cried Miranda, trying to laugh.

'Not frighten,
p'tite,
but warn.' Zélie's gnarled hand shot out and closed around a strand of Miranda's hair. The old woman held the bright curl gently, almost tenderly, in her closed hand. She shut her eyes and over her seamed face there stole a listening look. 'You must believe—' Her voice rose to a higher note, a sing-song chant. 'There is blackness, and badness and bloody water round about you. There is love too, two kinds of love, but you not knowing in time.' She opened her eyes, and the strand of hair fell from her hand. You think old Zélie crazy,
hein?
You lie there with naked body and your gold hair like a web and you not knowing what I mean. Pah! you are a child yet, and your soul is blind, blind as the little mole that burrows beneath the lawn out there_the beautiful quiet lawn.'

The black eyes glittered with a contemptuous pity. The gaunt figure turned and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

'She
is
crazy,' whispered Miranda.

She got out of bed and locked the door. It had not occurred to her before, for there were no bedroom locks at the farm. Then she put on her cotton nightdress and braided her hair into tight plaits. She clambered once more into the high bed, but this time she took with her the Bible her father had given her, and which she had forgotten to read earlier.

She said her prayers, and then opening the Bible read the Ninety-First Psalm with a passionate and guilty concentration.

IT WAS POSSIBLE TO LIVE AT DRAGONWYCK WITH the Van Ryns and twenty servants and yet be virtually alone, Miranda soon discovered. Nicholas was busy with estate affairs, and divided the rest of his time between his study on the top of the high tower and the greenhouses where he pursued his hobby of horticulture. A hobby shared by many wealthy landowners at that time, but astonishing to Miranda, who perfectly understood a man's growing plants for food or barter but found it hard to comprehend an interest in ornamental and quite useless shrubs.

It was Nicholas' pride to have one example of every tree which could be grown in that locality, and many of these he had imported by schooner from Europe and the Orient straight to the Dragonwyck dock—the Incense Cedar, the Weeping Cypress, the Judas Tree, the Ginkgo with its fan-shaped leaves, and the delicate bronze Japanese Maple—these were hardy enough to live outside; but the palms and aloes, the oleanders and the orchids, grew in the elaborate greenhouses or in the conservatory off the dining-room.

Johanna too had her own pursuits, if food and spasmodic attempts at genteel handiwork—china painting, purse netting, or crochet—could be called pursuits. Her weight made her lethargic and she kept much to her room unless there were guests.

Miranda accepted this sense of separateness in the household, just as she accepted the surprising discovery that husband and wife occupied different rooms. Here at Dragonwyck all was to her strange and surprising, no one aspect more than another. These were the ways of aristocracy, the exalted group whom she envied, and to whose pattern she longed to shape herself.

She seized upon die luxuries of her new life with the avidity of a kitten after cream. It was delightful to sleep until eight, and then to eat delicious food of which she need never think until it was on the table. It was amazing how soon she got used to having other hands make her bed and clean her room, and how many charming ways there were of filling the leisure thus acquired. For Nicholas had made her free of the music room and library, and if one tired of strumming the piano or reading the Waverley Novels—which he had recommended and she found to be nearly as exciting as her contraband romances—there were always walks through the gardens or along the river where the boats passed endlessly up and downstream.

Her only duty consisted in trying to teach Katrine. Every morning after breakfast the two of them retired to the sunny schoolroom, where Miranda patiently repeated, 'B-A-T, bat. C-A-T, cat. R-A-T, rat. Now you spell them, dear.' The child was docile and did her best, but she was slow and her memory was poor; her attention continually wandered. She gradually grew fond of Miranda, who was always kind, but the little girl continued to prefer the company of her beloved Annetje, who fed her sweets and told her stories. So Miranda had little to do, and during the first weeks the novelty of this method of living sufficed in itself. It never occurred to her that it might be the occasional contacts with Nicholas which gave meaning and excitement to Dragonwyck. But she did know herself to be passionately grateful for an act of generosity which he had shown her.

On the day after her arrival, Magda the housekeeper had presented herself at Miranda's door, armed with a tape measure, paper, and pencil. She would explain nothing except that Mynheer had sent her. Her lips were compressed to a thin line. She pushed and pulled the girl about roughly while she took measurements.

A week later at dusk as she mended a rip in the despised merino, there came a tap on Miranda's door, and the housekeeper entered followed by a footman. They carried bundles, boxes, and a small cowhide trunk.

'Some things from New York Mynheer ordered,' said Magda sourly in answer to the girl's exclamation. The woman paid no attention to Miranda's cry of excitement, but unpacked the bundles and the trunk with swift efficiency. She laid the clothes on the bed.

There were two silk dresses, one green with black velvet trimming on the flounces, one a rose evening gown festooned with blond lace. And besides a blue cashmere morning dress, there was a pelisse, a green bonnet, two pairs of kid shoes, an ivory fan, a beaded reticule. There were also more intimate garments at which Miranda stared with dazzled confusion; a flowered muslin négligée, linen nightshifts trimmed with fine lace, petticoats, camisoles, even a pair of whalebone stays.