Doubtless she was with Katrine in Albany.
Jeff winced at the thought of what the exposure would do to Katrine, and Miranda too. He hadn't viewed it from this angle. With a sinking feeling he thought how hard it would be to prevent Miranda's dangerous involvement. She would naturally be considered an accessory, if not an accomplice.
Miranda had been watching him quietly. She saw the dismay in his face, though she only partially understood its reason. 'Yes,' she said. 'No one could touch Nicholas. He's stronger than anyone.'
'He's human like the rest of us, I suppose!' cried Jeff in sudden fury. And I shall see to it that he doesn't continue to go scot-free from punishment for a cowardly and loathsome murder. I hesitated only because of you. Miranda, you must not go back to Nicholas.'
'I deserve to suffer too,' she said. 'I married him.'
'And do you consider that you also deserve to be murdered?' cried Jeff, beside himself. He saw the startled flicker in her eyes, heard her indrawn breath. You little fool,' he went on bitterly. 'In your blind passion for this man, don't you realize that you yourself are in danger? You too can become an unwanted wife; you won't always be young and beautiful. You, no more than Johanna, have gratified his mad obsession for a son. Suppose he finds some other woman, as he found you; or without another woman, suppose you happen in some way to thwart his insane ego, his lust for power.—Do you think, Miranda, that you would be safe?'
She turned her head and a long shudder ran through her body. For suddenly she knew that he spoke the truth. A hundred unconsidered signposts came back to her. 'But what can I do?' she whispered.
He saw that she was near to breaking and that he must think for her.
'When does Nicholas return?' he asked.
'Tomorrow evening on the up-boat.' Her lips barely moved.
That's God's own mercy, thought Jeff; then, speaking very slowly and clearly, he said: 'You must be gone before he gets there. Tell one of the servants to flag the morning boat. Pack a trunk tonight. Take Peggy with you. When you reach New York, go directly to Doctor Francis.' He went to his desk and scribbled a note, pressing it into her hand. She nodded and slipped it in the bosom of her dress.
'Francis will hide you and take care of you for a few days until I get there. I dare not let you go home to Greenwich. That's the first place Van Ryn would look for you.'
Yes,' she said faintly. 'I understand. But what will you —what can you do, Jeff?'
'Once you're safe, I'll go to Dragonwyck and confront Nicholas with our discovery.'
'Aren't you afraid?' she whispered.
As a matter of fact, I am, thought Jeff wryly. No so much of what the man would try to do—Jeff had no doubt that Nicholas' first action would be an effort to get rid of the inconvenient young doctor—and then where would Miranda be! She could never fight Nicholas alone. Bur it was not fear for his own skin that concerned Jeff. It was the seemingly insuperable difficulties involved in accusing Nicholas, and the impossibility of guessing what he would do. I should have advice, thought Jeff, as to the best way to go about it. And a sudden inspiration provided him with the answer.
'I'll go directly to the Governor,' he said. 'Tomorrow. Lay the whole case before him.'
She got up, holding on to the chair back as she rose. Jeff put his arm around her and for a second she leaned against him.
'Be brave, darling,' he said softly.
She straightened, and fastened her cloak around her neck. She walked a little way to the door, then turning with her hand on the knob she gave a choked, mirthless laugh.
'Be brave—yes,' she said. 'Brave enough to understand that my love—that all my dreams, were evil.'
21
NICHOLAS DID NOT RETURN TO DRAGONWYCK ON the following day as he had expected to do. He arrived home at five o'clock in the afternoon at the exact moment that Miranda walked out of Jeff's house in Hudson and re-entered her carriage for the drive back.
The business matter which had taken Nicholas to New York had been quickly disposed of. It consisted in signing his name to the lease of three acres near Odellville at East Forty-Ninth Street, where an optimistic Irishman wished to open a country tavern in emulation of Mr. Odell, for whom the district was named.
Nicholas' presence had not really been necessary. Solomon Bronck had negotiated far larger and more complicated real-estate transactions with no help from his employer but an indifferent letter of acquiescence. The agent was therefore astonished to see Nicholas stride into the little office on Broad Street and demand to read the lease.
'Certainly, mynheer,' said the conscientious Dutchman, ringing his handbell for the clerk. 'I trust you're not dissatisfied in any way with my accountings.' He said this a trifle resentfully, for it was galling to make money for a man who neither took an interest nor made the slightest effort. It was Bronck, alone, who had continued the remunerative policy started by Nicholas' father—selling one of the original Van Ryn holdings for a good sum, buying cheap on the edge of town, and then, as the town advanced with incredible rapidity, repeating the process.
'I'm entirely satisfied with you, Bronck,' said Nicholas with a vague smile. When the clerk brought the lease he barely looked at it, and rapidly affixed his signature.
That isn't what he came to town for, then, thought the agent, puzzled. He noted his employer's air of abstraction, the jerky motions he made as he glanced through the papers which Bronck put before him.
'Yes. Yes,' said Nicholas, pushing them aside. 'All seems in order.'
'You've a deal of money not invested,' Bronck pointed out patiently. 'I thought maybe we'd buy a lot on the corner of Fifty-Seventh Street way up Fifth Avenue. Nothing there now but a shanty and a couple of goats, but you never can tell. Might be somebody'd want it some day and you can afford a long shot.'
'As you like,' said Nicholas. 'Send me the deed later.'
'Or—' went on the agent, determined to do his duty and trying to ignore Nicholas' obvious boredom—though if he was so uninterested why didn't the man go? Indecision was the last trait one expected to see in the patroon. 'Or—' said Bronck, 'would you fancy buying a share in the new river boat the Mary Clinton? The owner wants to sell. She leaves Friday on her maiden trip to Albany. And they say she'll be far and away the fastest thing on the river.'
Nicholas looked up. 'Fast enough to beat the Reindeer, or the Utica?'
Bronck frowned. 'I don't know, mynheer. I hope she doesn't try to race. The racing's a wicked thing, mighty dangerous for the passengers; look at all those that were lost on the Swallow. It's immoral, that's what it is.'
'Indeed,' said Nicholas. 'I find it most exhilarating.'
Bronck flushed, for Nicholas expertly conveyed by his expression that he thought the agent a milksop. If it's excitement the man wants, thought Bronck angrily, why can he not find it in some way that won't be dangerous to others?
'I'll go look at the boat,' said Nicholas, rising, 'and if she looks right, we'll close the deal tomorrow. I appreciate your suggestion, O most worthy Bronck. I can't think why it hasn't occurred to me before.'
The agent, left alone, fell into gloomy apprehension. I wish I'd never mentioned the damned boat, he thought, biting the end off a cigar. The patroon had changed, and yet for the life of him Bronck couldn't put his finger on the change. He had always known his employer to be a haughty and moody man, given usually to indifference, yet capable of rare but almost fanatical enthusiasms. Today had been no exception, yet for a moment the man had had a look—not normal. From this line of thought the agent shied away; he mopped his forehead with a red silk handkerchief. He called the clerk and issued orders for getting in touch with the Mary Clinton's owner, knowing that Nicholas would stand for no delay once he had made up his mind.
Bronck dared take no chances. There were five little Broncks in a cottage in Chelsea, and another on the way.
Nicholas bought a half-share in the Mary Clinton after he had examined her from stem to stern as she lay at dock in the North River.
/> She was a beautiful boat, built at the best yards in Hoboken—240 feet of clean, symmetrical lines. Her boilers and her engines were of the latest model and as new as the white-painted oaken decks and the giant paddle wheels. Nicholas could find no fault with her, and he changed his plans for return home so as to accompany her on her maiden trip Friday.
At first he was inclined to disapprove of the captain, John Hall of Jersey City, who seemed over-young and inexperienced to handle the new boat. But after talking with him Nicholas discovered that the young man knew every current and eddy in the river, and that he more than shared Nicholas' desire for speed. So Nicholas left the dock satisfied. He left the dock and dismissed the hackney cab in which he had driven to the river. He walked down Desbrosses Street until he came to Canal. At the junction of Canal Street and Broadway he hesitated. His natural route lay south down Broadway to the Astor House, where he was staying during his short sojourn, his town house being shut.
He hesitated so long that passers-by stared at him curiously, seeing in this tall, elegantly dressed man an abnormal immobility.
Two full-bosomed young women in false curls and frowsy lace shawls minced up Broadway, and on seeing Nicholas paused behind him and began to giggle. 'My, ain't he handsome; quite a swell too!' said one voice purposely raised. 'Like an image he stands, don't he! What's he looking at so hard?'
'Admiring of his self in the gutter I should think. Happen he'd look round he might see something else to admire too.' And both girls bridled, tossing their curls, from which floated a strong odor of patchouli.
Nicholas continued to frown at the pavement.
'Maybe he's afraid of girls!' cried the first one archly, still trying.
Of this whole conversation only one word in the last sentence did Nicholas hear. He swung around on them. 'I'm afraid of nothing in this world or out of it!' he shouted, and the girls shrank, stepping hastily backward.
'Lor', mister,' they babbled, 'we didn't mean anything—'
He did not wait to hear their frightened apologies; he walked with headlong, violent steps, jostling those that got in his way, until he reached a shuttered door in an alley off Mott Street. In here he stayed for several hours, and when he passed out again through that door there lay in his waistcoat pocket a small, sticky black ball wrapped in rice paper.
At no time to himself did Nicholas admit the true reason for his hurried trip to New York.
The Mary Clinton's first run was a success in that the boat made excellent time, easily outdistancing the Rochester, its only rival that day. So much so that there was no competition. Nicholas was profoundly disappointed. Jeff had been shrewd in his guess that to Nicholas danger was as voluptuous a stimulant as drugs. Had there been a frantic, pounding race, and had the Mary Clinton won—as of course she would have—then in the pleasure of victorious mastery there would have been less need for the release provided by the black substance in his pocket.
As it was he stepped off the boat onto the Dragonwyck landing, his mood flat and sullen, his frayed nerves crying for more of the opium that had been so long denied them.
Then he discovered that Miranda was not at home.
He mounted the turret stairs, placed the ball of opium in the silver box, but he did not linger in the tower room. He came down and sent for Peggy.
The little maid maintained a terrified but stubborn silence. She had no idea where the missis had gone—to call on one of the neighbors, mayhap. No, she didn't rightly know which one. No, missis hadn't been out at all before this, very likely she had tired with sitting in the house all the time. 'No, master. I don't know where she is.' And that's the Gospel truth, thought Peggy. I don't know where she is or what caused her to rush off like one demented, but I could be making a guess did I want to. She's in trouble and she's fled to the young doctor, but the saints forbid he should ever be guessing it, for he's come home in a fine filthy mood for sure.
She limped rapidly out of Nicholas' sight and stationed herself at an upstairs window with a confused hope of warning Miranda as soon as the carriage appeared at the bend of the drive.
But when Miranda arrived at seven, she did not see Peggy's anxious face or futile gestures; she saw Nicholas standing bareheaded by the front door waiting. And at the sight of him whom she had thought never to see again, she had a second of agonizing fear, and then she became calm. She felt now the detachment that Jeff had hoped for, and she strengthened herself slowly, deliberately, muscle by muscle and nerve by nerve, for the conflict that was coming.
'You have had a pleasant drive, my love?' said Nicholas, offering his arm as the coachman opened the carriage door.
'No,' she said. She ignored his arm and walked past him into the house. She turned toward the staircase, but Nicholas with a quick, gliding motion stood in front of her barring the way.
'Strange greeting to a husband you've not seen in three days,' he said softly. A softness which belied the cruel, eager light in his eyes. They missed nothing of her dishevelment. Her hands were still dusty from the attic, as was the little apron she had forgotten to remove in her headlong flight to Jeff. The evening wind and her hastily donned hood had both loosened her hair. The smooth waves were tumbled and one of the coiled braids had slipped to her shoulder.
Yes,' she said. 'I am in disorder. Kindly let me go to my room, Nicholas.'
'Gladly, sweetheart. And I'll come with you. You interest me very much tonight, and you surprise me. I hadn't realized that you could surprise me.' He stepped aside and she mounted the stairs without answer.
How well she knew this snake-and-bird game in which he delighted! Let her dare to escape ever so little from his power and the situation slipped into its appointed groove. He would use sarcasm, his cold, soft anger, and ever mounting within these would be passion, the. knowing subjugation of her body which translated itself into the subjugation of the soul, because she loved him.
Love, she thought, with a violent repulsion. Was it ever love? Can love be cemented in fear?
Together they entered the dark bedroom. Nicholas thrust a taper into the small fire which Peggy had started on the hearth. He lit the candles. He sat down in a chair by the fire and watched her while she poured water into the basin, washed her face and hands. She quickly recoiled her hair, smoothed out her dress. She removed the onyx-and-pearl pin, fastened the neck of her dress with the old hair brooch.
'Aren't you going to change?' said Nicholas. 'I want to see you in something light-colored and gay. Why do you put on that hideous pin? Wear some of your other jewels.'
'No,' she said, rising from the dressing-table and walking to the fire. 'I have a right to no other jewels but this.'
He regarded her with astonishment. She stood a few feet from him in her dark morning dress, extending her numb hands to the blaze.
'Where were you this afternoon, Miranda? The coachman will tell me if you don't.'
'I have no intention of lying. I went to see Doctor Turner in Hudson.'
She heard him make a sharp motion, and turning her head saw in his face an incredulous hope.
'No, Nicholas,' she said with bitterness. 'It's not that. I shall never bear you another child now. Any more than Johanna did.'
At that name the room seemed to spring to a listening stillness. There was no sound but the faint hiss of the fire.
'Why do you say that?' He sprang to his feet and stood beside her.
She reached blindly for the support of the mantel. Don't, said the agonized inner voice. Don't tell him. Maybe you're wrong. Maybe Jeff is wrong. You can't be sure. This is your husband, for better for worse—
'I'm very tired,' she whispered, 'and nervous. I scarcely know what I'm saying.'
The tenseness of his body relaxed. He gave a short laugh. He put his arms around her and pulled her toward him. His lips that had always had power to evoke an answer touched her mouth. She turned her head away, not violently but with a cold finality.
'No,' she said. 'It's finished, Nicholas.' For at his touch the
weakness had passed from her. 'I loathe you now, you and myself. And I'm in mortal fear of you—as Johanna was—with reason.'
His arms fell away from her. For a moment his face blurred as though a giant hand had erased his sharp-etched features, dissolving them to blankness. At once they hardened again to watchful wariness. But Miranda had seen in his eyes the unmistakable leap of panic.
'Yes, Nicholas,' she said quietly. You're not as strong as you thought you were, are you! Even you can't break the laws of mankind and God without suffering. Not even you.'
They stood like that on either side the fireplace while a minute dragged by. Then Nicholas moved. 'I don't know what you're talking about, my love.' He turned and walked out of the room.
Miranda waited, her eyes fixed on the door. His footsteps died away. A burnt log fell to pieces on the hearth behind her and she started violently. The sudden noise released a rush of fear. She ran to the bell-pull, tugging at it so that the gold tassel came off in her hand. Again she waited. There was no sound but the ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantel. Ten minutes, fifteen. She opened the door, flinching from the still darkness in the hall, straining for Peggy's step. There was no sound. She yanked again and again at the bell-pull.
The clock gave a tiny gay chime.
She uttered a cry and her hands flew to her breast as she heard a noise from the north window—a succession of light taps. She backed slowly toward the other end of the room, when she heard a faint voice calling. And again a volley of taps on the pane. She slipped through the heavy curtains into the embrasure of the window. Twenty feet below on the ground she saw a white upturned face. Miranda unfastened the catch and leaned out.