by Anya Seton
He was dumfounded at the anger which transformed her face.
'What nonsense!' she cried. 'Everyone knows one should stuff a cold. One must keep one's strength up!'
'Why ma'am,' said Jeff temperately, you won't lose strength in a day or two in bed, and it's wise to rest the digestion.' He felt inclined to laugh at the violence of her reaction to his simple directions.
Johanna's mouth set stubbornly. "I shall eat as I please,' she said. 'Magda, be sure they are making that tipsy cake I ordered, I'm longing for it.' Her little eyes threw Jeff a look of defiance.
Jeff shrugged his shoulders. He had an inkling of the true state of affairs. Eating was to her the greatest sensual satisfaction. Baulked of other passions, she had gradually poured all her desires into one channel. It's a form of lust, he thought with pitying distaste, and in itself a disease.
'Your cold will mend faster without the tipsy cake,' he said. 'But it will mend anyway.' This was a fool's errand he had come on, and he wished very much that he were snug at home and within reach of really sick people who might need him. He cast around for some remark with which to close the fruitless interview. His eyes roamed over the frowsy room, lighting on the most attractive thing in it.
'What superb flowers!' he said pleasantly, pointing toward a low shrub which stood in a cloisonné pot upon the large table. The blossoms, which grew thick as red stars amongst the long green leaves, gave forth an agreeable fragrance. The anger faded from Johanna's eyes.
'It's one of Mr. Van Ryn's Persian oleanders,' she said slowly. 'He had it brought here today to brighten the sickroom. It is pretty, isn't it!'
She spoke in a curiously strained voice. Evidently the patroon did not often trouble himself to bring his wife flowers, thought Teff, and in truth, were I married to this lump of suet, I wouldn't either.
He smiled vaguely, agreed that the shrub was pretty, and retired from the room.
On his way downstairs he passed Miranda, who was standing at her own door. The girl gave him a cold nod and a resentful glance from the corner of her long beautiful eyes. In the green dress trimmed with cream lace at the throat and with her lightly poised head and undulating walk she put him in mind of a valley lily. He returned the nod as coldly, annoyed by her continued hostility.
A hostility not shared by Nicholas, he discovered when his host came forward to greet him downstairs. The patroon was at his most charming. He listened attentively to Jeff's account of his wife's health, saying at the end: 'Yes, I'm sure you're right. The cold is already breaking up, but it's well to be sure that the lungs are not affected nor any sudden complication threatened. Don't you think so, sir?'
Jeff agreed and added brief mention of his efforts to reduce Mrs. Van Ryn's diet.
'Did she agree to that?' asked Nicholas.
'Indeed not,' laughed Jeff on a rueful tone. 'She ordered a tipsy cake instead.'
There was a short pause, then Nicholas said, 'Ah, yes, I fear my wife is very much given to the pleasures of the table,' and he smiled indulgently. The smile and the tone were just that—indulgent, the half-pitying, half-amused attitude one has toward a wayward child.
Natural enough, and yet deep in Jeff there was a little psychic tremor, a faint unease. He looked sharply at his host and the tremor disappeared. The smile on Nicholas' handsome face seemed genuine. His startling blue eyes expressed nothing but courteous interest in his guest.
Jeff enjoyed that evening. A guest room had been prepared for him and Nicholas overruled his objections to spending the night. It would have been folly to set off on the long ride back at that hour.
Miranda joined them at supper, and though at first the girl was very quiet and constrained she gradually responded to Nicholas' conversational brilliance as Jeff did.
It was a species of magic that their host made that night around the damask-covered table. He told them stories of his travels in Europe, using rich and vivid words so that they saw the castle on the Rhine where he had met the mad countess, or the dingy alleyway in Florence where his purse had been stolen. He spoke of events nearer home, the coming of the Croton water to New York two years ago, when the populace went mad over the fifty-foot fountains of free water which gushed from the new-laid pipes. Or he told them of the theater, the delirious night when the divine Fanny Elssler mislaid her ballet slippers and danced 'La Tarantule' in her stocking feet to the accompaniment of a pelting of roses and love notes from the ecstatic audience.
But Nicholas did more than simply dazzle those two who knew nothing of Europe or the theater. It was in no sense a monologue. Using that most subtle of all flatteries he constantly included them and their opinions.
He described the divine Fanny's costume and appearance. 'She wore white, you know, though many thought red or green would have better suited her brunette beauty. What do you think, Miranda?'
Or to Jeff when telling of strange customs or food he would ask, 'How does that seem to you from the medical side?' and in each case listened intently to the answer.
They were at once stimulated and relaxed. They were scarcely conscious of each other, both concentrated on their host.
It was nine o'clock when he rose from the table and Miranda, seeing that the evening was ending, gave a sigh of disappointment which Jeff inwardly echoed. Nicholas had made him feel important and brilliant, and Jeff was too human not to have enjoyed it.
'I'm going up now to see Mrs. Van Ryn,' said Nicholas.
Jeff uncrossed his legs. 'Shall I have another look at her?' he asked without much enthusiasm.
'No. I'll call you if I think there's a reason,' and Nicholas left the room. Miranda's eyes followed him.
'Yes,' said Jeff, noting her expression, and laughing. 'I must admit that he can be very charming.'
She blushed, bringing a bemused gaze to his face. 'You do see it now, don't you?' she said. 'How wonderful he is—and—'
'Never mind,' said Jeff crossly. Though he felt more admiration for Nicholas than he had ever expected to, he didn't relish that look in the girl's eyes.
'I can't think why you always treat me like a child!' she cried indignantly.
Jeff pushed his chair back. 'I'll spare you the obvious answer.' As she flounced from the room, he thought that it would be a great satisfaction to spank her. His palm tingled.
He went upstairs ro his bedroom, took off his coat, and put on the dressing-gown which he found laid out for him. It was of yellow brocaded satin with velvet reveres. He fastened it gingerly and looking at himself in the great pier glass burst into laughter. His sandy head, heavy neck, and hairy chest looked ridiculous in that elegant garment. 'Fine feathers'll never make a fine bird out of you, my lad,' he said, and sat down by the fire to wait in case Nicholas summoned him. An hour passed and nothing happened, so he clambered into bed.
Miranda too had gone upstairs, her mind filled with irritation at Jeff. When she reached the landing she turned and went down the hall to Katrine's room meaning to say good night to the child, though nearly certain that she would be asleep. She opened the door and peered in. The night light burned by the bed and she was surprised to see Katrine sitting bolt upright, her eyes wide open.
'Why aren't you asleep, dear?' chided Miranda.
'I can't,' said the child. 'There's so much noise downstairs.'
'Noise?' Miranda smoothed the pillow and straightened the bedclothes. 'There isn't any noise, pet. You've been dreaming.'
The round eyes stared incredulously. 'Don't you hear it? The piano's going and going. And some lady keeps laughing, high and clear.'
Miranda listened a moment. There was no sound but the drip of melting snow from the eaves. She shook her head.
'Lie down, dear. You mustn't make up stories.'
The child pushed her away. You're being mean, M'randa. I hear it just as plain. You listen in the hall.'
To humor her, Miranda opened the door. So far from being noisy the house seemed unusually quiet. There were no servants about; all the bedroom doors were tight shut. Sh
e wondered unhappily if Nicholas were still in there with Johanna behind the big door at the end. There was the faint guttering of a spent candle, but no other noise of any sort. The stillness was heavy, pressed down.
'Now you hear it, don't you?' cried the child. 'The laughing's so loud, except it doesn't sound like happy laughing. It sounds as if it came from the Red Room.'
And suddenly as though a hidden water gate had burst, fear drenched the child. 'It's Azilde,' she moaned. 'It's what Zélie said. The piano and the laughing. Make it stop—please, please make it stop.' Her eyes were black with terror.
Miranda seized the little shoulders and shook them. 'Listen, Katrine—' she cried, trying to penetrate through the panic. 'There isn't anything. I don't hear anything. Zélie's a stupid old woman and you mustn't believe her crazy stories.'
The child held her breath, listening. In spite of herself Miranda listened too while an icy prickle ran up into her scalp. There was still no sound of any kind. The child lay back with an exhausted sigh.
'It's stopped now,' she said.
'Nor ever started.' Miranda's voice was sharp, but Katrine did not listen. Her eyelids fell, her stormy breathing gradually lessened. In a few minutes she was asleep.
Miranda went back to her own room, annoyed with herself because of a desire to run through the hall and tug at her bell pull to summon anybody who would come and talk to her for a moment.
Utter nonsense, she told herself. I didn't hear anything, nobody else heard anything. It's only the fancy of an excited child.
After a while she became calmer, but not calm enough for sleep. She lay on top of the bed in her white dressing-gown and watched the dying fire. Repeatedly she pushed away the thought of that soulless laughter the child imagined she had heard, and replaced it with memories of Nicholas' fascinating talk. 'Lake Como,' she said the little name to herself lingeringly. He had described a marble palace amongst cypress trees, had made her feel that she was there with him listening to the lap of the water, the singing of a nightingale, the love serenade of a boatman on the lake. 'Piangi, piangi fanciulla,' he had sung for them the first line She hadn't known that he could sing.
She raised her arms above her head and stretched. She was at last becoming sleepy. She thrust her feet into the bedclothes, then drew them out again and sat up, wide awake. There was the stamp of running footsteps in the hall, a murmur of voices, then thunderous knocks on a distant door.
She put on her slippers and went out into the hall. Servants were distractedly running about with candles. Magda stood wringing her hands, her shrewish face gray. Under her directions a footman was banging on Jeff's door, who that moment appeared.
'What is it?' he asked, calmly alert, though his speech was thick with sleep.
'Mevrouw is taken bad!' cried Magda. 'Hurry, sir.'
Jeff picked up his bag, pulled the magnificent dressing-gown close around his nightshirt, and went to Johanna's room. Miranda followed.
There was a horrible noise in the room, the sound of retching, steady, almost rhythmic. On the bed, a shapeless figure threw itself backward and forward in a monotonous, mechanical way.
Jeff stood for a moment appalled, then he groped for the pulse, which was terrifyingly slow and irregular; the flesh beneath his fingers was clammy as an eel.
'What's happened?' he said sharply to Magda, who stood moaning beside the bed. The woman's fright had conquered her resentment of the new doctor.
'It began sudden, near an hour ago. Vomiting and purging. I thought it would pass.'
'Did she eat that?' asked Jeff. On the table by the bed were the remains of an enormous tipsy cake, its moist crumbling sweetness soaked in sherry and filled with preserved fruits. A silver nutmeg mill stood beside it. Johanna was fond of nutmeg.
The maid nodded. 'She ate a lot of it. Mr. Van Ryn asked her not to, but her heart was set on it.'
'Where is Mr. Van Ryn?' snapped Jeff. He was doing what he could for his patient, forcing down ammonia spirits to help the flagging heart, but she could not retain the draught. He put hot cloths on her head and distended abdomen, but she knocked them off.
'He's up in the tower; I sent for him.'
Acute indigestion? thought Jeff swiftly. Inflammation of the bowels? The cake would explain it, all that rich stuff taken into a depleted system. And yet he wasn't satisfied. Johanna's rolling pupils were distended so that her eyes appeared to be not blue but black. Some drugs do that, thought Jeff.
'Has she had any medicine of any kind?' he asked Magda.
The maid shook her head. 'Nothing, sir, except those drops you gave her.'
The drops were a harmless little carminative.
'What has she eaten since I saw her last? Think, be careful.'
'Nothing but the tipsy cake.'
Jeff went on working grimly, but while the retching grew less, the pulse also got slower and a bluish tinge was suffusing Johanna's face. He knew that Nicholas would be there any moment and that he must hurry with the question which he didn't want to ask and had not time to phrase properly.
'Did Mr. Van Ryn give her anything at all?'
The maid shook her head. 'I was in the room all the time putting things away. He handed her the cake when she asked for it, that's all."
I'm a fool, thought Jeff, frantically chafing the fat, chilling arms. Nicholas strode in, pushing past Miranda, who stood paralyzed by the door.
He went up to his wife and she seemed to feel his presence. Her eyes focused painfully and her swollen Hps moved. Her breathing became shallow and gasping.
'What is it?' cried Nicholas, turning a white face to Jeff, who made a hopeless gesture.
'Acute indigestion. I fear the heart is failing,' he whispered. He piled blankets on her, he had fresh warming pans brought. He held her up so that she could breathe. Nicholas stood as though dazed, motionless.
Twenty minutes later, Johanna ceased to breathe at all. Magda gave a scream and rushed sobbing from the room.
Jeff drew the sheet up over the staring eyes and sank into a chair profoundly shamed and miserable. He had been here all the time, somehow he should have been able to save her. Had he missed some symptom in his examination this afternoon? There might have been disease he had not discovered. And I was so cocksure, he thought bitterly.
Nicholas turned from the bed, moving as though awakened from sleep.
'Her foul gluttony has killed her,' he said. There was no emotion in his voice except a faint sadness. It was a statement of fact. Nor was it until the next day that it struck Jeff as a strangely unfeeling remark, for it was what he had been thinking himself.
Nicholas walked to the door and saw the frightened girl.
'Go to bed, Miranda,' he said. 'It's all over.'
She gave a smothered gasp. From the moment of approaching that room the events had had the unreality of nightmare. She was stupefied. She obeyed Nicholas and walked back to her room like a somnambulist.
The patroon, going out into the hall, called the awed servants together and gave instructions.
Jeff raising his head saw that he was alone in the room with the sheeted figure. Scarcely knowing why he did it, he broke off a piece of the tipsy cake and wrapping it in the napkin, stuffed it in his pocket. Then he picked up his bag and prepared to leave that dismal room. On his way he passed the little oleander bush. He remembered Johanna's apparent pride in it. Poor woman, he thought, there has been mighty little pity or tenderness about her passing.
Soon, as he left the manor behind him he heard, as did everyone else in Dragonwyck, the tolling of the village church bell. Dong, Dong, Dong, clanged the great iron clapper. Thirty-four rimes, one for each year of Johanna's completed life.
9
BY EVENING OF THE SECOND DAY AFTER JOHANNA'S death Dragonwyck teemed with strangers. Coach after coach, the curtains drawn down, roiled up to the black-wreathed door to discharge the Van Tappen relatives from Greenbush, from Albany and Watervliet. The hails and stairs resounded with the shuffling of countless feet
as friends, tradesmen, tenants—anybody who felt the wish to do so—mounted to the bedroom and paid their last respects to the Lady of the Manor.
She lay there in state upon the ancestral bed between two burning tapers, a black velvet pall covering all but her face. There were flowers enough now in Johanna's room, masses of white tuberoses and lilies to replace the oleander.
Messengers from Hudson had brought bolts of black materials for which all the drapers had been ransacked. Magda and the maids sewed furiously.
By four o'clock Miranda had completed her own dress. The un-trimmed black gave her a vivid distinction, but for once she had no interest in her appearance. She was numb with horror and unbelief. It can't be true, she repeated to herself. Death can't happen like that so quickly. She didn't seem very sick.
The girl had not left her room since Nicholas ordered her into it. Her food had been brought up to her on trays, and Magda, who had assumed control of the household since the patroon had locked himself into his room as a bereaved husband should, made it clear that Miranda would not be welcome downstairs amongst the Van Tappens. But the great bedroom at the end of the hall drew Miranda with a morbid fascination. At dusk she crept out and joined a group of strangers who were murmuring in shocked undertones before Johanna's door. She walked with them into the silent room and took her turn at filing past the bed.
That's not Johanna! she thought appalled. For on the still, waxen features there lay a quiet dignity that had never been there in life. The grossness had gone; it seemed in the soft light of the tapers that the actual flesh had been purified. And the bloodless lips were curved into a faint, subtle smile.
Miranda made an involuntary sound; heads turned and stared at her curiously. Controlling herself with effort she hurried back to her own room.
Where had it come from, that dignity, that look of power which transformed the face she had never thought showed anything but discontent and greed? Could it be that deep hidden in Johanna there had been qualities never realized, never guessed? And that smile—as though in death she had discovered a secret and triumphant illumination. Had Johanna really been like that—or was it only a trick of the great magician, an accidental part of the ultimate mystery?
