Dragonwyck: A Novel

Copyright © 1944 by Anya Seton Chase

Copyright renewed 1971 by Anya Seton

All rights reserved

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

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The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

Seton, Anya.

Dragonwyck / Anya Seton.

pages cm.

ISBN 978-0-544-22340-0 (pbk.)

1. Hudson River Valley (N.Y. and N.J.)—Fiction. 2. Dutch Americans—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3537.E787D73 2013

813'.52—dc23

2013025763

eISBN 978-0-547-52395-8

v7.0419

From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were—I have not seen

As others saw—I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I lov’d, I loved alone.

Then—in my childhood—in the dawn

Of a most stormy life—was drawn

From ev’ry depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still:

From the torrent, or the fountain,

From the red cliff of the mountain,

From the sun that ’round me roll’d

In its autumn tint of gold—

From the lightning in the sky

As it pass’d me flying by—

From the thunder and the storm,

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view.

—Alone by Edgar Allan Poe

Author’s Note

THIS STORY was suggested by a news item in the New York Herald, 1849, but the main characters are entirely fictional. The historical framework—manor system, anti-rent wars, Astor Place massacre, and steamboat race—is, however, founded on fact, and I have tried to be accurate in presenting it and all background detail.

There was, on the Hudson, a way of life such as this, and there was a house not unlike Dragonwyck. All Gothic magnificence and eerie manifestations were not at that time inevitably confined to English castles or Southern plantations!

I want to thank the patient and helpful librarians at the Greenwich Library, and many kind people who facilitated my research in Hudson, Albany, Kinderhook, Cornwall, and other towns along the river.

I am particularly grateful to Mr. Carl Carmer, not only for his book The Hudson, to which I am very much indebted, but for his personal help and interest.

A. S.

One

IT WAS ON an afternoon in May of 1844 that the letter came from Dragonwyck.

One of the Mead boys had seen it lying in the Horseneck post office, and had thoughtfully carried it with him three miles up the Stanwich road to deliver it at the Wells farmhouse.

When the letter came, Miranda was, most regrettably, doing not one of the tasks which should have occupied the hour from two to three.

She was not in the springhouse churning butter, she was not weeding the vegetable patch, nor even keeping more than half an absent-minded eye on Charity, the baby, who had kicked off her blanket and was chewing on a blade of sweet meadow grass, delighted with her freedom.

Miranda had hidden behind the stone wall in the quiet little family burying-ground on the north side of the apple orchard as far from the house as possible. It was her favorite retreat. The seven tombstones which marked graves of her father’s family were no more than seven peaceful friends. Even the tiny stone in the corner beneath the giant elm had no tragic significance though it was marked, Daniel Wells, son of Ephraim and Abigail Wells, who departed this life April 7th, 1836, aged one year, and covered the body of her baby brother. Miranda had been ten during little Danny’s short life, and he was now nothing but a gently poignant memory.

Miranda was curled up against the wall, her pink calico skirts bunched carelessly above her knees in uncharacteristic abandon. A green measuring worm inched himself unchecked across the smooth bodice of her dress. The May breeze, fragrant with appleblossoms and clover from the adjacent pasture, blew her loosened hair into her eyes. She pushed the strand back impatiently with one hand while the other clutched her book, as Miranda devoured the fascinating pages of The Beautiful Adulteress.

So compelling were the beautiful adulteress’s adventures, that even when Miranda’s sunbonnet slipped off and hot sunshine fell through the elm trees onto her skin, she did not pause to replace the bonnet. And yet the transparent whiteness of that skin was the envy of her friends and part product of many a tedious treatment with buttermilk and cucumber poultices.

The Beautiful Adulteress had been lent by Phoebe Mead, and it must be finished by nightfall so that Phoebe could return it to Deborah Wilson, who had purloined it from her brother’s saddlebag.

Despite Miranda’s eighteen years and elegant education at Philander Button’s Greenwich Academy, despite avid perusal of this and similar books, she had not the vaguest notion of the horrifying behavior that resulted in one’s becoming an adulteress. But that point was immaterial.

It was the glorious palpitating romance that mattered. The melancholy heroes, the languishing heroines, the clanking ghosts, dismal castles and supernatural lights; all entrancingly punctuated at intervals by a tender, a rapturous—but in any case a guilty—kiss.

Her mother’s first call went unheard. It was not until the cry Ranny— changed to a louder and sharper Miranda-a-a! Where in tunket are you? that the girl jumped. She shoved the book between two stones in the wall, and called hastily, Coming, Ma!

She brushed bits of grass and drifted appleblossom off her dress and apron, straightened the black mesh net which confined her masses of soft curling hair during the work day, hair that in the sunlight shone nearly as golden as the buttercups in the pasture behind her.

Then she picked up Charity.

Oh, shame, lambkin, you’re wet again, she said reproachfully.

The baby at once set up an anguished yell; even at a year she resented criticism.

Miranda laughed and kissed the soft neck. Never mind, pet. Sister isn’t really cross. But she sighed, rapidly checking the chores which must be done before dusk.

There was a big batch of the baby’s never-ending diapers to be washed and sunned, the butter to be churned, and, worst of all, a fowl to be slaughtered, plucked, and drawn for the Sabbath dinner tomorrow. Miranda loathed this particular task above all others. The sight of blood sickened her. And whereas her brothers and sister found the antics of the staggering, decapitated chicken funny, Miranda always felt a little spasm of nausea. Equally unpleasant was the later necessity for plunging one’s hand into the chicken’s slimy entrails.

She usually spent quite ten minutes scrubbing her slender white fingers afterward. A process which Ephraim, her father, viewed with disapproval when he caught her at it.

Quite the finicking young lady, aren’t we, Ranny! he growled, frowning at her beneath his bushy eyebrows. The Lord has mercifully provided us with food, and He has no patience with those who think themselves too fine to prepare it.

Ephraim always knew what the Lord was thinking or feeling quite as well as the Reverend Coe did.

Miranda assumed that her mother’s summons had to do with the chicken and she walked slowly, shifting the heavy baby from arm to arm and avoiding the barnyard where the destined victim clucked in happy ignorance.

As she walked, she noted absently that the north potato field was deserted and that therefore her father and three brothers must have finished the spraying and moved on ahead of schedule to the great field by Strickland brook. She also noted that the distant blue of the Sound was unusually clear and that she could even see the wooded purplish strip of Long Island on the horizon. That meant rain. But otherwise she saw nothing of the beauty of the rolling Connecticut countryside, the flowering meadows, the rustling wineglass elms and hemlocks greenish-black against the sky. The farm and the sturdy six-room farmhouse were simply home, and she had never been farther than ten miles away from them in her life.

As she entered the dark kitchen, she saw with relief that her mother’s gaunt though still handsome face showed neither annoyance at Miranda’s tardiness, nor even the habitual pucker of admonition with which she urged her children on to the next inevitable chore.

Abigail, who seldom rested from morning till night, was sitting on a reed-bottomed chair and staring at a paper which lay unfolded on the kitchen table.

She looked up as her daughter came in. Here’s a strange thing, Ranny. I don’t know what to make of it. Can’t tell till I’ve talked with your pa.

Miranda followed her mother’s puzzled gaze to the paper on the table. Why, it’s a letter, isn’t it! she cried with lively interest. Not three letters a year came to the Wells farm. Can I read it?

I guess so, said Abigail. But change the baby first, then knead down the bread dough while I nurse her. Time’s wasting.

The girl cast a longing glance at the mysterious letter, but she did as she was told. Abigail flew around the kitchen, cutting bacon with quick, decisive stabs, poking at the embers beneath the oven where the bread would soon be baked. Finally she unbuttoned her bodice, snatched up the hungry baby, and settled on the low nursing chair.

When the dough was set to rise again, Miranda seized the letter. She examined the envelope first. The thick creamy paper was pleasant and unfamiliar as was the bold, rather illegible writing unadorned by the copper-plate flourishes or shaded capitals which she had painstakingly learned at the Academy. The envelope was addressed:

To Mistress Abigail Wells

The Stanwich Road

    Horseneck, (or Greenwich)

        Connecticut.

It was postmarked Hudson, New York, which conveyed nothing to Miranda, who had never heard of the place. But as she put down the envelope and picked up the letter a thrill of excitement ran through her. It was an intuitive flash of certainty that this bland piece of paper was of importance to her, and, though this intuition was pleasurable, it also contained a fleeting apprehension. She read eagerly.

Dragonwyck, May 19th, 1844.

My dear Cousin Abigail:

Though we have never met, we are related, as you doubtless know, through our mutual grandmother, Annetje Gaansevant.

My wife and I, having discussed the matter at some length, have decided to invite one of your daughters into our home for an extended visit. We shall naturally be able to offer her many advantages which she could not hope to enjoy in her present station. In return, if she pleases, she may occasionally occupy herself with the teaching of our six-year-old child, Katrine, but she will in all ways be treated as befits my kinswoman.

I have had inquiries made and was gratified to find that you and your husband enjoy the honor and respect of your little community. Be so good as to let me know at your earliest convenience which of your daughters you select, and I will make all suitable arrangements for her journey to Dragonwyck.

Believe me, madam, your sincere friend and cousin.

Respectfully yours,

Nicholas Van Ryn

Miranda read the letter twice before turning in amazement to her mother. I don’t understand this at all, Ma. Who in the world is Nicholas Van Ryn?

He is, I believe, a very grand personage, answered Abigail with a half-smile. He is lord of a large manor up on the Hudson River somewhere near Albany.

And you’re his cousin? persisted Miranda, still more astonished.

It would seem so, replied Abigail dryly. I remember my mother telling me of the Van Ryns, though I haven’t thought of them in years. Bring me the Patterson Bible.

Miranda moved toward the shelf where her father kept his ponderous Bible.

No, not that one, child, Abigail stopped her. That one has no records from my side. I want the Bible I brought with me at my marriage. It’s in the attic next your Grandfather Patterson’s musket and powder horn.

When Miranda had brought the great gilt-edged volume, they examined the records on the fly leaves between the Old and New Testaments.

It was clear enough. Annetje Gaansevant of Rensselaer County, New York, had in 1779 married Adriaen Van Ryn, patroon of the Van Ryn manor, and borne him a son, Cornelius, who must be the father of Nicholas.

Then after Adriaen Van Ryn’s death, Annetje had married again, a Connecticut Yankee named Patterson, and thereupon produced a great many children, the eldest of whom had been Abigail’s mother.

So this Nicholas’ grandmother is also my great-grandmother, cried Miranda at last. I had no idea I had such fine relations. She looked down at her tapering hands. She had always privately thought them aristocratic, and it was pleasant to have confirmation.

You haven’t a scrap of Van Ryn blood, snorted Abigail, so you needn’t go puffing like a peacock. The connection is only through the Gaansevants; Dutch farmers they were like ourselves. And it’s just as well, for the Van Ryns are a wild, strange lot with some kind of a skeleton in their closet, for all their money and land and hoity-toity ways.

Truly, Ma? cried Miranda, her hazel eyes sparkling. How vastly romantic! Do tell me, please.

Abigail shifted the baby to the other arm. I don’t know anything to tell. You and your ‘vastly romantic’! You’ve a head stuffed with nonsense now.

But you must know something about this Nicholas who writes the letter. I suppose he’s quite an old man; it’s a pity his birth date isn’t in the Bible.

Oh, he’s somewhere in middle life, I guess, said Abigail. About my age. And I know nothing about him except that he has great estates and a town house in New York, and that four years ago, when Van Buren was President, Nicholas often visited at the White House, for I read about it in a newspaper.

Oh, Ma— breathed Miranda, quite overcome. He must be very grand indeed. She considered these revelations for a moment, then she burst out, You haven’t said a word about his letter, the invitation.

She clasped her hands together in a suddenly childish gesture. Oh, but wouldn’t I love to go!

And if we should send a daughter, which I think unlikely, why should it be you, miss? asked Abigail. Why not Tibby, I’d like to know?

Miranda frowned. Tabitha was sixteen and even now at the Academy finishing her last term. There was no reason why she should not be chosen except that Miranda felt that she could not bear it if she were.

Tibby wouldn’t want to go, she said slowly. She’s not like me. She doesn’t— Her voice trailed off. Impossible to explain that Tabitha did not hunger after romance, change, adventure, as Miranda did. That she actually enjoyed cooking and washing and housekeeping, that she asked for nothing better in life than to settle down on the next farm with young Obadiah Brown and likely have a parcel of babies right off. But I’m different. I am, thought Miranda passionately.

Abigail watched her daughter and read some of these thoughts on the downcast face. Though she would never have admitted it, her firstborn girl was closest of all to her heart. She secretly gloried in Miranda’s delicate, small-boned beauty, in her fastidiousness and dainty ways. She thought her remarkably like one of those exquisite creatures in Godey’s Lady’s Book, the same graceful height, small nose, and full, pouting lips.

She pretended not to see when Miranda fussed over her complexion, guarding its pink and whiteness from freckles or sunburn with as much anxious care as might a fashionable New York lady. And she sympathized with the girl’s restlessness and vague youthful dreams. Abigail had had them, too, long ago before she married the estimable Ephraim and life flattened into a monotony of never-ending work and baby-tending.

So, she said with her normal crispness, just like that, and with your usual lack of prudent thought, you ‘want to go.’ You don’t consider whether I might be able to spare you, nor do you even seem to think that you might miss us here.

Miranda looked up, stricken. She rushed across the room and put her arms around her mother’s thin shoulders, resting her cheek on the brown head that was already finely threaded with gray. Oh, Ma, dear, of course I’d miss you. It’s just that—that it seems so rarely exciting an opportunity.

Abigail smiled faintly, and Miranda knew that, whether or not she would be allowed to go to Dragonwyck, there would be no real question of Tabitha’s going.

Her mother straightened, buttoned her bodice, and placed the sleeping baby in the cradle. Then she seized the holystone and began scouring the oak drain board. We’ll say no more about the matter now. Hurry up and kill that old white hen; she’ll be a mite tough, but the others are laying well, and she’ll have to do. She glanced at the Seth Thomas banjo clock that was her great pride. We’re shockingly behind with the work. The men will be in from the fields before supper’s near ready.

After the evening meal, the May night being warm, the family gathered in the parlor instead of the kitchen for Scripture reading and prayer.

Ephraim seated himself in the armed Windsor chair beside the cherry-wood center table. His open Bible lay before him and he kept one blunt finger in readiness on the chapter heading. Not a hair of his brown beard quivered. His eyes were stern and nearly motionless while he waited for each one’s respectful attention. They were all there, his wife and five older children, seated on stiff chairs in a prim row. Only the baby, gurgling in her cradle by the kitchen fireplace, was exempt.

Next to Abigail sat Tom, the oldest of her brood. He was staid and responsible, already despite his scant twenty years a duplicate of his father whom he greatly admired.

Seth and Nathaniel, the two other boys, aged fourteen and twelve, cast longing looks out the window and wondered if the light would hold long enough for a game of Run Sheep Run with the Reynolds boys. But they knew better than to wriggle. Many a strapping in the woodshed had taught them that.

At the other end of the row, beside Miranda, sat Tabitha. Her hands were folded demurely in her lap, her plump freckled face was set to the proper expression of piety.

Only Miranda found it nearly impossible to restrain her fidgets. She knew that Ephraim had read the startling letter, and knew also that any discussion of it was impossible until evening worship was concluded.

During the fifteen of her eighteen years that Miranda had taken part in family worship, she had heard the Bible read through six times; and though Ephraim read well, rolling the sonorous phrases and giving considered emphasis to every word, she had long ago perfected a method of enjoying her own thoughts from which she emerged only to say Amen with the others at the end of each chapter.

And yet, in spite of herself, she had soaked in a great deal of the poetry and imagery. Sometimes certain phrases mingled with her daydreams, and seemed to touch off delightful little explosions in her mind. It was so tonight, despite—or perhaps because of—her preoccupation with the letter from Dragonwyck.

Ephraim read from the twenty-sixth chapter of Ezekiel, and her attention was caught by verses which meant nothing to her consciously, though they had power to strike through mist and show her glimpses of a dim, enchanted country.

Then all the princes of the sea shall come down from their thrones . . . they shall clothe themselves with trembling, said Ephraim’s measured voice. It didn’t make much sense, thought Miranda, but somehow it was beautiful.

Ephraim dropped to a lower, menacing note. How art thou destroyed, that wast inhabited of seafaring men, the renowned city, which wast strong in the sea, she and her inhabitants, which cause their terror to be on all that haunt it.

A little shiver ran through her, and a sensation of strangeness. She would not have dared move her head, but her eyes roamed round the familiar room. There was the wide, seldom-lit fireplace with the pewter candlesticks on the mantel. There on the whitewashed walls hung the sampler her Grandmother Finch had worked, and the silhouette profiles of her mother and father which had been cut on their wedding day.

On the oak plank floor lay the hooked rugs that she and Tabitha had labored through many a winter’s evening to finish. There in the west window through which glanced the last red rays of the setting sun was the cracked pane, result of an impulsive snowball thrown by Tom years ago.

Everything was commonplace and dull. What had they all to do with princes of the sea, renowned cities, terror or hauntings?

Fine linen with broidered work from Egypt . . . blue and purple from the Isles of Elisha, intoned Ephraim, now well into the next chapter . . . occupied in thy fairs with chief of all spices, and with all precious stones, and gold.

Miranda felt a wave of sharp yearning. She saw them heaped about her in a marble courtyard, the fine embroidered linens from Egypt, the spices, the precious stones and the gold. She looked at her parents, at her brothers’ and sister’s expressionless faces. How could they listen so calmly! Even the Bible admitted that the world was full of mystery and beauty and golden perfumed luxury. How then could they be content with sweaty homespun, with the odors of stable and barnyard, and with no gold but potatoes and little spring onions?

The low room was full of the smell of onions. The boys had been pulling them all day, and the white and green shoots lay neatly stacked in open crates outside the kitchen windows waiting for the dawn, when Tom would pile them in the wagon and drive them to the Mianus docks for shipment to New York.

There was a small scuffle, and Miranda fell to her knees with the rest of the family as her father shut his Bible and began to pray.

He always talked to God in much the manner of a senior member of the faculty reporting progress to a respected principal. He touched on the faults of each one of the family, not excepting himself sometimes. He occasionally reported some commendable act (though this honor was usually reserved for Tabitha), and he finished with an intimate and entirely confident request for guidance. Tonight there was an added clause.

This day, O Lord, said Ephraim, there has come to me a matter of some slight perplexity. Deliver us, we pray, from the pitfalls of rashness or hankering after the fleshpots. Here he looked briefly at Miranda. And deliver us from the sins of arrogance and false pride. This time Ephraim’s stern gaze rested upon his wife.

The situation was therefore clear to Miranda. Her father did not approve of the letter. Disappointment overwhelmed her, nor was it lessened by Ephraim’s final words. However, O God, Thy will be done, and whatsoever Thou decidest for Thy servants we shall try to do with all our might. Bless and preserve us through the night. Amen.

God’s will usually seemed to coincide with her father’s, and against this partnership there was no hope of appeal.

But I’m not going to give up, thought Miranda hotly. During the hours since she had first seen the letter, its invitation had grown from a delightful possibility into an obsession. She had never in her life had a desire that approached this one in intensity. The fantastic name Dragonwyck enchanted her. She repeated it over and over to herself and it was as though it pulled her to it, and beckoned.

Ephraim rose, and her spirits revived a little, for apparently there was at least to be a conference. Usually at the conclusion of evening worship her father went straight to his black cherry desk, where he entered items in the leather account book: so many bushels of potatoes from the north field, so many heads of cabbage or pecks of peas; wharfage charges, wholesale prices in New York. His cramped figures accounted for every penny while he squinted painfully. His far-sighted eyes blurred on close application.

But now he remained standing behind the table and said: Abby and Ranny, ye’ll stay in here, I want to speak to you. Tom, water the stock and look to Whiteface, she’s freshening. Tibby, is that young spark Obadiah likely to come mooning around again tonight?

Tabitha cast down her eyes, and her round face was suffused with a peony blush. Oh, Pa! she said in tones of demure horror. I’m sure I’ve no notion of his plans, and I can’t see why they should concern me, anyway.

A grim twinkle appeared in Ephraim’s eyes. Well, if he should happen to turn up, you may sit on the steps where your mother can keep an eye on you. Though I must say that Ob is steady enough, and you, praise be, aren’t the flighty kind.

Thank you, Pa, said Tibby, and from between her pale lashes she flung Miranda the tiniest complacent glance. Tabitha was perfectly aware that her piety and domesticity pleased her father, and that she never gave him a moment’s anxiety as Miranda did.

Seth and Nat did not wait to see if their father had directions for them; they sidled through the door and pelted away down the road toward the Reynolds Farm.

Ephraim reseated himself and indicated with a gesture that his wife and Miranda might do likewise. He pulled the Van Ryn letter from his pocket.

I don’t like this letter at all, he said heavily. And I’d see no reason even to discuss it, if it wasn’t that you two foolish women read it and Abby acts like it was important. He frowned at his wife. Far as I can see there’s only one answer.

Abigail very seldom disagreed with her husband, indeed in most matters her opinions coincided with his. But now her firm mouth compressed. It is important, Ephraim, she said. Mr. Van Ryn is my cousin, and seems to me he’s making a generous offer. Might be a good thing for Ranny to live for a while in a great house, learn something of the world outside this farm.

Miranda threw her mother a grateful look. I’d like to go, Pa, she said temperately, knowing that emotion of any kind always annoyed him.

Ephraim snorted. Your opinion is of no consequence whatsoever, miss. You’re always hankering after new, foolish things. You haven’t the sense of a tom-tit. You should be thinking only of helping your mother until you settle down with one of the young sparks hereabouts. You’re past eighteen and comely enough in a namby-pamby way, I suppose. I don’t know what’s the matter with you. There’s Zach Wilson, now. He’d make a fine husband and he seemed to fancy you. And how did you treat him! Ephraim suddenly empurpled, banged his hand on the table, and Miranda’s heart sank. She knew what was coming.

I’ve seen you many a time, growled Ephraim, mincing around, your nose in the air and crying, ‘Oh, Zach, don’t come so near, you smell of the stable. Oh, Zach, don’t play that vulgar dance on your fiddle, can we not have Love’s Sweet Bloom or some ree-fined ballad?’ Faugh! No wonder he had his fill of your ladyship and is courting Mead’s girl.

Miranda stirred unhappily. Zach’s interest in her and her discouragement of it had been a sore subject for weeks.

She had never liked Zach. He had coarse red hair and pudgy hands, and his idea of love-making had been scuffling in dark corners, a moist smacking kiss on the cheek, and on one occasion a playful pinch on that portion of her body that, even to herself, Miranda designated only as the sitting-down place. Not one of the neighbors’ sons, no man she had ever seen, had stirred in her any emotion but distaste. This realization made her feel guilty.

There was bitterness in being different from the others. Many times she had forced herself to romp through the boisterous square dances, and joined in the horseplay and practical jokes which delighted her friends, simply that they might not think her too uppity and queer.

As for this letter— went on Ephraim, returning to the subject, I think the tone of it offensive. This fine relation of yours, Abby, writes as if he thought himself the King of Spain. What right has he, I’d like to know, to be making ‘inquiries’ about us, or to think I’d fair leap at the chance to send him one of my girls?

He doesn’t mean it like that, I’m sure, said Abigail quickly. It’s only that the gentry have different ways of putting things.

That was a mistake, thought Miranda, watching her father’s face blacken.

Oh, indeed, snapped Ephraim. And since when, ma’am, do ye know all about the ways of gentry? Come to that, since when do we have gentry in this country where all are free and equal? A Yankee farmer is as good and mebbe a little bit better than many in this land. We’ll say no more about this. He put the letter back into his pocket. I’ll sit down now and answer it.

Oh, Pa, please . . . Miranda, galvanized into action, ran around the table and seized her father’s arm. Pa, listen— She spoke breathlessly, her wits sharpened by desperation. I have a—a feeling that I’m meant to go. I mean during worship tonight, I had a leading, truly I did. I think the Lord wants it. At least put it to the test, Pa, please, and see what happens.

Ephraim paused. He stared down into his daughter’s flushed, pleading face. Are you speaking the truth, daughter? Search your heart.

Miranda nodded earnestly. It crossed Ephraim’s mind that the girl, whom he usually thought far too pale and thin for beauty, did have a certain delicate, appealing charm.

Well, you may try the test, he said in a softer voice. He shoved the Bible over to her.

Miranda sighed with relief. There was still hope. The Bible test was used only in moments of grave crisis when its advice was urgently needed, and its decision was always abided by, as the manifest guidance of God.

She rested her hands on the great volume and sent up a fervent little prayer. If God wanted her to go to Dragonwyck, He would give her a sign. But, just in case, and without more than a fleeting stab of conscience, she intended to do what she could as well. For God helps those who help themselves. Had not Ephraim said so a hundred times?

Her mind darted over the various Bible stories while Ephraim and Abigail watched her. Of course. Hagar! And the page would fall open because Ephraim so often re-read the story of Abraham.

She shut her eyes, as was necessary to the test, opened the book, stole a lightning glance through her long lashes, then placed one slender finger-tip on a verse. She passed the Bible back to her father, who cleared his throat and read.

And Abraham rose up early in the morning, and took bread and a bottle of water and gave it unto Hagar, putting it on her shoulder and the child, and sent her away; and she departed and wandered in the wilderness of Beersheba.

Ephraim stopped and looked suspiciously at his daughter, who bore the scrutiny calmly. For after all, the Lord had given a sign. She might so easily not have found the right chapter or verse.

It’s none too fitting, said Ephraim grudgingly, but it does seem to have some bearing. I’ll sleep on the matter and pray over it.

Miranda’s spirits soared. She knew that during the night Abigail would find means to bring Ephraim round to their point of view, so long as the decisive letter of refusal had not actually been written.

She felt a sudden urge to get out of the stuffy house into the cool twilight. She avoided the back steps where Tabitha sat with Obadiah, though she heard her sister’s high-pitched giggle and little murmurs of coquettish protest.

She flung herself headlong on the grass beneath an apple tree, and wished on the evening star. Then she lay quiet, her face upturned to the sky, and dreamed of travel and far places; of New York. She pictured it vaguely as a vast city of towers and castles, peopled with elegant silken ladies and dark romantic gentlemen. Amongst the latter perhaps there might be one who would press his hand to his heart, though he dared not speak. Perhaps she would drop a handkerchief as Esmeralda had done in the Deserted Rose, and when he, bowing, returned it to her, their mingled glances would reveal the message of their souls.

It was all very formless and exciting.

Two

EPHRAIM’S stiff letter of acceptance had been promptly answered by a note of instructions about Miranda’s journey to Dragonwyck, and at three in the morning of Monday, June the fourteenth, Miranda awoke at a light touch on her shoulder. She opened her eyes to see her mother, candle in hand, standing beside the bed.

It’s time, dearie— said Abigail, and the unaccustomed endearment startled the girl into realization of what this day was to mean. She was leaving home, leaving the ordered safety of the familiar, leaving this quiet woman on whose love and sympathy she had always instinctively leaned. Suppose something happened to Ma, thought Miranda in sudden terror, suppose something happened to any of them here at home, she wouldn’t even know about it for days.

She thrust her bare feet over the edge of the bed and looked up at Abigail. Perhaps I oughtn’t go, she said slowly. Something might happen. You’d need me. And—Oh, Ma, I’m going to miss you so.

This woke up Tabitha, who yawned and said virtuously, Don’t worry about Ma, Ranny. I don’t mind doing the extra work when you’re gone.

The mother knew this to be true. Tibby would not only take over Miranda’s work, but do it far better than her sister had. Miranda was full of the most regrettable faults, she was vain and lazy and heedless. She thought far too much about worldly things; she was, as Ephraim constantly pointed out, finicking; while Tabitha was of an upright rectitude that had made it unnecessary to chide her since she was six.

How was it, then, thought Abigail, that possessing the very model of daughters she could look upon that plump and dutiful little person unmoved, while the sight of Miranda always gave her a sensation of melting and warmth? She had much ado now not to take that curly golden head and press it against her breast as she used to long ago. Instead she said:

Nonsense. Of course you’re going, Ranny, and put the candlestick on the washstand. No shilly-shallying now, miss. You’ve got what you wanted, so you might as well enjoy it.

There was no answer to this, and Abigail’s brisk voice was comforting.

Miranda dressed quickly. She put on her church dress of brown merino. It had been impossible to find the money for a new dress, but she had furbished this one as much as possible with a snowy white fichu and starched her petticoats until they stood out stiffly and pushed the merino skirt into a creditable imitation of a bell-shaped crinoline. She fastened the fichu with the beautiful hair brooch that was her only piece of jewelry. It had been given her on her thirteenth birthday while she was convalescing from scarlet fever. It had a real gold rim enclosing, under glass, a braided rose made from the combined hair of the whole family; Ephraim’s grizzled strand twined with Abigail’s brown and the children’s reddish chestnut to form a pleasing russet shade with a sheen like that of the walnut chair in the parlor. Ephraim had had it made by a jeweler in Stamford, and Miranda was very proud of it. It certainly set off the dress and nearly matched the elegance of her new bonnet.

The Misses Lane, milliners in Cos Cob, had made the bonnet after many devout consultations with Godey’s and the one copy they possessed of La Mode à Paris. It was of natural straw trimmed with rose satin ribbons, and in lieu of the ostrich feathers which appeared in the illustration it was embellished on either side by a large red cotton rose. The egg money which had provided the bonnet could not be stretched enough to include ostrich feathers.

Miranda tied the ribbons of this creation beneath her chin, peered into the tiny cracked mirror, then looked to her mother for approval.

Abigail thought the girl beautiful. That bonnet’s a mite giddy, but you’ll do, she said crisply. Here’s your shawl; say good-bye to the children and hurry. I hear Tom hitching up.

Miranda picked up her traveling basket, which had been made by old Hardy, the last Sinawoy Indian who lived over in the Stanwich woods. It was capacious and sturdy, quite adequate to her scanty wardrobe. Then she leaned over Tabitha, who was half asleep again.

Good-bye, Tibby, she said.

Tabitha sat up and the sisters kissed tenderly, forgetful in this parting moment of all their little squabbles.

The younger children, Seth, Nat, and the baby, did not wake up as Miranda kissed them, and her eyes filled, premonitory pangs of homesickness assailed her.

Fortunately there was little time for emotion during the next half-hour. The market boat for New York would leave Mianus at five, and they must be at the dock in plenty of time to unload the wagon and get