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 die 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.
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 the produce on board.
At four o'clock, just as the first gray streaks of dawn showed over the distant ridge of Palmer Hill, Miranda clambered up onto the wagon seat beside Ephraim. Tom, who must accompany them to drive the ox-team back, settled himself on a bag of potatoes in the rear, Ephraim shouted to the oxen and they started, with no more drama than that.
Miranda waved to the diminishing figure of her mother, barely discernible in the dim light, and thought of a hundred things she might have said to her. 'Ma, I'll write often. If you need me, I'll come home at once. Don't work too hard, will you, Ma, dear? And take care of yourself—please.'
She had said none of these things, nor had Abigail said much except, 'Behave yourself now. Make yourself useful to Mr. and Mrs. Van Ryn. Say your prayers every night and morning.'
Miranda swallowed, the familiar countryside blurred. The wagon rumbled up and down the stony hills on the Catrock road, the brakes squeaked as they slid down the last steep pitch into the Mianus River valley. Many other farm wagons were clustered on the turnpike below the Dumpling Pond Bridge. Isaac Taylor in the wagon next theirs greeted Ephraim cordially and then peered in astonishment at Miranda.
'You folks going somewhere?' he asked. 'Mighty early in the day to see a young lady all togged out in finery.'
Ephraim nodded. 'Ranny and Pre off to New York with the boat. She's going to visit some of her ma's relations up the Hudson.'
Isaac whistled. 'You don't say. Mind you don't get lost in the big city. Last time I was there in thirty-nine, what with all them horsecars and cabs and hacks and the twisting streets and the hawkers wanting to sell you something I got plumb confused. Was mighry glad to get home again. You never been there, have you, Ephraim?'
'No,' answered Ephraim stiffly, his eyes on the potatoes and bushel baskets of onions Tom was loading onto the boat.
'Well, they got a lot of slickers down there,' continued Isaac. 'There was one fellow with a gold watch chain and a satin suit tried to sell me the City Hall, hundred dollars down and the rest monthly. I told him I wasn't born yesterday and he'd have to be a lot smarter than that to diddle a Connecticut Yankee.'
'I guess we'll manage all right,' said Ephraim. 'With the Lord's help. Come on, Ranny, get on board. Looks like they're getting ready to sail.'
She hurried down from the wagon and across the plank to the market boat. There seemed to be no place to sit, so she made her way to the stern through the piled vegetables, dusted off a sack of potatoes, and settled gingerly on that.
Tom emerged from the hold and came over to her. 'Good-bye, sis,' he said, holding out his hand. 'Good luck.' He hesitated a moment and reddened. 'I sure wish I was going too, like to see the city.'
'Oh, I wish you were, Tommy—' cried Miranda warmly. 'Come on, why don't you?'
Tom shook his head. 'Got to get back and hoe up the north field. Can't everybody go junketing off at once.'
'I guess not,' answered Miranda. Tom was so responsible. He never forgot a duty or left one undone. I suppose I am selfish and flighty, she thought unhappily. But nevertheless her spirits began to revive. This was adventure and travel and change. Even Ephraim, she saw, as the boat got under way and slid down the river toward the Sound, was beginning to enjoy himself. His stern face had relaxed, he actually smiled as he chatted with the captain.
In the Sound they picked up a strong southeasterly breeze. The Dora J. skimmed past Port Chester, Rye, New Rochelle, with a skittishness belied by her squat sturdy hull. Miranda had much trouble keeping her precious bonnet on, the wind caught its scoop brim until the confining ribbons beneath her chin nearly strangled her. When a shower of salt spray descended on her head, she finally untied the bonnet and examined the red roses anxiously. They were a trifle limp, so she protected them under a fold of her skirt and allowed the wind and spray to make havoc of her smooth braids. It wasn't at all proper to sit hatless in a public place, but after all there was no one on board but the sailors and her father, and she hoped they wouldn't notice or think her a trifle free in her manner.
The tide was with them and the trip passed quickly. At half-past eight she saw the New York skyline, and nearly fell over the rail in her excitement. How very tall the buildings were! some of them actually had four stories. And how many church spires there were! Sunshine glittered off the far-flung jumble of slate and shingled roofs, confused distant noises clamored from the shore. The river swarmed suddenly with ships; dories, ketches, market boats, schooners, and an occasional steam packet all apparently bearing down on the Dora J. Miranda several times braced herself for what seemed an inevitable collision, but nothing happened. They forged steadily ahead, rounding Corlear's Hook to make fast finally at a dock on South Street.
Miranda hastily put on her bonnet as Ephraim came aft to her.
'Looks like we're here,' he said. There was a lack of certainty in his manner, and as they stepped off the boat into a bustle and uproar the like of which Miranda had never imagined, she was both surprised and comforted to know that her father was for once a bit unsure of himself.