Besides the master, there was another cause for uneasiness at Dragonwyck. There had been a queer feeling about the house during the few days of the poor wee one's life. Not just sadness, but a nasty creepiness that gave you shivers up and down the backbone. This feeling was worst in the little Red Room, though the other servants didn't feel anything out of the way when they went in to clean. But Peggy did. One evening while the master was shut up in his tower, and the mistress was in bed with her sick little baby, Peggy had gone into the Red Room to hunt for a lace handkerchief that was missing. She hadn't stayed to search for it, because there had been someone else in that room. Someone you couldn't see or hear, but it was there. As real and as awful as the Black O'Donohue who galloped round Lough Leane on All Souls' Eve, real as the little folk who danced in the ruins of Aghadoe.
Peggy had run wildly from that room and locked herself into her own bedroom in the attic. Her hands had been soaking wet while she told her beads on the arbutus rosary.
Weeks later she had mentioned something of this to her mistress, but the poor sweet lady hadn't wanted to listen. She'd spoken quite sharply, while her eyes had held a bit of a strained, frightened look. So Peggy had said no more, and anyway the creepy feeling seemed to be gone.
Sometimes Peggy whispered to herself an old Gaelic charm. The red-headed mother had taught it to her long ago in the sod cottage near Killarney.
'Three things are of the Evil One—
An evil eye;
An evil tongue;
An evil mind.
'Three things are of God, and these three are what Mary told to her Son, for she heard them in heaven—
The merciful word,
The singing word,
And the good word.'
May the power of these three holy things be on all the men and women of Erin for evermore.'
This was the sense of the charm, but Peggy said it in the ancient language as her mother had taught her. There was more magic in it that way. There was need for magic—good magic and prayers in that house—for never a bit of comfort did the poor mistress seem to get out of her own creed, after the baby died. The master laughed at her when she read in the Bible, and once he asked her what good all her superstitions and 'caterwauling to an imaginary image' had done her or anyone. Had they ever prevented sorrow or disappointment, he asked her in that quiet, sneering way of his.
And the Bible had pretty soon gone back to the bottom drawer. Small harm in that, maybe, thought Peggy, who knew little of the Bible and in any case could not read; but surely to goodness every soul, high or low, needed faith. She lit many a candle to the Blessed Mother and asked Her about it.
In New York this was easier, for there was a new church not far from Stuyvesant Street and she could slip out to early Mass. The mistress seldom rang for her any more until nearly noon.
It was in New York on May tenth of 1849 that this phase of Miranda's life came to an abrupt close, and the Astor Place massacre was the cause of it.
The Van Ryns were bidden by the Clement Vandergraves to dine at four and go on afterward to the Astor Place Opera House, where they would witness William Charles Macready's interpretation of 'Macbeth.' All of fashionable New York was going, not only because performances at the Opera House were extremely elegant—it had been built in 1847 by a hundred and fifty gentlemen of wealth and social prominence—but because Macready's appearance tonight promised to be interesting. Three days ago on May seventh the ridiculous feud between the English Macready and the American Edwin Forrest had reached a minor climax when both actors presented themselves in 'Macbeth' on the same evening—Macready at the Astor and Forrest at the Broadway. There had been disturbance at both performances; each audience was composed of friends who cheered, and enemies who groaned and catcalled. Society on the whole was amused; everyone knew and discussed the rivals' relative rights to be incensed with each other.
Aside from the loss of dignity and lack of ordinary courtesy displayed by two talented actors, this spectacle would have affected nobody except that it got out of bounds and was seized upon by the malcontents in the city. The quarrel became a symbol of class war.
Macready was an Englishman and the favorite of New York society. Forrest was favored by the populace not only because he was an American but because he was most persuasive in such rôles as Jack Cade and Spartacus which personified the struggle of the underdog against entrenched privilege.
All over Europe at that time there were riots and insurrections born of class hatred. The same unrest trickled to America, where to be sure there was a democracy, but was it really working, that democracy? That was the ever-recurring doubt of the people. From this fear sprang many manifestations of revolt—large and far-reaching ones like the Abolitionist movement; smaller and less important ones like the anti-rent wars on the manors, and the Astor Place riot.
Nicholas and Miranda—in the barouche—set out from Stuyvesant Street at four o'clock on their way to the Vandergraves' in Gramercy Square. Miranda was happy. The May afternoon was fresh and fragrant. Nicholas was in a good humor, and there was the prospect of the theater with congenial companions. Miranda liked the Vandergraves and she adored the theater second only to opera, which had been for her an enchanted discovery. She thought with amusement and a trace of pity of the naive girl who had been so excited over Barnum's shoddy freaks three years ago—and how beautiful she had thought that lurid pantomime at Niblo's!
Now she was accustomed to the best, could appraise the singing of Truffi in 'Emani,' or the lovely Biscaccianti's phrasing in 'La Sonnambola.' She had long since passed her initial embarrassing confusion between Richelieu and Richard the III; she knew which speeches to appreciate, and when to applaud. She had not attained the blasé attitude affected by the society ladies. Her interest in the world of make-believe on the stage was too eager for that, but she had attained knowledge and poise.
She was conscious of looking her best tonight. Both she and Nicholas were in the ultra-formal attire which was expected not only from subscribers to the boxes, but from each member of the Astor Place Opera House audience. It was this emphasis upon full dress which particularly infuriated those of the populace who dared aspire to seeing the best opera or drama in the city. Without a black frock coat, white vest, and white kid gloves no gentleman would be admitted. To brighten the severity of his garb, Nicholas wore a very small carnation in his buttonhole and a set of sapphire studs.
Miranda looked at him admiringly. Whatever the inner disquiet in their relationship, or perhaps because of that disquiet, she had never come to take her husband for granted. She still saw him consciously, not with the blank eye of habit, but alertly. The firm chiseling of his dark profile above the frilled white stock, the blackness of his hair, and the always startling blueness of his eyes beneath their heavy brows—these things still had power to make her heart beat faster.
'Do you like my new dress, Nicholas?' she asked, hungry for the appreciation which he often withheld. But today he was generous. He turned and surveyed her, smiling. Her dress was of midnight blue—that color of all others most flattering to blondes, and the low heart-shaped bodice was cut as a basque. Of this Miranda was proud; it was a new fashion direct from Paris, and would not be adopted in New York for another year. She had daringly avoided all the frills and flounces which were considered essential,'and used for ornament only a diamond bow-knot at her breast and a diamond arrow and tiny blue feather in her high-puffed hair.
Nicholas raised her white-gloved hand to his lips. 'You're beautiful, my love, you have excellent taste in dress. It's always pleased me.'
Do I please you in all ways, Nicholas?' she asked wistfully. It was so seldom that he praised her, so seldom that he was approachable like this.
He was silent a minute and she thought instantly: What a fool I was to ask that! Neither of them had ever mentioned it, but she knew what he was thinking. She had not yet given him another son. She had gone secretly to consult Doctor Francis on this delicate point, and been reassured. There was nothing wrong whatsoever. It was just a matter of time. Nature was unpredictable.
'You wouldn't be sitting here with me in my carriage if you didn't,' said Nicholas, and he laughed.
Decidedly he was in a very good mood tonight.
They drove up Third Avenue so that they might see the famous Stuyvesant pear tree on the corner of Thirteenth Street. Again for the two hundredth time its ancient boughs were loaded with blossoms. How strange it was that it could go on renewing itself in exquisite youth, when the hands that had planted it had so long ago fallen to dust!
Nicholas got out of the carriage and plucked her a small flower. As she accepted it smiling, she thought that embodied in that little presentation of the pear blossom were the only three virtues which in Nicholas were invariable: his veneration for the Dutch tradition, his love of beauty, and his gallantry. On these three qualities alone could she always count—but it was enough, she told herself hastily, determined not to dim the gala evening.
The carriage stopped on the west side of Gramercy Park before a flight of steps which led to a white-trimmed doorway bright with gleaming brass. The Vandergraves were as trim and shining as their house, and as solid. They were both round and rosy and kind. As do many happily married couples, they had grown to look alike, and Rebecca's smiling face between two glossy wings of neat brown hair resembled her husband's smiling face between equally neat and glossy side whiskers. Upstairs in the attic nurseries, there romped eight little Vandergraves, all topped with neat brown hair and all as round and rosy as their parents.
It was a comfortable house, welcoming and cheerful. Miranda never entered it without a touch of envy, which Nicholas did not share. The Vandergraves bored him, but he suffered their acquainrance because their ancestors on both sides had landed on Manhattan Island with Cornelius Van Ryn, and they now belonged to that most conservative backbone of New York society, those of whom outsiders never heard. No function of theirs would ever be described in the newspapers; they would be buried and their daughters would marry in the same inner circle without causing the slightest ripple amongst the populace, who had already begun following every mention of Goelets, Lorillards, or Astors with greedy interest.
At half-past six when it was time to leave for the Opera House, whose performances began at seven sharp, Miranda was sorry to go. Neither the lengthy meal nor the conversation had been brilliant, but she had enjoyed herself. Rebecca's good-humored chatter, her assumption that everyone was as good and happy as she was, created an atmosphere of ease.
Miranda felt that Rebecca did not think her overshadowed by Nicholas as so many people did and that here at least she shone as a distinct personality. Intimate friendship was impossible, even had Nicholas allowed it, for to Miranda's twenty-four years, Rebecca's forty-two made an impassable. gulf. And then there were all the children. No childless woman could share many interests with the mother of eight. Still, the visit had provided relief from the tension under which Miranda unconsciously lived, unconscious because she had grown so used to it that it had become her normal mental climate. When Rebecca said, 'Ranny, my love, I've rung for our wraps, I fear we may be late,' Miranda smiled and rustled reluctantly to her feet. Rebecca was the only person who ever gave Miranda her childish nickname, and she did it in serene oblivion of Nicholas' annoyance.
They all went together in the Vandergrave carriage, and when they reached Fourteenth Street, Rebecca, who had been speaking with tolerant amusement of 'Commodore' Vanderbilt's efforts to bludgeon his way into social acceptance, suddenly checked herself and cast an uneasy look at the street. 'Oh, dear,' she said; 'there seem to be a great many rough-looking men about, and they give us such horrid stares. You don't think there will be any trouble tonight, do you, Mr. Vandergrave?'
Her husband patted her hand. 'Of course not, my pet.'
At that moment the carriage paused to make way for the crosstown stage and a large poster intruded itself on the startled gaze of the carriage's four occupants.
In fiery red letters the poster exhorted:
AMERICANS! AROUSE!
THE GREAT CRISIS HAS COME!
Decide now whether English ARISTOCRATS!!!
shall triumph in this AMERICA'S metropolis.
WORKING MEN! FREEMEN! Come out!
Dare to own yourselves sons of the iron hearts of '76!
'Oh, dear!' cried Rebecca again with increased alarm. 'What are they planning? Don't you think we should turn back?'
'Why, no, madam,' said Nicholas in genuine amusement. You surely would not let a few hysterical rowdies spoil your evening's pleasure. This silly actors' quarrel has nothing to do with us.'
The ladies looked relieved. Clement Vandergrave cleared his throat and swallowed the order he had been about to give the coachman.
But a sullen mob filled Astor Place. While carriage after carriage rolled through to discharge its occupants on the red carpet that stretched up the granite steps to the palisaded portico, this mob gave way just enough for the vehicles to pass, but a low growl like distant thunder hovered in the still twilight air.
As the Vandergrave party entered the theater, a man in a brown suit pushed past them and brandished his arms at the queue which had formed before the ticket office. 'You can't get in there, you poor fools!' he yelled, waving a bit of pasteboard. 'I paid for this ticket and they wouldn't let me in because I hadn't kid gloves and a white vest on! They shut the door in my face—damn the stinking nabobs—!'
The thundering growl outside rose higher in pitch, muffled but distinct through the Opera House walls.
Miranda looked up at Nicholas. 'It does seem more than just an actors' quarrel, doesn't it?' she asked hesitantly. 'I mean it seems to be directed against—people like us.'