beginning to arrive in their rattling farm wagons and there was a constant stamping and whinnying of heavy draft horses, shouts from the men, excited squeals from the children as they spied the carrousel and the picnic booths, a quacking and cackling of poultry, and the bleating of lambs which had been brought as tribute to the patroon.
This was one of the semiannual rent-days, and before Nicholas' speech and the merrymaking which would follow it must come business. A platform had been set up under a large tulip tree and upon it were an armchair, a table, and several smaller chairs.
At ten o'clock Nicholas mounted this platform accompanied by Dirck Duyckman, his bailiff, the Count, and Miranda. Johanna had not attended this recurring ceremony for several years. It bored her, and she disliked being gawked at by the yokels, one of whom had once made loud and uncomplimentary remarks on her figure. The man had been punished, not as Nicholas' grandfather would have punished him, by a day in the stocks, but in a more modern way—by confiscating a portion of his farm on which he had been laggard in paying rent. But after this Johanna appeared no more on rent-day' until the tenants had gone home.
The Countess also preferred to remain in her room and rest, but the Count was interested in this feudal custom, and as for Miranda she was always glad to be near Nicholas and take part in the life of Dragonwyck whenever she was invited to do so.
Nicholas seated himself in the traditional 'rent-chair' of carved oak black with age, for it had come from Holland with the first patroon and been used for this purpose ever since. The bailiff stood beside him holding a great gold-stamped ledger. He cleared his throat and called importantly, 'Let the tenants come forward, single file, with their payments. The patroon is ready!'
The crowd of farmers who had been kept on the back lawn by a rope shuffled, and sheepishly removing their hats arranged themselves in order. Two of the Van Ryn footmen lowered the rope.
A wizened little man in brown homespun stepped up to the platform clutching two gray geese and a bumpy sack of potatoes.
'Tom Wilson,' said the bailiff, thumbing through his ledger. 'Hollow Farm on the north road. Poultry and potatoes. Co—rect.' He eyed the geese narrowly. "Them birds is a mite skinny, Tom. Couldn't you bring no better than that?'
The wizened little man shook his head, casting an anxious glance at Nicholas, who sat silently attentive. 'I couldn't do no better, sir. My corn give out and the crops is bad so far. We ain't getting enough rain. 'Sides, my old woman she's powerful sick; she can't feed the poultry like she used to.'
Nicholas leaned forward. 'I'm sorry to hear that, Tom. Has she had the doctor?'
'No, she ain't. She don't hold with no doctors, they won't do her no good. She thinks there's someone witching her, maybe old Molly Clabber lives down the road.'
'Nonsense,' said Nicholas. 'If she's sick she needs a doctor. Duyckman, look into this later and report to me.'
The bailiff nodded. Tom Wilson said, 'Thanky, sir,' dubiously, and touched his forehead. He deposited the geese and potatoes in a large pen to the right of the platform and walked over to a keg of beer which had been provided for the tenants.
The bailiff signaled and another farmer came up. The procedure was repeated. Jed Ribling had brought a spring lamb, a side of bacon, and a sack of flour ground at the village mill. He too was entered in the ledger, placed his stuff in the pen, and joined Tom Wilson at the beer keg.
They filed slowly by, the Dutch names, the English names, a scattering of German ones. Nicholas spoke to each one asking after the health of some member of the family, or inquiring into the condition of the crops.
Miranda from her corner of the platform watched him breathlessly, admiring his infallible memory for names, his detailed knowledge of his tenants' lives, the graciousness with which he said just the right word to
This was one of the semiannual rent-days, and before Nicholas' speech and the merrymaking which would follow it must come business. A platform had been set up under a large tulip tree and upon it were an armchair, a table, and several smaller chairs.
At ten o'clock Nicholas mounted this platform accompanied by Dirck Duyckman, his bailiff, the Count, and Miranda. Johanna had not attended this recurring ceremony for several years. It bored her, and she disliked being gawked at by the yokels, one of whom had once made loud and uncomplimentary remarks on her figure. The man had been punished, not as Nicholas' grandfather would have punished him, by a day in the stocks, but in a more modern way—by confiscating a portion of his farm on which he had been laggard in paying rent. But after this Johanna appeared no more on rent-day' until the tenants had gone home.
The Countess also preferred to remain in her room and rest, but the Count was interested in this feudal custom, and as for Miranda she was always glad to be near Nicholas and take part in the life of Dragonwyck whenever she was invited to do so.
Nicholas seated himself in the traditional 'rent-chair' of carved oak black with age, for it had come from Holland with the first patroon and been used for this purpose ever since. The bailiff stood beside him holding a great gold-stamped ledger. He cleared his throat and called importantly, 'Let the tenants come forward, single file, with their payments. The patroon is ready!'
The crowd of farmers who had been kept on the back lawn by a rope shuffled, and sheepishly removing their hats arranged themselves in order. Two of the Van Ryn footmen lowered the rope.
A wizened little man in brown homespun stepped up to the platform clutching two gray geese and a bumpy sack of potatoes.
'Tom Wilson,' said the bailiff, thumbing through his ledger. 'Hollow Farm on the north road. Poultry and potatoes. Co—rect.' He eyed the geese narrowly. "Them birds is a mite skinny, Tom. Couldn't you bring no better than that?'
The wizened little man shook his head, casting an anxious glance at Nicholas, who sat silently attentive. 'I couldn't do no better, sir. My corn give out and the crops is bad so far. We ain't getting enough rain. 'Sides, my old woman she's powerful sick; she can't feed the poultry like she used to.'
Nicholas leaned forward. 'I'm sorry to hear that, Tom. Has she had the doctor?'
'No, she ain't. She don't hold with no doctors, they won't do her no good. She thinks there's someone witching her, maybe old Molly Clabber lives down the road.'
'Nonsense,' said Nicholas. 'If she's sick she needs a doctor. Duyckman, look into this later and report to me.'
The bailiff nodded. Tom Wilson said, 'Thanky, sir,' dubiously, and touched his forehead. He deposited the geese and potatoes in a large pen to the right of the platform and walked over to a keg of beer which had been provided for the tenants.
The bailiff signaled and another farmer came up. The procedure was repeated. Jed Ribling had brought a spring lamb, a side of bacon, and a sack of flour ground at the village mill. He too was entered in the ledger, placed his stuff in the pen, and joined Tom Wilson at the beer keg.
They filed slowly by, the Dutch names, the English names, a scattering of German ones. Nicholas spoke to each one asking after the health of some member of the family, or inquiring into the condition of the crops.
Miranda from her corner of the platform watched him breathlessly, admiring his infallible memory for names, his detailed knowledge of his tenants' lives, the graciousness with which he said just the right word to
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