The Wide House

by Taylor Caldwell

  Stuart tightened his arm about Marvina. She leaned against him. She smiled fondly at her father. “Dear Papa,” she said, in her honeyed voice. “Good night, dear Papa.”

  Joshua gazed at that empty face for a long and piercing moment, his heart in his wicked eyes. Then he bowed his head and turned away.

  Stuart, glowing like the sun at midday, saluted the Sheriff. “Now, Bob, will you be kind enough to clear this house for me? I am weary, and I must put some medicine upon this hell-cat’s scratches, or I shall surely die of the hydrophobia.” He paused. “As for this woman, my cousin, and her children, they may stay in this house for twenty-four hours longer. Then they must leave. That is my order, which I can enforce.”

  He took Marvina’s hand and led her from the room, past the servants and the Sheriff, and Joshua and Janie. They watched him lead her, watched the silken grace of her flowing garments, her dazzling smile, her look of adoration for her husband. She did not glance backwards, not even at her father, who groaned as if death had suddenly seized him.

  The children were still on the stairway. They moved aside in dumb and stricken silence, as Stuart and Marvina ascended slowly. They looked at Stuart with pale young faces and wide eyes. He smiled at them benignly, and with indifference. He reached the stair where Angus and Laurie were standing, their arms about each other. The little girl’s face was streaming with tears. But her blue eyes regarded Stuart steadfastly, shining in the warm dusk.

  He never knew what made him pause there, beside the child. He only knew that something held him, made him stand there looking down at her, with the most curious plunging of his careless heart And then he bent gently, and kissed her white cheek.

  “Good night, my love,” he said, softly, touching her golden hair.

  As for Marvina, she stood looking at the children with her amiable and meaningless smile, nodded to them agreed ably, and went on, Stuart following her.

  They reached the door of Stuart’s apartment. Stuart, his pulses throbbing, stopped there on the threshold, and again took his wife’s hand. He looked at her with intense significance and passion. She smiled at him, placidly.

  “What nice little children, Stuart. I am sure I shall love them,” she said.

  Stuart could not speak. For the first time it dawned on him, faintly and disagreeably, that his wife was stupid. Abysmally stupid.

  BOOK TWO

  THE CHILDREN IN THE GATE

  “His children are far from safety, and they are crushed in the gate, neither is there any to deliver them.”

  —Job 5, Verse 4.

  CHAPTER 26

  Angus Cauder picked up his medical books from under the counter and laid them on top of it. He passed his thin hands over his face, and sighed. All the juice and life were squeezed out of him, so that he felt dry and brittle and flaxlike. Even his mind was dry and dusty, laid over with the grime of old despair and hopelessness and acquiescence. He moved his tongue in his mouth, to alleviate the parched sensation which came from his soul.

  The last customer had gone. Even the clerks had long ago closed the door behind them. Angus ran his finger over the top of his books, and sighed again. Then, with a tragic gesture, he pushed the books aside, and went into the back room which served as the offices of the shops. He walked with a slight stoop, for he was not strong, and he was too tall and thin. Nor were his movements full of the vitality and sprightliness of youth. He walked like an old man, heavy with years and stiff with ancient dejection.

  Stuart, frowning over the ledgers, looked up and saw the youth. He smiled slightly, leaning back in his chair. He, too, was very tired. He smoothed his hair with both hands; there were a few wiry streaks of gray in its heavy long blackness with the curling ends.

  “Finished, Angus? But, of course, it’s nearly seven. What are you doing here so late?”

  “There were some bolts to rewind, Stuart, of the new foulard.”

  The lamp on the desk threw its pallid light over the ledgers, and over the new panelled walls, for even here Stuart must have his elegance, his reassurance of luxury. In that wan circle of illumination, Angus stood in silence, his gray eyes hidden, his pale and suffering face, lined even now though he was still so young, full of chronic reticence and pride. His mouth, always reserved and thin, was now a wide tight line with rigid corners, as if it was an iron gate forever barred against the spirit within and the joy without. His fine brown hair, sleek and longish, lay flaccidly on his narrow skull, and two or three strands streaked across his forehead with its noble contours and strong protuberances.

  Stuart peered at him with furtive uneasiness. He lit a cheroot, and frowned at the panelled ceiling.

  “You’ve been here six months now, Angus. How d’you like it, eh? The shops and all?”

  “Very well, Stuart. It—it’s very interesting. Isn’t it?”

  “Is it? You find it interesting, Angus?”

  Angus hesitated. He moved on his long thin feet. He wore the black broadcloth and white linen of the other clerks, and they gave his emaciated body a funereal look. Against that blackness his hands, so slender and tapered, appeared waxen and lifeless.

  He spoke formally: “People are always interesting, Stuart.”

  “Are they?” replied Stuart, wryly. He examined the end of his cheroot. “I think they’re a damned nuisance, most of them. However, I’m glad you aren’t dissatisfied.

  He knew that the young man had come to him for a specific purpose, and he wondered what it was. Angus never volunteered any communication between them; his attitude was entirely withdrawn and negative, as a rule, in his dealings with Stuart.

  When Angus remained silent, Stuart looked at him directly.

  “You are satisfied, aren’t you, Angus?”

  Angus dropped his head. “Please forgive me, Stuart, but I’m not. You see, Mama thinks I should have a little increase.”

  “Ah. She does, eh? And what does Mama suggest?”

  At the note of irony in Stuart’s voice, Angus flushed. He lifted his head and looked at Stuart arrogantly, though there was a faint quivering over his thin features. He said, and his voice trembled defensively, and with a pale affrighted anger: “Mama says that as she is a partner in the shops, and that as I work here, I ought to receive more than the other clerks.” He hesitated. “She thinks I should receive at least three dollars more a week.”

  Stuart studied him curiously. “And what do you think, Angus?”

  The youth was resolute, however. His gray eyes suddenly gleamed in the lamplight. “I think it should be five more, Stuart.”

  Stuart suddenly turned his attention again to his cheroot. He scowled, and cursed inaudibly. “The tobacco we get these days! Look at the damn thing!” He removed the chimney of the lamp and applied the tip of the cheroot to the flame, which wavered and darkened. “You have to have a conflagration to light cheroots now.” He replaced the chimney, and puffed vigorously for a few moments. Angus watched him. A slight grim smile deepened, rather than alleviated, the hard straight corners of his young mouth. All at once he was complete steely hardness, and it was Stuart now who was on the defensive.

  Stuart smiled on his young relative brilliantly. “Very well, then, I think I prefer your opinion—to your mama’s. We shall make it five, beginning Saturday. How is that?” “Thank you, Stuart, said Angus, coldly. He moved, preparing to leave. But Stuart turned to him fully, in his chair. As always, his movements were impetuous. Yet as he met Angus’ hard gray eyes he was suddenly silent. He frowned, and it was not with annoyance. He coughed, with embarrassment.

  “Angus, will you sit down a moment? I want to talk to you.”

  But Angus stiffened. “I am late now, Stuart. We dine at half past seven, you know. Mama will be annoyed if I delay her.”

  “Oh, we mustn’t annoy Mama, of course! But I am expecting my carriage, and I’ll drive you home. In about five minutes. You couldn’t walk it so fast I won’t keep you long.”

  Angus did not speak for a moment, and then into h
is voice, neutral and indifferent, there crept a proud note. “Very well.” He sat down stiffly on the edge of a chair near by, and waited, looking at Stuart with a dimly inimical expression. Stuart saw it. His embarrassment increased. But also his pity.

  “You’ll think it none of my business, certainly, Angus. But you and I were friends, once, a long time ago. I was always very fond of you. You know that, don’t you?”

  Angus was silent. But the harsh corners of his mouth moved in a repudiating smile, cynical and cold.

  Stuart colored. He struck his palm on the desk. “You’ve listened to false tales, Angus! That is evident. You must believe me that I’ve always been fond of you.”

  The lad moved, as if affronted, and appeared to be about to rise. But he said nothing. His eyes were like pale and polished stone as he regarded Stuart, and waited.

  Stuart was becoming excited. That was bad for his liver, he recalled angrily. Well, to hell with his liver just now! He would make one try only, to rescue this young fool, to break down his ridiculous defenses.

  “When you were fourteen, Angus, you confided in me that you wished to be a physician. A—friend, urged me to look after you; he charged me with encouraging and helping you. I resented the charge. Nevertheless, for his sake I remembered it—and for yours. Last June you were graduated from your school. I was surprised when your mama requested that you be admitted to the shops.”

  He paused. His low forehead wrinkled uneasily. Angus had listened, in wary silence, and while Stuart had been speaking, his young face hardened, become like shining steel. He still waited, his eyes fixed on Stuart.

  “You’ve done good work in the shops, Angus. You have a keen mind and an understanding one. You’ve helped me with the books, and I look forward to turning more and more of them over to you. I find them onerous. Sam usually attends to them, but as you know, he hasn’t been well since his lung fever last March. It will be some time before he can do a full day’s work on the ledgers.

  “Yes, you are doing well. You will eventually do excellently. But that isn’t what I had hoped for, for you. You’ve left school now, and I fully expected that you would go to study with some good doctor. Like Dr. Dexter. I spoke to him last Spring, and he agreed to take you. You know that. What changed your mind? Aren’t you interested in medicine any longer?”

  Angus was still. But Stuart saw with what a convulsion his hands suddenly clasped themselves together in a movement as if he were wringing them. And then his hands were still, also, though still rigidly clasped together.

  He said, in a voice without intonation: “It doesn’t matter whether I am interested or not, or what I had wanted, or planned, Stuart. Mama can’t afford to keep me in idleness any longer, and it is my duty to assist her.”

  “Damned nonsense!” cried Stuart, with his quick rage. “Your mama is receiving nearly six thousand dollars a year from her investment! Why, last year, if I remember correctly, it was over that. She hasn’t touched her principal at all. Then, two years ago, when her father died, she received ten thousand dollars as her legacy. She has tucked that away, too, in her damned strong boxes. She can very well afford to let you do what you had always dreamt of doing.”

  Angus had straightened in his chair. His eyes sparkled with bitter affront. “Stuart, you don’t know all my mother’s affairs, and I—I consider it presumptuous of you to criticize her. You have forgotten there are three other children. She can’t afford to pamper me. Bertie is only seventeen, Robbie is not yet sixteen, and there is Laurie, who is only eleven. The boys aren’t finished with their school. Mama is sometimes very pressed. I must help her. It is my duty. To complain would be immoral. We must each put aside our hopes when they conflict with duty. We cannot ask others to suffer for us, and to deny themselves. Such selfishness is sinful and cruel.”

  Stuart’s full face was dark with congested blood. “You mean you consider it sinful and cruel to oppose the unfeeling and insensible demands of a rapacious woman? Just because she is your mother?”

  Angus rose. He had begun to breathe in short breaths. “Good night, Cousin Stuart.”

  But Stuart rose also, and stood before the door. “Angus, by God! This is the last time I shall appeal to you, and try to make you see what your mother is doing to you. I will have my say, and then you can go, and be damned to you!

  “Your mother has always disliked you. You’ve never admitted it, in your fatuous devotion to her. She intends to ruin your life. She has already made you a dirty little money-grubber. Look at you! You’re sick to death, to the very depths of you, you puppy! I’ve watched you in the shops, from this door. I’ve probed to your heart; I’ve seen your misery. Angus, you are dying on your feet. It wouldn’t matter so much if it were only your damned miserable flesh. But you’re dying inside, Angus. And you’re letting a woman who hates you, who enjoys thwarting and murdering you, do this thing to you. To the idiot thing you call your soul. She is using your best instincts, your devotion and honesty and sense of duty, to destroy you.”

  He stopped, running out of breath. His treacherous heart was pounding in his chest, with great pain. Now, curse it, he would have to forego his whiskey tonight. He put his hand to his chest, and pushed it there, with instinctive pressure.

  Angus had retreated from him, to the other side of the desk, and now only the lower part of his body was in the light. His face was in shadow. But out of that shadow the gray steel of his eyes flashed with scorn and cold outrage.

  Stuart was trembling with violence. He drew a deep breath, tried for his own sake to control the vehemence of his voice, and said:

  “You speak of duty. Damn it, you would agree with me that a man has only one soul. He must guard and protect it, lest he die. You will agree with me, there? And to guard and protect it, he must yield to its instincts. He must never step aside. You have always wanted to be a physician. You have the emotions of a devoted man, self-sacrificing and dedicated. That is the temper of your soul.

  “Yet you are allowing this woman to destroy your soul, to make a grasping and greedy animal of you, an avaricious miser. I’ve seen you fondle the gold pieces that passed over the counter to you! I’ve seen you jingle them in your hands, and smile. You’ve put them away, lovingly. I’ve watched you. But they didn’t put any light in your miserable face. They put ugliness there. The ugliness of a dying soul, Angus.”

  He had to stop. His breath failed him again. But his black and restless eyes, usually so careless and selfish, were bright with earnestness now, and impatient anger, and pleading.

  Angus looked at him in silence. Stuart could hardly see his face. But he felt the boy’s implacability and contempt.

  Then he heard Angus’ voice, thin but firm, and harsh. “Cousin Stuart, you speak to me of ‘souls.’ But you don’t believe in souls, or in God. You are a bad man, and you know that in your heart, Cousin Stuart. I can’t listen to you. Your words mean nothing to me.”

  He paused, while Stuart stared at him with incredulous hopelessness and fury.

  “I’ve done my duty here, Cousin Stuart. I’ll continue to do it, if you allow me to stay after this. You can always trust me. I want to learn the business, as my mother is one of your partners. I intend to make the shops my lifework. I want it that way. That is all I want. And I can’t listen to anyone, least of all you, who would lead me astray, away from God and what I know is my duty. Holy exhortations never came from a faithless instrument. I can’t believe that from you would ever come any sound advice or righteous guidance. What your motive is I do not rightly know, but I do sense that you are advising me to repudiate and defy my poor mother, who has devoted her life to her orphaned children. You are advising me to turn aside from my duty, and selfishly to pursue my own frivolous and unsanctified desires.”

  At this imbecility, Stuart was not freshly angered, but only sick with despair. He lifted his hand, as if to brush aside a swarm of gnats that meaninglessly buzzed and stung. He said, with passionate quietness:

  “Angus, if your mothe
r should refuse to allow you to study medicine, and you are afraid you will be left penniless, and thrown out of her house, you can come to me, with pleasure. I will help you. You can live in my house, and study with Dr. Dexter.

  “I am your friend. I have never urged good deeds on anyone else but you. It is distasteful to me. A man should choose his own life. But you are so badgered, so confused, so fatuous, that you need help. I am offering you this help, from my heart.”

  But Angus cried, in a thin and shaking voice: “You have no heart, Stuart! You are a bad and faithless man! It is a sin to listen to you!”

  He caught up his hat, and plunged towards Stuart, who instinctively moved aside, aghast. The boy seized the door handle, wrenched open the door, and fled. Stuart, standing there in the office, heard his wild and retreating footsteps running through the empty shops. He heard one last cry, as the outer door opened and shut.

  He moved slowly towards his desk. He fell into his chair. His face was damp. He wiped it. Then he began to curse aloud, viciously, to curse himself and his folly. He felt weak and sick, after this encounter with this blinded young man, whom he had tried to help.

  He opened a drawer in his desk, and recklessly produced a bottle of whiskey. He drank long and copiously. He needed it. He put the bottle away, and cursed aloud again, with richness and despair and rage. Oh, the damned young idiot, the cursed imbecile! Damn him to hell, and his mother with him! He deserved nothing better.

  He locked up the desk. It infuriated him that his hand was shaking.

  CHAPTER 27

  Stuart went out into the dead and ashen quiet of the November evening. A faint fog had drifted in from the Lakes, and every street-lamp floated in a rainbowed aura. The board walks were slippery and dark with moisture; the cobbled streets gleamed with a wet black luster. Every house showed rectangles of orange light. From a distance, carriages and wagons rumbled faintly, and with dim echoes. Not a soul could be seen.