The Wide House

by Taylor Caldwell

  The frightful North winter was upon Grandeville again, to last well into April and possibly into May. Walls of snow, sometimes seven feet high, bordered every shovelled walk. A layer of mingled ice and snow, well-packed and beaten, covered the cobbled streets for at least twelve inches. Every roof was weighted and thatched with blazing white, over which flowed the blue smoke from the embedded chimneys. An iron cold, an almost constant and violent wind, engulfed the city. Every few days a blizzard would blow up, swirling, blinding, the air chokingly filled with particles of snow like white sand, which cut and flayed the flesh of those unfortunate enough to be abroad. Huge dunes, also sand-like, would pile up against fences and houses and in open places, carved and rippled by the winds. Then would come an interval of fiery blue cold, utterly calm and silent, with sides incredibly still, and the snow so dazzling that the eye could not look upon it without tears. Every house would lie immured and petrified in banks of whiteness, the windows blind with white frost, and only the purplish plumes of smoke drifting along the frozen roofs testified that in these warrens there moved any life at all. But, during the bright and bitter days, sleighs would appear, gliding along the rutted strets with gay jinglings, the occupants covered to the noses with fur robes. The city stirred under its tomb of ice and snow, and emerged, shivering, and went about its business. To newcomers, these winters were unbearable. They lived as far from the gray and ossified river as possible, for from those desolate and bleak surfaces came winds like knives and scimitars, flaying unwary skin.

  It was incredible to almost everyone that summer had ever smiled upon this country, and when the first days of spring appeared with warming sunshine and streets gushing with melted snow, a kind of hysteria seized upon all the inhabitants. For nearly seven months they had endured agonies of cold, of unremitting gales, of blizzards and black cracking nights, of constant struggles to keep warm in their houses. Then, in late April, perhaps, if fate was kind, the frost would leave the stark windows, mud would appear between heaps of dirty snow, and, if one had acute eyesight, one could discern that buds were actually swelling on the rigid trees. The sight of a robin was good for two columns in the local newspapers. The skies would soften, grow misty and even faintly tender, and though snowstorms would blow up under swiftly darkening clouds, and the windows would again show a layer of frost, one could confidently declare that winter was about over. In May the snow would be entirely gone, except for plaques of blackish ice against the houses which faced north. By the first of June one could rest assured that there would be no more snow until October, and the citizens would leave their houses and plan feverishly for the summer.

  The winters, however, were so melancholy, so blackly depressing and full of iron hopelessness, that any quarrels, misunderstandings or enmities begun in the seven desolate months would inevitably have to wait for the thaws, to be forgotten. So it was that not until late February, during the occasion of the first treacherous thaw, did Stuart become aware of Angus Cauder. Even then, he would not have become aware if Angus had not actually entered his office.

  Stuart was in an ill-temper. He had just recently returned from New York, where he had examined a new shipment of laces and velvets and feathers and bric-a-brac from France. The shipment had been in order, and the freight charges had not been too outrageous. But shortly before leaving for New York, Stuart had sworn to himself, and to Sam, that his expenses should be as economical as possible, that he would attend only to his business, and return promptly. No ladies, no dances, no festivities, no jewelry, no extravagance. Sam had gravely approved, though with not much hope. His pessimism was justified, though Stuart had not yet brought him the bad news. But Stuart’s dignity, his refusal to discuss the journey, his stately manners and his conduct in shutting himself up in his office for hours at a time, justified Sam in his foreboding. Also, Stuart’s face was more florid than usual, and bore the marks of strong dissipation in the dark circles about his eyes and in the furrows about his mouth. Moreover he limped a little, and could be heard swearing painfully behind his door. There was a suffused and gritty look about him, a swollen look, also. His disposition matched. Angus could not have chosen a more inauspicious time to invade Stuart’s office.

  But he saw that it was indeed a bad time, for Stuart, flushed, heavy of eye, looked at him with impersonal rage. His right foot, unbooted, was extended upon a chair. The ruffles at his neck were open, as if he had been stifling. His flowered waistcoat was unbuttoned. There was an atmosphere of pain, heat and disorder all about him. Angus, who knew nothing about Stuart’s escapades in New York, believed, with the egotism and conceit of the narrow and self-absorbed man, that the black sparkle of distaste and annoyance in Stuart’s eyes, his expression, so dark and kindling and bellicose, was a personal violence caused only by the sight of himself.

  “Well?” exclaimed Stuart. His face wrinkled spasmodically as he felt a sharp pain in his hot and throbbing foot Angus was taken aback. That wrinkling of countenance, he was certain, was caused by his advent, and he was alarmed.

  But he said with proud formality: “I’d like to speak to you for a moment, Cousin Stuart.”

  “Ah! You would, eh?” said Stuart, with loud irascibility. “Well, speak up, then.”

  But Angus discovered that his throat was suddenly dry and tight. It was always hard for him to speak to almost anyone. Stuart, staring at him irately, decided that he liked Angus less than ever. “Pity him,” eh? What damned nonsense on the part of old Grundy!

  “Well, speak up. I’m a busy man,” said Stuart. He added, with heavy sarcasm: “Would it be more money you’d be wanting? If it is, I can save your breath. You won’t get it. And that’s final.”

  Angus said nothing. But an expression almost of torment passed over his face. Stuart regarded him, fulminating. But his subtle instinct was aroused. What was wrong with the fool? Why did he stand there, as if condemned to the gibbet? Stuart scowled. “Well! Well!” he cried. “Say your say and be off with you. I’ve work to do even if you haven’t.”

  Angus put his hand on the high back of Stuart’s desk. For some reason Stuart’s wandering and glittering eye was caught by that gesture. He saw how the knuckles rose whitely in that spare lean hand so heavily veined. Everything about the taut fingers suggested misery and silent repression and pain.

  Now Stuart heard his voice, faint but firm, not pleading, but full of quiet hauteur: “Cousin Stuart, I believe I owe you an apology. I misunderstood you before. It was very wrong of me, and insensitive.”

  Stuart raised irritable eyebrows satirically. “An apology, eh? Well, that’s very nice, very nice indeed. And very civil of you, I’m sure. But what the hell do you want to apologize for?” he added, on a rising tone of impatience. “Are you referring to my suggestion that you study with Dr. Dexter, and your impertinent refusal, and your insults? If so, I have forgotten it all. Is that enough for you?”

  The gouty foot was giving him hell now. His features screwed up with sharp pain. His glance at Angus was fuming. “You haven’t reconsidered? If so, I wish to inform you that I am no longer interested. Go to your precious mama.”

  Angus flushed. He flung back his head with embittered pride. “No, Cousin Stuart, it is not for myself that I have come here, to hear your ungenerous remarks.” He hesitated. “Forgive me. That was uncivil. I—I know you to be the most generous of gentlemen. The most kind. You—you believe that I have forgotten your past kindness to me. And to my sister. I have not. There have been misunderstandings. But it is not even of that that I wish to speak.”

  Stuart saw, with acuteness, what agonies this little speech had caused this rigorous young man, for he knew that to such a temperament apology, admission of wrong, was pure torture. For always Angus lived and thought and said only that which he considered righteous and justified.

  But Stuart was softened in spite of his physical pain and his dislike for Angus. “Well, that’s all very nice,” he grumbled. “I accept your apology, then. Is that all you wish?”

>   Angus hesitated. He was nerving himself supremely to speak again. He looked at Stuart fixedly. “No, not all, Cousin Stuart I wanted to talk to you about my sister. Laurie.”

  “Laurie! What’s wrong with the little lass, then?” Stuart’s attention was distracted from his pulsing foot. He stared at Angus with interest.

  Angus hesitated again. The hand on the desk clenched as he forced himself to speak. “There is nothing wrong, sir.” Always inarticulate, he desperately searched among betraying and unfamiliar words for the proper expressions. Stuart had a mind’s eye view of Angus picking up word after word, discarding it with despair, sorting among baskets of others as a color-blind man might sort among colored pebbles whose sharp edges cut his fumbling fingers. The older man discerned that it must be he who must suggest, if he were to know what Angus wanted.

  He said with some shrewdness: “Well, if Laurie is not ill, and there is nothing wrong, you need have no worry. Unless you think all is not well with the girl?”

  Angus looked at him with flashing but reserved eagerness. “Yes, that is it, sir. All is not well with her.”

  “She is unhappy, then?” Stuart frowned thoughtfully.

  “Yes,” almost whispered Angus, “she is unhappy.”

  “But why? She looks like a healthy little baggage. Too tall for her age, perhaps. But a lovely face.” Stuart paused, and then he added softly: “But a lovely face.”

  He wondered why he felt such a sad pang at the thought of Laurie, and such a tenderness. With more gentleness than he had used before he said: “What troubles you about Laurie, Angus? You were always so fond of each other. She trusted you.”

  Angus could not answer. His head dropped; Stuart could not see his face. But he sighed.

  Stuart leaned back in his chair, and even more gently than before he asked: “She does not trust you now? That is it?”

  “Yes,” said Angus, in a low tone.

  “You know why she does not trust you?”

  Angus looked up. His face was full of anguish, but he said quite firmly: “I have some idea. I believe she thinks I should have gone into medicine, instead of into the shops. When I was young I used to speak to her about it, and make my plans. Laurie does not know that sometimes—circumstances—prevent one from continuing with his dreams and hopes.” And now he looked at Stuart with desperate and wretched defiance.

  Stuart shook his head. “I am not going to urge you again, Angus. I shall not argue with you about it. You know what you wish to do, better than I.”

  “Thank you,” whispered Angus. He was silent a little. Then he said, dully: “But Laurie is still very young. She does not understand. And I—I have no words with which to tell her. I never have any words. Laurie—Is a little hard. She would not understand even if I could explain. Laurie, I am afraid, is sometimes selfish. She loves me, I know. It is her love that makes her selfish—for me.”

  “I see,” said Stuart thoughtfully. “An intolerant little piece, eh?”

  He gazed at Angus with compassionate curiosity. “So, because Laurie believes you have—violated—yourself, she does not trust you. She is vexed with you. I always suspected that Laurie was unbending. There is something of you in her, Angus. You Scots are always like iron. Never mind. To surrender to the inflexible is to add rigor to their tyranny. You must do what you wish, Angus.”

  He was more curious than ever. He waited for Angus to speak. But Angus only looked at him with sad somberness.

  Stuart, his intuition putting words into his mouth, went on: “So Laurie does not trust you because she feels you have betrayed yourself. She does not confide in you any longer. Worse, her character is changing under her distrust, and her withdrawal from you. Is that it?”

  “Yes. Oh yes!” Now Angus’ coldness dissolved. He was all pathetic eagerness and dim fire. “You have expressed it, Cousin Stuart”

  Stuart was quite excited now. He even put the swollen foot down on the floor and was not conscious of any twinge. “And this does nothing good for Laurie. I can see that. But what good do you desire for Laurie, Angus, which she will not heed if it comes from you?”

  Angus was trembling. He left the desk. Unbidden, he sat down on a stiff chair near Stuart. He was very close to the older man. He seemed to vibrate with his repressed and inarticulate passion. He leaned towards Stuart His pale cold features were working strangely.

  “Cousin Stuart, you have heard Laurie sing?”

  Stuart frowned, considering. Then he brightened. “I have, that! A lovely, lovely voice! And so strong and pure, for so young a girl. But I understand she has teachers in her school who are developing her voice.”

  Angus leaned even closer to him. In his extremity he put his hand on Stuart’s big knee. Now Stuart’s compassion was very strong.

  “But Laurie will not sing at her school. Her teachers have given her up. She will not sing at home. She never sings any more.”

  “She does not sing, eh? And she will not sing because she is unhappy. There is a grimness in Laurie, Angus. I can see you know that. She is unhappy because of you. Because she is defiant and wretched. Am I right?”

  “I believe so. I know it is so, Cousin Stuart!”

  Stuart sighed. “But you cannot give in to Laurie’s obstinacy and childish ignorance. That is understood. So what is it you wish me to do?”

  Angus’ head dropped again. He looked broken and sick. He began to speak in a mournful and very tired murmur: “There is no love for Laurie in our house, Cousin Stuart. No one loves her but me. And she will have none of me now. So she will become harder and harder, and more withdrawn, and more obstinate, Stuart. It—it will be a kind of death for Laurie, for by nature she is loving as well as strong.”

  He lifted his eyes and fixed them with desperate pleading upon Stuart. “It will be the death of Laurie’s beautiful voice, Stuart. And it is a voice that should be given to the world. For Laurie’s sake, as well as the world’s. I—I cannot bear to see what is so wonderful in Laurie die.

  “Stuart, you know that Laurie has always been very fond of you. She has never spoken much of you at home because of—Mama. But I know that she is fond of you, and admires you prodigiously. You could have influence with Laurie. She would listen to you. If—if you could urge her to take your help, and assure her that it would give you pleasure, she would do what you would ask.”

  Stuart studied him in silence. Then very softly he said: “What is it I would ask, Angus?”

  Again eagerness flushed into Angus’ eyes and cheeks.

  “That—that she should sing for some great teacher you would procure for her, and that if that teacher’s opinion was that Laurie had a wonderful voice, worth cultivating, that she should study with that teacher, or go to any school suggested.”

  Stuart was astounded. He leaned back in his chair. He frowned.

  But Angus went on, the words now quite tumbling from his lips: “I do not mean that Laurie’s voice should be cultivated just to give pleasure to her family and friends. I mean it should be cultivated for the world. Laurie could be another Jenny Lind. Perhaps greater than Jenny Lind!”

  Stuart’s head whirled. He put up his hand. “Wait a moment, Angus. You are suggesting that Laurie be an actress? On a stage? Behind footlights? I can’t believe it of you, Angus! Where is your piety, your religion?” And he smiled mockingly. He could not help that thrust, but he was immediately sorry when he saw Angus’ sudden misery. He continued: “I am surprised, Angus. Do not heed me. But you are suggesting that Laurie be an actress, and you know what the world thinks of actresses. I have seen, and known, many in New York.” He smiled with happy reminiscence.

  “No, Cousin Stuart,” said Angus, with desperate quietness, “I am not suggesting that Laurie be an actress? Jenny Lind is no actress. She sings in the wonderful operas. She is a great artist. That is what I wish for Laurie.”

  Stuart was more confounded than ever. He tried to smile. “You have no way to judge, Angus. You cannot know if Laurie has a voice like Jenny Lind’s
.”

  But Angus said quickly: “But you know, Cousin Stuart! You are a man of the world.”

  Stuart, in his simplicity, was flattered. He bridled a little. “We won’t discuss that, Angus,” he said, almost with coyness. “Let that be for a moment.” He was silent, trying to recall the full measure of Laurie’s voice. It was ridiculous, of course. Most young girls had sweet voices. He would not confess it to Angus, but he had never heard Jenny Lind sing, his own taste running rather to music halls and gay soubrettes, whose voices were not usually the best. He was forced to compare Laurie’s strong pure voice with the rather hoarse but merry croaking of actresses in provocative tights. He did not know exactly what an opera was, either. Perhaps operas preferred voices like Laurie’s, to their own loss. Did opera singers wear tights? He frowned. If Laurie wore tights, and thus attracted the attention of predatory gentlemen, then he, Stuart, must protect her. He would break the head of any hopeful gentleman who found Laurie’s legs attractive.

  He said somewhat angrily: “I can’t understand you, Angus. Would you enjoy seeing your sister in—in tights? Revealed to the whole world?”

  Angus was confused. He stammered: “Mama did not mention tights when she spoke of Jenny Lind. She spoke only of her voice, and Miss Lind’s beauty, and the marvel of her fascination.”

  Stuart saw that his reputation as a man of the world was in serious jeopardy. He sat upright again, with a stately expression.

  “Oh, Jenny Lind,” he said loftily. “I had forgotten Jenny Lind. Certainly that lovely lady does not wear tights. It would be beneath her. So it’s another Jenny Lind you would have Laurie? Without tights?”

  “I suppose so,” admitted Angus, still confused.

  Stuart remembered something. He said alertly: “Apparently you have discussed this with your mama. She was not revolted at the idea of Laurie in ti—, I mean behind footlights, as an opera singer?”

  Angus faced him fully. In a hard and bitter voice, he said: “Mama understands that Miss Lind makes a fortune, Cousin Stuart. Miss Lind has sung for the crowned heads of Europe, for the President of the United States. She has an almost royal entourage. Mama listened to me very closely, and with consideration.”