She made him pay. For two months, during which he first began to hate her, she balked him of the one lone joy of his marriage.
CHAPTER 3
Shortly after Janie’s marriage to her “braw Robin,” Stuart was taken to America by his parents. Thereafter, all his tales came to him from his father. Gordon, infatuated by hatred, corresponded with his cousin Bridget, mother of Janie, and it was from that barely literate poor woman that the spate of stories crossed the long green ocean, to lodge forever in Gordon’s inflamed brain.
Duncan Driscoll, it appeared, had some gloomy sympathy for the young lad precipitated so unwillingly into the bosom of his family. At any rate he did not press Robin for a time to take his “proper place” in the household, and learn the art of gentleman-farming. Robin wandered restlessly in and out of the great stone house, spending his time in the taverns, or sometimes, with strange obedience, following his father-in-law about the land and listening abstractedly to his rich, though brief, comments on farming in general. Duncan did not yet insist; Robin came and went, often returning slightly the worse from the inns, and, from the very beginning, becoming daily less given to conversation. But not until the end of the first year of his marriage was it noticed that Robin rarely sang now, and when he did sing, it was in a low and melancholy tone.
Then he began to develop another trait which had lain deeply beneath his careless youth. By the time he and Janie had been married two years, he was given to somber fits of violent depression during which he raved and screamed wildly. And afterwards became abruptly and blackly silent for many days. His young face grew heavier, yet paler; the flash of his dark eye was no longer gay fire, but passionate and malefic rage. It was not all Janie’s fault. She had caught this savage young hawk in her rapacious hands, and though she held him; bewildered and resentful at his struggles, trying to pet and coax him, she deserved some pity for the wounds he inflicted on her with his lacerating beak, so sharpened with despair. It was not she alone that he hated. He hated this warm, smug farmland, this quiet country, this land of close green meadows and sun, and the hopelessness of its peace. It had captured and imprisoned him. He hated it and its jailer. In the beginning, he had tried to be patient, even docile, with shrugging Scot resignation. But it was too much for him; he was too young.
“He’ll be off one of these fine days, my lass, mark my words,” said Duncan to his wife, and there was hope in his pitying voice.
But Robin stayed, though neither his irritable brothers-in-law, who despised him for his wild ways and his scorn of money, nor poor, fat and loving Bridget, nor Janie, knew why. Only Duncan understood. No matter if Robin left now, he would never be free again. The memory of the prison would forever remain with him. His wings were broken. The wild things, Duncan understood, must never know a prison. Their memory is too long. Scotsmen never forget grief nor hardship nor pain nor injustice nor despair, no matter how far it lies behind them in the past.
The first child appeared thirteen months after the marriage: dark, feeble little Angus with the long legs. Robin looked at him sluggishly, then turned away. But later, touched in his own youth by this little snuffling creature, he began to play with it, for he was so young and so desolate. By the time Angus was two Robin was devoted to him, and would carry him in his arms far from the house into the nearby forest, and would not return for hours. It was whispered in the village that Robin was heard to sing in the forest, and that sometimes he would climb a distant hill, his child in his arms, and fill the clear and empty air with his wild songs. Janie did not care. She had never been fond of little Angus, and hating Robin by now, she affected to believe the baby resembled him. Too, she had another baby in her arms, her darling, her Benjamin, ruddy Bertie with the laughing blue eyes.
Two years, and Robin still was doing nothing whatsoever to assist Duncan. Nor was he asked. It was enough for him to take the “bairn” to the forest and the hills. He never lost his dark melancholy, but something like peace had come to him in these days. When Rob Roy was born Robin did not appear aware of the fact. Later, when he did become aware that he had a third child, he appeared dazed, and was very silent. He was barely twenty-three and the life had left his face forever. He had that pathetic and confused gentleness of wild things that have been broken but not tamed. Rare, now, were his furious quarrels with Janie. He seldom spoke to her, even in bed. Days would go by without a word passing from him to his wife’s kin. By this time the family had given him up as “a bad job,” and left him alone and forgot him.
Duncan was very old by the time Laurie was born, and he found the chatter and crying of children too much for him. Janie had become a shrew, and quarrelled viciously with her father. Bridget, as always, was adoring, and one or another of the babies was always in her arms.
For the second time, when Laurie arrived, Robin was interested. This beautiful little girl-child with the golden hair and eyes like Northern winter skies fascinated him, caught and fixed his attention. Angus, now nearly eight, was his young father’s constant and silent companion, and he walked beside him through the meadows while Robin carried Laurie, singing to her softly.
No one but Angus and Laurie knew what he sang to them, or how joyously he played with them, when he was alone with his children. Sometimes a far glimpse of them was seen, Robin running, the children stumbling and racing behind him, frantic with shrill laughter and joy, Laurie’s long golden curls streaming in the bright wind, Angus’ thin gaunt legs flashing, Robin’s black locks dishevelled.
For some reason, Robin never sang his Scottish ballads to the children. He sang other songs, lovely, terrible, rich and majestic, and it was not until she was a woman that Laurie knew that these songs had come from Robin’s heart, and not from any folklore or the pen of any composer. Each of the children had a favorite song. Angus’ was “O Morning Star!” And Laurie’s was: “O Love Greater than Life!”
Laurie was four years old when Robin died. He had taken a touch of “rheumy cold” and was dead in two days. His illness had not been severe; it amazed and confounded his physicians when he suddenly spoke no more, and they found he had left his prison forever. Not even his two beloved children could keep him. Just before he died he had sent for little Angus, who had waited for hours outside his father’s door in the tragic and tearless silence of mortal grief. And Robin said only, holding his son’s small thin hand: “Ye’ll not forget our songs, then, ma little lad, and ye’ll help your wee sister to remember?”
Angus, speechless, had nodded, and had bent to kiss Robin, who was smiling. When Angus lifted his head and tried to speak, Robin was still smiling and gazing at him. But Robin was dead. Only Duncan knew why he had died. Only Duncan, looking at the young and vivid face, strangely wild and free and happy now, was glad. Only Duncan wept, though Janie had used an onion copiously to induce tears.
For Janie was not displeased at the death of this hating lad she had married. He had been a burden and a shame and a soreness to her for years. She was free of him. With characteristic vigor, she began to plot her new life.
She lived with her aged parents for two more years, but her acquisitive and avid mind was never still. She was a born adventuress. Her restlessness and ill temper grew as her vigor mounted. Nothing satisfied her. Duncan broadly hinted that there was a fortune in it for any man courageous enough to marry his youngest daughter. Many presented themselves. But Janie had had enough of the quiet life.
Letters still arrived from America from Stuart. His parents had died. He said little about his mode of living, and only once or twice mentioned a “shop,” which, he declared, was doing well in the struggling but vital city of Grandeville, N.Y., on some outlandish body of water he called “the Great Lakes.” A shop? queried his kinsmen, discontentedly. Who ever heard of a man making much of a living in a shop? But when Stuart carelessly mentioned having made over ten thousand dollars the last year (ten thousand dollars hastily calculated was apparently two thousand pounds!) his kinsmen were dumfounded. Janie was very proud of t
he letters. She carried them in her reticule for days. She remembered Stuart with fondness. When, one Christmas, he sent her a miniature of himself, she was entranced by his handsomeness, by the deviltry in his black Irish eyes.
It was on a blustery January morning that Janie announced that she would take her children and be off to America.
Bridget was prostrated with grief. But Duncan listened with sour interest and dawning hope. Janie had made a hell of his house these past years with her quarrelling, her screams, her bad temper, her tricks, and her greed. She had filled the old man’s house with children who were always crying or demanding or sulking. Duncan prayed to his gods that Janie was serious about this, and for the first time in many years he was tender with his daughter, and began to discuss with her large and elaborate plans.
Janie hid her fury and disappointment. She had, in the beginning, decided to leave all her children save her darling Bertie with her parents. Four children to America! She had fully expected that her mother, at least, would demur, would demand that the children be left behind to comfort her old age. But Bridget had been quite savagely warned by Duncan that he would not put up with it, and that Janie would go with her children, all of them, or remain at home with all of them. He gave way to senile but violent rage when alone with Bridget. “She’ll nae leave her whelps in ma hoose!” he cried, “to free herself, the besom! from her responsibilities! Ah’ve had frae enough of her antics, ma lass, and Ah’ll die in peace in ma ain bed with nae sight of her face!”
Janie, confronted by her father’s ultimatum, almost gave up her gay plans. She had written to Stuart, however, some time ago, and now a letter arrived from him, full of laughter, full of urgings that she come. So Janie announced that nothing could separate her from her bairns, and she would be off, a lone widow with no home of her own.
Bridget gave her all of the fifteen thousand pounds left to her by her own father. And Janie went to America, with the heartfelt blessings of her parents.
CHAPTER 4
Janie, during the first few hours in the stagecoach had filled her cousin’s ears with horrid stories of the hardships she had endured during her crossing. How ill she had been! How she had lain in her hard bed, tossed to and fro through black and stormy nights! How hideous had been the slops fed to her, and how the stewards had neglected her, leaving her all desolate and at death’s door for hours together! She painted a most lurid picture for Stuart, all dark and shifting shadows of suffering, in which she, a most brave and valiant little woman, had endured unmentionable things without complaint and only with gentle patience. She had been robbed of a precious ring by a steward, who had fawned upon her and gained her confidence. Her children had run about the ship untended, while their poor little mother had moaned and sobbed in her bed, all bewildered at the treatment accorded her, remembering the hard-heartedness of her parents, and enduring her homesickness and desertion with meek resignation.
Stuart assumed a most sympathetic expression and pressed Janie’s hand. He hid as best he could the black sparkle of his eyes. Janie was very diverting. But her children were even more diverting. For, as Janie sobbed out her story, touching very dry eyes pathetically with her perfumed handkerchief, Stuart watched the faces of Angus, Bertie, Robbie and little Laurie. Angus had aroused himself from his peculiar dim lethargy, and was gazing at his mother, his thin black brows knotted together in stern perplexity, his small white teeth worrying his lip, his hands twining nervously in his shawl. Bertie was grinning. Robbie, however, regarded his mother with indifferent contempt, and shrugged. When he met Stuart’s eye, he smiled faintly, with amused disdain, turning away immediately afterwards to stare through the dusty and rattling windows. Little Laurie only stared at Janie, blinking rapidly, her blue eyes shining with worry and bafflement, young as she was.
When Janie paused for breath, quite overcome by the pathos of her recital, Angus stammered weakly: “But, Ma, you weren’t very ill. Only the first night. Then you danced. Don’t you remember, Ma? All the gentlemen coming to the door of our room, and quarrelling about who was to dance with you first? And Ma,” he added, shrinking as her baleful and murderous eye fell fully upon him, “you had such fine gowns and rings and bangles and chains, and you wouldn’t come back until it was almost morning. I remember,” he added with hysterical loudness and haste, as Janie’s infuriated look increased in hating virulence upon him, “that it was morning, often. And you would be singing, and the lady next to us would knock on the wall, and you would shout back at her and laugh, and the gentleman at the door would laugh, too. And the ring wasn’t stolen. You found it this morning.”
“Oh, shut up,” said Robbie, disgustedly, without turning from his contemplation of the wet and wintry landscape outside. Bertie chuckled, kicked his elder brother vigorously in the shins, and winked at him with good-natured warning.
But poor Angus, apparently firmly under the belief that Janie had innocently forgotten, and was only making mistakes which she would be grateful to him for correcting, went on with even wilder haste and loudness, looking at his mother earnestly:
“Don’t you remember, Ma? And the stewards were very good to us, bringing us our breakfasts in the morning when you forgot to take us to the dining-room, and were sleeping so soundly. And you tipped them, and they cried the last day, and you kissed them all around, and thanked them. And everyone said you were the Belle of the Ball, and the captain sent you a basket of fruit with his compliments?”
There, thought Stuart, suppressing his laughter, is an innocent who will never learn, never in his life. He looked compassionately at the young lad’s eager intense face, at his urgent gray eyes and trembling mouth. He saw how white his knuckles had become, and how his fingers were entwined in the shawl, and how he was quivering. His earnestness was astounding.
But Janie looked at him with rage, her tight and sallow face suffused. She was beyond speech, except for a hoarse and animal-like grating deep in her throat, like a growl. Then, without warning, she darted, crouching, from her seat beside Stuart, and clouted poor Angus violently over the head with her clenched fist. He tried to evade her blows, crying out, sheltering his head with his thin arms, but she found openings in his guards, and punched and thrust cleverly. Her eyes were all glittering green madness under her red curls and the bobbing purple violets of her bonnet, and she had caught her lip between her teeth and was uttering ugly panting sounds in her furious exertions. Her skirts fluttered and swayed; she kept her footing miraculously in the lurching coach, which, fortunately, had no other passengers but the Cauders and Stuart. Her agility was remarkable; she pounced, feinted, struck, recoiled, slashed and beat, with such speed, such dexterity, such telling and energetic blows, that one could hardly follow her movements and could only see the fluttering and swaying of her petticoats, the frenetic bobbing of her bonnet and the dancing of her little feet.
During all this, the two other boys, with great deftness, had lifted their feet from the gritty floor of the coach, and had huddled their knees under their chins. Little Laurie, sitting beside her assaulted brother, had not moved. She sat very still, stark and white, and looked at her prancing and feinting mother. And there was horror on her little face, the frozen and appalled horror which is without fear, and is akin to loathing. As for Angus, he uttered no cry, nor did he gather himself into a hard tight ball, like a bug, seeking to expose little vulnerable surface to his mother’s blows. He only feebly kept his arms above his head, shrinking only a trifle, and his attitude, tragic, humble, despairing and resigned, made Stuart’s careless heart beat with a voluptuous rage against Janie. Still, he might have done nothing, shrugging fatalistically, had it not been for a sharp glimpse of little Laurie’s face, with its remembrance of many such scenes.
Then it was that he reached out, caught a large thick wad of Janie’s petticoats in his hand, and wrenched her violently back upon her seat. Just at that precise moment, the wheels of the stage encountered a particularly obdurate rock, and the occupants of the vehicle were
thrown about like dolls in a box. In consequence, Janie was hurled about somewhat roughly, and as her rage was not spent in the least, and she apparently felt that Stuart had contrived the rolling of the stage, she turned on him with blind and insensate fury, striking him a sharp and vicious blow on the cheek. Stinging from that assault, Stuart acted with instinctive anger, lifted his hand and vigorously boxed his cousin’s ears, and then thrust her from him with an exclamation of disgust. Her bonnet fell over her brow, so that only her gibbering mouth was visible, and apparently it firmly wedged itself there. She had fallen into a corner of the stage seat on which she was sitting, and there she sprawled, frantically clutching at the bonnet whose stubborn brim had flattened her nose. She accompanied her struggles with stiff and spasmodic jerks of her outflung legs, and much raucous puffing. Her skirts had rolled back above her knees, displaying small but pretty legs tastefully enclosed in white silk stockings, and Stuart, recovered from his anger, regarded them briefly with automatic admiration. Then the sight of the struggling and maddened woman, battling with her stubborn bonnet, struck him as singularly funny, and he burst into a shout of laughter. He reached for Janie’s skirts, pulled them down decorously, gave her bonnet a yank, and revealed her distorted face, which was all blotches and malignance and glittering green eyes.
“You’re a big lass now, Janie,” he said, with high good humor. “Keep your skirts down, in public at least. And be thankful for that big nose of yours; it kept you from smothering to death.” He touched his cheek, and clucked. “You’re a damn little bitch, Janie, and need a thrashing.”
The Wide House Page 3