The Wide House

by Taylor Caldwell

  Stuart scowled. “Well, no, I am well satisfied with my own man, Grimshaw. It was not that. It was something more important. Something that would benefit you in the extreme, beyond mere wages.”

  “Indeed, sir? How kind of you, sir.” The man’s face expressed nothing but respectful bewilderment. But he sucked in his lips with an ugly sound, and his tiny brown eyes gleamed.

  Damn you, thought Stuart, you know very well why you came! But he smiled condescendingly, and continued: “How would a thousand dollars suit you, Grimshaw?”

  The man was shaken. But he recovered himself. “A thousand dollars, sir?” He shook his head, gently. “That is not enough, sir.”

  Stuart stared at him, paling furiously. Then he said, in a low voice: “Then you do know why I sent for you?”

  The man smirked, and dipped his head. “In a way, sir. But it is worth more than a thousand dollars. It places me in jeopardy. I shall never have another position in Grandeville, if the matter is ever revealed. A man must guard his livelihood.”

  Stuart’s heart swelled in his chest with loathing and fury. But he said, with hoarse wildness: “I assure you that I shall protect your interests. Nothing shall be learned from me. No one shall ever know.”

  The man sighed. “But Mr. Allstairs, sir, is a very astute gentleman. Nothing escapes him. He will put two and two together. He is a dangerous gentleman, begging your pardon, sir. I should leave Grandeville immediately, for fear of his wrath. Therefore, sir, you will understand one thousand dollars is not near enough. I have thought of setting up a small shop, myself, sir, in a distant city.”

  The man grinned at him slyly. Suddenly Stuart’s rage got almost, but not quite, beyond control. The filthy dog, with his insinuation about a shop! It was that, more than anything else, which made Stuart’s gorge rise and his fists clench. But there was too much at stake now for an outbreak, and he swallowed the thick salty bulk which had risen in his throat.

  He said, and his voice had dwindled, though his eyes were on fire: “I offer you one thousand two hundred dollars.”

  The man sighed again, sorrowfully, and moved on his chair as if to rise.

  “What then, damn you?” cried Stuart, turning scarlet.

  “Three thousand dollars, sir.”

  Stuart started to his feet, maddened. “Three thousand dollars! Why, you unspeakable cur! You reprobate! You stinking dog!”

  The man rose slowly, in one swift movement, and retreated a step. His face was ghastly with fear. He looked at the infuriated Stuart, and licked his lips. He backed away, still farther.

  “May I leave, sir?” he whispered.

  “Leave?” shouted Stuart. “Get out of my house before I kick you all the way back to the house of that fiend!” He advanced on the man with doubled fists.

  The man backed away still another step or two. But he was shrewd. He reached the shelter of the doorway, and paused. “Miss Marvina is well guarded, sir,” he suggested, in a piping tone. “You will never see her again, sir. She will be extraordinarily well guarded, hereafter.”

  Stuart, in the very midst of rushing upon him, halted. Everything was lost now.

  He began to pant. His rage made everything dim before him. And in that dimness, Grimshaw was a floating black shadow, hovering in the doorway.

  Stuart groped for a chair. He fell into it. He looked at Grimshaw with malignancy. “Sit down,” he said, stifled.

  The man, not looking away from him, fumbled for another chair, and again lowered himself on the edge.

  In the midst of the noise of his pounding pulses, Stuart’s mind began to function. Where would he lay his hands on three thousand dollars now? He had less than three thousand in his private account. He would have to borrow from Sam, to make the payments on the ten thousand he had borrowed back from the shops. But he thought of this only briefly. With a shaking hand he withdrew a sheaf of banknotes from an inner pocket. His damp fingers trembled as he counted out five hundred dollars. He flung the bills at Grimshaw, who avidly bent and picked them up. The man counted them, making sucking sounds with his lips. Then he folded them and put them inside his coat.

  “Five hundred dollars, sir,” he murmured, reproachfully.

  “You will receive one hundred dollars more each time you bring me a note from Miss Marvina, written in her own writing, with which I am well acquainted,” said Stuart. “And on the day that Miss Marvina leaves with me to marry me, you will receive the rest.”

  The man was silent. Then he sighed and smiled. “You will give me notes, and an agreement to that effect, sir? Tomorrow?”

  Stuart suddenly felt quite ill. The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  “If I may be allowed to say so, sir, the young lady weeps in her room each night. I have it on the authority of her maid, sir. She pines for you, sir.”

  Stuart did not speak. His face blackened. But he listened.

  “I would suggest nothing of this, sir, no hope, if I did not know that the young lady would be amenable. She vows, in tears, that she will marry no other but you. She has said this to her respected father, in my own hearing. You cannot fail, with my help, sir.”

  Still Stuart did not speak. The man murmured deprecatingly: “I know of a small minister, sir, in La Grange, who will marry you at the drop of a hat, sir.”

  Stuart found his voice, but it was strained and dull. “You will accompany us as a witness?”

  The man appeared simply surprised. “But certainly, sir. I shall leave Mr. Allstairs on that day.”

  “When you appear with Miss Marvina, I shall give you the rest. An agreement will be delivered to you tomorrow, to that effect.”

  He could no longer sit in his chair. He looked down at Grimshaw with murderous eyes. “Do not think to diddle me, you dog. If you fail me, or betray me, you shall not escape me. I swear to that. Do you understand?”

  Later, he crept up to his room, his boots in his hand. The light still shone from under Janie’s door. He heard the rustling of the pages of a book. When he finally closed his door silently after him, and locked it, he was trembling.

  CHAPTER 25

  The hard and nimble air of the Northern early night blew strongly through the streets of Grandeville, gushing in from the Lake and the river. Yellow lights glowed from the massed houses. Street lamps burned vividly. As there was still a hint of frost in the evenings, though it was May, the stars glittered like white fire, and the slow white crescent of a burning moon rose with majesty. The streets were quiet and full of peace.

  And now carriage wheels echoed in the evening hush, the horses’ hoofs striking sparks from the cobbles. The carriage made its way down the hard mud slope towards the river, and approached Stuart’s house. It stopped at the front door. Stuart leapt out, and extended his hand to a lady within the carriage. She took his hand and alighted. She was tall and slender, heavily cloaked, and wore a bonnet with a thick veil. Still holding her hand, Stuart led her to the door, and pulled the bell. The carriage rolled back to the stables.

  The day had been febrile and exciting. Stuart was exhausted and very nervous. He was not one to brood on the future, however immediate. He left that evil moment to its own time. He had that evil moment now. In a few seconds, he would be inside his house, and confronting Janie with his new wife.

  The girl beside him was very calm and docile. Since the marriage this afternoon she had said little, only smiling sweetly and placidly, her hand in Stuart’s. He was profoundly grateful for this. In his infatuation he believed her serenity was strength and wisdom, and he wished to live up to her opinion of him, which was doubtless excellent. He did not as yet know that she never possessed any opinions at all.

  The thing to do, he meditated, waiting for the door to open, was to consummate the marriage without delay. A daughter who was no longer a maid was not worth rescuing. Only if that daughter could be rescued from her marriage bed with her virginity intact was the expedition sensible. Stuart resolved to obviate that possibility at the first feasible moment. The thought
exhilarated him. He turned to the girl with a smile, and his black eyes glowed in the darkness. She returned his look with serene fondness.

  The door opened, and his man stood there. When he saw the young lady his mouth gaped, for he had often seen Miss Marvina on the streets. The man stepped back and Stuart and Miss Marvina entered, she moving like a dream of beauty, full of floating grace, her tawny eyes shining. She waited like an exquisite statue for the next command of her master, her Pygmalion, her gloved hands clasped before her. Stuart gallantly removed her cloak. She gave him her bonnet. Then he took her hand again and led her into the magnificent drawing-room, and called his man, who had been following them, bemused.

  “Briggs,” said Stuart, in a tone of authority, “this is your new mistress, Mrs. Coleman.”

  In a louder and more genial voice, he said: “Is Mrs. Cauder at home? Please convey my regards to her, and ask her if she will grant me a moment in the drawing-room. And Briggs: don’t mention this surprise to her.”

  Before the man could recover, Stuart turned to Marvina. “My love, will you be seated near the fire? It is chilly tonight.”

  “Yes—Stuart,” she murmured, seating herself with a rustle of rich brown silk. Her black hair shone in the firelight. Her ivory face and golden eyes were expressionless. Even when she smiled, the smile was empty. She obeyed. Had he told her to stand up and dance, she would have done it without surprise, and with calm. Her mouth, so like a dark gleaming plum, released its smile automatically.

  It was lovely to have a quiet wife, reflected Stuart, abstractedly. Not one of these horrible chatterers. But he was not really thinking of this actively. He was listening for Janie’s step on the stairs. And now his heart began to beat most unpleasantly. What would Janie say? He had some slight idea, and this was the cause of the disagreeable prickling at the roots of his hair, and the sudden dampness along his spine. He prayed to his profane gods that she would at least retain some rags of civilized behavior. He did not want this innocent child to be terrified, this girl of eighteen who, though of a mature woman’s age, had been so immured. He did not want her maiden ears to be assaulted by blasphemies shrieked by the rowdy and vulgar Janie, who was the foulest thing when aroused.

  He heard the opening of Janie’s door, and her light swift tread upstairs. He rose and stood beside his wife, his hand on her shoulder. “My love,” he said hurriedly, meeting the golden beam of her obedient eyes, “my cousin, as I have told you, is a little strange sometimes, and not quite herself. You will not be alarmed, ma’am?”

  “Oh, no,” she said softly. And now, odd to say, her eyes were filled with a brilliance which he had never seen before. “I have met Mrs. Cauder, you know, Stuart, and I thought her very civil.”

  Most damnable phrase! thought Stuart. “Very civil,” the chit had said. So she disposed of hurricanes and tempests and ravening beasts. All at once he wanted to laugh, quite insanely.

  But Janie was entering, in white foulard scattered with vivid pansies, her shoulders bare, her red curls painfully and carefully disposed on her little bony shoulders over which she had thrown a white lace shawl. She bounced into the room, all vitality and gaiety, shrieking: “Stuart, you dog! Where have you been! And dinner cooling the while!”

  And then she stopped short, frozen, and stared at Marvina. Her small and narrow face turned quite pale, and the freckles on her big bony nose sprang out.

  Marvina, all brown silk and demure white lace collar and smooth black chignon, rose with a stately movement, smiled, and waited. Nothing could have been more composed. The bad moment had arrived. Stuart was definitely sweating, though he grinned.

  He advanced a step or two, involuntarily putting himself between his wife and his cousin. He tried to speak, but his thickened throat would not permit a sound. As for Janie, she stood there, petrified, and now her face had become as ugly as sin, and as vicious, and as malevolent. She must have had some prescience. Her shoulders bent a little, her back curved, as if she were about to spring. When Stuart, in anguish, cleared his throat, she turned upon him swiftly, arching more than ever, and her eyes were savage.

  “Well?” she said, her voice cracking, “well? What is she doing here?”

  With a tremendous struggle, Stuart found his speech, and tried to bluster: “How dare you speak to me in such a peremptory tone, ma’am, as if this were not my house?”

  “Curse you, Stuart!” she cried, with furious scorn, “stop this nonsense, and tell me why this strumpet is in this house, this house which you have as much as promised me will always be my own?”

  She stamped her foot. Her cry had risen to a shriek. She knew, now. A girl like Miss Marvina would never have come to this house, unchaperoned, unless the incredible, the impossible, the frightful, had happened. She screamed: “Why do you bring your women to this house, Stuart Coleman, this house which I have presumed to be respectable and sacred, the roof under which my helpless children live?”

  One part of Stuart’s mind was thankful for this appalling outbreak. It gave him an opportunity to return in kind, and with similar ferocity. He had, that afternoon, had a disagreeable vision of Janie swooning, of Janie in agony, of Janie in tears, weeping out her reproaches, of Janie broken. He could not have coped successfully with such a Janie. The whole thing would have degenerated into a wallowing mess. But a Janie enraged and shrieking and brawling was easier to contend with, and need be spared no pity, no embarrassment, and no remorse.

  So now he shouted, lifting his fists: “Mind your tongue, ma’am, or I shall mind it for you! This is my wife, ma’am, the mistress of my house, and I demand that you treat her with the respect and civility and courtesy due her!”

  Janie’s pale face immediately became livid. She looked at Stuart, and despite his fury, despite his shame, he quailed before that look, so insane was it, so malignant.

  “Your wife?” she repeated, and now her voice had fallen, but was all the more terrible for its quieter tone. “This—this creature is your wife?”

  “Yes, ma’am, my wife. We were married this afternoon, in La Grange, a small village some ten miles from here. It may be a surprise to you, but we had planned it for some time.”

  Afraid to look at his wife, he nevertheless turned to her. He was amazed. She was not in the least disturbed. Her fixed smile had not passed. She might have been alone, so aloof, so detached, was she. She regarded Janie with the wide and empty gaze of a smug child, who has not yet learned to feel much emotion. It was apparent that she was not horrified or frightened.

  In the sudden hiatus which followed Stuart’s words, Marvina’s honey-rich voice entered with tranquillity: “Good evening, ma’am.” And she curtseyed gracefully.

  Stuart and Janie stared at her, their faces becoming idiotically bland, incredulously robbed of all expression. “Good evening, ma’am,” in the face of chaos and excitement and shrieks and threats!

  All at once Stuart began to laugh. He could not control himself. He bent double, almost collapsing in his mirth. He laughed until he wept, until tears rolled down his cheeks. He slapped his knees; he choked; he whimpered; he struggled for breath. And each time that he glanced at the serene Marvina, regarding him without puzzlement or wonder, and at Janie’s blank staring face, he went off into fresh paroxysms. Finally he staggered weakly backwards near the wall, and fell against it, speechless with agonies of laughter. He could not endure to look at the women; he swung himself face to the wall, and gave himself up to convulsions.

  “My God!” he groaned between times, when he could catch his breath. “My dear, dear God!”

  Janie recovered herself. But she was silent. She was clever enough to know that any word she could say just now would only throw Stuart into new hysterics of hilarity, which would render her more and more ridiculous. She turned, instead, to Marvina, who looked at her with courteous and faintly smiling attention, as if all this were nothing at all, but happened in the normal course of events.

  “So,” she said, in a vitriolic voice, “you’ve
married my cousin, eh? You strumpet!”

  If she thought to goad Marvina, to break that smiling and impassive calm, she was mistaken. Marvina smiled at her radiantly, though again that odd brilliance shone in her eyes. “Indeed, yes,” she said, mildly. “This afternoon. So precipitous of dear Stuart, was it not? We ought to have invited you, and so I mentioned to Stuart, but he declined, as you had been indisposed.” She smiled even wider. “The minister was so kind, though I should have preferred Mr. Hawkins, of our own dear little church.”

  Janie stared at her, her face becoming rigid and completely evil with hatred and malignancy.

  “Were you aware, ma’am,” asked Janie, “that my cousin promised me marriage, after taking advantage of my helpless state and giving me vows of his intention?”

  For the first time, a puzzled gleam touched Marvina’s eyes. She glanced at Stuart, then returned with equanimity to Janie. “I do not know of this,” she confessed, without distress. “I only know that Stuart spoke of you most kindly. Are you certain you were not mistaken, ma’am?”

  “Mistaken?” screamed Janie, beside herself again. “You fool, do you not know what I mean when I say that he took advantage of my helpless state? Do you understand, you zany, that he slept with me, after his promises?”

  She caught her breath on a deep gasp of rage, then waited for the girl to cry out in horror, to hide her face with her hands, to retreat. But Marvina merely gazed at her tranquilly, and said: “How very reprehensible.”

  There was not even revulsion of the slightest kind in her voice, or disbelief. Having said her say, she waited most politely for Janie to speak again.

  But Janie, confounded, was beyond speech. She looked at Marvina with distended eyes, disbelieving what she saw, as if she faced a nightmare. She looked at that beautiful face, the passive deep mouth, the golden eyes, which surveyed her with the utmost detached friendliness. She could not believe it!

  And then all her frustrated hatred, her wrath, her disappointment, her lust, her wild and real anguish, were too much to be borne. She sprang upon Marvina, her fingers dangerously flexed, like talons, her teeth bare and glistening, her eyes mad. She uttered horrible sounds. Her movements were swift, but Marvina instinctively recoiled before this fury, and flung up her arm to protect her face at which Janie’s ferocious attack was directed. The claws fell impotently on the thick brown silk of the rounded arm, and though the fabric was torn, the skin was not even scratched. Nevertheless, the girl staggered backwards under the assault, and cried out, feebly, like a kitten.