The Wide House

by Taylor Caldwell

  “What did Mr. Robbie say, after his visit to Mr. Bertie?”

  “Oh, Robbie thinks Bertie is doing excellently. He was quite encouraged, he said.” Janie sighed again. “Who’d ever have thought it, so gay and good-tempered, and never a care in the world—my darling Bertie.”

  Her rough voice was sweet with love and sadness, and very low. Her hands trembled above the lengths of the bright frocks on her knee. She blinked for a moment, and was quite blind with the dazzle in her eyes. Mrs. Gordon, who really loved her, glanced at her furtively with deep sympathy. That drunken good-for-nothing! To break his mother’s heart like this! But then, he was such a love, he was, and like sunshine in the house. She echoed Janie’s sigh.

  There was a little heavy silence in the kitchen, and it seemed darker, though the sun still danced on the copper pans on the white wall, and the red tile was ruddier than ever. A fresh new breeze blew through the windows, sweet with summer scents and the odor of the damp grass. The blowing willow lifted its drooping fronds like a green wave, and then subsided. The pigeons cooed softly, spread their wings against the sky. The kitchen was full of the good odors of roasting beef and boiling broth. A length of taffeta hissed on Janie’s Knee as it slid towards the floor.

  Then, in the distance, came the soft notes of a piano. These were followed by the sudden pure rising of a lovely voice, so beautiful, so rounded, so full and strong, that it seemed like the meditation of an angel. Mrs. Cordon, at the stove, paused in the very act of putting the ladle in a pot, and lifted her head. A look of tenderness stood on her coarse big face.

  “Ah, Miss Laurie at her practicin’,” she murmured.

  Janie frowned. “Does she have to yowl so early in the morning?” she muttered. She threw down another frock with a vicious gesture.

  But Mrs. Gordon heard nothing but that perfect and celestial voice, rising and falling on a simple practicing scale, and making of that scale a beautiful sound full of glory and sweetness and gravity. Tears rose to Mrs. Gordon’s eyes. The breeze died. The pigeons were silent. It was as if the whole earth listened.

  And now the voice became grave and slow, like meditative organ notes, murmuring of angelic prayer. Even Janie was compelled to listen. “The lass does have a good voice,” she said, grudgingly. “But I doubt she’ll have the ambition to make anything of it. She only took Stuart’s teacher to please him. Not from any desire on her part. He’s the only one who can do anything with the minx. Didn’t I hear her, myself, tell him that she would take his teacher, and practice, only because she wanted her voice to be good enough for him! The nasty little wench! If she had been even two years older I’d have clapped her in a closet for that, and minded her like a hawk, and put good tight drawers on her! She sounded like a mewling lass, all lovesick and languishing.”

  She got up suddenly and shut the door with a loud and furious bang. The voice faded away behind that door to a deep murmuring. “Yowling, so early in the morning!” Janie repeated.

  Mrs. Gordon was annoyed. She said: “Mark my words, Miz Cauder, that girl’ll do you proud one of these days! There’s good money in that voice.”

  Janie, however, was not displeased. “I hope so,” she said sourly. “With all that money spent on her. Though it’s not my money. If that fool wants to waste two thousand dollars a year on a teacher for her, that’s his affair. He always was wasteful and quixotic. I don’t know why he does it.” She chuckled evilly. “If he thought that he’d make a profit on my lass, later, he was damned mistaken. I took care of that, wisely. I made him sign a contract that he’d expect nothing at all from her later earnings, and he had to sign it before I’d let the minx breathe a note to his fine teacher from New York!”

  There was nothing kind in Mrs. Gordon’s hard eye as it dwelt briefly on Janie.

  “And he boards and keeps Mr. Berry, too, besides the two thousand dollars,” she said thoughtfully. “I wonder why he does all this, for your girl?”

  Janie shrugged. “He’s beyond me. But he was always picking up lame birds and putting them in trees. Wasn’t he after me about Angus, until the lad curtly told him to mind his own business? Didn’t he fume and fuss about Bertie, until I agreed to let my darling go to Saratoga? With him, Stuart, footing the bills?” She chuckled hoarsely. “If the damned ass wishes to waste his money on my children, who am I to stop him? Better my children have some of his reckless money than the trollops of the town. ‘Why does he do all this?’ I don’t know. A busybody, a meddler, that’s what he is.”

  “Perhaps he has a good heart,” suggested Mrs. Gordon.

  Janie snorted. “He’s just a fool, I tell you, Gordon. A snivelling damn fool. Can’t help doing for others. He’ll end in the workhouse, and it’s glad I’ll be to see him there!” She flung a dress from her, and stamped on it, involuntarily. “That’s where you’ll find all the do-gooders, in the workhouse, and be damned to them for jackasses and dolts!”

  She stood up, shaking out her Swiss flounces. “There you are, Gordon. Five of my frocks, and six of Laurie’s, for your daughter.” She paused. She put her hand in the pocket of her dress. She drew out a roll of bills, and selected one. “And you can give the lass this, from me. With that new baby, and all, she’ll need it.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Bertie and Robbie Cauder strolled idly together, this Sunday morning, along the banks of the river, on the Canadian side. They had taken the ferry an hour ago, and were now on the way to Frenchman’s Creek, where they contemplated hiring a small flat-bottomed boat for a few hours of rowing. It was a favorite sport for them; Bertie carried a knapsack with sliced bread, cold beef, and a bottle of wine.

  It was a resplendent early autumn morning. The river, to their right, was a brilliant indigo under a sky hardly less colorful. Grassy banks sloped to the water, fretted with the shade of elms and maples. The latter trees were just turning into great fiery bushes, burning vividly against that indigo sky. There was a soft rustling in the still and shining air, the twittering of birds, the last busy humming of bees. Butterflies, yellow as butter, rose and fell gently on the softest and winiest of winds. The river murmured and whispered against its banks. The American shore beyond the waters was sharply etched in clear green, and in the distance the young men could see the squat little ferry steamer plowing determinedly, a toy boat, across the river, its lacy white wake spreading out in a fan across the heaving blue.

  A high and musical bugle sounded through the silent and radiant air. A short way down the rutted and dusty country road was stationed the Canadian garrison. Against the strong indigo sky fluttered the Union Jack, all its colors blazing proudly. The young men could see the gray and ancient walls of the garrison, fretted with sunlight and treeshade. But they saw no one at all. As they approached the garrison, and Fort Erie, white farmhouses and little white cottages were clustered closer together, and the soft Sabbath was made even more silent by the occasional lowing of cattle, the bark of a distant dog, or the cackling of fowl. Now a few gardens faced the road, carefully enclosed in white picket fences. Beyond them burned last roses, zinnias and late summer poppies. Once they heard the creaking of a pump, or the squealing of a gate, or a faint far voice. But still, they saw no one.

  They passed the garrison. In the yellow dust of the yard three or four Canadian soldiers talked idly together, leaning on their muskets. Their young mustached faces turned with empty curiosity on the young men. Robbie and Bertie lifted their hats, smiled. The soldiers saluted, watched the walkers out of sight. Behind them the Union Jack streamed in the wind.

  Now they had the rutted dusty road to themselves, with not even a cottage visible, only trees, grassy banks, and the river, and the wide and brilliant air. They had not talked for some time. Then Bertie cleared his throat, turned his sweet and charming smile on his much loved brother.

  “Y’know, when I looked at that old damn flag there, the Union Jack, it fair touched me. A curious feeling. You’ll think me a fool, Robbie.”

  But Robbie said coolly: “Why sh
ould I? Patriotism, or chauvinism, is an old emotion. Primitive. Rooted in the race. Atavistic. A survival of the herd instinct. We’ll not rid ourselves so easily of early instincts, Bertie. It’ll take generations of reason and education. Not in our time, I am afraid.”

  Bertie, as always, was vaguely baffled and disheartened at Robbie’s logical and quiet disposal of emotion. Robbie hid that emotion, when it was displayed to him, as one quickly hid offal or any other unpleasantness, for decency’s sake. Bertie, in consequence, was a little depressed. He scuffed his polished boot in the yellow sifting dust. He said, somewhat petulantly: “Damned if I can ever make out what you mean, Rob. I only meant that when I saw the blessed old rag I realized I was far from home. A long way from home.”

  Robbie smiled with affectionate cynicism upon his brother. But he said, and there was a little sadness in his level voice: “You’ll always be far from home, Bertie. Never mind me, though. We’re out for a holiday, and that’s all that matters.”

  He was sorry that he had depressed Bertie. But he simply could not help scotching silly emotionalism. Robbie firmly believed that the millennium would arrive when men acquired reason, and then only. All this balderdash, all these fetishes! No wonder man’s mind still groped in the dark subterranean forests of primordial history, like a blind fish nosing amid sunken vegetation and dead roots! What did that mind discover in the watery and weedy desolation? Mermaids and seahorses, green monsters and flashes of phosphorescent decay. Sunken minds in shadowy forests!

  The two young men were dressed in their Sabbath best, Bertie resplendent and handsome in light gray broadcloth pantaloons and darker gray skirted coat. There was something of Stuart Coleman’s large splendor about him, though he was slightly thinner and shorter than his kinsman. His ruddy bright curls glimmered under his tall gray hat. In his gloved hand he carried a silver-headed cane. His ruffled linen was immaculate and crisp. He had apparently recovered his buoyant health, though there were still dark lines under his gay blue eyes, and a pallor about his mobile and almost constantly smiling mouth. Because he lacked Stuart’s violence and fierceness, his glances were never quick or ireful, but always sparkling and amused or tender. His quick color had almost completely returned, except for that slight lividity about his red mouth, the underlip of which was so full and soft.

  As for Robbie, he wore his uniform of black broadcloth with startling white linen, plain and glistening. He moved beside his brother, elegant and compact, the figure of aristocracy and judicious neatness. Even his gloves and his hat were black. He carried an ebony cane, with a gleaming gold head. He walked effortlessly; his movements were a little stiff and considered. Janie, angrily seeing them depart that morning, had said ill-temperedly: “There goes my darling with the black manikin! Whatever does my Bertie see in that undertaker?”

  There were many others who wondered about that, for surely in the smiling and careless Bertie there could be nothing that would inform or stimulate the cold and precise intellectualism of Robbie’s mind. Bertie’s conversation was always gay, light and inconsequential, though never cruel or malicious. He could be amusing, almost always. Perhaps Robbie found this lightness and gaiety delightful, though one would never have suspected that.

  They reached the mouth of Frenchman’s Creek, where two ancient fishermen kept the little flat-bottom boats and fishing tackle for occasional customers. They were sleeping blissfully in their weatherbeaten shack when Robbie pounded on the rotting door, for Saturday night was a festive occasion for them, necessitating all of the Sabbath for recovery. One of them, in a dirty night-shirt, came grumbling to the door, and opened it with loud complaints. The door creaked loudly in the sunlit silence. Robbie smiled at the old man. “Hello, Bob. How about a boat for me and Mr. Bertie? And some fishing rods, and some worms?”

  He and Bertie sat on the warm bench, their backs against the soft rotting wood of the shack, while old Bob pulled on a pair of trousers and swore lustily, within. Then the fisherman came out, stooping and haggard, his matted white hair streaming down to his shoulders. Cursing even more loudly, he carried a spade to a moist spot and began to dig for worms. His mangy old dog came out and sniffed at the two young men, who swung their neat legs idly in the autumn sunshine. Robbie leaned back, fastidiously, as far from the dog as possible. But the smiling Bertie scratched the old animal’s neck with his white and jewelled fingers until, entranced, the beast put both forelegs on his knee and fawned on him with drooling adoration. His bleared eyes brightened lovingly; he rubbed his eldritch head on Bertie’s immaculate knee, slobbering on it to Robbie’s complete disgust.

  “Ah, the puir auld lad,” murmured Bertie, in his soft rich voice. “It’s a puir auld creature, that it is. A fine auld man, in his last days.”

  The poor animal was beside himself. He wormed his skeleton muzzle under Bertie’s flowered waistcoat, and tried to embrace the young man with his balding paws.

  “You’ll have fleas,” Robbie pointed out. “And God knows what else. Look at your pantaloons now. Full of dirty gray hairs.”

  But Bertie put his arms about the dog and hugged him tightly, laughingly evading the kisses from the pale dry tongue.

  Robbie said sharply, with an anger he could not define except that it was quite warm in his cold breast: “He may have a disease, Bert. You remember, he had some kind of scurf last summer. Do you want to be ill?”

  Suddenly, and with a haste unusual for one who was so precise and considered, he seized the scruff of the lean and dirty neck and yanked the dog from his brother’s embrace. Then, with a well-placed kick from his little pointed boot, he sent the animal howling and sliding from his brother, with such haste and force that its hindquarters and threshing legs stirred up a cloud of white dust. The dog came to a sprawling halt, then swung about for a new charge upon the adored Bertie, its face expressing only bewilderment and pain. Robbie raised his cane threateningly. The dog stopped in its tracks, panting, its eyes tortured. “Get away!” cried Robbie. “You filthy devil!”

  The dog looked at him, and cowered. Then, dropping its withered head and almost hairless tail, it slunk behind the shack, whimpering.

  Bertie turned to his brother, whose pale dark cheek was actually flushed. He shook his head gently. “You shouldn’t have done that, Robbie. No, you shouldn’t have done that.” He still smiled. But his blue eyes were strangely bright and fixed.

  Robbie shrugged. He brushed off with a capable small hand the gray hairs that clung to Bertie’s knee. “You have no intelligence, Bertie. If you don’t have nasty sores soon, or worse, I’ll be surprised.”

  But Bertie, still smiling, only continued to shake his head. He looked at the restless blue river and the distant American shore. Then again, he gently shook his head. His profile expressed nothing.

  Robbie was very irritated. Abruptly he rose, dusting himself off in annoyance, and went to see how the worm-digging was progressing. He stood beside the old fisherman with the fluttering white hair, and criticized the proceedings coolly. “Less dirt, more worms,” he advised, touching the battered old pan with the tip of his cane. “Were not paying for mud, Bob.”

  The fisherman cursed him without pausing in his work. Bertie still sat smiling on the bench, looking out at the river. All at once, there was an air of desolation about him, in the sunlight.

  But he was quite cheerfully voluble when he and Robbie were once in the little boat, rowing up the creek. Sometimes he burst into a rollicking song, throwing back his handsome head. He had carefully removed his coat. The ruffled neck of his fine white shirt was open, and his full, milk-white throat was exposed to the sun. The sunlight shattered on the diamonds on his fingers. He sang, and the water echoed back his voice merrily.

  Robbie, who would save his exertions for the return journey, down the creek, leaned back in the stern of the boat and looked idly about him.

  It was strange, the difference in the scene which the two brothers saw. Robbie felt that the warmth of the autumn sun was agreeable on his bared h
ead and shoulders, and the water calmly blue and the sky very clear. But that is all that met his eye, all that impinged on his senses. He was occupied by his own abstract thoughts.

  But Bertie saw something quite different. The boat glided deeper and deeper into the creek waters, and, as the stream left the turbulent river it became narrower and quieter. Now the still grassy banks sloped steeply to the water, dark, green and transparent and the long fronds of weeping willows swept the surface with frail fingers, their shadows a lighter and more delicate green, airy and intangible. The bottlegreen of water-lily pads floated on the still surface, and their lovely flowers lay like stars among them, full of pure scent. Dragon-flies skimmed through the dim green air, jewelled and brilliant, and birds called from the dusk of the thickening trees. Now one could glimpse broken fragments of the burning blue sky through the willows. At one place the creek widened suddenly, to enclose a tiny island on which stood a motionless heron, streaked with rose in the sudden down-pouring of open sunlight, unnaturally vivid against the surrounding gloom. All about the boat sounded the vague ploppings of frogs as they dived from the water-lily leaves, and as the trees closed over the narrow creek again, and the watery green dimness engulfed the boat, one could hear the shrilling of tree-toads in the hidden damp fastnesses of the woods. Here and there a finger or a flash of light struck the water, hurtingly vivid. And over all was the clear and spectral silence.

  Bertie was quiet now, though his lips were pursed as if about to whistle. He looked about him. His face was quite serious. It was like a beautiful marble face fallen into pure green water, in the shadow of the trees and in the reflection of the stream. He saw things Robbie did not see, or would not condescend to see. His blue eyes were opaque now, and moved more slowly.

  They found their favorite spot. There was an opening in the trees, and the bank was less steep, and more gentle and thickly tufted with grass. They pulled up the boat, gathered up the knapsack, and climbed the bank. There, under a clump of trees some distance from the creek they sat down, leaning their backs against the brown trunks. They were enclosed in motionless, rustling peace, listening to the twitterings and the songs of birds in the thick branches above. They lit cheroots, spread their legs before them, and smiled at each other.