The Wide House

by Taylor Caldwell

  A maid had been trying to attract his attention, and he frowned at her impatiently. “Mr. Cauder is awaiting you, sir, in the parlor,” she told him. “Mr. Angus Cauder.”

  “The devil,” said Stuart, scowling. What did that dimeyed corpse wish of him? Without the slightest presentiment, Stuart marched into the parlor, his scowl deeper than ever. He stood on the threshold, and glared across the space of carpet with considerable contempt and repudiation. “Well, Angus,” he said, harshly. “I trust no trouble brings you here?”

  Angus was sitting before the fire, his chin on his bent hand. He rose as he heard Stuart’s voice, and stood near the fire, dressed in black as always, his face a glimmering white mask in the gloom of the March twilight. He did not smile. He said: “I am afraid, Stuart, that it is very serious trouble.”

  Stuart forgot his antagonism. He advanced towards his kinsman, and said in a warmer and more concerned tone: “Not Bertie? Nothing has happened to Bertie, eh?”

  Angus was silent a moment. Then he said coldly: “No, not Bertie, Stuart, I am glad to say. It is your trouble, Stuart. I thought I would speak of it to you, here, rather than in the offices. It is a matter of the most urgent privacy.”

  Laurie, then, thought Stuart. He smiled scornfully. His black eyes flickered with disdain over his visitor. He lifted his coat-tails and sat down negligently, drew a cheroot from his pocket, lit it unhurriedly. Only then did he say patronizingly: “Well, sit down, man, sit down. There is no corpse in this room yet, is there? You are not a premature undertaker, I hope.”

  “In a way,” replied Angus quietly. He sat down.

  “Eh?” said Stuart, staring blankly. “What did you say?”

  But Angus sat stiffly in the opposite chair, and only looked at Stuart. He held a brief-case on his bony knees. His gray eyes had a peculiar glint in them, an impersonal gloating and lofty aversion. It was that look which made Stuart pause in the very motion of putting his cheroot into his mouth. For the first time he felt the faint chill shock of presentiment. “What is it?” he said roughly. “Out with it. It must be very important.” He infused a satiric note in his voice, but even to him that note was weak.

  “It is very important,” said Angus, with no inflection in his words. He opened his brief-case and withdrew from it a sheaf of bills. Stuart recognized them as bills immediately. Hadn’t he been throwing the cursed things into his wastebaskets for months? He winced a little. A hot dark flush invaded his face. But he lifted his head arrogantly, and assumed a forbidding posture.

  “Those would not be bills, eh?” he asked, with heavy contempt.

  “Yes, they would be bills, Stuart,” replied Angus, with his deadly quietness. “Bills that can no longer be ignored. Bills in the sum of seventy-five thousand dollars, some of them over a year old, from New York and Chicago wholesalers, manufacturers and importers. Also, urgent communications from various banks.” He paused. “Would you like to refresh your memory with them, Stuart?” And he extended the ominous sheaf to the other man.

  But Stuart made no effort to take them. Smoke curled from his mouth. His heart had begun to beat with its old rusty pain.

  Angus still extended the bills in his lean and inexorable pale hand. He said: “In the preoccupations of the past few months, Stuart, you have not given heed to these bills. I can understand that. But they have become so imperative that I felt I must come to you at once, and discuss the matter with you.”

  Stuart gazed at his kinsman’s face, and was silent. At length, in a stifled voice, he said: “This is a matter for discussion at the offices. I must ask you not to press me today. I do no business on Sundays, as you know.”

  Angus smiled. Angus did not withdraw the bills. “The matter is so urgent, Stuart, that I must overlook the fact that it is Sunday. Things cannot be delayed any longer.”

  Stuart aroused himself with difficulty. “You are impertinent, sir!” he exclaimed, with an oath. “You are only my manager. I insist that you no longer discuss this with me in my house, today.”

  Angus laid the bills on his knees. He gazed down at them thoughtfully. The fire crackled. A storm was rising; the first pallid flakes of snow were hissing at the windows. The voice of the river, breaking through rotting ice, was heard as a dull roar in the wind. Angus said: “I, too, have an aversion for business on Sundays. But, as certain things must be done tomorrow, at the latest, I am compelled to discuss this with you today.”

  Suddenly Stuart hated him violently. This hatred mingled with a desire to escape, to run out of this house, to flee from the onerous and terrifying burden of his days as he always fled from them. The bills in Angus’ hands appeared to him like writs of execution. If he could only throw this corpse, with his bills, out of his house, and close the door upon him, he could forget the terror that haunted his sleeping hours and dogged him all his days; he could forget as he always forgot.

  He wanted to kill Angus, this insolent puppy who sat there so immovably and looked at him so strangely.

  “We must discuss it,” said Angus, and his voice was barely audible. He reached into his brief-case again, and withdrew a smaller sheaf of papers. These he did not extend to Stuart, who felt a nauseous prickling over his flesh, a more terrible premonition. “I have here, Stuart, your personal notes in the amount of twenty thousand dollars. I bought them at a discount. Are you prepared to buy them from me, for twenty thousand dollars?”

  Stuart pulled himself up in his chair. Now his breath beat thickly in his throat. Everything in the room moved about him in wide sick circles, dimming. But Angus’ calm and rigid face was fixed in the center of the circles, and did not move.

  Angus was putting the notes back into his brief-case, with the slow precise movements of an executioner preparing the ax. He was saying: “My question was rhetorical, I can see. You have no way of buying the notes from me.”

  He allowed himself to lean back in his chair. Now his voice was louder, or so it seemed to the desperately ill Stuart, and it had a curious clangor in it like an iron bell.

  “You can see, Stuart, why I had to come to you today. A Merchants’ Committee has been formed in New York, to force you into bankruptcy. I shall be very brief with you. You will be forced into total bankruptcy within ten days.”

  His voice was the only, and the most dreadful, reality in that swimming, darkening, welling room. Stuart heard every fateful word which destroyed him, ruined him, flung him out, brought his house and all his life thundering down upon him in the long upheaval of the final earthquake. Angus’ calm and neutral voice went on and on, without hurry or emotion, the voice of a judge who condemned Stuart Coleman to death.

  “It is understood, finally, Stuart, that your claims, and the claims of any other shareholder, are absolutely worthless, because in bankruptcy proceedings there will be nothing left, anyway. From tomorrow, henceforth, therefore, you are completely penniless. You must accede to my offers. You have no alternative.

  “If you attempt to fight me, out of foolish vanity, or childish determination, I shall press for payment of these notes, and foreclose on your house. If you are reasonable, and I do not doubt you will be after careful thought, you will realize that the offer I shall make you is more than generous, more than you could possibly expect of me.

  “You have ignored the business of the shops. Ruin has been steadily coming, and you have run from it. Each time, in the past, that Mr. Berkowitz attempted to discuss these things with you, you put him off, with demented oaths. Finally, he could do nothing. He saw it was useless, as I have seen it. He did not know what to do. I did. I have done all I could. I now make you my offer of three hundred dollars a month, which will help you keep your house, whose mortgage is in my hands. I will adjust matters with you within reason, and with mercy, because you are my kinsman, and have shown me some kindnesses.” At this, the palest of convulsions arched Angus’ lips, but did not change the even tone of his voice. “As my manager, you will not be forced to attend to details which have always been onerous to you, n
or will you have the responsibilities which you have consistently evaded for years. You will have no responsibilities, but you will have only that three hundred dollars a month. With care, you can keep your house. But your scale of living will need to be essentially reduced. That is your affair. You must make your own adjustments. I give you only my advice.”

  With a shrill rustle he replaced the bills in his brief-case. Stuart did not move. He sat as if dead, struck down, in his chair.

  Angus rested his clasped hands on his brief-case and looked at the man he had struck down with his quiet and merciless hand. No flicker of compassion or regret or sorrow passed over his frozen features.

  “You can only refuse my offer to make you manager at three hundred dollars a month. That is the only choice left to you. I should regret it. You would make me an excellent manager. You have a way with customers which I confess I do not have. But, should you refuse, you would have no other income, and to protect my mortgage, I should be compelled to foreclose on your house. You would leave me no alternative.

  “Stuart, you have often called me a miser, a cold-hearted wretch with no human emotions. But I have always had the highest regard for the shops, and that is why I have persuaded that—interested party of which I have told you to lend me the money to settle with the Merchants’ Committee for fifty cents on the dollar. As I have told you, they have agreed. Yes, you have called me a miser, and cold-hearted, but I have had this feeling for the shops. I have had this feeling for you, as my kinsman.”

  He waited. But Stuart, sinking in his chair, was unable to move.

  Angus resumed: “There is another matter. Mr. Berkowitz left twenty percent of his shares in the shops to—Father Houlihan. The priest is in a way of losing any income whatsoever, unless I proceed with my plans. But, to buy the goodwill of the Catholic community here, and of others who might have a sentimental attachment to the priest, I will make him a generous offer: I will give him five thousand dollars for his shares, which are really worthless. I do not have to do it. You know that.”

  For the first time, Stuart stirred. It was as if he felt the impact of a knife in his very vitals, and writhed under it. He put his hand to his throat, as if strangling. But it was a feeble gesture. Strange to say, that trembling gesture aroused some response in Angus, for he, too, lifted his hands and pressed them suddenly and firmly to his temples. He bent forward a little. His mouth opened, twisted. He gasped, inaudibly. His eyes closed.

  Stuart whispered: “You have plotted this for years. You always looked for your opportunity. You have done this to me, deliberately.”

  Angus’ fingers pressed deeper into his thin, veined temples. His long lean body tightened with his private agony. His breathing was louder now, hissing in the silence. He bent his chest closer to his arching knees, with their bony points.

  “Always, through the years, you plotted against me, hated me. You waited a long time.” Stuart’s whisper was louder, more hurried, quicker. “But, you could wait. You had the patience of the serpent. You had the patience of all evil men.”

  Angus lifted his head. His white face was damp and glistening in the firelight. His voice was ragged, but calm: “You call me ‘evil.’ It is you who are the evil man, Stuart Coleman. You deserve no mercy, no compassion, no consideration, from me. But because I am not evil, I have given them to you. It is consistent with your nature that you should accuse me of the things which you actually are. There is no good in you. Impious and lascivious man! Consort of wicked and unspeakable people! Your name is a byword in this city, a contemptuous word in the mouths of decent folk who have regard for the laws of man and of God.

  “If I were indeed evil, I should seize this moment to ruin you completely, to drive you, with the approval of a respectable community, out of Grandeville. Be careful, Stuart. Do not press me too far.”

  He rose. But he had to catch the back of his chair, for he staggered slightly. The pain in his head was savage, violent. It blinded him. “I have given consideration to your wife and child, the natural sufferers from your iniquity and prodigality. Being what you are, you would extend no such mercy to others, no such Christian charity. Yet I have mercy upon you. I have given you my offer. Take it or leave it. I am absolved from further pleadings with you.”

  He gasped, suddenly. He clutched the back of his chair. Stuart looked at him steadily, out of the depths of his own torment.

  And then a strange thing happened. Stuart began to smile. It was not a dark, or a cruel, or a hating smile. There was even something gentle in it, and very sad. It was beyond reason, for he had only his intuition and his heart to prompt him.

  He said, and his voice was very clear and low: “Go on, Angus. Go your way. And may God have mercy on your soul.”

  CHAPTER 72

  “Mortification?” said Stuart, smiling at Father Houlihan. “Perhaps I should feel mortification, humiliation, outrage, fury. But, odd to say, I do not. I don’t know why. It was his face—you should have seen his face. I could only pity him, then.”

  But Father Houlihan was looking at Stuart’s own face. Stuart saw that loving and sorrowful regard, and he said, suddenly, involuntarily: “I am tired.”

  He rearranged the hot-house roses which he had brought to his friend, and then stood staring at them sightlessly. “I never knew what it was to be tired this way. Never before. Perhaps I am getting old. I don’t know. But nothing seems of profound importance to me any longer, except the finding of Sam’s murderers, and their execution.” He tightened his fists. “That’s all,” he said, softly.

  He turned to the priest. “Don’t look at me as if I were a miserable object, Grundy. I never liked anyone to pity me. Besides, let us be reasonable.’ The shops have been saved. I get three hundred dollars a month. I have no worries, no responsibilities, no burdens. I have saved my house.” He rubbed his forehead, and sighed. “When Sam was there, it was different. But I have lost heart now.”

  He tried to smile humorously at his friend’s mournful expression. “No more diamond necklaces, no more objets d’art, no more gold-headed canes, no more bottles of Napoleon, no more fine horses. You think I am devastated? I am not. I am tired.” He added: “You think I am without pride?”

  But the priest said: “You do not hate Angus?”

  “Hate him? My God! I tell you, I saw his face!”

  Father Houlihan stretched out his hand to his friend, and Stuart took it, shaking it warmly and affectionately. “Stuart, I’ve always said you were a good man. It takes a man with God in his heart to pity his enemy who has destroyed him.”

  Stuart was suddenly somber. “Destroyed me? No. No one destroyed me. I destroyed myself. Well, I do not care. I have had a good life. A very good life.” He laughed gently.

  Father Houlihan did not entirely believe Stuart. He believed that Stuart was self-deceived. He was exhausted, he was numb, he was too desolate for strong emotion. And, he had one obsession: the finding of the murderers of Sam Berkowitz.

  “I shall be away for two weeks, or more, Grundy. Take care of yourself. I will bring back the finest architectural plans for the new church. It will make the old one look like a toy. You’ll see.”

  He went out and untethered his horse. He rode through the dirty rotting snow that filled the streets. He touched his hand briefly to his hat as he passed acquaintances, indifferent to the sly whispers in his wake. He was very tired. He felt the tiredness like dry ash in his body, in his mouth, in his eyes.

  He looked at his lovely house, and for the first time his heart beat a little quicker. Ah, he still had his house. He need fear its loss no longer. He would pay Angus one hundred dollars a month on the accursed mortgage. He would have two hundred left. Most of the servants must go. The stables must be emptied. But the nurse for Mary Rose must remain, and one cook. Stuart’s eye brightened. He would soon have his daughter with him, and he would have his house. Matters could be much worse.

  When he entered the house, after carefully wiping his muddy boots, he found the turnkey
from the jail awaiting him, with an excited face. “Mr. Coleman, there is something I must tell you, at once. Very important. And then, perhaps, you will come with me, eh? Is the reward still good?”

  Angus sat with Joshua Allstairs in the rich private offices of the bank. All the papers had finally been signed. Joshua leaned back in his chair and chuckled.

  “The day I’ve awaited for fifteen years has come, Angus, my boy. A lovely, lovely day. God’s vengeance on an evil man has been given into my hand. Christian probity and piety have been vindicated. I can die in peace.”

  Angus nodded. He gathered up the papers precisely, scrutinized them with a careful frown. He said: “I see here a certain paper. In the event of your—passing, sir, your interest in this matter is to pass, with the balance of your estate, into a trust for your daughter, Mrs. Coleman, and your granddaughter, Miss Mary Rose. But only in the event that Mrs. Coleman leaves her husband within sixty days after your—passing. In the event she does not, which is only slightly possible, the whole estate is to be held in trust for Miss Mary Rose until she is thirty years old, and is married. A very excellent arrangement.”

  Joshua chuckled again. “Marvina is a fool. She always was. I had little difficulty in persuading her to visit me secretly. And I love that little girl of hers. Marvina will leave that abominable man, I am assured of that. I have even discussed the matter with her. She agrees to everything. She always agrees to everything.”

  The tendril of pain fluttered in Angus’ brow. He rubbed it, absently. The last few weeks had made him paler, thinner, than ever, so that he was even more corpse-like than before. Joshua eyed him with cruel curiosity and interest.

  “Mrs. Coleman is very fortunate in having a father like yourself, sir,” said Angus, ponderously. “Forgiving, generous, unforgetting, loving.”

  Joshua nodded benignly. “But I imagine you will be such a father also, Angus. You have a fine little girl.” He made his malignant old face sorrowful. “How sad that her mother did not live to see her reach full estate!”