The Wide House

  The Wide House

  A Novel

  Taylor Caldwell

  To

  BELLA & ROCKY

  with love

  BOOK ONE

  “THE GETTING OF TREASURES”

  “The getting of treasures by a lying tongue is a vanity tossed to and fro of them that seek death.”

  —Proverbs 21:6

  CHAPTER 1

  Janie Driscoll Cauder, in the later years of her life, would often say, with that simper and arching of her head that her daughter, Laurie, could not endure without pressing her nails into the palms of her hands: “I landed here, a young widow, with twenty trunks and bags, three lads and a little lass, with none to care and only the help of God to sustain me. Ah, if it hadn’t, been for the good Lord, what would have become of me, a young widow, landing alone in a strange country, with nae hoose nor kinfolk to comfort me?”

  Janie, of course, confronted by an admiring and servile audience, would fail to mention that in addition to the “twenty trunks and bags, three lads and a little lass,” she was also in possession of some fifteen thousand pounds sterling, given to her by her infatuated Irish mother. Had she mentioned the fifteen thousand pounds, it would have considerably dimmed the picture of the pathetic young widow thrusting out her tiny foot so gallantly, and so bravely, upon the unfeeling shore of a “strange country,” surrounded by her children and her enormous luggage. Janie always pictured the circumstances about her as large and overwhelming, so that the audience could see her in contrast, so little, so slender, so childlike, and so undaunted, against the grim gray backdrop of New York in March, 1850, a fluttering small creature with chin held high above the ribbons of her bonnet, her gay eyes bright with a quicksilver humor.

  New York had had a snowstorm the day previous, and snow lay in sodden soot-streaked heaps on the wooden pier. Against a sky the color of wrinkled lead the masts of the great ship were tangled with rope, and between them squatted the broad chimneys that had smoked so sturdily, but so intermittently, across the boiling Atlantic. Hundreds of immigrants, surrounded by squalling children who whimpered and tried to warm their red hands under pinafores and meager shawls, surged over the pier, dragging bundles of bedding rescued from the dank holds of the ship, frayed carpet bags and various knobby bundles. In contrast to these frightened wretches, Janie, in her sable cape and her trim gray woolen frock, her tiny bonnet covered with velvet violets, was a pleasant sight. She had come first class, of course, and had acquired, as usual, a flock of admiring and loving friends, who assisted her with the luggage, and snatched some of the smaller bags from the hands of stewards. The friends were all gentlemen, because ladies were not apt to be overly cordial with Janie after a day or two of acquaintance. So Janie’s handsome little French bonnet was all bobbing animation among tall stovepipe hats and broad, fur-collared shoulders, and her laugh, arrestingly loud and hoarse and jovial, boomed out rollickingly. Sometimes she would withdraw a little mittened hand from the warm confines of her great sable muff, and she would then strike some urgent gentleman soundly on the chest or arm, as if to reprove him, and sometimes she would coquettishly twitch a thick Scotch shawl from the shoulders of another gentleman.

  Her children stood a little apart from her, well-dressed and comely, and silent. The eldest boy, Angus Driscoll Cauder, held his little sister’s hand in a firm if chilly grip. He was the least well-favored of Janie’s lads, unusually tall, dark and dour-faced, and thirteen years old. His expression was reserved, cold and lightless. His complexion was sallow, his features were meager and small, his nose short and sharp, his nostrils compressed and narrow, his mouth thin and drawn. He had a good chin, however, firm and dimpled, and if one cared to look closer after a first careless glance, he would see Angus’ eyes, a clear and very shy gray, the color of smoke.

  His little sister, clasped so firmly to him, was a beautiful child of about six. Under her beaver bonnet with its wide brown ribbons, flowed a cascade of hair so flaxen yet so radiant, that it was like a cape of pale gold over the fur-bordered capes of her bulging coat. Her big and smiling eyes were a translucent blue, shadowed by golden lashes, and she had a sweet round little face the color of milk and tea-roses, and a large pink smile that trembled easily into a myriad of dimples. The fact that the bitter wind sweeping in from the sea had turned her tilted nose quite red, and made her sniffle, did not detract from her touching loveliness, and her air of shy but eager gaiety.

  Though the four children stood together in a circle, a quick eye would have discerned that in reality they formed two distinct groups—one, Angus with his sister, and Bertram (Bertie) Coleman Cauder and Rob Roy (Robbie) Duncan Cauder, the other. Strangers were apt to be much taken by Bertie, his mother’s darling, for the eleven-year-old lad was almost as tall as Angus, but better formed, exceedingly solid, and extremely handsome. He had a large round face, all life and ruddiness and laughter, with big white teeth that flashed with constant and innocently malicious smiles, and bright blue eyes, a trifle small. His head was large and round and strong, covered by auburn curls that glinted with gold, and all his ways were quick and vital and restless.

  Robbie was the “black one,” as Janie would say, with candid disfavor. He was little; he had inherited Janie’s smallness and wiriness of body. He looked hardly older than Laurie, his sister. Nevertheless, there was nothing childlike or pathetic about his compact lean little body; in truth, there were times when he resembled a sinewy gnome.

  As Janie continued to dally with her admirers, and her voice, so hoarse and rollicking and coarse and hearty, continued to boom out over the bedlam of other voices, even Bertie, the effervescent, became miserably quiet. The wind grew in intensity; the sky became more lowering. It was nearly five in the afternoon, and darkness was running in long waves from the sea and over the huddled city beyond the pier. A dull roaring came from the ocean; wind whistled through the masts of the ship, and the crew scuttled along the decks. The crowd was beginning to disperse, slowly. From the low broken banks of New York, yellow lights began to twinkle. The wooden pier bent and echoed with hurrying feet.

  A tall, slender young man, his long fawn coat caped in sable, his tall hat set at a fashionable angle on his high small head, sauntered through the crowds. His saunter was graceful; he was all fashion and favor. His tight fawn pantaloons were fastened by straps under his thin, polished black boots. He carried a gold-headed ebony cane, very slender, with which he lightly moved aside urchins and shivering women and even men. His coat was open, and swinging, revealing a flowered silk vest, and crisp white ruffles. He had a dark full face, bright and keen, with a subtle smiling mouth, and black eyes, very large and piercing. His black hair, sleekly brushed back, curled at the ends in a most engaging manner. His air was careless, composed and arrogant, and between the fingers of one gloved hand he carried a long cigar. He was a great gentleman, doubtless, thought many a woman as she cringed from his path.

  He stopped, not far from the four children of Janie Driscoll Cauder, and studied them. He put his cigar to his lips, and smoked idly. Then he said: “Good God!” He began to walk again, more quickly this time. He came back to the children, and smiled at them, his very white teeth glistening between his lips. “Are you Janie’s brats?” he asked, genially, his restless eye searching each face.

  They stared at him, sunken in their chill wretchedness. Only Robbie spoke, and he came forward courteously and composedly, removing his hat. “Would you be our cousin Stuart?” he asked, in his light voice, without inflection.

  “I would, indeed,” the man said, lightly, with a deep amused bow. “Or rather, your mama’s cousin, Stuart Coleman.”

  Little Laurie bobbed automatically in a curtsey, and the other children bowed stiffly. Bertie had recovered his ruddy gaiet
y. He approached Stuart and tucked his hand in his arm. “We’re damn cold,” he said, frankly. “Will you get Mama away from those gentlemen?”

  The smile left Stuart’s face. He looked down at Bertie thoughtfully. He patted the small firm hand on his arm. “I will that,” he said, with much kindness. He turned his attention to Laurie, who was staring at him with her great blue eyes, so wondering and so calm. “Hello, pet,” said Stuart, softly. He reached out and gently pinched her cold round cheek. She smiled at him radiantly, blushed, and buried her head against Angus’ arm.

  “Tell me your names; which is which?” said Stuart. Robbie, as usual, took command. He indicated his elder brother, and in a quiet competent voice, said: “This is Angus.” He indicated Bertie, clinging so affectionately to Stuart: “That’s Bertie, Bertram. I’m Rob Roy, Robbie. This is Laurie, our sister,” and he waved indifferently at the little girl.

  “Four of you, eh?” said Stuart, meditatively. “I didn’t quite know there were four.” He smiled a little. “Janie was careless. I thought she might bring two, at the most. She only mentioned Bertie and Laurie.”

  Robbie shrugged indifferently, and Stuart eyed him with shrewd quickness. He turned and surveyed Janie, still laughing hoarsely, she and her gentlemen now quite isolated on the wooden pier. “Janie as usual,” commented the young man. He gave the children a reassuring nod and smile, and left them, sauntering, amused, towards his cousin and her covey of admirers. He stood on the animated outskirts, swung his cane, and smoked. Then, quite suddenly and alarmingly, he shouted: “Janie! For God’s sake!”

  The gentlemen jumped like startled fawns, and parted instinctively to reveal the little vivacious woman in their midst. She stared at Stuart, then rushed in tiny lively steps towards her cousin, shrieking, holding out one mittened hand, the other clutching the huge sable muff. Her sable cape streamed after her, her little French sandals twinkled under her gray skirt, her purple veil blew back from the velvet violets of her bonnet. She flung herself into the laughing Stuart’s arms, the while the uneasy gentlemen huddled together and scowled. She was all extravagant kisses, little hoarse cries, and perfumed embraces. “Ah, Stuart, my darling!” she exclaimed, her face running with her easy tears. “And where have you been this long time?”

  He held her gently from him. “Let’s look at you,” he said, fondly. “Yes, it’s the same old Janie, though I haven’t seen you since the day you were married.”

  Stuart Coleman was now twenty-eight, and he had been only fourteen years old when he had last seen his cousin. But he remembered very clearly the small triangular face with its somewhat sallow complexion, and the thick array of brown freckles over a nose frankly large and Roman. He remembered the wide mobile mouth with its crafty grin, audacious and merry, and the little square white teeth, glistening and perfect. He remembered the long glinting green eyes, merciless, sly and always twinkling with incipient laughter under their streaks of tilted auburn brows, and the sharp specks of amber in them, which gave them a feline and untamable quality. And he had never forgotten her bright red hair, naturally straight and always tortuously curled into smooth gleaming sausages about her animated face, and just touching her shoulders. Janie had not changed much. She was now thirty-two, and did not possess the slightest beauty, for all her neat trim little figure and high taste in somewhat flamboyant fashion, and candid use of rouge and powder.

  Stuart Coleman, who was astute, knew all about Janie. But he was amused by her, charmed by her. He kissed her heartily, as she clung to him, knowing the hypocrisy of her tears of joy. A false baggage, he observed to himself. But a merry soul, he added. He knew at once why she really had come to America. She intended to marry him. He laughed, inwardly.

  “Come, I’ve got a carriage waiting, and I’ll take you all to your hotel, my darling,” he said, chucking her under the chin. “Is all this your damned luggage? All of it? My God!” He indicated the trunks and bags with his cane. He glanced carelessly at the discomfited and deprived gentlemen, who began to slink away into the gathering darkness like beaten hounds.

  Janie clung helplessly to his arm, and adored him with her green dancing eyes. She became suddenly limp and very female. She sighed, and touched her dry eyes with her kerchief. “My love, what should I have done without you?” she whimpered.

  Stuart smiled broadly. “I really don’t know, my pet. But we must hurry. The carriage is waiting. Gather up your pretty brood, and we’ll be on our way.”

  CHAPTER 2

  When Janie wished to make an impression, as she did now upon her cousin, Stuart Coleman, she suffered a few apprehensions. Her mother had been cousin to Stuart’s dead father, and Gordon Coleman had been no admirer of Janie. What, then, she asked herself, watching Stuart warily, had the young man heard of her?

  Stuart had heard a great deal, but being a wise gentleman he allowed Janie to “stew in her own juice,” as he inelegantly put it to himself. He knew all about Janie. He would continue to stare through the spattered windows of the huge stagecoach which was bearing them all to his home in Grandeville, N.Y., and he would affect to be engrossed in the dun flat country that fled beneath the groaning wheels.

  His father had been a loquacious and petulant talker. He had been much attached to his cousin, Bridget Murphy, Janie’s mother, and had been infuriated at her marriage to that “damned Scotsman, Duncan Driscoll.” Gordon Coleman was a “wild Irishman,” in the family’s opinion, and would come to no good end. He had married Stuart’s mother, now dead, and had gone with her to America to make his fortune, when Stuart had been fourteen years old. The family, in relief, had contributed generously towards the fund which made his exile possible, and though they had loved the young Stuart, they had been glad to be rid of relatives that had been a constant drain on reluctant purses. When they heard of Gordon’s amazing success, they did not change their personal opinion of him, but said, enviously, that apparently it was possible for the most foolish lout to make money in America. It was by reason of Gordon Coleman’s pettish diatribes that Stuart had learned so much about Janie and her family.

  Janie’s father, Duncan Driscoll, “a lowlander” from Bar-head, Scotland, had, with the aid of a considerable inheritance from a dead uncle, purchased an unusually large farm just across the English border. That was reprehensible enough, that he had bought land in England, but that he, a seaman, should make a resounding success of it was enough to make any self-respecting Scot indignant. What did he know of cattle and sheep and other “beasties”? Duncan apparently knew much, and as he was a man of resolution and intelligence he throve from the start. But, when he married the buxom Irish Bridget Murphy, his own family abandoned him with thoroughness and dispatch.

  Duncan, with the rocky serenity of a Scot who is prosperous, betrayed no worry over this situation. He was amiable to everyone, though not particularly fond of anyone, and was agreeable and friendly to his wife’s people. He even allowed her cousin, Gordon Coleman, and the latter’s wife and son, to occupy a small cottage on his land. Gordon was lodge-keeper, and exerted his Irish love for overseership on the other farm-laborers, but he had none of the Irishman’s geniality and friendliness and good-fellowship. In consequence he was hated by his underlings.

  Duncan’s wife presented him with seventeen children, of whom Janie was the youngest. While Gordon Coleman (who hated Duncan more wildly than he hated anyone else, doubtless due to the fact that he had received endless benefits from the Scotsman) disliked Bridget’s children with a dull and heavy aversion, he particularly detested Janie. His own son, Stuart, born some five years after Janie, soon revealed a disgusting fondness for the girl, and she for him. She would run down from the great gray house on its knoll, and invade the little gray cottage at the gates, her carrotty hair fluttering, her green eyes dancing, her mouth one broad grin.

  Janie became an obsession to this gloomy and frustrated man. As hatred has a memory as boundless as love, he compiled quite a dossier about the young lady. It was this dossier, which even in Am
erica many years later, he laid before his son. He forgot nothing. Much of what Stuart had not learned by actual contact with Janie, he learned from his father.

  Janie had been coddled by her father and her elder brothers and sisters, though they had understood all about her from her first lisp. Her mother, however, worshipped this child of her old age, and nothing was too expensive, too inappropriate, for the wily little creature. Bridget, fat, aging, illiterate and adoring, found nothing more fascinating than this last child of her womb, and nothing that. Janie could do was reprehensible in her fatuous eyes. Janie had a tiny sable cape, stole, bonnet and muff when she was barely five years old. Janie had her own Shetland ponies, her own garden, her own maid, her own gold watch, her own little jewelry case filled with rich rings and bangles and chains. Her velvets and silks were imported from France, as were the delicate laces on her cambric underwear. Her boots came from London. She was early taught the use of lotions for her complexion, which, despite the most anxious efforts of maids, remained distinctly yellowish in cast. Though no sun was allowed to touch her bare skin, her large and predatory nose gathered to itself a crop of thick brown freckles every spring, bathe them as she would with buttermilk.

  The servants hated and feared little Janie, from the lowliest scullery maid to the special Oxford tutor engaged to teach her. For she was full of cruel pranks, which she vehemently denied when her tearful mother gently reproached her. Janie had the ability to look her accuser directly and straight in the eye, without flinching, and declare that she had done no such thing. Once, after a particularly outrageous trick upon a stableman, by which he was almost gored to death by a bull which Janie had slyly let out of its compound, Duncan thoroughly thrashed his little daughter. In consequence, Bridget did not speak to him for a month, and was not appeased until the harassed man presented Janie with three new lengths of velvet and an ermine cloak.