I spun round, but it was only O’Reilly.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Van Zale, but your husband sent me to tell you that he’ll be engaged for a further half hour. May I have some coffee brought to you while you wait?”
My anger returned with a force which took my breath away. I forgot my nervousness, forgot my fears, forgot everything except that I had been humiliated quite enough for one day and was determined not to tolerate my humiliation for one second longer.
“Mr. O’Reilly,” I said strongly, “you will please return to my husband and say I must see him at once. It’s very urgent.”
O’Reilly’s straight back curved sulkily, but although he opened his mouth to argue with me he thought better of it In despair he departed in silence.
Two minutes later, just as all my fright had rolled back to obliterate my brave anger, the door of the office was flung open and Paul swept into the room.
II
I stood up. We looked at each other. His face was taut with an emotion which might have been concern but which I suspected was rage.
“Yes?” he said.
I suddenly found I was as speechless as Cornelius had been when Paul started to interrogate him. In misery I groped in my purse, found the Tiffany bill and held it out to him with a shaking hand.
He unfolded the paper. His glance flicked over the words and the figures. Not a muscle of his face moved. At last he said abruptly, “This is an error.”
“An error?” I had to sit down. “You mean—”
“I paid cash with the express intention of circumventing the usual monthly bill. I’ll have O’Reilly call them to set matters right. I’m sorry if you’ve been embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed!” I stared at him. My eyes were hot and my throat was aching, but my voice was clear and outraged. “Did you say ‘embarrassed’?”
He was silenced. He looked away, checked the door to make sure it was shut and ran his fingers through his front strand of hair. It was the first indication that he was upset, for Paul was fastidious about his appearance and once he had arranged his hair he took care not to disturb it with a thoughtless gesture.
“Maybe you’d better have a drink,” he said, moving rapidly to the bookcase which concealed the liquor cabinet.
“I don’t want a drink, Paul. I want an explanation.”
He ran his hand through his hair again and abandoned the liquor cabinet. “Let’s go into the other room.”
We sat down on the couch. A china clock ticked rapidly beneath a large mirror. Paul looked out of the window at the rain, he looked at the clock, the carpet and the Wedgwood tea service in its display cabinet, and finally he looked at me.
“The christening mug has no more significance than the silver rattle we sent Steve’s son,” he said. “It was just a gift. My affair with Miss Slade is finished and her child has nothing to do with me.”
“But he’s yours, isn’t he?”
There was a silence.
“I’m not acknowledging him,” said Paul.
“But—”
“I told Miss Slade that from the start. I made myself absolutely clear. I—”
“You broke your promise to me, Paul!” My voice was suddenly harsh and trembling.
“My God, do you think I did it deliberately?” He got up and began to pace up and down the room. “It was an accident,” he said rapidly, “a terrible accident. I underestimated both Miss Slade’s psychological need for a child and her indifference to a society which deplores unmarried mothers. I know you must think it’s extraordinary that I should have got myself into such a mess, but Miss Slade was so clever, you see, such a smart, intelligent girl, and I just couldn’t believe she’d be such a blind selfish little fool. By the time I found out she was irrational on the subject it was too late. Of course I tried to persuade her to change her mind—I used every argument I could think of—but one can’t reason with someone who’s irrational. When I repeated that I couldn’t acknowledge the child she wasn’t fazed at all—she merely said she accepted my decision. We had a protracted quarrel on the whole subject of the child. I was distraught.”
“So distraught you then decided to retire to Norfolk for three months to be alone with her!”
He stopped dead in front of the fireplace. “Sylvia …” He sank down beside me on the couch again. “That’s past. I ended my affair with Miss Slade. I came home to you. That promise at least I didn’t break.”
“But the baby—your own child—how can you consider your involvement with Miss Slade finished when—”
“Ah come, Sylvia, let’s not be romantic and sentimental about this!” He was on his feet again. I could almost hear the air crackle with the tension which emanated from him. “Let’s be practical and realistic! I had two choices where the child was concerned: I could either acknowledge him or not acknowledge him. I considered the circumstances and when I realized it would be disastrous for everyone concerned if I acknowledged him, I came to the decision which thousands of people make every year when for various reasons they put their children up for adoption. I decided to sever my connection with him and play no part in his life.”
“But—”
“Very well, supposing I had acknowledged him—supposing I had! I had already broken my promise to you on the subject of children—do you imagine I wanted to compound my shoddy behavior by holding my broken promise up for public inspection? Do you think I could possibly do such a thing to you? Do you think you mean so little to me that I’d ride roughshod over all your most private grief?”
“Oh, Paul, I—”
“And what about the child? He’s going to have enough problems growing up as the bastard son of the notorious Dinah Slade. Do I want to multiply his problems by having him grow up the bastard son of the notorious Paul Van Zale? And what good would my money and my fame do him? All that child is going to want is the chance to grow up in humble obscurity without his parents’ reputations hanging around his neck like twin millstones. Do you think I want him to accuse me later of ruining his life by selfishly laying claim to him as soon as he entered the world? Wouldn’t it be better if he grew up not knowing me? Then at least someday he might realize that I did the unselfish thing, the right thing, the only decent thing by letting him go.”
I could not speak.
“I suppose you doubt my sincerity,” he said, misinterpreting my silence. “You don’t think I’ve really made up my mind to have no connection with the child. Well, why do you think last year I made such an effort to take an interest in that odd little boy of Mildred’s? I thought if only I could have a son here I wouldn’t care—”
He stopped. In his distress he had said too much. In the silence which followed I knew we were both thinking of those innumerable times he had told me he did not want a child. At last he said, “I feel so angry. I had totally accepted the fact that I had no children—I genuinely meant it when I told you not to distress yourself on my account if you couldn’t have a child. But when the baby was born—and lived—I was disturbed. I couldn’t help myself. Of course I’ll get over it—in fact, I’ve got over it already. I’ve made my decision, I know it’s the right one and I intend to live with it. I absolutely refuse to let Miss Slade’s behavior alter our lives.”
I managed to say, “Did you never think of marrying her?”
“Good God, no, it wouldn’t have lasted six months! Miss Slade could never cope with being my wife. She’s very young, you know, and still has a lot of growing up to do.”
“I just thought that perhaps—”
“No.”
“—the mother of your child—”
“It makes no difference. It’s extremely important to be clearheaded about this and not be carried away by a tide of sentimentality. If I were in fact obsessed with the desire for a child I’d be in England with Miss Slade, but I’m not; I’m in America with you because I know you’re the best wife I could possibly have and I want to share my life with you, child or no child. Now listen to me, Sylvia. I ca
n never apologize sufficiently to you for my mistake with Miss Slade, but that’s all it was: a mistake which we now have to accept and put behind us. I know it’s hard; I know it’s painful, but we must try and forget Miss Slade and think of ourselves. We have a successful, satisfying marriage and I intend to do all I can to ensure it remains so, but I need your help, Sylvia. Please—it’s vitally important. We’ve got to close the door on this incident. Please promise me you’ll try.”
“I will if … if you can give me your word that everything really is over between you and Miss Slade.”
“I give you my word.”
He took my hands and held them tightly in his. I felt his tension run through my body like an electric current, and when he released me I was limp.
“I’m afraid I really have to go back to my meeting,” he said after he had kissed me. “Will you forgive me if I leave you now? I’ll be home early this evening. Cancel our engagements—we’ll have a quiet dinner together.”
I nodded. Stooping, he gave me another brief kiss, touched my bowed shoulders gently and was gone.
After a moment I returned to the other room but felt so faint I had to sit down. I had just sunk into the chair by the desk when O’Reilly reappeared.
“Can I escort you to your car, Mrs. Van Zale?” I heard him say from a long way away.
I went on sitting by the desk. Dimly I was aware of him closing the door and drawing closer to me.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Van Zale?”
“Perhaps a glass of water …”
He went immediately to the bookcase and touched the spring which made the middle shelves swing outward to reveal the bar. There was a small sink built into the wall next to the liquor cabinet. O’Reilly took a glass, reached for the tap and paused.
“Would you like me to add a shot of brandy to the water, Mrs. Van Zale? Brandy often helps if you feel temporarily unwell.”
“All right. Yes. Thank you.” I did not have the strength to argue with him. I started to grope in my purse but I did not know what I was looking for, and it was only when the tears streamed down my face that I realized I was hunting unsuccessfully for a handkerchief.
A shadow fell across me. A handkerchief was pressed into my hand and a glass was placed on the desk beside me. The brandy was neat. I had started crying before he could add the water.
I was horribly embarrassed by my tears. If he had been a servant I would have been simply annoyed by my lack of self-control, and if he had been a friend I would merely have apologized, but O’Reilly was neither servant nor friend and because our behavior with each other had always been so excruciatingly formal I now felt as if he were seeing me naked. After hiding my face in the handkerchief in a vain effort to stem my tears I abandoned all attempt at concealment and reached for the brandy.
To my surprise he seemed to understand the depths of my embarrassment, for he turned away from me tactfully and looked out the window.
I sipped the brandy and became calmer. This time when I tried to dry my tears I was successful, but glancing in the little mirror I kept in my purse I saw to my dismay that my eyes were red and swollen. I was just reaching for the brandy again when he said quietly without turning around, “Your husband gave me the bill.”
The brandy slopped in my glass.
“I’ll raise hell at Tiffany’s,” he said, running his finger around the rim of the ancient vase. “I’ll get the clerk who made the error fired.”
After a mouthful of brandy I said levelly, “What good would that do now?”
“It’s the principle of the thing. Why should you have to go through this just because some clerk made a wrong entry in a billing system?”
“I would have found out later in some way, I expect. I can’t blame the clerk.”
“Well, I know who I blame,” he said, flicking a speck of dust from the surface of the table. “I blame that little nuisance Dinah Slade. The smartest thing Mr. Van Zale ever did was to tell her goodbye.”
“Mr. O’Reilly …”
As he swung around to face me I noticed that his eyes were not blue, as I had always imagined they were, but green.
“You don’t have to concern yourself with that girl, Mrs. Van Zale,” he interrupted with such strength that I quite forgot that his habitual manner was one of wooden neutrality. “She’s made every mistake she can possibly make with Mr. Van Zale, and now he just wants to wash his hands of her. I often used to think of you when I was with them at Mallingham. I used to wonder why Mr. Van Zale ever looked twice at a plain, silly, immature little girl like Dinah Slade when all the time he could have been with you, always so beautiful, so elegant, so charming—” He stopped.
I stared at him openmouthed. The pass was familiar enough, for after nearly twelve years of marriage I was more than accustomed to dealing with men who assumed I had no more use for fidelity than my husband had, but I was so stunned that the pass was coming from O’Reilly, who I had long since decided was uninterested in women, that I was caught off guard. O’Reilly’s reserve, his self-control and his position as Paul’s most trusted assistant all combined to make me wonder if I had imagined his speech. I stole a horrified glance at my brandy as if I had just discovered that it contained a hallucinatory drug, and then told myself O’Reilly was simply trying to make me feel better by giving me some kind-hearted compliments.
“Thank you,” I said weakly. “How very nice of you to go out of your way to cheer me up, but I feel much better now and I don’t think I should outstay my welcome here a second longer. Please don’t bother to escort me to the door.”
“I’ll see you uptown.”
“No, I … Thank you, but I’d prefer to travel alone.”
He opened the door for me. I did not look at him at I left the room, but I was very much aware of his presence as he insisted on escorting me outside to the Cadillac. He even held the doorman’s umbrella for me himself as we stepped out into the rain.
“Mr. O’Reilly, I’m really most grateful to you for being so kind, but I’m sure you’ll understand if I say I’d prefer we treated this conversation as if it had never happened.”
“I’d prefer it too,” he said easily. “If Mr. Van Zale ever knew I’d discussed Dinah Slade with you he’d break me in half. Goodbye, Mrs. Van Zale. Are you sure you don’t want me to see you home?”
“Quite sure, thank you. Goodbye, Mr. O’Reilly.” As the chauffeur drove away I looked over my shoulder and saw O’Reilly still standing on the sidewalk in the rain. For a second I thought he had recaptured his wooden neutrality, and I was just thinking in relief that I need worry no further about him when I saw that his green eyes were shining in his quiet set face.
Five
I
I WAS DISTURBED BY O’Reilly’s behavior, but there were several reasons why I paid no further attention to it at that time. First, I thought that O’Reilly cared too much about his job to risk certain dismissal by making his veiled pass more direct; second, I myself was too absorbed by the painful fact of Alan Slade’s existence to dwell on O’Reilly’s unstinted admiration, and finally, I was diverted from both O’Reilly and Alan Slade by a crisis which blew up on the eve of Bruce Clayton’s wedding.
The wedding was due to take place on the first Saturday in May, a few days after my journey downtown to the bank. It had been a difficult week. Paul had done his best to ease the situation by offering to take me away for a long weekend, but all I wanted was to be alone while I sorted out my feelings and recovered my equilibrium. Finally I said to him, “I think it would be best if we just went on as usual—at least for the time being.” So we had postponed our long weekend and I had tried to immerse myself in my daily activities. But my mind kept wandering. I thought of Alan Slade and how lovely babies were when they were fourteen months old, and all the time at the back of my mind was the nagging thought: How could a man like Paul possibly have made such a mistake? Yet I had believed him when he insisted he had not broken his promise to me deliberately.
I retur
ned to my doctor to ask if there had been any new medical advance which might help me, but he again advised against another pregnancy. I was in despair when I left his office. In fact, I was so depressed that it took me a day to remember there were other doctors in New York, and I had just decided it was time to make the rounds of the specialists again when Bruce telephoned to ask if he could see Paul.
We had some people coming to dinner that evening, but Bruce was willing to call later. I wondered in alarm if there could have been some last-minute hitch in the wedding arrangements. Grace’s parents had planned a large wedding, and both Bruce and Grace had expressed annoyance that the event had burgeoned into the society affair for which Mrs. Rochfort had yearned since the day Grace entered the world.
Our guests had gone by the time Bruce arrived, and I was about to go up to bed when he was announced.
He was a tall dark-haired young man with heavy-rimmed glasses which hid the fine eyes he had inherited from Elizabeth and which gave him a vague air of distinction. New York society was always maliciously disappointed that he did not look like Paul, but I had always thought there was a strong resemblance in their natures. It was one of the reasons why I wondered if Elizabeth was as sure of her son’s paternity as she appeared to be. A passionate devotion to classical civilization had originally drawn him toward the field of philosophy in which he now earned his living, and in pursuing these intellectual leanings he was sensitive, idealistic and just a little” too serious. “Exactly like Elizabeth when she was young,” Paul had often said to me, but I had pieced together enough of Paul’s past to know that such a description might well have applied to him also years ago.
The Rich Are Different Page 22
