Window on the Square

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  I knew what he meant. The missing gun must be the pistol he had used that terrible day.

  “Why do you want it?” I asked him.

  He held out his hand, the forefinger curling as though he pulled a trigger. “I like guns,” he said. “I like to feel them in my hand. But I can’t get these out without breaking the glass. Maybe I will break it someday. When I want to shoot someone.”

  The entire eerie experience was beginning to wear on my nerves, and something of what I felt must have revealed itself in my face. Jeremy pounced upon my reaction with malice.

  “You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?” he demanded, looking pleased with himself. “You know what I’m like now, and you’re afraid!”

  I rallied my last resources against him. “Yes, I know what you are like,” I said, sounding cross. “You are a little boy showing off, and people who show off rather bore me. I believe I will go upstairs and read my book about Egypt.”

  I did not wait to see what he made of that, but went briskly to the door of the drawing room. I heard him follow me and I turned toward the stairs. Just behind me he paused.

  “I’d like to go outside for a while,” he said. “I’m tired of the house.”

  So normal a suggestion pleased me. “That’s a fine idea. Let’s get into our coats and go out for a walk.”

  For the first time I heard him laugh, but the sound was far from reassuring.

  “I’ll race you upstairs!” he shouted and tore past me.

  I lifted my skirts and went after him, but he had a head start and beat me soundly. I was out of breath, but laughing when I joined him at the head of the stairs.

  “I can beat a girl any day!” he announced, triumphant again and overly excited. “You can’t catch me going down either.”

  He turned and ran down again before I could move to stop him, and as I watched he opened the front door and disappeared outside, slamming it shut behind him.

  That alarmed me, and I hurried down and stepped out into the cold brisk air. He was already out of sight. Perhaps he was hiding nearby, playing a trick as any boy might. It was too cold to be out without a coat, so he wouldn’t stay long. I called him, but had no answer. When I turned shivering to the door I found the latch had caught and I had to disturb the butler in order to get in.

  With little effort Henry managed to imply that he did not regard me as gentry. He stared in disapproval at my disheveled and uncloaked appearance. I did not stand on ceremony, but told him at once that Jeremy had run outside and I didn’t know where he had gone. Undoubtedly he would return as soon as he got cold, but perhaps someone should look for him.

  “If you’ve let him get out, he’s off and gone by now,” the man said, his disapproval of me increasing. “He has run away in his nightshirt—that one. We didn’t find him till morning one time.”

  I was truly frightened now. I sent Fuller and Kate to search for him, put on my wraps, and stood outside for a while, calling. Kate went to the nearest police station, but there had been no sign of Jeremy. At last I returned indoors to pace the hall. It was there Brandon Reid found me when he came home. I could only tell him at once that the boy was gone.

  His cold look let me know that he placed the blame upon me—where, after all, it belonged. But I wanted no time wasted on reproach or questions.

  “What can we do?” I cried. “Where can he have gone? He will be cold without his coat!”

  “Don’t chatter,” Mr. Reid said. “Or if you must, go upstairs. I dislike excitable females.”

  He strode toward the rear of the hall, and I heard him giving orders for the carriage to be made ready at once. For all that his words angered me, they steadied me as well. At least the problem was now in sure hands and I could hold my anxiety for the child in abeyance. I stood where I was until my employer returned to the front hall.

  “I have an idea where he may have gone,” he said curtly. “I’ll drive out in search of him as soon as the carriage is ready.”

  “Let me come with you,” I pleaded. I could not bear the thought of waiting here, inactive. And besides, if the boy were found I wanted to be there to take some of the blame from him. I did not trust the bright anger that had replaced the chill in Brandon Reid’s eyes.

  He stared as if he found everything about me distasteful, and I could see refusal coming.

  “I’ll promise not to chatter,” I said meekly. “I know what has happened is my fault. But please let me come and help you, Mr. Reid.”

  “Help me?” The dark brows drew down in a scowl.

  I faced him with increasing determination. “It may be better if I am there. I think the boy doesn’t altogether dislike me.”

  “This is a fine way of showing his liking,” Mr. Reid said. Then to my relief, he said, “Come if you like. This is not a life-or-death matter, I fancy. We’re not unaccustomed to dealing with such crises. Though they disturb his mother. Is she home as yet?”

  I told him she was not. We waited in silence until the carriage was brought around and Mr. Reid and I went down the steps together.

  SIX

  In the carriage I sat stiffly beside my employer, sensing his continued anger, though I did not know whether it was directed against the boy or against me.

  Without looking at me, he spoke. “Please tell me exactly what happened that led up to this running away.”

  I told him all that we had done, keeping nothing back. He listened in chill silence to my account of the visit to Dwight’s room and of how Jeremy had revealed the stain upon the carpet, of how he had shown me the pistol collection downstairs. When I was through he made a single, devastating comment.

  “You are very young, Miss Kincaid, to have been given so difficult a charge. The fault may be more mine than yours.”

  It distressed me to realize that he thought my judgment immature, my actions lacking in wisdom. For all I knew, he might be right, yet a spark of stubborn conviction within me insisted that I would behave again in just the way I had, and that in spite of Jeremy’s running away, I was not yet proved wrong. The most important thing now was to have my chance. I could sense the promise of dismissal in the very stiffness of Mr. Reid’s posture and in the tone of his voice when he spoke. Somehow I must find the way to forestall him.

  The carriage had turned off Fifth Avenue and was moving among the heavier, less elegant traffic of the West Side. Drays and carts shouldered us wheel to wheel, there were single riders on horseback, and the citizenry on the sidewalks seemed a rougher lot, both in clothing and manner.

  “I’d better tell you where we’re going,” my employer said abruptly. “Jeremy has had some sort of compulsion about this place ever since its conception, and he has run away to it twice. You’ve heard, perhaps, of the Dwight Reid Memorial Home that has been built through donations given by admirers of my brother?”

  His tone had hardened, almost as if he resented such honor being paid to the name of his dead brother. I glanced at him in surprise.

  “I’ve heard of it,” I said. “Its purpose is to serve homeless children in New York, I believe? But why should Jeremy go there?”

  “You ask me riddles I’ve no answer for,” he said. “I suppose it’s the same sort of thing as going to his father’s room—a wallowing in horror.”

  Fuller pulled the horses over to the curb, and I saw that we had stopped before a large building of brownstone, still marked by scaffolding across its face. The arched doorway stood open, and workmen were tramping in and out. My companion called one of them to the carriage and asked if he had seen a small boy, but the man shook his head and went back to his work.

  When Mr. Reid got out of the carriage, I followed him before he could tell me to stay where I was. We started up the wide steps and just as we reached the door someone called his name from the sidewalk. We turned, and I saw a police captain dismounting from his horse. He secured the reins to a hitching post and ran up the steps to join us.

  “Good morning, Captain Mathews,” Mr. Reid said. “This is
Miss Kincaid, Jeremy’s—history instructor.”

  The captain touched his cap and smiled at me. “Good morning, miss. Kate came over to the station a while ago to learn if we’d seen anything of the boy. Said you were frantic with worry. So I thought I’d ride over here and see if he was up to his old tricks. But you’ve made it ahead of me.”

  He seemed a kindly man, with a smile nearly as wide as his shoulders. But as the three of us went into the building, I noted a jaw line that might well have been cast in metal. This, I suspected, was a man who could hold his own in the rough and dangerous life of a policeman in New York.

  Painters and wallpaperers were still at work on the interior of the building, and bare floors echoed to our steps. Captain Mathews took over the task of inquiring for Jeremy, but no one had seen him. We went through a long hall with tall windows down one side—a dining hall, in all probability—and then across to other rooms, and at length upstairs to a large dormitory.

  Here the work had been finished, and iron bed frames were already installed. Here our search ended. In a far, shadowy corner of the room Jeremy sat on the floor, still and huddled, with his knees drawn up and his forehead against them. I saw him first—a small, touching figure in the long dim room—and I put a hand on Mr. Reid’s arm.

  “Let me, please,” I whispered, but neither man paid any attention to my plea.

  “Ho there, boy!” Captain Mathews called out cheerfully while Jeremy’s uncle started down the room toward him with long strides I could scarcely keep up with.

  At the first shout, Jeremy uncurled and jumped to his feet. I saw terror in his face and a frantic desire to run. But he was cornered, and there could be no escaping the two who bore down upon him.

  “It’s all right, Jeremy,” I said and ran past them to hold out my hand to him.

  Jeremy seemed not to see me. He stared at Captain Mathews, and the same horror looked out of his eyes that I had seen in evidence in his father’s room earlier that day. He said nothing, but stood as if frozen, watching the police officer in a strange agony.

  “Come now, boy, don’t look like that,” Captain Mathews said. “We’re old friends, aren’t we? I’m here just like your uncle is, to see you safely home again. You’re a big boy now; you oughtn’t to go frightening your family with this running away.”

  “He knows that,” Mr. Reid said quietly. He took Jeremy by the arm, not unmindful of the boy’s upset state, and led him out of the room and down the stairs. Once outside, he assisted him into the carriage seat. Then he turned and held out a hand to the officer.

  “Thank you, Captain. We’re sorry to have troubled you. We shouldn’t be taking up your time like this.”

  The look Captain Mathews turned upon Jeremy in the carriage was both stern and kindly.

  “I remember him from that bad time you had at the house, sir,” he told Brandon Reid. “I’ve taken what you might call a personal interest in him ever since.”

  “You understand that, Jeremy?” Mr. Reid asked. “If you don’t want to be in wrong with the police, you’ll have to stop running away.”

  With that he handed me into the carriage. Captain Mathews mounted his horse and rode away.

  Jeremy said darkly, “If he knew—if he really knew—he’d arrest me, wouldn’t he, Uncle Brandon?”

  His uncle did not answer, but gave Fuller the signal to drive us home.

  I felt Jeremy’s shivering as he huddled between us, and pulled the lap robe over him.

  “How cold you are,” I said. “Here, tuck your hands under this. It was foolish to go off without your coat. We could have come outside comfortably, if you’d waited.”

  He stared straight ahead without answering. Only when the carriage turned back into the brisk stream of Fifth Avenue, did he speak again.

  “Are you going to punish me, Uncle Brandon?” he asked in a voice that was far from steady.

  “You’ve done what you know is forbidden and you deserve punishment,” his uncle said. “I’ll think about the matter and decide upon a proper course.”

  Beside me Jeremy still shivered, and I rebelled inwardly against his uncle. When we reached home Mr. Reid did not release his hold on the culprit, but took him up the steps and into the house, leaving me to follow as I pleased.

  Miss Garth was home, though Leslie Reid was not, and Mr. Reid turned the boy over to her at once.

  “Give him some hot milk and put him to bed,” he ordered. “Get him warm, if you can.”

  I longed to offer Jeremy some comforting word as he was led upstairs in Miss Garth’s undisputed grasp, but there was nothing I could say, no assurance I could offer. I too was a culprit and I went despondently upstairs and into the deserted schoolroom. The fire had gone out, and there is little more dispiriting than a cold hearth, gray with the ashes of a dead fire. I was cold now and shivering like Jeremy. Cold and not a little despairing.

  Had I taken on a task that was too big for me? It was quite likely. The future did not look bright at that moment. I was not likely to get a recommendation from Brandon Reid that would serve me in finding another position as either seamstress or governess. Yet it was not my own probable predicament that troubled me most. I could recall Jeremy’s white face as he sat so stiffly between his uncle and me in the carriage, hear the quiver in his voice as he asked about punishment. With all my heart I longed to help him, to be allowed to help him. Yet by tomorrow I might very likely be sent packing.

  “May I come in?” It was Mr. Reid at the door behind me.

  I whirled to face him, and my chin came up. I would not have him guess my discouragement.

  “I’d like to apologize for any unconsidered words I may have spoken,” he said stiffly.

  I was too astonished to do anything but stare at him.

  “The fault was not entirely yours,” he went on. “If you were to be left in full charge of the boy, you should have been warned about his propensity for running away.”

  I sensed that apology did not come easily to Brandon Reid and knew I should accept his words with gratitude and humility. But while I was trying to don the proper manner, he spoke again.

  “I’d hoped, Miss Kincaid, from what I’d learned about the excellent results with your young brother, that you would be able to exert a gentling influence upon Jeremy. I realize that it’s too soon for definite results, but I must admit that I’m disappointed in your choice of action this afternoon.”

  How quickly I forgot to be grateful and humble! My temper began to rise at once.

  “Why do you think the boy behaves in this way?” I demanded. “Why shouldn’t he run away from the unloving atmosphere of this house? He told me this afternoon that no one can ever like him, and that is a horrifying belief for a child to hold. He even believes that you wish him dead.”

  A somewhat exasperated sigh escaped my employer, but at least he did not accuse me now of “chattering.” When he spoke his impatience was well contained, his tone even.

  “Love, Miss Kincaid, is not easily simulated.”

  “I know that,” I said. “I know how hard it must be for you, considering what happened. But your brother is dead, and his son’s very life is at stake.”

  Mr. Reid closed the door upon the hall so that our voices would not carry and motioned me to a chair near the cold hearth. He seemed in that moment a sadder man than I had seen before. He did not sit down but went to stand at a rear window, looking out upon the ailanthus tree.

  Quietly, without emotion, he began to tell me of his brother. Their mother had died when the two sons were young, and he, being the elder, had taken to looking after Dwight a good part of the time. Their father had been older than his wife—a severe, proud, brilliant man, with a deep love for his sons, but often preoccupied with his work in the firm of attorneys he headed.

  “He hasn’t been well for some years,” Brandon Reid said heavily. “Dwight’s death was a crushing blow, and the full truth of what happened was kept from him. He lives in southern New Jersey now with a younger si
ster. My aunt is devoted to him, though he is still strong-willed enough to give her trouble at times. We all feel it best that he live away from New York. He forgets his triumphs when he comes here and remembers only the disappointments and hurt the city has held for him.”

  As he spoke, I sensed the affection in which Brandon Reid held his father, and I sensed something more—perhaps a lacing of deep regret or pain.

  “To lose his favorite son and have left only the one who disappointed him …” He moved his hands in an expressive gesture and smiled at me wryly. “The least I can do is see that his last years are peaceful.”

  “What was so remarkable about your brother Dwight?” I found myself asking.

  “He had the flashing brilliance of a comet,” Brandon said. “And sometimes as little forethought. I pulled him out of more than one scrape in his younger years. Jeremy resembles him a great deal. Looking at him, I can almost see Dwight again. Believe me, for Dwight’s sake, for the boy’s own sake, I want to give him every possible chance. But don’t ask me to love him, Miss Kincaid. Love is not something I give easily. Unfortunately that is my nature and there is nothing I can do about it.”

  I thought of Leslie Reid and the ardent attention he seemed to pay her. There, at least, he had given his love, and I wondered irrelevantly what it must be like to be loved by such a man. Nevertheless, though I was reassured by the fact that he had wanted me to understand, I could not be merciful.

  “You could at least pretend,” I told him. “Even a pretense of affection and interest would help. How do you think the boy feels when he senses revulsion in all those about him?”

  Brandon Reid shook his head. “He would not be fooled by pretense. He is not stupid.”

  I gathered my courage and put the question this conversation gave me a chance to ask.

  “How did it happen? Would you mind telling me?”

  He paid me the compliment of answering without hesitation, though his telling was brief. In swift, sure words he made me see what had occurred that night when Dwight Reid had been killed by his own son. Earlier on the day of the tragedy the boy had misbehaved in some way. All the Reids, it seemed, had quick tempers, even the gentler Dwight. That afternoon Dwight Reid had lost patience with his son and had shaken him soundly. Jeremy’s own temper had flared. He had always resented physical chastisement and he struck his father’s hand away, uttering threatening words. His father recovered at once and laughed at him. No one took the boy seriously.