Window on the Square

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  I had made it clear that it was Jeremy’s interest alone that had caused my change of mind, and Brandon was coolly formal. Perversely, there was an aching in me because he had moved far beyond my reach, but I told myself this was what I wished and I faced him with a manner equally impersonal.

  “I’ll grant you time,” he said. “But not a great deal. I’ll grant it only because I want to investigate possibilities more carefully than I’ve been able to so far. It would be better to put the boy in some private home where he could be assured of good treatment and care. The Bloomingdale Asylum is not to my taste. At least I’m relieved that you’ll stay for the time being.”

  This was not a great deal of assurance, but I must live from moment to moment while I sought an answer to the questions in my mind.

  I bent to pick up the flat collar where it lay in the midst of shattered stone and held it out to him.

  “It’s hard to believe that Jeremy would destroy something he admired so much,” I said. “Not after all this work on the collar he made for the head.”

  “Exactly,” Brandon agreed. “The very fact is further evidence of an irrational pattern. I respect your feeling for the boy, Megan, but you mustn’t be blinded by your own emotions.”

  There was no defense I could offer. For all I knew, I might well be blinding myself. Yet there was no other course I could take until I was sure. As I prepared to leave, I remembered Jeremy’s request and put it to his uncle.

  “Will you allow the boy to attend the opening of the Memorial Home? His heart is set on being there. It seems a small favor to grant him.”

  As had happened before, Brandon seemed to freeze at mention of the memorial, his disapproval clearly evident.

  “That is something I can’t allow,” he said. “Why should he want it?”

  “Perhaps it’s a—a penance he wants to make,” I suggested not wishing to betray Jeremy’s confidence. “Why must you punish him in this particular way?”

  Brandon knelt to pick up portions of the shattered stone head. “I’m not punishing him. The boy’s behavior is too emotional, too uncertain. We can’t have a scene at this ceremony. The papers will be eager for any sensational tidbit they can feed upon. I don’t want them raking up what happened in the past because of the boy’s presence.”

  I could understand this, but I felt that the effect upon Jeremy was more important and I said so firmly. Brandon had found a portion of the stone profile—a large piece with part of the brow and cheek, most of the nose, and the entire mouth almost intact. He rose with the piece in hand, and it was strange to see the stone lips with their tolerant smile still untouched by destruction.

  “A paper weight for my desk,” he said wryly. Then he looked at me again. “The matter is closed. The boy cannot be allowed to attend. If you can’t make that clear to him, I will.”

  “I’ll try to make him understand,” I said.

  All seemed to be at an end between us, and I would have gone from the room, but he put a hand lightly upon my arm and I remembered with a pang the warm clasp of his hands on that cold happy day when I had skated with him in Central Park. How long ago that seemed to me now.

  “When did you last have a full night’s sleep, Megan?”

  I managed a stiff smile. “Not last night. But I can sleep during lesson time this morning.” I moved from his touch because I did not like the way a weakness I decried started through me.

  He noted my withdrawal as he had noted it the first day I had come to this house.

  “I’ve granted you time with Jeremy,” he said. “So now you must grant me time as well, Megan. Believe in me for a little while. I am not without ingenuity. A way out must be found. Do you understand what I mean, Megan? A way out for us.”

  But there was no way out with honor and without harm to others. His words broke my heart a little, and I knew I dared not stay, dared not listen, lest I be in his arms again. I gave him a quick, governess’ bow and would have hurried away, had it not been for a sudden interruption.

  Henry came to the library to say that a telegram had come for Mr. Reid, and the messenger was waiting for an answer.

  Brandon opened the wire and spoke quickly to Henry. “It’s my father. He is gravely ill. Will you pack my bag at once and call the carriage. I’ll take the first train I can catch.”

  I wanted to offer my sympathy, ask if there was anything I could do, but he had forgotten me and I slipped quietly away and went upstairs to the schoolroom, where lessons were about to begin.

  Miss Garth was with Selina, and Andrew and Jeremy were seated at the long table, their books spread before them. I had not seen Andrew since our walk around Washington Square on Christmas Day.

  I told them the news about Brandon’s father, and Miss Garth dropped her embroidery and stood up.

  “I must tell Miss Leslie,” she said, and hurried from the room.

  “It’s a wonder the old man has held on as long as he has,” Andrew said. But there was something that interested him more, and he cocked an eyebrow in my direction. “Garth has been giving me an account of your exciting night,” he told me. “With possible embellishments. Sometime I’d like your version, Megan.”

  I knew by the way Jeremy bent over the pages of his book that Miss Garth had let vitriol flow and he had retreated from the flood.

  “I’ll be happy to give you an account of what happened,” I said. “It may be different from other accounts you’ve received.”

  Jeremy looked at me, suddenly intent. “Have you asked my uncle about attending the memorial opening?”

  In the face of his anxiety I made a sudden resolve. “Yes, I have,” I admitted. “For reasons that have nothing to do with any punishment, neither you nor Selina may attend. However, I am going in your place, Jeremy. I know it won’t accomplish the same purpose, but at least I will be there for you and I’ll come home right after it’s over and tell you everything that happened. And later I’ll take you there on a special visit. Will that help a little?”

  He was far from content. Disappointment lay upon him heavily, but he returned to his book without argument.

  Andrew was openly displeased with my plan. “If Reid had any sense, he would see that the affair was canceled. It’s no place for you, Megan, or for anyone else from this house. Let Reid be the one to make a target of himself if he wants scandal to break again. The rest of you should stay home.”

  “He doesn’t want it,” I said. “He is very much against the whole thing.”

  “Yet he allows it to go on. Even Garth is worried about the outcome.”

  What could happen other than further unpleasantness in the papers, I did not know, and I was not at that time particularly interested. I left them to their lessons and returned to my room, where I lay down to rest.

  It was disturbing to realize that Brandon would now be away in New Jersey and I would be left alone with two women who hated me.

  Nevertheless, the days passed quietly enough and nothing untoward happened. Word that his father had died came from Brandon. He would return immediately after the funeral, and in time for the opening of the memorial.

  I began to count the days.

  During this period Jeremy was not well. The destruction of the Osiris head was taking its after-toll in his own concern about his actions. I longed to offer him reassurance, but I did not dare because I could not be sure. My belief was something that seemed reasonable to me, but I had no shred of evidence to support it. With Jeremy’s curious trick of absenting himself from the world around him, it was still possible that he had destroyed the head in a moment of fierce anger against his uncle and then blanked the incident from his mind.

  The fact that after the occurrence Leslie, too, was ill, offered me nothing in the way of proof. These days she seemed increasingly upset by the slightest thing, and I wondered that she insisted upon attending the opening of the memorial to her first husband.

  Garth refused flatly to go. Not even for her beloved Leslie would she attend this affai
r. My own intention of going I meant to keep to myself until the time came.

  Brandon returned home a day ahead of the affair, and while he expressed grief over the death of his father, there was something strange about him that had nothing to do with his loss. Something suppressed and restrained, as if he held himself back with difficulty. I know he was closeted with Leslie for some hours on the day of his return.

  On the morning of the memorial ceremony I hurried through the house looking for him, to announce my plan. I found him alone in the dining room, finishing breakfast. He invited me to join him, and I sat down reluctantly. I knew he would regard my purpose as sheer obstinacy and I wanted to get through the announcement of what I meant to do as quickly as possible.

  He gave me no immediate chance, but began to reminisce about his father, telling me more of the old man and his fierce family pride, of how he had worshiped his younger son and taken satisfaction in his every achievement.

  “I kept that intact for him, at least,” Brandon said. “I let nothing destroy it, no matter what the cost. And he never knew the cruel truth about—about what happened. He seemed content to have me with him at the end, even though I’ve never taken the course he wanted me to follow.”

  Brandon fell silent and when I knew he did not mean to continue, I told him what I had come to tell him.

  “I’ve made a bargain with Jeremy,” I said.

  He began to watch me with an odd intensity, and I saw that some elation kindled him this morning. When he made no comment, I hastened to explain my plan.

  “Since Jeremy cannot go to the ceremony, I’ve promised that I will go in his place, and that later I will take him there on a visit. Naturally I will not join the family. I’ll slip in quietly and sit somewhere at the back of the room.”

  “As you like,” he said with surprising indifference, and I sensed the excitement in him, barely restrained.

  Suddenly he leaned toward me across the table. “Megan, I’ve talked to Leslie. I’ve told her that she must release me from this impossible marriage. She has cause enough, and it’s hopeless to go on living together under the same roof when we detest each other.”

  I sat very still, saying nothing.

  “She took it rather well,” he went on. “At least she indulged in no fits of temper or weeping. In fact, she said very little, one way or another. How she will react when she’s had time to think my proposal over is a matter for speculation. There may easily be a scandal if she chooses to make one. Or there may be nothing at all. In any case, I’ve decided to leave this house as soon as I am able.”

  In spite of my own involvement with his plans, I had to think of Jeremy. “If you leave, what of the boy?”

  He set his coffee cup down sharply. “If the boy were normal, I would consider him to a greater extent. He is not. There’s no further doubt on that score. At least I promise you that he will be placed in better circumstances than he lives in under this roof.”

  “But he will be a prisoner?” I said. “An—an inmate?”

  “What would you have? If I leave him to the tender consideration of his mother, he’ll be packed off to Bloomingdale at once. And you will be dismissed the moment I am out of the house. I give you my word, Megan, that I’ll see the boy well cared for before I take any step to work out my own freedom.”

  “What if you’re doing Jeremy an injustice?” I asked. “What if it was not he who did that dreadful mischief the other night?”

  “What are you talking about?” Brandon’s disbelief was evident.

  I made a helpless gesture. “I can give you no proof. But while he remembers other things he has done, he doesn’t remember this. I think he would tell me if he did.”

  “Nonsense! The boy is too unbalanced to know what he has done after he does it. Who would play such a trick? And why?”

  “The person who most wants to see the boy put away without further delay. The person who has now succeeded—or believes he has succeeded—in proving Jeremy too dangerous to remain in this household.”

  Brandon made a sharp, quick movement, and his hand struck the coffee cup, spilling brown liquid across the linen. I was reminded of the quick gesture that had broken the carrousel. How could I love so angry and irritable a man? Yet love him I did and I watched miserably as he rang for Henry. When the butler came to clear up, I made my escape. For the moment there was no more to be said between us.

  At least I had planted my seeds of doubt. Let Brandon consider them and perhaps nurture them into growth.

  I went upstairs to dress for this morning’s affair, feeling myself in a strange state of suspension. I could not believe that Leslie would easily let Brandon go, whether she loved him or not. No matter what he had said to her, I did not dare to hope. And whichever way I turned, there was always Jeremy. Even though she might detest the sight of him, Leslie was his mother and in the long run she would decide his fate. Perhaps it was she to whom I must talk. Perhaps if I went to her outright and told her that I would make an accusation if she tried to put Jeremy into an asylum, I could frighten her into a change of attitude.

  But though my thoughts were never still, I could fix upon no sound course of action. The moments slipped by, and I moved with them as though I were carried by some sea current that held me inactive for the moment, yet would inevitably hurl me upon a rocky and dangerous shore.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Dressed in my wren’s brown, I left the house ahead of the others, saying good-by only to Jeremy, and took a Broadway car to my destination. My few months of riding in the Reid carriage had given me a greater distaste than ever for the dirty, vermin-ridden horsecars. I held my reticule tightly, for pickpockets often rode the cars in this crime-infested city. It was a relief that I need not travel far.

  At my stop I left the car and hurried across the street. The sidewalks were rimmed with soot-strewn snow, and there was gray mud everywhere in this mucky thawing. Already there were carriages drawing up before the new brownstone building and people were thronging inside. The scaffolding and workmen were gone, the home ready for occupancy. No one questioned me as I stepped into the wide main hallway and followed others toward a long room that had been set up for this occasion with rows of wooden chairs. A small platform had been placed at the head of the room, with a lectern and several chairs upon it. The front rows, except for a section saved for the Reid family and dignitaries in charge, were already filling up.

  Speaking to no one, I found my way to the rear and sat down to wait, trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. I was here merely as a spectator, to report to Jeremy all that I saw. At least there seemed no cause for the foreboding Andrew Beach had entertained about this affair.

  The long room, perhaps a dining room under ordinary circumstances, was almost full by the time Brandon Reid came in with Leslie on his arm. I could not help but note once more what a deceptively fine-looking couple they made together. He, tall and impressive in appearance; she, so slight and lovely in the black that gave her pallor an ethereal look. Various persons came forward to greet them and show them to their seats in the front row. A buxom, motherly woman, perhaps the matron of the Home, stepped up to shake Mrs. Reid’s hand.

  After a slight delay the speeches began. There was an impassioned eulogy for Dwight Reid, given by the minister whom I had heard in the little church on Fifth Avenue. From where I sat I could see both Brandon and Leslie in profile and I watched them as the words rang out over the assemblage. Brandon looked grim and uncomfortable, as if he longed to be anywhere else than here. Leslie’s profile looked as pure and cool as though it had been chiseled from ice. She was following every word that was spoken, with the intentness of a sorrowing widow, and the black plumes of her hat trembled when she bowed her head. An inappropriate role, surely, and inappropriate mourning, since she had been married for some time since Dwight’s death.

  When the minister completed his words of praise and sat down, a member of New York’s judiciary stepped to the lectern and spread before
him the papers of his speech. I had heard of this man, had read about him in the papers. I wondered that he had been selected for this occasion. There was so much scoundrelism in high places these days, for all that Tweed had been sent to prison, and there had been much buying and selling of justice. Someone farther removed from the breath of scandal might have seemed a wiser choice, even though this man had been introduced as a friend of Dwight Reid’s.

  So dull was his speech that the listeners began to stir restlessly and there was disrespectful whispering. My own attention had wandered when I heard someone murmur, “Oh, the poor lady!”

  I whipped my gaze to the front of the room and saw that Leslie was on her feet, facing the audience. She had flung out her hands in entreaty, as if asking to speak, and the man at the lectern paused in astonishment, gaping at her. She swayed a little as she stood there, and her pallor was alarming. The interruption occupied no more than seconds, for Brandon was at her side at once. He caught her lightly up in his arms and spoke to the chairman as he hurried toward the door with his burden.

  “Forgive us, please. My wife is ill. She has fainted.”

  I did not think she had fainted, but at least she did not struggle as he carried her through the quickly opened door. As the buxom matron hurried after them, the speaker sought his place in his notes once more and droned on above the rustle of the room. I left my seat unnoticed, and fled through a rear door. Ahead of me the matron led the way to a room across the hall, and I followed as Brandon carried Leslie into it and laid her upon a sofa. After a moment of hovering, the matron said she would go for aromatics and hurried away. I closed the door behind her, and Brandon noted my presence with a quick glance, though he did not speak.

  Leslie needed no aromatics. Her cheeks were no longer pale, but flushed as if she were feverish. She sat up and pushed Brandon away from her.

  “How dare you stop me!” she demanded, and I heard the rising hysteria in her voice. “Why didn’t you let me tell them the truth? All of the truth—while everyone was there to hear!”