THE UNCOLLECTED TALES OF 1926-1934 (38 Short Stories in One Edition). F. Scott FitzgeraldЧитать онлайн книгу.
his inner humiliation at Culpepper Bay. Then he told her of his coming to Boston and of his success, and how at last, having something to bring her, he had come only to find he was too late. He kept back nothing. In his voice, as in his mind, there was no pretence now, no self-consciousness, but only a sincere and overmastering emotion. He had no defence for what he was doing, he said, save this—that he had somehow gained the right to present his case, to have her know how much his devotion had inspired him, to have her look once, if only in passing, upon the fact that for two years he had loved her faithfully and well.
When Juan finished, Noel was crying. It was terrible, she said, to tell her all this—just when she had decided about her life. It hadn’t been easy, yet it was done now, and she was really going to marry this other man. But she had never heard anything like this before—it upset her. She was—oh, so terribly sorry, but there was no use. If he had cared so much he might have let her know before.
But how could he let her know? He had had nothing to offer her except the fact that one summer night out West they had been overwhelmingly drawn together.
“And you love me now,” he said in a low voice. “You wouldn’t cry, Noel, if you didn’t love me. You wouldn’t care.”
“I’m—I’m sorry for you.”
“It’s more than that. You loved me the other day. You wanted me to sit beside you in the dark. Didn’t I feel it—didn’t I know? There’s something between us, Noel—a sort of pull. Something you always do to me and I to you—except that one sad time. Oh, Noel, don’t you know how it breaks my heart to see you sitting there two feet away from me, to want to put my arms around you and know you’ve made a senseless promise to another man?” There was a knock outside the door.
“Noel!”
She raised her head, putting a handkerchief quickly to her eyes.
“Yes?”
“It’s Brooks. May I come in?” Without waiting for an answer, Templeton opened the door and stood looking at them curiously. “Excuse me,” he said. He nodded brusquely at Juan. “Noel, there are lots of people here——”
“In a minute,” she said lifelessly.
“Aren’t you well?”
“Yes.”
He came into the room, frowning.
“What’s been upsetting you, dear?” He glanced quickly at Juan, who stood up, his eyes blurred with tears. A menacing note crept into Templeton’s voice. “I hope no one’s been upsetting you.”
For answer, Noel flopped down over a hill of pillows and sobbed aloud. “Noel”—Templeton sat beside her, and put his arm on her shoulder—“Noel.” He turned again to Juan, “I think it would be best if you left us alone, Mr——” the name escaped his memory. “Noel’s a little tired.”
“I won’t go,” said Juan.
“Please wait outside then. We’ll see you later.”
“I won’t wait outside. I want to speak to Noel. It was you who interrupted.”
“And I have a perfect right to interrupt.” His face reddened angrily. “Just who the devil are you, anyhow?”
“My name is Chandler.”
“Well, Mr Chandler, you’re in the way here—is that plain? Your presence here is an intrusion and a presumption.”
“We look at it in different ways.”
They glared at each other angrily. After a moment Templeton raised Noel to a sitting posture.
“I’m going to take you upstairs, dear,” he said. “This has been a strain today. If you lie down till dinnertime——”
He helped her to her feet. Not looking at Juan, and still dabbing her face with her handkerchief, Noel suffered herself to be persuaded into the hall. Templeton turned in the doorway.
“The maid will give you your hat and coat, Mr Chandler.”
“I’ll wait right here,” said Juan.
VII.
He was still there at half past six, when, following a quick knock, a large broad bulk which Juan recognized as Mr Harold Garneau came into the room.
“Good evening, sir,” said Mr Garneau, annoyed and peremptory. “Just what can I do for you?”
He came closer and a Sicker of recognition passed over his face.
“Oh!” he muttered.
“Good evening, sir,” said Juan.
“It’s you, is it?” Mr Garneau appeared to hesitate. “Brooks Templeton said that you were—that you insisted on seeing Noel”—he coughed—“that you refused to go home.”
“I want to see Noel, if you don’t mind.”
“What for?”
“That’s between Noel and me, Mr Garneau.”
“Mr Templeton and I are quite entitled to represent Noel in this case,” said Mr Garneau patiently. “She has just made the statement before her mother and me that she doesn’t want to see you again. Isn’t that plain enough?”
“I don’t believe it,” said Juan stubbornly. “I’m not in the habit of lying.”
“I beg your pardon. I meant——”
“I don’t want to discuss this unfortunate business with you,” broke out Garneau contemptuously. “I just want you to leave right now—and come back.”
“Why do you call it an unfortunate business?” inquired Juan coolly. “Good night, Mr Chandler.”
“You call it an unfortunate business because Noel’s broken her engagement”
“You are presumptuous, sir!” cried the older man. “Unbearably sumptuous.”
“Mr Garneau, you yourself were once kind enough to tell me——”
“I don’t give a damn what I told you!” cried Garneau. “You get out of here now!”
“Very well, I have no choice. I wish you to be good enough to tell Noel that I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”
Juan nodded, went into the hall and took his hat and coat from a chair. Upstairs, he heard running footsteps and a door opened and closed—not before he had caught the sound of impassioned voices and a short broken sob. He hesitated. Then he continued on along the hall towards the front door. Through a portiere of the dining-room he caught sight of a man-servant laying the service for dinner.
He rang the bell the next afternoon at the same hour. This time the butler, evidently instructed, answered the door.
Miss Noel was not at home. Could he leave a note? It was no use; Miss Noel was not in the city. Incredulous but anxious, Juan took a taxicab to
Harold Garneau’s office. “Mr Garneau can’t see you. If you like, he will speak to you for a moment on the phone.”
Juan nodded. The clerk touched a button on the waiting-room switchboard and handed an instrument to Juan.
“This is San Juan Chandler speaking. They told me at your residence that Noel had gone away. Is that true?”
“Yes.” The monosyllable was short and cold. “She’s gone away for a rest. Won’t be back for several months. Anything else?”
“Did she leave any word for me?”
“No! She hates the sight of you.”
“What’s her address?”