Tender is the Night. ФрÑнÑÐ¸Ñ Ð¡ÐºÐ¾Ñ‚Ñ‚ Фицджеральд
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Battle of Wellington was won by Major Sir Corcoran Fitz-Hugh Abrisini,’ she muttered, decisively but indistinctly.
Hallie was asleep.
IV.
After three more days, Hallie finally consented to being torn away from Brussels, and the tour continued through Antwerp, Rotterdam and The Hague. But it was not the same sort of tour that had left Paris a short week before. It traveled in two limousines, for there were always at least one pair of attentive cavaliers in attendance—not to mention a quartet of hirelings who made the jumps by train. Corcoran’s guide-books and histories appeared no more. In Antwerp they did not stay at a mere hotel, but at a famous old shooting box on the outskirts of the city which Corcoran hired for six days, servants and all.
Before they left, Hallie’s photograph appeared in the Antwerp papers over a paragraph which spoke of her as the beautiful American heiress who had taken Brabant Lodge and entertained so delightfully that a certain royal personage had been several times in evidence there.
In Rotterdam, Hallie saw neither the Boompjes nor the Groote Kerk—they were both obscured by a stream of pleasant young Dutchmen who looked at her with soft blue eyes. But when they reached The Hague and the tour neared its end, she was aware of a growing sadness—it had been such a good time and now it would be over and put away. Already Amsterdam and a certain Ohio gentleman, who didn’t understand entertaining on the grand scale, were sweeping toward her, and though she tried to be glad she wasn’t glad at all. It depressed her, too, that Corcoran seemed to be avoiding her—he had scarcely spoken to her or danced with her since they left Antwerp. She was thinking chiefly of that on the last afternoon, as they rode through the twilight toward Amsterdam and her mother drowsed sleepily in a corner of the car.
‘You’ve been so good to me,’ she said. ‘If you’re still angry about that evening in Brussels, please try to forgive me now.’
‘I’ve forgiven you long ago.’
They rode into the city in silence, and Hallie looked out the window in a sort of panic. What would she do now with no one to take care of her, to take care of that part of her that wanted to be young and gay forever? Just before they drew up at the hotel, she turned again to Corcoran and their eyes met in a strange, disquieting glance. Her hand reached out for his and pressed it gently, as if this was their real good-by.
Mr Claude Nosby was a stiff, dark, glossy man, leaning hard toward forty, whose eyes rested for a hostile moment upon Corcoran almost as he helped Hallie from the car.
‘Your father arrives tomorrow,’ he said portentously. ‘His attention has been called to your picture in the Antwerp papers and he is hurrying over from London.’
‘Why shouldn’t my picture be in the Antwerp papers, Claude?’ inquired Hallie innocently.
‘It seems a bit unusual.’
Mr Nosby had had a letter from Mr Bushmill which told him of the arrangement. He looked upon it with profound disapproval. All through dinner he listened without enthusiasm to the account which Hallie, rather spiritedly assisted by her mother, gave of the adventure; and afterward when Hallie and her mother went to bed he informed Corcoran that he would like to speak to him alone.
‘Ah—Mr Corcoran,’ he began, ‘would you be kind enough to let me see the little account book you are keeping for Mr Bushmill?’
‘I’d rather not,’ answered Corcoran pleasantly. ‘I think that’s a matter between Mr Bushmill and me.’
‘It’s the same thing,’ said Nosby impatiently. ‘Perhaps you are not aware that Miss Bushmill and I are engaged.’
‘I had gathered as much.’
‘Perhaps you can gather, too, that I am not particularly pleased at the sort of good time you chose to give her.’
‘It was just an ordinary good time.’
‘That is a matter of opinion. Will you give me the notebook?’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Corcoran, still pleasantly, ‘and only to Mr Bushmill. Good night.’
Corcoran slept late. He was awakened at eleven by the telephone, through which Nosby’s voice informed him coldly that Mr Bushmill had arrived and would see him at once. When he rapped at his employer’s door ten minutes later, he found Hallie and her mother also there, sitting rather sulkily on a sofa. Mr Bushmill nodded at him coolly, but made no motion to shake hands.
‘Let’s see that account book,’ he said immediately.
Corcoran handed it to him, together with a bulky packet of vouchers and receipts.
‘I hear you’ve all been out raising hell,’ said Bushmill.
‘No,’ said Hallie, ‘only mamma and me.’
‘You wait outside, Corcoran. I’ll let you know when I want you.’
Corcoran descended to the lobby and found out from the porter that a train left for Paris at noon. Then he bought a New York Herald and stared at the headlines for half an hour. At the end of that time he was summoned upstairs.
Evidently a heated discussion had gone on in his absence. Mr Nosby was staring out the window with a look of patient resignation. Mrs Bushmill had been crying, and Hallie, with a triumphant frown on her childish brow, was making a camp stool out of her father’s knee.
‘Sit down,’ she said sternly.
Corcoran sat down.
‘What do you mean by giving us such a good time?’
‘Oh, drop it, Hallie!’ said her father impatiently. He turned to Corcoran: ‘Did I give you any authority to lay out twelve thousand dollars in six weeks? Did I?’
‘You’re going to Italy with us,’ interrupted Hallie reassuringly. ‘We—’
‘Will you be quiet?’ exploded Bushmill. ‘It may be funny to you, but I don’t like to make bad bets, and I’m pretty sore.’
‘What nonsense!’ remarked Hallie cheerfully. ‘Why, you were laughing a minute ago!’
‘Laughing! You mean at that idiotic account book? Who wouldn’t laugh? Four titles at five hundred francs a head! One baptismal font to American church for presence of clergyman at tea. It’s like the log book of a lunatic asylum!’
‘Never mind,’ said Hallie. ‘You can charge the baptismal font off your income tax.’
‘That’s consoling,’ said her father grimly. ‘Nevertheless, this young man will spend no more of my money for me.’
‘But still he’s a wonderful guide. He knows everything—don’t you? All about the monuments and catacombs and the Battle of Waterloo.’
‘Will you please let me talk to Mr Corcoran?’ Hallie was silent. ‘Mrs Bushmill and my daughter and Mr Nosby are going to take a trip through Italy as far as Sicily, where Mr Nosby has some business, and they want you—that is, Hallie and her mother think they would get more out of it if you went along. Understand—it isn’t going to be any royal fandango this time. You’ll get your salary and your expenses and that’s all you’ll get. Do you want to go?’
‘No, thanks, Mr Bushmill,’ said Corcoran quietly. ‘I’m going back to Paris at noon.’
‘You’re not!’ cried Hallie indignantly. ‘Why—why how am I going to know which is the Forum and the—the Acropolis and all that?’ She rose from her father’s knee. ‘Look here, daddy, I can persuade him.’ Before they guessed her intentions she had seized Corcoran’s arm, dragged him into the hall and closed the door behind her.
‘You’ve got to come,’ she said intensely. ‘Don’t you understand? I’ve seen Claude in a new light and I can’t marry him and I don’t dare tell father,