The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald: The Great Gatsby, Tender Is the Night, This Side of Paradise, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, The Beautiful and Damned, The Love of the Last Tycoon and many more stories…. Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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him to take Mrs. Rogers home she had somehow imposed on his liberty. Nevertheless, discipline was necessary—there would be other Saturday nights. “Don’t you?” she concluded.
“I apologize, Yanci.”
“Very well, I accept your apology,” she answered stiffly.
“What’s more, I’ll make it up to you.”
Her blue eyes contracted. She hoped—she hardly dared to hope that he might take her to New York.
“Let’s see,” he said. “November, isn’t it? What date?”
“The twenty-third.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do.” He knocked the tips of his fingers together tentatively. “I’ll give you a present. I’ve been meaning to let you have a trip all fall, but business has been bad.” She almost smiled—as though business was of any consequence in his life. “But then you need a trip. I’ll make you a present of it.”
He rose again, and crossing over to his desk sat down.
“I’ve got a little money in a New York bank that’s been lying there quite a while,” he said as he fumbled in a drawer for a check book. “I’ve been intending to close out the account. Let—me—see. There’s just——” His pen scratched. “Where the devil’s the blotter? Uh!”
He came back to the fire and a pink oblong paper fluttered into her lap.
“Why, Father!”
It was a check for three hundred dollars.
“But can you afford this?” she demanded.
“It’s all right,” he reassured her, nodding. “That can be a Christmas present, too, and you’ll probably need a dress or a hat or something before you go.”
“Why,” she began uncertainly, “I hardly know whether I ought to take this much or not! I’ve got two hundred of my own downtown, you know. Are you sure——”
“Oh, yes!” He waved his hand with magnificent carelessness. “You need a holiday. You’ve been talking about New York, and I want you to go down there. Tell some of your friends at Yale and the other colleges and they’ll ask you to the prom or something. That’ll be nice. You’ll have a good time.”
He sat down abruptly in his chair and gave vent to a long sigh. Yanci folded up the check and tucked it into the low bosom of her dress.
“Well,” she drawled softly with a return to her usual manner, “you’re a perfect lamb to be so sweet about it, but I don’t want to be horribly extravagant.”
Her father did not answer. He gave another little sigh and relaxed sleepily into his chair.
“Of course I do want to go,” went on Yanci.
Still her father was silent. She wondered if he were asleep.
“Are you asleep?” she demanded, cheerfully now. She bent toward him; then she stood up and looked at him.
“Father,” she said uncertainly.
Her father remained motionless; the ruddy color had melted suddenly out of his face.
“Father!”
It occurred to her—and at the thought she grew cold, and a brassiere of iron clutched at her breast—that she was alone in the room. After a frantic instant she said to herself that her father was dead.
V.
Yanci judged herself with inevitable gentleness—judged herself very much as a mother might judge a wild, spoiled child. She was not hard-minded, nor did she live by any ordered and considered philosophy of her own. To such a catastrophe as the death of her father her immediate reaction was a hysterical self-pity. The first three days were something of a nightmare; but sentimental civilization, being as infallible as Nature in healing the wounds of its more fortunate children, had inspired a certain Mrs. Oral, whom Yanci had always loathed, with a passionate interest in all such crises. To all intents and purposes Mrs. Oral buried Tom Bowman. The morning after his death Yanci had wired her maternal aunt in Chicago, but as yet that undemonstrative and well-to-do lady had sent no answer.
All day long, for four days, Yanci sat in her room upstairs, hearing steps come and go on the porch, and it merely increased her nervousness that the doorbell had been disconnected. This by order of Mrs. Oral! Doorbells were always disconnected! After the burial of the dead the strain relaxed. Yanci, dressed in her new black, regarded herself in the pier glass, and then wept because she seemed to herself very sad and beautiful. She went downstairs and tried to read a moving-picture magazine, hoping that she would not be alone in the house when the winter dark came down just after four.
This afternoon Mrs. Oral had said carpe diem to the maid, and Yanci was just starting for the kitchen to see whether she had yet gone when the reconnected bell rang suddenly through the house. Yanci started. She waited a minute, then went to the door. It was Scott Kimberly.
“I was just going to inquire for you,” he said.
“Oh! I’m much better, thank you,” she responded with the quiet dignity that seemed suited to her role.
They stood there in the hall awkwardly, each reconstructing the half-facetious, half-sentimental occasion on which they had last met. It seemed such an irreverent prelude to such a somber disaster. There was no common ground for them now, no gap that could be bridged by a slight reference to their mutual past, and there was no foundation on which he could adequately pretend to share her sorrow.
“Won’t you come in?” she said, biting her lip nervously. He followed her to the sitting room and sat beside her on the lounge. In another minute, simply because he was there and alive and friendly, she was crying on his shoulder.
“There, there!” he said, putting his arm behind her and patting her shoulder idiotically. “There, there, there!”
He was wise enough to attribute no ulterior significance to her action. She was overstrained with grief and loneliness and sentiment; almost any shoulder would have done as well. For all the biological thrill to either of them he might have been a hundred years old. In a minute she sat up.
“I beg your pardon,” she murmured brokenly. “But it’s—it’s so dismal in this house today.”
“I know just how you feel, Yanci.”
“Did I—did I—get—tears on your coat?”
In tribute to the tenseness of the incident they both laughed hysterically, and with the laughter she momentarily recovered her propriety.
“I don’t know why I should have chosen you to collapse on,” she wailed. “I really don’t just go ‘round doing it in-indiscriminately on anyone who comes in.”
“I consider it—a compliment,” he responded soberly, “and I can understand the state you’re in.” Then, after a pause, “Have you any plans?”
She shook her head.
“Va-vague ones,” she muttered between little gasps. “I tho-ought I’d go down and stay with my aunt in Chicago a while.”
“I should think that’d be the best—much the best thing.” Then, because he could think of nothing else to say, he added, “Yes, very much the best thing.”
“What are you doing—here in town?” she inquired, taking in her breath in minute gasps and dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Oh, I’m here with—with the Rogerses. I’ve been here.”
“Hunting?”
“No, I’ve just been here.”
He did not tell her that he had stayed over on her account. She might think