TENDER IS THE NIGHT (The Original 1934 Edition). Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд

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СКАЧАТЬ narrow, sallow countenance, “it’s just something my face does when it sees four bits comin’.”

      Sylvester waved him away.

      “Waiters are happy because they’ve never had anything better,” he thought. “They haven’t enough imagination to want anything.”

      At nine o’clock from sheer boredom he sought his expressionless bed.

      II.

      As Sylvester left the cigar store, Waldron Crosby followed him out, and turning off Fifth Avenue down a cross street entered a brokerage office. A plump man with nervous hands rose and hailed him.

      “Hello, Waldron.”

      “Hello, Potter—I just dropped in to hear the worst.”

      The plump man frowned.

      “We’ve just got the news,” he said.

      “Well, what is it? Another drop?”

      “Closed at seventy-eight. Sorry, old boy.”

      “Whew!”

      “Hit pretty hard?”

      “Cleaned out!”

      The plump man shook his head, indicating that life was too much for him, and turned away.

      Crosby sat there for a moment without moving. Then he rose, walked into Potter’s private office and picked up the phone.

      “Gi’me Larchmont 838.”

      In a moment he had his connection.

      “Mrs. Crosby there?”

      A man’s voice answered him.

      “Yes; this you, Crosby? This is Doctor Shipman.”

      “Dr. Shipman?” Crosby’s voice showed sudden anxiety.

      “Yes—I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon. The situation’s changed and we expect the child tonight.”

      “Tonight?”

      “Yes. Everything’s O. K. But you’d better come right out.”

      “I will. Good-bye.”

      He hung up the receiver and started out the door, but paused as an idea struck him. He returned, and this time called a Manhattan number.

      “Hello, Donny, this is Crosby.”

      “Hello, there, old boy. You just caught me; I was going—”

      “Say, Donny, I want a job right away, quick.”

      “For whom?”

      “For me.”

      “Why, what’s the—”

      “Never mind. Tell you later. Got one for me?”

      “Why, Waldron, there’s not a blessed thing here except a clerkship. Perhaps next—”

      “What salary goes with the clerkship?”

      “Forty—say forty-five a week.”

      “I’ve got you. I start tomorrow.”

      “All right. But say, old man—”

      “Sorry, Donny, but I’ve got to run.”

      Crosby hurried from the brokerage office with a wave and a smile at Potter. In the street he took out a handful of small change and after surveying it critically hailed a taxi.

      “Grand Central—quick!” he told the driver.

      III.

      At six o’clock Betty Tearle signed the letter, put it into an envelope and wrote her husband’s name upon it. She went into his room and after a moment’s hesitation set a black cushion on the bed and laid the white letter on it so that it could not fail to attract his attention when he came in. Then with a quick glance around the room she walked into the hall and upstairs to the nursery.

      “Clare,” she called softly.

      “Oh, Mummy!” Clare left her doll’s house and scurried to her mother.

      “Where’s Billy, Clare?”

      Billy appeared eagerly from under the bed.

      “Got anything for me?” he inquired politely.

      His mother’s laugh ended in a little catch and she caught both her children to her and kissed them passionately. She found that she was crying quietly and their flushed little faces seemed cool against the sudden fever racing through her blood.

      “Take care of Clare—always—Billy darling—”

      Billy was puzzled and rather awed.

      “You’re crying,” he accused gravely.

      “I know—I know I am—”

      Clare gave a few tentative sniffles, hesitated, and then clung to her mother in a storm of weeping.

      “I d-don’t feel good, Mummy—I don’t feel good.”

      Betty soothed her quietly.

      “We won’t cry any more, Clare dear—either of us.”

      But as she rose to leave the room her glance at Billy bore a mute appeal, too vain, she knew, to be registered on his childish consciousness.

      Half an hour later as she carried her travelling bag to a taxi-cab at the door she raised her hand to her face in mute admission that a veil served no longer to hide her from the world.

      “But I’ve chosen,” she thought dully.

      As the car turned the corner she wept again, resisting a temptation to give up and go back.

      “Oh, my God!” she whispered. “What am I doing? What have I done? What have I done?”

      IV.

      When Jerry, the sallow, narrow-faced waiter, left Sylvester’s rooms he reported to the head-waiter, and then checked out for the day.

      He took the subway south and alighting at Williams Street walked a few blocks and entered a billiard parlour.

      An hour later he emerged with a cigarette drooping from his bloodless lips, and stood on the sidewalk as if hesitating before making a decision. He set off eastward.

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