Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald (Illustrated) (402 page)

“Noel —  — “

Footsteps sounded lightly through the hall as the maid went through to the front door. Noel reached up quickly and turned up the electric lamp on the table behind her head.

“I didn’t realize how dark it was growing,” she said rather quickly, he thought. Then the maid stood in the doorway.

“Mr Templeton,” she announced.

“Oh, yes,” agreed Noel.

Mr Templeton, with a Harvard-Oxford drawl, mature, very much at home, looked at him with just a flicker of surprise, nodded, mumbled a bare politeness and took an easy position in front of the fire. He exchanged several remarks with Noel which indicated a certain familiarity with her movements. Then a short silence fell. Juan rose.

“I want to see you soon,” he said. “I’ll phone, shall I, and you tell me

when I can call?”

She walked with him to the door.

“So good to talk to you again,” she told him cordially. “Remember, I want to see a lot of you, Juan.”

When he left he was happier than he had been for two years. He ate dinner alone at a restaurant, almost singing to himself; and then, wild with elation, walked along the waterfront till midnight. He awoke thinking of her, wanting to tell people that what had been lost was found again. There had been more between them than the mere words said — Noel’s sitting with him in the half-darkness, her slight but perceptible nervousness as she came with him to the door.

Two days later he opened the Transcript to the society page and read down to the third item. There his eyes stopped, became like china eyes:

Mr and Mrs Harold Garneau announce the engagement of their daughter Noel to Mr Brooks Fish Templeton. Mr Templeton graduated from Harvard in the class of 1912 and is a partner in —  —

VI

At three o’clock that afternoon Juan rang the Garneaus’ doorbell and was shown into the hall. From somewhere upstairs he heard girls’ voices, and another murmur came from the drawing-room on the right, where he had talked to Noel only the week before.

“Can you show me into some room that isn’t being used?” he demanded tensely of the maid. “I’m an old friend — it’s very important — I’ve got to see Miss Noel alone.”

He waited in a small den at the back of the hall. Ten minutes passed — ten minutes more; he began to be afraid she wasn’t coming. At the end of half an hour the door bounced open and Noel came hurriedly in.

“Juan!” she cried happily. “This is wonderful! I might have known you’d be the first to come.” Her expression changed as she saw his face, and she hesitated. “But why were you shown in here?” she went on quickly. “You must come and meet everyone. I’m rushing around today like a chicken without a head.”

“Noel!” he said thickly.

“What?”

Her hand was on the door knob. She turned, startled.

“Noel, I haven’t come to congratulate you,” Juan said, his face white and , his voice harsh with his effort at self-control. “I’ve come to tell you you’re making an awful mistake.”

“Why — Juan!”

“And you know it,” he went on. “You know no one loves you as I love you, Noel. I want you to marry me.”

She laughed nervously.

“Why, Juan, that’s silly! I don’t understand your talking like this. I’m engaged to another man.”

“Noel, will you come here and sit down?”

“I can’t, Juan — there’re a dozen people outside. I’ve got to see them. It wouldn’t be polite. Another time, Juan. If you come another time I’d love to talk to you.”

“Now!” The word was stark, unyielding, almost savage. She hesitated.

“Ten minutes,” he said.

“I’ve really got to go, Juan.”

She sat down uncertainly, glancing at the door. Sitting beside her, Juan told her simply and directly everything that had happened to him since they had met, a year and a half before. He told her of his family, his Cousin Cora, of 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?”

“That doesn’t happen to be your affair. Good morning.”

Juan went back to his apartment and mused over the situation. Noel had been spirited out of town — that was the only expression he knew for it. And undoubtedly her engagement to Templeton was at least temporarily broken. He had toppled it over within an hour. He must see her again — that was the immediate necessity. But where? She was certainly with friends, and probably with relatives. That latter was the first clue to follow — he must find out the names of the relatives she had most frequently visited before.

He phoned Holly Morgan. She was in the south and not expected back Boston till May.

Then he called the society editor of the Boston Transcript. After a short wait, a polite, attentive, feminine voice conversed with him on the wire.

“This is Mr San Juan Chandler,” he said, trying to intimate by his voice that he was a distinguished leader of cotillions in the Back Bay. “I want to get some information, if you please, about the family of Mr Harold Garneau.”

“Why don’t you apply directly to Mr Garneau?” advised the society editor, not without suspicion.

“I’m not on speaking terms with Mr Garneau.”

A pause; then — “Well, really, we can’t be responsible for giving out information in such a peculiar way.”

“But there can’t be any secret about who Mr and Mrs Garneau’s relations are!” protested Juan in exasperation.

“But how can we be sure that you —  — “

He hung up the receiver. Two other papers gave no better results, a third was willing, but ignorant. It seemed absurd, almost like a conspiracy, that in a city where the Garneaus were so well known he could not obtain the desired names. It was as if everything had tightened up against his arrival on the scene. After a day of fruitless and embarrassing inquiries in stores, where his questions were looked upon with the suspicion that he might be compiling a sucker list, and of poring through back numbers of the Social Register, he saw that there was but one resource — that was Cousin Cora. Next morning he took the three-hour ride to Culpepper Bay.

It was the first time he had seen her for a year and a half, since the disastrous termination of his summer visit. She was offended — that he knew — especially since she had heard from his mother of the unexpected success. She greeted him coldly and reproachfully; but she told him what he wanted to know, because Juan asked his questions while she was still startled and surprised by his visit. He left Culpepper Bay with the information that Mrs Garneau had one sister, the famous Mrs Morton Poindexter, with whom Noel was on terms of great intimacy. Juan took the midnight train for New York.

Morton Poindexters’ telephone number was not in the New York book, and Information refused to divulge it; but Juan procured it reference to the Social Register. He called the house from his

“Miss Noel Garneau — is she in the city?” he inquired, according to hi plan. If the name was not immediately familiar, the servant would rent that he had the wrong number.

“Who wants to speak to her, please?”

That was a relief; his heart sank comfortably back into place.

“Oh — a friend.”

“No name?”

“No name.”

“I’ll see.”

The servant returned in a moment.

No, Miss Garneau was not there, was not in the city, was not expected.

The phone clicked off suddenly.

Late that afternoon a taxi dropped him in front of the Morton Poindexters’ house. It was the most elaborate house that he had ever seen, rising to five storeys on a corner of Fifth Avenue and adorned even with that ghost of a garden which, however minute, is the proudest gesture of money in New York.