The Beautiful and Damned - F. Scott Fitzgerald [134]
"Sit down and wait," suggested the lieutenant nonchalantly. "Girl seemed awful anxious to speak to you."
Anthony's hopes fell away.
"Thank you very much, sir." And as the phone squeaked on the side-wall he knew who was calling.
"This is Dot," came an unsteady voice, "I've got to see you."
"Dot, I told you I couldn't get down for several days."
"I've got to see you to-night. It's important."
"It's too late," he said coldly; "it's ten o'clock, and I have to be in camp at eleven."
"All right." There was so much wretchedness compressed into the two words that Anthony felt a measure of compunction.
"What's the matter?"
"I want to tell you good-by.
"Oh, don't be a little idiot!" he exclaimed. But his spirits rose. What luck if she should leave town this very night! What a burden from his soul. But he said: "You can't possibly leave before to-morrow."
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the night-service officer regarding him quizzically. Then, startlingly, came Dot's next words:
"I don't mean 'leave' that way."
Anthony's hand clutched the receiver fiercely. He felt his nerves turning cold as if the heat was leaving his body.
"What?"
Then quickly in a wild broken voice he heard:
"Good-by—oh, good-by!"
Cul-lup! She had hung up the receiver. With a sound that was half a gasp, half a cry, Anthony hurried from the headquarters building. Outside, under the stars that dripped like silver tassels through the trees of the little grove, he stood motionless, hesitating. Had she meant to kill herself?—oh, the little fool! He was filled with bitter hate toward her. In this dénouement he found it impossible to realize that he had ever begun such an entanglement, such a mess, a sordid mélange of worry and pain.
He found himself walking slowly away, repeating over and over that it was futile to worry. He had best go back to his tent and sleep. He needed sleep. God! Would he ever sleep again? His mind was in a vast clamor and confusion; as he reached the road he turned around in a panic and began running, not toward his company but away from it. Men were returning now—he could find a taxicab. After a minute two yellow eyes appeared around a bend. Desperately he ran toward them.
"Jitney! Jitney!" ... It was an empty Ford.... "I want to go to town."
"Cost you a dollar."
"All right. If you'll just hurry—"
After an interminable time he ran up the steps of a dark ramshackle little house, and through the door, almost knocking over an immense negress who was walking, candle in hand, along the hall.
"Where's my wife?" he cried wildly.
"She gone to bed."
Up the stairs three at a time, down the creaking passage. The room was dark and silent, and with trembling fingers he struck a match. Two wide eyes looked up at him from a wretched ball of clothes on the bed.
"Ah, I knew you'd come," she murmured brokenly.
Anthony grew cold with anger.
"So it was just a plan to get me down here, get me in trouble!" he said. "God damn it, you've shouted 'wolf' once too often!"
She regarded him pitifully.
"I had to see you. I couldn't have lived. Oh, I had to see you—"
He sat down on the side of the bed and slowly shook his head.
"You're no good," he said decisively, talking unconsciously as Gloria might have talked to him. "This sort of thing isn't fair to me, you know."
"Come closer." Whatever he might say Dot was happy now. He cared for her. She had brought him to her side.
"Oh, God," said Anthony hopelessly. As weariness rolled along its inevitable wave his anger subsided, receded, vanished. He collapsed suddenly, fell sobbing beside her on the bed.
"Oh, my darling," she begged him, "don't cry! Oh, don't cry!"
She took his head upon her breast and soothed him, mingled her happy tears with the bitterness of his. Her hand played gently with his dark hair.
"I'm such a little fool," she murmured brokenly, "but I love you, and when you're