Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald - F. Scott Fitzgerald - Страница 163

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 traveling 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?”