I'd Die For You

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  Reynolds had been glaring at them with an outraged expression in his pale eyes.

  “I’ve never failed to give satisfaction before,” he burst out. “When we were with those two gentlemen in Philadelphia they—they couldn’t do enough for us.”

  His tone implied that the two gentlemen in Philadelphia had bathed them in tender emotion.

  “I’m John Bull himself, I am,” he went on, defiantly, “and if I’ve done wrong I want to know. Why doesn’t your lady there tell me when I do wrong instead of raising all this trouble?”

  “Because this isn’t a training school,” shouted Pawling. “You’re supposed to be an efficient butler when you come here. You told my wife you were.”

  Reynolds took refuge behind his previous statement.

  “I’ve never had any complaints before.”

  “The food’s no good,” shouted Carrol.

  “What?” He looked at her incredulously. “Why, my wife and I ran a restaurant in England for ten years.”

  “Look here, I don’t want to argue about this,” cried Pawling. “Your way of serving and cooking may be all right but it isn’t our way and that’s all there is to it. So good night.”

  They came back to the living room.

  “Why didn’t you tell them to get out tomorrow?” demanded Carrol.

  “I didn’t have the heart. This is evidently their second job in America and it’ll take a couple of hours to get it through his noodle that he’s fired.”

  Carrol took a moving picture magazine from the table and went upstairs.

  A few minutes later, clumping violently, Reynolds came into the living room.

  “Well,” asked Pawling, “what can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to ask you for a recommendation.”

  At this surprising demand Pawling sat up on the sofa.

  “A recommendation! Why, you’ve only been here three days.”

  “Yes,” Reynolds agreed, “but we came all the way from Philadelphia.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  Oblivious to this question Reynolds continued.

  “You see we’ve only got one recommendation and it’s awfully hard to get a position unless you’ve got two.”

  “Well,” said Pawling hesitantly, “I suppose I can write you out something.”

  He went to the desk in the corner.

  “What did you do before you were a butler?” he shouted.

  “Oh, we kept a restaurant and then I was a postman in Devonshire.”

  Pawling began writing.

  “Listen,” he said in a moment. “I’ll read it to you.”

  TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

  THIS IS TO CERTIFY THAT JAMES REYNOLDS AND HIS WIFE HAVE BEEN IN MY EMPLOY AND HAVE SHOWN THEMSELVES TO BE WILLING AND HONEST. HE HAS BEEN A LETTER CARRIER AND HAS ALSO HAD EXPERIENCE AS A RESTAURANT MAN AND A BUTLER.

  “How does that suit you? I’m afraid I can’t say anything more.”

  Reynolds read over the letter, folded it slowly.

  “And so you want to give me my month’s notice,” he remarked.

  “Month’s notice!” cried Pawling. “I want you to get out Saturday.”

  Reynolds’ head shot forward like a duck’s.

  “Saturday?”

  “Of course. We don’t give any month’s notice here.”

  Reynolds considered with deep melancholy.

  “Very good,” he said reluctantly. “You pay me my month’s wages and we’ll get out.”

  “Look here, man, I’m not going to pay you a month’s wages! I’ll give you two weeks’ wages; why, you’ve only been here three days!”

  “I can’t agree to that.”

  Pawling reached up and plucked the letter of recommendation from Reynolds’ hand.

  “I’m not going to give you this,” he said, “if you argue any more.”

  He felt a sort of pity toward the man and his incompetent helplessness but when, in the morning, the argument was resumed he lost patience. It seemed that Katy was very much hurt and disappointed indeed.

  Pawling had his coat on and was starting for New York.

  “See here,” he said, “you can’t argue me into changing my mind. If you’ve got anything to say you’d better take it up with Mrs. Pawling.”

  Paying no attention to Reynolds’ importunate “Wait a minute,” Pawling put his hat on and hurried out the door.

  He was glad when the week was over. After breakfast on Saturday he opened the pantry door and called Reynolds into the dining room.

  “I want to pay you your money whenever you’re ready.”

  “What?”

  “Your money.”

  Reynolds waved his hand airily.

  “Oh, you can wait till the day we go.”

  “The day you go!” exclaimed Pawling. “This is the day you go. This is Saturday.”

  “We’re going Wednesday,” announced Reynolds placidly. “Mrs. Pawling said we could stay till Wednesday.”

  The pantry door had opened half a foot and from the aperture two angry black eyes were regarding Pawling over Reynolds’ shoulder.

  “That’s what she said,” spoke up Katy menacingly. “I talked to her myself.”

  When Carrol came downstairs Pawling approached her incredulously. “Did you tell them they could stay till Wednesday?”

  She hesitated.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “That woman—that Katy—” she said unevenly. “She came upstairs the other day after you went to town, and made me.”

  “Made you? How could she—”

  “Well, she did. She came upstairs muttering and saying that I’d got her here with the promise of a job and then gone to you behind their back. She was all excited and talking loud and Reynolds was stamping up and down the hall like the British army so I got afraid and told them they could stay till Wednesday. Besides I was sorry for them—she said they had no place to go.”

  “Hm.”

  “It’s only for a few days,” she added. “I got a Marconi from Mother yesterday. She gets here Thursday on the Mauretania.”

  That afternoon, fatigued with the sleeplessness of three nights, Pawling lay down on the porch settee and dropped off into a hot doze. The hours slipped away, scarred with fretful dreams. At five he awoke suddenly to find Carrol standing over him sobbing out something in a terrified voice.

  “What’s the matter,” he muttered, starting up.

  “It’s Twine,” she cried. “They’ve killed him. I knew they would. He’s been missing since this morning and I just saw a revolver on the kitchen table.”

  IV

  Pawling jumped to his feet.

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I heard the shot half an hour ago and a sort of yelp. Oh, to kill a poor helpless little dog—”

  “Wait right here,” said Pawling. “I’ll find out about this.”

  “He’ll shoot you,” cried Carrol. “If I were you I wouldn’t go in there without your pistol. They’re raving crazy maniacs, that’s what I think.”

  He found Katy alone in the kitchen, involved in a mass of dough which covered her large, muscular arms to the elbow.

  “Where’s Reynolds?” he asked abruptly.

  “Mr. Reynolds is out.”

  “Where is he?”

  She shrugged her shoulders heavily.

  “Hasn’t he got a right to go out and walk once in a while?”

  This was a checkmate. Pawling’s eyes roved quickly around the kitchen.

  “Have you seen the dog?” he demanded in a more casual voice.

  “The dog,” Katy’s eyes followed his around the room. “Yes, I’ve seen the dog. He’s in and out here all the time. But I don’t see him now. I don’t like dogs,” she added ominously.

  “My wife wants to know where the dog is.”

  Katy pounded the dough up and down angrily.

  “I didn’t go into service in order to watch over a dog,” she answered.
“It’s bad enough to have the smelly beast in the kitchen.”

  “It isn’t smelly.”

  “It’s smelly,” said Katy definitely.

  Again the conversation seemed to have reached an impasse. He tried a new tack.

  “My wife tells me she saw a revolver in the kitchen.”

  Katy nodded unconcernedly.

  “It belongs to Mr. Reynolds. He was cleaning it. He shot a burglar over in Philadelphia.”

  At this point the kitchen door opened and Reynolds came in. From his hand dangled a leather thong which Pawling instantly recognized as Twine’s lead rope.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded.

  “Did what?” asked Reynolds.

  “I say, where have you been?”

  “I’ve been walking,” said Reynolds calmly, tossing the lead onto the kitchen table.

  “What are you doing with that?” Pawling pointed to the table.

  “That? Oh, that’s for the dog. I was going to take the thing for a walk.”

  “Did you?”

  “I wasn’t able to find it.”

  “Hm.” Pawling wondered what this meant. If he had killed Twine in the yard he would scarcely have used the lead.

  “What were you doing with a revolver?”

  Reynolds’ neck elongated with indignation.

  “I’ll carry a revolver any time I want to, and what do you think of that?”

  “I think you’re an idiot!” answered Pawling hotly.

  Reynolds stepped forward suddenly and laid his hand on Pawling’s shoulder.

  “Look here, Pawling—” he began but got no further. Pawling stepped back angrily and the hand dropped.

  “Watch out!” cried Pawling. “You’re a servant here.”

  “I’m a servant,” answered Reynolds haughtily, “but I’m John—”

  “I don’t care,” interrupted Pawling. “At present you’re taking my money as a servant and you keep your hands to yourself. You’re going out of this house in the morning.”

  “I may be a servant,” bleated Reynolds, “but I’m John Bull himself.”

  Pawling was torn between anger at the man’s stupidity and amusement at his identification of himself with the British Empire.

  “I’ve worked better places than this,” went on Reynolds. “Why, those two gentlemen in Philadelphia, Mr. Marbleton and Mr. Shafter—”

  “They couldn’t do enough for us,” shouted his wife.

  Pawling rushed wildly from the kitchen. Outdoors he spent an hour combing the neighborhood for a newly made grave, peering into tall grass and even exploring into back yards. He was barked at by numerous police dogs but he was unable to find any trace of Twine. If the poodle had been done away with the murder had evidently been committed near home.

  He searched his own yard next and every cranny of the garage, finally descending into the cellar and looking behind boxes and under the coal and into the cold furnace. It was no use. Twine had effectually disappeared.

  They had dinner at the golf club, very coldly and formally and when they got home Carrol went upstairs to begin her packing. He knew miserably that in her heart she blamed him for the loss of her dog too—as though it were some last revenge he was taking on her for leaving him.

  In his dreams that night he saw Reynolds set down Twine—Twine cooked à la maître de Hotel—before Carrol’s mother on the Mauretania.

  “I’m John Bull himself,” said Reynolds as he covered the steaming dog with thick gravy.

  “Good,” answered Carrol’s mother. “I’m going back to take my daughter away.”

  “Fine,” said Reynolds, “I’ll introduce your daughter to those two gentlemen in Philadelphia.”

  Pawling awoke, his body jerking nervously upright. The knob of his door had turned slightly; the door pushed slowly open.

  “Who’s there?” he said sharply.

  “Lou.” It was Carrol’s voice in a frightened whisper. “There’s someone downstairs.”

  Pawling got out of bed and slipping quickly into his dressing gown joined her in the hall.

  “I think it’s Reynolds,” she whispered. “Whoever it is he’s trying to walk softly.”

  “Hello,” he muttered, looking down the stairs, “he’s got the light on.”

  “Hadn’t you better shout down at him?”

  He shook his head.

  Pistol in hand he descended the steps softly, traversed the short hall and put his head around the corner of the living room.

  Reynolds, luxuriously attired in a flowered dressing gown, was kneeling before the desk, his fingers moving cautiously along the carving on the side as if trying to locate a secret spring. The desk drawers were open and the floor was littered with the paper they had contained.

  He was not alone. Katy, also in a negligee was moving about the room, looking into jars and cigar boxes, behind books and along the mantelpieces with eager penetrating eyes. From time to time they exchanged a look and both shook their heads in unison, as if so far their search had yielded nothing of value.

  Pawling stepped briskly into the room.

  “Hands up!” he commanded, levelling the revolver at Reynolds.

  The man was so startled that letting go his hold upon the desk he fell to a sitting position on the floor whence he regarded the pistol with mute alarm. With a little cry Katy raised her hands toward the ceiling.

  “What’s the idea?” asked Pawling.

  Reynolds looked dumbly at his wife.

  “We’re poor people,” she cried in a scared voice.

  “You’re dishonest people,” snapped Pawling. “What’s more, you’re going to jail.”

  “Oh, no,” Katy burst into tears, “Don’t say that. We have such a hard time, sir, such a hard time. Mr. Reynolds’ deafness is so bad that there isn’t much we can do to get a living. We never done any harm.”

  “Just having some innocent fun, heh?”

  “We had to do it!” cried Katy, “We’re in America and we’ve got to live, so we made up our minds it was the only thing to do. I persuaded him into it, honestly I did, sir. This is the only thing of this kind we’ve ever done before.”

  Reynolds’ mouth moved convulsively.

  “You had it and we wanted it, that’s all,” he said.

  “There’s no harm done,” repeated Katy tearfully. “It wasn’t any good to you. We didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “Not mind!” exclaimed Pawling. “Not mind your trying to burglarize my house!”

  “Oh, good heavens,” sobbed Katy, “if you’d only given it to us this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Why should I give you my money?”

  “Money?” Reynolds and Katy exchanged a look.

  “We don’t want your money,” said Reynolds with dignity, “except what you owe us.”

  “Then what the devil are you looking for?”

  “I’m looking for my letter of recommendation.”

  “Your letter—”

  “The one you almost gave me. I consider it by rights my property.”

  Pawling lowered his gun slowly.

  “Do you mean to say that’s what you came here for at this time of night?”

  “Yes, sir,” admitted Katy.

  Reynolds got up stiffly from the floor.

  “I’m John Bull himself,” he said irrelevantly.

  “Well, you go and be John Bull in your own bedroom. I ought to have you both arrested.”

  “It’s just trouble ever since we came here,” wept Katy. “I’m sure Mr. Reynolds and I aren’t responsible. It’s Mrs. Pawling that makes all the trouble. She just lies around all day and keeps a-crying and carrying on as if something was breaking her heart—”

  “What?”

  Pawling was so astonished that the gun missed his pocket and tumbled to the floor.

  “And how does she think I can get the wrinkles out of the sheets,” went on Katy, “when she tosses around all night long until it’s a wonder she doesn’t wear them out entirely?”
>
  “My God!” cried Pawling. “Are you telling me the truth?”

  “The truth? Why should I lie—”

  “Make yourself at home,” he broke out wildly. “Cigars on the table! Stay here all night!” Turning he rushed ecstatically from the living room and up the stairs two at a time.

  “Carrol,” he called, “Oh, Carrol!”

  She was waiting on the top landing and she came down two steps to meet him. They melted together in the great square of silver which came in the open window, fresh from the full moon.

  V

  At ten o’clock next morning Mr. Reynolds, swathed in a brilliant blue ulster and drawing on suede gloves, appeared in the living room with Mrs. Reynolds by his side. When they came in they both bent a somewhat supercilious glance upon the plain morning clothes which the Pawlings had seen fit to put on.

  “We are now leaving,” announced Reynolds. “We have a taxi for the ten-thirty train. It’s a very wet day.”

  Pawling went to his desk and after some rummaging around among last night’s disarranged papers discovered his check book.

  “And as man to man,” added Reynolds, sniffing a little, “I want to ask you if you will kindly give us our recommendation.”

  When Pawling had written the check he reached in his coat pocket and pulling out a paper examined it with a frown.

  “I forgot to sign it,” he said suddenly.

  He bent over it with the pen; then folding it around the check he handed it to Reynolds.

  Nodding and smiling pleasantly Katy opened the door.

  “Goodbye,” said Pawling. “I wish you luck.”

  “Goodbye,” called Carrol cheerfully.

  “Goodbye, sir. Goodbye, Madam.” Reynolds paused with his hand on the open door. “I just want to say this one thing. My only hope for you both that if you find yourself in a strange country you’ll never be turned out into the cold on a day like this.”

  His effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact that the sun chose this very moment to appear. Nevertheless Reynolds turned up his coat collar dramatically, and pushing his wife before him walked out into what he evidently imagined to be a raging storm.

  “Why, they’re gone,” said Pawling, shutting the door and turning around. “They’re gone—and we’re alone in the house.”