Warning Hill (11 page)

“Mamma!” Tommy heard her voice above the slapping hoof beats and the rattling of the wheels. “Look, Mamma, is that a common little boy?”

There she was looking at him again, with her hair still down her shoulders. She must have seen something astonishing on his face, for she had stopped smiling.

Tommy remembered, and got slowly to his feet.

“I guess,” said Tommy, “I hadn't ought to have come here. I guess you never knew anybody like me.”

It was curious, but as he spoke, she looked like any other girl. She was standing beside him. Her lips were parted, small red lips.

“Why?” Her very voice had changed. “I don't know what' you mean.”

“I guess,” said Tommy, “people like you and me ought never to know each other. We'd never know what each other means. I came over here because I remembered something. I hadn't ought to have come.”

There was a moment's silence. She looked at him, then looked away, and pulled at the edge of her dress.

“But I want to know you,” said Marianne, “and I can know you if I want to.”

“No,” said Tommy, “I guess you wouldn't want to if you did. I guess I hadn't ought to have come. I'm going now.”

“But I want to know you.” Music—her voice was like the softest music, and all at once she was gentle and very kind. “Don't you like me?”

Surely any one is very foolish to speak lightly of the intellect of children.

“Yes, I do,” said Tommy, “but it wouldn't do any good. You'd only laugh.”

“No, I wouldn't.” She was strangely eager. “You can come here every day, right by this tree, and no one will ever know, and I'll bring you down ice cream. I don't suppose you often have ice cream.”

“I guess you're always used to getting what you want,” said Tommy, “from the way you sound. All you kids up here must always get everything you want. I've got to be going now.”

Surely Tommy must have had a second sight that afternoon. He only knew much later how used Marianne was to getting what she wanted, even when she had no right.

“But how are you going?” Marianne's mind was always darting back and forth, like something in a cage, when she could not have her own way. “How did you come?”

“In a boat,” said Tommy. “I'm going to sail her back.”

“To the harbor?” There was more color in her face. “Well, I'm not proud. I'll sail back with you—so there. Patrick is over at the station to meet the train, and he can drive me back, and leave me by the gate, and no one will know a thing about it. He's only bringing a maid.”

Often Tommy was to wonder what would have happened if he had told her no. He was standing in that sunny place with his whole life in the balance, though of course he did not know. Does any one ever know until it is too late?

“It won't make any difference,” said Tommy, “you'll be proud just the same.”

“And I'm going just the same. Where's the boat?” Her eyes were very bright.

“You'll get your dress all dirty,” he objected.

“What if I do?” began Marianne. “I've got lots of others.—Oh, Jiminy!”

In the polite school which Marianne attended this was a strong expression. Her voice had dropped to a whisper.

“Jiminy! There's papa! He's coming down the path. We'd better run!”

“Marianne!” some one was calling not very far away. “Marianne!”

“Hurry!” Marianne seized his arm. “Run! He'll be furious if he sees us!”

“Why?” asked Tommy, and he did not stir a step.

“Marianne!” came the voice. “Confound it! Marianne!”

“Won't you run?” Her breath came very fast. “You haven't any business here. You're—oh—you're a village boy!”

That flame in Tommy flared into his face. That last thing Marianne had said was too much for him to bear. In a vague way he felt that it was time for action, and he wrenched away his arm.

“Run away yourself,” he answered, and it was all because she had called him a village boy, though it was exactly what he was. He turned his back upon her and walked out from beneath the tree. She said something which he did not hear, but he heard the rustle of her dress, and Marianne had gone. Tommy Michael stood alone upon the sunny turf. He had drunk the wine of life itself, and now, whether he wanted it or not, the wine was in him. Whether he wanted or not, he was out in the sunlight to meet whatever came—and Marianne had run away.

X

A thought was pulsing through Tommy. It was in the wind about him and in the garden air.

“Come now, Tommy,” the thought was saying, “your father wouldn't have been afraid.”

That same thought had come to Tommy when he had taken his first high dive off Munsey's Bridge, while every one waited to see if he dared, and earlier yet, when he first rode a horse in back of Mr. Marston's livery stable. But now those rustic feats of daring appeared slight tasks before what he was facing. Now he was risking himself for an idea, so half formed that he could not wholly grasp it.

Tommy saw that a short plump man was walking down that path which was lined with bushes cut like animals. He had on a gray suit with beautiful straight creases. His hair was sandy-colored and very thin on top of his head. His face was plump and placid, like a fat man's face, Tommy thought, but not as happy as a fat man's face; his eyes were the same light blue as Marianne's, but you could not see behind them. When he saw Tommy he stopped walking.

“Hello, young man,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“Nothing.” Tommy swallowed, and strove to steady his voice. “Just looking around.”

“Just looking around, eh?”

The plump little man did not seem angry, or even interested. He did not seem anything at all. Tommy did not guess till years were gone, that Grafton Jellett must have been in a very genial mood that day.

“What are you looking for? And how the devil did you get here?”

“I wanted to see,” said Tommy. “I came over in a boat. There isn't any harm, is there, just looking around?”

“Over in a boat, eh? Well, how do you like it?”

“It's not so bad.”

“Not so bad, eh?” A ripple of something—you could not tell what—passed over that gentleman's face. “Do you know who I am, son?”

“I guess,” said Tommy, “you're Mr. Jellett, aren't you?”

“You guess so, eh? Well, you guess right. And you're not afraid of me, eh? Well, I own this garden, son.”

“Well,” said Tommy, for he seemed called upon to speak, “we've got a garden too.”

“You've got a garden too, eh? Well, well.… Did you happen to see anything of a little girl down here—about two years younger than you, son?”

“No.” Instinctively he lied. It seemed the proper thing to do, since Marianne had run away.

“Well, well,” said Mr. Jellett, and suddenly he began to chuckle; “and you don't think the garden is so bad, eh? Not as good as yours, eh, son?”

Tommy's face grew hot. He could feel, even then, the condescending impoliteness. Mr. Jellett, like Marianne, was amused because he was a poor boy with mud upon his shoes.

“I like our garden better,” Tommy answered, and closed his lips. “It's got weeds in it, but I like it better.”

Mr. Jellett gave another coughing chuckle.

“Have you got time to see the rest of it, son?” asked Mr. Jellett.

“Yes, I guess so,” Tommy answered.

“You guess so, eh?” said Mr. Jellett. “Come along.”

As they walked side by side, the things that Tommy saw were blurred in his memory, for he knew that Mr. Jellett was laughing at him all the while. That was why, the only reason in the world, why Mr. Jellett let him walk along those paths. There were enormous flowers and miles of paths, it seemed to Tommy, always with flowers along their edges. They passed man after man on hands and knees, weeding and snipping at those flowers, and everything was perfect, without a single weed. Now and then the men would look up when they saw Mr. Jellett and Tommy walking side by side. They walked on shady paths where ferns grew on rocks and water gurgled out of fountains. They walked in the sun where flowers grew like the flames in a driftwood fire, until finally they stopped near that brown-stone house. There was a great stone railing in front of it, surrounding a flat space covered with grass, large enough for all the boys in the Harbor to play ball.

“Come up the steps, son,” said Mr. Jellett, “and you can see it all.”

They walked up the steps, and the garden lay beneath them,—terrace after terrace of garden. Suddenly the gardens seemed to Tommy Michael like a great wall, which was towering high above him.

“How do you like it, son?” asked Mr. Jellett. “Still think it's as good as your garden, eh?”

Tommy drew in his breath, and loyalty gripped him for the things he had always known.

“I like our garden better,” he repeated. “We've got some roses too, awful big roses off some of the bushes by the barn.”

“Awful big, eh?” said Mr. Jellett. “Well, well, you don't say, and here's my house. I suppose yours is pretty big too, eh?”

“Yes,” said Tommy, “our house is pretty big.”

Mr. Jellett chuckled again.

“Come inside, son,” he said, “and see if it's like your house.”

Tommy knew just as well as he knew anything that there was only one reason why Mr. Jellett let him in. Mr. Jellett was diverted by a grubby little boy who was standing by his guns. Now surely that was a cowardly thing to do, as Tommy himself could understand. Who says that children do not understand the niceties of life? A hatred for all the newness and all the splendor of it left Tommy close to tears of helpless anger, and all he could do was let Mr. Jellett chuckle and walk silently beside him.

“After you,” said Mr. Jellett. “Here's the hall.”

Now heaven knows Mr. Jellett's hall was a terrific place. It was a golden oaken glory which formed a horrid parody of an English country house. The stairs mounted to a gallery with Oriental rugs hanging over its balustrades; and upon the newel post an enormous gilded lady in a nightgown held a lamp. Close beside Tommy a huge open fireplace surrounded by colored tiles gaped like a cave, and on either side of it were two suits of armor. It was all very still and cool and filled with a dustless odor. Mr. Jellett was pointing to some pictures on the yellow oak paneling, close to a great door.

“Turners,” said Mr. Jellett. “Turner was a great artist, and there's a Burne-Jones. I like him better myself, and here—” he opened a door—“here's the dining room.”

Tommy had a glimpse of a tremendous table and a row of chairs with high pointed backs, and a sideboard as large as a boathouse, all covered with plates and candlesticks of a yellow metal. They were gold.

“Does it remind you of home, son?” inquired Mr. Jellett.

“No,” said Tommy. He could not keep his glance on one thing at a time. “No.”

“Doesn't, eh?” said Mr. Jellett. “Well, what do you think of it?”

“It's not so bad,” repeated Tommy, and drew his breath in hard. Who says that boys do not know? He could feel the humiliation of it as keenly as though he were a man. He wished he had never come. He wished that Marianne had called the gardeners to chase him home.

“Not so bad, eh?” said Mr. Jellett. “Dear me, now. Come this way, son.” He walked across the hall and opened another door. “Here's one of the drawing-rooms.”

It was all satin and plush and filled with chairs and tables that had very tiny crooked legs. The floor was as shiny and smooth as glass, and everywhere were mirrors and chandeliers, surrounded by twinkling glass prisms.

“Not so bad either, is it?” said Mr. Jellett. “And here's my library.” He opened a door and pushed Tommy ahead of him into another room with bookcases along its walls almost to the ceiling. Through a soft haze of cigar smoke Tommy saw that three gentlemen were seated in soft leather chairs. They all stared at him in a way that made him cold. They all had on rich silk cravats, and enormous gold watch chains decorated their vests, but for a moment their faces were a blur.

“Now what the deuce,” one of them said to Mr. Jellett, “have you brought in?”

“A young visitor,” said Mr. Jellett. “I've been showing him the house and garden, and he says it's not so bad.”

Two of the gentlemen who were younger than the third began to laugh.

“Bully!” cried one. “Perfectly bully!” He was the one who had spoken first, a thin man in a blue suit with a hard brown face. “I'd never have guessed you had a sense of humor, Jellett. But there—something's wrong with him. He doesn't join together.”

The other younger man stopped laughing and also became very serious. He leaned over and stared cautiously at Tommy. He was pale; his hair was yellow and parted in the center.

“There actually is something wrong,” he remarked. “What made you bring him in here to spoil my concentration? Am I wrong or am I right? Is something hanging out of him? Am I wrong, or am I right?”

Tommy turned crimson and tugged at his middle. It was his stomach string again.

“Curious,” said the pale gentleman, “most awfully curious. Maybe we all are parting in the middle. It may be the end—to be parted in the middle.”

“Oh, Lord!” said the brown-faced gentleman. “Why won't you go home, Wilmer?”

Then Tommy knew who the pale gentleman was. The man at the post office frequently spoke of Mr. Horatio Wilmer. They said he was very fast, though Tommy could see nothing speedy about him.

“Now Willie Judkins,” said Mr. Wilmer to the brown-faced man, “it isn't right to say that. It isn't kind. If I am not behaving, it is all your fault. Now stop, because you spoil my concentration.”

“Oh, Lord!” repeated Mr. Judkins. “Why won't you go home? My car can take you. Where's Marianne, Jellett? Weren't you going to bring in the child?”