Warning Hill (19 page)

“Yes, sir,” Duncan Ross was saying. “A good boy—that's what he is.”

“Take him down and give him a drink,” suggested Mr. Wilmer. “Boys, they're all on me!”

“Oh, Wilmer,” said some one, “do shut up!”

It was very pleasant; they all seemed to like him. Toward them all he felt a sudden warmth and kindness, and just for a second, he always said, he was plunged in a glittering illusion. For one bright beat of time Tommy Michael thought that he was one of them. They were proud of him. They all were saying it. They never knew that he could play like that. He must enter the open in August. They would see that he did. For a moment Tommy stood with bright eyes and parted lips before illusion crashed.

“Thanks,” said Tommy, “you're—you're awful kind.”

Afterwards every one remarked how nicely he took it, naturally and modestly and not in the least like a spoiled boy. But Tommy always said he should have known what would happen if he had not been so young.

“Tom,” said Duncan Ross, “Mr. Jellett wants to see you. Look, he's over there.”

Sure enough, there was Mr. Jellett, plump and small in his white flannels. He was standing a little apart on the edge of the green with Mrs. Jellett beside him, and—yes, Marianne, very cool and prim.

“Oh, Michael,” said Mr. Jellett, “Michael,” and Marianne made a little face exactly like a little girl in school.

Then Tommy knew there was something which was not right. It was in the way that Mr. Jellett called his name, exactly as if he was calling for a cup of tea. As Tommy walked towards him, he thought that every one was watching him, which was not true, of course, but Mrs. Jellett was watching him, and so was Marianne.

“You did very nicely,” said Mr. Jellett “Here—take this!”

Tommy's eyes grew round. Mr. Jellett had stretched out his hand. He was holding a brand new bill. Tommy opened his lips, but he could not speak. He was staring at that bill and a slow dark flush came to his face.

“Here,” Mr. Jellett could read faces still, “what's troubling you? Haven't ever been tipped before?”

“No,” Tommy could hardly find his voice to answer. “No!”

The strange thing, Tommy always said, was that he never realized exactly where he was or what he was until he saw that bill; and now he was all alone, hemmed in inexorably by circumstances and all alone; and he was ashamed, though he could not tell why, most horribly ashamed. He had always been brought up to something else, yet there was Mr. Jellett handing him a bill, for nothing, his eyes upon Tommy stupidly round and blue.

“Never had a tip before, eh?” said Mr. Jellett. “Well, it's time you got used to it. Take it, son.”

Tommy's knees were weak beneath him and he felt deathly sick.

“I don't want it,” Tommy stammered; “really, thank you, sir, I don't.”

“Don't want it?” said Mr. Jellett. “Why, what confounded nonsense!”

And then it was all clear, perfectly clear in spite of the years which lay between. Slap-slap … once again the horses were trotting down the road, and once again, as though it were yesterday, that shining carriage was going by while he stood with his father staring through the dust. Tommy was not one of them any more than he had ever been.

His voice choked, “No, sir, I don't want it.”

“Papa!” cried Marianne. “Don't you see he's—of course he doesn't!”

“Why, Marianne!” said Mrs. Jellett. “Marianne!”

And then they all were looking at Marianne, and her face turned very red. As Mr. Jellett looked, she raised her eyebrows slightly.

“How do you know anything about him? Do you, Marianne?”

“Know him, eh?” said Mr. Jellett stupidly.

There was a pause, the slightest beat of time, but it seemed to Tommy that all the world was in it, as they stood there watching Marianne. Marianne smiled ever so slightly and gave her dress a little pat.

“Always picking on me, aren't you, Mamma?” Marianne spoke in the weariest way. “How should I know him?”

“That's what I'm asking you, my dear,” replied Mrs. Jellett. “You've been doing nothing but talk about this match, now I come to think of it. And no sooner did you drag me here than you insisted on following all the way around.”

Now how was Tommy to guess, for he did not know her then, at the rareness and subtlety of Marianne? Marianne knew what was what. Marianne had begun to laugh. Yes, she was looking at Tommy and laughing, as unattainable as something in a picture.

“Mamma,” said Marianne, “sometimes you're awfully funny. Of course I know him—in a way.”

“Don't tell me, Marianne, that you're my daughter and telling me the truth? Grafton, do be quiet. So you know him, do you, dear?”

“Of course!” Again that little laugh of hers rang out as sharp as an arrow. And as sweet as evening bells. “He gave me a lesson yesterday afternoon. How else could I know him? Isn't he the professional's boy?”

Yes, just like that she said it, looking straight at Tommy Michael and Tommy stood there looking back. She had denied him, without a quiver.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Jellett. “Perhaps Mr. Ross had better give you lessons after this. Come, Grafton, it's very late.”

“Just a minute,” said Mr. Jellett.

Dumbly, stupidly, Tommy stared. That laugh of Marianne's had cut him like a whip. Mr. Jellett had moved closer and was speaking gently.

“Young man,” said Mr. Jellett, “do you realize you're being devilish rude?”

“Rude?” Something in Mr. Jellett's tone made Tommy start, as lots of others had started. “I—I didn't mean to be rude, sir.”

It was sheer surprise that made Tommy answer so, even in the anger that suddenly surged through him.

“Didn't mean to be, eh?” said Mr. Jellett. “Well, I didn't think you did. If you didn't mean to be, take this bill or I'll report you for incivility and see how you like that.”

That was what Grafton Jellett said, and it was like him to say it. Tommy Michael knew what happened to employes who were uncivil just as well as Grafton Jellett knew. Tommy could still remember what had happened when he had walked from store to store in Michael's Harbor alone in his dusty boots, though Grafton Jellett had forgotten long ago. Tommy Michael's lips were straight, exactly like his mother's.

“I—I'm sorry, sir,” he said.

“Sorry, eh?” said Grafton Jellett. “Well, that's all right Here!”

“Thank you, sir,” said Tommy.

And that was the second time that he met Grafton Jellett face to face.

Oh, Tommy was drinking bitter beer, and beer is never bitterer than when you are eighteen. His body was numb and cold and when he tried to think he could not, because a cloud of anger would whir like a tempest through him. All that he might have said came singing to his ears until he could almost hear himself reply, “Keep your damned old money!”

And Marianne had looked at him and laughed. Yet he walked down the path to the professional's house as though not a thing had happened.

“Hey, Tom!” Mal Street trudged behind him with the clubs. “Did he loosen up? Did he give you anything?”

Without answering Tommy groped for the knob of the door, and then he and Mal were alone inside, with the workbench and the bags of clubs.

“I said,” Mal had a way of sticking to the point, “did he give you anything?”

“Take it,” Tommy spoke like some one in his sleep. “Take it. You can have it, Mal.”

There was no use telling Mal, of course, because Mal would never have understood. In fact, even to that point Mal did not understand.

“Hey?” cried Mal. “Have you got bats in the belfry? It's
five
dollars, Tom!”

Tommy stood looking out of the window. Though he wanted to turn on Mal with a shout, Tommy didn't move. Some part of himself that he did not know had taken full control.

“I wish you'd go away,” said Tommy. “I kind of want to think.”

Mal slammed the golf bag he was carrying to the floor and scowled.

“Aw, what the blazes!” he said. “You always want to think. What good does thinking do you? Switch me if I see.”

Those were strange thoughts, lonely thoughts, that Tommy was thinking then, such as Mal would never see. They were in the trees outside, and in the sunlight. There was a new strength in Tommy's hands. How could he tell Mal Street that he was thinking about things that did not grow old because they were ideas? There was no good telling Mal, for he was some one whom Tommy had passed miles back in a race, as Mal himself sometimes seemed to know.

“Hey, Tom!” Mal scowled and scratched his head. “We're pals, ain't we, you and me?”

Of course they were, and had been for a long time, and Tommy told him so. Nevertheless, Mal still scowled and scratched his head again. Long ago he had given up understanding Tommy Michael and his silences, as lots of others had, and accepted them instead as you accept the mysteries of the tide and wind.

“Tom,” Mal coughed and kicked at something on the floor. “You're not thinking about Mary, are you? Mary thinks a lot of you and … I'd kick anybody else she thought a lot of. I'd kick 'em straight to hell!”

Poor Mal Street! Even in the embarrassment that surged over him, Tommy could feel the hopeful friendliness. It almost seemed, though Mal stood still staring at the floor, that Mal was stretching out his hand to him where he stood entirely alone, too far away to touch.

“No,” said Tommy, and he dug his nails deep into his palms. “No, it isn't Mary, Mal—and please don't be mad. I wish you'd get away before—before—Mal I wish you'd let me have your boat to-night. I want to take—a sail.”

And then Tommy was alone in a place of hopeless grief, where all of us have been, to the borderland at least, when anger and humiliation fly in stormy clouds, and pain, not of the body, flashes in forks of light. That was where Mr. Simeon Danforth found him, his face on the workbench, his hands opening and shutting on nothing but the air.

“Here,” said Mr. Danforth. “I saw it. Don't mind me.”

Tommy had never been as bitterly ashamed as when he heard Mr. Danforth speak, because it was more than he could bear to have Mr. Danforth see him in his weakness, with his face all wet with tears. He forgot that Mr. Danforth had been kind to him. He was always ashamed of that. But what shamed him most was that he could not speak because of the sobs which shook him.

“Don't say it,” said Mr. Danforth. “There's nothing to be ashamed of, boy. The best of us get taken that way now and then. We'll just pretend that no one saw you. Are you feeling better now?”

Tommy Michael nodded and bit his lip.

“I wish,” he said, and it was terrible to hear himself speak, “I wish I was dead rather than anybody saw me.”

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Danforth. “I know what happened. It really wasn't Jellett's fault. Here—shake hands.”

Mr. Danforth was not joking. His hand was as steady as a rock.

“Now,” said Mr. Danforth, “what are you going to do?”

Already Tommy had been asking himself that question. What was he going to do?

“You've got to do something, boy,” said Mr. Danforth. “You see, you're not the kind to stay here always.”

Tommy Michael was standing at the crossing of the ways. He drew a sharp breath.

“Yes, I see,” he said, “but I don't want any help. I've been alone. I guess I've always been alone.”

Mr. Danforth's face did not change a single wrinkle, but Tommy knew that Mr. Danforth was watching him in a different way, and often afterwards Tommy wondered what he thought, and whether he saw the road ahead as an older man sometimes can. Sometimes Tommy thought that Mr. Danforth was the only one in all of Michael's Harbor who really knew him, or guessed that he walked with shadowy thoughts trooping close behind.

“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Danforth. “I never helped anybody in my life, and I'm too old to start if I wanted. Don't be afraid of that. But it won't hurt to see there's some decent people up on Warning Hill—before you get as hard as nails.”

They must have made a strange sight enough in the professional's house, old Simeon Danforth, heavy and indolent, with his hands deep in his pockets and eyes very dark and still, and Tommy with the sharp straight Michael nose and with his mother's lips. Sometime much later, Tommy would feel a sharp uneasiness. How much did Simeon Danforth know? He had a marvellous capacity for watching while those around him struggled in the muddy water. He might—Tommy would not have put it beyond him—he might have known about Marianne that very afternoon.

“Yes,” said Mr. Danforth, “hard as nails, and not afraid to hitch your wagon to a tissue-paper star.”

XVI

Deep in his heart Tommy always knew that Marianne was as right as could be, for Marianne could not be wrong. There was no reason why Marianne, lovely as the night, should have understood that he was sensitive beyond the ordinary. It must have been splendid enough for her to have felt that storm of anguish was all for her, to rise in fury at her touch, and to be quiet at her word. It was all for Marianne, and already she must have had the premonition of a hundred starlit nights and of a score of arms around her and of scores of other voices made faltering by the misty whiteness of her upturned face and the invitation of her lips.

There was a brightness to it, then, though later it might have been to laugh, to weep, for all bright deeds are close to tears and laughter. There was a brightness to it which she would always remember, ridiculous though it was, and a mystery and a danger also, which made it very sweet. From out of the dark a boy was coming ever so different from other boys, and Marianne was there at the beach to meet him, when she should have been safe in her bed. No one heard her creep down the servants' stairs nor saw her slip down the garden path with a wrap around her shoulders, that was very soft and dark.