Warning Hill (24 page)

There was something puzzling about it. Tommy knew that Marianne had not expected him at all. Her hands moved nervously over the piano keys, high and low in little tinkling sounds, and again he had the same feeling that had possessed him in the hall when Hubbard had spoken—that every one could tell him something if they wished. He had never dreamed of telling Winnie Milburn about Marianne, but Winnie must have put two and two together. Winnie must have remembered the question that Tommy had asked him once, for his eyebrows went up and his forehead wrinkled.

“And ten minutes ago,” said Winnie Milburn, “you told me nobody was coming in.”

“Silly!” Marianne's fingers danced up and down the scale. “I'd given up expecting him, because he was so late.”

“And I never knew you knew him,” Winnie Milburn said and smiled; “there's always some one else. Look here—why the deuce didn't you tell me you were coming to call on Marianne?”

Their glances met for a moment and Tommy stammered.

“I—I never thought you were,” he said, and then he squared his shoulders. “It's the only time I've ever called.”

Again Winthrop Milburn raised his eyebrows, but he never asked how it was that Marianne knew that he was coming, and instead he looked at Marianne and laughed.

“So there's another of 'em, is there?” he inquired; “you might have told me about Tom. We're in the same outfit, as a matter of fact—and it doesn't pay to keep everybody separate. You're getting us all mixed up. There's two many dozens of us. Well,—good-by, Marianne; see you later, Tom, if you're taking the night train.”

Then Marianne was seeing Winnie Milburn to the front door. He heard her speaking to him in the hall, because he could not very well but hear her.

“Winnie,” she was saying, “you'll come again to-night, won't you, Winnie. He'll be gone.”

But Tommy hardly noticed at the time. Marianne had never been so beautiful. She had never been so sweet. And there he was. He had walked through the front door, just as he had said he would, ever so long ago.

When Marianne came back, Tommy remembered that the room was very still. There was a faint, sweet smell of cigarette smoke, and the sound of a motor lawn mower outside. And Marianne had never been so beautiful. She was standing very still, now that they were alone, and her face was almost pale and her eyes were dark and staring, and her lips half parted. She almost looked afraid but it made her still more beautiful. And now that they were alone, Tommy also felt a little frightened.

“Tommy,” she said, “I never thought you'd do it.”

For a moment they stood looking at each other, nothing more, but both their hearts were beating faster.

“I told you often enough.” Tommy's voice was hoarse.

“Well, you needn't have been so sudden, Tommy.” All at once Marianne remembered the facts and became indignant. “You might have let me know. It's awfully hard—I don't know how I'll explain. Papa's at home. He may come in here any minute.”

“Suppose he does?” Tommy's lips closed tight.

“But I'll have to explain, won't I?” Marianne's voice went to a higher pitch. “He doesn't even know I know you. It—oh, Tommy, it was much nicer down on the beach.”

Tommy drew a deep breath.

“Well,” said Tommy, “I'm not going to sneak around to see you any more.”

“Oh, Tommy!” cried Marianne. “Don't be so awfully silly, Tommy, please!”

Sometimes, years later, Tommy could seem to see himself standing there, and the callowness would make his spirit writhe. What a fool she must have thought him in that new uniform, which did not fit too well when he came to beard the Jelletts in their den. Poor Marianne! Was there any wonder she looked ill at ease? The things he said were like the pages of a cheap romance.

Then, “Marianne,” he was saying, “listen, Marianne; I don't care what any one thinks but you. Do you know what I thought when they made me an officer? The first thing I thought was—‘I can walk in the front door now.' Well, here I am.”

She stood looking at him, and he could almost think that Marianne wanted to cry, just for a moment. She put her hand up to her throat, a little fluttering hand, so delicate that he wondered how he had ever dared to touch it He always remembered that she put her hand to her throat, and her eyes were dark like the sea on a windy night.

“Oh, Tommy!” whispered Marianne, “I do love you—I do love you so!”

And surely she must have loved him then. He always remembered that. He wanted to take her in his arms but he did not, because there was something eke he had to say.

“And I love you too,” said Tommy, “and I guess it's time that every one knew it now.”

He saw her give a start as though a noise had startled her.

“Oh—how do you mean?” gasped Marianne.

Perhaps he should have guessed then what was sure to happen, but her sudden start—her bewilderment—meant nothing.

“I mean I'm going over to France.” Even when he said it, it had a tinny sound. “We've got a twenty-four-hour leave to say good-by. Any time after that we go. We're at Camp Merritt now.”

“You mean you're going right away?” asked Marianne.

Tommy nodded, because for a moment he could not speak.

“I think it's dreadful—dreadful!” whispered Marianne.

“No,” said Tommy, “it isn't dreadful, when everybody's going, but Marianne”—his voice choked, “will you marry me if I come back?”

That was how he said it, standing in the Jellett's music room, and it may have been a childish gesture, though he said it like a gentleman, just as he had read in books.

And there was Marianne. Now that it was over, it seemed as though he had plunged into some sea of emotion, which blinded his eyes and stopped his ears; and now that he could hear, there was Marianne upon a distant beach.

“I—I didn't mean to frighten you,” said Tommy. “What's the matter, Marianne?”

Marianne was face to face with a definite fact at last, and of course it made her angry. It made her want to cry.

“Marry you? Marry you?” said Marianne in the queerest way. “But what's the use of talking about it if you're going? Tommy—don't be such a
fool!”

Her voice had ended in an indignant clatter, and even Tommy could see that something was not right, and then he heard her speak again, and hardly knew her voice.

“I never thought you'd dream of such a thing!” cried Marianne. “And I don't see, either, why you have to do this, just before you go!”

“I guess I know what you think,” said Tommy Michael, but he did not know, for none of it was right. She did not seem to realize that he had taken his heart and thrown it at her feet. “I guess you think I'm selfish, but I didn't think you'd mind.”

“Mind?” There was something piteous in the way she repeated the word after him. “Oh, why shouldn't I mind, when you go and spoil it all?”

“Spoil it?” Even then Tommy did not understand it. “Why am I spoiling anything?”

“Don't! Oh, don't!” cried Marianne, just as though he had hurt her. “Tommy, won't you
stop
—? I—I just couldn't, no matter how much I wanted to, Tommy. Tommy, please be sensible. You know you don't really mean it! You can't mean it. It isn't fair of you, Tommy. You say this to me, but you know you wouldn't dream of saying it to anybody else. You—”

“I don't mean it?” Tommy raised his voice. “You love me, don't you? And I love you. I guess I wouldn't be afraid to tell that to every one in the world.”

It seemed incredible that she could not understand. It was a part of him, and a part of all his thoughts, his love for Marianne. Now why did she just stand there with a strange light on her face? Why did she look half angry and half afraid?

“It's nonsense!” He hardly knew her when she spoke. “Oh, Tommy, don't be such an idiot! Oh, Tommy, don't you see? I don't want to hurt you. It is all so dreadful. You wouldn't dare to tell my father, and if you couldn't ever do that—Oh, Tommy, I shouldn't have let you come here. Now, please, don't be silly,—Tommy,
please!”

Of course, she never knew that it was all his life which she was calling silly. For a moment Tommy felt his knees were trembling, when she told him not to be silly and that he didn't dare.

Tommy did not know how it happened. Often afterwards he would wonder at himself. He found himself very close to Marianne, staring into her face, and his hands were on her shoulders, very soft beneath her dress.

“You love me, don't you?” he was saying. “Didn't you say you loved me, Marianne?”

All he could see was her face—wide eyes staring into his, red lips parted, and a sea of misty hair.

“Yes, I—I said so! Tommy, you're hurting me! Tommy—please!”

She was what she was, for once. For once, he forgot that sense of delicacy which surrounded her always, making her something to be worshipped and only half understood.

“Then where's your father?”

There was nothing he was afraid of asking, since she loved him, but how could she know that?

“In his library. Tommy please!”

“Where's that? Across the hall?”

“Yes, of course—across the hall. Oh, Tommy, let me go! Oh, Tommy, you're not—”

But it was—exactly what he was going to do. He always said it was the only thing. She should not have said that he did not dare. Marianne must have thought he was just pretending, even when he opened the music-room door. Not until he was half across the hall did she run after him and try to hold him back. The door of the library was in front of him, and there was not the slightest doubt.

“Tommy!” she whispered. “You mustn't, Tommy! Can't you think of me?” And then her whisper changed and was charged with venom. “All right then, if you won't! You'll be sorry,” hissed Marianne, but Tommy did not notice.

He had knocked on the door already, two sharp raps and, very faintly, because the door was thick, Grafton Jellett was telling him to come in.

Tommy could remember that room as clearly as if he had been there yesterday instead of years before. There were the books, in shelves reaching to the ceiling, and the tall French windows, looking out across the terraces and gardens to the harbor and the sea. The heavy leather armchairs were still there, and the great Empire writing table of rosewood and gilt. It was curious how recently Tommy seemed to have been there, for Mr. Jellett was seated in one of those armchairs with a book across his knees and a paper cutter in his hand, and Mr. Jellett did not look very changed, in spite of all the time. He was rounder in the vicinity of his waist. His hair was thinner and what was left was more pepper and salt than reddish, but his hands, though they were small, had their old capable manner of grasping what they held. He had on a gray suit, for his tastes always ran to gray, and his face was as dull as ever, and his eyes had their old glassy look of perfect vacancy.

“Eh?” said Mr. Jellett. “How did you get here?”

If he was surprised there was not a ripple of it. He looked at Tommy dully and leaned back in his chair.

“I knocked on the door, sir,” said Tommy. “You told me to come in.”

“Told you to come in, eh?” said Mr. Jellett. “Who are you, anyway?”

“My name is Michael, sir,” said Tommy. “I—”

He stopped. Mr. Jellett leaned forward with a grunting noise and laid down his book on the Empire desk. There was no doubt he remembered, because a flicker of it crossed his face.

“Michael, eh?” said Mr. Jellett. “I don't know why the servant didn't tell me, but never mind. Sit down, Michael. I've been expecting you'd show up.”

In his bewilderment Tommy did not answer. There was no doubting Mr. Jellett's words. He was asking him to sit down. He was almost cordial as he asked it. Now Tommy thought—but why say what he thought, when Mr. Jellett told him to sit down that afternoon when Tommy had been turned out so recently an officer and a gentleman? Often, when he was in France, the thought was enough to make him start awake and stare into the black, when fear instead of shame should have stood at his right hand. He could see Mr. Jellett fingering the paper cutter again with his plump stubby fingers, and he could hear Mr. Jellett's voice.

“So you're an officer, eh?” said Mr. Jellett. “Well—now, that's the stuff.” And Mr. Jellett's head went slowly up and down. “And infantry, eh?”

“Yes, sir.” Tommy nodded, and so did Mr. Jellett.

“Well, now,” the dullness sat heavily on Mr. Jellett's face. “That's the stuff.—A great experience for you. Going over soon?”

“Yes, sir,” Tommy nodded. “Almost any time.” And again Mr. Jellett nodded, and Tommy could not help thinking that Mr. Jellett was almost kind. He could almost feel approval in Mr. Jellett's nod.

“Almost any time, eh?” said Mr. Jellett. “And you came to see me first—well, that's right,—absolutely right.”

“It's awfully good of you to say so, sir,” said Tommy. “It—of course it was the only thing to do.”

“The only thing to do, eh?” Good old Mr. Jellett! Why had any one ever said that Mr. Jellett was hard? “Well, it's just what I'd do in your place, and you've come to the right man. Now, Michael, I'll be frank, and it isn't so often I'm frank, either. I've had my eye on you.”

It was like something splendid in a book, and Tommy did not guess that it was all too good to be true—the kindly rich man speaking to the poor boy in a friendly voice.

“Surprises you, eh?” said Mr. Jellett. “Well, I may look half asleep, but I can see. You've made something of yourself. I've been watching. You've had a damned bad start and you've come through, and I like boys who do that. They're the only kind. When you do come back, you come around to see me—I can't say any more than that. Heh! Heh! It's a funny thing … I was just thinking …”