Warning Hill (29 page)

“Be quiet!” said Mr. Jellett.

“Why should I be quiet?” said Sherwood. “I remarked: ‘What's all this to you?' It isn't any of your business, is it?”

“Will you be quiet?” said Mr. Jellett.

“No!” said Sherwood. “No, I won't. Why can't you be calm like me? That's it—calm. Don't shoot! I'll marry the girl.”

“You'll what?” Mr. Jellett's eyes flickered and the veins stood out on his forehead. “Be quiet,” he said softly. His voice was most unpleasant when a glimpse of his face went with it. “Don't you see the servants?”

Sherwood looked around slowly and put his hands in his pockets. “Yes,” he said. “What of it?” And then he looked at his father and grinned. “This is going to be one in the midriff for you,” remarked Sherwood. “And I don't care who hears me say it! As long as you've been so sharp and found out all about it, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll marry her, if I can't get her any other way—that's what! Now think that one over and stop the argument.”

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Jellett, “you'll be saner after you and I have a private talk. Now get out. I've got business here.”

“Would you mind telling me,” said Sherwood, “why I shouldn't many her, if I want? She's a damn sight better than Meachey, when you come right down to that. And really,” Sherwood lighted a cigarette, “don't look so worried. We'll stay in the Social Register. And now you've caught me on the home plate—”

Mr. Jellett's expression did not change. He did not move a muscle. He simply said, “Get out!”

Sherwood nodded and rubbed his hands. “All right,” he said, “nightie-night,” and walked toward the door.

Just then Mal lurched forward in his chair so suddenly that they snatched at his shoulders. “That's a lot of bunk!” roared Mal. “You damn lousy little liar!”

Sherwood, however, was already out the door and the door was closed behind him.

“You're wrong, Mal,” said Tommy. “He means it.”

You could tell he meant it from the way that Grafton Jellett looked.

“Well!” said Tommy Michael. “I never thought—”

It was the last thing he would have thought. A most curious thing. It was exactly like a dream without an end or a beginning.

“No,” said Tommy again, “I never thought of that.”

“Neither did I,” said Mr. Jellett, “if you want to know.”

There was a revolver on the Empire writing table. Tommy crossed the room, and picked it up. It was an army Colt's revolver, such as the infantry sometimes traded with the artillery, on the theory that revolvers never jammed like automatics. For a moment Tommy balanced it on his palm, and finally slipped it into his pocket, and looked at Mal again.

“Let him go,” said Tommy, “and go out. He'll be all right now.”

And then, just when those men were going out, the strangest thing occurred. Perhaps it was the light in the room, or a fleeting look of Mr. Jellett's, but Tommy Michael knew all at once that nothing was the same. He always said it seemed as though a mist were rising from his mind, and everything was clearer, like water in the early morning when the wind blows over it with the rising of the sun.

“Michael,” Mr. Jellett was saying, “I want to thank you very much.”

As Tommy looked at Mr. Jellett, he knew again that nothing was the same. Grafton Jellett was only a little man, plump about the waist with sagging cheeks and nervous swollen fingers, and that room of his was an ugly room, overstuffed, and overfurnished. There was nothing splendid about that room or Grafton Jellett either. They both possessed a sort of vulgarity that was curiously the same. For the life of him he could not imagine why Mr. Jellett had ever made him ill at ease, because all at once he knew that he was a better man than Mr. Jellett. He could look straight at him and actually, instead of awe, have nothing but a feeling of supercilious dislike.

“That's all right,” said Tommy. “You understand how—all this is, don't you, Mr. Jellett?”

“Yes,” said Grafton Jellett. “There's no use beating about the bush. I won't beat. I don't have to ask you to keep quiet about it, do I?”

“No,” said Tommy, “of course you don't. Come on, Mal. Let's be moving on. Mr. Jellett understands, and he'll do everything he can.”

Mal moved his head slowly like a drunken man.

“Aw,” said Mal thickly, “to hell with Mr. Jellett!”

“No,” said Tommy, “don't say that It doesn't do any good.”

“That's right. That's sense,” said Mr. Jellett.

“Come on, Mal,” said Tommy. “Mr. Jellett is going to do everything he can, and that's all any one can do now.”

“Look here,” Mr. Jellett looked at Tommy dully, “if you've got any idea that you're going to bully me—”

“Bully you?” Tommy Michael looked at Mr. Jellett with faint distaste, but Mr. Jellett's eyes were dull as a misty window.

“Yes, bully me,” said Grafton Jellett. “You needn't try that on me, by Gad. If you think for a single minute my son is going to marry any little—I won't say what.”

“No,” said Tommy Michael, “I wouldn't, Mr. Jellett.”

“You wouldn't, eh?” said Mr. Jellett.

For a moment they stood looking at each other and neither of them moved. But Tommy Michael's mind was ringing with an elation that was like wild music, and Tommy's blood was tingling. Though he always said that he could not analyze that elation, he knew that it meant the end of something black which had always been with him. A spell that had been cast upon him was leaving him forever. Mr. Jellett's anger was gone in a second, and again his eyes were like misty windows, very stupid and very dull.

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Jellett slowly. “I didn't mean to lose my temper, Michael. It's a damn bad habit; always is. Excuse me. I've been having a devil of a time lately. Everything's upside down, and this is a damned nasty business. I only mean Sherwood can't. That's what I mean—and be damned to you, if you think so! And—and, confound it! He means to do it.”

Mr. Jellett walked to the fireplace and pushed a bell.

“Whisky, Hubbard,” said Mr. Jellett, “and cigars. Two glasses. By Gad! I need a drink.”

Tommy Michael stood looking at Mr. Jellett, and Mal Street cleared his throat.

“To hell with you!” roared Mal. “I'd rather have her—”

“Be quiet, Mal,” said Tommy; “you leave this to me. You understand what he wants to say, Mr. Jellett? All any one can do is keep things quiet, and they can count on you. That was all I meant.”

“Count on me, eh?” said Mr. Jellett. All at once Mr. Jellett looked years older. That poker face of his was not what it had been once, for suddenly all sorts of thoughts rippled behind it. “Yes,” he said, “you can bank on me. There's been—er—trouble enough here. I'm sick and tired of trouble.”

As he finished there was a clicking of glass and ice.

“Set it on the table,” said Mr. Jellett. “That's all, Hubbard.”

“All right,” said Tommy Michael; “now we'll be going, Mal.”

“Wait a minute.” Mr. Jellett nodded toward the tray and glasses. When Tommy thought of it later, he understood how amazingly fast Mr. Jellett must have been thinking. “Wait a minute, Michael,” said Mr. Jellett; “I'm not through yet. Will you have a drink?” He did not bother to glance at Mal. Already Mr. Jellett had eliminated Mal entirely.

“No,” said Tommy.

“No whisky?” said Mr. Jellett. “You're making a mistake. It's a special distiller's selection. Well, here's looking at you. It isn't everybody who'd have handled things so well. I want to thank you, Michael.”

“That's all right,” said Tommy, but a look at Mr. Jellett told him it was not all right There was a gentle flickering about Mr. Jellett's eyes, and any one could see that Mr. Jellett had something more on his mind than gratitude.

“And now,” said Mr. Jellett, “I'm going to talk to you frankly.” Mr. Jellett set himself down solidly in one of the leather chairs, and took a sip at his whisky. “Michael, things have been in a devil of a way up here. Of course you've heard—everybody has, but never mind, I remember when you were here last. If I offended you, forget it, will you?”

He was surely trying to get at something, but what was more than you could guess.

“It isn't always that I speak frankly,” Mr. Jellett glanced at Tommy dully over the edge of his glass. “People have been talking about us. There's been too damned much talk already—talk, talk, talk—and I won't have any more. Michael, you come from the village, and you know the girl.
This thing has got to stop!
Sherwood's got to stop or it will be the limit. People are getting the most confounded ideas about us. Now listen, Michael—
Sherwood can't marry that girl.”

Mr. Jellett slowly raised his hand and leaned back in his chair more comfortably.

“I'm going to say something that may surprise you, but I'm willing to back it up, and you won't lose and I won't lose. There's been too much gossip. There's been—but never mind. Michael, how much will you take to marry her yourself?”

Yes, Mr. Jellett was himself right to the very end, and nothing could alter Grafton Jellett. Right in front of Mary's brother he asked it, naïvely, without a qualm.

“What!” cried Tommy, but Mr. Jellett stopped him before he could go on.

“Now wait a minute,” said Mr. Jellett placidly. “I'm talking sense, and I know when not to bargain. Of course, this is a sacrifice for you—of inclination—but not a social sacrifice. It would be different if this were common property, but we can arrange all that. You've always been in the village, and if I know Sherwood, she's good looking. Now what would be more natural? Name what you want, Michael. I'm on the paying end.”

Mr. Jellett paused, as he might have paused at a directors' meeting, set down his glass, and placed the tip of his fingers together; and there he sat, a plump little man in a carefully pressed dinner coat. It all was most astonishing because he was so insignificant, and looked so very dull. As Tommy Michael stared at Mr. Jellett, for the life of him he could not think of a word to say, and yet he was no longer surprised. It was remarkable to remember that surprise left him in a moment. He remembered that a gilded clock chimed on the mantelpiece in a sweet birdlike way. Mal was the one who spoke first. Mal pushed toward Mr. Jellett so violently that Tommy seized his arm.

“Hey!” cried Mal. “What do you think Tom Michael is—you damned old fool?”

“Wait,” said Tommy, “don't say that.” The strangest thing about it was that he did not grow angry. “Mr. Jellett's only trying to do the best he knows how.”

He knew he was perfectly right. Mr. Jellett was doing his very best. He was trying to bolster up a wall, invisible, but none the less real, which was crumbling all about him. There was a marvellous certainty about Mr. Jellett. He at least was serene in his confidence that all the Jelletts were of finer clay. He was only using Tommy Michael as he had used people all his life. “They are rotten,” Miss Meachey had said. “All of them are rotten.” As far as Mr. Jellett went, it was not so.

“That's right,” said Mr. Jellett. “That's what I've always tried to do—my best. I've built this house for my children. I've given them everything, and if all I've got back is—” Mr. Jellett pursed his lips and, for a second, his eyes grew narrow, “is a plugged nickel, I can't help it. I'm taking a licking when I thought I'd never take another. Say the word, Michael. My check book's in the drawer.”

There was more to it than anything that Mr. Jellett said. There was a hint of so many things which Mr. Jellett had tried to do, most of which had failed. And Tommy had a new conviction which he had never possessed before. The Jellett house was crumbling like the Michael house. Its garden would be choked with weeds some day, and the paint would be off its shutters: and Graf ton Jellett guessed it. There were forces with which he could not cope.

“I'm sorry,—” Tommy began. It was surprising to remember that he told Mr. Jellett he was sorry.

“Sorry, eh?” Mr. Jellett leaned forward slightly. “There's nothing to be sorry about—for you. You can do this perfectly easily, and no one will think less of you. You're just that much different from us. You can see what I mean? You couldn't once, but I'll bet you see it now.”

“Yes,” said Tommy, “I know what you mean. There is that difference.”

He would always be a village boy to Mr. Jellett, no matter what he did.

“Well,” said Mr. Jellett, “always let the other fellow make the offer, if you can. If you won't, I will, and I won't be sharp. I'm not forgetting what you did tonight. There are reasons to me why money doesn't count in this. What would you say—to a hundred thousand dollars?”

Involuntarily Tommy looked at Mal. Mal's face was blank. His mouth was opened wide.

“I'm sorry,” Tommy dusted his fingers against his trench coat very carefully. “It won't do any good—to talk like this.”

“Rubbish!” said Mr. Jellett. “That's more money than you'll ever make—and here—I'll throw in something more. I'll have you here to dinner the week after it's done—both of you. How's that?”

“Thanks.” In spite of himself Tommy felt his lips twitch. “I don't want to come to dinner.”

“You don't want to, eh?” said Mr. Jellett and leaned forward. “Then—what the devil do you want—more money?”

“No,” said Tommy Michael. “I don't want anything at all.”

“Rubbish!” said Mr. Jellett. “Two hundred thousand, and give me that land down by the beach.”

It was like him still to be thinking of that land right to the very end.

“Come on, Mal,” said Tommy. “Let's be going.”

“Confound it!” Mr. Jellett was on his feet. “What the devil's the matter?”