Warning Hill

by John P. Marquand

  Mary Street, Mary Street!—He could remember always something delicate and unreal, as she sat by the table that stormy autumn night, staring into nothing, speaking of Warning Hill. And he always thought of Warning Hill, immense and ominous, and of Mary Street before it, slender, solitary, lashed by the wind and rain.

  “Listen,” said Tommy, and it always seemed to him that he was afraid of something in the night outside. “It isn’t so much Warning Hill. I’ve been there, and I know.”

  She had risen as he spoke, and was standing near him, and he knew she was not listening to what he said, but to something in the night outside.

  “No,” she said, “no, Tom, you don’t know.”

  “Listen,” said Tommy. “Listen, Mary. If you want something badly enough, you get it, if you only keep on wanting. You get it. Wait and see.”

  “No,” she said, and how should Mary Street have known? “I’ll never have it because it’s always changing, once you get it. Don’t I know? And I’m not made like that, nor you. We’ll go on wanting always.”

  There seemed to be something, that drew nearer in the storm that made him set his lips and clench his hands.

  “Tom,” she said, and all at once her voice was very sharp and very certain, “we’ll never get there. We’ll never get to Warning Hill.”

  “Just the same,” said Tommy, “I’m going to keep on trying.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I know you will. We’ll neither of us stop.”

  Then all at once he was startled and very ill at ease, because suddenly her face was different, as though a light were on it. He tried to laugh, but he could not. Even his voice was strained and hoarse.

  “Mary,” he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about—really, Mary Street. I don’t understand half of what you’re saying.”

  He saw her smile that fleeting smile of hers before she looked away, and then he heard her breath drawn sharply. It was almost like a sob.

  “Oh, yes, you do,” she said. “You just don’t want to see. We won’t be happy, either of us, Tom, not ever. Now—good night.”

  She was standing there in front of him, her face turned up toward his. Mary Street, Mary Street!—He could remember that she was no longer aloof or far away. It was the strangest thing. In that moment they were just alike and both alone, and yet he stood there with his heart pounding in his throat.

  “Good night,” he said. “Good night, Mary.”

  Somehow when he spoke the whole room was different. Somehow just by speaking, he knew that he and Mary Street would never be the same again. Something that was struggling with him loosed its hold.

  “Tommy,” she whispered in the strangest, trembling way, “Tommy Michael—please.… Oh, well, good night.”

  And then he knew he had lost something. He knew it even then, but only later he knew that Mary Street had seen, that Mary Street had tried to bar the way to Warning Hill.

  All that came to be left to Tommy Michael were pictures such as those, flashing bright from a haze of other days, which were gone into some space behind forever, as the winds must go. Sometimes of a sunny day in some quiet place he could nearly hear their echo in the ceaseless hum of little living things like small, distant voices of forgotten years. From a distance, those years seemed a peaceful time for all that everything was changing, with new faces and new voices. The tapping of Aunt Sarah’s cane would return on that thin air, and the memory of her voice, always fainter like a dying echo, telling of the greatness of the Michaels when the house was new.

  “Tom!” It would be his mother’s voice filled with an energy that had always pushed him on. “Stand up straight, Tom, when you’re walking down the road!”

  “Tommy!” It would be Mal Street calling from that sad Elysium where vanished playmates go. “Pa says to git your gun. There’s ducks out in the bay.”

  “Hist!” There would be Jim Street’s whisper. “Keep your head down, Tommy. Don’t shoot till I tell you when.”

  “Hey, Tom!” Out on the lot behind the school they would all be shouting, “Throw it all the way!”

  “Here, boy, don’t you hear? I gave you my clubs yesterday.”

  “Ay!” Duncan Ross would be speaking again. “You’re learning the swing. It takes a working boy to make a golfer, Tom.”

  Voices and faces, and now and then sharp little lashes of pain, which would always smart and awaken a memory of indefinable injustice—those were all that were left to Tommy from his legacy of early youth; and with them was a loneliness, a lurking background of loneliness, which never went away.

  Yet, vague as it all came to be at last, like some land in the moving clouds, there was an order to everything which was most amazing. In the end it all seemed like a road, inevitable and straight, leading to something which Tommy realized it was always bound to reach; and somehow, no matter what the pain, there was something brave and bright.

  Tommy was cleaning a bag of clubs on a wonderful new invention, a buffing wheel, which ran by electricity. Bang—the club’s head would go against it and then the iron would be warm and smooth behind his hand. Tommy was eighteen. Tommy’s shirt was open at the neck; his arms were brown and bare; he wore an apron over his white duck trousers to keep them from the dirt. The duck trousers had been the idea of Mr. Ross.

  “You’re not a kid, now,” Mr. Ross had said. “This is a course that’s rated first class, I’ll let you know. How’ll we sell our clubs, eh, if we’re not dressed up to ’em?”

  Mr. Ross was seated in a camp chair, thin still, and red of face, in an immaculate golfing costume, presented him gratis by a leading dealer in athletic goods. That afternoon he was in the best of moods, and as he watched Tommy he winked and smiled; and still it almost made you laugh to see him wink.

  “What I say,” said Mr. Ross, “you must learn golf as a boy. It’s an art, a great, fine art that doesn’t come with having the chauffeur drive the Missis to a lesson. Now, man, you were just right when I got you. Eh, you still will press, though so did I at your age, and now I sell my clubs with ‘Duncan Ross’ across ’em. Tommy, I’m giving you a graduation present. Listen to me now.”

  Two weeks ago Tommy had finished high school, and Duncan Ross had insisted on going to see him sit on the platform of the town hall stage on that occasion. So had Charlie, who ran the club dining room, for the matter of that, and his mother, and even Aunt Sarah herself, although she was very old.

  “To-morrow,” said Mr. Ross, “you put on your best clothes, Tom. There’ll be an exhibition match, with all the toffs to see it. That smart chap, now, is coming from the Bayside Club.”

  Tommy shut off the electric wheel and turned to Duncan Ross.

  “I guess you’ll beat him,” Tommy said. By that time Tommy had come to guess that Duncan Ross could beat anything that walked.

  “Me?” said Duncan Ross, and winked. “I wouldn’t soil a club for him. You’re the one who’ll play. Now don’t be getting red, Tom. It’s time the toffs see you play, with your living to make and that. Ay, and they like you too. Mr. Danforth himself was asking to see you play, and there now. And besides, besides, boy, you’ve been good and steady; and besides, they’ll all say, ‘Ross taught him.’ See? Eh? Now mind you—all clean white with the new low shoes. Eh, well … they’ll take you for a toff.”

  Tommy Michael stood up straight, a good, clean, steady boy, as Duncan Ross had said. He was broader and taller by then, but still looked slender for his age.

  “But,” Tommy found himself stammering and struggling with a curious diffidence, although he had known for a long while that Duncan Ross would make him play sometime. Now why Tommy should still have been proud was something he often wondered. But some instinct told him it was not right. He knew it was not right to play a professional in front of Warning Hill.

  “But—” Tommy stammered again, “but I’m not good enough for that.”

  Of course he could not tell Duncan Ross. Not for the world would he have hurt his feelings. And then all at once he
realized what he was—they would all have laughed if they had known he hesitated. He was a club boy and nothing more.

  “Gad!” said Duncan Ross. “If you’re not now, you never will be!” He looked at Tommy and wrinkled up his face. “You’re too good to be a club cleaner. You’re coming fine. You’ll be my assistant with the lessons this year, Tom, and we’ll be getting in another boy to help. Now don’t be worrying, eh? You’ll lick me in another year, let alone that poor inexpert chap who’s coming up to-morrow, eh?”

  Tommy gazed out of the window where the first tee stood, with the turf below it, rolling soft and green. There were lots of things he wished to say.

  “I guess you’re much too kind to me,” he said; “I’ll lick him, if you say so.”

  Perhaps Duncan knew what Tommy was thinking, for, as Duncan looked at Tommy, his face twisted into little knots.

  “Now—now—” he began, but suddenly his tone changed to brisk subservience. “Good afternoon, Miss. A club, Miss? I’ve some fine new drivers now—”

  “No, I want a lesson, please.”

  “When, Miss? Tom, get the appointment book.”

  “When?” There was that same hint of laughter, such as the immortals must have laughed when they visited the earth, and Tommy remembered it, or it may have been he had never forgotten. “When? Why, I want a lesson now!”

  And she had always had what she wanted. You could tell it from her eyes; they were weary, almost, with having what she wanted. It was written on her delicate red mouth, and in every little twist of her shoulders. She had not learned how to be still, and perhaps she never would, no, never. You might have thought that life had touched her with a restlessness that made her always wish.

  “Sorry, Miss.” Duncan Ross lived by rules. “It’s after five—”

  He could not keep his eyes off her, although he was refusing. That was the way with men already.

  “But my assistant will do it,” said Duncan Ross. “Tom, take off your apron and give the young lady half an hour and mind you lock up when you get back.”

  With a bag of balls and two drivers, Tommy walked beside her to the professional’s tee. What was there for him to say? He had thought again and again what he would say, if he saw Marianne, but now there was nothing, and she was the one who spoke the first.

  “My!” she said. “I was surprised to see you! Don’t you remember me?”

  “Yes,” answered Tommy, “yes. You’re Marianne—Miss Jellett, I ought to say. Yes, I remember you.”

  She glanced at him quickly. Their eyes met, and Tommy stumbled on a stone and then she laughed.

  “Call me Marianne! The way you used to. I don’t care. I’ve been abroad at school, with Meachey to look out for me. Haven’t you wondered where I’ve been?”

  “I knew it,” said Tommy. “I guess everybody knows about you fellers—people, I ought to say. I—” Tommy stopped.

  “You what?”

  “I guess I’ve sort of wondered how you were.”

  “I was going to send you a letter once,” said Marianne, “but then I didn’t. I never thought you’d be so grown up. Do you remember how you used to come to play and no one knew it?”

  “Yes,” said Tommy, “yes; I never told.”

  “Neither did I. And no one ever knew.”

  “No,” said Tommy; “no one ever knew.”

  “Except Meachey, and now you’re going to teach me golf,” said Marianne. “I never thought of that.”

  “I guess I never thought of it either,” and Tommy Michael smiled.

  They stood on the professional’s tee. It was backed by a willow hedge and nothing was in front of them but a broad stretch of links, empty and quiet in the slanting sun. Tommy took a pinch of moist sand from the box and looked at her again.

  “What are you thinking about?” said Marianne, and he told her. There had been a whirling in his head which stopped all at once, and he said what he had often thought.

  “I was thinking about—that,” said Tommy. “I guess I ought never to have gone back. I don’t know why I ever sailed over again, except you waved to me going by in the carriage. I guess that’s why. I didn’t think I’d ever go—” He stopped because something about her puzzled him and stilled his voice. “Well, have you ever played golf?”

  “No,” she answered, and gave a little sigh. “I ought to learn though; everybody ought to learn.”

  “All right,” said Tommy. “Let’s—let’s see you try to hit the ball.”

  She took the driver in her slender little fingers. Her hair, he remembered, was done in a club in back—neither up nor down.

  “Don’t move your head,” said Tommy. “Now!”

  “The devil!” said Marianne. She had not even bit the ball.

  “All right!” said Tommy. He knelt before her with another pinch of sand. “Now try again, and listen to what I tell you.”

  Now who would have expected Marianne to listen? And as a matter of fact he never told her. She was smiling at him; it seemed from a very great distance.

  “Tommy,” said Marianne, “I think you’re awfully nice.”

  “Who?” said Tommy. “Me?”

  “Who else do you think? Tommy, let’s see you do it.”

  Tommy was good to look at, standing with a driver. It was as pretty as a picture to see his body in perfect effortless rhythm, but only the discipline of his muscles made his club head meet the ball that afternoon. It was all as inevitable as that club falling in a perfect arc. Her eyes were different, alight with something new, shining with soft brilliance.

  “Tommy,” said Marianne, “stand behind me and take hold of my club—and perhaps I can do it too.”

  And why should there have been any more to it, when that was where the road had always led? The touch of her hand was enough, the touch of her shoulder against his and a bit of her hair that blew across his face. Nevertheless, it was as unreal as the wildest thought, and wholly out of reason. Marianne had dropped her driver and turned half round. He heard her draw a quick sharp breath, and a moment later he stood motionless, his hands limp at his sides.

  “Silly!” There was that laughter in her voice softer than any laughter he had ever heard. “Silly!” said Marianne. “Don’t look so frightened. I wouldn’t have let you if I hadn’t wanted you to do it.”

  “You—you wanted me?” It was too incredible for Tommy to believe, even when she had told him. It was as though he had sailed across another sea to another garden far more splendid than any made by man. There was music (oh, what music!) which took away his breath and made his blood like fire.

  “Tommy,” said Marianne, “you’ve got that boat?”

  Tommy nodded because he could not speak. Mal, he knew, would let him have the boat again any time he wished.

  “All right. I’ll be on the beach. Now hush!”

  Marianne had ears, hidden though they were beneath her hair. Some one was walking toward the tee. She started swinging at the grass without bothering to look up, making sullen little stabs at the turf, because of course she knew who it was. From the path behind the willow bushes came a tall lady with wide brown eyes, in a dress so plain that her face was what one looked at. It was a face even and regular, like that of a heroine in a steel engraving. Behind her walked a boy about Tommy’s age, but not as tall. His face was plump and pale; his hair was sandy red.

  “Marianne,” said the lady, “it’s time to go.”

  “Oh, all right, all right, Meachey.” Marianne tossed down her club. “We’re all through. Don’t you know the professional’s boy? He’s Tommy Michael, Miss Meachey, and that’s my brother Sherwood.”

  Miss Meachey held out her hand to Tommy. Her fingers when he touched them were very cold and light, and you might have thought she had known him for a very long while. She smiled the same way some one might who had met a friend whose ways were quite familiar.

  “I’ve always wanted to meet you,” Miss Meachey said. “Always.” But Tommy was too surprised to ask her why.

/>   Tommy and Sherwood followed them up the path without speaking for a time.

  “Don’t it beat hell?” said Sherwood at length, and looked at Tommy scowling. “You must think I’m a hell of a feller being dragged around by a governess. Well, it’s not my fault, and of course I’m not really. I don’t know why she stays. Say, I hear you’re going to play to-morrow?”

  “Yes,” said Tommy, “but I’m not much.”

  “The hell you’re not,” said Sherwood.

  Tommy was not surprised that Sherwood should be pleasant, because all the boys at the club had been nice to him of late. He could play golf as none of them could play it, no matter how they tried.

  “Say,” said Sherwood, “do you want a drink?”

  “No,” Tommy shook his head, “thanks just as much.”

  “Well,” said Sherwood, “I always snap on to something when the old boy isn’t around. Say, do me a favor, will you? You know all the kids downtown.”

  Yes, Tommy knew them all. At any hour he could walk the Michael’s Harbor streets and voices from porches would call, “Hi! Tom! Evening, Tom!” They all liked Tommy Michael.

  “Well—there’s a girl down there, a peach, dark-eyed, with wild hair—kind of. Her name’s Street. Introduce me to her, will you, sometime?”

  Now as Sherwood spoke the queerest thing happened, something which Tommy never quite forgot. It seemed that something was touching him, drawing him away from a soft, warm light. For an instant everything was bleak and cold. He could not have been jealous. Of course it was not that. Yet he felt a sharp uneasiness that was almost resentment. He had never thought of Mary in that way before. It must have been some one else thinking of it first that startled him and made his color change. He thought of Mary looking at him as she sometimes did, her eyes dark and distant with a vague reproach.

  It was over in a minute—a cloud across his thoughts, a twinge of uneasiness and she was gone.

  At last the waters of his life were running, running, and his heart was beating fast, and “Marianne,” his mind was saying, “Marianne.” For he had kissed her. Yes, for just a beat of time, Tommy Michael had held Marianne Jellett in his arms and had touched her lips, the lips of that fragile denizen of a land so far away. The utter naturalness of it was what made it beautiful. And she had not minded what he was. He knew she had not cared.