Warning Hill

by John P. Marquand

  “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 …”

  Yes, Mr. Jellett was laughing. He leaned back in his chair. His stomach went up and down in little ripples, and Tommy tried to speak. Tommy still thought—actually thought—

  “I’m awfully glad you feel this way, sir,” Tommy said. “I—I had an idea …”

  “Heh, heh!” said Mr. Jellett. “It’s a funny thing.… I was just thinking your father came here once about that land, and he said I’d never get it. Heh! Heh!—a funny thing.”

  “About that land?” All at once Tommy Michael felt dizzy, and he gripped the bulky arms of his chair, and all at once he saw the irony of it. Mr. Jellett had been talking about that land all the time, that bit of beach and the tumbledown house beside the harbor. Now there was a void in the pit of Tommy’s stomach, and once again he was all alone.

  “Heh! Heh!” said Mr. Jellett; “when you get as old as me, you’ll remember lots of funny things. Now let’s get down to business. I thought you’d come round. You’re the first one to have any sound sense, and I’ll see it’s worth your while. Lots of people don’t like me in the Harbor, and I don’t give a damn—but I know when to be generous. I want that beach, and you know I want it,—and I’ll pay a fancy price just so we can forget all about it—and no hard feelings, eh? How about ten thousand dollars to call it square?”

  Now how the gods must have laughed, if the gods are not tired of old jokes. Mr. Jellett was lounging in his chair, blinking his pale blue eyes, as Tommy Michael answered, and perhaps already Tommy knew his shi
p was very near the rocks in his land of make-believe.

  “I—” and Tommy played the game right to the end, “I didn’t come about the land.”

  “Eh?” Mr. Jellett pulled himself up straight. “You didn’t come about the land, eh? Then what the devil did you come for?”

  And Tommy told him, and Mr. Jellett’s face was very calm and dull. The library seemed much larger. Its walls were stretching back, leaving him in a vast and open space, where his voice echoed hollowly about his ears.

  “Because—” Tommy remembered that he stopped. For an instant he felt the terrible power of a thing which held him down, and he was struggling with it as he had struggled always. “Because,” said Tommy, “I want to marry Marianne.”

  Lots of people would have loved to have seen Grafton Jellett in that second, lots of spiteful residents of Warning Hill, but it was really not much to see. For a moment he looked stupider than ever and that was all.

  “Eh?” said Mr. Jellett, “would you mind saying that again?”

  “Because I want to marry your daughter,” Tommy Michael said.

  Mr. Jellett placed his paper knife on the Empire table beside his book, and gazed at Tommy vacantly, without passion or interest.

  “You want to marry my daughter, eh?” said Mr. Jellett “Does she know you want to?”

  “Yes, sir,” Tommy Michael nodded, and Mr. Jellett also nodded slowly.

  “And may I ask,” inquired Mr. Jellett, his face was a shade pinker as he spoke, “how long this has been going on?”

  Though Mr. Jellett’s words were as calm as ever, Tommy felt a tingling in his blood, and a dull surge of anger. There was a whispering in his ears, as though all the past were whispering.

  “I’ve known her a long time, sir,” and he felt afraid when he said it, and he hated himself for feeling afraid, “and—and why shouldn’t I know her? I used to come to see her down on that beach you were speaking of—in a boat. You saw me the first time I came.”

  “I saw you, eh?” Mr. Jellett looked puzzled, and his face broke into little lines.

  He was as good as they were. Over and over to himself Tommy kept saying it, and yet it did no good before the vacancy of Mr. Jellett’s stare.

  “And you showed me your garden,” Tommy Michael said. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Jellett, “I remember. And you had a garden too. And didn’t I tell you not to come back?”

  “And I never did come back,” said Tommy, “except on my own land.”

  “So you were that little tad?” said Mr. Jellett. “God! I’d nearly forgotten that. Sit still—don’t get up. We’ll get to the bottom of this in a minute. Every one does things behind my back. Now don’t say anything. I’ll do the talking, Hewens! Where the devil are you? Hewens!”

  There was no answer. Mr. Jellett got up and pressed a button by the fireplace, and turned again to Tommy, and Tommy could not tell what Mr. Jellett thought. That was the trouble with Mr. Jellett. No one ever knew.

  “Which is it?” inquired Mr. Jellett placidly. “Have you got a hell of a nerve, my boy, or are you just a plain damn’ fool?”

  “Mr. Jellett,” began Tommy, “Mr. Jellett—”

  There was something he wanted to say, though he did not know just what, and he had no time to say it, for all at once Mr. Jellett, as he looked at Tommy, chuckled, just as he had once long ago, just as though Tommy was a little boy in muddy boots.

  “Sit down,” said Mr. Jellett placidly. “Don’t say a word. Heh! Heh! I remember—You had some awful big roses over by the barn. You used to see Marianne at the Golf Club, I suppose. Girls will be girls—”

  “Mr. Jellett,” began Tommy, but Hubbard was at the door. If Tommy’s face was red, Hubbard did not appear to notice.

  “Hubbard,” said Mr. Jellett, “where the devil’s Hewens? He ought to be here doing letters.”

  Hubbard cleared his throat.

  “He went out to drive, sir,” said Hubbard, “with Mrs. Jellett, sir.”

  “With Mrs. Jellett, eh?”

  For just a second Tommy remembered that Mr. Jellett looked very queerly, but he did not think of it then.

  “Yes, sir,” said Hubbard.

  “All right,” said Mr. Jellett, “tell him I want to see him when he gets back—and now Hubbard, will you ask Miss Marianne to come here right away—er—no matter what she’s doing?”

  “Mr. Jellett,” began Tommy. If Mr. Jellett had not smiled, it would not have hurt him so, but Mr. Jellett still was smiling placidly.

  “Don’t bother,” said Mr. Jellett; “Marianne will be here in a minute. Then we’ll know what’s what. And thanks for letting me know, Michael. I’ll check you down for that. Out on your land, under the moon, eh? I suppose she sneaked down the back way. Everybody seems to be sneaking lately. Gad! It must have been exactly like a story. And now you’re in the army, going to war. ‘Good-by, sisters, wives, and sweethearts, it won’t take us long.’ Gad! It is all pretty—oh, there you are, Marianne, and now we’ll find what’s what.”

  Yes, there was Marianne. She seemed to be coming toward them from a great distance, a slim, feathery figure in a dress of blue, clear-eyed, with a pale set face, her lips closed in an ugly curve, like a child’s about to be punished. And one could read what was written on her. A coldness came over Tommy Michael, a numbness, so that he seemed to be standing on the air, and then a flurry of shame and a conviction of deep wrong. That wrong was more than the present. It was biting to his soul.

  “You haven’t any right to make fun of me,” he said, in a thick, strained voice.

  “Fun of you, eh?” said Mr. Jellett “I’m not the kind to make fun. I don’t think this is funny—Be quiet! I’m doing the talking now. Marianne, did you send this boy in here?”

  “No,” Marianne answered at once, like a child who had learned her lesson, as every one answered Grafton Jellett. “No, of course I didn’t.”

  Grafton Jellett examined her for a minute without a jot of expression in his pale blue eyes.

  “You didn’t?” said Mr. Jellett “Well, he came. Now let’s see you answer this, and tell the truth for once: What the devil’s all this about?”

  It seemed to Tommy that he had never known her. For a moment Marianne’s eyes were on him, dark and contemptuous. That was the only word.

  “Oh, don’t you see?” cried Marianne. Her voice went through him like a chill sharp wind. “It isn’t anything, Papa? Do you think I’m such an idiot? I never dreamed he’d come in here to you. It was only in fun. Everything was only in fun, and of course I thought he knew it. Now let me go away, won’t you, please?—and if it does you any good, I hope I never see him again. I never want to see him again. No—never.”

  Marianne’s voice ended in a dry little sob, and Tommy always remembered that, for a second, they all stood very still, as one stands sometimes when a delicate piece of china has crashed upon the floor. Mr. Jellett, and even Marianne, must have shared that sensation, and given it an instant of involuntary tribute. For everything had broken. Tommy could hear the echo of it as he stood very still, and then there was a soft noise in his ears. His head was full of hollow sounds.

  She had never meant a word of all she said, but surely she might have spoken differently, in a kinder, gentler way. Tommy stretched out his hand to the Empire table, because his knees felt weak. His face was pale and his eyes were very wide.

  “Only in fun?” he said. The shock of it still crushed him. He seemed to have fallen, fallen from some high place, and the ground had hit him and robbed him of his breath. “So that’s what you’ve been doing—laughing at me all the time.”

  “You heard her?” replied Mr. Jellett, “and I guess that’s that. Got anything more to say?”

  “No,” Tommy squared his shoulders, and his face was very white. “I guess—after that—there isn’t any more.”

  “No,” said Mr. Jellett, “I guess there isn’t, and I won’t say what I was going to say—but I’ll say this,—” He too
k a step nearer Tommy, a short plump little man, and spoke in a level voice. And who knows? Perhaps he meant it kindly. “You’re a damn’ fool, boy, but it isn’t all your fault It’s this idea that everybody’s as good as everybody else. They’re not—that’s all. What the devil’s getting into everybody? Is everybody going crazy? I did it, I suppose you’ll say. Well, what if I did? Not one in ten thousand can ring the bell. And when they do, do you think they’re going to let their children go back to where they started? It’s all damned rot and insolence—and now get on back to the Harbor where you belong. Eh—here—what’s this?”

  And for once in all that interview, the veil of placidity fell from Mr. Jellett, and Tommy was not the reason. The library door had opened so violently that it went against a bookcase with a crash. Sherwood Jellett was the one who opened it. Sherwood was in tennis clothes, and his face was very red. His sandy hair was sprinkled about his scalp like unraked hay, and Sherwood was grinning in a vacant moon-faced way.

  “Sherwood! Go upstairs!” cried Marianne, but Mr. Jellett stepped forward before Sherwood could answer, and Mr. Jellett’s face was also red.

  “What do you mean?” roared Mr. Jellett “Smashing in here like this? By Gad, are you drunk again?”

  Sherwood took two deliberate steps into the room. The resemblance between himself and his father was startling, yet curiously different. Though their faces were just alike, you could see he would never be the man his father was.

  “Now don’t you bully me,” Sherwood shook a playful finger. “I’m free, white, and twenty-one and I didn’t ask to be born. You can’t always be treating me rough. I can have a drink with a friend, can’t I? I met Winnie Milburn—in the hall—good old Winne Milburn.”

  “You didn’t ask to be born, eh?” said Mr. Jellett. “By God, you’ll wish you hadn’t been, before I’m through. You’ll wish you weren’t a son of mine. You’ll—”

  “Sherwood!” cried Marianne. “Oh, go out! Sherwood, please!”