Warning Hill (20 page)

The poplar trees were so tall by then that no one from the house could have seen the beach where she and Tommy used to play, even if it had been day. It was shut off from Warning Hill by a whispering curtain of leaves darker than the sky, with the water before it rippling in the starlight to a tune as old and lonely as the earth. Tommy Michael saw her by the porch of the old gunning shanty when he beached his boat, so indistinct that she did not seem much different from a bit of mist. When he was beside her, she was still like some unsubstantial figure one might conjure from the dark-white cheeks, white throat and faintly shining eyes.

That faint sight of her was enough to make him pause in a sort of bewilderment, forgetting almost what he had to say, in spite of all his planning. He was like the King of France who marched his men up the hill only to march them down; he could only stand bewildered when Marianne touched his hand.

“Sit here,” she whispered. “I knew you'd come.”

That was the trouble. Marianne always knew. Tommy could always remember how his heart beat fast and in his throat, and how his blood leaped when she touched him.

“Marianne,” only the agony within him made him speak, “why didn't you say you knew me? Why didn't you
say
so, Marianne?”

“Oh, hush!” whispered Marianne. “Oh, Tommy, don't be such a goose!”

“But why didn't you say so?” Tommy seized her wrist and suddenly his awe of her was gone. “You're ashamed of me, that's why.”

“Don't!” whispered Marianne. “Tommy—you hurt! Tommy—really I'm not like that! Tommy, listen … don't you see, Mamma would send me away from here if she even thought—”

“Thought what?” Tommy's voice was like the clang of metal, and Marianne gave a little start.

“Thought we knew each other … thought we saw each other.… You don't know Mamma. She always thinks I'm perfectly dreadful because she does dreadful things herself, I suppose—I don't care—but don't you see?”

And Tommy Michael saw, as clearly as he saw later what part was played by the stubbornness of his blood.

“Yes,” said Tommy slowly, “yes, I see. You're ashamed of me. That's it.”

“No!” whispered Marianne. “You know I'm not. I never was. I wouldn't be here now. Don't you see I—oh, Tommy—I—I love you, Tommy,” whispered Marianne.

Call them what you like, those golden moments when the whole world pays a graceful homage. Call it the sly trick of life that plays the dancing music. Call it calf love or puppy love, or anything at all; there is an instant that keeps its luster no matter what may follow.

Beautiful, unattainable though she was, suddenly his arms were around her and she was no longer like the mist. All at once he was holding Marianne as fiercely as if some one else would snatch her from him. And for Marianne too, that moment must have been ineffaceable and bright, and she too must have understood the sad impermanence that made it sweet.

“Tommy,” she whispered. “Please don't let me go. No—never-never-never!”

Her words were only a whisper, as soft as the faintest rustle of the breeze, but sometimes Tommy could believe that she had cried them out, for they stayed in memory like a cry; and, though his answer was only a whisper too, it always seemed to him as if he must have shouted it until it echoed across the harbor so every one could hear.

“I'll show you. You wait and see. I'll walk in your front door some day, and no one'll be ashamed!”

XVII

There was a firmness to Tommy Michael that was not plodding. He had a sort of high-strung steadiness already, forged from lean, hard years. It was just as well, for he needed it that night.

He never understood why he knew that something was not right; it came in that strange, sharpening of the sense such as all of us have known. It came to Tommy as a voice might come, when he was sailing back toward the lights of Welcome River. All at once he stared about him as if he was just awake. There was nothing, no sound save the lapping of the water on the bow of that yellow skiff. There was only that lightness of the water such as lingers even on the darkest night. Yet it seemed to Tommy that some one had called him.

“Tom!” Just as clearly as though some one had spoken he had heard that soundless voice. “Tom!”

And then the night was so dark that he could seem to touch the black. He seemed to be a small boy again, afraid to cross the hall because there was something in the dark. Some one was on the shore of Welcome River, in the Street's backyard.

Already Michael's Harbor had electric lights. There was one in that narrow lane in front of Jim Street's house which filled the yard with a dull illumination, made erratic by the darting shadows, where an elm branch waved across it. But there was light enough to see that Mary Street was standing on the shore. Though Mary had put up her hair that spring, little strands of it still broke and blew across her face. Her eyes had a distant look. It had seemed to Tommy that her eyes had often been like that of late, as Mary had looked at him always across the room at school or across the kitchen table, on those mornings when the men came in from gunning. Mary looked at him without a word and Tommy understood what Sherwood saw. It must have been her mother's blood. He remembered what they once had said—that she flew in the face of things. Mary would also fly, heedless of what might happen, if once she chose to go. You had a wish to hold her, or follow until she came to rest. That was what Sherwood must have meant.

“I know where you've been,” said Mary. “Yes, I know.”

But Tommy scarcely heard her. It was not the voice of Mary which had called him in the dark. He saw Mary put her hand to her throat, exactly as though something hurt her.

“And you needn't act so big about it!” Mary took a step towards him. “I can do it myself if I want to, Tommy. You're not the only one they look at. I—oh, I wish we both were dead!”

“You wish we both were dead!” echoed Tommy. It was utterly beyond him for Mary had been so quiet always.

“I do,” said Mary. “I wish we both were dead!”

“But why?” And it was utterly beyond Tommy Michael. Mary pushed the hair savagely from her eyes. “Why are you angry at me? I've never done a thing to make you angry, Mary.”

Then she gave the queerest laugh, unlike any laugh that Tommy had ever heard.

“Ever done anything?—No, you never would—not you!”

Tommy was glad when the back door opened. The sight of Mal walking down the steps filled him with curious relief.

“Hey!” said Mal, rubbing his eyes. “What's all the noise about?”

“No noise!” Mary whirled about to face him. “Tom's just back—from seeing the Jellett girl.”

“Huh!” said Mal. “From seeing the Jellett girl?” Mal Street scratched the back of his head as a new thought dawned on him. “So we ain't good enough for you, hey? After you coming around here—and everything. What have those dudes ever done for you? Say, Tom, ain't you and me pals?”

That was all Mal ever said about it. Yet Tommy could always recall Mal's look and it always hurt him, the surprise in it and the pain, exactly as though Mal had never grown up, though Mal was six feet tall. There would surely have been more to it if Jim Street had not come round the corner of the barn, walking very fast.

“Mal,” he called, “have you seen Tommy Michael? What, you here, Tom?”

Mr. Street paused. Tommy could remember that Mr. Street was growing old. There had been an added stoop to his shoulders lately and a shuffle to his step, which made him lose in height as if the world had worn him down. That impression was nothing more than a flash in his mind, however, running weakly beside another thought. How had Mary guessed that he had seen Marianne that night? All Michael's Harbor would know it before morning. Tommy knew that marvellous intuition for gossip which could seize upon a whisper, and he was not wrong. All of Michael's Harbor always guessed the story. But Jim Street was speaking so harshly that Tommy had to listen.

“You here, Tom? Well, they've been looking for you all over town. Your ma's been taken awful bad. She's had a sinking spell. Ah, what's the use of pussy-footing, now you've grown to be a man? I guess your ma is dying.”

The silence was what Tommy remembered most, when he reached his mother's door, that silence which gave his breath an indecorous loudness, for Tom had run all the way. It was not a peaceful silence, but a stillness of suspense which made it plain that everything was waiting, even the house and the shadows in the hall. His Great-aunt Sarah was waiting in a stiff chair beside a yellow bed. It always seemed terribly grotesque to Tommy that little trivialities dashed before him first. The room was stifling from the light of a glass oil lamp upon the bureau. There was a smell of straw matting from the floor, which mingled with unburned kerosene. Aunt Sarah's face, yellowish-white from the yellow light, and damp from the heat, made you think of a school relief map, worn and wrinkled with eroded hills and valleys. The bed was yellow and grained in imitation of wood. Tommy could remember how bright and new it had seemed when he had climbed upon it as a little boy, and how the roses and lilies painted at its head and foot had seemed richer and more splendid than any living flowers.

A fat square woman was seated by the window, with stolid red hands folded on a clean white apron. She was Mrs. Jiggs, known in Michael's Harbor as a practical nurse, which was a good enough title, for there was no illusion or evasion once Mrs. Jiggs came in. Mrs. Jiggs dispensed with her professional smile when she saw Tommy.

“Sh!” hissed Mrs. Jiggs. “She's resting. It's her heart. Oh, me, she's had an awful spell!”

“Hey?” It was marvellous how Aunt Sarah could catch the faintest snatches of conversation. “Sell? We don't have to sell anything.”

“I said—spell,” hissed Mrs. Jiggs.

Estelle Michael was lying so motionless that she did not seem alive. Her head was propped up by a pillow; her hair was in two braids, one over each shoulder, and the hardness had left her lips. As Tommy leaned over her, she opened her eyes, and Tommy had the oddest thought that he was not looking at his mother at all, but into the face of a pale and frightened child.

“No, no, no,” Aunt Sarah was whispering behind Tommy's back. “I don't have to sell anything, I'll have you know, Mrs. Jiggs, in spite of what people say. No, no, no, I've got enough to live on while I'm above-ground, and I can pay for a funeral too.”

“Tom,” said his mother, in a thin voice exactly like a little girl's. “Is that you, Tommy dear?” How seldom she had ever called him “Tommy dear!” Tommy had knelt by the bed and held one of her hands which had grown oddly frail. “Tell that old woman to leave the room, and—that Mrs. Jiggs!”

“Hey?” said Aunt Sarah. “What's that? Is she asking for me? Here I am, Estelle.”

“Is she pretending she doesn't hear me? Tell her to leave the room.” Again his mother's voice' was faint and thin. “Tell her she won't bully you and me any longer—no, not any longer, Tommy dear.”

“Hey?” said Aunt Sarah. “Pretending I don't hear?”

Tommy knew that she had heard it all, if only from the way her head went back and from the way she drew her shawl about her, as he helped her up and led her to the door.

“Have they gone, Tommy?” said his mother. “Tommy, talk to me. I want to hear you talk, Tommy. Where did you go to-night?”

And Tommy Michael told her, kneeling on the straw matting beside that hideous yellow bed, and ever afterwards he was glad he told her everything there was to tell. He told her about Marianne, beginning with the carriage down the road. He told of the garden at Warning Hill and of the sideboard with its gold, and of the nights he ran away to play upon the beach, when he got that note from Marianne. Whatever it was that had stilled his speech was gone. She was no longer older than he or stern, as she lay there so very still, robbed of her harsh energy and pride. Nor was she angry or even disapproving at the wild flight his fancy took, when he told her all he meant to do, because he would be a great man some day. He could never think of those minutes as being so very sad. They both seemed to be like children, stealing a minute from Time, when his back was turned, looking at his glass. She was smiling exactly like a child, or perhaps as she may have smiled when she first heard Alfred Michael speak.

“Tommy,” she said, “I'm so glad, Tommy dear … so glad: I used to be a little afraid that you'd be like every one else and … and they can't stop you now, Tommy. I want to tell you something. Don't worry about Aunt Sarah. Do you know what I've found? I found her bank books in the desk to-night. I shouldn't have looked, I know. It gave me a dreadful turn because, Tommy, she's been
saving
money all the time. And when I told her what I thought, I … something stopped inside me. Remember, you won't have to work for her any more. Tommy, it's a little funny, isn't it?
She's been saving money all the time.”

It always seemed strange that he could smile, without a touch of bitterness. All the mornings when Tommy had brought Aunt Sarah's bank books to be mailed with never a thought that she was not drawing from the columns, all the catalogue of Aunt Sarah's acid complaints seemed to be echoing yet, mingling with the thumping of her cane upon the stairs. Something was grotesque and something else was marvellous, even at that hour, in the thought of that old woman deceiving them both.

“Tommy,” his mother was speaking again, “I'm so glad, Tommy dear. I'm glad for everything, I guess … Tommy, tell me some more about Marianne before I go to sleep.… You always talked of sailing boats when you were a little boy.”

Then the time when he was little came back from the mist. He even remembered the poem he had made up, lying in the tall grass by the summer house, and he heard himself repeating it, as he knelt beside the bed.