“Oh,” said Mr. Street. His voice was weak and listless. “So you’ve got some shame, have you? That’s sweet now, coming from the likes of you. You—All right, I won’t say it. What’s the use of talking? But I’ll tell him, never fear. He’s got enough against ’em. It’s them Jelletts. Damn them Jelletts. She was aiming to go off with that young Jellett—God knows where, and I’ll be bound it’s not the first time, either. Mal’s the one who shook it out of her. Mal’s gone up there now.”
“No,” said Mary Street, “it’s not the first time, either. Tommy, don’t be like the rest of them. You ought to understand.”
For a moment Tommy stared at her, and he could not find his voice. She was beautiful. She had never been so beautiful, and she was broken. Mary Street was broken, finished just as he had been, and that was what she was trying to tell him in that wordless way of hers.
“Where’s Mal gone?” he asked. “Up where?” But of course he knew where Mal had gone, even as he asked.
“Where’s he likely to have gone?” Jim Street’s voice came to him dully, like a voice through a wall. “Up to Warning Hill, he’s gone, just like I would, if I could walk that far. And I hope to God he kills him! Damn them Jelletts! There’s some things we haven’t got to stand.”
But Mary did not seem to notice. As she looked at Tommy, she spoke in that distant voice of hers, as though none of the fury touched her.
“I was planning to be away,” she said, “before you came.”
All the while the kettle was hissing and bubbling on the stove, and the room was very close, and it seemed, as Tommy listened, exactly like a dream. It had the same grotesqueness that robbed everything of logic. He remembered thinking, very clearly, how often Sherwood must have held her in his arms. He could see his lips touch hers, as she was trying, as he had tried, to get to Warning Hill. It was the Jelletts. It was the Jelletts still.
“Tom!” Mary was pulling at his coat. “You’ve got to go and stop Mal. Tommy, won’t you go?”
It was as incongruous as a dream when Mary pulled at his coat. Something inside him was breaking like the ice on Welcome River in the spring, and his mind was whirling like the water with broken thoughts upon it.
“Mary,” said Jim Street, “you be still. We know what to do. We’ll show them Jelletts they don’t own the town.”
Mary, wide-eyed and white, was pulling at his coat.
“Tommy,” she was saying, “I don’t care what anybody thinks—but you know Mal. He—oh, won’t you hurry, Tom? Mal took his gun along.”
Tommy should have known. A harebrained quality in Mal would have made him do just that He seemed to be watching himself, half wearily, half critically, but at the same time he was aware of the logic in it. It was rolling toward him like stones and gravel on a slope until it crashed in that fantastic end.
“How long has he been gone?” he asked.
“Not more than twenty minutes,” she said. “He went up by the road.”
Tommy was used to thinking quickly then.
“All right,” he said; “then he won’t be there unless he got a ride. Mary, will you bring the lamp?”
“Hey!” shouted Mr. Street, half pulling himself from his chair. “Where are you going?”
“To call a taxi,” Tommy said. “I’m going up with Mal.”
The Streets had a telephone near the stairs. He stumbled over some old boots before he reached it, and half a minute later he was asking for Mr. Grafton Jellett on business he could tell no one else. It surprised him that there was no tremor in his voice. He did not seem to be the person who was speaking.
“Is that you, Mr. Jellett?” he was saying. “This is Tom Michael speaking. It’s important so please don’t interrupt.… In about five minutes Mal Street will be there looking for Sherwood.… Yes, Sherwood. When he comes, have all the men on the place ready to grab him—and keep him till I get there. I’ll be up right away. Be sure you get him—that’s all.… I’d rather not tell you over the telephone.… Oh, you want to have it, do you? Very well. It’s Sherwood and Mary Street.… Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. And you better do what I told you. I’ll be up right away.”
Then he was calling the taxi service, and then he was mopping his forehead with his handkerchief.
“Mary,” he was saying, “it’s all right now. It doesn’t do any good to beat the Jelletts. There’ll only be some more.”
It still was like a dream. Mary was clinging to him, sobbing, her face buried in the wet of his coat, and there seemed nothing more to say. There seemed nothing more, and yet he was speaking.
“Mary,” he was saying, “do you love him?”
Her head moved, and she looked up at him wide-eyed, with that half-frightened look of hers that he remembered best.
“No,” she said. “Love him? No, I don’t. I—I guess I’ve always hated everything—but you.”
“Mary,” he said, and he knew that he was right, “neither of us was made for it. We ought to have kept away from Warning Hill—both you and I.”
Yet it all was so futile when he said it, and he knew she thought it so, for all at once her glance had gone beyond him, as though she were looking at something very far away.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Oh, I don’t know. It would have been—so awful—if we hadn’t. It’s just as well we tried.”
And then his arm tightened about her, and he was filled with a strange vague wish for something that was gone.
“Mary,” he said, “there’s you and me. It’s what you said. We’ve always been alone.”
But she shook her head, for she was the one who saw, and surely she must have always been stronger than he and wiser. There was something in her clear and fine, mysterious and bright.
“No,” she answered. “No. You’ve gone too far. You can’t go back. Neither of us can. And besides—I wouldn’t let you, Tommy—dear. There was once … Do you remember in the kitchen and the rain? Oh, Tom, I’m glad you’ve gone. I’m very glad—for you.”
And then his voice was choked, and he could not tell—was it pity for himself, or what? He was tired, very tired.
“Mary,” he said, “it’s awful—always to be alone.”
“Yes,” she said, “it’s awful. I’ll be all right, Tommy dear. Tommy, please don’t cry.”
Even when he reached the Jellett house it was all unreal. He could almost believe that he was imagining as he had imagined before so often, that he was standing before the plate glass and iron grill of the Jelletts’ door.
He noticed absently that Hubbard’s face was white.
“Mr. Street has arrived, sir,” said Hubbard. “He—is in the library with Mr. Jellett. Will you please come, sir?”
Only a few of the lights were burning in the hall. The stairs went upward, seemingly for an immense distance, into shadows. The two suits of armor by the fireplace were like figures guarding a gaping gate.
“Mr. Michael, sir,” said Hubbard. After passing through the hall, the library seemed startlingly alight. Everything was stark in a glare of brightness which made Tommy blink. Mr. Jellett was standing, staring blankly at the room. He turned slowly as Hubbard spoke, and Tommy had a sensation of surprise when Mr. Jellett faced him. Mr. Jellett looked ever so much older. There seemed to be little weights at the bottom of his chin and cheeks, pulling at the flesh above and drawing it to wrinkles.
“Ah,” said Mr. Jellett, “there you are, eh?”
Tommy did not bother to answer, for the sight of Mal Street held all his attention at that moment. Mal was sprawling on one of the leather armchairs, livid, with blazing eyes, and a trickle of blood was running down his cheek. A man was standing on either side of him and one behind his chair, and all their clothes were very much deranged. Henri, the chauffeur, was one of them; the second was that groom who had handed Tommy a letter once, and the third was Campbell, the foreman of the place. On another chair, Sherwood was sitting. There were beads of perspiration on Sherwood’s forehead.
Sherwood was
in evening clothes and his hair was rumpled. Upon perceiving Tommy, he got up and scowled. “So you’re the boy who spilled the beans, are you?” he remarked. “What the hell’s all this to you?”
“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.”
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