Warning Hill by John P. Marquand Page A

without a single weed upon it, with every blade of grass exact in height. A freshness of growing things was in the breeze, the scent of flowers and green. It seemed to him that soft hands were touching his face and his rumpled hair as he drew in his breath. He forgot that he was a slender tow-headed little boy, in a faded shirt, torn trousers and muddy shoes, with eyes wide and mouth half open. Far away on the rising ground was the house of brown stones, which he had seen from the water. All about him on the lawn were so many beds of flowers of so many colors and sizes that they seemed to shift and change everywhere he looked. It was ten, twenty times as large as any lawn and garden in Michael’s Harbor. Straight toward the brown-stone house, not far from where he stood, was a broad white path, running straight up steps and terraces among the flowers, and on either side of the path were figures of large green animals. Tommy could see an elephant and a lion and a long-necked bird.
    â€œGolly!” said Tommy right out loud. “Every one of ’em made of bushes!”
    As he spoke, a voice from behind him answered, “Of course they’re made of bushes!”
    The voice was soft and clear, like the running of cool water. Tommy could almost believe it was not a real voice at all, until he remembered, as he turned himself about, that the grass was thick and that the wind was blowing. He saw that a little girl was standing not ten feet away, looking at him with dark and level eyes.
    She might have been a painting. She had that mysterious power sometimes possessed by a canvas to etch itself upon the memory. The tilt of her nose, the upward twist of her lips, her white frilly dress, her bare legs and socks and shiny little shoes were all a part of an impression and meant nothing in themselves. What Tommy remembered was an unsubstantial something, a lightness in her little body, a glimmer in the depths of her eyes that made you think, should you turn your head, that she might disappear into the sun and dancing shadows. She did not disappear. She even took a step toward him, a light feathery step, and stopped. Her hair was brushed straight down her back like Alice’s in Wonderland. She was smiling faintly and that curious light was dancing in her eyes.
    â€œOf course they’re made of bushes,” she said again. “They’re like the box trees in Pliny’s garden.”
    Tommy drew in his breath; he had forgotten about the animals by the path.
    â€œWho—who are you?” Tommy said.
    â€œI’m Marianne,” she said. “Marianne Jellett. Who are you?”
    Tommy Michael drew another deeper breath. For a moment Tommy came near to running away, for he knew he was in the enemy’s country, once he heard that name. He was vaguely aware of something which was not right, of a disloyalty to memory—and yet he stayed without ever knowing why.
    â€œI guess you don’t know me,” he said. “I’m Tommy Michael.”
    She put her head a little to one side, as a bird might, Tommy thought.
    â€œAre you?” said Marianne. “I was just hoping something strange might happen, and nothing strange has ever happened until now. C’est une bonne chance —that’s French. Do you know French?”
    â€œI’m going to study it,” said Tommy, “when I go to high school in the fall.”
    â€œI learn it from Miss Meachey,” said Marianne, “she’s my governess, you know—and then I’ve learned some bad words too, from Cléone. She’s mamma’s maid, and sometimes when I don’t have anything else to do, I say them to Henri. He’s our chauffeur, and he’s French too. He thinks they’re ever so funny when I say them.”
    She smiled at Tommy faintly. Her voice was exactly like the rippling of a brook, it seemed to Tommy Michael. He could not understand half of what she said. Yet it was so strangely