Sinister Street, Compton Mackenzie [classic books for 10 year olds .TXT] 📗

Michael could not realize that anybody else but Stella and Alan had ever stood in this drawing-room, looking out of the tall windows whose sills scarcely rose above the level of the grass outside; that anyone else but Stella and Alan had ever laughed in this solemn library with its pilasters and calf-bound volumes and terrestrial globe; that anyone else but Stella and Alan had ever sat at dinner under the eyes of those bag-wigged squires, that long-nosed Light Dragoon, or that girl in her chip hat, holding a bunch of cherries.

“No doubt you’ve got a keen scent for tradition,” said Michael to Stella. “But really you have been able to get into the manner surprisingly fast. These cocker-spaniels, for instance, who follow you both round, and the deerhound on the steps of the terrace⁠—Stella, I’m afraid the concert platform has taught you the value of effect; and where do hounds meet tomorrow?”

“We’re simply loving it here,” Stella said. “But I think the piano is feeling a little bit out of his element. He’s stiff with being on his best behavior.”

“I’m hoping to get rather a good pitch in Six Ash field,” said Alan. “I’ll show it to you tomorrow morning.”

The butler came in with news of callers:

“The Countess of Stilton and Lady Anne Varley.”

“Oh, damn!” Stella exclaimed, when the butler had retired. “I really don’t think people ought to call just before Christmas. However, you’ve both got to come in and be polite.”

Michael managed to squeeze himself into a corner of the drawing-room, whence he could watch Lady Stilton and her daughter talking to Mr. and Mrs. Prescott-Merivale.

“We ought not to have bothered you in this busy week before Christmas, but my husband has been so ill in Marienbad, ever since the summer really, that we only got home a fortnight ago. So very trying. And I’ve been longing to meet you. Poor Dick Prescott was a great friends of ours.”

Michael had a sudden intuition that Prescott had bequeathed Stella’s interests to Lady Stilton, who probably knew all about her. He wondered if Stella had guessed this.

“And Anne heard you play at King’s Hall. Didn’t you, Anne dear?”

Lady Anne nodded and blushed.

“That child is going to worship Stella,” Michael thought.

“We’re hoping you will all be able to come and dine with us for Twelfth Night. My husband is so fond of keeping up old English festivals. Mr. Fane, you’ll still be at Hardingham, I hope, so that we may have the pleasure of seeing you as well?”

Michael said he was afraid he would have to be back in town.

“What absolute rot!” Stella cried. “Of course you’ll be here.”

But Michael insisted that he would be gone.

“They tell us you’ve been buying Herefords, Mr. Merivale. My husband was so much interested and is so much looking forward to seeing your stock; but at present he must not drive far. I’ve also heard of you from my youngest boy who went up to Christ Church last October year. He is very much excited to think that Hardingham is going to have such a famous⁠—what is it called, Anne?⁠—some kind of a bowler.”

“A googlie bowler, I expect you mean, mother,” said Lady Anne.

“Wasn’t he in the Eton eleven?” asked Alan.

“Well, no. Something happened to oust him at the last moment,” said Lady Stilton. “Possibly a superior player.”

“Oh, no, mother!” Lady Anne indignantly declared. “He would have played for certain against Harrow, if he hadn’t sprained his ankle at the nets the week before.”

“I do hope you’ll let him come and see you this vacation,” Lady Stilton said.

“Oh, rather. I shall be awfully keen to talk about the cricket round here,” Alan replied. “I’m just planning out a new pitch now.”

“How delightful all this is,” thought Michael, with visions of summer evenings.

Soon Lady Stilton and her daughter went away, having plainly been a great success with Mr. and Mrs. Prescott-Merivale.

“Of course, you’ve got to marry Anne,” said Stella to Michael, as soon as they were comfortably round the great fire in the library.

“Alan,” Michael appealed. “Is it impossible for you to nip now forever this bud of matchmaking?”

“I think it’s rather a good idea,” said Alan. “I knew young Varley by sight. He’s a very sound bat.”

“I shan’t come here again,” Michael threatened, “until you’ve dissolved this alliance of mutual admiration. Instead of agreeing with Stella to marry me to every girl you meet, why don’t you devote yourself to the task of making Huntingdon a first-class county in cricket? Stella might captain the team.”

Time passed very pleasantly with long walks and rides and drives, with long evenings of cutthroat bridge and Schumann; but on New Year’s morning Michael said he must go back to London. Nor would he let himself be deterred by Stella’s gibes.

“I admit you’re as happy as you can be,” he said. “Now surely you, after so much generosity on my side, will admit that I may know almost as well as yourselves how to make myself happy, though not yet married.”

“Michael, you’re having an affair with some girl,” Stella said accusingly.

He shook his head.

“Swear?”

“By everything I believe in, I vow I’m not having an affair with any girl. I wish I were.”

His luggage was in the hall, and the dogcart was waiting. At King’s Cross he found a taxi, which was so difficult to do in those days that it made him hail the achievement as a good omen for the New Year.

Near South Kensington Station he caught sight of a poster advertising a carnival in the neighborhood: he thought it looked rather attractive with the bright colors glowing into the gray January day. Later on in the afternoon, when he went to his tobacconist’s in the King’s Road, he saw the poster again and read that tonight at Redcliffe Hall, Fulham Road, would take place a Grand Carnival and Masked Ball for the benefit of some orphanage connected with licensed victualing. Tickets were on sale in various public-houses of the neighborhood, at seven and sixpence for gentlemen and five shillings for ladies.

“Ought to be