Sinister Street by Compton Mackenzie (great books to read TXT) 📕

Michael was vexed to find that he could not even conjure Lily to his side in sleep, but that even there he must be surrounded by the tiresome people of ordinary life. However, there was always a delicious moment, just before he lost complete consciousness, when the image of her dissolved and materialized elusively above the nebulous confines of semi-reality; while always at the very instant of awakening he was aware of her moth-winged kisses trembling upon the first liquid flash of daylight.

In the “quarter” Michael suggested to Alan that he should come back to Richmond with him, and when Alan looked a little astonished at this Monday night proposal, he explained that he had a lot to talk over.

“I nearly came over at nine o’clock last night,” Michael announced.

Alan seemed to realize that it must indeed be something of importance and could scarcely wait for the time when they should be fast alone and primed for confidences.

After dinner Michael proposed a walk up Richmond Hill, and without any appearance of strategy managed to persuade Alan to rest awhile on one of the seats along the Terrace. In this late autumnal time there was no view of the Thames gleaming beneath the sorcery of a summer night. There was nothing now but a vast airiness of mist damascening the blades of light with which the street-lamps pierced the darkness.

“Pretty wet,” said Alan distastefully patting the seat.

“We needn’t stay long, but it’s rather ripping, don’t you think?” Michael urged. “Alan, do you remember once we sat here on a night before exams at the end of a summer term?”

“Yes, but it was a jolly sight warmer than it is now,” said Alan.

“I know. We were in ‘whites,’ ” said Michael pensively. “Alan, I’m in love. I am really. You mustn’t laugh. I was a fool over that first girl, but now I am in love. Alan, she’s only seventeen, and she has hair the colour of that rather thick honey you get at chemists. Only it isn’t thick, but as foamy as a lemon-sponge. And her mouth is truly a bow and her voice is gloriously deep and exciting, and her eyes are the most extraordinary blue⁠—as blue as ink in a bottle when you hold it up to the light⁠—and her chin is in two pieces rather like yours, and her ankles⁠—well⁠—her ankles are absolutely divine. The extraordinary luck is that she loves me, and I want you to meet her. I’m describing her very accurately like this because I don’t want you to think I’m raving or quoting poetry. You see, you don’t appreciate poetry, or I could describe her much better.”

“I do appreciate poetry,” protested Alan.

“Oh, I know you like Kipling and Adam Lindsay Gordon, but I mean real poetry. Well, I’m not going to argue about that. But, Alan, you must be sympathetic and believe that I really am in love. She has a sister called Doris. I haven’t met her yet, but she’s sure to be lovely, and I think you ought to fall in love with her. Now wouldn’t that be splendid? Alan, you do believe I’m in love this time?”

Michael paused anxiously.

“I suppose you must be,” said Alan slowly.

“And you’re glad?” asked Michael a little wistfully.

“What’s going to happen?” Alan wondered.

“Well, of course not much can happen just now. Not much can happen while one is still at school,” Michael went on. “But don’t let’s talk about what is going to be. Let’s talk about what is now.”

Alan looked at him reproachfully.

“You used to enjoy talking about the future.”

“Because it used always to be more interesting,” Michael explained.

Alan rose from the seat and taking Michael’s arm drew him down the hill.

“And will you come and meet her sister?” Michael asked.

“I expect so,” said Alan.

“Hurrah!” cried the lover.

“I suppose this means the end of football, the end of cricket, in fact the end of school as far as you’re concerned,” Alan complained. “I wish you’d waited a little.”

“I told you I was years older than you,” Michael pointed out, involuntarily making excuses.

“Only because you would encourage yourself to think so. Well, I hope everything will go well. I hope you won’t take it into your head to think you’ve got to marry her immediately, or any rot like that.”

“Don’t be an ass,” said Michael.

“Well, you’re such an impulsive devil. By Jove, the fellow that first called you ‘Bangs’ was a bit of a spotter.”

“It was Abercrombie,” Michael reminded him.

“I should think that was the only clever thing he ever did in his life,” said Alan.

“Why, I thought you considered him no end of a good man.”

“He was a good forward and a good deep field,” Alan granted. “But that doesn’t make him Shakespeare.”

Thence onwards war, or rather sport the schoolboys’ substitute, ousted love from the conversation, and very soon solo whist with Mr. and Mrs. Merivale disposed of both.

On Tuesday night Michael in a fever of enthusiasm for Wednesday’s approach wrote a letter to Stella.

64 Carlington Road,

October, 1900.

My dear Stella,

After this you needn’t grouse about my letters being dull, and you can consider yourself jolly honoured because I’m writing to tell you that I’m in love. Her name is Lily Haden. Only, of course, please don’t go shouting this all over Germany, and don’t write a gushing letter to mother, who doesn’t know anything about it. I shouldn’t tell you if you were in London, and don’t write back and tell me that you’re in love with some long-haired dancing-master or one-eyed banjo-player, because I know now what love is, and it’s nothing like what you think it is.

Lily is fair⁠—not just fair like a doll, but frightfully fair. In fact, her hair is like bubbling champagne, I met her in Kensington Gardens. It was truly romantic, not a silly, giggling, gone-on-a-girl sort of meeting. I hope you’re getting on with your music. I shall introduce Lily to you just before your first concert, and then if you can’t play, well, you never