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

“Let’s ask the housekeeper,” Michael said solemnly.

They went back into the drawing-room, and more than ever did it seem exactly the room one would expect to enter after pondering that dead water without.

“Who lives in the other flats?” Michael inquired of the housekeeper.

“There’s four others,” she began. “Up above there’s Colonel and Mrs.⁠ ⁠…”

“I see,” Michael interrupted. “Just ordinary people. Do they ever go out? Or do they sit and peer at the water all day from behind strange curtains?”

The housekeeper stared at him.

“They play tennis and croquet a good deal in the summer, sir. The courts is on the other side of the house. Mr. Gartside is the gentleman to see about the flat.”

She gave Michael the address, and that afternoon he settled to take Number One, Ararat House.

“It absolutely was made to set her off,” he told Maurice. “You wait till I’ve furnished it as it ought to be furnished.”

“And we’ll have amazing fêtes aqueuses in the summer,” Maurice declared. “We’ll buy a barge and⁠—why, of course⁠—the canal flows into the Thames at Grosvenor Road.”

“Underground⁠—like the Styx,” said Michael, nodding.

“Of course, it’s going to be wonderful. We must never visit each other except by water.”

“Like splendid dead Venetians,” said Michael.

The fortnight of Lily’s stay at Hardingham was spent by him and Maurice in a fever of decoration. Michael bought oval mirrors of Venetian glass; oblong mirrors crowned with gilt griffins and scallops; small round mirrors in frames of porcelain garlanded with flowerbuds; so many mirrors that the room became even more mysteriously vast. The walls were hung with brocades of gold and philamot and pomona green. There were slim settees the color of ivory, with cushions of primrose and lemon satin, of cinnamon and canary citron and worn russet silks. Over the parquet was a great gray Aubusson carpet with a design of monstrous roses as deep as damsons or burgundy; and from the ceiling hung two chandeliers of cut glass.

“You know,” said Maurice seriously, “she’ll have to be very beautiful to carry this off.”

“She is very beautiful,” said Michael. “And there’s room for her to walk about here. She’ll move about this room as wonderfully as those swans upon the canal.”

“Michael, what’s happened to you? You’re becoming as eccentric as me.” Maurice looked at him rather jealously. “And, I say, do you really want me to come with you to King’s Cross tomorrow afternoon?”

Michael nodded.

“After you’ve helped to gather together this room, you deserve to see the person we’ve done it for.”

“Yes, but look here. Who’s going to stay in the flat with her? You can’t leave her alone until you’re married. As you told me the story, it sounded very romantic; but if she’s going to be your wife, you’ve got to guard her reputation.”

Michael had never given Maurice more than a slight elaboration of the tale which had served for Stella; and he thought how much more romantic Maurice would consider the affair if he knew the whole truth. He felt inclined to tell him, but he doubted his ability to keep it to himself.

“I thought of getting hold of some elderly woman,” he said.

“That’s all very well, but you ought to have been doing it all this time.”

“You don’t know anybody?”

“I? Great scott, no!”

They were walking toward Chelsea, and presently Maurice had to leave him for an appointment.

“Tomorrow afternoon then at King’s Cross,” he said, and jumped on an omnibus.

Michael walked along in a quandary. Whom on earth could he get to stay with Lily? Would it not be better to marry at once? But that would involve breaking his promise to Stella. If he asked Mrs. Gainsborough, it would mean Sylvia knowing where Lily was. If, on the other hand, he should employ a strange woman, Lily might dislike her. Could he ask Mrs. Ross to come up to town? No, of course, that was absurd. It looked as if he would have to ask Mrs. Gainsborough. Or why not ask Sylvia herself? In that case, why establish Lily at Ararat House before they were married? This marriage had seemed so very easy an achievement; but slowly it was turning into an insoluble complex. He might sound Sylvia upon her attitude. It would enormously simplify everything if she would consent; and if she consented she would, he believed, play fair with him. The longer Michael thought about it, the more it seemed the safest course to call in Sylvia’s aid. He was almost hailing a hansom to go to Tinderbox Lane, when he realized how foolish it would be not to try to sever Lily completely from the life she had been leading in Sylvia’s company. Not even ought he to expose her to the beaming laxity of Mrs. Gainsborough.

Michael had reached Notting Hill Gate, and, still pondering the problem which had destroyed half the pleasure of the enterprise, he caught sight of a Registry for servants. Why not employ two servants, two of the automatons who simplified life as it was simplified in Cheyne Walk? Then he remembered that he had forgotten to make any attempt to equip the kitchen. Surely Lily would be able to help with that. He entered the Registry and interviewed a severe woman wearing glasses, who read in a singsong the virtues of a procession of various automatons seeking situations as cooks and housemaids.

“What wages do you wish to give?”

“Oh, the usual wages,” Michael said. “But I rather want these servants today.”

He made an appointment to interview half a dozen after lunch. He chose the first two that presented themselves, and told them to come round to Ararat House. Here he threw himself on their mercy and begged them to make a list of what was wanted in the kitchen. They gave notice on the spot, and Michael rushed off to the Registry again. To the severe woman in glasses he explained the outlines of the situation and made her promise to suit him by tomorrow at midday. She suggested a capable housekeeper;