Sinister Street Volume Ii Part 15

When Michael, equipped with the prospect of reading at least fifty historical works in preparation for the more serious scholastic enterprise of his second year, came down for the Long Vacation, he found that somehow his mother had changed. In old days she had never lost for an instant that air of romantic mystery with which Michael as a very little boy for his own satisfaction had endowed her, and with which, as he grew older, he fancied she armed herself against the world of ordinary life. Now after a month or two of Chelsea's easy stability Mrs.

Fane had put behind her the least hint of the unusual and seemed exceptionally well suited by her surroundings. Michael at first thought that perhaps in Carlington Road, to which she always came from the great world, however much apart from the great world her existence had been when she was in it, his mother had only evoked a thought of romance because the average inhabitant was lower down the ladder of the more subtly differentiated social grades than herself, and that now in Cheyne Walk against an appropriate background her personality was less conspicuous. Yet when he had been at home for a week or two he realized that indeed his mother had changed profoundly.

Michael put together the few bits of outside opinion he could muster and concluded that an almost lifelong withdrawal from the society of other women had now been replaced by an exaggerated pleasure in their company. What puzzled him most was how to account for the speed with which she had gathered round her so many acquaintances. It was almost as if his father in addition to bequeathing her money enough to be independent of the world had bequeathed also enough women friends to make her forget that she had ever stood in any other relation to society.

"Where does mother get hold of all these women?" Michael asked Stella irritably, when he had been trapped into a rustling drawing-room for the whole of a hot summer afternoon.

"Oh, they're all interested in something or other," Stella explained.

"And mother's interested in them. I expect, you know, she had rather a rotten time really when she was traveling round."

"But she used always to be so vague and amusing," said Michael, "and now she's as fussy and practical as a vicar's wife."

"I think I know why that is," Stella theorized meditatively. "I think if I ever gave up everything for one man I should get to rely on him so utterly that when he wasn't with me any sort of contact with other people would make me vague."

"Yes, but then she would be more vague than ever now," Michael argued.

"No; the reaction against dependence on one person would be bound to make her change tremendously, if, as I think, a good deal of the vagueness came after she ran away with father."

Michael looked rather offended by Stella's blunt reference.

"I rather wish you wouldn't talk quite so easily about all of that," he said. "I think the best thing for you to do is to forget it."

"Like mother, in fact," Stella pointed out. "Do you know, Michael, I believe by this time she is entirely oblivious of the fact that in her past there has been anything which was not perfectly ordinary, almost dull. Really by the way she worries me about the simplest little things, you'd think--however, as I know you have rather a dread of perfect frankness in your only sister, I'll shut up and say no more."

"What things?" asked Michael sharply. Stella's theories about the freedom of the artist had already worried him a good deal, and though he had laughed them aside as the extravagant affectations of a gifted child, now that, however grudgingly he must admit the fact, she was really grown up, it would never do for her without a protest from him to turn theories into practice.

"Oh, Michael!" Stella laughed reprovingly. "Don't put on that professorial or priestly air or whatever you call it, because if you ever want confidences from me you'll have just to be humbly sympathetic."

Michael sternly demanded if she had been keeping up her music, which made Stella dance about the studio in tempestuous mirth.

"I don't see anything to giggle at in such a question," Michael grumbled, and simultaneously reproached himself for a method of obloquy so cheap. "Anyway, you never talk about your music now, and whatever you may say, you don't practice as much as you used. Why?"

For answer Stella sat down at the piano, and played over and over again the latest popular song until Michael walked out of the studio in a rage.

A few days later at breakfast he broached the subject of going away into the country.

"My dear boy, I'm much too busy with the Bazaar," said Mrs. Fane.

Michael sighed.

"I don't think I can possibly get away until August, and then I've half promised to go to Dinard with Mrs. Carruthers. She has just taken up Mental Science--so interesting and quite different from Christian Science."

"I hate these mock-turtle religions," said Michael savagely.

Mrs. Fane replied that Michael must learn a little toleration in very much the same tone as she might have suggested a little Italian.

"But why don't you and Stella go away somewhere together? Stella has been quite long enough in London for the present."

"I've got to practice hard for my next concert," said Stella, looking coldly at her brother. "You and Michael are so funny, mother. You grumble at me when I don't practice all day, and yet when it's really necessary for me to work, you always suggest going away."

"I never suggested your coming away," Michael contradicted. "As a matter of fact, I've been asked to join a reading-party in Cornwall, and I think I'll go."

The reading-party in question consisted besides Michael of Maurice Avery, Guy Hazlewood, Castleton, and Stewart. Bill Mowbray also joined them for the first two days, but after receiving four wires in reference to the political candidature of a friend in the north of England, he decided that his presence was necessary to the triumph of Tory Democracy and left abruptly in the middle of the night with a request to forward his luggage when it arrived. When it did arrive, the reading-party sent it to await at Univ Mowbray's arrival in October, arguing that such an arrangement would save Bill and his friends much money, as he would indubitably spend during the rest of the vacation not more than forty-eight hours on the same spot.

The reading-party had rooms in a large farmhouse near the Lizard; and they spent a very delightful month bathing, golfing, cliff-climbing, cream-eating, fis.h.i.+ng, sailing, and talking. Avery and Stewart also did a certain amount of work on the first number of The Oxford Looking-Gla.s.s, work which Hazlewood amused himself by pulling to pieces.

"I'm doing an article for the O.L.G. on Cornwall," Avery announced one evening.

"What, a sort of potted guide?" Hazlewood asked.

Maurice made haste to repudiate the suggestion.

"No, no; it's an article on the uncanny place influence of Cornwall."

"I think half of that uncanniness is due to the odd names hereabouts,"

Castleton observed. "The sign-posts are like incantations."

"Much more than that," Avery earnestly a.s.sured him. "It really affects me profoundly sometimes."

Hazlewood laughed.

"Oh, Maurice, not profoundly. You'll never be affected profoundly by anything," he prophesied.

Maurice clicked his thumbs impatiently.

"You always know all about everybody and me in particular, Guy, but though, as you're aware, I'm a profound materialist----"

"Maurice is plumbing the lead to-night," Hazlewood interrupted, with a laugh. "He'll soon transcend all human thought."

"Here in Cornwall," Maurice pursued, undaunted, "I really am affected sometimes with a sort of horror of the unknown. You'll all rag me, and you can, but though I've enjoyed myself frightfully, I don't think I shall ever come to Cornwall again."

With this announcement he puffed defiance from his pipe.

"Shut up, Maurice!" Hazlewood chaffed. "You've been reading Cornish novelists--the sort of people who write about over-emotionalized young men and women acting to the moon in hut-circles or dancing with their own melodramatic Psyches on the top of a cromlech."

"Do you believe in presentiments, Guy?" Michael broke in suddenly.

"Of course I do," said Hazlewood. "And I'd believe in the inherent weirdness of Cornwall, if people in books didn't always go there to solve their problems and if Maurice weren't always so facile with the right emotion at the right moment."

"I've got a presentiment to-night," said Michael, and not wis.h.i.+ng to say more just then, though he had been compelled against his will to admit as much, he left the rest of the party, and went up to his room.

Outside the tamarisks lisped at intervals in a faint wind that rose in small puffs and died away in long sighs. Was it a presentiment he felt, or was it merely thunder in the air?

Next morning came a telegram from Stella in Paris:

_join me here rather quickly._

Michael left Cornwall that afternoon, and all the length of the hara.s.sing journey to London he thought of his friends bathing all day and talking half through the intimate night, until gradually, as the train grew hotter, they stood out in his memory like cool people eternally splashed by grateful fountains. Yet at the back of all his regrets for Cornwall, Michael was thinking of Stella and wondering whether the telegram was merely due to her impetuous way or whether indeed she wanted him more than rather quickly.

It was dark when he reached London, and in the close August night the street-lamps seemed to have lost all their sparkle, seemed to glow luridly like the sinister lamps of a dream.