Sinister Street

"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-cla.s.s county in cricket? Stella might captain the team."

Time pa.s.sed very pleasantly with long walks and rides and drives, with long evenings of cut-throat 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 to-night 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 s.h.i.+llings for ladies.

"Ought to be very good," commented the tobacconist. "Well, we want a bit of brightening up nowadays down this way, and that's a fact. Why, I can remember Cremorne Gardens. Tut-tut! Bless my soul. Yes, and the old World's End. That's going back into the seventies, that is. And it seems only yesterday."

"I rather wish I'd got a ticket," said Michael.

"Why not let me get you one, sir, and send it round to Cheyne Walk? I suppose you'd like one for a lady as well?"

"No, I'll have two men's tickets."

Michael had a vague notion of getting Maurice or Lonsdale to accompany him, and he went off immediately to 422 Grosvenor Road; but the studio was deserted. Nor was he successful in finding Lonsdale. n.o.body seemed to have finished his holidays yet. It would be rather boring to go alone, he thought; but when he found the tickets waiting for him, they seemed to promise a jolly evening, even if he did no more than watch other people enjoying themselves. No doubt there would be plenty of spectators without masks, like himself, and in ordinary evening dress.

So about half-past nine Michael set off alone to the carnival.

Redcliffe Hall, viewed from the outside in the January fog which was deepening over the city, seemed the last place in the world likely to contain a carnival. It was

Michael went up to the gallery and watched the crowd of dancers. Many of the fancy dresses had a very homely look, but there were also professional equipments from costumiers and a very few really beautiful inventions. The medley of colors, the motion of the dance, the sound of the music, the streamers of bunting and the ribbons fluttering round the Maypole in the middle of the room, all combined to give Michael an illusion of a very jocund a.s.semblage. There were plenty of men dancing without masks, which was rather a pity, as their dull, ordinary faces halted abruptly the play of fancy. On second thoughts he was glad such revelers were allowed upon the floor, since as the scene gradually began to affect him he felt it might be amusing for himself to dance once or twice before the evening ended. With this notion in view, he began to follow more particularly the progress of different girls, balancing their charms one against another, and always deriving a good deal of pleasure from the reflection that, while at this moment they did not know of his existence, in an hour's time he might have entered their lives. This thought did give a romantic zest to an entertainment which would otherwise have been quite cut off from his appreciation.

Suddenly Michael's heart began to quicken: the blood came in rushes and swift recessions that made him feel cold and sick. Two girls walking away from him along the side of the hall--those two pierrettes in black--that one with the pale blue pompons was Lily! Why didn't she turn round? It must be Lily. The figure, the walk, the hair were hers. The pierrettes turned, but as they were masked Michael could still not be sure if one were Lily. They were dancing together now. It must be Lily.

He leaned over the rail of the gallery to watch them sweep round below him, so that he might listen if by chance above the noise Lily's languorous voice could reach him. Michael became almost positive that it was she. There could not be another girl to seem so like her. He hurried down from the gallery and stood in the entrance to the ball-room. Where were they now? They were coming toward him: the other pierrette with the rose pompons said something as they pa.s.sed. It could only be Lily who bowed her head like that in lazy a.s.sent. It was Lily! Should he call out to her, when next they pa.s.sed him? If it were not Lily, what a fool he would look. If it were not Lily, it would not matter what he looked, for the disappointment would outweigh everything else. They were going up the room again. They were turning the corner again. They were sweeping toward him again. They were pa.s.sing him again. He called "Lily!

Lily!" in a voice sharp with eagerness. Neither girl gave a sign of attention. It was not she, after all. Yet his voice might have been drowned in the noise of the dance. He would call again; but again they pa.s.sed him by unheeding. The dance was over. They had stopped at the other end of the room. He pressed forward against the egress of the dancers. He pressed forward roughly, and once or twice he heard grumbling murmurs because he had deranged a difficult piece of costumery. He was conscious of angry masks regarding him; and then he was free of the crowd, and before him, talking together under a canopy of holly were the two pierrettes. The musicians sat among the palms looking at him as they rested upon their instruments. Michael felt that his voice was going to refuse to utter her name:

"Lily! Lily!"

The pierrette with the pale blue pompons turned at the sound of his voice. Why did she not step forward to greet him, if indeed she were Lily? She was, she was Lily: the other pierrette had turned to see what she was going to do.

"I say, how on earth did you recognize me?" Lily murmured, raising her mask and looking at Michael with her smile that was so debonair and tender, so scornful and so pa.s.sionate.

"I saw you in November coming out of the Orient. I tried to get across the road to speak to you, but you'd gone before I could manage it.

Where have you been all these years? Once I went to Trelawny Road, but the house was empty." He could not tell her that Drake had been the first to bring him news of her.

"It's years since I was there," said Lily. "Years and years." She turned to call her friend, and the pierrette with the rose pompons came closer to be introduced.

"Miss Sylvia Scarlett: Mr. Michael Fane. Aren't I good to remember your name quite correctly?" Michael thought that her mouth for a moment was utterly scornful. "What made you come here? Have you got a friend with you?"

Michael explained that he was alone, and that his visit here was an accident.

"Why did _you_ come?" he asked.

"Oh, something to do," said Lily. "We live near here."

"So do I," said Michael hastily.

"Do you?" Her eyebrows went up in what he imagined was an expression of rather cruel interrogation. "This is a silly sort of a show. Still, even Covent Garden is dull now."

Michael thought what a fool he had been not to include Covent Garden in his search. How well he might have known she would go there.

"Where's Doris?" he asked.

Lily shrugged her shoulders.

"I never see anything of her nowadays. She married an actor. I don't often get letters from home, do I, Sylvia?"

The pierrette with rose pompons, who ever since her introduction had still been standing outside the conversation, now raised her mask.

Michael liked her face. She had merry eyes, and a wide nose rather Slavonic. Next to Lily she seemed almost dumpy.

"Letters, my dear," she exclaimed, in a very deep voice, "Who wants letters?"

The music of a waltz was beginning, and Michael asked Lily if she would dance with him. She looked at Sylvia.

"I don't think...."

"Oh, what rot, Lily! Of course you can dance."

Michael gave her a grateful smile.

In a moment Lily had lowered her mask, and they were waltzing together.

"My gad, how gloriously you waltz!" he whispered. "Did we ever dance together five years ago?"