Sinister Street Compton Mackenzie (good novels to read in english .TXT) 📖

with my whole theory of behavior, my whole attitude toward existence. I could not back out of this marriage.”

“Is all your chivalry to be devoted to the service of Lily?” she asked.

He felt grateful to her for the name. When his mother no longer called her “this girl,” half his resentment fled. The situation concerned the happiness of human beings again; there were no longer prejudices or abstractions of morality to obscure it.

“Not at all, mother. I would do anything for you.”

“Except not marry her.”

“That wouldn’t be a sacrifice worth making,” he argued. “Because if I did that I should destroy myself to myself, and what was left of me wouldn’t be a complete Michael. It wouldn’t be your son.”

“Will you postpone your marriage, say for three months?”

He hesitated. How could he refuse her this?

“Not merely for your own sake,” she urged; “but for all our sakes. We shall all see things more clearly and pleasantly, perhaps, in three months’ time.”

He was conquered by the implication of justice for Lily.

“I won’t marry her for three months,” he promised.

“And you know, darling boy, the dreadful thing is that I very nearly missed the train owing to the idiocy of the head porter at the hotel.”

She was smiling through her tears, and very soon she became her stately self again.

Michael went at once to Ararat House, and told Lily that he had promised his mother to put off their marriage for three months. She pouted over her frocks.

“I wish you’d settled that before. What good will all these dresses be now?”

“You shall have as many more as you want. But will you be happy here without me?”

“Without you? Why are you going away?”

“Because I must, Lily. Because⁠ ⁠… oh, dearest girl, can’t you see that I’m too passionately in love with you to be able to see you every day and every night as I have been all this fortnight?”

“If you want to go away, of course you must; but I shall be rather dull, shan’t I?”

“And shan’t I?” he asked.

She looked at him.

“Perhaps.”

“I shall write every day to you, and you must write to me.”

He held her close and kissed her. Then he hurried away.

Now that he had made the sacrifice to please his mother, he was angry with himself for having done so. He felt that during this coming time of trial he could not bear to see either his mother or Stella. He must be married and fulfill his destiny, and, after that, all would be well. He was enraged with his weakness, wondering where he could go to avoid the people who had brought it about.

Suddenly Michael thought he would like to see Clere Abbey again, and he turned into Paddington Station to find out if there were a train that would take him down into Berkshire at once.

VIII Seeds of Pomegranate

It was almost dark when Michael reached the little station at the foot of the Downs. He was half inclined to put up at the village inn and arrive at the Abbey in the morning; but he was feeling depressed by the alteration of his plans, and longed to withdraw immediately into the monastic peace. He had bought what he needed for the couple of nights before any luggage could reach him, and he thought that with so little to carry he might as well walk the six miles to the Abbey. He asked when the moon would be up.

“Oh, not much before half-past nine, sir,” the porter said.

Michael suddenly remembered that tomorrow was Easter Sunday, and, thinking it would be as well not to arrive too late, in case there should be a number of guests, he managed to get hold of a cart. The wind blew very freshly as they slowly climbed the Downs, and the man who was driving him was very voluble on the subject of the large additions which had been made to the Abbey buildings during the last few years.

“They’ve put up a grand sort of a lodge⁠—Gatehouse, so some do call it. A bit after the style of the Tower of London, I’ve heard some say.”

Michael was glad to think that Dom Cuthbert’s plans seemed to be coming to perfection in their course. How long was it since he and Chator were here? Eight or nine years; now Chator was a priest, and himself had done nothing.

The Abbey Gatehouse was majestic in the darkness, and the driver pealed the great bell with a portentous clangor. Michael recognized the pockmarked brother who opened the door; but he could not remember his name. He felt it would be rather absurd to ask the monk if he recognized him by this wavering lantern-light.

“Is the Reverend⁠—is Dom Cuthbert at the Abbey now?” he asked. “You don’t remember me, I expect? Michael Fane. I stayed here one Autumn eight or nine years ago.”

The monk held up the lantern and stared at him.

“The Reverend Father is in the Guest Room now,” said Brother Ambrose. Michael had suddenly recalled his name.

“Do you think I shall be able to stay here tonight? Or have you a lot of guests for Easter?”

“We can always find room,” said Brother Ambrose. Michael dismissed his driver and followed the monk along the drive.

Dom Cuthbert knew him at once, and seemed very glad that he had come to the Abbey.

“You can have a cell in the Gatehouse. Our new Gatehouse. It’s copied from the one at Cerne Abbas in Dorsetshire. Very beautiful. Very beautiful.”

Michael was introduced to the three or four guests, all types of ecclesiastical laymen, who had been talking with the Abbot. The Compline bell rang almost at once, and the Office was still held in the little chapel of mud and laths built by the hands of the monks.

Keep me as the apple of an eye.
Hide me in the shadow of thy wing.

Here was worship unhampered by problems of social behavior: here was peace.

Lying awake that night in his cell; watching the lattices very luminous in