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

cassock and biretta, looking like the photographs of clergymen that Michael remembered in Nurse’s album long ago.

“So you enjoyed the Evensong?” enquired the priest. “Capital! You must come to Mass next Sunday. There will be a procession. By the way, Prout, perhaps your young friend would help us. We shall want extra torch-boys.”

Mr. Prout agreed, and Michael, although he wondered what his mother would say, was greatly excited by the idea. They were standing now by the door of the church and as it opened a gust of wind burst in and whistled round the interior. Father Moneypenny shivered.

“What a night. The end of summer, I’m afraid.”

He closed the door, and Michael and Mr. Prout forced their way through the gale over the wet gravel of the churchyard. The pine trees and the heather made a melancholy concert, and they were glad to reach the blown lamplight of the streets.

“Will you come round to my place?” Mr. Prout asked.

“Well, I ought to go back. My mater will be anxious,” said Michael.

Mr. Prout thereupon invited him to come round tomorrow afternoon.

“I shall be back from the Bank about five. Good night. You’ve got my card? Bernard Prout, Esdraelon, Saxton Road. Good night. Pleased to have met you.”

Mrs. Fane was surprised to hear of Michael’s visit to St. Bartholomew’s.

“You’re getting so secretive, dearest boy. I’d no idea you were becoming interested in religion.”

“Well, it is interesting,” said Michael.

“Of course. I know it must be. So many people think of nothing else. And do you really want to march in the procession?”

“Yes, but don’t you and Stella come,” Michael said.

“Oh, I must, Michael. I’d love to see you in all those pretty clothes.”

“Well, I can go round and see this chap Prout, can’t I?” Michael asked.

“I suppose so,” Mrs. Fane replied. “Of course, I don’t know anything about him. Is he a gentleman?”

“Of course he’s a gentleman,” affirmed Michael warmly. “Besides I don’t see it matters a bit whether he’s a gentleman or not.”

“No, of course it doesn’t really, as it all has to do with religion,” Mrs. Fane agreed. “Nothing is so mixed as religious society.”

Saxton Road possessed no characteristic to distinguish it from many similar roads in Bournemouth. A few hydrangeas debated in sheltered corners whether they should be pink or blue, and the number of each house was subordinate to its title. The gate of Esdraelon clicked behind Michael’s entrance just as the gate of Homeview or Ardagh or Glenside would have clicked. By the bay-window of the ground floor was planted a young passionflower whose nursery label lisped against the brickwork, and whose tendrils were flattened beneath wads of nail-pierced flannel. Michael was directed upstairs to Mr. Prout’s sitting-room on the first floor, where the owner was arranging the teacups.

“I’m so glad you were able to come,” he said.

Michael looked round the room with interest, and while the teacake slowly cooled Mr. Prout discussed with enthusiasm his possessions.

“That’s St. Bernardine of Sienna,” he explained, pointing to a coloured statuette. “My patron, you know. Curious I should have been born on his day and be christened Bernard. I thought of changing my name to Bernardine, but it’s so difficult at a Bank. Of course, I have a cult for St. Bernard too, but I never really can forgive him for opposing the Immaculate Conception. Father Moneypenny and I have great arguments on that point. I’m afraid he’s a little bit wobbly. But absolutely sound on the Assumption. Oh, absolutely, I’m glad to say. In fact, I don’t mind telling you that next year we intend to keep it as a Double of the First Class with Octave which, of course, it is. This rosary is made of olive-wood from the Garden of Gethsemane and I’m very anxious to get it blessed by the Pope. Some friends of mine are going to Rome next Easter with a Polytechnic tour, so I may be able to manage it. But it’s difficult. The Cardinals⁠—you know,” said Mr. Prout vaguely. “They’re inclined to be bitter against English Catholics. Of course, Vaughan made the mistake of his life in getting the Pope to pronounce against English Orders. I know a Roman priest told me he considered it a fatal move. However⁠—you’re waiting for your tea?”

Michael ate Mr. Prout’s bread-and-butter and drank his tea, while the host hopped from trinket to trinket.

“This is a sacred amulet which belonged to one of the Macdonalds who fought at Prestonpans. I suppose you’re a Jacobite? Of course, I belong to all the Legitimist Societies⁠—the White Rose, the White Cockade, the White Carnation. Everyone. I wish I were a Scotchman, although my grandmother was a Miss Macmillan, so I’ve got Scotch blood. You are a Jacobite, aren’t you?”

“Rather,” said Michael as enthusiastically as his full mouth would allow him to declare.

“Of course, it’s the only logical political attitude for an English Catholic to adopt,” said Mr. Prout. “All this Erastianism⁠—you know. Terrible. What’s the Privy Council got to do with Vestments? Still the Episcopal appointments haven’t been so bad lately. That’s Lord Salisbury. Of course, we’ve had trouble with our Bishop. Oh, yes. He simply declines to listen to reason on the subject of Reservation for the Sick. Personally I advised Father Moneypenny not to pay any attention to him. I said the Guild of St. Wilfrid⁠—that’s our servers’ guild, you know⁠—was absolutely in favour of defiance, open defiance. But one of the churchwardens got round him. There’s your Established Church. Money’s what churchwardens think of⁠—simply money. And has religion got anything to do with money? Nothing. ‘Blessed are the poor.’ You can’t go against that, as I told Major Wilton⁠—that’s our people’s warden⁠—in the sacristy. He’s a client of ours at the Bank, or I should have said a jolly sight more. I should have told him that in my opinion his attitude was simony⁠—rank simony, and let it go at that. But I couldn’t very well, and, of course, it doesn’t look well for the Ceremonarius and the churchwarden to be bickering after Mass. By the way, will you help us next Sunday?”

“I’d like