“It’s rather roundabout,” said Soames, sitting on the book. He detailed the reason, and ended with:
“Don’t say anything to Michael, or Fleur.”
Sir Lawrence listened with his twisting smile.
“I see,” he said, “I see. Very cunning, Forsyte. You want me to get some one whose name will act like a red rag. It mustn’t be a novelist, or they’ll say he’s jealous—which he probably is: the book’s selling like hot cakes—I believe that’s the expression. Ah! I think—rather think, Forsyte, that I have the woman.”
“Woman!” said Soames. “They won’t pay any attention to that.”
Sir Lawrence cocked his loose eyebrow. “I believe you’re right—the only women they pay attention to nowadays are those who go one better than themselves. Shall I do it myself, and sign ‘Outraged Parent’?”
“I believe it wants a real name.”
“Again right, Forsyte; it does. I’ll drop into the Parthenaeum, and see if any one’s alive.”
Two days later Soames received a note.
“The Parthenaeum,
“Friday.
“MY DEAR FORSYTE,
“I’ve got the man—the Editor of The Protagonist; and he’ll do it under his own name. What’s more, I’ve put him on to the right line. We had a spirited argument. He wanted to treat it de haut en bas as the work of a dirty child. I said: ‘No. This thing is symptomatic. Treat it seriously; show that it represents a school of thought, a deliberate literary attitude; and make it a plea for censorship.’ Without the word censorship, Forsyte, they will never rise. So he’s leaving his wife and taking it into the country for the week-end. I admire your conduct of the defence, my dear Forsyte; it’s very subtle. But if you’ll forgive me for saying so, it’s more important to prevent the case coming into Court than to get a verdict if it does.
“Sincerely yours,
“LAWRENCE MONT.”
With which sentiment Soames so entirely agreed, that he went down to Mapledurham, and spent the next two afternoons going round and round with a man he didn’t like, hitting a ball, to quiet his mind.
Chapter VI.
MICHAEL VISITS BETHNAL GREEN
The feeling of depression with which Michael had come back from the fount and origin was somewhat mitigated by letters he was receiving from people of varying classes, nearly all young. They were so nice and earnest. They made him wonder whether after all practical politicians were not too light-hearted, like the managers of music-halls who protected the Public carefully from their more tasteful selves. They made him feel that there might be a spirit in the country that was not really represented in the House, or even in the Press. Among these letters was one which ran:
“Sunshine House,
“Bethnal Green.
“DEAR MR. MONT,
“I was so awfully glad to read your speech in The Times. I instantly got Sir James Foggart’s book. I think the whole policy is simply splendid. You’ve no idea how heart-breaking it is for us who try to do things for children, to know that whatever we do is bound to be snowed under by the life they go to when school age ends. We have a good opportunity here of seeing the realities of child life in London. It’s wonderful to see the fondness of the mothers for the little ones, in spite of their own hard lives—though not all, of course, by any means; but we often notice, and I think it’s common experience, that when the children get beyond ten or twelve, the fondness for them begins to assume another form. I suppose it’s really the commercial possibilities of the child making themselves felt. When money comes in at the door, disinterested love seems to move towards the window. I suppose it’s natural, but it’s awfully sad, because the commercial possibilities are generally so miserable; and the children’s after-life is often half ruined for the sake of the few shillings they earn. I do fervently hope something will come of your appeal; only—things move so slowly, don’t they? I wish you would come down and see our House here. The children are adorable, and we try to give them sunshine.
“Sincerely yours,
“NORAH CURFEW.”
Bertie Curfew’s sister! But surely that case would not really come to anything! Grateful for encouragement, and seeking light on Foggartism, he decided to go. Perhaps Norah Curfew would take the little Boddicks! He suggested to Fleur that she should accompany him, but she was afraid of picking up something unsuitable to the eleventh baronet, so he went alone.
The house, facing the wintry space called Bethnal Green, consisted of three small houses converted into one, with their three small back yards, trellised round and gravelled, for a playground. Over the door were the words: SUNSHINE HOUSE, in gold capitals. The walls were cream-coloured, the woodwork dark, and the curtains of gay chintz. Michael was received in the entrance-lobby by Norah Curfew herself. Tall, slim and straight, with dark hair brushed back from a pale face, she had brown eyes, clear, straight and glowing.
‘Gosh!’ thought Michael, as she wrung his hand. ‘She IS swept and garnished. No basement in her soul!’
“It WAS good of you to come, Mr. Mont. Let me take you over the house. This is the playroom.”
Michael entered a room of spotless character, which had evidently been formed from several knocked into one. Six small children dressed in blue linen were seated on the floor, playing games. They embraced the knees of Norah Curfew when she came within reach. With the exception of one little girl Michael thought them rather ugly.
“These are our residents. The others only come out of school hours. We have to limit them to fifty, and that’s a pretty good squeeze. We want funds to take the next two houses.”
“How many of you are working here?”
“Six. Two of us do the cooking; one the accounts; and the rest washing, mending, games, singing, dancing, and general chores. Two of us live in.”
“I don’t see your harps and crowns.”
Norah Curfew smiled.
“Pawned,” she said.
“What do you do about religion?” asked Michael, thinking of the eleventh baronet’s future.
“Well, on the whole we don’t. You see, they’re none of them more than twelve; and the religious age, when it begins at all, begins with sex about fourteen. We just try to teach kindness and cheerfulness. I had my brother down the other day. He’s always laughed at me; but he’s going to do a matinee for us, and give us the proceeds.”
“What play?”
“I think it’s called ‘The Plain Dealer.’ He says he’s always wanted to do it for a good object.”
Michael stared. “Do you know ‘The Plain Dealer’?”
“No; it’s by one of the Restoration people, isn’t it?”
“Wycherley.”
“Oh! yes!” Her eyes remaining clearer than the dawn, Michael thought: ‘Poor dear! It’s not my business to queer the pitch of her money-getting; but Master Bertie likes his little joke!’
“I must bring my wife down here,” he said; “she’d love your walls and curtains. And I wanted to ask you—You haven’t room, have you, for two more little girls, if we pay for them? Their father’s down and out, and I’m starting him in the country—no mother.”
Norah Curfew wrinkled her straight brows, and on her face came the look Michael always connected with haloes, an anxious longing to stretch good-will beyond power and pocket.
“Oh! we must!” she said. “I’ll manage somehow. What are their names?”
“Boddick—Christian, I don’t know. I call them by their ages—Four and Five.”
“Give me the address. I’ll go and see them myself; if they haven’t got anything catching, they shall come.”
“You really are an angel,” said Michael, simply.
Norah Curfew coloured, and opened a door. “That’s silly,” she said, still more simply. “This is our mess-room.”
It was not large, and contained a girl working a typewriter, who stopped with her hands on the keys and looked round; another girl beating up eggs in a bowl, who stopped reading a book of poetry; and a third, who seemed practising a physical exercise, and stopped with her arms extended.