“This is Mr. Mont,” said Norah Curfew, “who made that splendid speech in the House. Miss Betts, Miss La Fontaine, Miss Beeston.”
The girls bowed, and the one who continued to beat the eggs, said: “It was bully.”
Michael also bowed. “Beating the air, I’m afraid.”
“Oh! but, Mr. Mont, it must have an effect. It said what so many people are really thinking.”
“Ah!” said Michael, “but their thoughts are so deep, you know.”
“Do sit down.”
Michael sat on the end of a peacock-blue divan.
“I was born in South Africa,” said the egg-beater, “and I know what’s waiting.”
“My father was in the House,” said the girl, whose arms had come down to her splendid sides. “He was very much struck. Anyway, we’re jolly grateful.”
Michael looked from one to the other.
“I suppose if you don’t all believe in things, you wouldn’t be doing this? YOU don’t think the shutters are up in England, anyway?”
“Good Lord, no!” said the girl at the typewriter; “you’ve only to live among the poor to know that.”
“The poor haven’t got every virtue, and the rich haven’t got every vice—that’s nonsense!” broke in the physical exerciser.
Michael murmured soothingly.
“I wasn’t thinking of that. I was wondering whether something doesn’t hang over our heads too much?”
“D’you mean poison-gas?”
“Partly; and town blight, and a feeling that Progress has been found out.”
“Well, I don’t know,” replied the egg-beater, who was dark and pretty and had a slight engaging stammer, “I used to think so in the war. But Europe isn’t the world. Europe isn’t even very important, really. The sun hardly shines there, anyway.”
Michael nodded. “After all, if the Millennium comes and we do blot each other out, in Europe, it’ll only mean another desert about the size of the Sahara, and the loss of a lot of people obviously too ill-conditioned to be fit to live. It’d be a jolly good lesson to the rest of the world, wouldn’t it? Luckily the other continents are far off each other.”
“Cheerful!” exclaimed Norah Curfew.
Michael grinned.
“Well, one can’t help catching the atmosphere of this place. I admire you all frightfully, you know, giving up everything, to come and do this.”
“That’s tosh,” said the girl at the typewriter. “What is there to give up—bunny-hugging? One got used to doing things, in the war.”
“If it comes to that,” said the egg-beater, “we admire you much more, for not giving up—Parliament.”
Again Michael grinned.
“Miss La Fontaine—wanted in the kitchen!”
The egg-beater went towards the door.
“Can you—beat eggs? D’you mind—shan’t be a minute.” Handing Michael the bowl and fork, she vanished.
“What a shame!” said Norah Curfew. “Let me!”
“No,” said Michael; “I can beat eggs with anybody. What do you all feel about cutting children adrift at fourteen?”
“Well, of course, it’ll be bitterly opposed,” said the girl at the typewriter. “They’ll call it inhuman, and all that. It’s much more inhuman really to keep them here.”
“The real trouble,” said Norah Curfew, “apart from the shillings earned, is the class-interference idea. Besides, Imperialism isn’t popular.”
“I should jolly well think it isn’t,” muttered the physical exerciser.
“Ah!” said the typist, “but this isn’t Imperialism, is it, Mr. Mont? It’s all on the lines of making the Dominions the equal of the Mother Country.”
Michael nodded. “Commonwealth.”
“That won’t prevent their camouflaging their objection to losing the children’s wages,” said the physical exerciser.
A close discussion ensued between the three young women as to the exact effect of children’s wages on the working-class budget. Michael beat his eggs and listened. It was, he knew, a point of the utmost importance. The general conclusion seemed to be that children earned on the whole rather more than their keep, but that it was ‘very short-sighted in the long run,’ because it fostered surplus population and unemployment, and a “great shame” to spoil the children’s chances for the sake of the parents.
The re-entrance of the egg-beater put a stop to it.
“They’re beginning to come in, Norah.”
The physical exerciser slipped out, and Norah Curfew said:
“Now, Mr. Mont, would you like to see them?”
Michael followed her. He was thinking: ‘I wish Fleur had come!’ These girls seemed really to believe in things.
Down-stairs the children were trickling in from school. He stood and watched them. They seemed a queer blend of anaemia and vitality, of effervescence and obedience. Unselfconscious as puppies, but old beyond their years; and yet, looking as if they never thought ahead. Each movement, each action was as if it were their last. They were very quick. Most of them carried something to eat in a paper bag, or a bit of grease-paper. They chattered, and didn’t laugh. Their accent struck Michael as deplorable. Six or seven at most were nice to look at; but nearly all looked good-tempered, and none seemed to be selfish. Their movements were jerky. They mobbed Norah Curfew and the physical exerciser; obeyed without question, ate without appetite, and grabbed at the house-cat. Michael was fascinated.
With them came four or five mothers, who had questions to ask, or bottles to fill. They too were on perfect terms with the young women. Class did not exist in this house; only personality was present. He noticed that the children responded to his grin, that the women didn’t, though they smiled at Norah Curfew and the physical exerciser; he wondered if they would give him a bit of their minds if they knew of his speech.
Norah Curfew accompanied him to the door.
“Aren’t they ducks?”
“I’m afraid if I saw much of them, I should give up Foggartism.”
“Oh! but why?”
“Well, you see it designs to make them men and women of property.”
“You mean that would spoil them?”
Michael grinned. “There’s something dangerous about silver spoons. Here’s my initiation fee.” He handed her all his money.
“Oh! Mr. Mont, we didn’t—!”
“Well, give me back sixpence, otherwise I shall have to walk home.”
“It’s frightfully kind of you. Do come again; and please don’t give up Foggartism.”
He walked to the train thinking of her eyes; and, on reaching home, said to Fleur:
“You absolutely must come and see that place. It’s quite clean, and the spirit’s topping. It’s bucked me up like anything. Norah Curfew’s perfectly splendid.”
Fleur looked at him between her lashes.
“Oh!” she said. “I will.”
Chapter VII.
CONTRASTS
The land beyond the coppice at Lippinghall was a ten-acre bit of poor grass, chalk and gravel, fenced round, to show that it was property. Except for one experiment with goats, abandoned because nobody would drink their milk in a country that did not demean itself by growing food, nothing had been done with it. By December this poor relation of Sir Lawrence Mont’s estate was being actively exploited. Close to the coppice the hut had been erected, and at least an acre converted into a sea of mud. The coppice itself presented an incised and draggled appearance, owing to the ravages of Henry Boddick and another man, who had cut and stacked a quantity of timber, which a contractor was gradually rejecting for the fowl-house and granary. The incubator-house was at present in the nature of a prophecy. Progress, in fact, was somewhat slow, but it was hoped that fowls might be asked to begin their operations soon after the New Year. In the meantime Michael had decided that the colony had better get the worst over and go into residence. Scraping the Manor House for furniture, and sending in a store of groceries, oil-lamps, and soap, he installed Boddick on the left, earmarked the centre for the Bergfelds, and the right hand for Swain. He was present when the Manor car brought them from the station. The murky day was turning cold, the trees dripped, the car-wheels splashed up the surface water. From the doorway of the hut Michael watched them get out, and thought he had never seen three more untimely creatures. Bergfeld came first; having only one suit, he had put it on, and looked what he was—an actor out of a job. Mrs. Bergfeld came second, and having no outdoor coat, looked what she was—nearly frozen. Swain came last. On his shadowy face was nothing quite so spirited as a sneer; but he gazed about him, and seemed to say: ‘My hat!’