It was almost as if England were facing realities at last–Very dangerous! They would be licensing prostitution next! To tax what were called vices was to admit that they were part of human nature. And though, like a Forsyte, he had long known them to be so, to admit it was, he felt, too French. To acknowledge the limitations of human nature was a sort of defeatism; when you once began that, you didn’t know where you’d stop. Still, from all he could see, the tax would bring in a pretty penny–and pennies were badly needed; so, he didn’t know, he wasn’t sure. He wouldn’t have done it himself, but he wasn’t prepared to turn out the Government for having done it. They had recognised, too, no doubt, as he did, that gambling was the greatest make-weight there was against revolution; so long as a man could bet he had always a chance of getting something for nothing, and that desire was the real driving force behind any attempt to turn things upside down. Besides you had to move with the times uphill or downhill, and it was difficult to tell one from the other. The great thing was to avoid extremes.
From this measured reflection he was abruptly transferred to feelings unmeasured. Fleur and that young fellow were walking across the lawn of the Enclosure! From under the brim of his grey hat he watched them painfully, reluctantly admitting that they made as pretty a couple as any there. They came to a stand on the rails–not talking; and to Soames, who, when moved, was exceptionally taciturn, this seemed a bad sign. Were things really going wrong, then–was passion forming within its still cocoon to fly on butterfly wings for its brief hour? What was going on within the silence of those two? The horses were passing now; and the grey, they said, was his own nephew’s? Why did the fellow have horses? He had known how it would be when Fleur said she was going to Ascot. He regretted now having come. No, he didn’t! Better to know what there was to be known. In the press of people to the rails he could no longer see more than the young man’s grey hat, and the black-and-white covering of his daughter’s head. For a minute the race diverted him: might as well see Val’s horse well beaten. They said he thought a lot of it; and Soames thought the less of its chance for that. Here they came, all in a bunch–thundering great troop, and that grey–a handy colour, you couldn’t miss it. – Why, he was winning! Hang it–he had won!
“H’m!” he said, aloud: “that’s my nephew’s horse!”
Since nobody replied, he hoped they hadn’t heard; and back went his eyes to the Enclosure rails. Those two were coming away silently–Fleur a little in front. Perhaps–perhaps, after all, they didn’t get on, now! Must hope for the best. By George, but he felt tired! He would go to the car, and wait.
And there in the dusk of it he was sitting when they came, full of bubble and squeak–something very little-headed about people when they’d won money. For they had all won money, it seemed!
“And you didn’t back him, Uncle Soames?”
“I was thinking of other things,” said Soames, gazing at his daughter.
“We thought you were responsible for the shockin’ bad price.”
“Why!” said Soames, gloomily. “Did you expect me to bet against him?”
Jack Cardigan threw back his head and laughed.
“I don’t see anything funny,” muttered Soames.
“Nor do I, Jack,” said Fleur. “Why should Father know anything about racing?”
“I beg your pardon, sir, I’ll tell you all about it.”
“God forbid!” said Soames. “No, but it’s rather queer. D’you remember that chap Stainford, who sneaked the Mater’s snuff-box?”
“I do.”
“Well it seems he paid Val a visit at Wansdon, and Val thinks he picked up the idea that Rondavel was a real good one. There was a chap watching the gallop last Monday. That’s what decided them to run the colt today. They were going to wait for Goodwood. Too late, though; somebody’s made a pot over him. We only got fours.”
It was all Greek to Soames, except that the languid ruffian Stainford had somehow been responsible a SECOND time for bringing about a meeting between Fleur and Jon; for he knew from Winifred that Val and his menage had gone to stay at Green Street during the Strike on purpose to see Stainford. He wished to goodness he had called a policeman that day, and had the fellow shut up.
They were a long time getting out of the traffic–owing to the perversity of “that chap Riggs,” and did not reach South Square till seven o’clock. They were greeted by the news that Kit had a temperature. Mr. Mont was with him. Fleur flew up. Having washed off his day, Soames settled himself in the ‘parlour’ to wait uneasily for their report. Fleur used to have temperatures, and not infrequently they led to something. If Kit’s didn’t lead to anything serious, it might be good for her–keeping her thoughts at home. He lay back in his chair opposite the Fragonard–a delicate thing, but with no soul in it, like all the works of that period–wondering why Fleur had changed the style of this room from Chinese to Louis Quinze. Just for the sake of change, he supposed. These young people had no continuity; some microbe in the blood–of the ‘idle rich,’ and the ‘idle poor,’ and everybody else, so far as he could see. Nobody could be got to stay anywhere–not even in their graves, judging by all those seances. If only people would attend quietly to their business, even to that of being dead! They had such an appetite for living, that they had no life. A beam of sunlight, smoky with dust-motes, came slanting in on to the wall before him–pretty thing, a beam of sunlight, but a terrible lot of dust, even in a room spick-and-spandy as this. And to think that a thing smaller than one of those dust-motes could give a child a temperature. He hoped to goodness Kit had nothing catching. And his mind went over the illnesses of childhood–mumps, measles, chicken-pox, whooping-cough. Fleur had caught them all, but never scarlet fever. And Soames began to fidget. Surely Kit was too young to have got scarlet fever. But nurses were so careless–you never knew! And suddenly he began to wish for Annette. What was she doing out in France all this time? She was useful in illness; had some very good prescriptions. He WOULD say that for the French–their doctors were clever when you could get them to take an interest. The stuff they had given him for his lumbago at Deauville had been first-rate. And after his visit the little doctor chap had said: “I come for the money tomorrow!” or so it had sounded. It seemed he had meant: “I come in the morning tomorrow.” They never could speak anything but their own confounded language, and looked aggrieved when you couldn’t speak it yourself.
They had kept him a long time there without news before Michael came in.
“Well?”
“Well, sir, it looks uncommonly like measles.”
“H’m! Now, how on earth did he get that?”
“Nurse has no idea; but Kit’s awfully sociable. If there’s another child in sight, he goes for him.”
“That’s bad,” said Soames. “You’ve got slums at the back here.”
“Ah!” said Michael: “Slums to the right of us, slums to the left of us, slums to the front of us–how can you wonder?”
Soames stared. “They’re not notifiable,” he said, “thank goodness!”
“Slums?”
“No. Measles.” If he had a dread, it was a notifiable disease, with the authorities poking their noses in, and having up the drains as likely as not. “How’s the little chap feeling?”
“Very sorry for himself.”
“In my opinion,” said Soames, “there’s a great deal more in fleas than they think. That dog of his may have picked up a measley flea. I wonder the doctor’s don’t turn their attention to fleas.”
“I wonder they don’t turn their attention to slums,” said Michael; “that’s where the fleas come from.”
Again Soames stared. Had his son-inlaw got slums in his bonnet now? His manifestations of public spirit were very disturbing. Perhaps he’d been going round those places, and brought the flea in himself, or some infection or other.
“Have you sent for the doctor?”
“Yes; he’ll be here any minute.”
“Is he any good, or just the ordinary cock-and-bull type?”
“The same man we had for Fleur.”
“Oh! Ah! I remember–too much manner, but shrewd. Doctors!”
There was silence in the polished room, while they waited for the bell to ring; and Soames brooded. Should he tell Michael about the afternoon? His mouth opened once, but nothing came out. Over and over again his son-inlaw had surprised him by the view he took of things. And he only stared at Michael, who was gazing out of the window–queer face the young fellow had; plain, and yet attractive, with those pointed ears and eyebrows running up on the outside–wasn’t always thinking of himself like good-looking young men seemed to be. Good-looking men were always selfish; got spoiled, he supposed. He would give a penny for the young fellow’s thoughts.
“Here he is!” said Michael, jumping up.
Soames was alone again. How long alone, he didn’t know, for he was tired, and, in spite of his concern, he dozed. The opening of the door roused him in time to assume anxiety before Fleur spoke.
“It’s almost certainly measles, Dad.”
“Oh!” said Soames, blankly. “What about nursing?”
“Nurse and I, of course.”
“That’ll mean you can’t get about.”
“And aren’t you glad?” her face seemed to say. How she read his thoughts!
God knew he wasn’t glad of anything that troubled her–and yet!
“Poor little chap!” he said, evasively: “Your mother must come back. I must try and find him something that’ll take his attention off.”
“Don’t trouble, Dad; he’s too feverish, poor darling. Dinner’s ready. I’m having mine upstairs.”
Soames rose and went up to her.
“Don’t you be worrying,” he said. “All children–”
Fleur put her arm out.
“Not too near, Dad. No, I won’t worry.”
“Give him my love,” said Soames. “He won’t care for it.”
Fleur looked at him. Her lips smiled a very little. Her eyelids winked twice. Then she turned and went out, and Soames thought:
‘She–poor little thing! I’m no use!’ It was of her, not of his grandson, that he thought.
Chapter IV.
IN THE MEADS
The Meads of St. Augustine had, no doubt, once on a time been flowery, and burgesses had walked there of a Sunday, plucking summer nosegays. If there were a flower now, it would be found on the altar of the Reverend Hilary’s church, or on Mrs. Hilary’s dining-table. The rest of a numerous population had heard of these unnatural products, and, indeed, seeing them occasionally in baskets, would utter the words: “Aoh! Look at the luv-ly flahers!”
When Michael visited his uncle, according to promise, on Ascot Cup Day, he was ushered hurriedly into the presence of twenty little Augustinians on the point of being taken in a covered motor van for a fortnight among flowers in a state of nature. His Aunt May was standing among them. She was a tall woman with bright brown shingled hair going grey, and the slightly rapt expression of one listening to music. Her smile was very sweet, and this, with the puzzled twitch of her delicate eyebrows, as who should say placidly: “What next, I wonder?” endeared her to everyone. She had emerged from a Rectory in Huntingdonshire, in the early years of the century, and had married Hilary at the age of twenty. He had kept her busy ever since. Her boys and girls were all at school now, so that in term time she had merely some hundreds of Augustinians for a family. Hilary was wont to say: “May’s a wonder. Now that she’s had her hair off, she’s got so much time on her hands that we’re thinking of keeping guinea-pigs. If she’d only let me grow a beard, we could really get a move on.”
She greeted Michael with a nod and a twitch.
“Young London, my dear,” she said, privately, “just off to Leatherhead. Rather sweet, aren’t they?”
Michael, indeed, was surprised by the solidity and neatness of the twenty young Augustinians. Judging by the streets from which they came and the mothers who were there to see them off, their families had evidently gone ‘all out’ to get them in condition for Leatherhead.
He stood grinning amiably, while they were ushered out on the glowing pavement between the unrestrained appreciation of their mothers and sisters. Into the van, open only at the rear, they were piled, with four young ladies to look after them.
“Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie,” murmured Michael.
His aunt laughed.
“Yes, poor little dears, won’t they be hot! But aren’t they good?” She lowered her voice. “And d’you know what they’ll say when they come back after their fortnight? ‘Oh! yes, we liked it all very much, thank you, but it was rather slow. We like the streets better.’ Every year it’s the same.”
“Then, what’s the use of sending them, Aunt May?”
“It does them good physically; they look sturdy enough, but they aren’t really strong. Besides, it seems so dreadful they should never see the country. Of course we country-bred folk, Michael, never can realise what London streets are to children–very nearly Heaven, you know.”
The motor van moved to an accompaniment of fluttered handkerchiefs and shrill cheering.
“The mothers love them to go,” said his aunt; “it’s kind of distinguished. Well, that’s that! What would you like to see next? The street we’ve just bought, to gut and re-gut? Hilary’ll be there with the architect.”
“Who owned the street?” asked Michael.
“He lived in Capri. I don’t suppose he ever saw it. He died the other day, and we got it rather reasonably, considering how central we are, here. Sites are valuable.”
“Have you paid for it?”
“Oh! no.” Her eyebrows twitched. “Postdated a cheque on Providence.”
“Good Lord!”
“We had to have the street. It was such a chance. We’ve paid the deposit, and we’ve got till September to get the rest.”
“How much?” said Michael.
“Thirty-two thousand.”
Michael gasped.
“Oh! We shall get it, dear, Hilary’s wonderful in that way. Here’s the street.”
It was a curving street of which, to Michael, slowly passing, each house seemed more dilapidated than the last. Grimy and defaced, with peeling plaster, broken rails and windows, and a look of having been abandoned to its fate–like some half-burnt-out ship–it hit the senses and the heart with its forlornness.
“What sort of people live here, Aunt May?”
“All sorts–three or four families to each house. Covent Garden workers, hawkers, girls in factories, out-of-works–every kind. The unmentionable insect abounds, Michael. The girls are wonderful–they keep their clothes in paper bags. Many of them turn out quite neat. If they didn’t, of course, they’d get the sack, poor dears.”
“But is it possible,” said Michael, “that people can WANT to go on living here?”
His aunt’s brows became intricate.
“It isn’t a question of want, my dear. It’s a simple economic proposition. Where else can they live so cheaply? It’s more than that, even; where else can they go at all, if they’re turned out? The Authorities demolished a street not long ago up there, and built that great block of workmen’s flats; but the rents were prohibitive to the people who had been living in the street, and they simply melted away to other slums. Besides, you know, they don’t like those barracky flats, and I don’t wonder. They’d much rather have a little house, if they can; or the floor of a house if they can’t. Or even a room. That’s in the English nature, and it will be till they design workmen’s dwellings better. The English like to live low down: I suppose because they always have. Oh! Here’s Hilary!”
Hilary Charwell, in a dark grey Norfolk suit, a turn-down collar open at the neck, and no hat, was standing in the doorway of a house, talking to another spare man with a thin, and, to Michael, very pleasant face.
“Well, Michael, my boy, what think you of Slant Street? Each one of these houses is going to be gutted and made as bright as a new pin.”
“How long will they keep bright, Uncle Hilary?”
“Oh! That’s all right,” said Hilary, “judging by our experiments so far. Give ’em a chance, and the people are only too glad to keep their houses clean. It’s wonderful what they do, as it is. Come in and see, but don’t touch the walls. May, you stay and talk to James. An Irish lady in here; we haven’t many. Can I come in, Mrs. Corrigan?”
“Sure an’ ye can. Plased to see your rivirence, though ut’s not tidy I am this mornin’.”
A broad woman, with grizzled black hair and brawny arms, had paused in whatever she was doing to a room inconceivably crowded and encrusted. Three people evidently slept in the big bed, and one in a cot; cooking seemed to go on at the ordinary small black hearth, over which, on a mantel-board, were the social trophies of a lifetime. Some clothes were hung on a line. The patched and greasy walls had no pictures.
“My nephew, Mr. Michael Mont, Mrs. Corrigan; he’s a Member of Parliament.”
The lady put her arms akimbo.
“Indeed, an’ is he, then?”
It was said with an infinite indulgence that went to Michael’s heart. “An’ is ut true your rivirence has bought the street? An’ what would ye be doing with ut? Ye won’t be afther turning us out, I’m thinking.”
“Not for the world, Mrs. Corrigan.”
“Well, an’ I knew that. I said to them: ‘It’s cleaning our insides he’ll maybe doing, but he’ll never be afther putting us out.’”
“When the turn of this house comes, Mrs. Corrigan–I hope before very long–we’ll find you good lodgings till you can come back here to new walls and floors and ceilings, a good range, no more bugs, and proper washing arrangements.”
“Well, an’ wouldn’t that be the day I’d like to see!”
“You’ll see it fast enough. Look Michael, if I put my finger through there, the genuine article will stalk forth! It’s you that can’t knock holes in your walls, Mrs. Corrigan.”
“An’ that’s the truth o’ God,” replied Mrs. Corrigan. “The last time Corrigan knocked a peg in, ’twas terrible–the life there was in there!”
“Well, Mrs. Corrigan, I’m delighted to see you looking so well. Good morning, and tell Corrigan if his donkey wants a rest any time, there’ll be room in our paddock. Will you be going hopping this year?”
“We will that,” replied Mrs. Corrigan. “Good-day to you rivirence; good-day, sorr!”
On the bare, decrepit landing Hilary Charwell said: “Salt of the earth, Michael. But imagine living in that atmosphere! Luckily, they’re all ‘snoof’.”
“What?” said Michael, taking deep breaths of the somewhat less complicated air.
“It’s a portmanteau syllable for ‘Got no sense of smell to speak of.’ And wanted, too. One says ‘deaf,’ ‘blind,’ ‘dumb’–why not ‘snoof’?”
“Excellent! How long do you reckon it’ll take you to convert this street, Uncle Hilary?”
“About three years.”
“And how are you going to get the money?”
“Win, wangle and scrounge it. In here there are three girls who serve in ‘Fetter and Poplin’s.’ They’re all out, of course. Neat, isn’t it? See their paper bags?”
“I say, Uncle, would you blame a girl for doing anything to get out of a house like this?”
“No,” said the Reverend Hilary, “I would not, and that’s the truth o’ God.”
“That’s why I love you, Uncle Hilary. You restore my faith in the Church.”
“My dear boy,” said Hilary, “the old Reformation was nothing to what’s been going on in the Church lately. You wait and see! Though I confess a little wholesome Disestablishment would do us all no harm. Come and have lunch, and we’ll talk about my slum conversion scheme. We’ll bring James along.”
“You see,” he resumed, when they were seated in the Vicarage dining-room, “there must be any amount of people who would be glad enough to lay out a small proportion of their wealth at two per cent., with the prospect of a rise to four as time went on, if they were certain that it meant the elimination of the slums. We’ve experimented and we find that we can put slum houses into proper living condition for their existing population at a mere fraction over the old rents, and pay two per cent, on our outlay. If we can do that here, it can be done in all slum centres, by private Slum Conversion Societies such as ours, working on the principle of not displacing the existing slum population. But what’s wanted, of course, is money–a General Slum Conversion fund–Bonds at two per cent., with bonuses, repayable in twenty years, from which the Societies could draw funds as they need them for buying and converting slum property.”
“How will you repay the Bonds in twenty years?”
“Oh! Like the Government–by issuing more.”
“But,” said Michael, “the local Authorities have very wide powers, and much more chance of getting the money.”
Hilary shook his head.
“Wide powers, yes; but they’re slow, Michael–the snail is a fast animal compared with them; besides, they only displace, because the rents they charge are too high. Also it’s not in the English character, my dear. Somehow we don’t like being ‘done for’ by officials, or being answerable to them. There’s lots of room, of course, for slum area treatment by Borough Councils, and they do lots of good work, but by themselves, they’ll never scotch the evil. You want the human touch; you want a sense of humour, and faith; and that’s a matter for private effort in every town where there are slums.”
“And who’s going to start this general fund?” asked Michael, gazing at his aunt’s eyebrows, which had begun to twitch.
“Well,” said Hilary, twinkling, “I thought that might be where you came in. That’s why I asked you down today, in fact.”
“The deuce!” said Michael almost leaping above the Irish stew on his plate.
“Exactly!” said his uncle; “but couldn’t you get together a Committee of both Houses to issue an appeal? From the work we’ve done James can give you exact figures. They could see for themselves what’s happened here. Surely, Michael, there must be ten just men who could be got to move in a matter like this–”
“‘Ten Apostles’,” said Michael, faintly.
“Well, but there’s no real need to bring Christ in-nothing remote or sentimental; you could approach them from any angle. Old Sir Timothy Fanfield, for example, would love to have a ‘go’ at slum landlordism. Then we’ve electrified all the kitchens so far, and mean to go on doing it–so you could get old Shropshire on that. Besides, there’s no need to confine the Committee to the two Houses–Sir Thomas Morsell, or, I should think, any of the big doctors, would come in; you could pinch a brace of bankers with Quaker blood in them; and there are always plenty of retired Governor Generals with their tongues out. Then if you could rope in a member of the Royal Family to head it–the trick would be done.”
“Poor Michael!” said his aunt’s soft voice: “Let him finish his stew, Hilary.”
But Michael had dropped his fork for good; he saw another kind of stew before him.
“The General Slum Conversion Fund,” went on Hilary, “affiliating every Slum Conversion Society in being or to be, so long as it conforms to the principle of not displacing the present inhabitant. Don’t you see what a pull that gives us over the inhabitants? – we start them straight, and we jolly well see that they don’t let their houses down again.”
“But can you?” said Michael.
“Ah! you’ve heard stories of baths being used for coal and vegetables, and all that. Take it from me, they’re exaggerated, Michael. Anyway, that’s where we private workers come in with a big advantage over municipal authorities. They have to drive, we try to lead.”
“Let me hot up your stew, dear?” said his aunt.
Michael refused. He perceived that it would need no hotting up! Another crusade! His Uncle Hilary had always fascinated him with his crusading blood–at the time of the Crusades the name had been Keroual, and, now spelt Charwell, was pronounced Cherwell, in accordance with the sound English custom of worrying foreigners.
“I’m not approaching you, Michael, with the inducement that you should make your name at this, because, after all, you’re a gent!”
“Thank you!” murmured Michael; “always glad of a kind word.”
“No. I’m suggesting that you ought to do something, considering your luck in life.”
“I quite agree,” said Michael, humbly. “The question seems to be: Is this the something?”
“It is, undoubtedly,” said his uncle, waving a salt-spoon on which was engraved the Charwell crest. “What else can it be?”
“Did you never hear of Foggartism, Uncle Hilary?”
“No; what’s that?”
“My aunt!” said Michael.
“Some blanc-mange, dear?”
“Not you, Aunt May! But did you really never hear of it, Uncle Hilary?”
“Foggartism? Is it that fog-abating scheme one reads about?”
“It is not,” said Michael. “Of course, you’re sunk in misery and sin here. Still, it’s almost too thick. YOU’VE heard of it, Aunt May?”
His aunt’s eyebrows became intricate again.
“I think,” she said, “I do remember hearing someone say it was balderdash!”
Michael groaned: “And you, Mr. James?”
“It’s to do with the currency, isn’t it?”
“And here,” said Michael, “we have three intelligent, public-spirited persons, who’ve never heard of Foggartism–and I’ve heard of nothing else for over a year.”
“Well,” said Hilary, “had you heard of my slum-conversion scheme?”
“Certainly not.”
“I think,” said his aunt, “it would be an excellent thing if you’d smoke while I make the coffee. Now I do remember, Michael: Your mother did say to me that she wished you would get over it. I’d forgotten the name. It had to do with taking town-children away from their parents.”
“Partly,” said Michael, with gloom.
“You have to remember, dear, that the poorer people are, the more they cling to their children.”
“Vicarious joy in life,” put in Hilary.
“And the poorer children are, the more they cling to their gutters, as I was telling you.”
Michael buried his hands in his pockets.
“There is no good in me,” he said, stonily. “You’ve pitched on a stumer, Uncle Hilary.”
Both Hilary and his wife got up very quickly, and each put a hand on his shoulder.
“My dear boy!” said his aunt.
“God bless you!” said Hilary: “Have a ‘gasper.’”
“All right,” said Michael, grinning, “it’s wholesome.”
Whether or not it was the “gasper” that was wholesome, he took and lighted it from his uncle’s.
“What is the most pitiable sight in the world, Aunt May–I mean, next to seeing two people dance the Charleston?”
“The most pitiable sight?” said his aunt, dreamily. “Oh! I think–a rich man listening to a bad gramophone.”
“Wrong!” said Michael. “The most pitiable sight in the world is a politician barking up the right tree. Behold him!”
“Look out, May! Your machine’s boiling. She makes very good coffee, Michael–nothing like it for the grumps. Have some, and then James and I will show you the houses we’ve converted. James–come with me a moment.”
“Noted for his pertinacity,” muttered Michael, as they disappeared.
“Not only noted, Michael–dreaded.”
“Well, I would rather be Uncle Hilary than anybody I know.”
“He IS rather a dear,” murmured his aunt. “Coffee?”
“What does he really believe, Aunt May?”
“Well, he hardly has time for that.”
“Ah! that’s the new hope of the Church. All the rest is just as much an attempt to improve on mathematics as Einstein’s theory. Orthodox religion was devised for the cloister, Aunt May, and there aren’t any cloisters left.”
“Religion,” said his aunt, dreamily, “used to burn a good many people, Michael, not in cloisters.”
“Quite so, when it emerged from cloisters, religion used to be red-hot politics; then it became caste feeling, and now it’s a cross–word puzzle–You don’t solve THEM with your emotions.”
His aunt smiled.
“You have a dreadful way of putting things, my dear.”
“In our ‘suckles,’ Aunt May, we do nothing but put things–it destroys all motive power. But about this slum business: do you really advise me to have ‘a go’?”
“Not if you want a quiet life.”
“I don’t know that I do. I did, after the war; but not now. But, you see, I’ve tried Foggartism and everybody’s too sane to look at it. I really can’t afford to back another loser. Do you think there’s a chance of getting a national move on?”
“Only a sporting chance, dear.”
“Would you take it up then, if you were me?”
“My dear, I’m prejudiced–Hilary’s heart is so set on it; but it does seem to me that there’s no other cause I’d so gladly fail in. Well, not that exactly; but there really is nothing so important as giving our town dwellers decent living conditions.”
“It’s rather like going over to the enemy,” muttered Michael.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20
From this measured reflection he was abruptly transferred to feelings unmeasured. Fleur and that young fellow were walking across the lawn of the Enclosure! From under the brim of his grey hat he watched them painfully, reluctantly admitting that they made as pretty a couple as any there. They came to a stand on the rails–not talking; and to Soames, who, when moved, was exceptionally taciturn, this seemed a bad sign. Were things really going wrong, then–was passion forming within its still cocoon to fly on butterfly wings for its brief hour? What was going on within the silence of those two? The horses were passing now; and the grey, they said, was his own nephew’s? Why did the fellow have horses? He had known how it would be when Fleur said she was going to Ascot. He regretted now having come. No, he didn’t! Better to know what there was to be known. In the press of people to the rails he could no longer see more than the young man’s grey hat, and the black-and-white covering of his daughter’s head. For a minute the race diverted him: might as well see Val’s horse well beaten. They said he thought a lot of it; and Soames thought the less of its chance for that. Here they came, all in a bunch–thundering great troop, and that grey–a handy colour, you couldn’t miss it. – Why, he was winning! Hang it–he had won!
“H’m!” he said, aloud: “that’s my nephew’s horse!”
Since nobody replied, he hoped they hadn’t heard; and back went his eyes to the Enclosure rails. Those two were coming away silently–Fleur a little in front. Perhaps–perhaps, after all, they didn’t get on, now! Must hope for the best. By George, but he felt tired! He would go to the car, and wait.
And there in the dusk of it he was sitting when they came, full of bubble and squeak–something very little-headed about people when they’d won money. For they had all won money, it seemed!
“And you didn’t back him, Uncle Soames?”
“I was thinking of other things,” said Soames, gazing at his daughter.
“We thought you were responsible for the shockin’ bad price.”
“Why!” said Soames, gloomily. “Did you expect me to bet against him?”
Jack Cardigan threw back his head and laughed.
“I don’t see anything funny,” muttered Soames.
“Nor do I, Jack,” said Fleur. “Why should Father know anything about racing?”
“I beg your pardon, sir, I’ll tell you all about it.”
“God forbid!” said Soames. “No, but it’s rather queer. D’you remember that chap Stainford, who sneaked the Mater’s snuff-box?”
“I do.”
“Well it seems he paid Val a visit at Wansdon, and Val thinks he picked up the idea that Rondavel was a real good one. There was a chap watching the gallop last Monday. That’s what decided them to run the colt today. They were going to wait for Goodwood. Too late, though; somebody’s made a pot over him. We only got fours.”
It was all Greek to Soames, except that the languid ruffian Stainford had somehow been responsible a SECOND time for bringing about a meeting between Fleur and Jon; for he knew from Winifred that Val and his menage had gone to stay at Green Street during the Strike on purpose to see Stainford. He wished to goodness he had called a policeman that day, and had the fellow shut up.
They were a long time getting out of the traffic–owing to the perversity of “that chap Riggs,” and did not reach South Square till seven o’clock. They were greeted by the news that Kit had a temperature. Mr. Mont was with him. Fleur flew up. Having washed off his day, Soames settled himself in the ‘parlour’ to wait uneasily for their report. Fleur used to have temperatures, and not infrequently they led to something. If Kit’s didn’t lead to anything serious, it might be good for her–keeping her thoughts at home. He lay back in his chair opposite the Fragonard–a delicate thing, but with no soul in it, like all the works of that period–wondering why Fleur had changed the style of this room from Chinese to Louis Quinze. Just for the sake of change, he supposed. These young people had no continuity; some microbe in the blood–of the ‘idle rich,’ and the ‘idle poor,’ and everybody else, so far as he could see. Nobody could be got to stay anywhere–not even in their graves, judging by all those seances. If only people would attend quietly to their business, even to that of being dead! They had such an appetite for living, that they had no life. A beam of sunlight, smoky with dust-motes, came slanting in on to the wall before him–pretty thing, a beam of sunlight, but a terrible lot of dust, even in a room spick-and-spandy as this. And to think that a thing smaller than one of those dust-motes could give a child a temperature. He hoped to goodness Kit had nothing catching. And his mind went over the illnesses of childhood–mumps, measles, chicken-pox, whooping-cough. Fleur had caught them all, but never scarlet fever. And Soames began to fidget. Surely Kit was too young to have got scarlet fever. But nurses were so careless–you never knew! And suddenly he began to wish for Annette. What was she doing out in France all this time? She was useful in illness; had some very good prescriptions. He WOULD say that for the French–their doctors were clever when you could get them to take an interest. The stuff they had given him for his lumbago at Deauville had been first-rate. And after his visit the little doctor chap had said: “I come for the money tomorrow!” or so it had sounded. It seemed he had meant: “I come in the morning tomorrow.” They never could speak anything but their own confounded language, and looked aggrieved when you couldn’t speak it yourself.
They had kept him a long time there without news before Michael came in.
“Well?”
“Well, sir, it looks uncommonly like measles.”
“H’m! Now, how on earth did he get that?”
“Nurse has no idea; but Kit’s awfully sociable. If there’s another child in sight, he goes for him.”
“That’s bad,” said Soames. “You’ve got slums at the back here.”
“Ah!” said Michael: “Slums to the right of us, slums to the left of us, slums to the front of us–how can you wonder?”
Soames stared. “They’re not notifiable,” he said, “thank goodness!”
“Slums?”
“No. Measles.” If he had a dread, it was a notifiable disease, with the authorities poking their noses in, and having up the drains as likely as not. “How’s the little chap feeling?”
“Very sorry for himself.”
“In my opinion,” said Soames, “there’s a great deal more in fleas than they think. That dog of his may have picked up a measley flea. I wonder the doctor’s don’t turn their attention to fleas.”
“I wonder they don’t turn their attention to slums,” said Michael; “that’s where the fleas come from.”
Again Soames stared. Had his son-inlaw got slums in his bonnet now? His manifestations of public spirit were very disturbing. Perhaps he’d been going round those places, and brought the flea in himself, or some infection or other.
“Have you sent for the doctor?”
“Yes; he’ll be here any minute.”
“Is he any good, or just the ordinary cock-and-bull type?”
“The same man we had for Fleur.”
“Oh! Ah! I remember–too much manner, but shrewd. Doctors!”
There was silence in the polished room, while they waited for the bell to ring; and Soames brooded. Should he tell Michael about the afternoon? His mouth opened once, but nothing came out. Over and over again his son-inlaw had surprised him by the view he took of things. And he only stared at Michael, who was gazing out of the window–queer face the young fellow had; plain, and yet attractive, with those pointed ears and eyebrows running up on the outside–wasn’t always thinking of himself like good-looking young men seemed to be. Good-looking men were always selfish; got spoiled, he supposed. He would give a penny for the young fellow’s thoughts.
“Here he is!” said Michael, jumping up.
Soames was alone again. How long alone, he didn’t know, for he was tired, and, in spite of his concern, he dozed. The opening of the door roused him in time to assume anxiety before Fleur spoke.
“It’s almost certainly measles, Dad.”
“Oh!” said Soames, blankly. “What about nursing?”
“Nurse and I, of course.”
“That’ll mean you can’t get about.”
“And aren’t you glad?” her face seemed to say. How she read his thoughts!
God knew he wasn’t glad of anything that troubled her–and yet!
“Poor little chap!” he said, evasively: “Your mother must come back. I must try and find him something that’ll take his attention off.”
“Don’t trouble, Dad; he’s too feverish, poor darling. Dinner’s ready. I’m having mine upstairs.”
Soames rose and went up to her.
“Don’t you be worrying,” he said. “All children–”
Fleur put her arm out.
“Not too near, Dad. No, I won’t worry.”
“Give him my love,” said Soames. “He won’t care for it.”
Fleur looked at him. Her lips smiled a very little. Her eyelids winked twice. Then she turned and went out, and Soames thought:
‘She–poor little thing! I’m no use!’ It was of her, not of his grandson, that he thought.
Chapter IV.
IN THE MEADS
The Meads of St. Augustine had, no doubt, once on a time been flowery, and burgesses had walked there of a Sunday, plucking summer nosegays. If there were a flower now, it would be found on the altar of the Reverend Hilary’s church, or on Mrs. Hilary’s dining-table. The rest of a numerous population had heard of these unnatural products, and, indeed, seeing them occasionally in baskets, would utter the words: “Aoh! Look at the luv-ly flahers!”
When Michael visited his uncle, according to promise, on Ascot Cup Day, he was ushered hurriedly into the presence of twenty little Augustinians on the point of being taken in a covered motor van for a fortnight among flowers in a state of nature. His Aunt May was standing among them. She was a tall woman with bright brown shingled hair going grey, and the slightly rapt expression of one listening to music. Her smile was very sweet, and this, with the puzzled twitch of her delicate eyebrows, as who should say placidly: “What next, I wonder?” endeared her to everyone. She had emerged from a Rectory in Huntingdonshire, in the early years of the century, and had married Hilary at the age of twenty. He had kept her busy ever since. Her boys and girls were all at school now, so that in term time she had merely some hundreds of Augustinians for a family. Hilary was wont to say: “May’s a wonder. Now that she’s had her hair off, she’s got so much time on her hands that we’re thinking of keeping guinea-pigs. If she’d only let me grow a beard, we could really get a move on.”
She greeted Michael with a nod and a twitch.
“Young London, my dear,” she said, privately, “just off to Leatherhead. Rather sweet, aren’t they?”
Michael, indeed, was surprised by the solidity and neatness of the twenty young Augustinians. Judging by the streets from which they came and the mothers who were there to see them off, their families had evidently gone ‘all out’ to get them in condition for Leatherhead.
He stood grinning amiably, while they were ushered out on the glowing pavement between the unrestrained appreciation of their mothers and sisters. Into the van, open only at the rear, they were piled, with four young ladies to look after them.
“Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie,” murmured Michael.
His aunt laughed.
“Yes, poor little dears, won’t they be hot! But aren’t they good?” She lowered her voice. “And d’you know what they’ll say when they come back after their fortnight? ‘Oh! yes, we liked it all very much, thank you, but it was rather slow. We like the streets better.’ Every year it’s the same.”
“Then, what’s the use of sending them, Aunt May?”
“It does them good physically; they look sturdy enough, but they aren’t really strong. Besides, it seems so dreadful they should never see the country. Of course we country-bred folk, Michael, never can realise what London streets are to children–very nearly Heaven, you know.”
The motor van moved to an accompaniment of fluttered handkerchiefs and shrill cheering.
“The mothers love them to go,” said his aunt; “it’s kind of distinguished. Well, that’s that! What would you like to see next? The street we’ve just bought, to gut and re-gut? Hilary’ll be there with the architect.”
“Who owned the street?” asked Michael.
“He lived in Capri. I don’t suppose he ever saw it. He died the other day, and we got it rather reasonably, considering how central we are, here. Sites are valuable.”
“Have you paid for it?”
“Oh! no.” Her eyebrows twitched. “Postdated a cheque on Providence.”
“Good Lord!”
“We had to have the street. It was such a chance. We’ve paid the deposit, and we’ve got till September to get the rest.”
“How much?” said Michael.
“Thirty-two thousand.”
Michael gasped.
“Oh! We shall get it, dear, Hilary’s wonderful in that way. Here’s the street.”
It was a curving street of which, to Michael, slowly passing, each house seemed more dilapidated than the last. Grimy and defaced, with peeling plaster, broken rails and windows, and a look of having been abandoned to its fate–like some half-burnt-out ship–it hit the senses and the heart with its forlornness.
“What sort of people live here, Aunt May?”
“All sorts–three or four families to each house. Covent Garden workers, hawkers, girls in factories, out-of-works–every kind. The unmentionable insect abounds, Michael. The girls are wonderful–they keep their clothes in paper bags. Many of them turn out quite neat. If they didn’t, of course, they’d get the sack, poor dears.”
“But is it possible,” said Michael, “that people can WANT to go on living here?”
His aunt’s brows became intricate.
“It isn’t a question of want, my dear. It’s a simple economic proposition. Where else can they live so cheaply? It’s more than that, even; where else can they go at all, if they’re turned out? The Authorities demolished a street not long ago up there, and built that great block of workmen’s flats; but the rents were prohibitive to the people who had been living in the street, and they simply melted away to other slums. Besides, you know, they don’t like those barracky flats, and I don’t wonder. They’d much rather have a little house, if they can; or the floor of a house if they can’t. Or even a room. That’s in the English nature, and it will be till they design workmen’s dwellings better. The English like to live low down: I suppose because they always have. Oh! Here’s Hilary!”
Hilary Charwell, in a dark grey Norfolk suit, a turn-down collar open at the neck, and no hat, was standing in the doorway of a house, talking to another spare man with a thin, and, to Michael, very pleasant face.
“Well, Michael, my boy, what think you of Slant Street? Each one of these houses is going to be gutted and made as bright as a new pin.”
“How long will they keep bright, Uncle Hilary?”
“Oh! That’s all right,” said Hilary, “judging by our experiments so far. Give ’em a chance, and the people are only too glad to keep their houses clean. It’s wonderful what they do, as it is. Come in and see, but don’t touch the walls. May, you stay and talk to James. An Irish lady in here; we haven’t many. Can I come in, Mrs. Corrigan?”
“Sure an’ ye can. Plased to see your rivirence, though ut’s not tidy I am this mornin’.”
A broad woman, with grizzled black hair and brawny arms, had paused in whatever she was doing to a room inconceivably crowded and encrusted. Three people evidently slept in the big bed, and one in a cot; cooking seemed to go on at the ordinary small black hearth, over which, on a mantel-board, were the social trophies of a lifetime. Some clothes were hung on a line. The patched and greasy walls had no pictures.
“My nephew, Mr. Michael Mont, Mrs. Corrigan; he’s a Member of Parliament.”
The lady put her arms akimbo.
“Indeed, an’ is he, then?”
It was said with an infinite indulgence that went to Michael’s heart. “An’ is ut true your rivirence has bought the street? An’ what would ye be doing with ut? Ye won’t be afther turning us out, I’m thinking.”
“Not for the world, Mrs. Corrigan.”
“Well, an’ I knew that. I said to them: ‘It’s cleaning our insides he’ll maybe doing, but he’ll never be afther putting us out.’”
“When the turn of this house comes, Mrs. Corrigan–I hope before very long–we’ll find you good lodgings till you can come back here to new walls and floors and ceilings, a good range, no more bugs, and proper washing arrangements.”
“Well, an’ wouldn’t that be the day I’d like to see!”
“You’ll see it fast enough. Look Michael, if I put my finger through there, the genuine article will stalk forth! It’s you that can’t knock holes in your walls, Mrs. Corrigan.”
“An’ that’s the truth o’ God,” replied Mrs. Corrigan. “The last time Corrigan knocked a peg in, ’twas terrible–the life there was in there!”
“Well, Mrs. Corrigan, I’m delighted to see you looking so well. Good morning, and tell Corrigan if his donkey wants a rest any time, there’ll be room in our paddock. Will you be going hopping this year?”
“We will that,” replied Mrs. Corrigan. “Good-day to you rivirence; good-day, sorr!”
On the bare, decrepit landing Hilary Charwell said: “Salt of the earth, Michael. But imagine living in that atmosphere! Luckily, they’re all ‘snoof’.”
“What?” said Michael, taking deep breaths of the somewhat less complicated air.
“It’s a portmanteau syllable for ‘Got no sense of smell to speak of.’ And wanted, too. One says ‘deaf,’ ‘blind,’ ‘dumb’–why not ‘snoof’?”
“Excellent! How long do you reckon it’ll take you to convert this street, Uncle Hilary?”
“About three years.”
“And how are you going to get the money?”
“Win, wangle and scrounge it. In here there are three girls who serve in ‘Fetter and Poplin’s.’ They’re all out, of course. Neat, isn’t it? See their paper bags?”
“I say, Uncle, would you blame a girl for doing anything to get out of a house like this?”
“No,” said the Reverend Hilary, “I would not, and that’s the truth o’ God.”
“That’s why I love you, Uncle Hilary. You restore my faith in the Church.”
“My dear boy,” said Hilary, “the old Reformation was nothing to what’s been going on in the Church lately. You wait and see! Though I confess a little wholesome Disestablishment would do us all no harm. Come and have lunch, and we’ll talk about my slum conversion scheme. We’ll bring James along.”
“You see,” he resumed, when they were seated in the Vicarage dining-room, “there must be any amount of people who would be glad enough to lay out a small proportion of their wealth at two per cent., with the prospect of a rise to four as time went on, if they were certain that it meant the elimination of the slums. We’ve experimented and we find that we can put slum houses into proper living condition for their existing population at a mere fraction over the old rents, and pay two per cent, on our outlay. If we can do that here, it can be done in all slum centres, by private Slum Conversion Societies such as ours, working on the principle of not displacing the existing slum population. But what’s wanted, of course, is money–a General Slum Conversion fund–Bonds at two per cent., with bonuses, repayable in twenty years, from which the Societies could draw funds as they need them for buying and converting slum property.”
“How will you repay the Bonds in twenty years?”
“Oh! Like the Government–by issuing more.”
“But,” said Michael, “the local Authorities have very wide powers, and much more chance of getting the money.”
Hilary shook his head.
“Wide powers, yes; but they’re slow, Michael–the snail is a fast animal compared with them; besides, they only displace, because the rents they charge are too high. Also it’s not in the English character, my dear. Somehow we don’t like being ‘done for’ by officials, or being answerable to them. There’s lots of room, of course, for slum area treatment by Borough Councils, and they do lots of good work, but by themselves, they’ll never scotch the evil. You want the human touch; you want a sense of humour, and faith; and that’s a matter for private effort in every town where there are slums.”
“And who’s going to start this general fund?” asked Michael, gazing at his aunt’s eyebrows, which had begun to twitch.
“Well,” said Hilary, twinkling, “I thought that might be where you came in. That’s why I asked you down today, in fact.”
“The deuce!” said Michael almost leaping above the Irish stew on his plate.
“Exactly!” said his uncle; “but couldn’t you get together a Committee of both Houses to issue an appeal? From the work we’ve done James can give you exact figures. They could see for themselves what’s happened here. Surely, Michael, there must be ten just men who could be got to move in a matter like this–”
“‘Ten Apostles’,” said Michael, faintly.
“Well, but there’s no real need to bring Christ in-nothing remote or sentimental; you could approach them from any angle. Old Sir Timothy Fanfield, for example, would love to have a ‘go’ at slum landlordism. Then we’ve electrified all the kitchens so far, and mean to go on doing it–so you could get old Shropshire on that. Besides, there’s no need to confine the Committee to the two Houses–Sir Thomas Morsell, or, I should think, any of the big doctors, would come in; you could pinch a brace of bankers with Quaker blood in them; and there are always plenty of retired Governor Generals with their tongues out. Then if you could rope in a member of the Royal Family to head it–the trick would be done.”
“Poor Michael!” said his aunt’s soft voice: “Let him finish his stew, Hilary.”
But Michael had dropped his fork for good; he saw another kind of stew before him.
“The General Slum Conversion Fund,” went on Hilary, “affiliating every Slum Conversion Society in being or to be, so long as it conforms to the principle of not displacing the present inhabitant. Don’t you see what a pull that gives us over the inhabitants? – we start them straight, and we jolly well see that they don’t let their houses down again.”
“But can you?” said Michael.
“Ah! you’ve heard stories of baths being used for coal and vegetables, and all that. Take it from me, they’re exaggerated, Michael. Anyway, that’s where we private workers come in with a big advantage over municipal authorities. They have to drive, we try to lead.”
“Let me hot up your stew, dear?” said his aunt.
Michael refused. He perceived that it would need no hotting up! Another crusade! His Uncle Hilary had always fascinated him with his crusading blood–at the time of the Crusades the name had been Keroual, and, now spelt Charwell, was pronounced Cherwell, in accordance with the sound English custom of worrying foreigners.
“I’m not approaching you, Michael, with the inducement that you should make your name at this, because, after all, you’re a gent!”
“Thank you!” murmured Michael; “always glad of a kind word.”
“No. I’m suggesting that you ought to do something, considering your luck in life.”
“I quite agree,” said Michael, humbly. “The question seems to be: Is this the something?”
“It is, undoubtedly,” said his uncle, waving a salt-spoon on which was engraved the Charwell crest. “What else can it be?”
“Did you never hear of Foggartism, Uncle Hilary?”
“No; what’s that?”
“My aunt!” said Michael.
“Some blanc-mange, dear?”
“Not you, Aunt May! But did you really never hear of it, Uncle Hilary?”
“Foggartism? Is it that fog-abating scheme one reads about?”
“It is not,” said Michael. “Of course, you’re sunk in misery and sin here. Still, it’s almost too thick. YOU’VE heard of it, Aunt May?”
His aunt’s eyebrows became intricate again.
“I think,” she said, “I do remember hearing someone say it was balderdash!”
Michael groaned: “And you, Mr. James?”
“It’s to do with the currency, isn’t it?”
“And here,” said Michael, “we have three intelligent, public-spirited persons, who’ve never heard of Foggartism–and I’ve heard of nothing else for over a year.”
“Well,” said Hilary, “had you heard of my slum-conversion scheme?”
“Certainly not.”
“I think,” said his aunt, “it would be an excellent thing if you’d smoke while I make the coffee. Now I do remember, Michael: Your mother did say to me that she wished you would get over it. I’d forgotten the name. It had to do with taking town-children away from their parents.”
“Partly,” said Michael, with gloom.
“You have to remember, dear, that the poorer people are, the more they cling to their children.”
“Vicarious joy in life,” put in Hilary.
“And the poorer children are, the more they cling to their gutters, as I was telling you.”
Michael buried his hands in his pockets.
“There is no good in me,” he said, stonily. “You’ve pitched on a stumer, Uncle Hilary.”
Both Hilary and his wife got up very quickly, and each put a hand on his shoulder.
“My dear boy!” said his aunt.
“God bless you!” said Hilary: “Have a ‘gasper.’”
“All right,” said Michael, grinning, “it’s wholesome.”
Whether or not it was the “gasper” that was wholesome, he took and lighted it from his uncle’s.
“What is the most pitiable sight in the world, Aunt May–I mean, next to seeing two people dance the Charleston?”
“The most pitiable sight?” said his aunt, dreamily. “Oh! I think–a rich man listening to a bad gramophone.”
“Wrong!” said Michael. “The most pitiable sight in the world is a politician barking up the right tree. Behold him!”
“Look out, May! Your machine’s boiling. She makes very good coffee, Michael–nothing like it for the grumps. Have some, and then James and I will show you the houses we’ve converted. James–come with me a moment.”
“Noted for his pertinacity,” muttered Michael, as they disappeared.
“Not only noted, Michael–dreaded.”
“Well, I would rather be Uncle Hilary than anybody I know.”
“He IS rather a dear,” murmured his aunt. “Coffee?”
“What does he really believe, Aunt May?”
“Well, he hardly has time for that.”
“Ah! that’s the new hope of the Church. All the rest is just as much an attempt to improve on mathematics as Einstein’s theory. Orthodox religion was devised for the cloister, Aunt May, and there aren’t any cloisters left.”
“Religion,” said his aunt, dreamily, “used to burn a good many people, Michael, not in cloisters.”
“Quite so, when it emerged from cloisters, religion used to be red-hot politics; then it became caste feeling, and now it’s a cross–word puzzle–You don’t solve THEM with your emotions.”
His aunt smiled.
“You have a dreadful way of putting things, my dear.”
“In our ‘suckles,’ Aunt May, we do nothing but put things–it destroys all motive power. But about this slum business: do you really advise me to have ‘a go’?”
“Not if you want a quiet life.”
“I don’t know that I do. I did, after the war; but not now. But, you see, I’ve tried Foggartism and everybody’s too sane to look at it. I really can’t afford to back another loser. Do you think there’s a chance of getting a national move on?”
“Only a sporting chance, dear.”
“Would you take it up then, if you were me?”
“My dear, I’m prejudiced–Hilary’s heart is so set on it; but it does seem to me that there’s no other cause I’d so gladly fail in. Well, not that exactly; but there really is nothing so important as giving our town dwellers decent living conditions.”
“It’s rather like going over to the enemy,” muttered Michael.
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