Chapter II.
RESULTS
He walked home, lighter in head and heart. That was the trouble—a light weight! No serious attention would be paid to him. He recollected the maiden speech of the Member for Cornmarket. At least he had stopped, today, as soon as the House began to fidget. He felt hot, and hungry. Opera-singers grew fat through their voices, Members of Parliament thin. He would have a bath.
He was half clothed again when Fleur came in.
“You did splendidly, Michael. That beast!”
“Which?”
“His name’s MacGown.”
“Sir Alexander MacGown? What about him?”
“You’ll see tomorrow. He insinuated that you were interested in the sale of the Foggart book, as one of its publishers.”
“That’s rather the limit.”
“And all the rest of his speech was a cut-up; horrid tone about the whole thing. Do you know him?”
“MacGown? No. He’s Member for some Scottish borough.”
“Well, he’s an enemy. Blythe is awfully pleased with you, and wild about MacGown; and so is Bart. I’ve never seen him so angry. You’ll have to write to The Times and explain that you’ve had no interest in Danby & Winter’s since before you were elected. Bart and your mother are coming to dinner. Did you know she was with me?”
“Mother? She abhors politics.”
“All she said was: ‘I wish dear Michael would brush his hair back before speaking. I like to see his forehead.’ And when MacGown sat down, she said: ‘My dear, the back of that man’s head is perfectly straight. D’you think he’s a Prussian? And he’s got thick lobes to his ears. I shouldn’t like to be married to him!’ She had her opera-glasses.”
Sir Lawrence and Lady Mont were already in the ‘parlour’ when they went down, standing opposite each other like two storks, if not precisely on one leg, still very distinguished. Pushing Michael’s hair up, Lady Mont pecked his forehead, and her dove-like eyes gazed at the top of his head from under their arched brows. She was altogether a little Norman in her curves; she even arched her words. She was considered “a deah; but not too frightfully all there.”
“How did you manage to stick it, Mother?”
“My dear boy, I was thrilled; except for that person in jute. I thought the shape of his head insufferable. Where did you get all that knowledge? It was so sensible.”
Michael grinned. “How did it strike you, sir?”
Sir Lawrence grimaced.
“You played the enfant terrible, my dear. Half the party won’t like it because they’ve never thought of it; and the other half won’t like it because they HAVE.”
“What! Foggartists at heart?”
“Of course; but in Office. You mustn’t support your real convictions in Office—it’s not done.”
“This nice room,” murmured Lady Mont. “When I was last here it was Chinese. And where’s the monkey?”
“In Michael’s study, Mother. We got tired of him. Would you like to see Kit before dinner?”
Left alone, Michael and his father stared at the same object, a Louis Quinze snuff-box picked up by Soames.
“Would you take any notice of MacGown’s insinuation, Dad?”
“Is that his name—the hairy haberdasher! I should.”
“How?”
“Give him the lie.”
“In private, in the Press, or in the House?”
“All three. In private I should merely call him a liar. In the Press you should use the words: ‘Reckless disregard for truth.’ And in Parliament—that you regret he ‘should have been so misinformed.’ To complete the crescendo you might add that men’s noses have been pulled for less.”
“But you don’t suppose,” said Michael, “that people would believe a thing like that?”
“They will believe anything, my dear, that suggests corruption in public life. It’s one of the strongest traits in human nature. Anxiety about the integrity of public men would be admirable, if it wasn’t so usually felt by those who have so little integrity themselves that they can’t give others credit for it.” Sir Lawrence grimaced, thinking of the P. P. R. S. “And talking of that—why wasn’t Old Forsyte in the House today?”
“I offered him a seat, but he said: He hadn’t been in the House since Gladstone moved the Home Rule Bill, and then only because he was afraid his father would have a fit.”
Sir Lawrence screwed his eyeglass in.
“That’s not clear to me,” he said.
“His father had a pass, and didn’t like to waste it.”
“I see. That was noble of Old Forsyte.”
“He said that Gladstone had been very windy.”
“Ah! They were even longer in those days. You covered your ground very quickly, Michael. I should say with practice you would do. I’ve a bit of news for Old Forsyte. Shropshire doesn’t speak to Charlie Ferrar because the third time the old man paid his debts to prevent his being posted, he made that a condition, for fear of being asked again. It’s not so lurid as I’d hoped. How’s the action?”
“The last I heard was something about administering what they call interrogatories.”
“Ah! I know. They answer you in a way nobody can make head or tail of, and that without prejudice. Then they administer them to you, and you answer in the same way; it all helps the lawyers. What is there for dinner?”
“Fleur said we’d kill the fatted calf when I’d got my speech off.”
Sir Lawrence sighed.
“I’m glad. Your mother has Vitamins again rather badly; we eat little but carrots, generally raw. French blood in a family is an excellent thing—prevents faddiness about food. Ah! here they come!…”
It has often been remarked that the breakfast-tables of people who avow themselves indifferent to what the Press may say of them are garnished by all the newspapers on the morning when there is anything to say. In Michael’s case this was a waste of almost a shilling. The only allusions to his speech were contained in four out of thirteen dailies. The Times reported it (including the laughter) with condensed and considered accuracy. The Morning Post picked out three imperial bits, prefaced by the words: ‘In a promising speech.’ The Daily Telegraph remarked: “Among the other speakers were Mr. Michael Mont.” And The Manchester Guardian observed: “The Member for Mid–Bucks in a maiden speech advocated the introduction of children into the Dominions.”
Sir Alexander MacGown’s speech received the added attention demanded by his extra years of Parliamentary service, but there was no allusion to the insinuation. Michael turned to Hansard. His own speech seemed more coherent than he had hoped. When Fleur came down he was still reading MacGown’s.
“Give me some coffee, old thing.”
Fleur gave him the coffee and leaned over his shoulder.
“This MacGown is after Marjorie Ferrar,” she said; “I remember now.”
Michael stirred his cup. “Dash it all! The House is free from that sort of pettiness.”
“No. I remember Alison telling me—I didn’t connect him up yesterday. Isn’t it a disgusting speech?”
“Might be worse,” said Michael, with a grin.
“‘As a member of the firm who published this singular production, he is doubtless interested in pressing it on the public, so that we may safely discount the enthusiasm displayed.’ Doesn’t that make your blood boil?”
Michael shrugged his shoulders.
“Don’t you ever feel angry, Michael?”
“My dear, I was through the war. Now for The Times. What shall I say?
“‘SIR,
“‘May I trespass upon your valuable space’ (that’s quite safe), ‘in the interests of public life—’ (that keeps it impersonal) ‘to—’ er—Well?”
“To say that Sir Alexander MacGown in his speech yesterday told a lie when he suggested that I was interested in the sale of Sir James Foggart’s book.”
“Straight,” said Michael, “but they wouldn’t put it in. How’s this?
“‘To draw attention to a misstatement in Sir Alexander MacGown’s speech of yesterday afternoon. As a matter of fact’ (always useful) ‘I ceased to have any interest whatever in the firm which published Sir James Foggart’s book, “The Parlous State of England,” even before I became a member of the late Parliament; and am therefore in no way interested, as Sir Alexander MacGown suggested, in pressing it on the Public. I hesitate to assume that he meant to impugn my honour’ (must get in ‘honour’) ‘but his words might bear that construction. My interest in the book is simply my interest in what is truly the “parlous state of England.”