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Chapter VIII.
COLLECTING EVIDENCE
The editor of The Protagonist had so evidently enjoyed himself that he caused a number of other people to do the same.
“There’s no more popular sight in the East, Forsyte,” said Sir Lawrence, “than a boy being spanked; and the only difference between East and West is that in the East the boy at once offers himself again at so much a spank. I don’t see Mr. Perceval Calvin doing that.”
“If he defends himself,” said Soames, gloomily, “other people won’t.”
They waited, reading daily denunciations signed: ‘A Mother of Three’; ‘Roger: Northampton’; ‘Victorian’; ‘Alys St. Maurice’; ‘Plus Fours’; ‘Arthur Whiffkin’; ‘Sportsman if not Gentleman’; and ‘Pro Patria’; which practically all contained the words: ‘I ca
It was five days before the defence fired a shot. But first came a letter above the signature: ‘Swishing Block,’ which, after commenting on the fact that a whole school of so-called literature had been indicted by the Editor of The Protagonist in his able letter of the 14th inst., noted with satisfaction that the said school had grace enough to take its swishing without a murmur. Not even an anonymous squeak had been heard from the whole apostolic body.
“Forsyte,” said Sir Lawrence, handing it to Soames, “that’s my very own mite, and if it doesn’t draw them—nothing will!”
But it did. The next issue of the interested journal in which the correspondence was appearing contained a letter from the greater novelist L. S. D. which restored every one to his place. This book might or might not be Art, he hadn’t read it; but the Editor of The Protagonist wrote like a pedagogue, and there was an end of him. As to the claim that literature must always wear a fla
Soames cut the letters out one after the other, and pasted them in a book. He had got what he wanted, and the rest of the discussion interested him no more. He had received, too, a communication from young Butterfield.
“Sir,
“I called on the lady last Monday, and was fortunately able to see her in person. She seemed rather a
Soames didn’t know about that, but as to his future position—he might have to put the young man into the box. The question of a play remained. He consulted Michael.
“Does that young woman still act in the advanced theatre place you gave me the name of?”
Michael winced. “I don’t know, sir; but I could find out.”
Inquiry revealed that she was cast for the part of Olivia in Bertie Curfew’s matinee of “The Plain Dealer.”
“‘The Plain Dealer’?” said Soames. “Is that an advanced play?”
“Yes, sir, two hundred and fifty years old.”
“Ah!” said Soames; “they were a coarse lot in those days. How is it she goes on there if she and the young man have split?”
“Oh! well, they’re very cool hands. I do hope you’re going to keep things out of Court, sir?”
“I can’t tell. When’s this performance?”
“January the seventh.”
Soames went to his Club library and took down “Wycherley.” He was disappointed with the early portions of “The Plain Dealer,” but it improved as it went on, and he spent some time making a list of what George Forsyte would have called the ‘nubbly bits.’ He understood that at that theatre they did not bowdlerise. Excellent! There were passages that should raise hair on any British Jury. Between “Canthar” and this play, he felt as if he had a complete answer to any claim by the young woman and her set to having ‘morals about them.’ Old professional instincts were rising within him. He had retained Sir James Foskisson, K. C., not because he admired him personally, but because if he didn’t, the other side might. As junior he was employing very young Nicholas Forsyte; he had no great opinion of him, but it was as well to keep the matter in the family, especially if it wasn’t to come into Court.
A conversation with Fleur that evening contributed to his intention that it should not.
“What’s happened to that young American?” he said.
Fleur smiled acidly. “Francis Wilmot? Oh! he’s ‘fallen for’ Marjorie Ferrar.”
“‘Fallen for her’?” said Soames. “What an expression!”
“Yes, dear; it’s American.”
“‘For’ her? It means nothing, so far as I can see.”
“Let’s hope not, for his sake! She’s going to marry Sir Alexander MacGown, I’m told.”
“Oh!”
“Did Michael tell you that he hit him on the nose?”
“Which—who?” said Soames testily. “Whose nose?”
“MacGown’s, dear; and it bled like anything.”
“Why on earth did he do that?”
“Didn’t you read his speech about Michael?”
“Oh!” said Soames. “Parliamentary fuss—that’s nothing. They’re always behaving like children, there. And so she’s going to marry him. Has he been putting her up to all this?”
“No; SHE’S been putting him.”
Soames discounted the information with a sniff; he scented the hostility of woman for woman. Still, chicken and egg—political feeling and social feeling, who could say which first prompted which? In any case, this made a difference. Going to be married—was she? He debated the matter for some time, and then decided that he would go and see Settlewhite and Stark. If they had been a firm of poor repute or the kind always employed in ‘causes celebres,’ he wouldn’t have dreamed of it; but, as a fact, they stood high, were solid family people, with an aristocratic co
He did not write, but took his hat and went over from ‘The Co