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Miltoun's sudden journey to London had been undertaken in pursuance
of a resolve slowly forming from the moment he met Mrs. Noel in the
stone flagged passage of Burracombe Farm. If she would have him and
since last evening he believed she would--he intended to marry her.

It has been said that except for one lapse his life had been austere,
but this is not to assert that he had no capacity for passion. The
contrary was the case. That flame which had been so jealously
guarded smouldered deep within him--a smothered fire with but little
air to feed on. The moment his spirit was touched by the spirit of
this woman, it had flared up. She was the incarnation of all that he
desired. Her hair, her eyes, her form; the tiny tuck or dimple at
the corner of her mouth just where a child places its finger; her way
of moving, a sort of unconscious swaying or yielding to the air; the
tone in her voice, which seemed to come not so much from happiness of
her own as from an innate wish to make others happy; and that
natural, if not robust, intelligence, which belongs to the very
sympathetic, and is rarely found in women of great ambitions or
enthusiasms--all these things had twined themselves round his heart.
He not only dreamed of her, and wanted her; he believed in her. She
filled his thoughts as one who could never do wrong; as one who,
though a wife would remain a mistress, and though a mistress, would
always be the companion of his spirit.

It has been said that no one spoke or gossiped about women in
Miltoun's presence, and the tale of her divorce was present to his
mind simply in the form of a conviction that she was an injured
woman. After his interview with the vicar, he had only once again
alluded to it, and that in answer to the speech of a lady staying at
the Court: "Oh! yes, I remember her case perfectly. She was the poor
woman who----" "Did not, I am certain, Lady Bonington." The tone
of his voice had made someone laugh uneasily; the subject was

All divorce was against his convictions, but in a blurred way he
admitted that there were cases where release was unavoidable. He was
not a man to ask for confidences, or expect them to be given him. He
himself had never confided his spiritual struggles to any living
creature; and the unspiritual struggle had little interest for
Miltoun. He was ready at any moment to stake his life on the
perfection of the idol he had set up within his soul, as simply and
straightforwardly as he would have placed his body in front of her to
shield her from harm.

The same fanaticism, which looked on his passion as a flower by
itself, entirely apart from its suitability to the social garden, was
also the driving force which sent him up to London to declare his
intention to his father before he spoke to Mrs. Noel. The thing
should be done simply, and in right order. For he had the kind of
moral courage found in those who live retired within the shell of
their own aspirations. Yet it was not perhaps so much active moral
courage as indifference to what others thought or did, coming from
his inbred resistance to the appreciation of what they felt.

That peculiar smile of the old Tudor Cardinal--which had in it
invincible self-reliance, and a sort of spiritual sneer--played over
his face when he speculated on his father's reception of the coming
news; and very soon he ceased to think of it at all, burying himself
in the work he had brought with him for the journey. For he had in
high degree the faculty, so essential to public life, of switching
off his whole attention from one subject to another.

On arriving at Paddington he drove straight to Valleys House.

This large dwelling with its pillared portico, seemed to wear an air
of faint surprise that, at the height of the season, it was not more
inhabited. Three servants relieved Miltoun of his little luggage;
and having washed, and learned that his father would be dining in, he
went for a walk, taking his way towards his rooms in the Temple. His
long figure, somewhat carelessly garbed, attracted the usual
attention, of which he was as usual unaware. Strolling along, he
meditated deeply on a London, an England, different from this
flatulent hurly-burly, this 'omniuin gatherum', this great discordant
symphony of sharps and flats. A London, an England, kempt and self-
respecting; swept and garnished of slums, and plutocrats,
advertisement, and jerry-building, of sensationalism, vulgarity,
vice, and unemployment. An England where each man should know his
place, and never change it, but serve in it loyally in his own caste.
Where every man, from nobleman to labourer, should be an oligarch by
faith, and a gentleman by practice. An England so steel-bright and
efficient that the very sight should suffice to impose peace. An
England whose soul should be stoical and fine with the stoicism and
fineness of each soul amongst her many million souls; where the town
should have its creed and the country its creed, and there should be
contentment and no complaining in her streets.

And as he walked down the Strand, a little ragged boy cheeped out
between his legs:

"Bloodee discoveree in a Bank--Grite sensytion! Pi-er!"

Miltoun paid no heed to that saying; yet, with it, the wind that
blows where man lives, the careless, wonderful, unordered wind, had
dispersed his austere and formal vision. Great was that wind--the
myriad aspiration of men and women, the praying of the uncounted
multitude to the goddess of Sensation--of Chance, and Change. A
flowing from heart to heart, from lip to lip, as in Spring the
wistful air wanders through a wood, imparting to every bush and tree
the secrets of fresh life, the passionate resolve to grow, and
become--no matter what! A sighing, as eternal as the old murmuring
of the sea, as little to be hushed, as prone to swell into sudden

Miltoun held on through the traffic, not looking overmuch at the
present forms of the thousands he passed, but seeing with the eyes of
faith the forms he desired to see. Near St. Paul's he stopped in
front of an old book-shop. His grave, pallid, not unhandsome face,
was well-known to William Rimall, its small proprietor, who at once
brought out his latest acquisition--a Mores 'Utopia.' That particular
edition (he assured Miltoun) was quite unprocurable--he had never
sold but one other copy, which had been literally, crumbling away.
This copy was in even better condition. It could hardly last another
twenty years--a genuine book, a bargain. There wasn't so much
movement in More as there had been a little time back.

Miltoun opened the tome, and a small book-louse who had been sleeping
on the word 'Tranibore,' began to make its way slowly towards the
very centre of the volume.

"I see it's genuine," said Miltoun.

"It's not to read, my lord," the little man warned him: "Hardly safe
to turn the pages. As I was saying--I've not had a better piece this
year. I haven't really!"

"Shrewd old dreamer," muttered Miltoun; "the Socialists haven't got
beyond him, even now."

The little man's eyes blinked, as though apologizing for the views of
Thomas More.

"Well," he said, "I suppose he was one of them. I forget if your
lordship's very strong on politics?"

Miltoun smiled.

"I want to see an England, Rimall, something like the England of
Mores dream. But my machinery will be different. I shall begin at
the top."

The little man nodded.

"Quite so, quite so," he said; "we shall come to that, I dare say."

"We must, Rimall." And Miltoun turned the page.

The little man's face quivered.

"I don't think," he said, "that book's quite strong enough for you,
my lord, with your taste for reading. Now I've a most curious old
volume here--on Chinese temples. It's rare--but not too old. You
can peruse it thoroughly. It's what I call a book to browse on just
suit your palate. Funny principle they built those things on," he
added, opening the volume at an engraving, "in layers. We don't
build like that in England."

Miltoun looked up sharply; the little man's face wore no signs of

"Unfortunately we don't, Rimall," he said; "we ought to, and we
shall. I'll take this book."

Placing his finger on the print of the pagoda, he added: "A good

The little bookseller's eye strayed down the temple to the secret
price mark.

"Exactly, my lord," he said; "I thought it'd be your fancy. The
price to you will be twenty-seven and six."

Miltoun, pocketing the bargain, walked out. He made his way into the
Temple, left the book at his Chambers, and passed on down to the bank
of Mother Thames. The Sun was loving her passionately that
afternoon; he had kissed her into warmth and light and colour. And
all the buildings along her banks, as far as the towers at
Westminster, seemed to be smiling. It was a great sight for the eyes
of a lover. And another vision came haunting Miltoun, of a soft-eyed
woman with a low voice, bending amongst her flowers. Nothing would
be complete without her; no work bear fruit; no scheme could have
full meaning.

Lord Valleys greeted his son at dinner with good fellowship and a
faint surprise.

"Day off, my dear fellow? Or have you come up to hear Brabrook pitch
into us? He's rather late this time--we've got rid of that balloon
business no trouble after all."

And he eyed Miltoun with that clear grey stare of his, so cool,
level, and curious. Now, what sort of bird is this? it seemed
saying. Certainly not the partridge I should have expected from its

Miltoun's answer: "I came up to tell you some thing, sir," riveted
his father's stare for a second longer than was quite urbane.

It would not be true to say that Lord Valleys was afraid of his son.
Fear was not one of his emotions, but he certainly regarded him with
a respectful curiosity that bordered on uneasiness. The oligarchic
temper of Miltoun's mind and political convictions almost shocked one
who knew both by temperament and experience how to wait in front.
This instruction he had frequently had occasion to give his jockeys
when he believed his horses could best get home first in that way.
And it was an instruction he now longed to give his son. He himself
had 'waited in front' for over fifty years, and he knew it to be the
finest way of insuring that he would never be compelled to alter this
desirable policy--for something in Lord Valleys' character made him
fear that, in real emergency, he would exert himself to the point of
the gravest discomfort sooner than be left to wait behind. A fellow
like young Harbinger, of course, he understood--versatile, 'full of
beans,' as he expressed it to himself in his more confidential
moments, who had imbibed the new wine (very intoxicating it was) of
desire for social reform. He would have to be given his head a
little--but there would be no difficulty with him, he would never
'run out'--light handy build of horse that only required steadying at
the corners. He would want to hear himself talk, and be let feel
that he was doing something. All very well, and quite intelligible.
But with Miltoun (and Lord Valleys felt this to be no, mere parental
fancy) it was a very different business. His son had a way of
forcing things to their conclusions which was dangerous, and reminded
him of his mother-in-law. He was a baby in public affairs, of
course, as yet; but as soon as he once got going, the intensity of
his convictions, together with his position, and real gift--not of
the gab, like Harbinger's--but of restrained, biting oratory, was
sure to bring him to the front with a bound in the present state of
parties. And what were those convictions? Lord Valleys had tried to
understand them, but up to the present he had failed. And this did
not surprise him exactly, since, as he often said, political
convictions were not, as they appeared on the surface, the outcome of
reason, but merely symptoms of temperament. And he could not
comprehend, because he could not sympathize with, any attitude
towards public affairs that was not essentially level, attached to
the plain, common-sense factors of the case as they appeared to
himself. Not that he could fairly be called a temporizer, for deep
down in him there was undoubtedly a vein of obstinate, fundamental
loyalty to the traditions of a caste which prized high spirit beyond
all things. Still he did feel that Miltoun was altogether too much
the 'pukka' aristocrat--no better than a Socialist, with his
confounded way of seeing things all cut and dried; his ideas of
forcing reforms down people's throats and holding them there with the
iron hand! With his way too of acting on his principles! Why! He
even admitted that he acted on his principles! This thought always
struck a very discordant note in Lord Valleys' breast. It was almost
indecent; worse-ridiculous! The fact was, the dear fellow had
unfortunately a deeper habit of thought than was wanted in politics--
dangerous--very! Experience might do something for him! And out of
his own long experience the Earl of Valleys tried hard to recollect
any politician whom the practice of politics had left where he was
when he started. He could not think of one. But this gave him
little comfort; and, above a piece of late asparagus his steady eyes
sought his son's. What had he come up to tell him?

The phrase had been ominous; he could not recollect Miltoun's ever
having told him anything. For though a really kind and indulgent
father, he had--like so many men occupied with public and other
lives--a little acquired towards his offspring the look and manner:
Is this mine? Of his four children, Barbara alone he claimed with
conviction. He admired her; and, being a man who savoured life, he
was unable to love much except where he admired. But, the last
person in the world to hustle any man or force a confidence, he
waited to hear his son's news, betraying no uneasiness.

Miltoun seemed in no hurry. He described Courtier's adventure, which
tickled Lord Valleys a good deal.

"Ordeal by red pepper! Shouldn't have thought them equal to that,"
he said. "So you've got him at Monkland now. Harbinger still with

"Yes. I don't think Harbinger has much stamina.


Miltoun nodded.

"I rather resent his being on our side--I don't think he does us any
good. You've seen that cartoon, I suppose; it cuts pretty deep. I
couldn't recognize you amongst the old women, sir."

Lord Valleys smiled impersonally.

"Very clever thing. By the way; I shall win the Eclipse, I think."

And thus, spasmodically, the conversation ran till the last servant
had left the room.

Then Miltoun, without preparation, looked straight at his father and

"I want to marry Mrs. Noel, sir."

Lord Valleys received the shot with exactly the same expression as
that with which he was accustomed to watch his horses beaten. Then
he raised his wineglass to his lips; and set it down again untouched.
This was the only sign he gave of interest or discomfiture.

"Isn't this rather sudden?"

Miltoun answered: "I've wanted to from the moment I first saw her."

Lord Valleys, almost as good a judge of a man and a situation as of a
horse or a pointer dog, leaned back in his chair, and said with faint

"My dear fellow, it's good of you to have told me this; though, to be
quite frank, it's a piece of news I would rather not have heard."

A dusky flush burned slowly up in Miltoun's cheeks. He had
underrated his father; the man had coolness and courage in a crisis.

"What is your objection, sir?" And suddenly he noticed that a wafer
in Lord Valleys' hand was quivering. This brought into his eyes no
look of compunction, but such a smouldering gaze as the old Tudor
Churchman might have bent on an adversary who showed a sign of
weakness. Lord Valleys, too, noticed the quivering of that wafer,
and ate it.

"We are men of the world," he said.

Miltoun answered: "I am not."

Showing his first real symptom of impatience Lord Valleys rapped out:

"So be it! I am."

"Yes?", said Miltoun.


Nursing one knee, Miltoun faced that appeal without the faintest
movement. His eyes continued to burn into his father's face. A
tremor passed over Lord Valleys' heart. What intensity of feeling
there was in the fellow, that he could look like this at the first
breath of opposition!

He reached out and took up the cigar-box; held it absently towards
his son, and drew it quickly back.

"I forgot," he said; "you don't."

And lighting a cigar, he smoked gravely, looking straight before him,
a furrow between his brows. He spoke at last:

"She looks like a lady. I know nothing else about her."

The smile deepened round Miltoun's mouth.

"Why should you want to know anything else?"

Lord Valleys shrugged. His philosophy had hardened.

"I understand for one thing," he said coldly; "that there is a matter
of a divorce. I thought you took the Church's view on that subject."

"She has not done wrong."

"You know her story, then?"


Lord Valleys raised his brows, in irony and a sort of admiration.

"Chivalry the better part of discretion?"

Miltoun answered:

"You don't, I think, understand the kind of feeling I have for Mrs.
Noel. It does not come into your scheme of things. It is the only
feeling, however, with which I should care to marry, and I am not
likely to feel it for anyone again."

Lord Valleys felt once more that uncanny sense of insecurity. Was
this true? And suddenly he felt Yes, it is true! The face before
him was the face of one who would burn in his own fire sooner than
depart from his standards. And a sudden sense of the utter
seriousness of this dilemma dumbed him.

"I can say no more at the moment," he muttered and got up from the

The Patrician by John Galsworthy

General Fiction
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