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 understanding.
"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 symbol."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 breeding!
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.