Miltoun went out, and, turning into the empty Strand, walked on--without heeding where, till towards five o'clock he found himself on Putney Bridge.
He rested there, leaning over the parapet, looking down at the grey water. The sun was just breaking through the heat haze; early waggons were passing, and already men were coming in to work. To what end did the river wander up and down; and a human river flow across it twice every day? To what end were men and women suffering?
Of the full current of this life Miltoun could no more see the aim, than that of the wheeling gulls in the early sunlight.
Leaving the bridge he made towards Barnes Common. The night was still ensnared there on the gorse bushes grey with cobwebs and starry dewdrops. He passed a tramp family still sleeping, huddled all together. Even the homeless lay in each other's arms!
>From the Common he emerged on the road near the gates of Ravensham;turning in there, he found his way to the kitchen garden, and sat down on a bench close to the raspberry bushes. They were protected from thieves, but at Miltoun's approach two blackbirds flustered out through the netting and flew away.
His long figure resting so motionless impressed itself on the eyes of a gardener, who caused a report to be circulated that his young lordship was in the fruit garden. It reached the ears of Clifton, who himself came out to see what this might mean. The old man took his stand in front of Miltoun very quietly.
"You have come to breakfast, my lord?"
"If my grandmother will have me, Clifton.""I understood your lordship was speaking last night.""I was."
"You find the House of Commons satisfactory, I hope.""Fairly, thank you, Clifton."
"They are not what they were in the great days of your grandfather, Ibelieve. He had a very good opinion of them. They vary, no doubt.""Tempora mutantur."
"That is so. I find quite anew spirit towards public affairs. The ha'penny Press; one takes it in, but one hardly approves. I shall be anxious to read your speech. They say a first speech is a great strain.""It is rather."
"But you had no reason to be anxious. I'm sure it was beautiful."Miltoun saw that the old man's thin sallow cheeks had flushed to a deep orange between his snow-white whiskers.
"I have looked forward to this day," he stammered, "ever since I knew your lordship--twenty-eight years. It is the beginning.""Or the end, Clifton."
The old man's face fell in a look of deep and concerned astonishment.
"No, no," he said; "with your antecedents, never."Miltoun took his hand.
"Sorry, Clifton--didn't mean to shock you."And for a minute neither spoke, looking at their clasped hands as if surprised.
"Would your lordship like a bath--breakfast is still at eight. I can procure you a razor."When Miltoun entered the breakfast room, his grandmother, with a copy of the Times in her hands, was seated before a grape fruit, which, with a shredded wheat biscuit, constituted her first meal. Her appearance hardly warranted Barbara's description of 'terribly well';in truth she looked a little white, as if she had been feeling the heat. But there was no lack of animation in her little steel-grey eyes, nor of decision in her manner.
"I see," she said, "that you've taken a line of your own, Eustace.
I've nothing to say against that; in fact, quite the contrary. But remember this, my dear, however you may change you mustn't wobble.
Only one thing counts in that place, hitting the same nail on the head with the same hammer all the time. You aren't looking at all well."Miltoun, bending to kiss her, murmured:
"Thanks, I'm all right."
"Nonsense," replied Lady Casterley. "They don't look after you. Was your mother in the House?""I don't think so."
"Exactly. And what is Barbara about? She ought to be seeing to you.""Barbara is down with Uncle Dennis."
Lady Casterley set her jaw; then looking her grandson through and through, said:
"I shall take you down there this very day. I shall have the sea to you. What do you say, Clifton?""His lordship does look pale."
"Have the carriage, and we'll go from Clapham Junction. Thomas can go in and fetch you some clothes. Or, better, though I dislike them, we can telephone to your mother for a car. It's very hot for trains.
Arrange that, please, Clifton!"
To this project Miltoun raised no objection. And all through the drive he remained sunk in an indifference and lassitude which to Lady Casterley seemed in the highest degree ominous. For lassitude, to her, was the strange, the unpardonable, state. The little great lady--casket of the aristocratic principle--was permeated to the very backbone with the instinct of artificial energy, of that alert vigour which those who have nothing socially to hope for are forced to develop, lest they should decay and be again obliged to hope. To speak honest truth, she could not forbear an itch to run some sharp and foreign substance into her grandson, to rouse him somehow, for she knew the reason of his state, and was temperamentally out of patience with such a cause for backsliding. Had it been any other of her grandchildren she would not have hesitated, but there was that in Miltoun which held even Lady Casterley in check, and only once during the four hours of travel did she attempt to break down his reserve.
She did it in a manner very soft for her--was he not of all living things the hope and pride of her heart? Tucking her little thin sharp hand under his arm, she said quietly:
"My dear, don't brood over it. That will never do."But Miltoun removed her hand gently, and laid it back on the dust rug, nor did he answer, or show other sign of having heard.
And Lady Casterley, deeply wounded, pressed her faded lips together, and said sharply:
"Slower, please, Frith!"