News from Nowhere; Or, An Epoch of Rest<br />Being Some Chapters from a Utopian Romance by William Morris (best reads txt) 📗

Clara’s hand, and led her down the bent.  But Ellen stood thoughtfully looking down for a little, and as I took her hand to follow Dick, she turned round to me and said:

“You might tell me a great deal and make many things clear to me, if you would.”

“Yes,” said I, “I am pretty well fit for that,—and for nothing else—an old man like me.”

She did not notice the bitterness which, whether I liked it or not, was in my voice as I spoke, but went on: “It is not so much for myself; I should be quite content to dream about past times, and if I could not idealise them, yet at least idealise some of the people who lived in them.  But I think sometimes people are too careless of the history of the past—too apt to leave it in the hands of old learned men like Hammond.  Who knows?  Happy as we are, times may alter; we may be bitten with some impulse towards change, and many things may seem too wonderful for us to resist, too exciting not to catch at, if we do not know that they are but phases of what has been before; and withal ruinous, deceitful, and sordid.”

As we went slowly down toward the boats she said again: “Not for myself alone, dear friend; I shall have children; perhaps before the end a good many;—I hope so.  And though of course I cannot force any special kind of knowledge upon them, yet, my Friend, I cannot help thinking that just as they might be like me in body, so I might impress upon them some part of my ways of thinking; that is, indeed, some of the essential part of myself; that part which was not mere moods, created by the matters and events round about me.  What do you think?”

Of one thing I was sure, that her beauty and kindness and eagerness combined, forced me to think as she did, when she was not earnestly laying herself open to receive my thoughts.  I said, what at the time was true, that I thought it most important; and presently stood entranced by the wonder of her grace as she stepped into the light boat, and held out her hand to me.  And so on we went up the Thames still—or whither?

CHAPTER XXX: THE JOURNEY’S END

On we went.  In spite of my new-born excitement about Ellen, and my gathering fear of where it would land me, I could not help taking abundant interest in the condition of the river and its banks; all the more as she never seemed weary of the changing picture, but looked at every yard of flowery bank and gurgling eddy with the same kind of affectionate interest which I myself once had so fully, as I used to think, and perhaps had not altogether lost even in this strangely changed society with all its wonders.  Ellen seemed delighted with my pleasure at this, that, or the other piece of carefulness in dealing with the river: the nursing of pretty corners; the ingenuity in dealing with difficulties of water-engineering, so that the most obviously useful works looked beautiful and natural also.  All this, I say, pleased me hugely, and she was pleased at my pleasure—but rather puzzled too.

“You seem astonished,” she said, just after we had passed a mill [2] which spanned all the stream save the water-way for traffic, but which was as beautiful in its way as a Gothic cathedral—“You seem astonished at this being so pleasant to look at.”

“Yes,” I said, “in a way I am; though I don’t see why it should not be.”

“Ah!” she said, looking at me admiringly, yet with a lurking smile in her face, “you know all about the history of the past.  Were they not always careful about this little stream which now adds so much pleasantness to the country side?  It would always be easy to manage this little river.  Ah!  I forgot, though,” she said, as her eye caught mine, “in the days we are thinking of pleasure was wholly neglected in such matters.  But how did they manage the river in the days that you—”  Lived in she was going to say; but correcting herself, said—“in the days of which you have record?”

“They mismanaged it,” quoth I.  “Up to the first half of the nineteenth century, when it was still more or less of a highway for the country people, some care was taken of the river and its banks; and though I don’t suppose anyone troubled himself about its aspect, yet it was trim and beautiful.  But when the railways—of which no doubt you have heard—came into power, they would not allow the people of the country to use either the natural or artificial waterways, of which latter there were a great many.  I suppose when we get higher up we shall see one of these; a very important one, which one of these railways entirely closed to the public, so that they might force people to send their goods by their private road, and so tax them as heavily as they could.”

Ellen laughed heartily.  “Well,” she said, “that is not stated clearly enough in our history-books, and it is worth knowing.  But certainly the people of those days must have been a curiously lazy set.  We are not either fidgety or quarrelsome now, but if any one tried such a piece of folly on us, we should use the said waterways, whoever gainsaid us: surely that would be simple enough.  However, I remember other cases of this stupidity: when I was on the Rhine two years ago, I remember they showed us ruins of old castles, which, according to what we heard, must have been made for pretty much the same purpose as the railways were.  But I am interrupting your history of the river: pray go on.”

“It is both short and stupid enough,” said I.  “The river having lost its practical or commercial value—that is, being of no use to make money of—”

She nodded.  “I understand what that queer phrase means,” said she.  “Go on!”

“Well, it was utterly neglected, till at last it became a nuisance—”

“Yes,” quoth Ellen, “I understand: like the railways and the robber knights.  Yes?”

“So then they turned the makeshift business on to it, and handed it over to a body up in London, who from time to time, in order to show that they had something to do, did some damage here and there,—cut down trees, destroying the banks thereby; dredged the river (where it was not needed always), and threw the dredgings on the fields so as to spoil them; and so forth.  But for the most part they practised ‘masterly inactivity,’ as it was then called—that is, they drew their salaries, and let things alone.”

“Drew their salaries,” she said.  “I know that means that they were allowed to take an extra lot of other people’s goods for doing nothing.  And if that had been all, it really might have been worth while to let them do so, if you couldn’t find any other way of keeping them quiet; but it seems to me that being so paid, they could not help doing something, and that something was bound to be mischief,—because,” said she, kindling with sudden anger, “the whole business was founded on lies and false pretensions.  I don’t mean only these river-guardians, but all these master-people I have read of.”

“Yes,” said I, “how happy you are to have got out of the parsimony of oppression!”

“Why do you sigh?” she said, kindly and somewhat anxiously.  “You seem to think that it will not last?”

“It will last for you,” quoth I.

“But why not for you?” said she.  “Surely it is for all the world; and if your country is somewhat backward, it will come into line before long.  Or,” she said quickly, “are you thinking that you must soon go back again?  I will make my proposal which I told you of at once, and so perhaps put an end to your anxiety.  I was going to propose that you should live with us where we are going.  I feel quite old friends with you, and should be sorry to lose you.”  Then she smiled on me, and said: “Do you know, I begin to suspect you of wanting to nurse a sham sorrow, like the ridiculous characters in some of those queer old novels that I have come across now and then.”

I really had almost begun to suspect it myself, but I refused to admit so much; so I sighed no more, but fell to giving my delightful companion what little pieces of history I knew about the river and its borderlands; and the time passed pleasantly enough; and between the two of us (she was a better sculler than I was, and seemed quite tireless) we kept up fairly well with Dick, hot as the afternoon was, and swallowed up the way at a great rate.  At last we passed under another ancient bridge; and through meadows bordered at first with huge elm-trees mingled with sweet chestnut of younger but very elegant growth; and the meadows widened out so much that it seemed as if the trees must now be on the bents only, or about the houses, except for the growth of willows on the immediate banks; so that the wide stretch of grass was little broken here.  Dick got very much excited now, and often stood up in the boat to cry out to us that this was such and such a field, and so forth; and we caught fire at his enthusiasm for the hay-field and its harvest, and pulled our best.

At last as we were passing through a reach of the river where on the side of the towing-path was a highish bank with a thick whispering bed of reeds before it, and on the other side a higher bank, clothed with willows that dipped into the stream and crowned by ancient elm-trees, we saw bright figures coming along close to the bank, as if they were looking for something; as, indeed, they were, and we—that is, Dick and his company—were what they were looking for.  Dick lay on his oars, and we followed his example.  He gave a joyous shout to the people on the bank, which was echoed back from it in many voices, deep and sweetly shrill; for there were above a dozen persons, both men, women, and children.  A tall handsome woman, with black wavy hair and deep-set grey eyes, came forward on the bank and waved her hand gracefully to us, and said:

“Dick, my friend, we have almost had to wait for you!  What excuse have you to make for your slavish punctuality?  Why didn’t you take us by surprise, and come yesterday?”

“O,” said Dick, with an almost imperceptible jerk of his head toward our boat, “we didn’t want to come too quick up the water; there is so much to see for those who have not been up here before.”

“True, true,” said the stately lady, for stately is the word that must be used for her; “and we want them to get to know the wet way from the east thoroughly well, since they must often use it now.  But come ashore at once, Dick, and you, dear neighbours; there is a break in the reeds and a good landing-place just round the corner.  We can carry up your things, or send some of the lads after them.”

“No, no,” said Dick; “it is easier going by water, though it is but a step.  Besides, I want to bring my friend here to the proper place.  We will go on to the Ford; and you can talk to us from the bank as we paddle along.”

He pulled his sculls through the water, and on we went, turning a sharp angle and going north a little.  Presently we saw before us a bank of elm-trees, which told us of a house amidst them, though I looked in vain for the grey walls that I expected to see there.  As we went, the folk on the bank talked indeed, mingling their kind voices with the cuckoo’s song, the sweet strong whistle of the blackbirds, and the ceaseless note of the corn-crake as he crept through the long grass of the mowing-field; whence came waves of fragrance from the flowering clover amidst of the ripe grass.

In a few minutes we had passed through a deep eddying pool into the sharp stream that ran from the ford, and beached our craft on a tiny strand of limestone-gravel, and stepped ashore into the arms of our up-river friends, our journey done.

I disentangled myself from the merry throng, and mounting on the cart-road that ran along the river some feet above the water, I looked round about me.  The river came down through a wide meadow on my left, which was grey now with the ripened seeding grasses; the gleaming water was lost presently by a turn of the bank, but over the meadow I could see the mingled gables of a building