News From Nowhere, Or, an Epoch of Rest, Being Some Chapters From a Utopian Romance

There was silence after this outburst, which for the life of me I could not help, remembering how I had suffered from cockneyism and its cause on those same waters of old time.  But at last the old man said, quite coolly:

“My dear guest, I really don’t know what you mean by either cockneys, or flunkies, or thieves, or damned; or how only a few people could live happily and comfortably in a wealthy country.  All I can see is that you are angry, and I fear with me: so if you like we will change the subject.”

I thought this kind and hospitable in him, considering his obstinacy about his theory; and hastened to say that I did not mean to be angry, only emphatic.  He bowed gravely, and I thought the storm was over, when suddenly Ellen broke in:

“Grandfather, our guest is reticent from courtesy; but really what he has in his mind to say to you ought to be said; so as I know pretty well what it is, I will say it for him: for as you know, I have been taught these things by people who—”

“Yes,” said the old man, “by the sage of Bloomsbury, and others.”

“O,” said Dick, “so you know my old kinsman Hammond?”

“Yes,” said she, “and other people too, as my grandfather says, and they have taught me things: and this is the upshot of it.  We live in a little house now, not because we have nothing grander to do than working in the fields, but because we please; for if we liked, we could go and live in a big house amongst pleasant companions.”

Grumbled the old man: “Just so!  As if I would live amongst those conceited fellows; all of them looking down upon me!”

She smiled on him kindly, but went on as if he had not spoken.  “In the past times, when those big houses of which grandfather speaks were so plenty, we must have lived in a cottage whether we had liked it or not; and the said cottage, instead of having in it everything we want, would have been bare and empty.  We should not have got enough to eat; our clothes would have been ugly to look at, dirty and frowsy.  You, grandfather, have done no hard work for years now, but wander about and read your books and have nothing to worry you; and as for me, I work hard when I like it, because I like it, and think it does me good, and knits up my muscles, and makes me prettier to look at, and healthier and happier.  But in those past days you, grandfather, would have had to work hard after you were old; and would have been always afraid of having to be shut up in a kind of prison along with other old men, half-starved and without amusement.  And as for me, I am twenty years old.  In those days my middle age would be beginning now, and in a few years I should be pinched, thin, and haggard, beset with troubles and miseries, so that no one could have guessed that I was once a beautiful girl.

“Is this what you have had in your mind, guest?” said she, the tears in her eyes at thought of the past miseries of people like herself.

“Yes,” said I, much moved; “that and more.  Often—in my country I have seen that wretched change you have spoken of, from the fresh handsome country lass to the poor draggle-tailed country woman.”

The old man sat silent for a little, but presently recovered himself and took comfort in his old phrase of “Well, you like it so, do you?”

“Yes,” said Ellen, “I love life better than death.”

“O, you do, do you?” said he.  “Well, for my part I like reading a good old book with plenty of fun in it, like Thackeray’s ‘Vanity Fair.’  Why don’t you write books like that now?  Ask that question of your Bloomsbury sage.”

Seeing Dick’s cheeks reddening a little at this sally, and noting that silence followed, I thought I had better do something.  So I said: “I am only the guest, friends; but I know you want to show me your river at its best, so don’t you think we had better be moving presently, as it is certainly going to be a hot day?”

CHAPTER XXIV: UP THE THAMES: THE SECOND DAY

They were not slow to take my hint; and indeed, as to the mere time of day, it was best for us to be off, as it was past seven o’clock, and the day promised to be very hot.  So we got up and went down to our boat—Ellen thoughtful and abstracted; the old man very kind and courteous, as if to make up for his crabbedness of opinion.  Clara was cheerful and natural, but a little subdued, I thought; and she at least was not sorry to be gone, and often looked shyly and timidly at Ellen and her strange wild beauty.  So we got into the boat, Dick saying as he took his place, “Well, it is a fine day!” and the old man answering “What! you like that, do you?” once more; and presently Dick was sending the bows swiftly through the slow weed-checked stream.  I turned round as we got into mid-stream, and waving my hand to our hosts, saw Ellen leaning on the old man’s shoulder,