News from Nowhere; Or, An Epoch of Rest<br />Being Some Chapters from a Utopian Romance, William Morris [best big ereader TXT] 📗

at the goods exposed there.  The ground floor of the building round the quadrangle was occupied by a wide arcade or cloister, whose fanciful but strong architecture I could not enough admire.  Here also a few people were sauntering or sitting reading on the benches.

Dick said to me apologetically: “Here as elsewhere there is little doing to-day; on a Friday you would see it thronged, and gay with people, and in the afternoon there is generally music about the fountain.  However, I daresay we shall have a pretty good gathering at our mid-day meal.”

We drove through the quadrangle and by an archway, into a large handsome stable on the other side, where we speedily stalled the old nag and made him happy with horse-meat, and then turned and walked back again through the market, Dick looking rather thoughtful, as it seemed to me.

I noticed that people couldn’t help looking at me rather hard, and considering my clothes and theirs, I didn’t wonder; but whenever they caught my eye they made me a very friendly sign of greeting.

We walked straight into the forecourt of the Museum, where, except that the railings were gone, and the whispering boughs of the trees were all about, nothing seemed changed; the very pigeons were wheeling about the building and clinging to the ornaments of the pediment as I had seen them of old.

Dick seemed grown a little absent, but he could not forbear giving me an architectural note, and said:

“It is rather an ugly old building, isn’t it?  Many people have wanted to pull it down and rebuild it: and perhaps if work does really get scarce we may yet do so.  But, as my great grandfather will tell you, it would not be quite a straightforward job; for there are wonderful collections in there of all kinds of antiquities, besides an enormous library with many exceedingly beautiful books in it, and many most useful ones as genuine records, texts of ancient works and the like; and the worry and anxiety, and even risk, there would be in moving all this has saved the buildings themselves.  Besides, as we said before, it is not a bad thing to have some record of what our forefathers thought a handsome building.  For there is plenty of labour and material in it.”

“I see there is,” said I, “and I quite agree with you.  But now hadn’t we better make haste to see your great-grandfather?”

In fact, I could not help seeing that he was rather dallying with the time.  He said, “Yes, we will go into the house in a minute.  My kinsman is too old to do much work in the Museum, where he was a custodian of the books for many years; but he still lives here a good deal; indeed I think,” said he, smiling, “that he looks upon himself as a part of the books, or the books a part of him, I don’t know which.”

He hesitated a little longer, then flushing up, took my hand, and saying, “Come along, then!” led me toward the door of one of the old official dwellings.

CHAPTER IX: CONCERNING LOVE

“Your kinsman doesn’t much care for beautiful building, then,” said I, as we entered the rather dreary classical house; which indeed was as bare as need be, except for some big pots of the June flowers which stood about here and there; though it was very clean and nicely whitewashed.

“O I don’t know,” said Dick, rather absently.  “He is getting old, certainly, for he is over a hundred and five, and no doubt he doesn’t care about moving.  But of course he could live in a prettier house if he liked: he is not obliged to live in one place any more than any one else.  This way, Guest.”

And he led the way upstairs, and opening a door we went into a fair-sized room of the old type, as plain as the rest of the house, with a few necessary pieces of furniture, and those very simple and even rude, but solid and with a good deal of carving about them, well designed but rather crudely executed.  At the furthest corner of the room, at a desk near the window, sat a little old man in a roomy oak chair, well becushioned.  He was dressed in a sort of Norfolk jacket of blue serge worn threadbare, with breeches of the same, and grey worsted stockings.  He jumped up from his chair, and cried out in a voice of considerable volume for such an old man, “Welcome, Dick, my lad; Clara is here, and will be more than glad to see you; so keep your heart up.”

“Clara here?” quoth Dick; “if I had known, I would not have brought—At least, I mean I would—”

He was stuttering and confused, clearly because he was anxious to say nothing to make me feel one too many.  But the old man, who had not seen me at first, helped him out by coming forward and saying to me in a kind tone:

“Pray pardon me, for I did not notice that Dick, who is big enough to hide anybody, you know, had brought a friend with him.  A most hearty welcome to you!  All the more, as I almost hope that you are going to amuse an old man by giving him news from over sea, for I can see that you are come from over the water and far off countries.”

He looked at me thoughtfully, almost anxiously, as he said in a changed voice, “Might I ask you where you come from, as you are so clearly a stranger?”

I said in an absent way: “I used to live in England, and now I am come back again; and I slept last night at the Hammersmith Guest House.”

He bowed gravely, but seemed, I thought, a little disappointed with my answer.  As for me, I was now looking at him harder than good manners allowed of; perhaps; for in truth his face, dried-apple-like as it was, seemed strangely familiar to me; as if I had seen it before—in a looking-glass it might be, said I to myself.

“Well,” said the old man, “wherever you come from, you are come among friends.  And I see my kinsman Richard Hammond has an air about him as if he had brought you here for me to do something for you.  Is that so, Dick?”

Dick, who was getting still more absent-minded and kept looking uneasily at the door, managed to say, “Well, yes, kinsman: our guest finds things much altered, and cannot understand it; nor can I; so I thought I would bring him to you, since you know more of all that has happened within the last two hundred years than any body else does.—What’s that?”

And he turned toward the door again.  We heard footsteps outside; the door opened, and in came a very beautiful young woman, who stopped short on seeing Dick, and flushed as red as a rose, but faced him nevertheless.  Dick looked at her hard, and half reached out his hand toward her, and his whole face quivered with emotion.

The old man did not leave them long in this shy discomfort, but said, smiling with an old man’s mirth:

“Dick, my lad, and you, my dear Clara, I rather think that we two oldsters are in your way; for I think you will have plenty to say to each other.  You had better go into Nelson’s room up above; I know he has gone out; and he has just been covering the walls all over with mediæval books, so it will be pretty enough even for you two and your renewed pleasure.”

The girl reached out her hand to Dick, and taking his led him out of the room, looking straight before her; but it was easy to see that her blushes came from happiness, not anger; as, indeed, love is far more self-conscious than wrath.

When the door had shut on them the old man turned to me, still smiling, and said:

“Frankly, my dear guest, you will do me a great service if you are come to set my old tongue wagging.  My love of talk still abides with me, or rather grows on me; and though it is pleasant enough to see these youngsters moving about and playing together so seriously, as if the whole world depended on their kisses (as indeed it does somewhat), yet I don’t think my tales of the past interest them much.  The last harvest, the last baby, the last knot of carving in the market-place, is history enough for them.  It was different, I think, when I was a lad, when we were not so assured of peace and continuous plenty as we are now—Well, well!  Without putting you to the question, let me ask you this: Am I to consider you as an enquirer who knows a little of our modern ways of life, or as one who comes from some place where the very foundations of life are different from ours,—do you know anything or nothing about us?”

He looked at me keenly and with growing wonder in his eyes as he spoke; and I answered in a low voice:

“I know only so much of your modern life as I could gather from using my eyes on the way here from Hammersmith, and from asking some questions of Richard Hammond, most of which he could hardly understand.”

The old man smiled at this.  “Then,” said he, “I am to speak to you as—”

“As if I were a being from another planet,” said I.

The old man, whose name, by the bye, like his kinsman’s, was Hammond, smiled and nodded, and wheeling his seat round to me, bade me sit in a heavy oak chair, and said, as he saw my eyes fix on its curious carving:

“Yes, I am much tied to the past, my past, you understand.  These very pieces of furniture belong to a time before my early days; it was my father who got them made; if they had been done within the last fifty years they would have been much cleverer in execution; but I don’t think I should have liked them the better.  We were almost beginning again in those days: and they were brisk, hot-headed times.  But you hear how garrulous I am: ask me questions, ask me questions about anything, dear guest; since I must talk, make my talk profitable to you.”

I was silent for a minute, and then I said, somewhat nervously: “Excuse me if I am rude; but I am so much interested in Richard, since he has been so kind to me, a perfect stranger, that I should like to ask a question about him.”

“Well,” said old Hammond, “if he were not ‘kind’, as you call it, to a perfect stranger he would be thought a strange person, and people would be apt to shun him.  But ask on, ask on! don’t be shy of asking.”

Said I: “That beautiful girl, is he going to be married to her?”

“Well,” said he, “yes, he is.  He has been married to her once already, and now I should say it is pretty clear that he will be married to her again.”

“Indeed,” quoth I, wondering what that meant.

“Here is the whole tale,” said old Hammond; “a short one enough; and now I hope a happy one: they lived together two years the first time; were both very young; and then she got it into her head that she was in love with somebody else.  So she left poor Dick; I say poor Dick, because he had not found any one else.  But it did not last long, only about a year.  Then she came to me, as she was in the habit of bringing her troubles to the old carle, and asked me how Dick was, and whether he was happy, and all the rest of it.  So I saw how the land lay, and said that he was very unhappy, and not at all well; which last at any rate was a lie.  There, you can guess the rest.  Clara came to have a long talk with me to-day, but Dick will serve her turn much better.  Indeed, if he hadn’t chanced in upon me to-day I should have had to have sent for him to-morrow.”

“Dear me,” said I.  “Have they any children?”

“Yes,” said he, “two; they are staying with one of my daughters at present, where, indeed, Clara has mostly been.  I wouldn’t lose sight of her, as I felt sure they would come together again: and Dick, who is the best of good fellows, really took the matter to heart.  You see, he had no other love to run to, as she had.  So I managed it all; as I have done with such-like matters before.”

“Ah,” said I, “no doubt you wanted to keep them out of the Divorce Court: but I suppose it often has to settle such matters.”

“Then you suppose nonsense,” said he.  “I know that there used to be such lunatic affairs as divorce-courts: but just consider; all the cases that came