She was still standing at the door to which she had accompanied Mr
Hadleigh, and was looking after him, when a kindly voice behind her
said: ‘He does look a woeful man. I wonder if he has any real friends.’
Madge turned. Aunt Hessy was standing there, a pitying expression on
her comely face, and she was wiping her hands in her apron. There was
nothing in Mrs Crawshay’s manner or appearance to indicate her Quaker
antecedents, except the frequent use of thee and thou—she did not
always use that form of speech—and the quiet tone of all the colours
of her dress. Yet, until her marriage she had been, like her father,
a good Wesleyan; after her marriage she accompanied her husband to
the church in which his family had kept their place for so many
generations. To her simple faith it was the same whether she worshipped
in church or chapel.
‘Why do you say that, aunt?’
‘Because he seems to be so much alone.’
‘Mr Hadleigh alone! What about all the people who visit the manor?’
‘Ay, they visit the manor,’ answered Aunt Hessy, with a slight shake of
the head and a quiet smile.
That set Madge thinking. He did impress her as a solitary man,
notwithstanding his family, his many visitors, his school treats, his
flower-shows, and other signs of a busy and what ought to be a happy
life. Then there was the strange thing that he should come to ask her
assistance to enable him to come to terms with the harvesters.
‘I believe you are right, aunt. He is very much alone, and I suppose
that was why he came to me to-day.’
‘What did he want?’ asked Dame Crawshay, with unusual quickness and an
expression of anxiety Madge could not remember ever having seen on her
face before. She did not understand it until long afterwards.
Having explained the object of Mr Hadleigh’s visit, as she understood
it, she was surprised to see how much relieved her aunt looked. Knowing
that that good woman had never had a secret in her life, and never made
the least mystery about anything, she put the question direct: ‘Did you
expect him to say anything else?’
‘I don’t know, Madge. He is a queer man, Mr Hadleigh, in a-many ways.
He spoke to your uncle about this, and he would have nothing to do with
it.’
‘And that is why they fell out at the market, I suppose.’
‘Where is Philip? He must take after his mother, for he is
straightforward in everything.’
‘He is out in the garden. Shall I go for him?’
‘Nay. I want more peas, so we can find him on our way for them.’
Philip had not gone far. He had walked down to the duck-pond; but after
that distant excursion, he kept near the little gate beside the dairy,
glancing frequently at the house-door. He was dallying with the last
hours of the bright morning of his love, and he grudged every moment
that Madge was away from him. A few days hence he would be looking back
to this one with longing eyes. How miserable he would be on board that
ship! How he would hate the sound of the machinery, knowing that every
stroke of the piston was taking him so much farther away from her. And
then, as the waters widened and stretched into the sky, would not his
heart sink, and would he not wish that he had never started on this
weary journey?
In response to that lover-like question, he heard the echo of Madge’s
voice in his brain: ‘It was your mother’s wish.’
This simple reminder was enough, for he cherished the sad memory of
that sweet pale face, which smiled upon him hopefully a moment before
it became calm in death.
He sprang away from these sorrowful reflections. Yes; he would look
back longingly to this day when sea and sky shut out Willowmere and
Madge from sight. But they would both be palpable to his mental vision;
and he would look forward to that still brighter day of his return, his
mission fulfilled, and nothing to do but marry Madge and live happy
ever after. Ay, that should comfort him and make the present parting
bearable.
Besides, who could say with what fortune he might come back? The uncle
to whom he was going was rumoured to be the possessor of fabulous
wealth, and although married he was childless. True, also, he was
reported to be so eccentric that nobody could understand him, or
form the slightest conception of how he would act under any given
circumstances. But it was known that before he went abroad, his
sister—Philip’s mother—had been the one creature in whom all his
affection seemed to be concentrated. An inexplicable coldness appeared
in his conduct towards her after her marriage. The reason had never
been explained.
Shortly before her death, however, there had come a letter from him,
which made her very happy. But she had burned the letter, by his
instructions, without showing it to any one or revealing its contents.
Evidently it was this letter which induced her to lay upon her son
the charge of going to her brother Austin Shield, whenever he should
be summoned. But the uncle held no correspondence with any one at
Ringsford. That he was still alive, could be only surmised from vague
reports and the fact that on every anniversary of Mrs Hadleigh’s
birthday, with one exception, a fresh wreath of flowers was found on
her grave—placed there, it was believed, by his orders. Then a few
months ago, a letter had come to Philip, containing an invitation from
his uncle, suggesting possible advantages, and inclosing a draft for
expenses. So, being summoned, he was going; and whether the result
should be good or ill fortune, his mother’s last command would be
obeyed, and he would return with a clear conscience to marry Madge.
That thought kept him in good-humour throughout the weary ages which
seemed to elapse before he saw Madge and her aunt approaching. He ran
to meet them.
‘I thought you were never coming,’ was his exclamation.
‘Thou’lt be able to do without her for a longer time than this without
troubling thyself, by-and-by,’ said Dame Crawshay with one of her
pleasant smiles.
‘When that day comes, I will say you are a prophetess of evil,’ he
retorted, laughing, but with an air of affectionate respect. That was
the feeling with which she inspired everybody.
‘Nay, lad; but it need not be evil, for you may be apart, surely, doing
good for each other.’
‘Yes; but not without wishing we were together.’
‘Wilt ever be wishing that?’
‘For ever and ever.’
He answered with burlesque solemnity outwardly; but Madge knew that he
spoke from his heart, and in the full faith of his words. She gave him
a quiet glance with those soft wistful eyes, and he was very happy.
They had reached a tall row of peas, at which Dame Crawshay had
been already busy that morning, as a wooden chair placed beside it
indicated. Here she seated herself, and began to pluck the peas,
shelling them as she plucked; then dropping the pods into her lap and
the peas into a basin. She performed the operation with mechanical
regularity, which did not in any way interfere with conversation.
Madge, kneeling beside her, helped with nimble fingers; and Philip,
hands clasped behind him, stood looking on admiringly. The sun was
shining upon them; and, darting shafts of light through the surrounding
trees, made bright spots amidst the moving shadows underneath.
Everything seemed to be still and sleepy. The breeze was so light that
there was only a gentle rustle of leaves, and through it was heard
the occasional thud of an over-ripe apple or pear as it fell, and the
drowsy hum of the bees.
Light, warmth, peace. ‘Ah,’ thought Philip, ‘if we could only go on
this way always! If we could fix ourselves thus as in a photograph,
what a blessed Eden this would be!’
‘Thou’dst find it dull soon, Philip, standing there looking at us
shelling peas, if thou wert forced to do it,’ said Dame Crawshay,
looking up at him with a curious smile.
‘That shows you cannot guess my thoughts. They were of quite a
different nature, for I was wishing that there had been some fixing
process in nature, so that there might never be any change in our
present positions.’
Madge looked as if she had been thinking something very similar; but
she went on silently shelling peas; and a sunbeam shooting through a
gap in the green pea hedge, made a golden radiance on her face.
‘Eh, deary me, what love will do!’ exclaimed the dame, laughing, but
shaking her head regretfully, as if sorry that she could not look at
things in the same hopeful humour. ‘Other people have talked like
that in the heyday of life. Some have found a little of their hope
fulfilled; many have found none of it: all have found that they had to
give up the thought of a great deal of what they expected. Some take
their disappointment with wise content and make the best of things as
they find them. They jog along as happily as mortals may, like Dick and
me; a-many kick against the pricks and suffer sorely for it; but all
have to give in sooner or later, and own that the world could not get
along if everybody could arrange it to suit his own pleasure.’
How gently this good-natured philosopher brought them down from
the clouds to what foolish enthusiasts call contemptuously ‘the
common earth.’ Sensible people use the same phrase, but they use it
respectfully, knowing that this ‘common earth’ may be made beautiful or
ugly as their own actions instruct their vision.
To Philip it was quite true that most people sought something they
could never attain; that many people fancied they had found the
something they wanted, and discovered afterwards, to their sorrow,
that they had not found the thing at all. But then, you see, it was an
entirely different condition of affairs in his case. He had found what
he wanted, and knew that there could be no mistake about it.
To Madge, her aunt’s wisdom appeared to be very cold and even wrong
in some respects, considering the placid and happy experiences of her
own life. She had her great faith in Philip—her dream of a life which
should be made up of devotion to him under any circumstances of joy
or sorrow, and she could not believe that it was possible that their
experience should be as full of crosses as that of others. And yet
there was a strange faintness at her heart, as if she were vaguely
conscious that there were possibilities which neither she nor Philip
could foresee or understand.
‘We shall be amongst the wise folk,’ said Philip confidently, ‘and
take things as they come, contentedly. We shall be easily contented, so
long as we are true to each other—and I don’t think you imagine there
is any chance of a mistake in that respect.’
Aunt Hessy went on shelling peas for a time in silence. There was
a thoughtful expression on her kindly face, and there was even a
suggestion of sadness in it. Here were two young people—so young, so
happy, so full of faith in each other—just starting on that troublous
journey called Life, and she had to speak those words of warning which
always seem so harsh to the pupils, until, after bitter experience,
they look back and say: ‘If I had only taken the warning in time, what
might have been?’
By-and-by she spoke very softly: ‘Thou art thinking, Madge, that I am
croaking; and thou, Philip, are thinking the same.... Nay, there is no
need to deny it. But I do not mean to dishearten thee. All I want is to
make thee understand that there are many things we reckon as certain in
the heyday of life, that never come to us.’
‘I daresay,’ said Philip, plucking a pea-pod and chewing it savagely;
‘but don’t you think, Mrs Crawshay, that this is very like throwing
cold-water on us, and that throwing cold-water is very apt to produce
the misadventure which you think possible?—that is, that something
might happen to alter our plans?’
‘I am sorry for that, lad; I do not mean to throw cold-water on thee;
but rather to help thee and to help Madge to look at things in a
sensible way. Listen. I had a friend once who was like Madge; and she
had a friend who was, as it might be, like you, Philip. He went away,
as you are going, to seek his fortune in foreign parts. There was a
blunder between them, and she got wedded to another man. Her first lad
came back, and finding how things were, he went away again and never
spoke more to her.’
‘They must have been miserable.’
‘For a while they were miserable enough; but they got over it.’
‘I’ll be bound the man never married.’
‘There thou’dst be bound wrong. He did marry, and is now wealthy and
prosperous, though she was taken away in a fever long ago.’
‘Ay, but is he happy?’
‘That is only known to himself and Him that knows us all.’
‘Well, for our future I will trust Madge,’ said Philip, taking her
hand, ‘in spite of all your forebodings; and she will trust me.’
Dame Crawshay had filled her basin with peas, and she rose.
‘God bless thee, Philip, wherever thou goest, and make thy hopes
realities,’ she said with what seemed to the lovers unnecessary
solemnity.
The dame went into the house. Madge and Philip went down the meadow,
and under the willows by the merry river, forgot that there was any
parting before them or any danger that their fortunes might be crossed.
Those bright days! Can they ever come again, or can any future joy be
so full, so perfect? There are no love-speeches—little talk of any
kind, and what there is, is commonplace enough. There is no need for
speech. There is only—only!—the sense of the dear presence that makes
all the world beautiful, leaving the heart nothing more to desire.
But the dreams in the sunshine there under the willows, with the river
murmuring sympathetic harmonies at their feet! The dreams of a future,
and yet no future; for it is always to be as now. Can it be possible
that this man and woman will ever look coldly on each other—ever speak
angry, passionate words? Can it be possible that there will ever flit
across their minds one instant’s regret that they had come together?
No, no: the dreams are of the future; but the future will be always as
now—full of faith and gladness.
THE CLIFF-HOUSES OF CAÑON DE CHELLY.
The fourth and most southerly iron link of railway which will soon
stretch across the North American continent from ocean to ocean is
rapidly approaching completion along the thirty-fifth parallel;
already it has reached the San Francisco mountains in its course to
the Pacific. While avoiding the chances of blockade by snow, liable in
higher latitudes, it has struck through a little explored region among
the vast plains of Arizona and New Mexico. It is not easy at once to
realise the extent of table-lands, greater in area than Great Britain
and Ireland, upon which no soul has a settled habitation. The sun beats
down with terrible force on these dry undulating plains, where at most
times nothing relieves the eye, as it wanders away to the dim horizon,
save a few cactus and sage-bush plants. But at seasons, heavy rains
change dry gulches into roaring torrents, and parched lowlands into
broad lakes, covering the country with a fine grass, on which millions
of sheep, horses, and cattle are herded by wandering Navajo and Moqui
Indians. To the periodical rains, as well as to geological convulsions,
are traced the causes of those wondrous chasms, which in places break
abruptly the rolling surface of the prairie, and extend in rocky gorges
for many miles. They are called cañons. The grandeur of the scenery
found in one of them, Cañon de Chelly, can scarcely be overstated.
Cañon de Chelly—pronounced Canyon de Shay—is in the north of Arizona.
It takes its name from a Frenchman, who is said to have been the first
white man to set foot within its walls; but except the record of a
recent visit by the United States Geological Survey, no account of
it seems to have hitherto appeared. The picturesque features of this
magnificent ravine are unrivalled; and what lends a more fascinating
interest, is the existence, among its rocky walls, of dwellings once
occupied by a race of men, who, dropping into the ocean of the past
with an unwritten history, are only known to us as cave-dwellers.
In October 1882, an exploring party, headed by Professor Stevenson
of the Ethnological Bureau, Washington, and escorted by a number of
soldiers and Indian guides, set out for this remarkable spot. One of
the party, Lieutenant T. V. Keam, has furnished the following details
of their investigations. After travelling one hundred and twenty miles
out from the nearest military post, Fort Defiance, and crossing a
desert some twenty miles broad, the entrance to Cañon de Chelly was
reached. The bed of the ravine is entirely composed of sand, which is
constantly being blown along it, with pitiless force, by sudden gusts
of wind. The walls of the cañon are red sandstone; at first, but some
fifty feet high, they increase gradually, until at eighteen miles they
reach an elevation of twelve hundred feet, which is about the highest
point, and continue without decreasing for at least thirty miles. The
first night, Professor Stevenson’s party camped three miles from the
mouth of the cañon, under a grove of cotton-wood trees, and near a
clear flowing stream of water. Here the scene was an impressive one.
A side ravine of great magnitude intersected the main cañon, and at
the junction there stood out, like a sentinel, far from the rest of
the cliff, one solemn brown stone shaft eight hundred feet high. In
the morning, continuing the journey through the awful grandeur of the
gorge, the walls still increased in height, some having a smooth and
beautifully coloured surface reaching to one thousand feet; others,
from the action of water, sand storms, and atmospheric effects, cut and
broken into grand arches, battlements, and spires of every conceivable
shape. At times would be seen an immense opening in the wall,
stretching back a quarter of a mile, the sides covered with verdure of
different shades, reaching to the summit, where tall firs with giant
arms seemed dwarfed to the size of a puny gooseberry bush, and the
lordly oak was only distinguished by the beautiful sheen of its leaves.
On the second night the camp was formed at the base of a cliff, in
which were descried, planted along a niche at a height of nearly one
hundred feet, some cliff-dwellings. Next morning, these were reached
after a dangerous climb, by means of a rope thrown across a projecting
stick, up the almost perpendicular sides of this stupendous natural
fortress. The village was perched on its narrow ledge of rock, facing
the south, and was overshadowed by an enormous arch, formed in the
solid side of the cañon. Overlapping the ruins for at least fifty feet,
at a height above them of sixty feet, it spread its protecting roof
five hundred feet from end to end. No moisture ever penetrated beyond
the edge of this red shield of nature; and to its shelter, combined
with the dryness of the atmosphere and preserving nature of the sand,
is to be attributed the remarkable state of preservation, after such a
lapse of time, in which the houses of the cliff-dwellers were found.
Some of them still stood three stories high, built in compact form,
close together within the extremely limited space, the timber used
to support the roof being in some cases perfectly sound. The white
stone employed is gypsum, cut with stone implements, but having the
outer edges smoothly dressed and evenly laid up; the stones of equal
size placed parallel with each other presenting a uniform and pleasing
appearance.
No remains of importance were found here, excepting a finely woven
sandal, and some pieces of netting made from the fibre of the yucca
plant. But on proceeding two miles farther up the cañon, another group
of ruins was discovered, which contained relics of a very interesting
character. The interior of some of the larger houses was painted with
a series of red bands and squares, fresh in colour, and contained
fragments of ornamented pottery, besides what appeared to be pieces
of blankets made from birds’ feathers; these, perhaps, in ages past
bedecked the shoulders of some red beauty, when the grim old walls
echoed the fierce war-songs of a long-lost nation. But the most
fortunate find at this spot, and the first of that description made in
the country, was a cyst, constructed of timber smoothly plastered on
the inside, containing remains of three of the ancient cliff-dwellers.
One was in a sitting posture, the skin of the thighs and legs being in
a perfect state of preservation. These ruins, as in the former case,
were protected from the weather by an overhanging arch of rock.
At several points on the journey through Cañon de Chelly, hieroglyphics
were traced, graven on the cliff wall. Most of the designs were
unintelligible; but figures of animals, such as the bear and mountain
sheep or goat, were prominent. Another cliff village was observed of a
considerable size, but planted three hundred feet above the cañon bed,
in such a position that it is likely to remain sacred from the foot of
man for still further generations. The same elements which in geologic
time fashioned the caves and recesses of the cañon walls, have in later
times worn the approaches away, so that to-day they do not even furnish
a footing for the bear or coyote. In what remote age and for how many
generations the cliff-dwellers lived in these strange fastnesses, will
probably never be determined. Faint traces of still older buildings
are found here and there in the bed of Cañon de Chelly; and it is
conjectured that this region was once densely populated along the
watercourses, and that the tribes having been driven from their homes
by a powerful foe, the remnant sought refuge in the caves of the cañon
walls.
Of the great antiquity of these structures, there is no question.
The Indian of to-day knows nothing of their history, has not even
traditions concerning them. The Navajo, with a few poles plastered
with a heavy deposit of earth, constructs his _hogan_ or wigwam, and
rarely remains in the same place winter and summer. He has no more idea
of constructing a dwelling like those so perfectly preserved in the
cliffs, than he has of baking specimens of pottery such as are found
in fragments amongst the walls. In the fine quality of paste, in the
animal handles—something like old Japanese ware—and in the general
ornamentation, these exhibit a high order of excellence. Some specimens
of what is called laminated ware are remarkable; threadlike layers of
clay are laid one on each other with admirable delicacy and patience.
In these fragments may yet be read something of the history of a
vanished race. They illuminate a dark corner in the world’s history,
and seem to indicate a people who once felt civilising influences
higher than anything known by those uncouth figures whose camp-fires
now glimmer at night across the silent starlit prairie.
TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.
A STORY IN EIGHT CHAPTERS.