Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 692

Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla,
And a lateral movement of the condyloid process,
With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication
Ground the teeth together;

And from that imperfect dental exhibition,
Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian,
Came those hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs
Of expectoration:

'Which my name is Bowers! and my crust was busted
Falling down a shaft in Calaveras County;
But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the pieces
Home to old Missouri!'

The bone-caves have of course yielded numbers of ancient skulls – most of them, be it noted, very well developed, and many superior to savage skulls of the present day. The strangely deformed skull of the Neanderthal Valley (found near Düsseldorf) is thought by many to have been that of an idiot. It stands unique among ancient skulls. Even the famous skull of the Engis cavern near Liège, is said by Professor Huxley to have 'no mark of degradation about any part of its structure. It is in fact,' he continues, 'a fair average skull, which might have belonged to a philosopher, or might have contained the thoughtless brains of a savage.'

But we must stop here, or we shall drift into the controversy on primitive man – rather too wide a subject to enter upon here. Let us merely note that among all the remains that we possess of primitive man, we have no vestiges of that ape-man or man-ape which figures so prominently in certain modern theories of the origin of man.

SUCH OLD FRIENDS

A STORY

CHAPTER I. – COUNTRY LIFE

The century was much younger, but it had passed its stormy infancy. Just as after a stormy night we take down the shutters and let in the light and rejoice in the calm of the dawn, so the country was beginning to breathe freely after the long years of agitation it had known. Peace was turning men's thoughts homewards, and there were even spirits daring enough to suggest that the very constitution of England itself needed patching up, or perhaps entirely renovating; scientific men were talking of the wonderful power of steam; but meantime ordinary mortals were content with the road, and were very proud of their 'High-flyers.' People were not so used to novelties then as we are now, and 'newfangled' was frequently the verdict on them, given with severity and even distrust. The far-spreading ocean of Time rubs off points and sharp corners, and leaves them smooth and rounded, and ready to fit in. But the eddies had scarcely yet stirred our far-off west county village. Once a week indeed, the Squire had a newspaper, which he lent to the Rector, who gave the benefit of it to some of his parishioners in his calls before passing it on to the doctor; and so news slowly circulated. It was such a quiet spot; the Parsonage and the Hall nestled lovingly together, with the Church like a link between; a small apology for a village was tucked close under the hill; and a few farms and homesteads scattered here and there completed the parish. But such a wealth of broad fair meadows and laden orchards lay around! The upland fields were bleaker and more stubborn, but the growth of purple heather covered many deficiencies, at least to the eye of the lover of beauty; and the all-bountiful Hand that planted the earth had crowned the ridges of hills with trees. Such trees, so grand and calm and stately in their growth! Winter had the hardest possible fight to rob them of their last robes; even November, whose sky is proverbially 'chill and drear' – November, whose 'leaf is red and sear,' found them in a perfect sunset glory, from gold to deepest purple.

'I do not believe there are any trees like ours,' exclaimed Dorothy Linley; and I think she ought to know, for she had lived with them all her life – not that it was a very long life either when our, or rather her story begins. She had scarcely seen a score of years; but things look bright and sharply defined seen through the clear atmosphere of youth. It was no wonder that she thought so on this afternoon as she stood at the open window, looking up the long avenue of pink-and-white horse-chestnuts, while the air was fragrant with the May from the tree on the lawn. It was not a mere afternoon tea, but the real meal that was laid in the Rectory drawing-room. In those days the article itself was costly but good, and they drank it out of tiny cups. Some had been handed down from a former generation and had no handles, others of more modern make had. Dorothy's mother was sitting at the table, surveying with a little pleased satisfaction its hospitable spread of country dainties prepared under her own eye, if not with her own hands. They were expecting a guest – Madam from the Hall. Mrs Linley's hands were never idle; the whole parish could bear witness to her 'notableness;' and her daughters were considered models of 'bringing up.'

'You would not have liked to live in the town where you were born, my dear,' she said in answer to Dorothy's exclamation; then suffering her work to drop into her lap, she looked beyond the slight figure at the window, away through the chestnuts, far back into the past. 'I thought as you do when first I walked up this avenue carrying you, an infant, in my arms. Your father and I had had a hard struggle – his means were so small as a curate, and he tried in vain to increase them by teaching – those were such terrible times; bread was almost at famine price; and I have sat with windows and doors bolted and barred, trembling to hear the people in the streets, for bread-riots were not uncommon. Everything was taxed, even the light that came in at the windows; so many of them were closed up, making the houses dark and gloomy. We could hardly believe it, when your father's cousin Kent Linley, whom he had not seen for years, wrote to say that the family "living" was vacant, and sooner than give it to a stranger, he offered it to him.'

'It must have been like a glimpse of Paradise, mother.'

'It was; for your father's health was giving way under the strain. He would have it that you, our first child, born just when our troubles were greatest, were the herald of the peace that was coming; and when he gave you his mother's name, he called you also Olive. You were the first he christened at the little church here, and "Dorothy Olive" the first name he wrote on the parish register.'

'Was Madam at the Hall then?' asked her daughter.

'No; the Squire brought home his bride two years later, before your sister was born; and Mrs Melton used to come and see us very often. As you know, she gave Juliet her own name. We thought it rather fanciful, but could not refuse so kind a friend.' Mrs Linley looked up and smiled as the owner of it entered the room – a younger copy of herself, small, and with the same sweet tender eyes.

'Mother dear,' said the new-comer, seating herself beside her, 'do you know what it is my godmother is coming to talk about this afternoon?'

'No, my child: perhaps some parish matter.'

'Perhaps,' said Dorothy from the window, 'it may be the long-talked-of visit to London.'

'Oh, if it should!' cried Juliet, her face flushing with delight at the thought.

'Well, we shall not have long to wait,' answered their mother, laying down her work; 'for I hear the wheels coming up the avenue;' and the Squire's large roomy carriage, drawn by its two sleek well-fed horses, drawing up to the door, they all rose to receive their guest.

CHAPTER II. – VISITS

And so it proved. Around the tea-table the purpose was unfolded; for the warm-hearted mistress of the Hall had come to ask to carry off her favourite. 'Mr Melton and I have been thinking lately,' she explained, 'that if we put it off much longer we shall not care to undertake such a journey; and we should like to take Juliet to see London: it is an old promise; and we like to have young folks about us.'

A slight sigh escaped the speaker, and it found an echo in the gentle hearts round her. They knew that easy and comfortable as her lot was, it did not lack its sad memories, and in three little graves in the churchyard on the side of the hill were buried the dearest hopes of the Squire and his wife.

Juliet took her godmother's hand and kissed it gratefully. 'How good you are to me!' she whispered. The hand was passed softly over the fair cheek, and then the broken thread of talk was taken up.

'We have another reason also. We think' (they were always one, the Squire and his wife) 'that we ought not to remain strangers to the next heir, who you know is my husband's great-nephew' (here the voice trembled slightly); 'so we have arranged to meet him in London, and hope to bring him back. We should like him to make acquaintance with the old Hall before going abroad, as he talks of doing.'

We will not follow the ladies in all the plans that were necessary to prepare for so great an event; female requirements were much the same then as now, only the journey was a more considerable undertaking, occupying several days, as they were to post. Presently they were joined by the Rector, who gave a pleased adherence to the whole scheme. 'But,' he added, looking fondly at his younger daughter, 'will this small head bear the weight of so much dissipation? She has never left the nest before.' The thought of the separation brought a cloud over Juliet's brow; but Madam said in her sweet way: 'Such birds will always wing their way back;' and the shadows beginning to lengthen, she rose to go. It was but a short walk across the fields, the houses being within sight of each other, and the Rector accompanied her back to the Hall.

Before the chestnut blossoms had faded, Dorothy found herself at home alone; but time did not hang heavily; more little services fell upon her, and there were little surprises to prepare, like small flints with which to strike light even out of a loved one's absence; and the parent hearts fearing she might be dull without her sister, devised many little pleasures. There were long rounds with her father, and kindly welcomes in many lowly homes; then came the sweet hay-time, and hospitable teas in comfortable farm-houses; two or three visits were even made to the nearest town, a two hours' drive, and there she found many who claimed and valued the Rector's friendship. She always looked back upon it as a time of peace. How often we are allowed to find an Elim before resuming the weary desert march!

Letters then did not appear at the breakfast-table on the wings of the penny postage, but waited for the cover of a friendly frank; and the absence not being a long one, those from our travellers were few and far between. Juliet spoke of the great city and the sights she had seen; but the streets seemed dark and dull; people too did not seem so cheerful as at home; and the Squire and his friends in their talks often shook their heads and said: 'The times were so bad,' that it sometimes gave her a frightened feeling as they drove slowly home at night through the dark streets with flaring links. She liked best when they went a day in the fine Park at Bushy, and Stafford Melton had taken them upon the river. Yes; they had met the future heir of Melton Hall, and he was to return with them.

Swiftly the days flew by, till one evening the Squire's carriage waited at the Rectory gate to take them to meet the newly arrived travellers, and father, mother, and Dorothy gladly obeyed the summons.

In the joy of the sisters' meeting, Dorothy was scarcely conscious of the presence of a stranger, until she heard the Squire's voice addressing her father: 'Our newly found nephew, Stafford Melton; we want him to come and be at home among us; and as the Rectory and the Hall have always been such old friends, we trust he will follow suit.' The two gentlemen shook hands cordially; and then Dorothy in turn found herself face to face with the new guest: 'Another young friend – Miss Dorothy Olive Linley.' (The Squire, like the Vicar of Wakefield, loved a full sounding name.)

So they all sat down to supper in the old wainscoted parlour, Mr and Mrs Melton declaring there was no place like home. Dorothy found herself wondering a little at Juliet's merry flow of talk with the grave-looking stranger; but there was not time for reflection; indeed there was so much to hear and tell, that when the sisters were once more together in their own room, it was not until Juliet's pretty head sank on the pillow for very weariness that the eager strains ceased; they died away in a last question: 'Dorothy, what do you think of Stafford Melton?'

'He has a good face,' replied Dorothy, musingly recalling it.

'Yes; but you should see his friend, Gilbert Strange.'

CHAPTER III. – VISITORS

It was not long before Stafford Melton became quite at home; his grave manner was only the indication of a thoughtful mind, and in nowise implied a want of cheerfulness. Cordial as his relations with his uncle became, it was at the Rectory he found the most sympathy. The Squire was a politician of the old school, with a wholesome dread of anything newfangled, while the young man had imbibed some of the rising spirit of the age. 'I,' Mr Linley was wont to say, 'am a man of peace, and to avoid storms, eschew politics;' but he lent a willing ear to all that was stirring men's minds – social questions, new inventions, and the wonders beginning to be worked by the marvellous power of steam. There was often another listener too; Dorothy followed these new tracks of thought, and it was in the light of a new experience, every day becoming deeper. She never asked herself what it might be that made her feel such gladness, only when Stafford spoke of his travels in prospect, her heart sank at the thought of what life would be like when he had gone.

September came, and then she saw Gilbert Strange, Stafford's close friend, whom the Squire had cordially invited to come and join their sport when the vacation should set him free, for he was a young barrister. Used to a life in town, he threw himself with almost boyish ardour into their country pursuits; and his high spirits and courteous ways soon endeared him to the little circle. He won the Squire's heart, and many a cover they shot over together, for often Stafford, who was no sportsman by choice, abandoned the gun for more peaceful rambles with the Rector and deep discussions on the new theories of Culture.

'You see, Mrs Linley,' said Gilbert, as he joined them one evening to find his truant friend, 'Fortune committed an error in casting our lots in life. Stafford ought to have worn my wig and gown; while I – can you not fancy the country Squire I should have made?'

Dorothy, who was sitting near, looked up from her work. 'Do you not think, Mr Strange,' she asked, 'that it is better to improve your acres than to shoot over them?'

'Miss Dorothy,' he said, in mock-appealing tones, 'I always remark that you are severe upon my follies, and the worst part is, your arguments are unanswerable. Stafford is happy in having so staunch a supporter.' It was a random shot, but Dorothy felt the colour rise to her face; and her mirthful adversary continued: 'I must retire from the field. – Miss Juliet, will you be more lenient, and accord me a shelter?' Juliet moved her seat to allow him to take one near, with a smile of welcome, but said nothing. I think Gilbert was beginning to read even her silences, and another heart too guessed their meaning.

Days flew by, but still the young men lingered. October was dying out with such a flush of glory, it seemed like the last kiss of Summer. 'Oh, must it ever change to winter?' sighed Dorothy as from their window she watched Juliet start on some kindly errand to a cottage near. Only a little while she stepped out of the every-day world into the ideal; her youth's golden dreams were passing away as swiftly as that autumn time. Presently, her sister was again in sight, but this time not alone. Oh, cruel picture set against the fair sky! what sharp instinct like a quivering stab made it so clear? The little downcast figure lifting its softened eyes in mute apology for the pain it gave, and Stafford's well-known form bending towards it with sad earnest pleading. They pause at length, and he crushing his hopes in a last grasp of the little hand, turned and walked quickly away. Dorothy's heart went out to him in pity and unknown sympathy – those two, so far apart, and yet both passing through their baptism of fire. She could not stand idle; she would go to meet her sister; there was nothing strange in that; they often did so to each other; and swiftly she hurried down the avenue into which Juliet had turned. She was met almost sharply.

'Why, Dorothy, why did you come? Do you not see it is raining?'

Yes, the sun had gone down, and a soft October shower was dropping on the dead leaves.

'I thought it would be dusk, dear, and you were alone.'

'Yes, at least now. But,' faltered Juliet, 'I met Stafford;' and with a sudden outburst, she almost sobbed: 'Why should he love me? He wanted me to be his wife!'

'And you could not?'

'I! O no – of course not.' Dorothy could not see the reason so plainly; but Juliet seemed to do so very conclusively. 'I am so sorry,' she went on. But her auditor cared to hear no more; she knew it now, and wanted only to take up her steely shield of womanly pride. 'Had we not better hasten in?' she said gently. Already the pretty frilled cape on her shoulders hung limp with the damp.