THE advent of strangers, of whatever sort, into our circle had always been a matter of grave dubiety and suspicion. Indeed, it was generally a signal for retreat into caves and fastnesses of the earth, into unthreaded copses or remote outlying cowsheds, whence we were only to be extricated by wily nursemaids, rendered familiar by experience with our secret runs and refuges. It was not surprising, therefore, that the heroes of classic legend, when first we made their acquaintance, failed to win our entire sympathy at once. ‘Confidence,’ says somebody, ‘is a plant of slow growth’; and these stately dark-haired demi-gods, with names hard to master and strange accoutrements, had to win a citadel already strongly garrisoned with a more familiar soldiery. Their chill foreign goddesses had no such direct appeal for us as[144] the mocking malicious fairies and witches of the North. We missed the pleasant alliance of the animal—the fox who spread the bushiest of tails to convey us to the enchanted castle, the frog in the well, the raven who croaked advice from the tree; and—to Harold especially—it seemed entirely wrong that the hero should ever be other than the youngest brother of three. This belief, indeed, in the special fortune that ever awaited the youngest brother, as such,—the ‘Borough-English’ of Faery,—had been of baleful effect on Harold, producing a certain self-conceit and perkiness that called for physical correction. But even in our admonishment we were on his side; and as we distrustfully eyed these new arrivals, old Saturn himself seemed something of a parvenu.
Even strangers, however, if they be good fellows at heart, may develop into sworn comrades; and these gay swordsmen, after all, were of the right stuff. Perseus, with his cap of darkness and his wonderful sandals, was not long in winging his way to our hearts. Apollo knocked at Admetus’ gate in something of the right fairy[145] fashion. Psyche brought with her an orthodox palace of magic, as well as helpful birds and friendly ants. Ulysses, with his captivating shifts and strategies, broke down the final barrier, and henceforth the band was adopted and admitted into our freemasonry.
I had been engaged in chasing Farmer Larkin’s calves—his special pride—round the field, just to show the man we hadn’t forgotten him, and was returning through the kitchen-garden with a conscience at peace with all men, when I happened upon Edward, grubbing for worms in the dung-heap. Edward put his worms into his hat, and we strolled along together, discussing high matters of state. As we reached the tool-shed, strange noises arrested our steps; looking in, we perceived Harold, alone, rapt, absorbed, immersed in the special game of the moment. He was squatting in an old pig-trough that had been brought in to be tinkered; and as he rhapsodised, anon he waved a shovel over his head, anon dug it into the ground with the action of those who would urge Canadian canoes. Edward strode in upon him.
[146]
‘What rot are you playing at now?’ he demanded sternly.
Harold flushed up, but stuck to his pig-trough like a man. ‘I’m Jason,’ he replied defiantly; ‘and this is the Argo. The other fellows are here too, only you can’t see them; and we’re just going through the Hellespont, so don’t you come bothering.’ And once more he plied the wine-dark sea.
Edward kicked the pig-trough contemptuously. ‘Pretty sort of Argo you’ve got!’ said he.
Harold began to get annoyed. ‘I can’t help it,’ he retorted. ‘It’s the best sort of Argo I can manage, and it’s all right if you only pretend enough. But you never could pretend one bit.’
Edward reflected. ‘Look here,’ he said presently. ‘Why shouldn’t we get hold of Farmer Larkin’s boat, and go right away up the river in a real Argo, and look for Medea, and the Golden Fleece, and everything? And I’ll tell you what, I don’t mind your being Jason, as you thought of it first.’
Harold tumbled out of the trough in the[147] excess of his emotion. ‘But we aren’t allowed to go on the water by ourselves,’ he cried.
‘No,’ said Edward, with fine scorn: ‘we aren’t allowed; and Jason wasn’t allowed either, I daresay. But he went!’
Harold’s protest had been merely conventional: he only wanted to be convinced by sound argument. The next question was, How about the girls? Selina was distinctly handy in a boat: the difficulty about her was, that if she disapproved of the expedition—and, morally considered, it was not exactly a Pilgrim’s Progress—she might go and tell; she having just reached that disagreeable age when one begins to develop a conscience. Charlotte, for her part, had a habit of day-dreams, and was as likely as not to fall overboard in one of her rapt musings. To be sure, she would dissolve in tears when she found herself left out; but even that was better than a watery tomb. In fine, the public voice—and rightly, perhaps—was against the admission of the skirted animal: despite the precedent of Atalanta, who was one of the original crew.
‘And now,’ said Edward, ‘who’s to ask Farmer Larkin? I can’t; last time I saw him he said when he caught me again he’d smack my head. You’ll have to.’
I hesitated, for good reasons. ‘You know those precious calves of his?’ I began.
Edward understood at once. ‘All right,’ he said; ‘then we won’t ask him at all. It doesn’t much matter. He’d only be annoyed, and that would be a pity. Now let’s set off.’
We made our way down to the stream, and captured the farmer’s boat without let or hindrance, the enemy being engaged in the hay-fields. This ‘river,’ so called, could never be discovered by us in any atlas; indeed our Argo could hardly turn in it without risk of shipwreck. But to us ’twas Orinoco, and the cities of the world dotted its shores. We put the Argo’s head upstream, since that led away from the Larkin province; Harold was faithfully permitted to be Jason, and we shared the rest of the heroes among us. Then, quitting Thessaly, we threaded the Hellespont with shouts, breathlessly dodged the Clashing Rocks,[149] and coasted under the lee of the Siren-haunted isles. Lemnos was fringed with meadow-sweet, dog-roses dotted the Mysian shore, and the cheery call of the haymaking folk sounded along the coast of Thrace.
After some hour or two’s seafaring, the prow of the Argo embedded itself in the mud of a landing-place, plashy with the tread of cows and giving on to a lane that led towards the smoke of human habitations. Edward jumped ashore, alert for exploration, and strode off without waiting to see if we followed; but I lingered behind, having caught sight of a moss-grown water-gate hard by, leading into a garden that, from the brooding quiet lapping it round, appeared to portend magical possibilities.
Indeed the very air within seemed stiller, as we circumspectly passed through the gate; and Harold hung back shamefaced, as if we were crossing the threshold of some private chamber, and ghosts of old days were hustling past us. Flowers there were, everywhere; but they drooped and sprawled in an overgrowth hinting at indifference; the scent of heliotrope[150] possessed the place as if actually hung in solid festoons from tall untrimmed hedge to hedge. No basket-chairs, shawls, or novels dotted the lawn with colour; and on the garden-front of the house behind, the blinds were mostly drawn. A grey old sun-dial dominated the central sward, and we moved towards it instinctively, as the most human thing in sight. An antick motto ran round it, and with eyes and fingers we struggled at the decipherment.
TIME: TRYETH: TROTHE: spelt out Harold at last. ‘I wonder what that means?’
I could not enlighten him, nor meet his further questions as to the inner mechanism of the thing, and where you wound it up. I had seen these instruments before, of course; but had never fully understood their manner of working.
We were still puzzling our heads over the contrivance, when I became aware that Medea herself was m............