TITHONUS.
Should the stay-at-home happen to sleep under a strange roof, on one
of his rare journeys, bewilderment and pain attend the hour of his
waking. With sleep-bemused brain he eyes the unfamiliar room, and it
is some considerable time before he can grasp the situation. The alien
appearance of wall-paper and furniture, the different position of bed
and door, come on his mind with a sense of pain. Like the little old
woman of the nursery rhyme, he says, "This is not I," and it is
difficult for him to arrive at an immediate conclusion as to
personality and locality. The strangeness of the situation dazes his
homely wits.
Not so with your traveller. Whether he opens his eyes in palace or
hovel, under roof or sky, he is in the instant fully aware of his
position. Accustomed to a constant change of scene, his wits are
always on the alert for new sights. If he went to sleep in France and
woke in Yokohama, he would cease to be astonished before finishing his
waking yawn. There is no sense of pain in his waking, but rather a
pleasant novelty, which renews itself with every stage of the journey.
Your cosmopolitan is the most adaptable of creatures.
Dan was one of these enviable beings, and woke in the early morning
with a due knowledge of his position. He rubbed his eyes and yawned
and stretched himself, moved about briskly to restore the circulation
of his blood, and made up the fire. A few embers were still red-hot,
so he had no difficulty in fanning them into a blaze under an armful
of dry sticks. The sun had not yet risen, and the air, notwithstanding
that it was July, struck raw and cold. A pearly light pierced through
the sombre boughs overhead, and already the pine wood echoed with the
chirrup and twittering of waking birds. Peter went off on his own
account in chase of an inquisitive rabbit, and Dan, after seeing to
Simon, brewed himself a cup of strong tea, which enabled him to endure
more comfortably the chill winds of morning.
In spite of the heavy dew on herb and grass, Dan's clothes were quite
dry, as he had taken the precaution to wrap himself tightly in his fur
rug. But, having slept in his clothes all night, he felt
uncomfortable--another proof of his sybaritism--and decided to have a
bath before breakfast. Also he thought it advisable that Simon should
have a splash in the water, and so made ready to go down to the beach.
"We don't know where the sea is," said he to Peter, who had returned
without catching his rabbit, "but we'll go on an exploring
expedition."
Peter whimpered, and hinted at breakfast before starting.
"No, Peter," said Dan, gravely, putting a bridle on Simon; "a swim
first, and breakfast to follow." Whereat Peter sat disconsolately on
his haunches and shivered. He did not care for a swim, and, indeed,
detested water with all his heart.
Dan had no saddle, but, being a good rider, did not mind its absence.
The bridle was sufficient to guide Simon, and Dan, having obtained a
rough towel, jumped without difficulty on the bare back of his steed.
Followed by Peter, who, knowing what was before him, came unwillingly,
he rode up the path leading from the dell. Yet, mindful of the
proximity of Mother Jericho's tribe, he took the precaution to lock up
his caravan before leaving. Dan was too old and wary a traveller to
trust to the taboo of the gipsy queen. Some member of the tribe less
bound by authority than his fellows might break the unwritten law.
There was a chilly feeling in the air, and so strongly with the
resinous odour of the pines blended the tang of salt sea-breezes, that
Dan scented the ocean long before Simon climbed the ridge. There was
an upward path, and this Dan followed, in the hope that it would lead
him to the sea. It wound deviously among the pine trees, and at length
emerged into a small clearing, whence Dan had a splendid view of
Farbis and the sea. He halted Simon so as to take in the features of
the place. It was well worth the ten minutes' examination he gave it.
Immediately below lay a large hollow almost in the shape of a circle,
which curved towards the sea and there opened out into a narrow
passage. Without doubt, at some remote epoch the ocean had roared
through the gap and filled the hollow with salt waters, but the
upheaval of the land had cut off the waves, and now the dry cup was
filled with trees and houses.
The sides were clothed with pines, which climbed up to the top and
straggled off in patches on to the barren moorland. From where Dan was
stationed he could see the moors stretching on either side purple with
heather, then the sudden dip of the land into the hollow, the giant
rocks guarding its entrance, and beyond, the line of ocean sharply
defined against the red sky of dawn. In the smokeless atmosphere all
the features of the scene stood out with photographic distinctness.
The "village, a cluster of houses with one street, lay in the lowest
part of the hollow. Among the pine trees, to the right, Dan saw a
large house of weather-stained red brick, which he guessed was Farbis
Court. From the clearing a path wound down to the village, and Dan
descended thereby. To reach the sea he would have to pass through
Farbis, and out by the gap where the giant rocks stood sentinel. All
this, seen under the rosy tints of coming day, was very beautiful, and
Dan gazed at it in silent admiration.
"Queer little place," he thought, as Simon jogged downward; "quite out
of the track of civilization. A speck in these wide moorlands. What
can the inhabitants do to keep themselves supplied with the
necessaries of life? They can't live entirely on fish! I never saw so
lonely a place. It must have been established by some hermit."
With cautious steps Simon descended the pathway, which was in anything
but good repair. The edging of rough stone had fallen in parts, and
here the rain had washed away huge gaps, perilous to the unwary foot.
Dan found it impossible to guide the horse down a pathway as beset
with snares as the Bridge of Mirza, so he wisely trusted to Simon's
instinct. The animal justified the confidence placed in him, and
landed his rider at the bottom without any mishap. He received a kind
pat on the neck for such cleverness, a piece of attention of which he
seemed appreciative.
Dan felt a curious sensation, as though he had been let down into a
pit. On three sides of him rose the steep banks, covered with pines
and shrubs and sappy grass. In front, an untended road led past some
scattered houses into the village. Peter ran ahead as herald, and,
with the sharp sea-breeze blowing in his face, Dan pushed forward.
Down the street clattered Simon, with the terrier barking before. To
doors and windows came drowsy men and women, newly wakened from sleep.
A few untidy children and slatternly females were in the street
itself, and stared open-mouthed at the unaccustomed sight. Dan might
have been the Wild Horseman himself, so profound was the sensation
caused by his progress through that tumble-down village. Evidently
strangers were rare in Farbis.
A more poverty-stricken place it is impossible to conceive. The
cottages were badly thatched, the windows in many cases broken and
mended with rags, and there were puddles in front of the doors. In a
wide space towards the end of the village Dan came on the two
principal buildings. To the right, an ivy-clad church with square
Norman tower, set in a waste-looking graveyard; to the left, a
flourishing-looking public-house, "The Red Deer," with benches
outside. It could easily be seen, from the appearance of this latter
place, what made Farbis so wretched. The women were all remarkably
ugly, and particularly careless about their dress. Dan, who had a keen
eye for a pretty face, shuddered at the Gorgons he beheld, and
trembled to think of Mother Jericho's prophecy.
"If I am to meet my fate here," he murmured, "I sincerely hope it will
not be through a temporary aberration of mind. It would be bad enough
for _one_ of these creatures to fall in love with me; but to think of
_two_--great heavens, it's too awful to contemplate!"
He urged Simon to a clumsy trot in order to escape the ugly female
population, and speedily left the village behind. The road now began
to rise towards the two great cliffs which sentinelled the gap, and
Dan could hear the roar of the sea; could smell the salt odour of the
wave. Up the road he went, and at the entrance to the gap beheld a
splendid sight.
Directly in front of him was a narrow slit between the great rocks,
and through this he saw the ocean. It faced due east, and the sky
flamed crimson like a funeral pile. The ruddy light poured in rich
profusion through the chasm and bathed him in hues of blood. A native,
with open mouth, was climbing the road after him, and Dan, hearing his
heavy footstep, looked round.
"What do you call this?" he asked sharply.
"T' Geates o' Dawn," replied the native, and stared harder than ever.
"And Joy comes up through the Gates of Dawn," murmured Dan, as the
gipsy's words flashed again into his mind. "How strange! Here are the
'Gates of Dawn,' but where is the embodied Joy? Hark! Some one is
singing from the sea. A mermaid!"
"Noa, measter," said the yokel, grinning from ear to ear at this
extravagant idea; "'tis t' ould doctor's lass."
Over the rim of ocean leaped the sun, and shafts of dazzling gold
streamed through the Gates of Dawn. The sea turned to fire, and the
fierce radiance smote the red firmament to glowing gold. Such splendid
glitter and flame poured through the chasm that Dan put his hand to
his eyes to keep himself from being blinded. It is ill work to face
the sun-god in his anger.
"Apollo is fiercer than Aurora," said Dan, blinking his eyes. "I would
rather be Tithonus than Daphne. I wonder she did not share the fate of
Semele and expire in the glorious divinity of her lover."
"T' doctor's lass," again said the yokel, nodding up the road.
Down it, in the full splendour of the sunlight, came a girl singing.
Dan could distinguish the words as they floated skyward on the music
of her voice. And she sang----
"The red light flames in the eastern skies,
The dew lies heavy on lea and lawn,
Grief with her anguish, of midnight flies,
And Joy comes up thro' the Gates of Dawn."
Such a vision of ripe beauty! This was surely no mortal maiden who
danced down the road, but Aurora heralding the approach of the
sun-god. Dan almost expected to see her scatter tufts of rosy cloud,
and gaped like a yokel himself at the lovely woman who was coming
towards him.
Evidently she had been bathing, for her dark hair, still wet with the
salt sea, streamed in profusion down her back. In a long blue cloak,
with naked feet, she danced along, singing. Her face was beautiful--so
much only could Dan gather as she flashed past him like a meteor. The
presence of a stranger did not seem to rouse her curiosity, for she
did not even turn her head to look at him, but, singing and dancing,
went down the road towards the village. That splendid vision of
immortal beauty lasted but two minutes.
"T' doctor's lass," explained the yokel for the third time.
"By Ph[oe]bus, no!" cried Dan, kicking Simon's sleek sides; "it
is no mortal, but a goddess--an angel--a vision of the sunrise. My
fate--pshaw!--my divinity! The face that launched a thousand ships!
The golden Hebe--incarnate beauty--everlasting Joy!"
With a laugh at his mythological folly, he dashed down the road,
leaving the bucolic individual staring with all his might. When
Rusticus shut his mouth, the stranger on his black horse was sweeping
like the wind across the broad sands, shouting out a single line. The
yokel heard it, and wondered.
"And Joy comes up thro' the Gates of Dawn."
The inhabitant of Farbis went back to his breakfast with the opinion
that the stranger was either mad or the devil.