 Section 7 of The Rose-Colored World and Other Fantasies This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Rose-Colored World and Other Fantasies by Ethel Mary Brody The Enchanter The Enchanter stood by the sea. A great sapphire sea. A sea of glowing, vital movement. The sun beat upon it, but could not absorb nor penetrate its depths. The rains poured into it, but the sea rippled no deeper. Tempests pitched its waters shivering upon the beach, but the sea heaved the same as full, as deep, as impenetrable, and as omnipotent. No one fell into this sapphire sea and came back the same. It was a marvelous sea. The Enchanter stood by the sea at dawn. He stretched out his golden rod over its foam-flect waters, and as the zephyrs played upon its glistening surface, a low murmur of music drifted from the far horizon. Wave and wave of melody vibrated over the sapphire sea, increasing in volume and sound till the air was full of music and all the sapphire sea thrilled in harmony. The Enchanter murmured the words of the wonderful spell. And then, from out of the sapphire sea arose a brave and lusty youth, like the famed Excalibur, the sword that rose from out the bosom of the lake. Clad was he in a shining red armour with a flowing white plume in his helmet. Across his shoulders and fastened beneath his chin with a golden clasp, drooped a robe of ermine, and in his hand he held a golden sword, and set in its haft was a blood-red ruby. Lightly he trod upon the sapphire sea. Joyously he sang as he nipped the sea foam with his golden sword, and merrily the zephyrs tossed his flaxen curls and kissed his innocent cheeks, and laughingly he looked upon the sky, the land, and the sea. For life, pure and sweet, danced in his veins. The Enchanter murmured the words of the wonderful spell, words that breathed of the dawn and the dew, softly coming and softly going, words afresh with every day, white words that leave the world the sweeter for their music, sounds that came in dreams and visions, melodies that die away with the sunset, for the Enchanter's mystic words bestowed the gift of love, love that makes the winter flower sweet and sunny as the summertime, love that breaks through every cloud and unrolls a space of blue on the darkest of tempest-tossed days. It was a wondrous enchantment that fell upon the brave and lusty youth, and then the Enchanter vanished, vanished as the parent bird leaves its young when wings grow strong and instinct guides their flight. But on the beach appeared a maiden, a maiden dark as night with eyes like the azure of heaven and a brow like snowflakes. Dressed in snowiest robes was she, white, Samite, mystic, wonderful. In her hand, glinting in the sunlight, she clasped a golden sword, rich with pearls and rubies, and all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, myriads of Topaz lights and Jason's work of subtlest jewelry. Laying her sword upon the youth's shoulder, she knighted him Sir Love. Sir Love set out on a journey, long and difficult, but his heart was held in the hand of hope and faith gazed out upon the world from his clear and innocent eyes. Far, far had Sir Love travelled, travelled in lands where the sun shines forever. But he grew accustomed to the sunlight and worried of its warmth, its peace. He slept by the sapphire sea and its waves laved love songs to his slumbering ears. But he tired of the music and of the sea. He roved in many a mass-spattered walt and dreamed by sparkling brooks. In a bed of violets he nested his head and listened to the lyre of the wind. He dallied in meadows, enchanted to the feathered throng, and again he returned to the sapphire sea. It was all too beautiful, all too sweet. Sir Love got used to its peace and worried and instinct guided his flight. Sir Love arose at dawn each day and turned his footsteps from the sapphire sea. One darkly clouded day he came to a wide, smoothly flowing river. On the other shore gleamed a wonderful palace. Its windows flamed into the gray of the day. Thick forests surrounded it, forests somber even in the sunshine, and the low, hungry roar of wild beasts echoed among the trees and the rocks of the riverside. The night looked long and hungrily. Nothing daunted, Sir Love threw himself into the river. It was icy cold, but Sir Love had dared, and he would do. And soon he had reached the other shore. Courageously he cut his way through the thickets, cut it with his golden sword. Sturdily did he defend himself from the wild beasts, but their blood spattered the blood-red ruby. And cheerfully did he gain the palace. But no one welcomed him. No one prevented him. Through long corridors Sir Love betook his way. Gorgeous tapestries, unwritten poems in color and design, covered the walls, and rare rugs of wondrous weave, and myriad hues softened his tread. Everywhere was luxury, gold, silver, and bronze. The stairs were of varied marbles, quarried from all the world, each step a solid block. The tables were of jasper and malachite, and lapis lazuli, supported on golden legs. The chairs were carved in fine old woods, and inlaid with mother of pearl, and cabinets of teakwood and ebony, mosaic encrusted with tortoise shell and precious stones, held the wondrous treasures of the palace. The odor of incense, mystic breath of the Orient, hung in sleepy vapors on the atmosphere. It permeated everywhere, fragrant of spices and sandalwood. Sir Love felt stupefied. Through suite after suite of magnificent rooms, glaring in their richness, enervating in their comforts, past the straying night. The palace contained no chapel. In the banqueting hall was spread a festive board, vines set for gods. There sparkled gold things, and silver things, and fine glass, and in their midst a wealth of red poppies, like a burning fire they flamed in the centre of the table. There breathed spices from the garden of the dark-eyed peary, fruit from the climb of the peach and orange blossom, wines from the vineyards of the world of secret distilling, a sumptuous feast of ambrosia and nectar. And a throne of ivory, of satin and velvet, stood empty. The night hesitated. His eyes on the banquet, the incense heavy upon him, it was a wondrous rich palace. But with all, a lonesome palace. No friend called from the corridors, no sweet-eyed hoory back into the feast, no fair nymph invited to the throne. The air, so love hesitated, troubled by a dim, distant thought of the sapphire sea. And then he fled, cast down by this vain experience. Sir Love set out again. Bravely he wrestled with the subtle poison that had exhaled in the palace of luxury. It darkened his hope and his faith. The wild beasts had torn his tender flesh and the briars of the thicket had brought blood. For many days Sir Love wandered on, helplesslessly, heedlessly. And then a shining castle glittered from a mountain peak. Steep precipices arose before him. Somber cliffs split into dangerous ravines. The path upward was rugged and perilous. Cruely the sun beat upon the bare, treeless mountain. Spurred by a fresh hope, a freshened faith, the night struggled through the twilight and the peril of the ravines. He breasted the cliffs and stumbled fearlessly up the precipitous path. And carelessly he suffered the searing of the sun. The castle gained, once more he entered, unwelcomed, unprevented. Everywhere the night turned, was a revelation of thought in art. There were wonderful, beautiful statues. Some were just begun, roughly hewn blocks of marble. The birth of fine thought, the embryo of exalted emotion. They were ideas nobly conceived, but unfinished, unexpressed. And there were some perfected. Statues of fine feeling and splendid action, of repose and uplifting thought, silently expressing the highest and the best. Statues breathing of realized dreams. Wonderful statues indeed. Marvelous paintings hung upon the walls and frescoed the ceilings. Like the statues, some were just an outline and others completed, fully developed ideas. Landscapes there were, soft and sunny, of mead and wold, or dark with storm and peril. Landscapes of all light and shadow, of all celestial beauty and all terrestrial fervency. There were scenes from all life and all dreamland. Frescos and paintings were alike, beautiful and inspiring. Heavenly symphonies drifted in ecstasies of sound from unseen galleries. Voices of divine sweetness thrilled through the castle and lyre and harp, vile and flute, each vibrated a part of a dream, a dream of melody and bird notes. Married harmonies winged on the strings of music, as snowflakes floating through the air, as bubbles bursting in a brook, as stars beaming one by one. So every note wafted from the unseen worlds and swelled the chorus of music and sound was a wondrous, melodious castle. The mystery of the spirit world dwelt in the castle of art, the mystery of dreams. Sir Love gazed around him as if spellbound. It was a strange castle. The walls were bare, except for the paintings. The floors were uncovered, but for the pedestals on which the statue stood. The atmosphere was fresh, but only the sweetness of the music permeated it. Mystic meanings lay hidden in all he saw, the mystery of work and design, of patience and perseverance, and the meaning was effort and pain. No smiling self made him stay. It was lonely. Lonely is the palace of luxury. The night wavered. They wavered long and uncertainly, but night drew on and weariness came with darkness, with a lingering backward gaze. The night slowly descended the mountain. A dream had entered the blood of the night. A dream of noble ambition. The dream and the poison battled together. The indolent, sluggish poison of the palace of luxury, and Sir Love lagged in his journeyings. And in a fantasy, he saw the sparkling waters of the sapphire sea, crestfallen with the results of his travels. The night proceeded through a cycle of chilly, misty days, days of gloom and uncertainty, and on a crimson morning a rose, a fair mosque, a mosque all ivory, flushing in the sunrise. Rare crystals gleamed from the cupola like sparks of fire, rare crystals glistened on the walls like tongues of flame. Fountains chanted ceaselessly in arbors of evergreen, laurels waved forever by singing streams, a pure, sweet air abounded. Olive branches met over the path that led to the mystic mosque, but the path was paved with jagged rocks and bespattered with heart's blood. Daringly Sir Love traversed the rough way, his feet bled and ached. But the mosque was magnificent, it burned in the sun, an eternal blaze of light, no hand beckoned to the night, no voice bade him enter, no one awaited him. Inside the mosque, the smell of ancient vellum pervaded every corner. Rolls of old parchment lay in piles upon the floor, covered with weird signs and symbols. Aged papyrus from far lands scratched with hieroglyphics and stained with various colors, molded in rusty heaps. There were shelves on the walls which marshaled rows and rows of books, hundreds, thousands of books, books of all ages and no two volumes alike, a soft violet glow streamed through stained windows, quiet and peaceful, weird and wonderful presences, not seen but felt, moved in this world of study and struggle, of failure, of glory and despair. Nothing adorned the walls of the mosque of literature, nothing but books, marvelous books. Their contents had been melted in the crucible of the mind and transmuted into rare and beautiful and powerful thoughts. There were thoughts which streamed melodious language, the grand music of the epic, the flute-like note of the sonnet, the love harmony of the lyric, the glorious symphony of all poetry. It was the mystic mosque of literature, of poetry. It was a burning fire of eternal thought. So love sat for long enchanted hours, the spell of the mosque was upon him, but he was battling with the poison and the dream the poison conquered. Palace, castle, mosque, they stood alone. No kind eyes looked sympathy into his and there was struggle and pain and failure in all three, but the night sorely retraced his steps from the ivory mosque. Heroically, so love started on a pilgrimage, faith and hope were growing weary, but doubt lingered indolently in the night's thoughts. The thing called self had haunted him on his travels. In the palace of luxury, it had absorbed the poisoned, sweet distilling incense and yet with all the dream floated in a serene air. Dimly glowed the vision of the sapphire sea and the night stumbled on. Foot sore he endured his desolate way. One evening, as the sun drifted downward to sunset, so love beheld a temple. It was a temple of precious stones and lilies, all rosy it in the setting sun. Columns of sapphires, so blue as the sapphire sea, supported the Jasper roof. Columns carved with cupids and twining with blossoms and leaves. The walls were of lustrous pink topaz and set in their niches reposed statues of snowiest marble, statues of the muses. In front of this transparent temple, on a pedestal of emerald, the goddess Venus, with arms outheld, gazed a wondrous, unfathomable welcome to all wayfarers. Lillies, resplendent, surrounded the temple, lilies so pure as starlight. Sir love was lost in awe of its splendor. The path to the temple of love was an easy one, but difficult to find. The night caught a glimpse of it as the rays of the setting sun christened its well-worn way. A cross of pearls stood on a mound, amid thistles and briars, pointing out the path. In the centre of the pearls gleamed the fire of a blood-red ruby. The temple of love was set in a boundless park. Lawns of velvety greens spread away beneath grand old trees of oak and pine. In mossy hollows glanced patches of purple pansies and azure forget-me-nots. Marble terraces overlooked pearling brooks, brooks bubbling on to the sapphire sea, and the sea of eternity. Roses and violets wove garlands around their balustrades like hues of dawn among the purple clouds. Arbours of wisteria and eglentine wistfully invited the pilgrim to rest. All the flowers blossomed forever in the gardens of the temple of love. The woodlands were brilliant with the golden mimosa, the pink azalea, the purple lilac, and all their sisters of the blossoming world. Fountains flashed in the sunshine, scattering their opalescent drops into crystal basins, or tossing them into the cups of flowers and among the tall grasses, where they laughed back to the sun. Narcissus, iris, and daffodils nodded by foaming falls. Lakelets shadowed the trees and the sky, a mosaic of blue and green, weaving a variable lacework of fluttering leaves as the wind swept the water into ripples. The songs of birds and the music of the winds stole among the silvan shades. They wafted melodies in at the temple doors. In the groves were heard the lucid notes of harp and lyre and lute. Symphonies strayed through the woodlands like nymphs of sound. And all this sacred spot was music, beauty, and happiness. Sir Love lay long and indolently in the groves, lazily breathing the fragrance of the flowers. Everywhere thrilled a wonderful life. Surely this dream would end in peace. Disappointment had dogged his footsteps. Faith had dozed and hope had fallen asleep in the palace of luxury but poison had sapped his strength. For many days he had almost forgotten the sapphire sea, the dark maiden and the enchanter who had given him life. But slowly memory revived at all in these silvan scenes. He would visit the temple and then return to the sapphire sea. When rest had restored the wearied night, the indolent Sir Love, he arose and sadly sought the temple of love. In the temple stood a shrine. It was a shrine of pure white marble with a name, a sweet name, a mystic name, inlaid in gold. On it rested a perfect heart of pearls in the midst of which faintly glowed a blood-red ruby. Ivy twined around the altar. The air was fragrant with lilies and narcissists and hyacinths. Sunlight forever shone through the stained windows. It shed the varied hues of the colored glass on pillar, frescoe and mosaic. For the walls were frescoed with dreams and floor mosaic and strange symbols and visions. And the temple of love became sweeter and fresher with the flowers as the years wended on to eternity. There by the shrine stood the maiden. Dark as night with eyes like the azure of heaven and a brow like snowflakes. There was she in snowiest robes with her golden sword. And there she demanded of Sir Love, what hast thou done with thy knighthood, thy gift, and what dost thou hear? I am weary. Side the night I sought luxury and fame, but suffering and despair and loneliness greeted me in great palaces and in wonderful castles and in splendid mosques. I am weary now. I would love. The maiden bent her eyes, blue and mystic upon the shrine, upon the heart of pearls, upon the blood-red ruby. Too late? Too late? She sighed. Too late? Wildly cried the night. Where is my enchanter? Why called he to me? And out of the sapphire sea? The enchanter appeared and he made answer. I called thee from the sapphire sea to live. Thou didst choose death. What love? Love? What of love? Demanded the night, trembling, angered. And the enchanter made answer again. Too late? I would, I had left thee nothing, a soulless bubble. Thou hast learned too late. Too late. of Section 7. Read by The Story Girl. The Thistle, a parable In Scotland, by the wayside, far over the mountains and in the ravines, thrives the Thistle. It is an odd plant, it is wondrous, prickly. It draws the blood to one's fingertips. It has a mode of spiking that is not always cheering, but it is sincere. Maybe it is inspiring, indeed very inspiring at times. One says things one should not say when one happens nonchalantly on a Thistle. But the Thistle has a beautiful, even noble head. It is proud in a garden of roses, bold on the moorlands, lonely on the mountain peak. In a picture it is harmless. Among the bracken it is dignified. On the defensive picture-esque. In the fields one would rather not shuneless step upon it. And at all times, the Thistle colors warmly and the sap of life runs in its veins. But the odd thing or character of the Thistle is this. It so often shelters a bluebell beneath its great prickly green leaves. Who would suspect a Thistle of hiding so fine a poetic soul as a bluebell, gentle star of the earth, and yet underneath the Thistle leaves gather rosy clumps of heath, the friendly dark-eyed pansy violet tiny hedge-rose of heather. Even the rare white heather well nestled beneath the Thistle to his well to possess the microscopic eye, especially in Scotland. For chance a day comes when the Thistle must defend itself out in the great world, even tear its heart to prove its truth to the world. Who knows? God made the rose with its thorn the violet to lift its shy head unseen, but nonetheless beautiful. Gently he fashioned the lovely head of the carnation and then fastened it tenderly to its ugly stulk. Nobly did he lift the water lily from its bed of mud and the hyacinth from its dark couch. Even by the wayside neglected to trample on, the Narcissus breathes its sweetness neath southern skies. Wild in the fields grows the passionate, warm-hearted poppy. Its head crushed to feed opium to mankind. Wilder still, the Marguerites, it won't see to be shortly cut down by the man with the scythe. And, despised of all, the simple buttercup. Yeah, God made them all, and God made the Thistle. Touch me if you dare. The Thistle will die, yes, but die nobly as it has lived. Touch me if you dare, for I have a heart. God is witness, and not a Thistle is broken from its stulk, ruthlessly, heedlessly, heartlessly, but God knows. Vengeance is mine. A little while in the world will see the Thistle breaking. A little while in the world will say, How strange! That Thistle hid a beautiful blue-bell. Not an ordinary one, no. How cheerfully it endured through frosts and hurricanes. How bravely it held its head even as the stock bent and broke. As storm after storm blew around it and crushed its leaves, how courageously it lifted them and spread them to the sun. Six miles a little in Scotland and the clouds are southern and sulky, and the Thistle grew alone, tenderly girding the simple things, the pure things, and God saw. And then a day came when the heart of the Thistle broke, and God gathered the honeyed sweetness of the Thistle back to himself, for he loved the Thistle. Despite its thorns, God knew its life. Then he blended its honey with the beauty of his own spirit and scattered it into the suns, a seed human but divine. Some of the seeds died, but a few very few, which sucked at the sun and the dew, grew up straight but thorny, ragged and sweet, sturdily sheltering any timid flower within their shade, and God saw it was good. Silently he blessed the life of the lonely Thistle, for if the world knew not and doubted, God knew the Thistle This is birdy. And there is all time for God. I know Jesus thought that he doesn't know, and maybe you've seen Jesus miles away before. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libervox.org. Recording by Stefan, The Rose-Colored World and Other Fantasies By Ethel Mary Brody The night and the dream. Once upon a time there was a bold night. An infidel night. His parents were dead. His friends were dead. And no home had he anywhere. And no one cared. Far afield traveled he. Seeking the joy of living. The fullness of the earth. Great mountains rose before him. And this sturdy night bent his back. And laughed as he nipped their pinnacles with his sword. Great plains stretched hungrily to the horizon. And bravely the night plotted across their thirsty loneliness. Dull forests opened their jaws and the night shouted his songs into their dusk and danger. Silent rivers rolled their soundless deeps to tempt the night to the sirens' grave. But he scorned and swam their waves and stretched his arms on the farther shore. For the night was young, carefree and indifferent. Then a day came in a still, sweet veil. A day of sunshine and dew. The breath of flowers fled through the silvin' glades. The shadows fluttered on moss and mirror. The grace of swaying mead and the musical thrill of darting streams soothed the heart of the bold night. Birds cheered in the groves and hedges. Rushing zephyrs like nymphs at play. Tossed the trees and shook their leaves merrily. And the night ceased his course in a fern-clad dell. And the dream came. On a rock of the dell stood the maid of the night. God's made for him. Sweet as the breath of twilight. Pure as the dawn. Steadfast as the moss-drawn rock, on which she stood there, thrilled into being the night's dream. The dream of his world life. The sleeping thought of each day. The silver star of his slumbers. It was the night's dream of love. And then, for many days, the maid and the night dreamed together. Dreamed on the hillside. Dreamed by the wayside. Dreamed by the music of waters. Dreamed among flowers. Dreamed in sunlight and shadow. Fancies and fairies frisked in the still-sweet veil. Angels whispered across the meadows, and their wings caressed the grasses, and the leaves and reeds trembled in the ripples of running brooks. And the night and the maid dreamed their dreams together in pure and perfect happiness. Then came another day. And the night awoke. A cloud had darkened between the dream and himself, and the dream had vanished. The day was dark with storms, sullen with angry flashes, shouting with the voice of thunder. Moaning winds screamed through the veil. Hurricanes bent the trees and laid low every flower. The waves of the mare fraught head in fury. Fearsomely, the birds flew away with the fairies and the fancies. The reeds fell weeping into the streams, and the angels hid their faces. For doubt and distrust and selfishness had marred the dream. Wild eyed, the night fled. Wither, wither had gone the dream. His dream of love and happiness. So late, and he had drunk of its sweetness. So late, and he had whispered its name a thousand times to his heart. So late, and its eternity had held his soul. Maddened, the night sped away to the cities and the great world. Deeply, he drank of the golden cup of pleasure. Wisely, he studied the world's jewels. Smilingly, he played with the golden things, and tossed the jewels for his moment. And bitterly, and sadly, he gazed at the stars when night led him to his lone tower, and the world saw not. For the dream was not here. Still another day, and the night came again to the mountain, the forest, the plains, and the rivers. But they had all changed. The pinnacles reached higher into heaven, almost insurmountable. And the night laughed no more. The forests tangled and dark barred the night's progress, and the song died on his lips. The rivers chilled him, and he gazed at the farther shore. His arms listless by his side, and turned away. He crossed the plains, but the night's heart was faint with hunger and thirst. And the plain offered none but bitter waters and herbs. And a burden of sorrow weighed him down hopelessly, warily, for the dream seemed no more. And one more day, hopelessly, the night turned his steps to the dell of his dream. The moss-drawn rock of his romance. Doubting deeply, he sought the still sweet veil. Again its flowers breathed a welcome. Again its shade offered rest to his wearied limbs. Again sounded the music of stream and fall. Again his tired eyes drooped softly, tearfully, as they beheld the moss, the mirror, the meadows, all joyous and peaceful. Trumblingly and slowly, he approached the dream dell. The night stood a silent, lone man, lost in his dream memories, hesitating, fearing, returning a step and then onward again, as the steadfastness of faith and the smile of hope beckoned him on. On and on stepped the tired, lonely night. Each step a thought, each breath a hope or fear. For the heart of the night longed for his dream of love again. The dream God gave to him alone. The sweet, innocent dream of long ago, his lost world of happiness. And there the dell, and there the rock with its moss-drawn surface, and the silence. Had he come too late? Suddenly, with his heart full of angry defiance and unbelief, the night gripped his sword and cried aloud, I will not believe. There is no dream for me, no God for me. Oh, God, if there be a God, I defy thee here and now. Show me thy might, prove me thy truth, reveal thyself, thou whom the world doubts, thou whom the priests boast, thou who hast stolen my dream away. I defy thee here and now to mortal combat. Come, let us end it all, for you and me. Tunderly a glow of light fell on the mossy rock. Its radiance spread like the sunshine on the sea. Purely a form arose above the rock, set in the midst of the glory. Sweetly, a smile met the night's eager eyes, and a gentle hand stretched out to aid the trembling hope, the shrinking faith. As her hand touched the hand of the night, his whole being thrilled with the reality of his dream. God's dream for him, and then a voice not of the dream, but a voice drifting from the sun and the dew, the flowers and the stars, breathed across the dream-dell. God is Love. End of Section 9. Recording by Stefan. Section 10 of The Rose-Coloured World and Other Fantasies This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, red by Angelique G. Campbell, February 2019. The Rose-Coloured World and Other Fantasies by Ethel Mary Brody. Fra Salmanetta. Fra Salmanetta. The very name suggested sanctity, holiness, a wonderful life of self-reunciation. And self-reunciation it was, had the world but known. But the world never suspected the pathos of human nature which lay hidden behind the act. So often a fine piece of statuary is lightly passed without thought of the pain or care it costs the sculptor. So the tragedies of life are acted out, secreting the truth behind smiles and silence, surroundings and change. Bro Salmanetta possessed Celtic and Italian blood in his veins, and this coloured his olive cheeks, his soft chestnut hair, and his large dark expressive eyes. And this, too, accounted for his sudden burst of passion and strange silences. And him flowed all the artistic instincts and the love of beauty of the Italian, combined with a dour determination and stern self-control altogether scotch. From his mother, he inherited an altar which proclaimed her Florentine ancestor of noble birth and high position. His father came of a race born to win and conquer. Perched on a mountainside, overlooking Lakte, stood the castle moor, barred beneath it lay the lake like a moonstone in its bower of emerald and amethyst mountains, shimmering beneath sky's grim and clouded with occasional glimpses of blue sky, sometimes wild storms swept over the lock, leaving at a seething mass of white caps and flying foam, and it lay a mirror, lightly quivering with every breath which descended from the mountain heights. On every side the pinnacles looked proudly down into the bosom of the lake, giants miraging their eternal pride in its ripples, Ben lawyers, stern and grand, rose high above the others and still loftier, Ben moor lifted its haughty peaks into the clouds. Sometimes, when the flower season looks georiated on the levels below, the mountain giants still retained their snowy helmets, sparkling in the sunshine like the mail of long dead chieftains. Myriad mist trailed around the peaks and drifted far into the veils, bending their softness with the masked patches of purple heather, and the purple heather was varied by the thick copes wood creeping down to the water's edge, in the spaces of pastureland and the silver glades. Stealing up the mountainside, the ravines crowded their thickets among the boulders and cliffs, and then vanished in the hundred windings and rakes of the mountains, and great gray precipices and jutting rocks and barren marshland contrasted in their dull desolation with the bright luxuriant green of the woods and the rich amethyst heather of the mountains. Here on the mountainside's the highland cattle roamed and strayed through the pastures for food, the wild grass salt safety amid the heather and racken, and in the glens were heard the free melodies of birds and burn, harmonizing the music of tumbling waters and trilling songsters of the lash of the waves below and the soft of the wind and the trees, barred down the lock toward the village of Kenmore, a green islet nestled on the bosom of the water, among its trees still crumpled away the ruins of an ancient priory of the twelfth century, lending a touch of romance to the scene. Of a dreamy nature, Simon Moore developed a natural surroundings which only intensified his passionate poetic nature. His father, the elder Simon Moore, was the wealthy lad of Castlemore, a fulsome, high-coloured man, given a sudden outburst of temper so surly as Scottish skies, outburst that banished in months of silent reserve, a nature not unknown in Scotland. Lady Moore, who had grown up under softer summer skies, was emotional, self-willed and fastidious and devoted to the Roman Catholic faith. So the little Simon Moore grew up in a varied mental atmosphere, sometimes whirled off his feet by his mother's religious emotionalism, sometimes terrified by his father's fierce outburst of temper. One rare bright day the sun danced over the ivy turrets and battlements of Castlemore, casting freakish shadows into the courtyard below. It stole into the avenue of limes, falling and raised through the branches as it glanced through the stained windows of cathedrals, on the mausoleum, where laid generations of the lards of Castlemore. It melted away in softened beams, and it poured over the half-dosing Simon as he rested his long limbs on a bank of heather up on the mountainside, drinking in the beauties of the scenery, and quoting to himself the fine descriptive lines which Burns wrote over the chimney and the parlor of the Inn of Kenmore. Here Posey might wake her haven't-haught liar, and look through nature with creative fire, here to the wrongs of fate half reconciled. How ardently hoped he might someday write lines as fine. But his happy meditations came to an abrupt end as a shower Rowenberry's flew about his ears and a voice imitated after him in mocking tones. Here to the wrongs of fate half reconciled. Miss Fortune's steps might wander wild and disappointment in these lonely bounds. Find a balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds. Here, heart struck grief. And then the sweet but mock solemn voice broke into a loud, silvery laugh, and the voice exclaimed softly, how luxurious! Simon Moore did not look around, but he knew that a pair of nut-brown eyes, crowned by a mass of shining arborn hair, were peeking at him from behind a cairn, which was not far away, and which also was sheltered by a Rowenberry, only too familiar to himself and to the nut-brown eyes. Simon did not answer, so the voice proceeded. Here, heart struck grief, might heavenward stretch her scan, and injured worth. Please, don't bark, say! Simon interrupted, a sensitive, half pained expression coming into his eyes, which quickly passed into one of sternness. Then he did glance around and meet the pair of eyes, looking merrily and quizzically at him from over the cairn. An injured worth, forget and pardon. That is yourself, Simon, I suppose, quoting poetry on the top of a mountain with no one to appreciate you or it. And Berksy laughed again. Simon was silent. You lazy, indolent creature! exclaimed she, coming out from behind the cairn, and sitting down on the stump of a larch tree. What are you doing, wasting these precious hours snoring on a mountain top? I'm not snoring, replied Simon, keeping strictly to facts and looking serious. For chance not, lazy bones, but you are certainly wasting time quoting poetry to the clouds or to the grouse, or perhaps you were quoting to those great lions over there. And Berksy pointed mischievously to the long-amained highland cows which were browsing in a pasture below. I'm not wasting time. Indignantly protested Simon, not overpleased with Berksy's mode of teasing. Yes, you are, insisted the girl. No, I'm not, answered he, very determined. You are? I'm not. Dead silence. Simon pouted and looked resentful, while Berksy brimmed over with fun and innocence. Well, what were you doing anyway? She persisted, teasingly, thinking. About what? inquired Berksy. You, of course, sarcastically from Simon. Why, me, of course, from Berksy imitating him, because that's what you wanted my to say. And Simon dug his heel into the heather. No, I didn't, protested Berksy. Yes, you did. Silence again. Simon more hated that kind of teasing. Oh, well, I don't care, exclaimed the offended girl, tossing her head. I guess Ormalie McAlphon will be more pleasant than you are today. And she made as if she were going to trip away down the mountainside. Simon assumed a smile, but a thunder-cloud gathered inwardly. All right, give Ormalie my love, said he, with affected indifference. I won't, apt Berksy, haughtily. They don't, laughed Simon. Silence again. No, who's in a temper, quizzed Simon. It is your fault, said Berksy, feeling much hurt. Simon shook his head and said nothing. I was only teasing you, continued Berksy in an injured tone. Queer kind of tasing, I should think, suggested Simon a trifle sarcastically. Oh, you don't understand it, declared the offended girl. No, said Simon with a laugh. Simon did understand it to a certain degree. But he was not going to give in now. Nor do you understand me, indignantly, from Berksy. Injured innocence, put in Simon. Well, that is less conceited than injured worth, returned she quickly. Simon's eyes flashed. But they softened a little as they fell on the cairn beneath the rowing-tree, which he and Berksy had piled together in declaration of eternal friendship, a sort of biblical mis-pa. You're not very complimentary, Berksy, he said gently. I don't care, from the girl. Think before you speak, little girl, Simon suggested quietly. Thank you, said Berksy heartily, but I'm not asking for a device. All right, returned Simon, thinking clouded thoughts of Ormley McAlphin. I am going now, declared Berksy firmly, to Ormley, inquired Simon, and able to resist a covert effort at scorn. But Berksy was hurt this time in a woman's unreasonable way, as she walked away, bristling with pride like an offended princess. And Simon gazed after her, his heart and his eyes. If Berksy could only have seen. But it was too late. How he loved that little arbor-nared girl. It was partly her fault, and partly his, like all a youthful lover's quarrels. They were passionate, proud children, these two. And that was how Ormley McAlphin first began to play a part in Berksy's life. Love is a sensitive thing, and in its early expression is easily offended. Simon still lay on the bank of Heather, stirring and self-contained, but albeit with a heavy heart. He watched the little figure disappear in the glens below, as Berksy hurried away in the direction of the village of Killen. And as the trees closed behind her and hid the girl from his view, he murmured to himself with an odd feeling of presentiment. Here, to the wrongs of fate, half reconciled, misfortunes lightened steps might wander wild, and disappointment in these lonely bounds. Find balm to soothe her bitter-rankling wounds. Here, heart-struck grief might heavenward stretch her skin, and injured worth forget and pardon. Simon more hesitated, and then he added slowly, but firmly, woman. But this time no Berksy hurt him. Berksy loved Simon with all her heart and soul. But Simon was an odd boy. There were days when he was the essence of silence, and a so cold. Berksy's naturally exuberant, loving nature shrink from these tragic silences. They wounded her. She knew not why. And try as she would to pull Simon out of these deep, bathomless seas of silence. It was well nigh impossible at times. Berksy had not yet learned that Simon Moore was a poet, and needed a poet's license of silence and quiet. And Simon had yet to learn that Berksy was a great actress and embryo, and needed emotional excitement. So practical Ormly McAlpin, with his mediocre mind, and his inability to comprehend anything finally sensitive or poetic beyond his father's huge wine business, acted as go-between with these two undeveloped, gifted children. As she wandered through the glens homeward toward Killen, Berksy's thoughts were sad and lonely ones. Sad indeed. But so proud as they were sad. Berksy inherited all the sensitive pride of a noble scotch family. And when her pride was hurt, she was almost as unyielding as Simon Moore himself, unyielding to the point of sacrificing her happiness. Even the dull music of the river's locky and dark heart, as they merrily rushed through the glens, and over the mossy rocks of their various ways to the loctay, could not make her forget the melancholy dodge of her own heart. Even the inspiring beauty of lofty peak and wooded crag, and the vast green slopes, and the peace of the far-offed crafter's cottage with its like-and-clad walls, and its blue-gray smoke curling among sycamore trees, even this sweet piece of all nature could not lessen the war with love in Berksy's soul. So the afternoon closed on the mountainside, and over the glens in a heavily clouded sky, the precursor of a stormy dark night, and the sun had away from Berksy and Simon, among the mist and the crags. Seven years later, when Simon had begun to win his laurels in the great world of London, Berksy met him at the salon of a great lady. Simon Moore's poetry had created a deep impression in literary circles, and he was the lion of the hour, the same curiously silent Simon, with his sudden flashes of humor. The world's gracious reception of himself in his poems had carried Simon off his feet for a while, and he was suffering from a painful tendency to concede as a consequence. It was a magnificent room where they met. The walls were impaneled with cherry satin and mirrors. The ceiling gleamed a mass of guilt stucco work surrounding wonderful frescoes of cupids and psyches, the air drowsed with the fragrance of carnations and lilies. Gay throngs kept passing in and out, and in the distance above the merry hum of human voices could be heard the strains of music and the sounding measures of the dance. Tonight Simon was in one of his proud, silent, unresponsive moods. Of course, Berksy was as radiantly gay, bubbling over with fun and mischief and the joy of life. A happy, innocent girl. When Simon Moore entered the room, Berksy was standing near the door in a flimsy gown of palest green. A bunch of Rowan Berry's nestling at her bosom, and a few peeping among the restless curls of her dark, alburn hair. Berksy was watching for the poet, had he but known, and she gave him a glowing smile, bright enough to have encouraged any ordinary man. But Simon was made of a different mold from the average, and acted accordingly. He returned to Berksy's smile with a cold bow. After a little chat with his hostess, he drifted across the room to an alcove filled with palms and softened lights, where he stood silently gazing out over Hyde Park. Pray, what was Berksy to do? Berksy watched him a moment, and then, divining his mood, started to flirt irrepressibly with Ormaly McAlphin, who was also a guest of the evening. The latter, not adverse to such excitement with so beautiful a woman, with her soft, nut-brown eyes, responded freely and her trifle carelessly. Berksy, haughty and mischievous, was bent on annoying the poet. As for Ormaly McAlphin, he was thoroughly indifferent as to her reason for flirting, but as thoroughly enamored of her beauty. Simon's eyes wandered among the trees of the park, watching the sleepy flicker of the mini-lights. Then they saw the thoroughfare below, robustes and handsomes clattered past, and motors flashed by. A few pedestrians appeared and vanished into the darkness of night, like rats seeking their holes, some glancing up at the lighted windows of the stone mansion, and stopping to listen to the music and the dancing, curious or envious. Simon's thoughts were in the highlands, up on the mountainside by the cairn he and Berksy had piled together in the sweet days of long ago. Again he saw the rowen tree, masked with blood-red berries, and felt the heather beneath his feet. Again he heard the melody of burn and bird, and smelt the distilled fragrance of the heath, the bracken, and the furs. Again the wondrous wood it seen lay before him, the outstretching lake embosomed among the hills. And then Berksy's mocking laugh broke upon his ears, and the voice of Ormaly McAlphin. A stern expression came in as Simon's gray blue eyes, and he repeated under his breath in a whispered tone of passionate feeling. Here, to the wrongs of fate, half reconciled, misfortune's light and steps might wander wild, and disappointment, he broke up abruptly, angrily, the color melting hotly to his face, his hands clenched hard, and turning on his heel, he sought the ballroom and Berksy. Though his soul was full of passionate rebellion, outwardly he was the same, evenly poised, self-contained Simon Moore. Berksy had danced several times with Ormaly McAlphin, and had promised herself for supper with him when Simon came quietly, silently to her, and asked for a dance. Sarkinley, how many? she asked, thrilling at his very presence. Oh, a couple, said Simon Moore coolly. Even yet, Simon Moore would have slain himself with his own jeweled dark before he would have given in to Berksy, or let her know how passionately he loved her. He would have hidden his jealousy under his claymore, rather than she should ever know the regret her loss might mean to him. Berksy's eyes flashed with sudden fire at his cold answer. She had kept several for him, but quickly consulting her program, she replied, restraining herself bravely, for she felt inclined to cry with disappointment. I am so sorry, Simon, but I only have one left. Only one, he inquired gravely. Only one. She responded, biting her lip on the little fib. And how many have you given to Ormaly? With a forced smile, asked Simon. As many as he asked for, came Berksy's quick reply, challenging him with her saucy, nut-brown eyes. Your program otherwise. Interrupted Simon with an inscrutable scotch smile. Berksy maintained a haughty silence. Your same very fond of Ormaly McAlphin, Simon suggested, curling his lip a little. And what if I am? exclaimed Berksy, tossing her head saucily. All right. Simon answered with assumed indifference. Well, and why should you care? laughed Berksy, a heartache behind the question. I don't care, he answered. And Simon Moore could use that phrase in a way that would have frozen the heart of a statue, much less such a sensitive one as Berksy's. Oh, is that so? commented Berksy, rather painfully. Silence again. But Simon knew that he had hurt her. He had a deliberate way of doing such things, a contrast to Berksy's sudden, warm, sometimes erratic impulses. What makes she so interested in Ormaly McAlphin? She asked, presently with a apparent likeness, a brotherly interest, Berksy. Really, how kind of you, Simon, with a sudden lifting of her eyebrows. Silence again. The poet keeping us things like poise, balanced and cool. The woman quivering from a fresh wound which she bravely hid. You're an awful little flirt, Berksy. Said he, suddenly. From your point of view, I suppose I am. As she fanned herself to keep down her rising resentment. Everyone says that you are, remarked Simon Moore, glancing at her beauty with cold eyes. And, of course, you believe everyone. The majority have always been right since the world began, said Berksy with a touch of sarcasm, adding quietly, if I have ever been a flirt, it has been unconsciously. I don't talk love to men. If they like me, it is because I talk sense to them, and most girls talk nonsense. But, of course, if the world says that I am a flirt, the world must be right. Is that why you call me fascinating? You certainly are a fascinating little girl, but you use your fascination artily at times. Not to your liking, queried Berksy with a smile, and pray, what is wrong? Ask Ormaly, hate is your best critic, remarked Simon coldly. I will, exclaimed Berksy, her eyes sparkling strangely. Simon Moore and Berksy were not exactly betrothed, but it was understood that they were meant for one another, and would someday marry. The narrative castle more treated it as a settled matter. Likewise, Berksy's relations. But one never knows what a sensitive, emotional girl will do, or a silent, passionate man will act on a given occasion. Berksy and Simon Moore thoroughly loved one another, and has thoroughly misunderstood each other, which sometimes does happen between different temperaments in this complex life. The silence and coldness of Simon Moore were just as painful to Berksy as her exuberance and enthusiasm were annoying to Simon, and both were scotchly proud. Do you think that Ormaly McAlpin is my best critic, married Berksy with a disdainful flash of her nut-brown eyes? Under why not? Or joined Simon in his matter-of-fact way? Why not, indeed? laughed Berksy. He has known me long enough. Simon shrugged his broad shoulders. All is well that ends well, said he. Thanks, curtly from Berksy. Silence again. Berksy tapped her fan on her cheek, and turned her head away to hide the tears which had come unbitten to her eyes, while Simon stole a glance at the lovely woman beside him, and for the first time noticed the rowan berries in her arbor and hair, and trembling at her bosom. I don't think you understand me, little girl. He said gently, his thoughts flying back to the rowan tree by the cairn, and the day they quarreled there. Nor you me, flashed Berksy defiantly. Well, if you understood me that, began Simon. That would facilitate matters for you, interrupted Berksy. Yes, certainly. And how about me? Simon more laughed in spite of himself. Men never understood women, and least of all, their women friends. He answered humorously. It is not necessary. That may be a rule, returned Berksy, biting her lip painfully, but there are exceptions. Maining yourself, politely sarcastic from Simon. Berksy ignored his remark, and spying ormally McAlpin across the room, exclaimed with affected exuberance. There is Ormelie, looking for me, I suppose. And welcome, too. Flashed Simon more so suddenly that Berksy was astonished. Thank you. She returned, icily. And turning away to welcome Ormelie with a gay smile, she added, her net-brown eyes on fire. You will live to regret your rudeness, Simon. To which threat Simon, whose self-control had returned as quickly as his anger had burst out, merely lifted his shoulders and departed. But there was a dark storm in his heart, despite his seeming calm. And that was how Ormelie McAlpin and Berksy eventually became engaged and married. One result of which change in her life was that Simon more left Scotland for some years. I didn't know when hard of him or saw him during that time. Five years passed. Berksy was learning the sad lesson of the rebound of one's actions. She was not married long before the full and bitter truth of life without love broke in upon her roughly, cruelly. It is true, indeed, that Ormelie loved her beauty well, but he cared not a whit for her otherwise. He was satiated with his wealth and the luxurious pleasures it gave him. Love had no place in his life. Poor Berksy. No little child came into her life to soften the lonely hours of suffering. Even the cold, silent poet had seemed to care for her more than Ormelie. Did Simon care? She often wondered. So Berksy proudly isolated herself from the world around her, and no one read the heart of the woman a right. No. Simon never cared. She was certain of that. He had long since gone away to Italy. And doubtless his life was full of the pleasures he loved, poetry, and scenery, that he had completely forgotten his little Scotch friend of long ago. And Simon Moore, with his mother's strong religious bane, he had joined a brotherhood in Italy and signed the vows of celibacy a year after Berksy's wedding. His passionate, poetic nature had found a certain bent in the ascetic life of the monastery of Santo Sparito, and in the lovely scenery which environed it. Santo Sparito, with its background of stately somber pines, was built on the edge of a declivity. Below it sloped away the terraces of olive trees, and beyond their soft gray greens spread the grapevines and the flower-sweet meadows. Pilgrims sought the monastery for the sake of the sacred waters, which gust and refreshing rills from a rock hidden amongst hypers trees. The water tumbled in silvery clearness over the ledge and into a marble basin where pilgrims drank of it freely. Simon Moore had sought a spot which would remind him in some way of his Highland home. From the monastery of Santo Sparito he could see the summits of the Carrera Range, sometimes softened with clouds and ever changing with the skies. No lake spread its mirage of woods and heights in the valley like the outstretching lake embuzzled among the hills. But the river Arno welled its way into the distance and vanished a ribbon of silvery light into the violet mist. All through the warm months the air was fragrant of flowers, flowers by the wayside among the tangled pines, flowers staring the meadows in reckless luxuriance, flowers clouding the orchards, wreathing them in pink and white. Here Simon Moore suffered, that is, suffered at times. Strong, silent natures like his have a fine power of throwing off their sorrows and burying them in forgetfulness for a while. When such natures break out it is a barrier which has held back the sea, for the time being the overthrow of their bulwarks is like the flooding of the land. Prasa Manetta could lose himself in the beauty of his environment or in the ecstasy of his creative power, but sometimes at eventide would come the old longing for Berksy when the monastery bells rang out, thrilling through the darkening cloisters and chiming far into the Val d'Arno and over the hillsides echoing and re-echoing and dying in a melodious sigh. The voices of their Vesper bells, they seemed to cry from his soul to Berksy's, the awakening to the dream he had lost. Prasa Manetta surrode in the twilight for the dawn which had passed for ever from him. The next news which reached Prasa Manetta was the death of Ormalie McAlpin, and then the marvellous success of Berksy as an actress. Berksy, with a resolution akin to Prasa Manetta's, sought for spite from her private sorrows by living through the joys and sorrows of others on the stage, and the tragedy of her own lot gave her the splendid emotional power which was amazing the world of London. Berksy, Berksy a wonderful actress. Prasa Manetta could scarcely believe it. The little girl, Berksy, whom he had known, with her coronal of alburn hair and her mischievous nut-brown eyes. Berksy, with her ardent, enthusiastic temperament. Berksy, who chattered so, who teased him so in the sweet long ago. Why, yes, he might have suspected it years ago. Yes, had he been less in love with himself, he might have known. Prasa Manetta begged leave of the Fathers to go on a private mission to London. To London? What for? To witness Berksy at the zenith of her triumphs. And what a night of dreams and wonders he stole from his vows to witness his beloved Berksy. Berksy? Oh, God! Never to speak to her again. Never to know her. Never to fill the wondrous thrill of her bright presence as in the long ago sunny days. Never to tell her of his passionate devotion. Never. Silently, Prasa Manetta stole out of the theatre. He knew not the play. It was only Berksy. Berksy, with her radiant, alburn hair and great gazelle eyes appealing to him from the stage. Unknowing. Lonely. Hungry. Prasa Manetta. The Italian blood, which he had inherited from his religious mother, fought against the Celtic. Silent passion. All the religion, false it may be, of his ancestors, battled against the woman Berksy. And Prasa Manetta slipped away from London to the monastery of Santo Sparito to fight for months with his passionate love for Berksy and to conquer at last. And Berksy. Berksy lived on. Believing Simon more a cold, selfish man, a man of supreme forgetfulness, Berksy never knew how bitter were the months for Assamanetta lived through after his return from London to the monastery of Santo Sparito. No. She never knew the dull, biting remorse that harrowed his days, remorse that comes too late. Alas! As she never knew of his passionate man-hunger for the woman of his heart, but, self-pride, it was the old, old story. Alas! So Berksy never knew of the renunciation of Prasa Manetta in the monastery of Santo Sparito and the bell d'Arno, far off in the land of Italy. Years afterward, when the glorious Auburn Hare was turning this silver and the Rowan Berry still nestled among its tangled curls, Berksy received a tiny gold cross delivered to her by a brother of the monastery of Santo Sparito. On one side of it was the figure of the crucified Christ. On the other was chased a word, Berksy, on an unfinished line of poetry. Here to the wrongs of fate, half-reconciled. End. Section 10. Section 11. Of The Rose-Colored World and Other Fantasies This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by April 6090, California, United States of America. The Rose-Colored World and Other Fantasies by Ethel Mary Brody. Mirabelle It was to be a great night of ground opera in London. The famous tenor, Henri Dubois, was too sane. By one big jump had the sun-known man leaped into fame. In a small village of France he had been born. Later on his family had immigrated to London, and one day a pastor by had heard Lipetit Henri singing at the pitch of his lungs from the top of a stone wall. A marvellously sweet voice had Lipetit Henri. A voice of wonderful, compass, and of ringing, soul-inspiring sound. Then came the long days of careful study and devoted work, and many sweet days of love and ambition. And Henri was ready to make his debut. Henri and Mirabelle had grown up in the same alley. Henri with a soul and gift of expression. Mirabelle with a soul alone, but not the expression. Music blended their natures in one, and Mirabelle listened enraptured to Henri's warbling. When the pastor bys started Henri at his studies and supplied the necessary funds, Mirabelle daily urged him on with his work, encouraging, cheering, helping him. And the great night had come at last. With what hopes and fears they had anticipated this, night. Indeed, Mirabelle trembled at the thought of its meaning to her and to Henri. And at times a strange dread came over her. They grew out of a merry childhood into a happy youth. Henri came down from his caroling on the stone wall to study scales and the art of breathing. And Mirabelle left her skipping rope to learn how to dance. But these years of perseverance and patience had been full of the sunshine of love, a great love that was to fulfill its dearest hopes with the success of this night. It seemed almost too wonderfully realization of human dreams. Mirabelle had dreaded it. But the great night had come at last. The theatre was crowded. Hundreds of grand ladies in silks and diamonds occupied the boxes and orchestra chairs. With the easy coolness of the blasé theater gore, hundreds of maidens with fluttering hearts and blushing cheeks, eagerly anticipated the entrance of the handsome and youthful artist. And hundreds of men laughed and talked in the vestibule, awaiting the event of the evening. For the coming debut of Henri Dubois had been brooded by the newspapers, and his wondrous gift and handsome personality had fled on the wings of gossip. Behind the curtains of a box Mirabelle shyly hid, her dark eyes sparkling with wonder, delight and expectancy. Never before had she been in a theatre. It was fairyland to her. Mirabelle had developed into a lovely woman, a woman of alluring witchery. Her beauty lay more in the charm and grace of her manner and expression, rather than the perfection of feature and of form. She too would make a debut soon, but as a dancer in vaudeville. The same loving Mirabelle still, devoted to Henri, lost in Henri, forgetful of her own hopes of success in the midst of Henri's coming fame. Yet Mirabelle trembled on the verge of his triumph. It was the beautiful opera of Lohengrin that dazzled the eyes and fascinated the ears of the audience, and smoothly it passed on the stage, and gloriously Henri sang, thrilling his ears with his melodious voice, fully and richly it resounded in the theatre. Its joy and its pathos echoed in Mirabelle's heart. The people were wild with enthusiasm. Again and again Henri was called upon the stage, and the uproar of clapping hands was like a roll of thunder. The last act was reached, Henri had excelled Mirabelle's highest hopes. His blue eyes were ablaze with happiness, his cheeks were flushed with triumph, his slender frame vibrated as his soul soared and sang to others' fears. The last scene was being enacted. Lohengrin was in the midst of his last wondrous song, when suddenly his voice broke, and the fair young singer fell dead. The melodious voice had ceased forever. One wild cry burst from Mirabelle. She rushed from her box to the stage, something gripping her heart with an iron hand. The curtain came quickly down, and the audience's horror struck slowly left the theatre. Henri, Henri dearest! moaned poor Mirabelle. As she bent over the dead man and tearlessly kissed his lips. Heart failure! murmured a physician, who had hurried from the stalls, to slender a frame for so great a voice, to grade a triumph for so gentle a heart. I never heard anything like his singing in my life. And he laid the pulseless hand down. Quietly was the body of Henri Dubois removed, and two days later a great funeral left his humble home. Many famous artists and many of the audience who had witnessed his triumph followed, to pay a last tribute to so great a singer. Some years passed, and Mirabelle danced in Vaudeville, danced her sorrow away, danced wildly, recklessly. But Mirabelle kept to herself. Devoted admirers followed her everywhere. Mirabelle, the beauty of London. Mirabelle, the dancer of the age. London was at her feet. She had danced the phantom into the past. Wealth and the world were hers to bid as she pleased, with the witchery of her graces and her manners. And her dainty feet skipped beyond everyone. And then one night at a great ball, Mirabelle met a great Earl. He fell in love with her as every man who had met her. In days of courtship followed, Mirabelle hid from the memory of Henri Dubois, buried it deep in her soul. And the Earl progressed in his love. She fancied him, but she did not love him. Of her stage life she was wearied and longed for rest. It was a lonely existence, and she wearied of her efforts and the world's applause. She was worn out, holding off the many admirers who besieged her. For Mirabelle had kept alone, aloofed from all men. She never asked herself the reason why. She had done it instinctively ever since the night of Lohengrin. Tired and sick of it all, Mirabelle had decided to marry the Earl, if he proposed. One night there was a grand ball in the Hotel Cecile, in the Victoria Hall. A blaze of lights fell over the frescoes in the gilding. A small forest of palms hid the orchestra on the dais. A splash of color filled the ballroom, as the numerous guests arrived. In any large room, opening at one side, was heard the clink of glasses and china, as the waiters hurriedly made ready the supper tables. The dancing was at its height of activity, when Mirabelle and the Earl wandered away to a quiet corner, where they could be alone. They seated themselves among the palms, with the soft lights shining down upon them. Mirabelle was radiant in a gown of cerise satin, her great brown eyes flaming with subdued excitement, her dark hair gleaming in the softened glow, her heart beating high with the ecstatic joy of living. The Earl sat beside her on the lounge, bewitched. Mirabelle, he murmured, taking one of her long white hands in his. Well—she smiled back at him. I have waited long for this moment, dearest, he said softly. Why? asked Mirabelle saucily. You have kept me off by your own sweet will, and you know it too. He returned, lifting the beautiful hand to his lips. Mirabelle was silent, crushing a memory of long ago. I love you, Mirabelle. The Earl leaned toward her, breathed upon her, and Mirabelle turned her head to him. Her eyes were burning indeed, and her bosom heaving. But Mirabelle was battling with fate. I love you, Mirabelle, dearest, he whispered. Catching her in his arms and crushing his lips on hers. Mirabelle, Mirabelle, I love you, love you. And then, stealing among the palms, gliding ghost-like among the softened lights, came sweet strains of music, music full of joy and triumph, music full of memory, of love and pain. The orchestra was playing lo-hangren. And Mirabelle, flinging off the Earl's embrace, fled. She fled through the ballroom and away, rapidly throwing on her long dark cloak and a scarf. And she flew as if winged down the broad marble stairways and out of the hotel's secille. Madly she rushed along the streets, on and on and on. Careless of the pastor by, reckless of comment, wildly struggling with the love of long ago. She wrecked not of consequences. Determinedly she sought London Bridge. On through the alleyways and dark lonely streets she hurried, on and on. The broad black river seemed to heaven her in her eyes, a heaven of peace and rest after all these years of pain and battle, and its waters would tell no tale. And then London Bridge at last. How quiet the tames looked as it flowed into sleep beneath her. How invitingly cool to the fever in her heart. One leap into its slumbering arms and all would be over. And then rest. Rest after all these sore silent years. A few bubbles would come and go, and mark where she had slipped into eternity forever. And Henri. Henri, Henri dearest, I love you still. Heart of mine, I love you so. Thrilled in a whispered cry from the woman's aching heart. Mirabelle leaned over the parapet and gazed into the dull ripples. It was so quiet on the bridge, only a rare pastor by crossed at this long hour. In this darkness lurked a few beings, desolate like herself. Miserable creatures, as wretched and lonely as she. Mirabelle, the famous dancer, but unloved and unloving in the big world. For the dream of long ago denied her all things. All things of joy in life. God, would it never end? Mirabelle slowly crossed and recrossed the bridge. One groveling man observing her beautiful clothes, big depitants, and she recklessly gave him a diamond ring. With the horrible chuckle the man made off rapidly. A wild-eyed girl, whimpering in thread-bear, begged sympathy. And Mirabelle drew the silken scarf from her neck and gave it to him. And the girl, with a burst of gratitude, hurried away into the night. And then a lonely, hungry cry broke on Mirabelle's ears, and she quickly approached a dark corner of London Bridge. A pair of frightened blue eyes peered up at her. Little golden curls appealed timidly to Mirabelle. And memory of long ago came back. A pair of blue eyes and a shower of flaxen curls, but on raise. Mirabelle stooped and gathered the deserted baby to her breast. Mine, she murmured tenderly, mine. And she kissed the little one softly and wrapped it in her cloak. Quickly she retraced her steps across London Bridge. Softly she called to a handsome. And sadly, but wistfully, she turned homeward to her grand apartment. She stole into her rooms and laid the baby on her bed. And Mirabelle, the dancer of London, in her splendid series gown, undressed the baby, gave it a little supper, and tucked it into her luxurious bed. And there, all night, she watched by the bedside. And there at dawn her French maid found her sound asleep, and the baby, and the servant's marveled. No more was Mirabelle heard of in Vaudeville, no more was she heard of in London. And the earl never saw her again. Mysteriously she disappeared, and the world marvelled at Mirabelle's madness. But the villagers in a little hamlet far away marvelled that so dark a mother had so fair a son. And they wandered at her devotion to La Petite Henri. For so he was named in the village. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Melissa Green. The Rose-Coloured World and Other Fantasies by Ethel-Mary Brody The Nell of Nat Pagan Elspeth was right, and it was a foreboding, but had it not come true Elspeth would have been declared insane had the neighbours heard the whole story. The Fisherfolk would have thought her possessed of the evil eye and called her a witch. As it was nobody knew anything about it, and nobody was to know. For death sealed the only lips that could tell, and thus stopped criticism, and also fulfilled Elspeth's darkest tears. It was March. The equinoctical gales were at their worst. For some days off the coast of Scotland the winds had been very rough. The roar of the breakers boomed a roll of thunder as they tumbled and splashed among the rocks and boulders in a long line of writhing surge. They pounded on the sands. They dashed against the cliffs in a white fury like maddened horses. They rushed back only to charge again with renewed rage, and the spray showered the cliffs from many feet upward. Angry clouds drove fiercely across the sky, flaring sunsets lowered over the sea, spattering wild colours on every white cap in the Fisherfolk watched anxiously from their huts upon the beach. Near the village stood the manor, the home of Captain Pagan. It occupied an eminence looking over the fisherman's huts and out to the sea beyond. For many miles the coast stretched, fading into the distance, jutting with promontories, steep with precipices, receding with coves and bays, varied by sparse groves of trees in the rich green of the level lands. Points and peaks and indentations so far as the eye could reach ever outlined against heavy grey skies, sometimes reflecting the golden crimson of sunrise and sunset, but rarely did the coast shine clearer below the sunshine and blue skies. Below the cliffs snuggled the fishing village, straggling up a slope. Beyond it extended the beach. The tide rose high and then fell away a hundred feet or more. With the ebb of the tide the waves rolled into the foot of the precipices and very near to the fisherman's cottages. With its flow it left a strand of golden sand and the scattered stones and boulders sheathed with moss or hanging with seaweed. Captain Nat Pagan received word from his employers that his vessel, the Parthenopy, would sail in two days. The captain was a true blue and a born sailor. A word from his employers was equal to a command. He never hesitated in obeying orders under any circumstances or in any weather, the sea he loved, and he was as fearless on land as on water. Indeed he feared a pirate less than a highwayman. The sea is open and free. Soon or later comes the warning of the approach of a pirate. But those land-lovers, the captain would exclaim, they will hide behind a bush or sneak around a hedge or jump from behind a fence, pop their guns and away goes your cargo, watch, valuables and all. You're lucky if you escape with your hulk. The captain told his wife of his coming departure. The order had come sooner than she expected. Indeed, without knowing why, Elspeth had been secretly dreading the captain's next voyage. Never had she made any remark and least of all any fuss when the orders came, but Elspeth was greatly distressed this time. For the first time she dared to beg him not to go pleading the equinoctical gales. The coasts of England and Scotland had been strewn with wrecks within the last week. Along the shore from miles were thrown up from the sea, broken spars, torn sails, wreckage and dead bodies, vestiges of the wild hurricanes which had shaken the seas. With Captain Nat Pagan pleading was in vain. He was obdurate. His command had come, and he was bound in duty to obey. To obey headquarters was second nature to the captain. Obedience to his commanders, as he called his employers, held sway over him next to his intense love of the sea. He was as determined to go as Elspeth was fearful of his going, so it ended as most domestic arguments do, in nothing gained or lost. The captain was going. The manor was emboured in trees. The groves guarded it from the blustering attacks of the winds. Small matter how terrible a storm raged, the manor was sheltered in secure. The night before the Parthenope sailed, a strong gale was blowing off the sea. In the manor all was cozy and warm, a great fire of logs blazed on the library hearth. Elspeth sewed by the evening lamp. The children lay safely tucked into their beds, and the captain was upstairs finishing his packing preparatory to his departure next morning. The maids had gone to the village. Elspeth sat alone in the library. While she thus sat worrying about her husband's anticipated voyage, a loud knock wrapped on the hall door. Elspeth arose and answered the summons. No one was there. A puff of wind nearly blew out the light in the hall. She heard the distant roar of the breakers beating on the sands and rocks, and Elspeth stared into the darkness with surprise, and then returned to the library. Elspeth had not been seated long before the strange knock sounded again, softer this time. She opened the solid oaken door to be again amazed at seeing no one on the threshold. The lights of the village gleamed among the leaves as the wind swayed and tossed the trees. In the angry gloom of the storm she saw the white surf far below, darting among the crags like the wraiths of the many who slept among the waves, Elspeth lingered a moment out of curiosity, and then swung the door too. Once more Elspeth returned to the library, but the uncanny knock had disturbed her, to distract her thoughts she picked up a newspaper. It was full of accounts of the wrecks which had occurred along the coasts and of the tempests at sea. Her fear increased. How could she overcome this feeling of approaching disaster, and if the future did hold trouble how was she to prevent it? Captain Pagan was a prosaic practical man. He would scorn Elspeth's presentiment as fear, if not actually cowardice. Cowardice, the very reason to keep him stubborn and dourn, resisting her arguments and forebodings. Dread of a storm at sea, he a sailor to be afraid of anything. A hurricane at sea he would laugh at the idea. Why the sea was his life, his love, his duty, his work, even his home. Elspeth shrank from broaching the subject, yet had she not an apprehension of coming evil, was it not a warning, and should she not listen and do what she could to hinder what she feared? Again the knock, rapping loud and clear. Elspeth started, and then called her husband. Well, what do you want, dear? demanded the captain. Elspeth answered, I've heard a knock at the hall door three times, I've gone twice and there isn't a soul outside. I suppose the boys of the village are up to their usual pranks, they know I'm good natured, like all sailors, but I'll fix them. And down the stairs hurried the captain. I'll hide in the shrubbery and watch, said he, smiling good humoredly, and the captain bustled into the library and out of a French window. For some time he stayed outside, nothing happened and no one appeared. Thoroughly satisfied, that it had been either a practical joke or his wife's imagination, he returned to the house as Elspeth opened the door. Are you there, Nat? she called softly. I, I replied the captain, slipping out from the shrubbery. Did anything happen? asked Elspeth, composedly. Nothing to interest or frighten me, returned the captain coolly. Why, dear, the knock has sounded thrice since you've been out there among the bushes, noisy knocks too. And Elspeth affected a laugh. I came to see if you were playing a joke on me. The captain looked rather bewildered at this. I haven't been near the door. Are you sure you heard the knocks? he asked. So sure that I came in answer to them, suspecting that you were up to a bit of fun just to cheer me up tonight. Nay, not I, said he, shrugging his broad shoulders. The captain's love of fun was a large part of his character, and as Elspeth laughed he could hardly accuse her of an excited imagination. Apparently she was in a mood for fun. So the captain wisely or unwisely said nothing. Poor Elspeth. With no ground on which to stand she could neither protest nor argue, and as an argument fear was out of the question. And love? well, Nat Pagan would say that he loved her all right, but that he must do his duty, and with him duty mostly came before love. It had been trained into him from his boyhood, and so it must be to the end. Elspeth did not sleep that night. The gale had developed into a hurricane. The thunder of the surf and the thud of the billows against the crags beat into her brain. The ghostly foam in the darkness rose before her like wandering spectres, hopeless despairing. Great breakers seemed to be plunging over their bodies as the captain and she lay quietly in bed. The stories of the wrecks she had read about, pictured themselves in her mind so distinctly, so terribly, as if she had beheld them with her own eyes. And white dead faces ghastly and silent stared at her out of the obscurity, the horror of the night. Battered spars, like human lives cut short, heaved on the bosom of the tempest-toss sea, cries of agony shrieked with the wind, and there in the midst of the sullenness of the sea in the sorrow of the storm, a huge black hulk like the godforsaken flying Dutchman towered above the ocean billows, the seething foam in came diving toward her. On and on it came swaying and trembling, plunging as the sea pounded its bulkworks and broke over its stacks, and out of the night in the terror clanged the bell-boy like a knell, tolling, tolling a warning to the living, tolling, tolling the departure of human souls. Wrap, wrap, wrap. The knocks again. Elspeth suppressed a scream. The captain drowsily opened his eyes. What's the trouble? Nightmare, asked he in sleepy tones. No. It was nothing, shuddered Elspeth. The storm has made you nervous, dear, remarked Captain Knapp. No, no. Not nervous. And Elspeth slipped out of bed and hurried to the window, watching the tempest a wind that whirled among the trees and out on the turbid ocean. Well, what's the matter now? demanded the captain, rather annoyed and sitting up in bed. I'm only anxious, leaded Elspeth timidly. Anxious. Anxious about what? inquired Captain Pagan, exasperated at being wakened out of good sleep. Oh, how I wish you would postpone your voyage, begged poor Elspeth. Postpone my voyage? exclaimed Knapp Pagan, amazed at the suggestion and almost angry. Nonsense. Wait till these hurricanes are passed. They will soon be over now. I'm certain your employers would not mind waiting a few days more or less. An Elspeth's babylike face was wet with tears. But the captain's pride and indignation rose. Stuff, exclaimed. You mustn't think of it for a minute. I would not ask them to wait. As for a hurricane, I'm a sailor. My ship is breasted a hundred gales in tempest as bad as this. Surely the wife of a sailor wouldn't be a coward. Elspeth was silenced. The captain rolled over on his side and was soon snoring contentedly. Poor Elspeth. What dark visions flashed before her inward sight. Every moment she was tortured by fear and anxiety like demons of Hades and how the wind howled around the manor. Wrap, wrap, wrap. There they were once more. Would they never cease? A jagged streak of lightning darted across the clouds and lit the room as brightly as day. Elspeth gave a cry. Captain Nat Pagan awoke, irritated at having his sleep again disturbed. What on earth is ailing you? Grown to the captain provoked. You start at the least sound. Imagination or nerves, dear. I do feel miserable, said Elspeth timidly. Do light a candle. The captain arose somewhat unwillingly, lit a candle and placed it beside her on a table. I can't sleep, Nat. I'm so wretched, cried Elspeth. You can call me a coward if you will. You may say it is imagination if you like. You may laugh at the nox as a joke and scorn them as nerves, but I know. I know, Nat, dear, don't go on this voyage. I feel terrible things about it. Think of the children. Think of me. And womanlike, Elspeth burst into tears. Captain Pagan was overwhelmed by the tears, but not by the arguments. He comforted her in his big-hearted way and dried her tears. For the rest of the night he sat beside her and did his best to cheer her. But it was in vain. Elspeth, with her round blue eyes full of tears and her full sweet lips trembling, still pleaded her cause, and the captain still remained like adamant. Elspeth maintained her ground from feeling, from love and anxiety apparently without reason or sense, and the captain grew more determined. He held by his will sheer obstinacy. He held by a man's pride and a sailor's absolute fearlessness. So these two, bound so close together, remained far apart on the subject of tomorrow's sailing. For the first time the sea was an abyss between them. Courage and duty were on one side of it, love and fear on the other. No bridge crossed to unite them. An event of human life and feeling which has been enacted a million times since the world began. Next morning the captain bade farewell to Elspeth and the children. The storm had lessened. The wind had fallen. The sun arose clear warm and bright, sparkling out over the sea and shining on the wet grass and drooping foliage of the trees. Captain Pagan bade his wife an affectionate goodbye, and although neither of them mentioned the subject of last night's discussion, it remained in their hearts and minds. The captain tried to inspire her with hope and courage by his words and caresses, and Elspeth felt his sympathy and kindness, reciprocating with her love and her faith in him. But dread of the future did not sleep. After her husband had gone the brood of anxious thoughts and harrowing fears returned in greater force, and with less resistance. Elspeth was alone. That evening the sun went down in a wild sea of fiery red clouds. The whole sky was ablaze. Banks of flaming clouds piled on one another as they heavily plowed across the sky. The sun showered over the ocean a million sparks of light and licked every billow with a tongue of fire. The ruddy glow flared on every cap of seafoam. As the surf crashed on the beach it flashed with the tumultuous red of the setting sun, and the cliffs and sands reflected the angry hues as if alive with the same fire. It boated ill for the night. And that night a terrible tempest burst over land and sea. The hurricane of wind lashed the waves into fury, and flung volleys of foam against the precipices and crags. It crested the rocks and filled the clefts with a maddened froth like lions at bay. The billows heaped one on another and plunged and tumbled with a mighty crash over the sands. They flowed back and rushed furiously at the breastworks of safety, regiment after regiment of hungry growling waves. They dashed into the huts of the fisherfolk and the fishermen sought refuge in places of security. On the far side of the village from the cliffs head shone out sharp and steady the beacon light. Away on the reef, now hidden beneath the snowy mains of the lions of the sea, the melancholy monotonous clang of the belboy rang out its note of alarm. Lights moved up and down the village and along the coast like restless spirits seeking to aid those in danger and distress. On a night like this the village never slept. And the tolling of the bell on the reef boomed long and mournfully, tolling, tolling a warning to the living, tolling, tolling the departure of human souls. Elspeth looked from her bedroom window. Elspeth saw it all. All night the light burned in her room. Sleep had deserted her. The power of the elements, the terror of the tempest had entered her soul, yet she knew that God was behind it all and that she had no need to fear what he allowed. How the clouds raced across the sky, surly and threatening, how the wind screamed and rushed through the trees and the foreboding of evil, how it tormented her. Who was warning her? Who if not God? What was the meaning, the reason of this torture of fear and dread? God help me, she cried in her misery and terror, poor struggling human soul. God is still greater than we. His ways are not our ways, nor are his thoughts our thoughts, for as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are his thoughts than our thoughts, and his ways than our ways. And Elspeth was learning God's immutable and irrevocable truth. Next day the storm continued. Every hour news came up to the manner from the village of the various pieces of wreckage washed up on the beach. The children were kept at home, but Elspeth haunted the streets of the village, the fishermen's huts on the beach and the coastguard on the cliff. She questioned no one, spoke to no one, but death stared up at her from the wild ocean, weird and hopelessly. God is merciful, and God was merciful to her. Elspeth passed like a ghost among the villagers. When the shadows of evening gathered over the fisherman's huts, she slipped away to the manor on the hill. That night, Elspeth became very ill with a fever, brought on, said the doctor, from exposure to the cold winds in the damp, also from some nervous mental strain. Elspeth was wildly delirious, haunted by phantoms of the sea. And then the news came, the sad tidings of Captain Nat Pagan's death at sea, for a great wave had swept him from the helm of the Parthenopy. No one told Elspeth. She would not have understood it if they had. But she knew, as women sometimes know. Some weeks later, Elspeth slipped into the mystery beyond this life where a dread and anxiety have no place, where love is life and all things. The abyss was bridged between Elspeth and her husband. It was the knock of death on the great hall door. It was a knell that boomed over the reef, a way out in the wild sea, the knell of Nat Pagan, tolling, tolling a warning to the living, tolling, tolling the departure of a human soul. End of section 12, recording by Melissa Green.