Chaste as Ice, Pure as Snow: A Novel

by C. Despard

Then he stopped again, and there came a sad look into his eyes. "There are more stars up there than we can see," he went on, "for some are not allowed to shine. They lie in the night like dead things, but still they are alive, for sadness is in their hearts, and this sadness is greatest now when all the others are shining and singing out for joy."

Laura's eyes looked sorrowful. "Why do they sing so loud?" she asked; "they might be sorry for the poor little dead stars."

"Some of them are so far away that it would take them thousands of years even to know that the light of the poor dead stars had gone out, and so they cannot tell that their singing makes the dead stars sad; but those who are near are sad, and sometimes even try to help. My story is about one of the dead stars. He was meant to be a beautiful star, for his spirit was great and strong, with mighty wings and eyes piercing like those of an eagle. Every day he knelt before God's white throne, which is quite in the middle of those stars, and every night he shone out into the darkness with a fair and glorious shining, and sang more loudly and sweetly than any. But there came a time when the star-spirit grew tired of this happy life: his light shone less brightly than it had done, his voice was sometimes missed from the night-chorus. A change had come over him, and this was what had caused it. There had come to him at a time when he was resting idly on his wings in that dark azure above—it was too early for his light to be shining, and he had left the crystal throne—a being until then unknown to him. It was dark and mournful, with black plumes covering it from head to foot, and nothing of light about it but a last remnant that shone from its eyes. This was the spirit of darkness, whose dominions had been invaded and conquered by light. The spirit of the night let her black plumes fall, and the star saw she was beautiful—with a beauty that did not belong to the light, it is true, but that still possessed a wild charm of its own. It was fascinating to him, perhaps, because unlike anything he had ever seen before."

L'Estrange was getting past Laura, but he had almost forgotten the child, and she listened, not understanding much, but entranced as she might have been by some bewitching melody. Her friend paused for a moment; when he continued his voice was low, and its tones were more sad than they had been:

"The star-spirit and the spirit of the night met many times, and at each time of their meeting the light of the star waned fainter. At last, when the fascination with which she surrounded him had reached its full force, he forgot, or omitted purposely, to light his lamp and shine with his companion-spheres in the midnight heavens. Terrible things happened that night, for our star, which was very bright and large, had been well known upon the earth.

"Sailors had given it a name of their own, and often, when the sea was all round them and they could not tell where they were, looking up they had seen this star, and its light had guided them. On this night the sea was running high, and as usual the sailors had looked up for their star, that they might know no rocks were near. Think of their despair when they found it not! Ah! there was one great ship full of women and little children. The sailors had lost their way. They looked up for the star which had guided them so often: hélas! its bright shining was swallowed up by the darkness. They took a wrong path in the waters, the big ship struck upon a rock, the women and little children were drowned. The star-spirit did not know this. He felt no sadness that night, for the spirit of darkness was with him; yet the next night, when he would have shone out in his place, he found that the power of shining had gone from him—that his star was a dead star in the sky. Ah, mon Dieu! to tell of his sadness! He would have no more to say to the night-spirit who had tempted him; he shut himself up in his dark star; he waited, waited, night after night, thinking that the power and gladness of shining might come back. It did not come; even, it seemed, his star grew blacker as the ages passed, as if the dark spirit were wrapping it round in her heavy plumes. So sad a change! No little children looking up to him, no weary traveller blessing him for his help, no pleasant music sounding from him in the evening; nothing but darkness, sorrow, misery. The stars went singing about him, and he lay there still, all his gladness gone out of him—a dead star in heaven. At last there came a night when the singing was louder and more joyous, and the spirit of the dead star, who had been hiding his head for shame at his darkness, looked out to see what it meant. A baby-star had been born into the sky, and all its sisters and brothers were rejoicing over its birth. The spirit of the dead star saw that its light was very near where his had been. It was feeble, but clear as dawn. The sight of the tiny light recalled to him the time when he too had shone out, a new joy and gladness, into the sky, and folding his wings he wept, as only spirits can weep, for a time that we on earth should call years. Perhaps his weeping made him better. It is impossible to say; but suddenly in the midst of it he heard a sound. It was clear, like the dripping of water from a fountain; it was silvery, like the ringing of bells in the distance. The spirit lifted his head from his folded wings, and there—even in his habitation, in the dead star whose light he had been—stood a beautiful child-spirit, her head drooping, her snowy wings folded over her breast, a small lamp in her hand. When the spirit of the dead star looked at the child she trembled, as if with fear at her own boldness; so the spirit could not be angry, although he knew this was the baby-light that had caused his weeping through those long dark years. Indeed, as he looked up he began to feel love stirring in his heart; the child-spirit was so beautiful and good, and her voice was like music. For she spoke when she saw she needed not to fear. 'I have come to stay with thee,' she whispered, 'for thy darkness and silence made my heart ache, and I have been praying to come for all these years. At last I have been allowed. Must I go away into the darkness?'

"He was moved with the child-spirit's humility and love. He rose, and towering above her in his grandeur gathered her up into his breast. 'Thou shalt stay with me for ever,' he answered. It was the night-time. Even as the spirit spoke he became conscious of a certain gladness unknown to him for the ages of darkness that had passed, and the everlasting song and music grew suddenly louder and more joyous. The child had broken the spell of night's spirit, she had brought him of her light, and he was born again, feebly but truly, into the sky."

L'Estrange stopped and looked down with a half smile, then his brow contracted. Laura had been listening breathlessly. She could not understand his tale, but its strangeness charmed her. "Is that all?" she said with a long-drawn sigh.

"Not quite all," he answered; then, as if to himself, "the end has yet to come. They were very happy together," he continued after a few moments' silence, "the spirit of the star that had been dead, but was gradually being restored to life and gladness, and the child whose presence had wrought the wonder. Once more the spirit of the star bowed down by day before the great white throne, and the child went with him; her angelic purity made her welcome there. But one day when they returned there was sadness at the heart of the spirit of the star, for he had learned that the child who had restored him was not to be left with him for ever; she had another work to do. He looked at her. She could not be sad, for, unlike the other spirit, she had never sinned, and perhaps this made his sadness the greater. Then it had been sweet to shine and sing with his companion-spheres, and he hardly knew how he would be able to shine and sing alone. But he would not keep her back. Another one, sad, it might be, in his darkness, wanted her, and with the life and gladness his child-messenger had brought him love. So"—L'Estrange's voice sank—"he let her go, his beautiful, his God-given—he let her go."

He said no more. For a few moments there was deep silence between them. Something of his sadness and a knowledge of its cause had penetrated the child's soul through his parable. Her eyes filled with tears. She looked up at the starry multitude, shining out now in their full glory above her, with a new love. At last she spoke, laying her head against his breast: "But, mon père, the spirit of the star shone out still?"