bushes, afraid almost to draw his breath, but from where he was he could
hear and see all, and had overheard all that had been said. At length,
after the lovers had been silent for a long time, he took courage to
peer out from his hiding-place, and he saw that they were asleep. He
would wait a little longer, though, till their sleep was sounder, and
then he might be able perhaps to creep away unheard. So he waited on,
and the moon grew brighter and brighter, and flooded the woods with its
strange silver. And the lovers fell deeper and deeper asleep.
"It will be safe now," said the old man, half rising and looking out
from his bushes. But this time, as he looked out, he saw something,
something very strange and beautiful.
Hovering over the sleeping lovers was a floating, flickering shape that
seemed made of moonbeams, with two great shining stars for its eyes. It
was the dream that came nightly to watch over the sleep of the lovers;
and, as the miser gazed at it in wonder, a strange change came over his
soul, and he saw that all the treasure he had hoarded so long--gathered
by the cruel practices of years, and with carrying which about the world
his back had grown bent--was as dross compared with this beautiful
dream of two poor lovers, to whom but one of all his gold pieces had
seemed like a fortune.
"What, after all, is it to me but a weary burden my shoulders grow too
old to carry," he murmured, "and for the sake of which my life is in
danger wherever I go, and to guard which I must hide away from the eyes
of men?"
And the longer he gazed on the fair, shining vision, the more the
longing grew within him to possess it for himself.
"They shall have my treasure in exchange," he said to himself,
approaching nearer to the sleepers, treading softly lest he should
awaken them. But they slept on, lost in the profound slumber of innocent
youth. As he drew near, the dream shrank from him, with fear in its
starry eyes; but it seemed the more beautiful to the old man the closer
he came to it and saw of what divine radiance it was made; and, with his
desire, his confidence grew greater. So, softly placing his leather bag
in the flowers by the side of the sleepers, he thrust out his talon-like
fingers and snatched the dream by the hand, and hurried away, dragging
it after him down the wood, fearfully turning now and again to see that
he was not pursued.
But the sleepers still slept on, and by morning the miser was far away,
with the captive dream by his side.
As the earliest birds chimed through the wood, and the dawn glittered on
the dewy flowers, the lovers awoke and kissed each other and laughed in
the light of the new day.
"But what is this?" cried the girl, and her hands fell from the pretty
task of coiling up the sunrise of her hair.
With a cry they both fell upon the leather bag, lying there so
mysteriously among the wood-lilies in the grass. With eager fingers they
drew apart the leather thongs, and went half-mad with wonder and joy as
they poured out the glittering treasure in the morning sun.
"What can it all mean?" they cried. "The fairies must have been here in
the night."
But the treasure seemed real enough. The jewels were not merely dewdrops
turned to diamonds and rubies and amethysts by the magic beams of the
sun, nor was the gold mere gold of faerie, but coins bearing the image
of the king of the land. Here were real jewels, real gold and silver.
Like children, they dabbled their hands in the shining heap, tossing
them up and pouring them from one hand to the other, flashing and
shimmering in the morning light.
Then a fear came on them.
"But folk will say that we have stolen them," said the youth; "they will
take them from us, and cast us into prison."
"No, I believe some god has heard our prayer," said the girl, "and sent
them down from heaven in the night. He who sent them will see that we
come to no harm."
And again they fell to pouring them through their fingers and babbling
in their delight.
"Do you remember what we said last night when we found the gold piece?"
said the girl. "If only we had more of them! Surely our good angel heard
us, and sent them in answer."
"It is true," said the young man. "They were sent to fulfil our dream."
"Our poor starved and tattered dream!" said the girl. "How splendidly we
can clothe and feed it now! What a fine house we can build for it to
live in! It shall eat from gold and silver plate, and it shall wear
robes of wonderful silks and lawns like rainbows, and glitter with
jewels, blue and yellow and ruby, jewels like fire fountains and the
depths of the sea."
But, as they spoke, a sudden disquietude fell over them, and they looked
at each other with a new fear.
"But where _is_ our dream?" said the girl, looking anxiously around. And
they realized that their dream was nowhere to be seen.
"I seemed to miss it once in the night," answered the young man in
alarm, "but I was too sleepy to heed. Where can it be?"
"It cannot be far away," said the girl. "Perhaps it has wandered off
among the flowers."
But they were now thoroughly alarmed.
"Where can it have gone?" they both cried. And they rose up and ran to
and fro through the wood, calling out aloud on their dream. But no voice
came back in reply, nor, though they sought high and low in covert and
brake, could they find a sign of it anywhere. Their dream was lost. Seek
as they might, it was nowhere to be found.
And then they sat down by the treasure weeping, forgetting it all in
this new sorrow.
"What shall we do?" they cried. "We have lost our dream."
For a while they sat on, inconsolable. Then a thought came to the girl.
"Some one must have stolen it from us. It would never have left us of
its own accord," said she.
And, as she spoke, her eyes fell on the forgotten treasure.
"What use are these to us now, without our dream?" she said.
"Who knows?" said the young man; "perhaps some one has stolen our dream
to sell it into bondage. We must go and seek it, and maybe we can buy it
back again with this treasure."
"Let us start at once," said the girl, drying her tears at this ray of
hope; and so, replacing the treasure in the bag, the young man slung it
at the end of his staff, and together they set off down the wood,
seeking their lost dream.
Meanwhile, the old man had journeyed hastily and far, the dream
following in his footsteps, sorrowing; and at length he came to a fair
meadow, and by the edge of a stream he sat down to rest himself, and
called the dream to his side.
The dream shone nothing like so brightly as in the moonlit woodland, and
its eyes were heavy as with weeping.
"Sing to me," said the old man, "to cheer my tired heart."
"I know no songs," said the dream, sadly.
"You lie," said the old man. "I saw the songs last night in the depths
of your eyes."
"I cannot sing them to you," said the dream. "I can only sing them to
the simple hearts I made them for, the hearts you stole me from."
"Stole you!" said the old man. "Did I not leave my treasure in
exchange?"
"Your treasure will be nothing to them without me," said the dream.
"You talk folly," said the old man. "With my treasure they can buy other
dreams just as fair as you are. Do you think that you are the only dream
in the world? There is no dream that money cannot buy."
"But I am their own dream. They will be happy with no other," said the
dream.
"You shall sing to me, all the same," said the old man, angrily. But the
dream shrank from him and covered its face.
"If I sang to you, you would not understand. Your heart is old and hard
and cruel, and my songs are all of youth and love and joy."
"Those are the songs I would hear," said the old man.
"But I cannot sing them to you, and if I sang them you could not hear."
"Sing," again cried the old man, harshly; "sing, I bid you."
"I can never sing again," said the dream. "I can only die."
And for none of the old man's threats would the dream sing to him, but
sat apart, mourning the loved ones it had lost.
So several days passed by, and every day the dream was growing less
bright, a creature of tears and sighs, more and more fading away, like a
withering flower. At length it was nothing but a gray shadow, a weary
shape of mist that seemed ready to dissolve and vanish at any breath of
wind. No one could have known it for that radiant vision that had
hovered shimmering with such a divine light over the sleep of the
lovers.
At length the old man lost patience, and began to curse himself for a
fool in that he had parted with so great a treasure for this worthless,
whimpering thing. And he raved like a madman as he saw in fancy all the
gold and silver and rainbow-tinted jewels he had so foolishly thrown
away.
"Take me back to them," said the dream, "and they will give you back
your treasure."
"A likely thing," raged the old man, "to give back a treasure like that
for such a sorry phantom."
"You will see," said the dream.
As there was nothing else to be done, the old man took up his staff.
"Come along, then," said he, and started off in the direction of the
wood, and, though it was some days' journey, a glow flushed all through
the gray shape of the dream at the news, and its eyes began to shine
again.
And so they took their way.
But meanwhile the two lovers had gone from village to village, and city
to city, vainly asking news of their dream. And to every one they asked
they showed their treasure and said:
"This is all yours if you can but give us back our dream."
But nowhere could they learn any tidings, but gleaned only mockery and
derision.
"You must be mad," said some, "to seek a dream when you have all that
wealth in your pack. Of what use is a dream to any one? And what more
dream do you want than gold and precious stones?"
"Ah! our dream," said the lovers, "is worth all the gold and jewels in
the world."
Sometimes others would come, bringing their own dreams.
"Take this," they would say, "and give us your treasure."
But the lovers would shake their heads sadly.
"No, your dreams are not so beautiful as ours. No other dream can take
its place. We can only be happy with our own dream."
And, indeed, the dreams that were brought to them seemed poor, pitiful,
make-believe things, often ignoble, misbegotten, sordid, and cruel. To
the lovers they seemed not dreams at all, but shapes of greed and
selfish desire.
So the days passed, bringing them neither tidings nor hope, and there
came at length an evening when they turned their steps again to the
woodland, and sat down once more under the great oak-tree in the sunset.
"Perhaps our dream has been waiting for us here all the time," they
said.
But the wood was empty and echoing, and they sat and ate their supper as
before, but silently and in sorrow, and as the sun set they fell asleep
as before in each other's arms, but with tears glittering on their
eyelids.
And again the moon came flooding the spaces of the wood, and nothing was
heard but their breathing and the song of a distant nightingale.
But presently while they slept there was a sound of stealthy footsteps
coming up the wood.
It was the old man, with the dream shining by his side, and ever and
anon running ahead of him in the eagerness of its hope. Suddenly it
stopped, glowing and shimmering like the dancing of the northern
lights, and placed a starry finger on its lips for silence.
"See," it whispered, and there were the lovers, lying lost in sleep.
But the old man's wolfish eyes saw but one thing. There lay the leather
bag of his treasure just as he had left it. Without a word, he snatched
it up and hastened off with it down the wood, gurgling uncouthly to
himself.
"Oh, my beauties!" he cried, as he sat himself down afar off and poured
out the gold and the silver and the gleaming stones into the moonlight.
"Oh, my love, my life, and my delight! What other dream could I have but
you?"
Meanwhile, the lovers stirred in their sleep, and murmured to each
other.
"I seemed to hear singing," each said.
And, half opening their eyes, they saw their dream shining and singing
above them in the moonbeams, lovelier than ever before, a shape of
heavenly silver, with two stars for its eyes.
"Our dream has come back!" they cried to each other. "Dear dream, we had
to lose you to know how beautiful you are!"
And with a happy sigh they turned to sleep again, while the dream kept
watch over them till the dawn.
THE STERN EDUCATION OF CLOWNS
A clown out of work for many weeks had trudged the country roads,
footsore and hungry, vainly seeking an engagement. At length, one
afternoon, he arrived at a certain village and spied the canvas tent and
the painted wagons of a traveling circus. This sight put a pale hope
into his sad heart, and he approached the tent as bravely as he could to
find the proprietor of the show. Sad as was his heart, his face looked
sadder; and he did not, it is to be feared, make a very impressive
appearance, as at last he found the proprietor sitting on the side of
the sawdust ring, eating lunch with the Columbine. The circus proprietor
was large and swarthy and brutal to look on, and his sullen, cruel eyes
looked sternly at the little clown, who, between a sad heart and a
long-empty stomach, had very little courage left in his frame.
"Well!" roared the proprietor. "What is it?"
The little clown explained his profession and his need of an engagement;
and stood there, hat in hand, with tremulous knees.
The circus proprietor looked at him a long time in contemptuous silence,
and then, with an ugly sneer, said:
"Have you ever had your heart broken?"
"Indeed I have," answered the clown. "For to have your heart broken is
part of the business of a clown."
"How many times?"
"Six."
"Not enough," answered the proprietor, roughly, turning again to his
lunch with the Columbine. "Get it broken again and come back; then
perhaps we can talk business."
And the little clown went away; but he had hardly gone a few yards
before his heart broke for the seventh time--because of the bitterness
of the world.
Yet, being wise, he waited a day or two, living as best he could along
the country roads, and then at length he came back about noon to the
circus, and again the proprietor was eating lunch with the Columbine,
and again he looked up, sullen and sneering, and said:
"Well?"
The clown explained that his heart had been broken for the seventh time.
"Good," said the circus proprietor. "Wait till I have eaten lunch and we
will talk business."
And the clown sat at the side of the ring, and the proprietor and the
Columbine ate and laughed as if he were not there.
At length, finishing a tankard of ale, and wiping his mouth on the back
of his hand, the circus proprietor arose and beckoned the clown to come
to him.
At the same time he took a long ringmaster's whip, and the Columbine
took one end of a skipping-rope, while he held the other.
"Now," said the circus proprietor, "while we twirl the skipping-rope you
are to dance over it, and at the same time I will lash your shins with
this whip; and if, as you skip over the rope, you can laugh and
sing--like a child dancing on blue flowers in a meadow--I will give
you"--the proprietor hesitated a moment--"six dollars a week."
So it was that the clown at last got an engagement.
THE END
Transcriber's note:
_Underscores_ have been used to indicate _italic_ fonts.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Maker of Rainbows, by Richard Le Gallienne