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Updated: August 13, 2024
And if modern cults had done nothing more than appropriate the poetry of Pantheism they would have lent only a touch of oriental colour to the somberness of Western life. But Theosophy and kindred cults have gone farther, since Pantheism itself must go farther.
"Do I detect in that observation, sir, the suggestion that the tales I have heard were deliberately set to blast where they would do the most good as deterrents?" A fleeting grin broke the impassive somberness of the black face. "I was informed you are a man skilled in 'magic, Medic. You certainly display the traditional sorcerer's quickness of wit. But this rumor is also truth."
Strange tatters of conversation rose from the deck. "Poor child, she lost her husband at the beginning of the war" "Third shipment of hosses" "I was talking with a feller from the Atlas Steel Company" "Edouard is somewhere near Arras"; there were disputes about the outcome of the war, and arguments over profits. A voluble French woman, whose husband was a pastry cook in a New York hotel before he joined the forces, told me how she had wandered from one war movie to another hoping to catch a glimpse of her husband, and had finally seen "some one who resembled him strongly" on the screen in Harlem. She had a picture of him, a thin, moody fellow with great, saber whiskers like Rostand's and a high, narrow forehead curving in on the sides between the eyebrows and the hair. "He is a Chasseur alpin," she said with a good deal of pride, "and they are holding his place for him at the hotel. He was wounded last month in the shoulder. I am going to the hospital at Lyons to see him." The day's sunset was at its end, and a great mass of black clouds surged over the eastern horizon, turning the seas ahead to a leaden somberness that lowered in menacing contrast to the golden streaks of dying day. The air freshened, salvos of rain fell hissing into the dark waters, and violet cords of lightning leaped between sea and sky. Echoing thunder rolled long through unseen abysses. In the deserted salon I found the young Frenchman with the star-shaped scar reading an old copy of "La Revue." He had been an officer in the Chasseurs-
Stoliker began to feel, poor man, that the paths of duty were unpopular. Old Hiram could always be depended upon to add somberness and taciturnity to a wedding feast; the professor, never the liveliest of companions, sat silent, with clouded brow, and vexed even the cheerful Mrs. Bartlett by having evidently no appetite.
The occasional rolling thunder of a cannon deepened the somberness of the scene. All the officers of the regiment had lost their horses and they walked now with the men. A full moon threw a silvery light over the marching troops, who strode on in silence, the wounded suppressing their groans. A full moon cast a silvery light over the pallid faces. "Do you know where we are going?"
As he entered the room, dim with the heavy somberness of the leaden atmosphere, he saw his visitor standing looking out of the window a tall, broad-shouldered, small-waisted striking figure, with a neat black turban crowning her closely braided hair. At his step she turned, and revealed the gravely handsome face of Genevieve Ryan.
The somberness of the dark dress was relieved by simple folds of white crape at the throat and wrists, while the handsome jet ornaments, the gift of Wilford's father, added to the style and beauty of the childish figure, which had seldom looked lovelier than when ready and waiting for the carriage.
Occasional shafts of sunlight, penetrating the deep shade, warmed the somberness of the grove. Alluring paths led off among the trees and into cozy nooks made by circles of red columns growing around the dust of vanished ancestors witnessing the titantic dimensions of those ancestors by the girth of the circles in which they stood.
She laughed at the somberness of her reflection, which she at once set about relieving with a great bunch of geraniums big and scarlet and long-stemmed, that she thrust slantwise through her belt. Melicent, always charming, was very pretty when she laughed. She thought so herself and laughed a second time into the depths of her dark handsome eyes.
The evening was yellow with the peculiar diffused radiance of high latitudes, lending a certain somberness to their surroundings. The rushing tide, the ragged rock-teeth which showed through it, the trackless, unending forests that clothed the hills in every direction, awed her a little, yet gave her an unaccustomed feeling of freedom and contentment.
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