As holy and enchanted
Date: 2026-06-21T00:00:00+00:00

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Title: As holy and enchanted

Author: Henderson Starke

Illustrator: Leo Manso

Norman Nodel

Release date: June 21, 2026 [eBook #78909]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Stratford Novels Inc., 1953

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78909

Credits: Tom Trussel (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AS HOLY AND ENCHANTED ***

Transcribed from Avon Science Fiction and Fantasy Reader, April 1953 (Vol. 1, no. 2).

As Holy and Enchanted
by Henderson Starke

[Pseudonym of Kris Neville]

She was as fragile as a snowflake. Around her there was the heady, unspoiled spirit of Nature, and when Nick saw her he forgot about the petty troubles at the garage, forgot about the bustle and noise of the city, ignored the stinks and ugly sights of a giant metropolis—and found his way to the sorrow and heartbreak of an impossible love!

Illustrator: Norman Nodel

For him spring mornings had a character all their own, an indefinable essence that the mornings of the other seasons never had. And the best spring morning of all was a Sunday spring morning—when he did not go to the shop, when he awoke in time to hear the sleepy chirping of the English sparrows in the false dawn, when he loved to lie in bed, sleepy-warm, and smell the sweet, new air and dream lazy dreams.

Then when, beyond the skyline of dingy buildings, the heavens began to color rose, he would get out of bed and yawn and expect, secretly, that today something very fine and wonderful was going to happen to him.

Those mornings, he would put on his only suit, somewhat shiny from use, his favorite blue tie, a clear-sky blue, clean his shoes and, whistling, hurry out to meet the sun so that he would not lose another minute of the wonderful new day.

He always went first to the park. The park, before all the people came, was very quiet and peaceful. There was soft, lacy dew on the grass. And always, as he felt the trees around him, he imagined that he was far away from the city and in the midst of some delicate virginity, pure and sweet. The noises of civilization faded. The squirrels came out and chattered in the treetops. Occasionally he would hear the soft plunk of an acorn dropped from above. The birds’ songs were clear. And the little, burbling fountain was surrounded by cooing pigeons who sidled away, unafraid, to let him pass.

One particular Sunday morning, the fairest yet of all the year, when he came to the edge of his park, he was aware, more intensely than ever before, that this was the day for the strange, wonderful thing to happen to him. As he walked along, the knowledge became unbearably sweet within him, and it made the inside of his nose tickle with emotion.

The sun was fronted by the skyline, for it was newly risen. The air was fresh as only the air of spring can be. It was filled with the scents of new-born flowers and the long ago.

He stepped from the gravel path upon which he had been walking and onto the springy grass; his mind was alive with the delicious sensation of secrecy. He imagined that this, his short-cut to the burbling fountain, was mysteriously concealed from others and belonged to him alone among mortals. He did not walk either too slow or too swift; slow enough to be conscious of all the sounds around him and all the little, life movements; swift enough to satisfy his urge to hurry on and meet the wonderful thing that would be sure to be waiting for him among the pigeons.

All at once, rudely shattering his thoughts, he heard an unusual, frantic fluttering from a treetop to his left. He turned his head in time to see a brown sparrow falling toward the earth, desperately trying to break its fall.

At the first instantaneous image, he felt sorry for it; scarcely with thought, he walked to where it lay on the grass, hoping there might be some way he could help it.

The sparrow was panting and, seeing the man-form, it fluttered its wings in fear.

He bent quickly to pick it up; it cheep-cheeped shrilly. He was very careful not to hurt it. He could feel its tiny heart beating against the palm of his hand. Gently as he could, he felt of its wings and its legs to see if they were broken and was relieved to find that they were not.

“Hello.”

The girl’s voice was very sweet and very startling. Sweet because of some melodious quality, like that of a native ballad singer; startling because he had thought himself alone.

In quick surprise, he opened his hand; the sparrow fluttered and then flew. He stared at his hand, at the disappearing bird, and then turned to the speaker.

“You did fix him,” the girl said. “I was sure you were going to, and that’s why I spoke.”

He felt a shuddery current, something like fear, although strangely pleasant, creep up his spine. She was a beautiful girl, lithe and slender, and straight as a Georgia pine. Her hair was sunrise gold; her eyes, the brown of hazel nuts; and her teeth, uncovered by lips dewy with youth, flashed white in a quick, easy smile that reminded him of polar snow.

“I’m Mona,” she said, holding out her slim, white hand to him.

Slowly he reached out to meet the hand. It felt warm and firm in his. He continued to stare blankly into her face, and then, realizing that he was being very impolite, he felt his face begin to redden.

“Hello,” he said, for want of anything better to say.

She withdrew her hand; he felt the absence of it sharply.

“What’s your name?” she asked. Her voice was like no voice he had ever heard; it was open and vibrant and warm and friendly and thrilling. It had just the trace of an accent.

“I’m—I’m Nick.”

“Nick,” she said, “Nick,” drawing out the word as if she were taking it apart with her voice and finding all the hidden layers of meaning in it. “I like that name.” Then, seeing that he was still watching her, she smiled with pleasure and pirouetted skillfully on the grass, making her snow-white skirt billow out with the movement, holding her arms wide apart. She ended up facing him again. “It is a beautiful dress, isn’t it?”

He said, “Yes; it’s a beautiful dress.”

She laughed, and her laughter was like little bells, or like the silvery tinkle of a fast-flowing mountain brook. “I’m glad,” she said. “I thought it would be what you liked.” She tossed her head, making her hair flash out around it in a momentary, magic halo.

“You’re—beautiful, too,” he said. Immediately, he was chilled by the thought that she might turn and run away like a frightened faun.

“Do you really think so?”

“You’re more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen,” he said. “...I shouldn’t have said that. It just—sort of came out.”

“I’m glad it did.” She laughed again, and then she was beside him, her hand lightly resting upon his arm. He could smell the flower-fresh nearness of her; his throat swelled when she looked up into his face.

“I hoped you’d like me,” she said.

He felt lost in her eyes, her beautiful, brown eyes. He said nothing, for there was nothing to say, and a numbness was in his mind.

“Are you working today?” she asked.

Behind the numbness, there were puzzles, but looking down at her, he was sure they were not essential, and he wished they would go away; the important thing was just to answer her and hear her voice again.

“No, Mona,” he said.

She wrinkled her brow prettily. “Oh; I thought you were working.... When I saw you here, I thought you were, and that’s why I knew to speak to you, but I’m glad you’re not. ...I have a whole week to myself, and it’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

He said, “I think it’s very wonderful.”

“Where were you going, just now?” she asked, widening her eyes in innocent questioning.

“Me?” he said, and then he was embarrassed for saying it, because of course she meant him. “Oh, o—h. Just walking. Over to the fountain. The pigeons all come down to drink, early in the morning, before the people come....” Her smile was warm. “You know the fountain with the pigeons around it?” he finished, having lost the thread of thought in her smile.

“No,” she said. “I don’t belong here.” And then she said, as if it explained everything, “I belong in Nebraska and Australia. I just came here for a week before I have to go on down to Australia.”

“Oh,” he said.

“Which way is the fountain? I’d love to see it; it must be quite pretty if you like it.”

“It’s—it’s just a fountain.... I’ll—I’ll show it to you, if you want me to.”

“Of course I do.”

And the two of them, her hand lightly on his arm, began to walk through the park. “You’re the first one I’ve met down here,” she said. “I was so in hopes I’d meet some of us; it’s lonely with no one to talk to.”

“Yes,” he said, “I know. I’m often lonely.”

Her eyes turned serious-sympathetic. “I’m sorry,” she said, and her voice was full of understanding in a way he had never imagined possible. “I’m very sorry, Nick....” And then, with a little shout of joy, “Oh! That must be your wonderful fountain!”

“Yes,” he said. Only now it did not seem so wonderful. He wanted to show her all the things more wonderful. He thought of the sunrise on tall mountains, and the flat, level blue of the ocean off Hawaii, and the burning of pine logs in a New England fireplace when the snow lay piled outside and the air was sharp, and the high, tumbling waterfalls in Africa that broke into rainbow spray, and all the other marvelous things he had read about during all his life.

She ran from him, scattering the startled pigeons, who fluttered a few feet and immediately resumed their endless search for food, to sit down on the old stone rim of the fountain. She dipped her hand lightly in the water; she drew it along with a free, graceful movement that was like a caress. “It feels so nice,” she said. “I like water very much. Clear water. Like rain.” She stared dreamily into it. “I work with water every day—almost and yet: It’s always so beautiful.”

He had not moved. “You’re beautiful,” he said again in child-like wonder, knowing that to say it would not make her run away.

“Silly! You weren’t listening to what I said!” She flipped some of the water from her hand, playfully. Then, when she saw it hit on his suit, she sprang up....

“Oh! I’m sorry, Nicky. I didn’t mean to get your suit all wet.” She stood before him, looking up at him. “And such a pretty suit. You won’t be mad at me, will you? Because then you’d go away and I wouldn’t have anyone to talk to.”

He felt the lump in his throat; it had been there for a long time. “Mona,” he said, “I don’t think I’d ever want to go away.”

“You say the nicest things.” She took his hand and drew him, with gentle pressure, to the stones of the fountain. The pigeons, cooing softly, opened a little isle for them that closed as soon as they had passed.

“Sit down, Nicky,” she said.

For a moment she sat there beside him, silent, staring into the unquiet water, seeing the flicker and gleam of darting goldfish outlined sharply against the green of the gently waving moss. The falling water sprayed and dimpled the surface, making the fish seem fluidly unreal.

He watched the mirrored mood on her face.

“I think you have one of the best jobs,” she said.

Instinctively, he looked away from her and stared into the burbling fountain, too. Thinking of his job made him briefly miserable. His face grew hot. Then he was afraid she would see that he was ashamed. That made it all the worse. He hoped she was still staring into the water.

Looking back at her, he saw that she seemed dainty, fragile, somehow like a snowflake or a delicate crystal or something that would shatter with the first rumble of horizon thunder. He knew he must never say anything she did not want him to say—or she might go away, and he would never see her again.

“It’s all right,” he said.

“I think it’s the most wonderful job,” she insisted gently.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I suppose it really is.”

Suddenly she asked, “Did you notice the sunrise this morning?”

“Yes,” he said.

“It was a beautiful sunrise. Robert does them for Nebraska—do you know him?—and he’s very good—but I don’t know: this one, this morning: I think they must use more colors, down here.”

He felt his throat constrict. He felt cold inside. He said, “I think they must,” and waited.

“Yes, I guess they do,” she said, smiling up at him. “Oh! I’m so glad I met you!” She held out both of her hands, and he took them in his.

“Hazel eyes,” he said, “beautiful hazel eyes.”

“Nicky,” she said, “could you get off? I have the whole week here.”

“I—I—.”

“And you could show me the city—if you wanted to—that would be fun—don’t you think so?—do you often go into the city at all?—and take me dancing, and—it would be just wonderful if you could.”

She sprang away from him and danced around him, laughing, humming a little, sad-funny tune that he had never heard. “I’m a very good dancer.” And she spun in a series of intricate steps, executed with happy grace.

When she ceased, her cheeks were rosy from her efforts, and her breath came quickly. “Come.” She held out her hand. “Let’s walk, and you can talk to me, and I can talk to you, and neither of us will be lonely.”

He stood, and she came to him. “Lead me,” she said. “Show me your wonderful park.”

They began to walk; and, as they walked, she chattered happily, occasionally looking up at him for approval, talking of the trees and the birds and the wind and the grass and the change of the seasons. She talked in youth and enthusiasm. Once she paused to laugh at a gray squirrel, and it looked down at her quizzically, over the acorn it was holding in its forepaws.

He listened and half listened and sometimes only heard the sweet melody of her voice, rising and falling, reminding him of the pleasant wind in the scented trees and the quiet sea.

Time moved, or stood still, or was not; it did not matter.

Then, in their aimless walk, they came to the edge of the park and looked out on the city.

“Oh! How very big and pretty. And exciting! Do you often go out there, Nicky?”

“Quite often,” he said, wanting to go back into the park, afraid that the city would break and shatter her with its many muted rumbles.

“It must be fun—to be where you’re able to. You’ll show it to me, won’t you? You promised, remember? And tell me about it? About the buildings? And the streets?”

“Yes,” he said, taking her hand; she squeezed in soft, answering pressure. “If you really want to see it.”

Like two little children, hand in hand, they walked out into the city.

Their feet made the sharp clatter of the city; the Sunday traffic made the subdued roar of the city; the people’s voices made the dry-sadness of the city.

Her questions came quickly, tumbling over themselves in flying curiosity, jumping with the speed of thought from subject to subject. He answered them all, softly, quietly, as if talking to a little girl who was first seeing the city and trying to know it all in a single hour. It gave him a sweet sense of belonging, and her eager wonder at his knowledge filled him with a pride and a joy he had never known.

“Here,” he said, pointing to a new-shiny building, with doors gleaming with brass and windows sparkling with sunshine. “This. It’s built on the very spot where an ancient, Spanish monastery once stood.”

“You know so very much. About the strangest things—about these people.”

“I come here often,” he said.

“...We’ve been walking for a long time,” she said.

“Are you tired?”

“Not very.”

“Neither am I,” he said.

“No; you only get tired when you’re lonely; and we’re not....” Her voice trailed away. “Look, Nicky! A tree.... It seems funny to see a tree here, among all these buildings: like it was growing out of the pavement instead of the ground.”

“Yes; it does seem like that,” he said.

“I wonder if it’s a happy tree; do you think so, Nicky?”

“I guess it is....”

“Look: Mona?” he said.

“Yes?”

“I.... Look: Are you hungry?”

“...Are you?”

“Yes,” he said, “Let’s go eat.”

“All right.” She laughed lightly. “That sounds like fun.”

When, shortly, they arrived at the door of a restaurant, he said, “Go on in.”

“It’ll be all right?” she asked doubtfully.

“Of course.”

He guided her to a table and, when they ordered, she followed his lead, saying what he said, watching the waitress cautiously, out of the corner of her eye.

“I don’t know how you do it,” she said, looking up after the girl had left their table. “I’d be afraid to death, if you weren’t with me.”

“You get used to it,” he said.

“Of course you do.... Nicky? I’d love to live here—where I could come into the city—do all these wonderful things—whenever I wanted to.”

“Would you really like to live here?” he asked, and his voice sounded dry and strained.

“Oh, very much, Nicky. I’d love to live here—almost better than anything.” And having said that, she was suddenly very shy; she looked down at the snowy tablecloth and ran her fingertips over it.

He was not sure what to say; the palms of his hands were moist. And he was glad when the lunch arrived.

After the waitress left, they looked up and stared into each other’s eyes.

“Well,” he said, looking down at the food, “it looks all right to me.”

“Yes,” she said, “it’s just fine.”

There was a motionless silence.

“Well,” he said. He picked up his water-glass and sipped, watching her.

She picked up her glass and sipped, watching him.

He put the glass down and speared into the salad with his fork. She imitated him. She chewed the salad carefully. She said, hesitatingly, “It’s very good, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said, “it sure is.”

“Ummmm,” she said.

He broke off a piece of french bread, buttered it.

She broke off a piece of french bread, buttered it.

“Look—?” he said.

“Yes?”

“—Nothing.”

She took more salad. “Does it snow often, here?”

“Snow?” He put down his knife across the edge of his plate. “...Hasn’t for years. Last time was thirty-three, I think.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I remember, now.”

When the lights in the theater went off, she stiffened. And, with the first trumpet jar of the newsreel music, she said, “Ohhhh,” very softly. After that, for a few minutes, she was on the edge of her seat, watching wide-eyed. Once she said, “Oh, Nicky, look!”

But soon she settled down and rested her head on his shoulder. He slipped his arm around her. It seemed natural that he should. She moved closer to him; her hand found his. She made a little noise, deep in her throat, like a purr. “I like this,” she whispered. “Better than anything I’ve ever done.”

He kissed her silken hair, knew the electric nearness of her, and nothing else mattered.

When the movie was over, they walked again; sunset brooded in the west; the air was warm and exotic, as if blowing from the far away, from a never, never land of strange, perfumed flowers. And the day had been long and sweet.

The cab swung into the paved semi-circle before the tall building. They got out. In the dim light, her dress glowed whitely; she stared up and up, her eyes widening with the vast height of the building.

“It’s on the roof,” he whispered to her, as soon as he had paid the cab.

“I’m—I’m afraid,” she half whimpered.

“It’s only a dance,” he said.

They walked into the hotel and through the huge lobby, feeling, in that moment, alone against the world. She pressed to him as if for protection. Beautifully dressed people moved around them, so rich with assurance.

They crossed the foyer; they entered the elevator with an elderly man in a tuxedo; “The Top,” the man said, as if he were accustomed to saying it.

Nick wondered if he had enough money. He had heard that this was an expensive place.

“Ohhhhh,” she said as the elevator began to move.

The elderly gentleman looked at her strangely.

Nick patted her arm and smiled at her; she smiled back, uncertainly.

When the elevator sighed to a stop, the operator slid open the door. The three passengers stepped out.

The sight of the room; the music; the muted sigh of conversation; the lights; the women with their jewelry; the reflection in the curved mirror of the bar; the smell of food; the deep, blood-red, silencing carpet.

She seemed overcome with the bright glitter of it. He felt cold and a little frightened with the strange glamor of it. It was something like a movie set; unreal, like that, to him. He wondered how the men moved with such poise.

After a few moments, the head waiter came to them; he raised his eyebrows as if to ask if they had a reservation, then he seemed to reconsider. “A table for two, sir?” he asked.

“Yes.... Please,” Nick said.

“If you’ll come this way, sir...?”

They followed him.

And they were seated. The table was small and secluded.

He sat very stiffly, waiting, very conscious of his shiny suit. She turned immediately toward the dance floor. She watched the dancing bodies mold together in waltz rhythm; she swayed with them, and her eyes were wide and starry with rapt attention. She turned back to him. “I never knew it was this wonderful,” she said, “and it almost makes you wish....”

“Wish what?” he asked, after a moment.

She studied his face as if memorizing it; her eyes seemed suddenly turned sad. “Nothing, Nicky,” she said.

Eventually, the silent waiter handed them huge, elaborate menus.

He glanced at his and felt a momentary sickness; it passed, and he was ashamed of it.

“Would you like to eat?” he asked, but his voice sounded thin to his ears.

She stared across the menu at him. “Silly! We’ve already eaten: have you forgotten?”

“Yes, that’s right.” He tried a smile at the waiter that didn’t quite come off. “A drink, then?” he asked her.

“Should we?”

“This once,” he said. “What would you like?”

“Whatever you’d like.”

“Champagne,” he said, because he had read that men who felt like he felt should buy champagne for the girl they felt that way about.

The waiter bowed. “Yes, sir.” He began to name champagnes.

Nick listened, repeated the fifth name after the waiter; he hoped it would be all right.

When they were alone again, he looked across at her. “Darling,” he said, surprised at his own courage.

“Yes?” Her lips were shining red.

“Darling, I.... I.... I....” He knew perfectly well what he wanted to say. He was annoyed to find that his voice refused to respond. The moment passed. “Do you like champagne?” he finished desperately.

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“It’s—all right.”

“If it’s what you like, I’ll like it too,” she said.

After the wine was in their glasses, he raised his and sipped to her.

“It’s all funny-bubbly and sour,” she said. Then hastily, “But I like it, Nicky; I really do.”

His hand curled the stem of his glass; the vessel seemed springily cushioned on the heavy whiteness of the tablecloth.

“Nick,” she said. “Every minute’s been wonderful.” Color came into her cheeks.

He looked down at the rising, breaking bubbles and spoke to them softly. “I don’t know how to say this. I’ve never said it before. I wouldn’t say it to any other girl, ever.” He was surprised to hear the words; and glad and afraid. “Mona,” he said, “I’m in love with you. I’ve known it for hours.” He did not look up.

There was silence; he thought he heard her sigh, wistfully.

“Nicky, Nicky. I knew I loved you when I saw you there, fixing that poor, little bird.”

He looked up, then.

“But Nick,” she said, “I’m afraid that you....”

“No. Don’t spoil it. Don’t say anything. Right now. We’ll have to say things later. Be still and listen, now.”

They listened; and then they danced; they danced on a carpet of clouds.

“Hold me tight,” she whispered, “very tight, and say that you love me.”

She danced airy and delicate and snuggled warmly, and her white dress flowed in animated grace, coming alive around her.

The room glided away and back, to the dip and swoop of the waltz, and she followed him, her head thrown back slightly, her lips half parted, her eyes lightly closed and fluttering.

He found himself dancing slowly toward the door and out of the room, onto the open terrace, into the pale moonlight of the waning moon. It seemed, almost, as if, somehow, she had led him, very gently.

They stopped dancing and walked to the edge and looked down on the city sparkling there under them.

She was warm in his arm.

He turned to her, looked down into her wonderful eyes, and the stars of the city and the sky, too, were there.

Her face seemed alive with the moment, in a life drawn from all the wonderful, eloquent silences of vast nature; her delicately molded features were impossibly perfect; and her skin was smooth and life-blood warm. And yet, there was sadness there, too.

“Mona,” he whispered, “will you marry me?”

“I—don’t know,” she breathed softly. “Oh, Nick, I do so hope so!”

“I don’t understand,” he said. “I—want—to,” she said very slowly. “Only I couldn’t come down here. You see, I only know one job. But maybe, in a little while, in just a few years, you could get a transfer and come to Nebraska.”

“Mona,” he said, “you wouldn’t have to work.” He felt her stiffen in his arms. “Of course, at first, it might be hard.” He went on talking, but he knew she wasn’t listening. “But I can get promotions; I know I can, if I have you to work for.... I’m not making very much now, but maybe in a couple of years, I’ll be a foreman, and then....”

She drew away. “Oh, Nick, oh, no.” Her voice was a choked sob. “I thought....” She checked herself. “And then I was afraid that you....” She looked up at him and said, in a whisper, “Nick, what is your job?”

“It isn’t much, now, darling, but....”

“Please, Nick. What is it?”

“I’m a mechanic,” he said; it made him feel miserable; because he knew that was not what she wanted to hear.

She moaned. “I—I was—afraid.... No. I guess I knew, down deep, from the first, that you weren’t.... But I wouldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t let myself believe it. In the city, I was almost sure, once, but I couldn’t ask you. When—I saw you—in the park—with that—that bird, I thought your job was to—to fix all the little birds and animals that got hurt—and then when you said, before the people come to the fountain, I was almost sure, for a little while, and then afterwards, I was afraid to ask, when I wasn’t sure any more. But....

“You weren’t; you aren’t,” she finished hopelessly.

“Mona,” he said, “please don’t say those things. You’re talking nonsense.”

She shook her head. “No, Nick. Not nonsense.”

She began to cry. She stood very still and very straight. Her lower lip trembled. “Nick,” she said, “it’s been the most wonderful day ever; and I’ll never forget it. Not ever.

“Nick,” she said, very softly, “I’m sorry I did this to you.” She started to put out her hand to caress his face, and then she drew it back without touching him.

He swallowed and wanted to touch her and take her in his arms and say, “It’s a dream, what you’re saying, you don’t mean it, you’re just teasing me and you....” But he said, “Mona, Mona, what is your job?” And he said it so low that she could scarcely hear him.

She looked deep into his eyes, and her lip was quivering.

“Oh, Nick, Nick. Darling.” Her voice was an eerie whisper now. “Nick, I make snowflakes.”

Suddenly he was alone. He turned his eyes up to the mute stars. And he felt something soft and wet strike against his hot face; they were like gentle kisses; and he knew what they were.

Transcriber’s note:

This etext was produced from Avon Science Fiction and Fantasy Reader, April 1953 (Vol. 1, no. 2).

Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version, but minor inconsistencies have been retained as printed.

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