The clouds raced over the night sky; the riverbanks gazed at the
flowing water, at the heavy timber floating slowly over its surface.
"Let it come!" cried the long stretch of wild rapids below.
Under the lee of a steep bank, just at the point where the eddy
begins, flickered a small camp-fire. The lumbermen sat round it--four
of them there were. The boom had just been drawn aside, the baulks
from above came floating down in clean rows, needing no helping hand,
and for the past two hours there had been no block in the river. The
lumbermen were having an easy time to-night.
"The farmer he sleeps in a cosy cot,
With a roof above his head;
The lumberman lies out under the stars,
With the dew to soften his bed.
But we'd not change our life so free
For all the farmer's gold,
Let clodhoppers snore at their ease o'nights,
But we be lumbermen bold!"
The river woke from its dreams.
The river-guard, seated on piles of baulks by the waterside, shifted a
little.
"But we be lumbermen bold!"
cried the nearest. And the song was passed on from one point to
another, from shore to shore, all down the rapids, to the gangs below.
Then all was silent again, for midnight loves not song, though it does
demand a call from man to man through the dark. It loves better to
listen, while the river tells of the dread sea-monster that yearly
craves a human life, whether grown or child, but always a life a year.
All things solemn and still now. The moon sits quiet as if in church,
and jesting dies on the roughest lips. Many call to mind things seen
at such a time--a man drawn down by an invisible grasp, to rise no
more, a widow wringing her hands and wailing, fatherless children
crying and sobbing. Some there are who have seen the marks of the
water-spirits on a drowned man's body, or maybe seen the thing itself
rise up at midnight, furrowing the water with a gleam of light where
it moves. Whose turn next? None can say, but the danger is never far
off.
The little camp-fire flickered, the roar of the rapids grew fainter.
The moon sits listening to the legends of the river, and gazing down
into the water.
Suddenly a great shout is heard from below. The men start up.
"Lock in, lock in! Close the boom!" comes the cry.
A murmur of relief from the men. Wakened abruptly from the spell of
the hour, they had taken the hail at first for a cry of distress. They
race up, lifting their poles above their heads as a sign the fairway
is blocked, and the word of command, "Lock in, lock in!" is flung from
man to man along the bank.
"Lock in it is!" cries the man at the head, and runs from the
camp-fire down to the waterside. The rope is slipped, the end of the
boom hauled close up to the shore and made fast again.
"'Twill hold a bit," says one. "But like to be a long spell for us
all--for there's none'll care to get far out on the block to-night, if
it lasts. Let's go down and see."
The party made their way down the path by the edge of the bank.
As the last of the timber comes down, the guards by the rapids join
them, one after another. "Where'll it be?"
"Down below somewhere, must be. If only it's not the Whirlstone
again."
"Ay, if it's that.... 'Tis no light work to get loose there in the
daytime, let alone by night."
The Whirlstone Rock it was; the baulks had gathered about it in an
inextricable mass. The shores were dark with men gathered to watch.
"Ay, 'tis there, sure enough, and fast as nails," said the men coming
in to the shore, after a vain attempt at breaking loose the block.
The Whirlstone was a point of rock, rising barely a yard above the
surface of the water, at the lower end of the rapids, where the
river began to widen out and clear. It lay rather to the right of the
fairway, and the timber floated clear, for the most part, to the left
of it. But a long stem bringing up against it broadside on would be
checked, and others packing against it form a fan-shaped mass reaching
from bank to bank. And it was a dangerous business to try and break
it, for the point of contact was at the rock itself out in the river,
and there was no time to reach the bank once the timber started to
spread. The usual way was to get out a boat from below, and even then,
it was a race for life to get clear before the loosened mass came
roaring down.
The foreman swore aloud. "I'll have that cursed rock out of the
fairway next summer, if I have to splinter it. Well, there's nothing
for it now; get your coffee, lads, and wait till it's light."
"Let's have a look at it first," cried a young, brisk voice in the
crowd. "Maybe we could get it clear."
"There's no clearing that in the dark," said the foreman. "Try, if you
like."
The young man sprang out on to the nearest point of the block, and
leaped across actively, with lifted pole, to the middle. Reaching
there, he bent down to see how the jam was fixed.
"Hallo!" came a hail from the rock. "It's easy enough. There's just
one stick here holding it up--a cut of the axe'll clear it."
"Ho!" cried the men ashore. "And who's to cut it loose, out there in
the dark and all?"
"Get a rope and haul it clear!" shouted the foreman.
"No use--can't be done that way."
The young man came ashore. "Mind if I lose the axe?" he asked the
foreman.
"Lose a dozen and welcome, if you can get it clear. Better than losing
two hours' work for fifteen men."
"Right. Give me an axe, somebody."
"'Tis fooling with death," cried one in the crowd. "Don't let him go."
"How d'you reckon to get back?" asked the foreman.
"Upstream at first, and come down after, when it clears."
"'Tis a mad trick," muttered the men.
"I'm not telling him to go, but I won't forbid him," said the foreman,
with emphasis. "And if 'twas any other man I'd not let him try, but
when Olof says he'll do a thing it's safe enough to be done. Sure you
can do it, lad?"
"Sure as can be. Where's the axe?"
He took the axe, and his pole, and balanced his way across to the
rock, gliding like a shadow, up and down as the piled stems led.
"He's pluck enough," said one.
"He's mad to try it," murmured some of the others sullenly.
The shadow had reached the rock. He laid the pole down at his feet,
gave one glance upstream, and stood ready. The axe-head flashed in the
air, the echo of the stroke rang from the steep banks. A second blow,
and a third--and then dead silence for a moment.
The men on the shore stood bending forward, straining their eyes to
see.
The shadow by the rock stood up, grasping his pole, thrust the point
lightly into one of the tangled baulks, and pressed with his left hand
against the haft. The right hand went up once more, the axe flashed
and fell. A thud as the blade came down, and a faint rushing sound....
The men on the bank held their breath and leaned forward again.
The shadow turned once more and cast a long, searching glance up the
stream. The right arm swung high, the axe flashed again....
A shrill, seething roar, like that of a rocket, was heard. The mass of
timber crashed and groaned, the water thundered like a beast in fury.
The shadow darted like an arrow over the shifting logs, slanting
upstream and towards the shore. He was half across the fairway now,
the pole swung round, the lithe body made a lightning turn, and he was
borne downstream at a furious pace.
Suddenly he lost his footing, fell, and disappeared.
"Good God!" cried the men.
"What did I say?"
"I ought never to have let him go!"
The timber crashed and the water roared, the great logs rose and fell
and tumbled one over another. Dark shadows hurried aimlessly hither
and thither on the banks.
"Downstream, lads, down!" cried the foreman.
"Ready to give a hand if he's carried inshore. Out with the boat,
quick!"
Shadows hurrying downstream....
"He's up again!" came a sudden shout from the farther shore. All
stopped.
And true enough, the daring lumberman was up again, hopping like a
bird from one racing log to another as they thrust and elbowed their
way down the rapids, rising and falling as in a loom. Then he settled
to the practised lumberman's easy poise on a log, and steered his way,
with lifted pole and carefully balanced body, out of the rapids.
"Well done, well done!"
"Ay, that's the sort. More eyes in his feet than many another in his
head."
They crowded thickly round the lad as he stepped ashore.
"What happened? How did you get up again?"
"'Twas easy enough. Only the bark broke away under foot, the sticks
themselves held fast. I was up again in a second--and the last part
was worth it all," said the boy, with a laugh.
"'Twas finely done," said the foreman. "But I don't want to see it
done again. You've done enough for to-night--go off and get a rest,
and to-morrow too, if you like."
"Thanks," said the young man, looked at his watch with a sly chuckle,
and flung down his pole on the grass.
* * * * *
Behind white curtains in a little room lay a young girl.
It was midnight, yet she had not slept. Something had happened that
evening which kept her awake.
Strange--it was like a story or a dream; she had never heard of such
a thing happening to any she knew. And now--she had only to shut her
eyes, and it was there all over again, to the very life.
She had seen it that way many times already, till it was grown to
something like a story. She had watched it happening, standing by, as
it were, a looker-on, watching what passed between the girl there and
one other.
She was standing in the front room--the girl, that is--pouring the
warm milk through a big strainer.
"They're giving more milk already," thinks the girl, and laughs.
Then suddenly the door opens, and a crowd of lumbermen come hurrying
through the room, going out to their night's work. The girl stands
with her back turned to them as they pass, answering over her shoulder
the jests of the men as they go.
But the one that was last of all--he did not go on with the rest,
but stayed, as if in wonder, looking at her. A tall, slender lad. His
jacket was unbuttoned, his cap a trifle on one side, and a mischievous
expression played about his sunburnt face.
But the girl sees nothing, thinking the men have gone. And she, the
looker-on, finds it strange that the girl should not see.... What is
going to happen now?
Then the young man smiles, and steals forward noiselessly--the
looker-on is all excitement now, and on the point of crying out to
warn her.
Two hands reach out from behind and close gently over the girl's eyes.
"Oh!" screams the girl. "Who is it? How dare you!" And with a scream
she turns and sees him standing there.
"Good evening," says the young man, laughing, and raising his cap. And
the looker-on notes how the girl only blushes, and makes no answer.
"Did I frighten you?" he goes on. "I meant no harm, I'm sure."
"'Tis no matter," says the girl. "I was only startled for a moment."
"And you're not angry now?"
"Nay; why should I be? For a jest?"
"That's right. I felt directly I saw you as if we were old
friends--only I couldn't remember your name, so I thought I'd just
stop and ask."
Oh, but 'tis a handsome lad--and such a smile, thinks the girl looking
on.
"Pansy, they call me," says the other girl shyly, "but...."
"Say no more," the young man breaks in. "Pansy, they call you--'tis
enough for me."
Surely then the name must be a good one, since he seems to like it so,
thinks the girl looking on.
"And you...?" asks the girl. "You're a stranger, I think."
"Stranger?" cries the young man, with a laugh that echoes through the
room. "Couldn't you feel it was a friend and no 'stranger' when
my hands closed over your eyes?" And he looks at her with such
irresistible friendliness as he speaks, that she cannot but smile--and
the girl looking on smiles too.
"Olof's my name--and no stranger, if you please."
After that he seemed to be thinking for a moment, then suddenly he
asks, "Are you fond of flowers, Pansy?"
"Yes, indeed. And I've two of my own--a fuchsia and a balsamine,"
answers the girl.
"Red flowers both! And do you keep them in your window?"
"Where else should they be?"
"And can you see them from outside?"
"Indeed you can, now they're in bloom."
"And where is your window, then?" says he, with a sly little gleam in
his eyes. "Tell me, so I can see them too when I pass."
The girl opens her lips to answer, but checks herself suddenly. "Nay,
I'll not tell!"
Oh, but how cunning of him, thinks the looker-on. Never was such a sly
one. Anyone else would just have asked straight out where she slept.
And then of course the girl would have been offended at once. But this
young man--he says never a word of anything but flowers.
"In the parlour?" he asks, with a laugh.
"No!"
"Up in the loft, then?"
"No, nor there."
"Then it's the little room at the back."
"No, no!" cries the girl, all confused. "Not there, indeed it's not."
The young man laughs. "I can't guess any more. But it's cruel of you
not to tell."
And there again, mark the slyness of him, thinks the girl looking on.
Anyone else would have laughed out loud and said, "Now, I know!" and
the girl would have blushed.
"Well, we're friends now, real friends, aren't we?" says he, after a
while.
"'Tis early yet, for sure. But if so, what then?"
"Why, I was but thinking--if we were friends, I'd ask you--no, I won't
ask yet."
"You can ask if you like, 'twill do no harm," says the girl, curious
to hear.
"Only this--if anyone has ever--ever pressed your hand."
"No," says the girl, with a blush. "I'd never let them."
There again, so neatly put, thinks the looker-on. And how nice and
frank and handsome he looks.
"Now, I wonder if that's true," says he. "But I'll soon see. Give me
your hand a minute."
"What for?"
"Oh, I can read it, and find out all sorts of things."
"You?"
"Yes. Don't believe it? But you dare not try."
"Ho! Dare not, indeed!" And she gives him her hand.
Now what's going to happen, thinks the looker-on.
"H'm. It's true, by the look of things," says the young man seriously.
"No one has ever pressed your hand. But down there under the
window--there's more than one that's stopped to look at your flowers."
"How do you--Oh, you don't know really, you're making it all up."
"Sh! I'm telling your fortune. Listen! But what's this I see? Well,
I'd never have thought...."
"What--what is it?" asks the girl anxiously.
"What it is I dare not say. Only I'd never have thought it."
"Oh--you only say that because you can't find anything proper to say
at all."
"Shall I tell you what it is, then?" asks he, looking her straight in
the eyes.
"Yes--if you can."
"Right. But you mustn't be angry if I do." His voice falls to a
whisper. "Look--look there! He's coming--this very night!"
"He--who?" asks the girl uneasily.
"He--the one that you've been waiting for--the one that is to--press
your hand."
"It's not true!" cries the girl. "I'll never let him!"
"Sh! I can only say what it says there. He will _come_, be sure of
that. At midnight, or thereabouts. And he will not beg and pray and
ask as the others do, only knock at your window three times, softly,
but firmly--and then you'll know it's the right one, and no other....
But now I must go. Good-night, Pansy."
And with a wave of his cap he hurries out.
And she--the one that is looking on--marks how the girl stands all
confused for a while, and then goes softly to the door, watching him
till he is out of sight.
The story is ended--the girl opens her eyes.
And ended, too, the pleasant self-forgetfulness with which she had
watched the scene as acted by another--in place of it come doubts and
questionings out of the dark.
"What shall I do if he comes--what shall I do?"
Already she seemed to hear footsteps outside, her heart beat so
violently, she pressed her hand to her breast. And it was a relief
when no one came after all, and she hoped and hoped he would not come
at all, to spoil the pretty fairy story.
"But then--if he should not come? If he had been only jesting, after
all." That was worse still. "If he would only come--but only to the
window--look in at the flowers, but not to knock three times, no...."
She went back to the beginning again--a girl stood in the front room,
pouring warm milk through a big strainer....
A knocking at the window--three soft, short taps.
The girl sat up with a start, holding her breath. She raised her head,
and looked anxiously toward the window. The fuchsia and the balsamine
gazed at her from the sill with questioning eyes: "What is this you
are doing, Pansy?"
And behind the flowers was a dark shadow, against the blind. She
_felt_ that he was looking straight through at her: "I am here,
Pansy."
The shadow seemed calling her to account for something she had
promised. She hid her face in the pillow, and pulled the quilt over
her head. Her heart throbbed till the bed itself seemed to shake.
"_And he will not beg and pray and ask, as the others do_."
Slowly the girl drew herself up and remained sitting on the edge of
the bed, her hands in her lap.
"If he would only knock again, and give me time to think--to
think...."
The dark shadow did not move, the fuchsia and the balsamine stood
breathless.
Quietly she slipped to the floor and stepped forward doubtfully a pace
or two. There was a movement of the shadow; the girl trembled, and
caught at the bedpost for support.
The shadow stopped at once, and stood as before, calling her to
account.
With eyes cast down, she moved again towards the door--slowly,
hesitatingly, as if her heart were willing, but her limbs refused. She
could feel the shadow gliding round outside to the doorway. Her heart
throbbed as if it would burst; her fingers grasped feverishly at the
latch.
Then slowly, silently, the latch was raised; the girl fled to the
corner by the stove, and stood there covering her face with her hands.
The door opened, closed again, and the latch was pressed down firmly.
"Where are you, Pansy, little friend? Is it you there in the corner?"
He crossed over to her, and took both her hands in his.
"Hiding your face, and trembling...?" He looked steadily at her.
"I will go away in a moment," he said gently, as if asking
forgiveness. "I never thought you would feel it so."
"No, no!" said the girl anxiously. "It wasn't that...."
"Get into bed again and cover yourself up, or you'll be cold. And I'll
sit beside you a little, just while it's dark, and then go again."
Shy and confused, she sprang into bed and drew the clothes over her.
He looked at her a moment. Then pulling up a chair beside the bed, he
sat down, resting one elbow on the pillow.
"Pansy, why do you hide your eyes? Are you afraid? Is it because I am
here? Give me your hand. Who was it that was to press your hand? Do
you remember?
"Didn't you know I was coming? Hasn't the cuckoo been saying it all
the spring? Didn't the daisies tell you he was to come this summer?
And now, now that I am here, you look at me as if I were a stranger.
Is it because it has come true so suddenly?"