"The loveliest hour?" said the fuchsia warmly. "Why, now, give me the
night--'tis the best of all."
"I love it too," answered the balsamine. "Whispering here as we are
now, alone in the dark, only knowing the other is near, only seeing
the gleam of each other's eyes. But the morning, too, is beautiful--at
sunrise, when the dewdrops glisten and the leaves quiver in the
wakening breeze."
"True, that is true. All times are beautiful, all life. The morning,
when the cock crows, and the birds twitter, and the children newly
washed come out to play in the yard. The day, too, when the sunbeams
dance over the floor, and the haymakers come from the fields, with
sweat on their brows, home to the midday meal. And the evening,
when the shadows lengthen, and the cows come home, with their bells
tinkling along the fringe of the wood. But there's nothing can compare
with night--'tis at night we find ourselves, and only then."
"Find ourselves...?" echoed the balsamine. "Ah, yes, I understand...."
"Ourselves--and that faint song of the heart that is never heard in
the bright fullness of day," the fuchsia went on. "All day we belong
to the world, sharing all things in common, having nothing of our own.
But when the night falls, then our own time is near. Softly it steals
through the forest, patiently waits in a corner within doors, trembles
mysteriously in the air, and wakes to life all that has slept in
us through the day. It comes to us with a soft glow, in a swooning
fragrance of flowers. All things else are sleeping, none are astir
save those...."
A woman's arm showed faintly white through the gloom.
"All save those...?" whispered the balsamine.
"Save those who find themselves and waken into bloom."
* * * * *
"Pansy--my wonderful delight--my love! You are like the
night--witching, ensnaring, all the mystery of a summer night, when
the summer lightning gleams."
"I never knew till now what youth is, what love is. Great and
beautiful, coming like a king in a golden chariot, beckoning, calling,
leading us on."
"Why are you trembling, love? And your hands are hot, and your
eyes--what are they saying?"
"I don't know--it's very hot. No, no, it's only that I'm too
happy...."
"Too happy?"
"No, no. I don't know what it is. Only I wish...."
"What is it? Tell me."
"I can't--I don't know what it is. I...."
"But tell me--can't you tell me what it is?"
"I can't say it. I--I'm frightened."
"Frightened? Why--have I frightened you?"
"You?--no, how could you? Only...."
"Tell me, then. Tell me. Only a word, and I shall know."
"I'm frightened--no, I can't say it. Only--Oh, I love you, if you knew
how I love you...."
* * * * *
"The loveliest hour I ever knew," whispered the balsamine again, "was
when I bloomed for the first time--when my petals opened, and the sun
came and kissed right into my heart."
"I know, I know," murmured the fuchsia. "And I that am blooming now
for the second time--should I not know? We put forth flowers again,
and it is always sweet, but never like the first time of all--nothing
can ever be like that. For it is all a mystery then; the mantle of
something wonderful and unknown is over us. And we feel it and thrill
at what is coming, and ask ourselves--will it be to-day? Hoping and
fearing--and knowing all the time that it will come. Never a thought
of past or future, only for the hour that is upon us ... until at last
it comes, it comes--petals that blush and unfold, and all things else
seem to fade away, and we melt into a glory of warmth and light."
* * * * *
The Spirit of Joy stood quietly smiling by the bed.
The girl's loose hair flowed like black silk over the pillow; his head
was resting there.
They held each other's hands and looked deep into each other's eyes.
The Spirit of Joy had stood there long, but had not heard them speak a
word--only seen them lying there in silence, smiling tenderly to each
other.
The sun rose slowly over the ridge of hills, but once clear of the
summit, its rays shot suddenly down across the intervening landscape,
in through the window.
The girl looked up; the sun was laughing full in her eyes.
She sat up in bed, as if waking from a deep sleep; all things seemed
strange and unexpected.
"Has the sun eyes too, I wonder?... Has it been watching me all these
mornings?"...
* * * * *
After a little while she raised her head, and looked up shyly once
more.
The sun was watching her with a great questioning glance--as a mother
looks when she does not speak, but questions with her eyes alone.
The girl felt a shock, as if the blood had ceased to flow in her
veins; she cast down her eyes, and looked up no more. Two great pearly
tears quivered on her lashes.
"What is it?" asked her lover in dismay, half rising in his turn.
"What is it, Pansy?" He pressed her tenderly to him. "Why are your
eyes cast down?"
The teardrops trembled a moment and fell; the girl turned, and hid her
face in the pillow.
"Pansy, oh, my love!" he whispered, filled with a burning desire to
comfort her.
The girl's bare shoulders quivered, and her breast heaved with
suppressed sobs.
It was like a cold iron through his soul--as if he had been soaring
in the bluest heights, to fall now, broken-winged, among sharp rocks,
hearing sounds of misery on every side.
Heavily he threw himself down beside her, and hid his face in her dark
hair.
Two children of men, with shoulders heaving and faces wet with
tears.... The room seemed full of their sighing.
The sun turned away and hid his darkened face.
"It is sorrow," whispered the fuchsia, and a red tear fell on the
window-sill below.
* * * * *
And yet, beneath the veil of sorrow showed a warm red glow--the great
secret that was between them. It was as if their eyes were opened, and
they saw each other truly for the first time--no longer a youth and
a maiden, but two human creatures thrilled with sorrow and joy in the
pale dawn.
"Can you ever forgive me?" he asked, his voice trembling.
"Forgive...?" echoed the girl, and threw her arms round his neck.
"And you will not think of me with bitterness?" he asked again.
"How could I ever think of you with bitterness--you who have been
everything to me? But why must you go away now?"
"Ay, why must we say good-bye now?" said he, with a sigh, as if hardly
knowing what he said.
"If you only knew how I shall miss you...."
"And if _you_ knew.... O Heaven! But what can I do?"
"Don't be unhappy for my sake; I know you can do nothing to change it.
And how can I ask more of you, after all you have given me? If only
I could see you again some time; only once, once even after many
years--if I only could...."
"Perhaps I may come one day--just to see you...."
"Come, come! I shall wait for you week after week."
* * * * *
Slowly he drew out his watch, looked at it, and showed it to the girl.
"Yes, you must go now. But how can I ever let you go?"
"How can I ever go? Oh, if only it were always night, and day never to
come!"
"Yes--the last, long night--and after that the Judgment. I should
not fear it now. Only a minute--only a minute more. One more
look--there--and now I can never forget."
"Pansy, Pansy," he murmured tenderly. But his breast heaved with
distress--it was as if the latch had been torn from the door, leaving
it open to all who cared. "One thing you must promise me--after
this...." His voice was like that of a drowning man. "Never to care
for any other but the one you choose some day, for life."
"How should I ever care for any other?" said the girl wonderingly.
"And even then I shall love you just the same--even then."
"No, no, no! It would be worse than all. When you choose for life you
must give all your love."
"No need to tell me that," said the girl in a low voice that thrilled
him with pleasure and yet heightened his fears.
"Promise me! You don't know why I ask you, why I beg of you to promise
that. It is not for my own sake," he urged.
"I promised you that long ago--the first time we ever met," said the
girl, and cowered close to him.
They drew apart, and stood up.
Holding him by the hand, she followed him to the door. Then flinging
her arms about his neck, she clung to him as if she would never let
him go. He took her in his arms, himself on the point of swooning; he
felt her hair wet with tears against his cheek, and their lips met.
The girl's head was bent back, looking, not into his eyes as before,
but upward. And he saw how the look in her eyes changed, first to
ineffable tenderness, then to pious prayer--until it seemed freed
from all earth, gazing at some blessed vision afar off. As long as
she stood thus he could not move a limb. Then her eyelids quivered,
closed--and she drew her lips away.
He looked at them, saw a white, bloodless line--and he felt in that
moment as if some ineradicable, eternal seal had been pressed upon his
own.
"I can't leave you like this!" he cried desperately. "Look! To-night
we shall be at Kirveskallio--I can come from there. And I will come
every night as long as we are within reach."
The girl's face lit with a pale gleam as of autumn sunlight, but she
said no word. Only looked at him strangely, as he had never seen her
look before--and stood there, gazing at him still, as he passed out.