The Song of the Blood-Red Flower Part 11

"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 c.o.c.k 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.