The Song of the Blood-Red Flower Part 51

Ah, I can see it in your eyes. None who have known you could ever forget. If only you had been like all the rest--we do not long for them when they are gone. But you were--you. And a woman must ever come back to the man that won her _heart_. We may think we hate him, but it is not true. And when life has had its way with us, and left us crushed and soiled--then we come back to him, as--how shall I say it?--as to holy church--no, as pilgrims, penitents, to a shrine ...

come back to look for a moment on all that was pure and good ... to weep over all that died so soon...."

Her voice broke. She thrust aside the piece of wood he had been holding all the time, and sent it clattering to the floor; then grasping his hands, she pressed them to her eyes, and hid her head in his lap.

Olof felt the room darkening round him. He sat leaning forward, with his chin on his breast; heavy tears dropped from his eyes like the dripping of thawed snow from the eaves in spring.

For a long while they sat thus. At last the woman raised her head, and looked with tear-stained eyes into his.

"Olof, do not be harsh with me. I had to come--had to ease my heart of all that has weighed it down these years past. I have suffered so.

And when I see you now, I understand you must have your own sorrows to bear. Forgive me all the cruel things I said. I had to say it all, that too, or I could not have told you anything; I wanted to cry the moment I saw you. Your wife--did I say anything? Oh, I do not hate her, you must not think I hate her. I can't remember what I said. But I am happier now, easier now that I have seen you."

Her glance strayed from his face, and wandered vaguely into distance, as if she had been sitting alone in the twilight, dreaming.

"Olof," she said after a while, turning to him with a new light in her eyes, "do you know, a pilgrimage brings healing. It is always so in books--the pilgrims are filled with hope, and go back with rejoicing to their home.... Home...!" She started, as if wakening at the word.

"Should I go home, I wonder? What do you say, Olof? Father and mother--they would be waiting for me. I know they would gladly take me back again, in spite of all. Do you know, Olof, I have not been home for two years now. I have been.... Oh no, I cannot, bear to think....

Yes, I will go home. Only let me sit here just a little while, and look into your eyes--as we used to do. I will be stronger after that."

And she sat looking at him. But Olof stared blankly before him, as at some train of shadowy visions pa.s.sing before his eyes.

"You have changed, Olof, since I saw you last," murmured the woman at his feet. "Have you suffered?..."

Olof did not answer. He pressed his lips together, and great tears gathered anew in his eyes.

"Oh, life is cruel!" she broke out suddenly, and hid her face in his lap once more.

For a moment she lay thus; deep, heavy silence seemed to fill the room. At last she looked up.

"I am going now," she said. "But, Olof, are we...?" She looked at him, hoping he would understand.

He took both her hands in his. "Are you going--home?" he asked earnestly.

"Yes, yes. But tell me--are we...?"

"Yes, yes." He uttered the words in a sigh, as if to himself. Then, pressing her hand, he rose to his feet.

Staggering like a drunken man, he followed her to the door, and stood looking out after her as she went. Then the night mist seemed to rise all about him, swallowing up everything in its clammy gloom.

THE RECKONING

He sits deep in thought. Not a sound in the room.

Then a knocking....

The man starts, rises to his feet, and stares about him with wide eyes, as if unable to recognise his surroundings. He glances towards the door, and a shudder of fear comes over him--are they coming to torture him again?

Furiously he rushes to the door and flings it wide. "Come in, then!"

he cries. "Come in--as many as you please! Rags or finery, sane or mad, in--in! I've hung my head long enough! Bid them begone--and they come again--well, come in and have done. Bring out your reckoning, every one. Here's what's left of me--come and take your share!"

But he calls to the empty air. And his courage fails as he looks into the blank before him--as a warrior seeking vainly for enemies in ambush. Slowly he closes the door, and goes back again.

A knocking....

"Ghosts, eh? Invisible things? Come in, then--I'm ready."

And he faces about once more.

Again the knocking--and now he perceives a little bird seated outside on the window-sill, peeping into the room.

"You, is it? Away--off to the woods with you! This is no place for innocent things. Or what did you think to find? Greedy, evil eyes, and groans, and hearts dripping blood. To the woods, and stay there, out of reach of all this misery!"

But the bird lifts its head, and looks into his eyes.

"Do you hear? Away, go away!"

He taps at the window-pane himself. The bird flies off.

Once more cold fear comes over him; his pulses halt in dread.

"Not yet--not yet--no! One by one, to tear me slowly to pieces.

Shadows of vengeance, retribution, following everywhere; burning eyes glaring at me from behind, fear that makes me tremble at every sound, and start in dread at every stranger's face. And if I forget for a moment, and think myself free, one of them comes again ... ghosts, ghosts...."

He sat down heavily.

"Why do they follow me still? Is it not enough that I have lived like a hunted beast so long? Because I loved you once? And what did we swear to each other then--have you forgotten? Never to think of each other but with thankfulness for what each had given! We were rich, and poured out gold with open hands--why do you come as beggars now? And talk of poverty--as if I were not poorer than any of you all! Or do you come to mourn, to weep with me over all that we have lost?

"But still you come and ask, and ask, as if I were your debtor, and would not pay. Mad thought! I was your poet, and made you songs of love. Life was a poem, and love red flowers between. What use to tell me now that the poem was a promise, the red flowers figures on a score that I must pay? Go, and leave me in peace! I cannot pay! You know--you know I have p.a.w.ned all I had long since--all, to the last wrack!"

His own thought filled him with new horror; drops of sweat stood out on his forehead.

"And you, that have suffered most of all--what had I left for you?

You, a princess among the rest, the only one that never looked up to me humbly, but stepped bravely to meet me as an equal. Yours was the hardest lot of all--for I gave you the dregs of my life, rags that a beggar would despise...."

Suddenly he felt an inward shock; his heart seemed to check for a moment, then went on beating violently; the blood rushed to his head.

Again the check, followed by the same racing heart-beat as before....

Instinctively he grasped his wrist to feel his pulse. A few quick beats, a pause, then on again--what is it?

The fear of death was on him now, and he sprang up as if thinking of flight. Gradually the fit pa.s.ses off; he stands waiting, but it does not return, only a strange feeling of helplessness remains--helplessness and physical fear. He sits down again.

"Was that you, Life, that struck so heavy a blow? Have you come for your reckoning, too? Like an innkeeper, noting this and that upon the score, and calling for payment at last? I should know you by now--I have seen a glimpse of your face before....

"'Tis a heavy book you bring. Well, what shall we take first? That?