The Song of the Blood-Red Flower Part 9

"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!"

"s.h.!.+ 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?"

She pressed his hand. "Oh, you are not like the others."

"And how should I be? You did not care for them. The one you have been waiting for--was he to be like them? Answer, dark-eyed Pansy-flower."

She clasped his wrist with both her hands, and drew herself closer to him.

"And I have been waiting," he whispered tenderly, "for whom, do you think? For one of the others? I have seen more than I can count--but the moment I saw you, I knew who it was you were waiting for, and who it was I sought."

The girl moved uneasily. There was a sound of footsteps outside, and shadows moved behind the curtains of the window.

"Oh!" she whispered, shrinking in fear.

"Is that some of them?" asked the young man calmly.