PANSY
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?"
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.
"Yes. Oh, hide yourself, hide somewhere—they light matches outside sometimes, and look in."
"I'll not move a step for any of them," he said resolutely, folding his arms. "Don't be afraid, little one, there's nothing to fear."
A dark shadow climbed up outside. There was a scraping sound, and a light shone into the room for a moment.
"There he is—sitting there as if he was master of the house!" The shadow sprang down again.
A low murmur was heard outside, and footsteps receding.
A moment later, the whispering voices were heard again, and steps approaching. Then something heavy was flung against the door with a crash.
"There! Sleep well, my dears!" cried a scornful voice outside. A chorus of laughter followed, the footsteps died away, and all was still.
The young man rose to his feet. "The brutes!" he muttered, trembling with anger. He sprang to the door, lifted the latch, and threw his weight against it. The door did not move. His blood boiled, and again he flung himself against the door. It creaked under the shock, but the bar outside held fast.
"I heard who it was, anyhow," he said significantly. "I'll have a word to say to some of them to-morrow."
"Oh," cried the girl, "now everyone will know—and we can't even get out now."
"Don't be afraid, dear. If one way's barred, I'll soon find another."
He walked to the window, and pressed hard against the frame. The nails gave way, and the woodwork hung loose.
"There! We can get out that way now. I'll take care of the flowers—and I'll see those fellows hold their tongues—never fear."
Self-possessed and smiling, he came back to the bedside. "You poor little thing, so easily scared! Not afraid now, are you?"
"No—not now you're here again."
"Why," said he gaily, "don't you see? It had to come like this—or else—it would have been just like—any of the others!"
They both laughed, and the girl looked up at him through her tears. A faint light of dawn showed through from without.
"And you haven't heard it all yet. I'll tell you—it's all different from anything else—right from the beginning. I came here a way you'd never dream—by way of the river, and past the jaws of death."
"What—what do you mean?"
And he told her what had passed among the rapids that night, when the floating timber jammed against the Whirlstone Rock.
"And then we get locked in here, to make it unlike anything else all through. And that's how I love you, Pansy—so that I have to come to you through the rapids at night, and stay with you behind barred doors. But are you mine, my own? You haven't said so yet."
"Am I? Oh, Olof, how can you ask!" And she twined her arms lovingly round his neck.
* * * * *
The growing flush of dawn stole through the curtains, spreading a faint gleam of rose on the girl's white arms.
"Red—red is all that is beautiful in the world," nodded the fuchsia to the balsamine.
The sun rose over the far-curving slopes on either side of the river, filled his lungs with the freshening coolness of the night, and drank his morning cup of glistening dew. A light mist still hung over the riverbed.
Olof strode down the slope with easy step, his heart swelling with joy.
Down on the shore below the rapids stood a group of men, young fellows from the village, who came down at times to earn a little extra by keeping watch over the timber at night.
Olof cast his eyes over the group, and his pleasant feeling of contentment vanished. He felt himself weighed down as by a burden. But a little while since, he had lifted the heavy beam they had set against the door of a girl's room, and carried it back to the barn, the weight seeming as nothing to him in his gladness. But now….
"A single word, a look, would be enough. But if they just go on as if nothing had happened—what can I do?"
A dark flush burned in his cheeks as he approached the group; he glanced about him guardedly under his brows.
The men made no sign.
Olof picked up his pole from the grass, and began slowly wiping off the dew, eyeing the men watchfully as he did so.
They stood about, apparently unconcerned.
He bit his lips. Was he to let it pass off like this?
He walked past them, with a burning glance.
As he did so, a low laugh was heard on the edge of the group.
Next moment came the sound of a heavy blow, and the jester measured his length on the grass.
"You—what's that for? Who d'you think you are, young devil's brat, what?" Two men came at him with a rush.
Olof gripped the first by the collar and crutch, and flung him head foremost through the air. Then, taking the other as swiftly, he lifted him high overhead, and threw him down like a crumpled rag.
"You swine—you filthy brutes!" His voice quivered with rage, his eyes burned like fire, and he raised his clenched fists threateningly. "Come on, the lot of you; I've more to settle with you yet."
There was an angry murmur from the crowd, but it died away as a calm, manly voice spoke up:
"Seems to me, young man, you've settled fairly enough already for a bit of fun and no harm meant. And if you're as good a man as I take you for, you'll see yourself 'twas not done the way you seem to take it. We've all been sort of proud of that little lass, and till now there's never one of us passed through her door, though there's many that would if they could. And when a bit of a chap from God knows where comes along, and he's found sitting in there like her lord and master…."
"And what's that to you?" Olof stepped forward threateningly.
"Quiet, lad, you've no call to shout," went on the other calmly. "I'm not meaning to quarrel with you. We've known that girl, I say, since we were youngsters together, and you're a stranger here. And it's like to do her harm. Leave her alone, I say, and don't go making her a byword in folk's mouths, for the sake of one that comes and goes so light and easy as you."
"Stranger, you say?" Olof crossed his arms defiantly. "You know who I am well enough. And you're the men to talk of a girl's honour to me—you that hang about outside her window at night—a nice lot to protect her! Mark my words, the lot of you. I go where I please, if 'twas to a princess in a palace. And I'll go the way I went last night as long as I'm here in the place. And as sure as I stand here, if one of you shows his head outside that window, or dares to say a coarse word—ay, or so much as a look to hurt her, I'll thrash him till he can't stand on his feet."
He turned and walked proudly up the hill. The men gazed after him without a word.