The Song of the Blood-Red Flower | Page 8

her lips as if to speak, but the look on the two men's faces silenced her, and she fell back in the voiceless blank of unaccomplished purpose.
Again the clock was heard.
"I'd thought to make something of you," said the old man in icy tones. "But you'd no fancy for book-learning and gentlefolks' ways, though you'd a good head enough. Rather stick to the land, you would, and flung away the books after a year of them. But a man that looks to work his land as it should be--he's books of his own, or what's the same--and that you must fling away now the same gait, it seems--to waste yourself in a common strumpet's bed!"
The young man drew himself up, and his eyes flashed fire.
"Leave it unsaid!" cried his father. "'Tis best so." Then rising from his seat, he stood a moment as if in thought, and passed through the open door to the next room, opened a cupboard there and took something out.
"No son of mine goes out from this house a beggar," said he proudly, and held out his hand.
"You can put the money back," said the boy, with no less pride.
"'Tis but poor provision for a journey, anyway, if a man can't manage for himself," he added, turning away.
His father stood still, looking at him earnestly, as if trying to read something.
"'Tis no harm to a man to manage for himself if he can," said he slowly. He spoke in no angry tone, but with a stern approval.
The boy stood thinking for a moment.
"Good-bye, father."
His father did not answer, but stared fixedly before him, and his eyes hardened.
His mother had seated herself on a bench beside the window, her face turned away, looking out--and warm drops fell on the sill.
The young man moved towards her slowly, as if questioning. She turned towards him, and their eyes met--then they passed out of the room together.
The old man remained seated, a sharp pain at his breast. A flush of anger rose to his cheeks, and his lips trembled, but he could not speak, and sat still, staring at the floor.
In the next room, the mother turned anxiously to her son, and grasped his hand. "Olof!"
"Mother!" The boy was trembling. And fearing to lose control of his feelings, he went on hastily: "Mother, I know, I know. Don't say any more."
But she took both his hands in hers, and looked earnestly into his eyes.
"I must say it--I couldn't before. Olof--you are your father's son, and 'tis not your way, either of you, to care much what you do--if it's building or breaking." And with intense earnestness, as if concentrating all her being in her eyes and voice, she went on: "Never deceive, Olof; stand by your promise and word to all--whatever their station."
The boy pressed her hands with emotion, almost in fear, unable to speak a word.
"God keep you safe from harm, my son." The mother's voice broke. "Don't forget this is your home. Come back when, when...."
The boy pressed her hands once more, and turned hastily away. He must go now, if he would have the strength to go at all.

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