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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.
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.
"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.
"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.
The grain of snow, the micaceous brilliancy of Parian marble, the sparkling pulp of balsamine flowers, would render but a feeble idea of the ideal substance whereof. Nyssia had been formed. That flesh, so fine, so delicate, permitted daylight to penetrate it, and modelled itself in transparent contours, in lines as sweetly harmonious as music itself.
"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?
What each flower enumerated, signifies, when sent to a friend or lover. Almond, flowering Concealed love. Althea, Frutex I am deeply in love. Amaranth Immortality, or piety. Anemone Fading hope. Arbor-Vitae Unchanging friendship. Auricula, Scarlet Pride. You are proud. Bachelor's button Hope in love. Balm I long for your society. Balsamine Impatience; or, pray come. Bay Leaf I change but in dying.
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.
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!
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