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 allthe 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. Butareyou 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.
"The loveliest hour?" said the fuchsia warmly. "Why, now, give me the night—'tis the best of all."
"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. The morning, when the cock crows, and the birds twitter, and the children newly washed come out to play in the yard. The day, too, when the sunbeams dance over the floor, and the haymakers come from the fields, with sweat on their brows, home to the midday meal. And the evening, when the shadows lengthen, and the cows come home, with their bells tinkling along the fringe of the wood. 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. But when the night falls, then our own time is near. Softly it steals through the forest, patiently waits in a corner within doors, trembles mysteriously in the air, and wakes to life all that has slept in us through the day. It comes to us with a soft glow, in a swooning fragrance of flowers. All things else are sleeping, none are astir save those…."
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. Great and beautiful, coming like a king in a golden chariot, beckoning, calling, leading us on."
"Why are you trembling, love? And your hands are hot, and your eyes—what are they saying?"
"I don't know—it's very hot. No, no, it's only that I'm too happy…."
"Too happy?"
"No, no. I don't know what it is. Only I wish…."
"What is it? Tell me."
"I can't—I don't know what it is. I…."
"But tell me—can't you tell me what it is?"
"I can't say it. I—I'm frightened."
"Frightened? Why—have I frightened you?"
"You?—no, how could you? Only…."
"Tell me, then. Tell me. Only a word, and I shall know."
"I'm frightened—no, I can't say it. Only—Oh, I love you, if you knew how I love you…."
* * * * *
"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? We put forth flowers again, and it is always sweet, but never like the first time of all—nothing can ever be like that. For it is all a mystery then; the mantle of something wonderful and unknown is over us. And we feel it and thrill at what is coming, and ask ourselves—will it be to-day? Hoping and fearing—and knowing all the time that it will come. Never a thought of past or future, only for the hour that is upon us … until at last it comes, it comes—petals that blush and unfold, and all things else seem to fade away, and we melt into a glory of warmth and light."
* * * * *
The Spirit of Joy stood quietly smiling by the bed.
The girl's loose hair flowed like black silk over the pillow; his head was resting there.
They held each other's hands and looked deep into each other's eyes. The Spirit of Joy had stood there long, but had not heard them speak a word—only seen them lying there in silence, smiling tenderly to each other.
The sun rose slowly over the ridge of hills, but once clear of the summit, its rays shot suddenly down across the intervening landscape, in through the window.
The girl looked up; the sun was laughing full in her eyes.
She sat up in bed, as if waking from a deep sleep; all things seemed strange and unexpected.
"Has the sun eyes too, I wonder?… Has it been watching me all these mornings?"…
* * * * *
After a little while she raised her head, and looked up shyly once more.
The sun was watching her with a great questioning glance—as a mother looks when she does not speak, but questions with her eyes alone.
The girl felt a shock, as if the blood had ceased to flow in her veins; she cast down her eyes, and looked up no more. Two great pearly tears quivered on her lashes.
"What is it?" asked her lover in dismay, half rising in his turn. "What is it, Pansy?" He pressed her tenderly to him. "Why are your eyes cast down?"
The teardrops trembled a moment and fell; the girl turned, and hid her face in the pillow.
"Pansy, oh, my love!" he whispered, filled with a burning desire to comfort her.
The girl's bare shoulders quivered, and her breast heaved with suppressed sobs.
It was like a cold iron through his soul—as if he had been soaring in the bluest heights, to fall now, broken-winged, among sharp rocks, hearing sounds of misery on every side.
Heavily he threw himself down beside her, and hid his face in her dark hair.
Two children of men, with shoulders heaving and faces wet with tears…. The room seemed full of their sighing.
The sun turned away and hid his darkened face.
"It is sorrow," whispered the fuchsia, and a red tear fell on the window-sill below.
* * * * *
And yet, beneath the veil of sorrow showed a warm red glow—the great secret that was between them. It was as if their eyes were opened, and they saw each other truly for the first time—no longer a youth and a maiden, but two human creatures thrilled with sorrow and joy in the pale dawn.
"Can you ever forgive me?" he asked, his voice trembling.
"Forgive…?" echoed the girl, and threw her arms round his neck.
"And you will not think of me with bitterness?" he asked again.
"How could I ever think of you with bitterness—you who have been everything to me? But why must you go away now?"
"Ay, why must we say good-bye now?" said he, with a sigh, as if hardly knowing what he said.
"If you only knew how I shall miss you…."
"And ifyouknew…. O Heaven! But what can I do?"
"Don't be unhappy for my sake; I know you can do nothing to change it.And how can I ask more of you, after all you have given me? If onlyI could see you again some time; only once, once even after manyyears—if I only could…."
"Perhaps I may come one day—just to see you…."
"Come, come! I shall wait for you week after week."
* * * * *
Slowly he drew out his watch, looked at it, and showed it to the girl.
"Yes, you must go now. But how can I ever let you go?"
"How can I ever go? Oh, if only it were always night, and day never to come!"
"Yes—the last, long night—and after that the Judgment. I should not fear it now. Only a minute—only a minute more. One more look—there—and now I can never forget."
"Pansy, Pansy," he murmured tenderly. But his breast heaved with distress—it was as if the latch had been torn from the door, leaving it open to all who cared. "One thing you must promise me—after this…." His voice was like that of a drowning man. "Never to care for any other but the one you choose some day, for life."
"How should I ever care for any other?" said the girl wonderingly."And even then I shall love you just the same—even then."
"No, no, no! It would be worse than all. When you choose for life you must give all your love."
"No need to tell me that," said the girl in a low voice that thrilled him with pleasure and yet heightened his fears.
"Promise me! You don't know why I ask you, why I beg of you to promise that. It is not for my own sake," he urged.
"I promised you that long ago—the first time we ever met," said the girl, and cowered close to him.
They drew apart, and stood up.
Holding him by the hand, she followed him to the door. Then flinging her arms about his neck, she clung to him as if she would never let him go. He took her in his arms, himself on the point of swooning; he felt her hair wet with tears against his cheek, and their lips met.
The girl's head was bent back, looking, not into his eyes as before, but upward. And he saw how the look in her eyes changed, first to ineffable tenderness, then to pious prayer—until it seemed freed from all earth, gazing at some blessed vision afar off. As long as she stood thus he could not move a limb. Then her eyelids quivered, closed—and she drew her lips away.
He looked at them, saw a white, bloodless line—and he felt in that moment as if some ineradicable, eternal seal had been pressed upon his own.
"I can't leave you like this!" he cried desperately. "Look! To-night we shall be at Kirveskallio—I can come from there. And I will come every night as long as we are within reach."
The girl's face lit with a pale gleam as of autumn sunlight, but she said no word. Only looked at him strangely, as he had never seen her look before—and stood there, gazing at him still, as he passed out.
"Rowan—do you know why I call you so?" he asked, holding the girl's hand clasped in his.
"It must have been because I blushed so when you spoke to me first," she answered shyly.
"No, no! Guess again."
"I can't guess, I'm sure. I never thought why it was—only that it was a pretty name, and nice of you to call me so."
"Did you think I should give you an ugly name?" said the young man, with a laugh. "But there's much in that name, if you only knew."
"Perhaps I know." She looked at him trustingly as she spoke.
"Not altogether. But never mind—I'll tell you some of it, though. See, this last spring was all so wonderful to me, somehow, and I was happy just to be alive. But then came the summer, and autumn: the grass began to wither, and the leaves turned yellow, and it made my heart ache to see."
"You weren't happy last summer?" she asked tenderly.
"No. You see, I could not forget the spring that had been so wonderful, and I was longing for it all the time. If I'd stayed in the same place, then perhaps…. But I'm a wanderer, once and for all…."
"Why do you never stay anywhere?"
"'Tis my nature, I suppose," he answered, staring before him.
"And where were you—that time?" asked the girl timidly, watching his face.
"Oh, a long way off. Don't ask of that. I'm not thinking of that spring now any more. It was only to tell you—who it was showed me that the autumn can be lovely, too."
"Did someone show you that?"
"Yes, someone showed me—or, rather, I saw it the moment I set eyes on her."
He took the girl's hands in his, and looked into her eyes.
"It was a little cluster of rowan berries. When I saw you, you were like a young red rowan on the hillside. The birch was fading already, the ash stood solemn and dull, but you were there with the red berries, calling to me—no, not calling, but I saw you. And I stood and looked as if a miracle had come, and said to myself, should I speak to her, or just go by?"
"If you had just gone by…."
"I thought of going by—seeing I'm one that has no right ever to stay…. I couldn't see if it was right to stop and look at you."
"Now I don't quite understand."
"You can't understand it at all—'twas only something I was trying to think out myself…. But I did stop and look—and 'tis thanks to that I've had this lovely autumn, after all."
"And I, too," whispered the girl.
"Yes, thanks to you, I have learned that autumn can be beautiful as well; lovelier even than the spring—for the autumn is cooler, calmer, and gentler than the spring. And it was then I learned for the first time what it is that makes life beautiful—what it is that human beings seek."
The girl has slipped down to the ground, and sat now looking up at him, resting her arms on his knees.
"Tell me more—more about that. It's so pretty to hear, and I understand it all, though I could never say it that way myself."
"Yes, you know, and all know, that there is nothing beautiful in life but that one thing—and all of us live for that, and nothing else. Without that we have only our hands and work for them, our teeth and food for them; but, when that comes, all is changed. You have seen yourself, and felt, how it changes everything."
"Oh, have I not! How could I help it?"
"How sad faces learn to smile, and eyes to speak, and how we learn a new tongue altogether. Even the voice is changed, to a silvery ring. All the world is changed, to something lovelier—and we ourselves grow beautiful beyond words."
"Yes, yes—Olof, how wonderful of you! It is all like a beautiful dream."
"Do you remember the time when you first began to care for me?"
"I shall always remember that time—always."
"It was pretty to watch—how you blushed and paled, and blushed again, and never knew which way to turn your eyes, and your heart throbbed, and you never dared confess even to yourself what made it so. I watched you then, and I found myself wishing you might not see me at all, only that I might watch you for ever from some secret place."
"Oh, but you don't know how it hurt, all the same—how anxious I was all the time—I could not have borne it long, I know."
"Yes—I understand…. And you were more beautiful still when you opened your heart to me. I read in your eyes as in an open book, and it made life bright and beautiful again for me."
"I—I have done nothing at all …" said the girl, blushing, and looking down. But she raised her head again, laid one hand on his knee, and looked questioningly at him.
He laughed in reply.
Slowly she drew herself up into his embrace, and put her arms about his neck.
"May I sit here like this?"
"Yes, you may—like this," said he, slipping an arm round her waist.
The girl's face drew nearer to his own, still questioning.
"No, no," he murmured, and laid one hand gently on her shoulder, as if seeking tenderly to hold her back.
"Why not?" asked the girl earnestly.
"Because it is better so. It would only hurt you more when we had to say good-bye—after."
"Oh, but that's just why!" she cried passionately.
"No, no—I ask it of you," said he. And, taking the girl's head in his two hands, he kissed her softly on the brow.
A gleam of infinite tenderness shone in her eyes, but she did not speak, only bowed her head and nestled close to his breast.
A strange joy thrilled him—he felt he had won a victory over himself. Through his thin shirt he could feel the girl's warm breath like a wave of summer sunshine, and, smiling with happiness, he stroked her hair.
It was in his mind to ask her if she did not think herself it was best as he said, when suddenly, ere he could speak, a burning gasp struck him like a flame; the girl's hot lips were pressing fiery kisses on his breast; her arms slipped from his neck and twined themselves close about his waist.
"God in heaven—be careful, child!" He took her arms and tried to draw himself away. But, ere he could loosen her hold, he felt his body thrill in answer to her passionate caress—a torrent of passion rose within him: all thought of self-restraint was whirled away.
"Love, love!" he gasped, his voice almost breaking in tears. He drew her up to him, and closed her thirsting lips with his own, crushing her body against his own till both lay breathless….
This year, it came later than usual—not until just before Christmas.And when it did come, it was like a rain of silver.
The children greeted it with joyful shouts and a wild throwing of snowballs; the women carried shovelfuls of snow into the rooms and spread it on the floor before sweeping; the men hung tinkling bells to their horses' harness.
Men hurried briskly along the forest tracks, and the great high road to the town was packed with an unbroken throng of pilgrims. All coming and going exchanged greetings, even with strangers—a gay wave of the hand and a few words about the snow.
* * * * *
Twilight was falling.
Olof had just come in from his work in the forest, and was sitting in his little room in the peasant's hut where he was quartered. An elderly man stepped in—a farmer from the same village.
"Evening—and greetings from the town."
"Evening," said Olof heartily. "Come in and sit down."
"I've little time to sit. I'd a message for you, that was all. Stopped at Valimaki on the way out, and someone gave me this for you."
He took out a small packet and handed it across.
Olof blushed up to the eyes, and stammered a word of thanks.
The messenger pretended not to notice his confusion, and went on, smiling:
"I asked if maybe there was any message besides, and they said no, just give it you as it was—but happen you'd like to hear how 'twas given…?"
"Go on—tell me," said the young man, still with some embarrassment.
"Well, I pulled up there, as I said, and started off again just towards dusk about. Got down just past the meadow below the house, and hears someone running after. Thought maybe I'd left something behind, and so I stopped. 'Twas a neat little maid, with red cheeks, and no kerchief on her head. 'What's wrong?' says I.
"'Nothing,' says the little maid, and looks down at her shoes. 'Only you said—didn't you say Olof was staying your way just now?'
"Well, that was right enough, and I said so. 'And what then?'
"'Why,' says she, 'I know him—and I'd a message for him.'
"'Aha,' says I, and laughed a bit.
"''Twas no more than a greeting,' says she, all of a hurry like.
"Why, then, I could carry it, 'twas an easy matter enough.
"'Can I trust you?' says the girl.
"'Why, d'you think I'd lose it on the way?' says I.
"'If you did—or if you went and told about it…'
"'Nay,' says I. 'I'm an old man, my dear, and not given to playing tricks that away.'
"'Yes, I know,' says she. 'I can trust you.' And then she gives me this.
"'That's for him?' says I. 'Give it him just as it is?'
"'Yes. You won't open it, I know. Though, to be sure, anyone can tell what's inside. But be sure no one sees you give it him. There's no message, only just that.'
"Well, I was just on the way to tell her I'd sense enough to do that without being asked—but all of a sudden she's off, racing away with her hair flying behind. Ay, that was the way of it, and now I've told you, I'll be off."
"Good-night, then," said Olof. "And many thanks."
Olof sank into a chair by the table, holding the packet in his hand. He knew well enough what was inside, but hesitated to open it. He was thinking of what had happened there—he could see it himself as in a vision. A bright-eyed girl, slight of figure, hardly more than a child, sat at one end of the room, and at the other a traveller, eating from the red-painted box in which he carried his food. The man spoke of the weather, how the first snow had come, and it was good going underfoot; where he came from, too, the woodcutters had already started work. More work than usual this season, and the gang foreman had taken on a new hand, a young fellow—Olof was his name.
And the girl all but cries his name aloud, blushes violently, and lays down her work to listen. But the traveller says no more of what she is longing to hear, only talks of this and that—all manner of trifling things. The girl is restless, uncertain what to do—but she must do something. And she watches the man's face closely as he sits smoking his pipe on the bench. "He looks honest, and kindly," she thinks to herself. "I could trust him, I know."
And then quietly she slips off to her own room, as if to fetch something, and takes something from a drawer—a little thing she has kept there long. Looks for some paper, or a bag, to put it in, searches and looks again, and finds it at last, packs it up and ties it round with string, tying the hardest knot she can manage, and cutting the ends off close, so it can't be opened without being seen—and laughs to herself.
Then she goes back to the room, with the thing in her pocket. The traveller is getting ready to go.
"'Tis time to mix the cattle food," says the girl. And from the kitchen window she can see the traveller come out to his horse and make ready to start. He drives out of the yard and down the road at a trot. "Now!" says she to herself, and races off after him.
Olof can see her as she runs—how her breast heaves as she comes up with the cart and hails the driver. How she blushes and looks down, and then, having gained her purpose, runs off again too full of joy even to thank the messenger, running a race, as it were, with her own delight. And then, once back at the house, she looks round anxiously to every side, lest any should have seen her, and goes in to her work again….
Filled with a quiet joy, Olof opens the packet.
A big, dark red apple carries her greeting.
"The very colour of the rowans!" he cries—as if the girl had chosen that very one from a great store, though he knows well enough it was likely the only one she had.
And his heart swells with joy and pride at the thought. "Was there ever such a greeting—or such a girl!"
Once more his mind goes back to that happy autumn; he turns the apple in his hand caressingly, and looks out through the window and smiles.
Then he notices that the apple seems harder to the touch in one place, as if to call his attention to something. He looks at it again, and sees that the skin on one side is raised, with a cut all round, is if done with a knife. He lifts the flap of skin, and it comes away like a lid; underneath is a folded slip of paper.
"More!" he cries, and with trembling hands, with joy at heart, he unfolds it. Only a tiny fragment, and on one side a few words awkwardly traced with pencil:
"Now I know what it is to be sad. Have you quite forgotten your Rowan?I think of you every night when I go to sleep."
The apple falls into his lap, the paper trembles in his hand, and a moisture dims his eyes.
He looks up. Great soft snowflakes are dropping slowly to the ground.
Minutes pass. The twilight deepens, till at last all is darkness, but he sits there still looking out, with the paper in his hand.
He can no longer see—but he feels how the great soft snowflakes are still falling….
The daisy bloomed on the window-sill … in the window of a little room.
In spring and summer the daisy blooms—this one bloomed in the winter too.
"And I know, and you know why you bloom in the winter," said the girl."'Tis to smile at him in greeting."
The daisy blooms only a few months together … this one was in flower already when Christmas came, and flowered the rest of the winter through, more beautiful every day.
"And I know, and you know how long you will bloom. 'Twas when I set you here at first it all began … and when he is gone, and there's none for you to smile at any more, then it will all be over.'"
The girl bent lower over the flower.
"She has but a single flower—so neat and sweet," she whispered, pressing her delicate lips to the pale posy petals just unfolded.
"She has but a single friend—so tender and dear," smiled the flower in answer, nodding slowly over toward the fields.
A tall youth on ski came gliding by, his cap at the back of his head, and a knapsack strapped at his shoulders.
"At last!" cried the girl, and jumping down, ran out through the passage to the steps in front of the house.
"Daisy!" said the newcomer. His voice was hardly audible, but his eyes spoke plainly enough, as he stepped up and set his ski and staves against the wall.
The girl answered with a nod and a radiant smile.
He hurried up the steps, and stood beside her.
"Daisy!" he said again, and pressed his cold hands playfully against her cheeks.
"No, thank you!" cried the girl merrily, grasping his wrists. "I've been waiting for you, though, ever so long. Mother's gone in to town, and the men haven't come back from the woods yet."
"And you've been left all alone, and horribly frightened, of course," laughed the young man, holding the girl's head between his hands, and pushing her before him in through the doorway.
They went inside, and he hung up his knapsack on the wall.
"Guess what I've been thinking of to-day all the way home?"
"Oh, you know I never can guess your riddles. What is it?"
"Only"—he drew her down on the seat beside him—"that you ought to have a pair of ski too. If only I can get hold of some proper wood, I'll make a pair in no time."
"No, no, 'tis not worth it. And I can't use them if you did."
"That's just why. You've got to learn. And then you'll be able to come out with me. Come out to the forest one day, and I'll show you something."
"What'll that be, I'd like to know? Only your ugly old stacks of wood."
"Why, as to that, they're none so ugly, after all. And I'll lift you up and set you on top of the highest of all…. No, that wasn't what I meant. But you ought to see…. Out there in the forest, it's a different world altogether. Roads and villages of its own—ay, and churches and priests…."
"What nonsense you do talk!" laughed the girl.
"'Tis true, though, for all that. Come out with me, and see if it's not as I say…. Come now, there's plenty of time."
"What are you thinking of? Of course we couldn't go now—nor any other time."
"Yes, we can. And now best of all."
He went across to the corner by the cupboard, took a woollen wrap that had been hung on the line to dry, and fastened it laughingly round her head.
"There—now we're ready."
The girl laughed doubtfully, took off the wrap again, and stood hesitating.
"Oh! Don't you understand yet?" He took the wrap and twisted it in his hands. "You've got to pretend. It's two weeks gone now, and your ski are all ready. We've tried them once or twice out in the meadow, and you manage first-rate, able to go anywhere. And so off we go…. Look there!"
The girl joined in the game. She moved across to the window, and looked out into the yard.
"There! I've set the ski all ready, and we put them on. Father and mother and brothers looking out to see us start. There—that's mother knocking at the window.
"'Be careful not to take her up the big hills,' says mother. 'She'll fall and hurt herself if you do!'
"And I tell her we're going up to the very top of the biggest hill we can find. And off we go.
"And you get along splendidly. Fall—not a bit of it! Off we go to the other end of the meadow, and then through the little copse out on to Hirvisuo—all as easy as play.
"Then we come to a fence—and that's rather more than you can manage. Nothing for it but I must pick you up and lift you over—and you put your arms round me so prettily…."
Here the girl broke in hastily: "No, no! I shall turn back if you go on like that!"
"No, you mustn't. It's a very high fence, this one. You can get over the others, perhaps, by yourself. We'll see.—And so we go on, and make our way up the slope of Kaltasenmaki—it's a heavy climb there. But you know the ground—you've fetched the cows home from there many a time. And it's just there the woodcutting begins.
"Now we're up at the top. It's early morning, of course, I forgot that. The sun's just up, and the snow all glittering underfoot and the frost like stars hung in the branches overhead. There! look at the trees over there on the other side. All white and clean and lovely—just like you. And stars of frost there too, sparkling like your eyes. And you think it's lovely too—never dreamed the forest was like that. And of course you haven't—for nobody can till they've seen it for themselves. There! look at that great road there lower down—that's the main track, where all the heavy timber goes—hauled up from a dozen little paths either side—a score of loads sometimes, one after another. And some of the men come singing, or whistling, some talking and calling out to the rest; 'tis a merry business carting down the timber loads to the river. And see there on the slope—a couple of empty sledges on the way back—isn't it fine?
"And of course you say it is, and it was true all I told you about the forest before. And it gets finer as we go on—you can hear the axe at work all round about, echoing over across the valley. Now we must go and say a word to the men.
"But you don't want to, but I say we must, and you can stay behind a little if you like. And so off we go down the hillside—hey, what a pace! And up the next, and there we are on the top. We can see them at work down in the valley below. It looks like a lot of ants at work, you think. And so it does. And we go across, and you've got to be careful and show how nicely you can go. The snow's all frozen, and creaks underfoot; the men look up, and the stupid ones stand staring open-mouthed. And I bid them good-day, and go up to them a little ahead, and they answer again, and some of them touch their caps, not knowing quite what to do. All of them look astonished—what's this come to see them now? And I tell them it's just a young lady from the town, come out to see a bit of the country, and I'm showing her round. They understand that all right. And then I tell them you're a foreigner, and can't speak a word of their tongue, and that's why you stay behind and won't come up. Then they're all surprised again at that, and some of them won't believe there can be folk that don't speak their language at all; but I tell them it's true all the same, and they stare again, the stupid ones gaping wider than before.
"'She's put on country clothes so as not to be noticed,' I tell them; 'and if you saw her in her fine dresses, with a real hat on her head and all—why, your eyes'd fall out of your heads, if you stare like that now.' And they laugh at that, a roar of laugh that echoes all round.
"Then I come back to you, and we go on again.
"But now you begin scolding me for playing silly tricks and telling them all those wild tales—there's neither sense nor meaning in it, you say. But then I simply ask you if you didn't see yourself what a treat it was for the men. Simple woodcutter folk—it'll be something to remember all their lives, how one day a beautiful foreign lady came out to visit them in the forest. And then you must remember to be a foreigner all day. If I have to speak to you when there's anyone else about, I say it in Swedish; you can't speak Swedish, of course, but all you have to do is just nod and smile and speak with your eyes—that's all that's needed.
"'But I won't,' you say. 'I'm not going to pretend like that.'"
Here the girl herself broke in: "No, that I certainly wouldn't either, so that's true enough."
"Oh, but you'd have to, you know, once we've started. And so we go on. There's nobody from our parts among the gangs at work there, so there's no risk of anyone knowing you really.
"And so we go on, from one gang to another. And it all goes off splendidly. But then we come to a clearing, where the men are just lighting a fire of pine knots. It's their dinner-time, and we're going to sit down and have dinner with them, say I.
"But of course you make a fuss, and say you won't, but you give in after a bit—it's easy enough. You've only to sit down, and say 'Tack, Tack' in Swedish whenever I pass you anything.
"The men are at work about the fire as we come up. And you're all excitement, and red and white by turns, just like any grand lady from foreign parts. And I tell them the same thing again, about you putting on country clothes and all that, and ask if we may sit down—and perhaps the foreign young lady might like to eat a morsel too.
"'We've naught that's fit to offer the likes of her,' say the men.
"'She can eat what other folks can, I suppose,' say I.
"Then they all tumble over one another to make a nice seat for you with twigs of pine. Then we sit down, and I'm on the outside, in case you want anything.
"Oh, it's grand. The fire flames up, and the snow melting like butter all round and under, and the men's faces all aglow. One of them's roasting a piece of meat, another fish, on a skewer, and the others bring out their frozen bread and thaw it soft and fresh as if it had just come out of the oven. And I do the same, toasting a piece of meat and thawing some bread, and put one on the other and cut up your part with my knife, to neat little bits all ready.
"And the men are all so interested they forget to eat.
"'I hope it's to your taste, my lady?' That's me talking in Swedish as I pass it. And you nod and smile, and eat just a little to try, and the moment you've tasted it you open your mouth and I know as sure as anything you're just on the point of saying right out in Finnish that it's first-rate, and you've never tasted anything so good…. So I have to put in a word myself or you'll spoil it all. 'A little more, if you please, my lady?' Like that."
But here the girl could contain herself no longer, and laughed outright.
"What are you laughing at? That's not right a bit. No, you just blush, and go on nibbling at a crust of bread, just like a tiny mouse….
"And the men nudge each other to look. Here's a fine lady sitting down to eat as natural as can be, for all there's neither plate nor fork. And it's all I can do to keep from laughing myself, and you have to bite your lips and bend down behind me.
"Then I take out our milk bottle, that's been warming by the fire.
"'How'll they manage now?' says one, and all the rest look on to see.
"'Why, we'll just have to share and share about, unless the lady's to go without,' say I. And then I make believe to whisper something in your ear.
"And you nod, and take the bottle and drink, and hand it to me after.
"''Tis as good as newly milked,' say I. And you laugh, and the men laugh too.
"Then I take a drink, and you again. I wipe the mouth of the bottle on my sleeve each time before giving it you. And the men, of course, they think that's a mighty fine way of doing things.
"'Never would have thought it,' says one of them. And they go on with their meal.
"'Do as the folks you fall in with, it seems,' says one bolder than the rest.
"'Just so,' say I, 'and that's as it should be'; and there's no saying anything against that, and so we get on finely.
"Then when the meal's over, we lie down by the fire a bit. One man takes out some leaf tobacco from his pack, and cuts it up on a tree stump—hadn't had time before. Then he passes it round, and I fill my pipe too, for all that I'm in company with a fine lady.
"And then we go on our way. But when we've got a few paces off, I turn round suddenly and say, 'Here, you, Heikki, give us a bit of a sermon for the young lady. 'Tis just the place for church.'
"'H'm,' says Heikki. 'I doubt it wouldn't do.'
"''Twill please her, for sure—I'll answer for that,' say I. 'And you do it better than anything else. Antti can help with the service.'
"'Yes, yes!' cry the others. 'If she's wanting to see things out here.Sermon, Heikki!'
"Heikki climbs up on a big rock, and Antti on a tree stump, and Heikki starts off, grumbling out just like the priest at Kakela.
"'Is—any soul—from Keituri—here in—church to-day?'
"'Ay, lord and noble master, here be I,' says Antti in a deep base that goes rumbling through the woods.
"And so they go through the service, and after, Heikki begins to preach. It's the wildest nonsense, Swedish and Finnish and gipsy-talk and all sorts of odd lingo muddled up together, and he pours out the words like a river in flood. The men are in fits of laughter all the time, and you—you're near to bursting.
"'The young lady bids me thank you very much,' say I, when it's over.'Both of you. Says she's never heard so fine a sermon all her life.'
"''Tis well said,' say the men. 'Heikki, he's a wonder to preach, that he is.'
"And so they wave their caps to us as we go off."
"Oh!" said the girl delightedly. "And is it really like that, I wonder?"
"Yes, of course. Only you mustn't say anything. We must go home now—then we can talk all about it after.
"And we go up the hill and start off down the other side.
"When we get down on the flat, you begin putting on the pace, to see if you can go as fast as I can—and it's all I can do to keep up with you. And your cheeks are red as roses, and you're so hot you take off your kerchief and fasten it round your waist like a sash. And there you are running beside me, bareheaded, and your bright hair lifting as you go. I've never seen you look so beautiful before, and I tell you so. You ought to be like that always.
"And so we come home, as happy as can be…. And here we are!"
"Youcanmake stories!" cried the girl. "It was wonderful! Just as if we'd really been there and seen it all."
"Ah, we'll do it really one day, we must. And it'll be ever so much easier then, after you've seen it once to-day."
"No, no! I never can, I know."
"Wait and see," said he. "Now you know what a grand life it is in the forest in winter. A glorious life—though there's trouble, too, at times—danger and hurt; but who cares for that? Do you wonder that I'm always in high spirits when I come home? And when I am here, why, 'tis just like another little world, as clean and fresh as there…. Daisy—sit here, and let me look at you."
The girl sat down on his knee and rested one hand on his shoulder.
"Don't laugh at me," she said softly. "I'm not a bit clever, I know.Just nothing—to you."
"You don't know a bit what you are—but I do. And shall I tell you, just for once, what you are to me?"
The girl laughed happily. "If you'll be sure and only tell the truth!"
"The truth—of course! How could I help it? Now, listen. Once I was in a big town, where there was a picture gallery, and lots of marble statues—like the old Greeks used to make. You've read about them, haven't you?"
"Yes, I think so. But I've never seen them."
"Well, there were lots of these statues, white as snow, and looking just like life. And they were all naked, with never a rag to cover them, but for all that one could look at them, as calm and pure as on the face of God. For they were so beautiful that one could think of nothing but the sacred beauty God has given to the human form. And—can you guess what I'm going to say now?"
"How should I guess?" said the girl, looking down shyly, as if with some inkling she would not confess of what was in his mind.
"Just this—you are like that to me: a marble statue, white and cool, with a beauty that is holy in itself. And I thank God that made you so beautiful and pure."
"Now you're laughing at me again," said the girl sadly.
"'Tis solemn earnest. Listen. Ask yourself, in the time we've been together here, have we ever exchanged a single kiss, a single touch, with any thought of passion?"
"Passion?" The girl's eyes looked frankly into his.
"Yes…. It might have been, you know. I am passionate by nature, butwhen I look at you, it cools and dies. I am telling you the truth whenI say you have been like a healing, cooling draught to one in a fever.And I believe you have changed me altogether, now and for ever after."
"I don't think I understand—not all of it. But have you really been so happy?"
"So unspeakably happy. Yes. And glad to feel myself strong and self-restrained. I have often thought that no one could ever dream what happiness and beauty can live in one little grey village. Do you know what I think? I believe that in every little grey village there is a quiet, secret happiness, that no one knows."
"Not everywhere, Olof. It is not everywhere there is anyone like you."
"But you! I don't mean to say, of course, it should be just like ours.But a happiness…."
He drew the girl to him, and their lips met in a long, gentle kiss.
"Can everyone kiss like you?" she whispered shyly, with a tender gleam in her eyes.
"Maybe. I don't know."
"No, no—there's no one in the world like you. None that can talk like you, or kiss like you. Do you know what I always think—always look at, when you kiss me?"
"No—tell me, tell me!" he cried eagerly.
"No—I don't think I can."
"Something you can't tellme, Daisy-flower? Come, don't you think it's your turn to tell me something now?"
"Well, then—only, you mustn't laugh. I know it's silly. I always—I always look at your neck. There's a big vein just there, and it beats so prettily all the time. And then I feel as if your soul were flowing through it—right into me. And it does, for I can feel it!"
"That's the loveliest thing you've ever said in all your life," said he solemnly. "We won't talk any more now, only be together…."
* * * * *
Spring was near; it was open war between the sun and the cold. The snowdrifts had begun to disappear.
Strange dreams were at work in Olof's mind.
"She loves me—warmly and truly," he told himself. "But is her love deep and strong enough for her to forget all else, and give herself up fully and freely to her lover?"
"And could you let her? Could you accept that sacrifice—from one like her?"
"No, no. I didn't mean that, of course. But if only I could be sure—could feel beyond all doubt that shewould; that she was ready to give up everything for my sake…."
"And you countthatthe final test of love? Shame on you!"
The colour faded from the evening sky; the stars were lit … the errant fancies died away.
* * * * *
In the brilliant sunlight they returned—the same strange dreams welling up on every side, like the waters of spring. Behind and before him, everywhere, insistently, an irresistible song.
"I must know—I must sound the uttermost depths of her love!"
"Can you not see how cruel it would be—cruel to her beyond all others?"
"But only to know! To ask as if only in jest…."
"In jest? And you would jest with such a thing as this!"
And the dreams sank down into the hurrying waters; yet still the warm clouds sailed across the sky.
* * * * *
Like a rushing flood—the old desire again.
"Can anything be cruel that is meant in love? A question only—showing in itself how deeply I love her? It is torture not to know; I must break through it—I must learn the truth!"
"…" But the other voice was lost in a rush of foaming waters.
* * * * *
He took the girl's hand in his, and spoke warmly, with beautiful words.
Her fair brow darkened under a cloud—so dark seemed any cloud there that for a moment he wished he had not spoken.
"I never thought you could doubt me," she murmured, almost in tears."Or ask—or ask for that!"
"Oh, my love," he thought. "If you only knew! Just one word, and thenI can tell you all—and we shall be doubly happy after."
So he thought, but he did not speak. And now he could think of nothing but the moment when he could tell her that it was but a question in all innocence—a trial of her love.
"It is because I love you as I do," she said, "that I could not do it. We have been so happy—butthatwould be something strange between us. And now that you are going away…." She stopped, and the two looked at each other sorrowfully. It was as if already something strange had crept between them, as if they had hurt each other unwittingly, and suffered at the thought.
* * * * *
Day by day their parting drew nearer, the sun was veiled in a dreary mist.
Then one day she came to him, strangely moved, and clung to him, slight and yielding as the drooping curtains of the birch, swayed by the wind. Clung to him, threw her arms warmly round his neck, and looked into his eyes with a new light in her own.
"What—what is it?" he asked, with emotion, hovering between fear and a strange delight.
"Olof—I am … I can say it now…."
A tumult of joy rose up in him at her words. He clasped her to him in a fervent embrace, and opened his lips to tell her the secret at last. But his heart beat all too violently, a hand seemed clutching his throat, and he could not utter a word, but crushed her closer to him, and pressed his lips to hers.
Drawn two ways, he seemed, and now but one; all thought of the other vanished utterly. His breast was almost bursting with a desperate regret; he could not speak, and would not even if he could.
And then, as he felt the pressure of her embrace return his own, regret was drowned in an ecstasy of surrender.
"I love you," she whispered, "as onlyyour motherever could!"
Olof turned cold. It was as if a stranger had surprised them in an intimate caress.
"Olof," she murmured, with an unspeakable tenderness in her eyes. And as if some great thing had suddenly come into her mind she went on: "You have never told me about your mother…. No, don't tell me now; I know it all myself. She is tall like you, and stately, and upright still as ever. And she has just the same bright eyes, and little hollows at the temples, like you have. And she wears a dark striped apron, with a little pocket at the side, where she keeps her knitting, and takes it out now and then to work at as she goes."
"How could you know!" he cried, in pleased surprise. His fear was gone now, and he felt only a wonderful depth of happiness at hearing the girl speak so tenderly of his mother.
"'Tis only guessing. But do you know—I should so like to see her, your mother, that…."
"That…?"
"Only … only, I should like to see her so. Then I'd put my arms round her neck and … Olof, did your mother often kiss you?"
"No. Not often."
"But she stroked your hair, and often talked with you all alone, I know."
"Yes … yes."
His arms loosed their hold of the girl, and almost unconsciously he thrust her a little away, staring out into the distance with a faint smile on his lips and deepest earnest in his eyes.
The girl looked at him wonderingly.
"What is it?" she asked anxiously, as if fearing to have hurt him. But he did not seem to hear, only stood looking out at nothing as before.
"Olof—what is it?" she asked again, in evident distress.
"Only—it was only my mother speaking to me all alone," he answered in a low voice.
"Oh!" The girl sighed deeply. "Now—was it just now she spoke?"
He nodded.
The girl glanced at him and hesitated. "Won't you—won't you tell me what she said?" she asked timidly.
"She told me it was wrong—a sinful wrong even to ask you…."
The girl gazed at him for a long time without speaking; the tenderness in her eyes grew to unutterable depths.
"Oh," she whispered at last, very softly, "if she only knew how I love her now—your mother! I never loved her so before." And she clasped her arms round his neck.