A man came walking down the sandy, grass-bordered road.
He walked mechanically, like a machine set to go, and going without consciousness or effort—without a question or a thought, without a glance to either side—on and on.
He reached the top of a rise from which the road sloped down to the valley. And here he stopped, as if set to go no farther.
Before him spread the landscape of the valley; green woods encircled it on every hand, like a protecting fence about a pleasure-garden. Within the area enclosed were mounds and hilly fields, stretches of meadow, farmsteads, rows of corn-sheaves and haystacks, patches of stubble, a tiny stream with a bridge and a fall, and mills on either bank.
A thrill of emotion seized the wanderer at sight of it all; one glance let loose a flood of memories and thoughts of things long since forgotten.
All seemed as before. He looked at the stream, and followed the line of its course with his eye. The mills stared at one another from bank to bank, as they had always done since the beginning of time. But the mills themselves had changed. The old wooden structures were gone, and in place of them stood modern stone-walled buildings.
A lightning thought came into his mind: was thereanythingthat was unchanged, though the setting seemed as it had been? What might not have happened in the little place during those years?
The wanderer felt uneasy at the thought. Here he was—but who could say what he would find here, now he had come?
Slowly, with heavy steps, he took his way down towards the village.And ever as he neared it, his uneasiness increased.
* * * * *
He came to a turn in the way. From just beyond came the tinkle of a bell, and, as he rounded the bend, he saw a flock of sheep grazing, and a fair-haired lad watching the flock.
The sight gladdened his heart—the sheep and the shepherd lad at least were as he had hoped to find them.
"Good-day!" he said heartily. "And whose lad are you, little man?"
"Just Stina's boy," answered the young herdsman easily, from his seat by the wayside.
"Ho, are you? … yes." The wanderer stepped across the ditch, sat down by the wayside, and lit his pipe.
"And what's the news in the place? I've been here before, d'ye see, and used to know it well. But 'tis long since I heard anything from these parts."
"News?… H'm." The lad felt a pleasant sense of importance at being thus asked, and stepped down from his seat. "Well, you've heard, maybe, 'twas Mattila's Tytto won the first prize at the cattle show?"
"You don't say so? Mattila's Tytto?" echoed the stranger, with a laugh. "And what else?"
"Why, there's no more that I know of—let me see…." The wise little eyes grew thoughtful. "Oh, I forgot. Yes, Maya, she's married, and they're building a bit of a place over by the clearing there. Shoemaker, he was, and a good match, they say."
"I see. That'll be the place. Looks as good as could be."
"'Tis a fine place. Going to have a real stove, with a baking oven and all…. Then there's been another wedding besides, at Niemi—Annikki's it was. Only just married—though there's been plenty that asked her these years past, and rich men some of them too."
"Yes…." The wanderer felt as if something had struck him in the breast. Impatiently he went on:
"And how's things at Koskela?"
"Koskela—well, old man there he died last spring, and they say…."
"Died?" A heavier stroke this; it seemed to paralyse him.
"Yes—and two horses to the funeral, with white covers and all. And silver stars all over the coffin—like the sky it was."
The wanderer felt himself gazing helplessly into a darkness where hosts of silver stars danced before his eyes.
"You knew him, maybe?" asked the lad, watching the man's face.
"Ay, I knew him," came the answer in a stifled voice.
"And his wife's like to follow him soon," went on the boy. "She's at the last gasp now, they say."
The wanderer felt as if something were tightening about his heart.
"So there's neither man nor wife, so to speak, at Koskela now."
The wanderer would have risen, but his limbs seemed numbed.
"There was a son, they say, was to have taken over the place, but he went away somewhere long ago, and never came back."
The wanderer rose to his feet. "Thanks, little man." And he strode off.
The lad stared wonderingly at the retreating figure, whose heavy steps sounded like sighs of pain from the breast of the trodden road.
"Come in," said the key invitingly.
But the weary man stood motionless, paralysed by the thought that had come to him as he reached the door.
"Come in—you've waited long enough in coming."
And the weary man grasped the key, but stood holding it helplessly, like a child without strength to turn it.
It rattled in the lock under his trembling fingers. The noise roused him; he opened the door and went in.
* * * * *
It was like entering a church. A solemn, expectant silence hung over the place—it was just as it had been when, as a child, he had first been taken to church.
And now, as then, his glance sought first of all the farthest background of the place. What he saw was like and yet unlike what he had seen there. Then, it had been the figure of a young man, holding out his arms over a group of children; now, it was the figure of an old woman, worn with sickness—but with the same great gentleness in her face.
The woman's eyes lit up, as though she had seen a miracle; her glance grew keen, as if wishing to be sure, and softened again, in the certainty that the miracle had come.
The trembling head was lifted, the frail body rose up like a bent bow, her mouth opened, and her lips began to move, but no sound came—she could but reach out one thin, trembling hand to the figure by the door.
He moved, and walked over to the bed. And the old woman and the weary man took each other's hands and pressed them, looked into each other's eyes and trembled with emotion, unable to speak a word.
Tears rose to the old woman's eyes, a gleam as of sunset over autumn woods lit her wrinkled face; the thin lips quivered between smiling and weeping.
"So you came after all," she said at last in a trembling voice. "I knew you would come—some time. And good that you came just now…."
She sank back wearily on the pillow, and the man sat down on a chair at her side, still holding her hands in his.
* * * * *
The old woman lay with her face turned towards her son, looking at him with love in her eyes.
Then her look turned to one of questioning—there was something she had been waiting years to ask.
"Tell me, my son…." Her voice was almost a whisper.
But he could not answer.
"Olof, look at me," she begged.
And the man beside the bed lifted his eyes, great dark eyes full of weariness and stark fear—but bowed his head again and looked away.
The smile vanished from the old woman's face. She gazed long and searchingly at her son's haggard chin, his sunken cheeks and loose eyelids, the pale forehead, the furrowed temples—everything.
"Perhaps it has to be," she murmured, as if speaking to someone else. "'And wasted all his substance…. And he said, I will arise and….'"
Her voice trembled, and Olof, in a hasty glance, saw how her wrinkled mouth quivered with emotion.
And suddenly the coldness that had almost paralysed him up to now, seemed to melt away. He fell on his knees beside the bed, his face in the coverlet, and knelt there sobbing.
It was as in church, at the moment when each single heart withdraws from all the rest to offer up its own silent prayer.
* * * * *
The old woman lay resting in her bed; her face wore the same look of sorrowful gentleness that it had done for years, despite the ravages of sickness.
But to-day, signs of uneasiness were apparent; shadows of fear seemed flitting ever and anon over her features.
Olof wiped his mother's forehead gently. "You are not so well to-day?" he asked.
"'Tis not that—no. I called you, there was something I wanted to say.But I'm not sure—perhaps it would be better not…."
He took her withered hand tenderly in his.
"Why do you think that, mother? You have never said anything but what was good."
"'Twas meant to be so—ay, that's true. But there's times when it's hard to say what's best to do, and it's so with me now. For years I've been thinking to tell you before I closed my eyes the last time. And it's been a comfort to me in many trials. But now I come to say it…."
The sick woman's breast heaved, and drops of sweat stood out on her forehead.
"Best not to think too much if it worries you," said Olof, wiping her brow once more. "'Twill be all right in time."
"'Tis right enough—I know that really. 'Twould be a wrong to myself and you, and to all I've hoped and believed, if I didn't speak—yet it's hard to begin. Come closer, you too, Heikki—I can't speak so loud…."
The elder brother, who had just come in from the fields with his muddy boots on, had sat down close to the door. He moved his chair now nearer the bed.
The sick woman lay for a while in thought, as if weighing the matter in her mind. Then she looked long and earnestly at her two sons.
"You two will have to divide what's left," she said at last. "And I've not said a word of it before; you're not like to quarrel over it, I know. But there's one thing in the place that I want to keep separate from the rest, and give it up to you now, before I go."
She sighed, and was silent for a while, as if needing rest before she could continue. The two young men watched her expectantly.
'"Tis nothing of great value, but it's all tied up like with something that happened once, and all the thoughts of it—and 'tis valuable to me. I mean the cupboard there."
The sons glanced at the thing where it stood; an old cupboard in two sections, that they knew well.
"You look surprised. Oh, if I could only tell you…."
She gazed upwards in silence, as if praying for strength. Then, with a strange light in her eyes, she turned towards them and went on almost in a whisper, as one who tells a tale of ghosts:
"It was long ago. In this very room, on this very bed here lay a woman who had borne a man-child but four days before. She had always been tender and faithful and obedient to her husband, and had tried to do his will in everything. And she had been happy, very happy. But before the child was born, a suspicion had begun to grow up secretly in her mind. And now, on the fifth night, as she lay there with the newborn child, in the pale light from a lamp on the shelf of the cupboard there, the fear at her heart grew all of a sudden so strong that she got up, and went into the next room, to see if what she dreaded was true…."
The sick woman turned her face to the wall, to hide the tears that forced themselves into her eyes.
"But the one she sought was not there, and driven by fear, she crossed the courtyard, barefooted, and half-clad as she was, in the cold, over to the still-room. They used to make spirits at home in those days. She opened the door softly and looked in. There the fire was burning, and by the flickering light she saw a woman—a young woman then—lying on a bed, and beside her the man she herself had risen from her childbed to seek. And at the sight of them her heart died in her. She would have cried aloud, but only a groan came from her lips, and she went back, dreading at every step lest her legs should fail her…."
The sick woman gasped for breath, and lay trembling; the listeners sat as if turned to stone.
"How she got back," went on the old woman, "she did not know herself; only there she was, sitting on the bed beside her child, pressing her hands to her breast, that felt as if it would burst. Then she heard footsteps outside, and a moment later the door opened, and with a roar like a wild beast, a man strode in—furious, with bloodshot eyes. He uttered a dreadful curse, and swung up an axe above his head. The woman almost fainted with fright. Then behind him she saw her sister reaching up with a cry of horror towards the axe he held. It flew from his hand, the steel shone in the lamplight—and what happened after she did not know…."
It was as if the axe had fallen at that moment, striking them all three. The mother closed her eyes. Olof was trembling from head to foot; his brother crouched in his seat, his features stiff with horror.
"When she came to herself," went on the sick woman in a trembling voice, "her husband was sitting beside her, with his head in his hands, his face ashy pale, his eyes bloodshot, and his body trembling all over as if shivering with cold. The axe had flown straight over the place where mother and child had been, missing them by an inch, and stuck fast in the cupboard beyond—it was standing there as it stands now…."
The woman sighed as if in relief to find the danger past.
Olof grasped her hand eagerly, pressed it, and looked imploringly into her eyes.
"Yes, yes," she nodded, "he begged forgiveness—and she forgave him. And they were friends again. And that night he fetched up some putty from the cellar and filled the hole the axe had made, and painted it over afterwards. But—you can see where it was…."
Olof rose to his feet and walked over mechanically to the cupboard; his elder brother sat still on his chair, looking over at the place in silent horror.
"You can see—it struck just between the two sides, and cut deep into the edges. It's plain to be seen, for all it's painted over now. As for the woman…."
She broke off suddenly, her face pale and bloodless, her features quivering with painful emotion.
"The woman—she forgave him, and never a harsh word between them after. Folk said they lived so happily together…. But the hurt—the hurt was there. A woman's heart's not a thing to be healed with any putty and paint…."
* * * * *
She was silent, but her face was eloquent with feeling still.
Olof went back to his place, took her hand and kissed it again and again, with tears, as if praying for forgiveness. For the first time he realised the inner meaning of his mother's nature as he knew it—the undertone of sadness in her gentle ways. And he could not free himself from a strange, inexplicable feeling of guilt in himself, though till that day he had known nothing of her secret.
"And for the man … well, well, let him rest in peace! 'Twas not from any thought to soil his memory—but you're grown men now, my sons, and when you've wives of your own…. Ay, a good man he was in many ways, a clever worker. And I know he suffered himself for—for the other thing. He'll be judged, as we shall all be judged—we've all of us enough to answer for…."
For a long time the sick woman lay as if overwhelmed by stress of feeling, unable to speak. Olof, with tears in his eyes, sat deep in thought; the elder son had not moved.
"And now I can leave it to you," she went on more calmly. "'Tis all tied up, as I said, with thoughts of that time, ay, and hopes and prayers, all the best and the hardest in my life. And I'm not the only one that's had such things to bear through life. There's many a one the world knows nothing of, for a woman can bear a great sorrow and never speak of it. And I've heard since, that there was trouble of the same sort here in the house before my day…. Heaven grant I may be the last to suffer! And so I wanted you to take the thing between you—half to each—the scar's between them, so you'll share that too. Remember it, and tell your children some time. And they can pass on the legacy to theirs—with all the hopes and prayers and tears it brought—only let the name be forgotten!"
All three looked earnestly at the grim heirloom that stood there reaching from floor to ceiling; it seemed to grow, as they watched, into a monument over the grave of many generations.
* * * * *
The sick woman turned anxiously to her sons.
"Will you take it?" she asked. "Will you take it, with all that it means…?"
Olof pressed her hand to his lips in answer. The elder brother sat motionless, as before, his eyelids trembled as if he were on the point of tears. His mother read his answer in his eyes.
"I'm glad it's over now," she said in relief. "And now I've no more to give you, but—my blessing!"
Her face lit with the same great gentleness that had softened it for years, she looked long and tenderly at her sons.
"Olof," she said at last, as if to wake him from his thoughts; "it happened at the time before you were born…."
The elder son looked at his mother in astonishment—why should she tell them what they had known all along?
But Olof looked up suddenly, as if he had heard something new and significant. The quiver in his mother's voice told him what she meant, the look in her eyes seemed to shed a light on what had been dark before.
Questioningly he looked at her, as if silently asking confirmation of his thought.
She nodded almost imperceptibly.
"I have often thought of that, these last sad years…."
Olof felt as if a mighty storm had suddenly torn away a dark, overshadowing growth, laying bare the heart of a fearsome place—deep clefts and stagnant pools and treacherous bogs.
"Ay, there's much that's hard to understand," she whispered in his ear. "But go to your work, now, sons. I'm tired now, leave me to rest…."
The young men rose and left the room. In the doorway they turned and cast a last glance at their mother, but she seemed no longer to heed them. She lay with her hands folded on her breast, gazing calmly at the old cupboard where it stood by the wall, like a monument above the grave of many generations.
The funeral was over.
The two brothers sat by the window, in thoughtful mood, and speaking little.
"… And you'll take over the place now, of course," said Olof to his elder brother, "and work the farm as it's always been done since it's been in the family. 'Twon't be long, I doubt, before you bring home a wife to be mistress here…. Anyhow, I take it you'll go on as before?"
"What's in your mind now?" asked Heikki, with a little sharp cough.
"Only what I've said—that you'll take over Koskela now," said Olof cheerfully.
"H'm. You know well enough 'twas always meant that you were to take over the place—I'm not the sort to be master myself. Look after the men at their work—yes. But run the place by myself…."
"You'll soon get into the way of it," said Olof encouragingly. "And as to the men—I've an idea a farm's the better for a master that works with his men as you've always done, instead of going about talking big and doing nothing."
The elder brother cleared his throat again, and sat staring before him, drumming with his fingers on the edge of the chair.
"And what about you?" he asked, after a while.
"Oh, I'll look after myself all right. Build a bit of a house, and maybe turn up a patch of ground or so."
"Build a house…?" repeated the other in surprise.
"Yes. You see, brother, each goes his own way," went on Olof heavily. "And I've a sort of feeling now that I can't live on anything out of the past. I must try and build up a life for myself, all anew. If I can do that, perhaps I may be able to go on living."
The elder brother stared with wide eyes, as if listening to words in a strange tongue. Then he began drumming with his fingers again.
"H'm. I don't know quite what you mean, but it's no business of mine, anyway." He spoke with a touch of respect in his voice, as if to a superior. "We'll have to do as you say. But do you think Koskela will be the same with none but me to look to it all?"
"Surely it will!" said Olof warmly.
"Why, then, have it as you please. But if things begin to go wrong here, then you'll have to take over yourself."
"I will if need be. But by the time you've ploughed this autumn you'll see yourself there will be no need. Good luck go with you, brother, and with the place."
"H'm." The elder brother coughed again. "And what about the price. We must fix that beforehand."
"What for? You take over the place as it stands, and you'll find it good enough. Give me the bit of marshland at Isosuo, and the oat fields adjoining, and the little copse that's fenced in with it, and that's all I want. You can let me take what timber I want from your part, for building and such."
"Ho, so you think that's fair, do you?" said his brother eagerly. "A nice bit of ground—and there's all the clay you'll need ready to hand. But it'll cost a deal of hard work to drain and clear it—I've thought over that many a time. As for the building timber—you shall have all you want, and help for the carting. But all the same, we must fix a price for Koskela as a whole, and make a fair division."
"There's nothing to divide, I tell you. You take over the whole place, except the bit I've said. You see how it is: each of us wants to give more than the other's willing to take, so there's no need to quarrel about that. And if I want anything later on, I'll ask you for it; if there's anything you want, you'll come to your brother first."
"Well, well—I dare say it'll be all right. Anyhow, I'll do what I can to keep up Koskela as it's always been."
And the elder brother began once more drumming with his fingers, faster this time, and as it were more firmly.
Suddenly he sprang up. "They ought to finish that field to-day—I must see they don't stop work before it's done."
He left the room and hurried across the courtyard.
Olof rose and followed his brother to the door, watching him as he strode along, with head bowed forward a little and arms swinging briskly at his sides.
"Each works best in his own way," he said to himself, smiling affectionately at the thought. "And maybe his way's like to be better for Koskela than they ever thought."
* * * * *
Olof turned off from the main road down a little forest track; he carried an axe on his shoulder.
An autumn morning, solemn and still. The night had been cold, the morning air was so fresh and light it almost lifted one from the ground—it seemed almost superfluous to tread at all.
A strange feeling had come upon Olof as he started out. Between the hedge-stakes on either side of the road hung bridges of the spider's work—netted and plaited and woven with marvellous art, and here and there a perfect web, the spider's masterpiece, hung like a wheel of tiny threads. Then as the sun came up, thread and cable caught its rays, till the road seemed lined with long festoons of silver, and decked at intervals with silver shields.
In the forest, too, it was the same—the path lined with silver hangings on either side, and webs of silver here and there along the way.
"Spiders bring luck, so they say," thought Olof.
"Well, at any rate, they're showing me the road this morning."
And he strode on briskly, eager to begin.
"To-day's the test," he thought. "All depends on how I manage now. If it goes well, then I can do what I will. But if I've lost my strength and will these years between, then—why, I don't know where to turn."
Eagerly, impatiently, he hurried on, trembling with expectation, and sweating at the brow.
"Maybe I'm taking it too seriously," he thought again. "But, no—it is life or death to me, this. And I don't know yet what I can do—it may go either way…."
He swung the axe in a wide circle from the shoulder, held it out at arm's length, then straight above his head, and swung it to either side. It weighed as lightly as a leaf, and he felt a childish delight—as if he had already passed the first test.
* * * * *
He reached the place at last—a hillside covered with tall, straight-stemmed fir and pine. He flung down coat and hat, never heeding where, glanced up along the stem he had chosen, then the axe was lifted, and the steel sank deep into the red wood—it was his first stroke in his native forest after six years' absence.
The forest answered with a ringing echo from three sides, so loud and strong that Olof checked his second stroke in mid-air, and turned in wonder to see who was there.
And the trees faced him with lifted head and untroubled brow, without nod or smile, but with the greeting of stern men bidding welcome.
"Hei!" Olof answered with a stroke of the axe.
And so they talked together, in question and answer and dispute….
"What am I working out here all alone for?" said Olof. "Why, 'tis this way…." And with the red-brown fir chips flying all around him, he told them the story.
"So that's it? Well, good luck to you," answered the trees, and fell, one after another, till the earth rang and the echoes answered far through the forest.
Olof felt himself aglow with an inward fire that flamed the more as he gave it way in ringing strokes of the axe. He counted it a point of honour to strip each branch off clean at a single blow, be it never so thick…. And the more he worked the happier he grew.
He was trying to win back the years in which he had never held an axe.
* * * * *
By noon, he stood in the middle of a clearing already.
"Well, how does it feel?" asked the trees, as he sat down, with his jacket slung over his shoulders, hastily eating the meal he had brought with him.
"None so bad—hope for the best," he answered.
Again the axe flashed, the branches shivered, and the earth rang. "Bit crooked, that one," said Olof to himself; "but I can use it all the same—do for a piece between the windows."
"Well, you know best," said the trees. "But how many windows are you going to have—and how many rooms? You haven't told us that yet."
"Two rooms, no more—but two big ones." And Olof told them all his plans for doors and windows and stoves, and an attic above the entrance—he had thought it all out beforehand.
"Yes, yes…. But where are you going to build?"
"On the little hill beside Isosuo marsh—that's where I thought."
"Isosuo marsh?" cried the trees, looking in wonder first at one another and then at Olof himself. Then they smiled triumphantly.
"Bravo!" they cried in chorus. "Bravo, and good luck go with your building, and prosperity roof over all! 'Tis good to see there's some that still dare begin life for themselves in the forest."
"'Tis that I'm hoping to do—that and no more."
"But what do folk say to it? Don't they think you're mad?"
"They call me nothing as yet, for I've not told any of what I'm doing."
"Just as well, perhaps," said the trees.
And they fell to talking of Isosuo, of drains and ditching, the nature of the soil, and all that Olof would have to do.
And the axe sang, and the chips flew, and the woods gave echo, and the talk went on. And the day came so quickly to an end that Olof started to find how it was already growing dark.
"Well, and what do you say now?" asked the trees expectantly.
Olof stepped from stem to stem, counting the fallen. There were forty in all—and he laughed.
"I shall be here again to-morrow, anyhow," he said gaily.
"If you come to-morrow, then you will come again till it's done," said the trees. "Come, and be welcome!"
* * * * *
Olof walked home whistling cheerfully; he felt as if the house were already built up round him. It was a great thing, enough to take up all his thoughts, and strong enough in itself to strengthen him anew.
"Kyllikki,—You will be surprised, no doubt, to hear from me again after so many years. I am not sure of your address, and do not even know if you are still 'Kyllikki,' or possibly someone with another name that I do not know. I am too proud to ask news of you from any but yourself.
"And now to what I have to say. I have never been able to free myself from you quite, however much I wished. I have tried to forget you, to wipe away all trace of you from my soul, but in spite of everything you have followed me from place to place, year after year, and now, just lately, you have been ever before my eyes. Was it your friendship that followed me so, or my own guilty conscience—or perhaps my better self that has been longing for you, and silently calling for you, though I tried to stifle the voice?
"I do not know. I only know that my years of wandering are over now, and I have come to settle down in my own place. I may freely confess that I was weary and broken down, worn out and hopeless, when I came home—to see my mother for the last time, and follow her to the grave. And I cannot say, even now, that I am much better, though perhaps a little. I can feel something in me that seems to grow, something that gives me hope. So perhaps it is not altogether lost.
"I am building myself a house, and have other plans of a like sort. But there is one thing I miss, and the lack of it grows stronger every day: a friend and comrade, one that I could respect and trust entirely. Not one to share my good fortune, but one to be with me in toil and want.
"Kyllikki, you can never guess how I have suffered in doubt and questioning of late. Have I any right at all to hope for comradeship? Could I promise anything to anyone? And if so—to whom?… Kyllikki, you know me well enough to understand what I mean. It is no light question, and no easy one to answer.
"As far as I myself am concerned, I believe I see my way clear. And therefore I ask you—will you venture out upon the water with me once more—not the mere crossing of a little stream, but for a voyage that may lead we know not where? I cannot be sure that we should ever reach safely to land, only that if your hand is still free to give, and you are willing, and can trust me enough to offer it, then I will never let go, whatever may come.
"And one thing more—could a daughter of Moisio venture to share the lot of a poor settler? I can offer nothing more, and would not if I could. If she will, then I can dare anything.
"Again—would youwishto join your life with mine? Or do you despise me, perhaps? I will not try to defend myself, and it would be useless in any case, for I know that little matters would not influence your decision; all must rest on what you think of me as a whole, and that is fixed already.
"One thing most of all—let there be no question of pity or giving out of charity. I fancy neither of us would ever give or take in that way, but I have heard say that pity counts for much in a woman's heart. Myself, I do not think pity can go far, if the earlier feeling is once dead. And you know best yourself whether that is so.
"Is your father still alive? And does he still think asbefore? But it makes no difference now. Onceweare agreed,ten fathers could make no difference. I feel now that I can dowhat I will.
"And that is all for now, Kyllikki. You know how anxiously Iwait to hear from you—your answer means very much to me. ButI know it will be clear and true, whichever way it may be.OLOF.
"My address is, Olof Koskela, as above."
* * * * *
"KOHISEVA, 2Oct. 1897.
"OLOF,—Your letter found me. Kyllikki is unchanged—and you, I see, are much as I had thought you would be. Proud and exacting as ever, though not perhaps in quite the same way. And well it is so, for ifyouhad seemed otherwise I should have suspected at once.
"Yes, I will venture. I am ready to venture anything. I did not even need to think it over; I had decided long since, and have not changed. I am not ashamed to tell you that I knew more of you than you thought. I have followed your doings and your movements from a distance, until you came home, and determined to wait for you till it was past hoping for. I feel I ought to tell you this at once, that you may know I am not building up fair hopes on no foundation, but know what I am doing, and what I can expect.
"You need not fear pity from me, Olof. I believe in fate, and in life as a thing with some meaning. I have often wondered, these last few years, if there could be any meaning in my life, and why fate had brought us so strangely together. Was it only to make us suffer? I came at last to the conclusion that if there were any meaning in my life, it must be with you; and if fate had any plan at all, it must be that you should come back to me some day, even though the way were hard. And you came, came with the very word I had been waiting to hear from your lips for years—thatyou had need of me! All is easy after that; no need to doubt or hesitate. I can answer at once: I am ready.
"I do not think, or hope, that our way will be strewn with roses. But it is right, I feel that; and in time we shall reach our goal.
"Come, Olof, come soon. Four years I have waited—four years of longing, all my life's longing.—Your
"P.S.—Father is the same, but what you say about that is whatI say myself.
"One thing I would ask you—let me see you alone first, before you meet my father. I could not bear to meet again after all these years in that way. Come to our old meeting-place beforehand, if you can, and let me know what day and time you will be there.
Olof walked up the steps to the homestead at Moisio.
A trifle pale, perhaps, but confident, ready to meet whatever might chance, and determined to gain his end.
He opened the door and went in. There were two in the room: an old man with bushy brows—who, unaware of the visitor's approach, was on the point of going out himself—and a girl. She was waiting anxiously, and as the door opened, her heart beat as if it would leap from her breast.
All three stood for a moment in silence.
"Good-day to you," said Olof respectfully to the old man.
No one answered. Olof marked how the dark brows drew together like two murky storm-clouds.
"Good-day," came the answer at last, sharp and hard—as if the speaker were unwilling to deny a certain courtesy, even to the most unwelcome guest, in his own house.
Having said so much, however, he felt no further obligation, and went on sternly:
"I told you last time that I did not wish to see you again. What brings you here now?"
The words fell like strokes of an axe; the girl turned pale, and leaned against the wall.
"This," said Olof calmly. "When I spoke to you last time, matters did not pass off as they should. I beg your forgiveness for that. And now I have come to ask again for your daughter's hand."
"You—a wastrel…!" The old man's voice trembled with anger.
"I have been. But let us talk calmly, if you please."
"Lumberman!" The word was flung out with a bitterness and contempt that cut like a knife.
A dark flush rose to Olof's cheek; he was hard put to it already to control himself.
"True," he said, slowly and with emphasis. "I have been a lumberman. There are clodhoppers enough to ditch and plough, but good lumbermen are none so easy to find."
The old man raised his eyebrows, then lowered them again with an expression as of a beast about to spring.
"Go!" he thundered.
A deep silence followed. Olof bit his lip, then drawing himself up defiantly, he poured out a flood of words.
"You—you drove me out from here once before, and I went at your bidding. Now, I move not a step till we have fought this out between us. I came to you to-day with all respect—yes, and asked your pardon for last time, though even now I do not know which of us two was more in the wrong. And I am going now, but not at your bidding—and not alone. I have come to ask for what is mine by right—and I would do the same if she were a star in the skies of heaven!"
The old man was leaning forward with clenched fists; without a word he rushed towards the door.
Olof's mind was made up on the instant—he would take the man by the arms and set him down and bid him talk over matters quietly and decently, as became his age. He stepped forward resolutely.
"Father!" The girl sprang forward hastily between them, "Father—I … it is true. I am his by right!"
The words came like a blow from behind—the father turned and looked long at the girl.
"You…!" he cried, astounded. "You say—you are his by right? Ho! And perhaps you've been waiting for him, then, all these years, when you said 'No' to one after another?"
"Yes," she answered calmly. "And I have made up my mind to be his wife."
The old man took a step towards her.
"Made up your mind, have you…?"
"Yes," said the girl gently; "and I want you, father, to consent."
"But suppose I've made up my mind?" The old man drew himself up and stood between them, straight as a fir stem. "And this I say: My daughter's not for any wandering lumberman that has the impudence to ask."
He spoke with firmness and authority—matters seemed hopelessly at a deadlock. There was a moment of tense silence. Kyllikki bowed her head, then slowly she looked up and faced her father, steadily, confidently—Olof noticed with surprise how the two in that moment were alike. Expression and attitude were the same in both.
"And if she chooses to give herself—what then?"
The old man's eyes flashed.
"Then—why, she can go as his mistress, if she please, but not as my daughter!"
Silence again. Kyllikki flushed angrily; Olof was hardly able to restrain himself. But he realised that the two must be left to themselves for what concerned themselves—he could only make matters worse.
"Choose," said her father, coldly and with dignity. "And make haste about it—the fellow here is waiting. But mark this," he added with a sneer, as confident of victory: "Ifyou go, you go at once. And you take with you nothing—not a rag nor stitch that was my daughter's. You go …dressed as you came. You understand!"
The two stood amazed at first, hardly comprehending. Then, as the meaning of his words dawned on them, in its fearful cruelty, they looked at him aghast.
"Father … is that your last word?" asked the girl earnestly.
"Yes!"
Pale and red by turns, she stood hardly seeming to breathe.
The old man's lips curved in a scornful smile. Olof stood waiting his sentence, unable to think or feel.
Then slowly the girl raised her head, seeming to tower over her surroundings. She raised her hands without a tremor, slipped the fastenings of her blouse, and almost before they could realise what she was doing, she stood bare-armed, bare-throated before them.
The smile faded from the old man's lips. Olof's heart beat with a wild delight—he felt an impulse to take the girl in his arms and carry her off.
Calmly she went on—unhooked her skirt and let it slip to the floor beside her blouse.
The old man's face was ashy pale. Olof turned his back in fury and disgust.
But the girl never flinched. Quietly she loosened the strings of her petticoat….
"Enough!" The old man's voice was like a cry from the underworld.
Olof turned—the girl looked inquiringly at him.
"Go! Take her—be off with you both!" cried her father, beyond himself. "Ay, you're hard," he went on, to the girl, "hard and obstinate as the rest of our blood ever were, too hard for your woman's clothes! And as for you, I hope you can keep a wife now you've got her. Of all the cursed…."
The young pair flushed, but they stood still, unable to move.
"Get your things on," said the old man impatiently. "And you—sit down."
A sudden wave of shame came over the girl; snatching up her clothes, she fled into the next room.
The master of Moisio walked slowly to the window and sat down heavily, a beaten man. Olof felt a thrill of pity for the old man.
They sat for a few moments in silence; then Kyllikki entered once more, blushing still, glanced hastily at Olof, and sat down, watching her father's face.
At last the old man turned. The scene had left its mark on him, but there was dignity still in his glance as he looked Olof full in the face.
"You've made yourself my son-in-law," he said, "though 'twas no wish of mine it should be so. But we may as well start with a clear understanding. 'Tis our way here to say what's to be said at once, or give a blow where it's needed—and have done with it."
"'Tis no bad way," said Olof, hardly knowing what he was saying. "My father's way was much the same."
There was a slight pause. "We've one or two things to talk over now," went on the old man. "I should like to hear, to begin with, what you're thinking of doing. Wandering about as before, maybe?"
"No. I've done with that. I've settled down in my own place—I'm building a house there," answered Olof.
"H'm. Building a house, are you? I could find you a house here, for that matter. I dare say you know I've no son to come after me. And I'm an old man now."
Olof looked wonderingly at him. "I understand now," he said slowly, "what you meant before. And I thank you for your kindness. But it's this way with me now—I can't live in another man's house; I must make a place for myself, and work for myself. I was to have had the farm at home, but I couldn't take it." "A farm?" cried the old man, rising to his feet. "Where—where do you come from, then?"
"From Kylanpaa in Hirviyoki—I don't know if you've heard of the place."
"I have been there, years ago," said the old man in a kindlier tone, taking a step towards him. "And what's the name of your place there?" he asked.
"Koskela."
"Koskela? That's a big place."
"Why, 'tis big enough," said Olof.
"And why didn't you say that before—when you were here last?" said the old man sharply. "'Twould have been better for both if you had."
Olof flushed slightly. "I never thought to take a wife but in my own name," he answered—"for myself, and what I might be worth by myself."
"Yes, that's your way," said the old man, scanning him critically. "I see it now."
He glanced out of the window and seemed to catch sight of something. "Don't mind what's past," he said kindly. "There's the horses coming from the smith's. I must look to them a minute. I'll be back again…." And he strode out.
The two that remained felt as if the calm of a bright Sunday morning filled the room after a stormy night. Blushingly the girl hurried across to her lover, who came towards her; she flung her arms round his neck, and whispered:
"Olof, I have never really known you until now!"
"And I," he answered, "have never known you till to-day."
The dark of an autumn evening was abroad. It marched along the roads, stole over the meadows, and sat brooding in the forest; the shimmering waterways marked its track.
But at Moisio all the homestead was ablaze with light; every window shed its bright stream into the night, as if from a single fire within.
And from within came a constant sound of many voices, as of men sitting round the hearth relating manifold adventures. Outside, all round the house, were voices too, loud and low, soft and harsh, with an undertone of whispering in corners, and footsteps moving here and there. All that there was of life and light and sound in Kohiseva seemed gathered this night at Moisio.
The fiddler played his hardest, the floor creaked, and the walls quivered to the tramp of many feet; a stream of figures passed continuously before the windows.
The wedding had taken place that afternoon. Then came feasting and dancing—and the guests were dancing still, though it was close on midnight.
The bridegroom was a fine upstanding fellow, and the bride a worthy mate—as stately a pair as any had seen. All the neighbourhood agreed in this—and all had seen the couple, though not all had been bidden to the feast. A whisper had been passed among the crowd without, followed by a shout from all, demanding to see the bride and bridegroom. And when the pair came out and stood in the porch, with their following behind, the onlookers greeted them with shouts and cheers—just as at fine folk's weddings in the great cities, declared those who knew.
The bridegroom was happy—and well he might be, with such a bride. And the bride, too, was happy—as well she might be after waiting all those years. All knew the story—the first strange wooing, with the desperate venture down the rapids, and the lover's Song of the Blood-Red Flower as he went away. And more was whispered about—fragmentary tales of the bridegroom's adventurous life and the trials of the girl who waited for him to return; rumour had gathered what was known, and popular fancy had added thereto at will. The stories passed from mouth to mouth among those outside, and even among the guests within, reaching almost to the bridal pair themselves. There was a touch of something legendary, heroic, about it all, that shed a halo of romance even upon old Moisio's grey head.
* * * * *
Again they call for bridegroom and bride—the hero and heroine of the story—manly courage and womanly faithfulness personified; a sight to look on again and again. Again the light streamed out into the porch, and again the shouts and cheers went up, and one or two of the more curious and venturesome slipped into the house unbidden in the press.
It was a bright and festive scene within. The roof-beams were draped with white, and the hangings glittered like newly-fallen snow in the morning sunlight. The walls, too, were draped, and decked with wreaths and garlands; here and there a bunch of fresh juniper twigs seeming to speak of newly-arisen life.
* * * * *
The dancing ceased for a moment; the guests adjourned to the well-furnished tables in an adjoining room—the women following the bride, the men by themselves, with the bridegroom and old Moisio himself. Trays clattered, glasses rang, a hum of gay voices filled the room, and all eyes shone with a festive gleam.
Then the fiddler tuned up once more, and the guests streamed out back into the hall. The men stayed a moment to finish their glasses, and followed after.
The bridegroom came last. Suddenly it occurred to him to fetch something for the fiddler, and he turned back. Having found what he wanted, he was leaving the room, when a stranger barred his way.
Olof started; the man had come suddenly and silently as a ghost. There was something uncanny about him as he stood there—a short, heavily-built fellow, standing without a word, one hand in his trousers pocket, a cigar in his mouth, and a red rosette, such as peasants wear on holidays, in the buttonhole of what was evidently his best coat. There he stood, gazing fixedly at Olof, with a curious glitter in his eyes.
"I've a word to say to the bridegroom, if so be he's time to hear," said the man in a hoarse voice, still keeping the cigar between his teeth.
"Why … here I am, if you want me," said Olof, "though I don't know who you are…."
"No," said the man, "you don't know who I am. And yet we're sort of related—yes, that's the word—for all we've never met before."
He took a step forward.
"'Tis your wedding night—and I've come to wish you joy of it. You've played with many a woman's heart in your time, and driven more than one good lad to despair—maybe 'twill do you good to learn…."
"What?" cried Olof, with sudden fury. "Out with it, man!"
The fellow's glassy eyes seemed to be straining forward, the pupils were glittering points of light.
"You, that have worked your will on any and all as it pleased you—robbed your betters of all they had and cared for—'twill do you good, maybe, to know that….Do you think you're taking an innocent girl for your bride?"
The man stood watching the effect of his words. He saw Olof's face darken, his nostrils expand and quiver. Saw him tremble from head to foot, like a tree about to fall, waiting but for the last stroke of the axe. Well, he should have it….
"Well—how does it feel?" He bowed mockingly, and went on with a sneer: "Wish you joy…. I've more reason, perhaps, than the others, seeing we're partners, so to speak, in the same…."
"Liar—devil—coward!" Olof's rage broke loose. A step forward, almost a spring, and with the strength of fury he seized the man by his coat with both hands and lifted him from the floor.
"Say your prayers!" hissed Olof between his teeth, still holding the man in mid-air, the shirt-front crushing under his grip. The man struggled helplessly once or twice, then hung limp; the cigar fell from his mouth, and Olof felt the body a dead weight in his hands.
"I … I've been drinking," he gasped—"drinking… don't know what I've been saying…." The words bubbled pitifully from the pale lips, like the last drops from an empty barrel.
"Well for you!" Olof set the man down and loosed his hold. "Or I'd….Huh! Get out of this—d'you hear?"
The man staggered, looking this way and that, then turned and stole from the room without a word.
* * * * *
Olof stood alone. His brain was in a whirl, dazzling lights floated before his eyes.
"It must be true! No one would ever dare unless…." There was no doubt in his mind—it was only too natural that it should be so. The retribution he had feared so long—it had come at last, and ruined all in a moment.
The fiddler was playing louder than before; the whole house shook—they were dancing again. To Olof the music seemed like a mighty peal of scornful laughter, as if the host of people there were laughing and dancing for joy at his shame.
"Make an end—make an end!" he cried to himself, and he rushed from the room. How he was to end it he did not know—only that this was unendurable—it was hell!
* * * * *
Smiling faces greeted Olof as he appeared in the doorway and stood a moment, unable to get through the press. His brain cleared a little—after all, he could not drive the guests from the house like a madman with a knife in his hand.
They stood aside to let him pass, and he slipped round by the wall to the farther end of the room, and went up to the fiddler.
"Will you sell it," he whispered—"sell your fiddle? There's a man wants to buy it—he's asked me. Never mind about the price—say what you like."
"Why … I don't know. 'Tis an old friend," answered the man, playing more softly as he spoke.
"Will you sell it? At your own price. Yes or no?"
"H'm … well, say thirty marks?"
"Good! The man'll be here directly. And now, play a polka—and play like the devil himself, as if you were kissing your girl for the last time. The fastest you've ever played."
The fiddler nodded.
* * * * *
Olof walked up to a young girl and bowed. The fiddler broke off, and struck up a polka at such a furious pace that the dancers stopped and looked at one another in surprise.
But Olof went off in wild career with his partner, and several other pairs followed. These, however, soon fell out, and all stood watching the bridegroom, who danced like a man bewitched. His eyes blazed, a strange smile played about his lips, and his head was lifted defiantly.
The onlookers were filled with admiration and wonder—never had they seen such a dance! Olof took a second partner, then a third; danced a couple of rounds with each, and took a new. He did not lead them to their places after, but slipped each lightly, bowed to another, and whirled her off at the same furious pace.
"What's come over him now?" whispered the guests.
"He's going to dance with them all—for the last time, it seems."
"Ay, it looks like it!" And they laughed and watched the extraordinary scene—after all, it would have been strange if something out of the common had not happened at Olof's wedding.
Once more Olof set his partner down and bowed to another. Formally this time, as if with emphasis: it was Kyllikki he had chosen now. The girl stood dismayed, uneasy, not knowing what to think.
The fiddler, noting who was the latest choice, pressed his instrument closer under his chin, and put his whole fire into the work. The music swelled and sank, the bridal pair danced lightly and gracefully—sight to see. Once, twice, three times, four times round, and still they danced.
Then as they passed the fiddler for the fifth time, the music suddenly stopped—Olof had snatched the instrument with his right hand as he passed, and next moment it was shivered to a thousand fragments against the table. A single string whined painfully as it broke.
A gasp went up from the onlookers; all stared in amazement at the pair. Neither showed any sign of confusion; they stood easily, as if the whole thing were a prearranged conclusion.
"I hope I haven't startled anyone,'" said Olof gaily. "But the fiddle that has played my youth away—must play no more! Good-night!"
A sigh of relief and admiration passed through the crowd. What a finish! What a youth! None but he could ever have done the like.
And the guests laughed, and the bridegroom laughed, and old Moisio himself laughed where he sat: "Ay, that's the way! Turn your back on the rest and give all to one—my daughter's worth a fiddle at least!"
But the bride was pale—as it might have been one Sunday evening by the river, when she sat alone on the bank, watching a man stride hastily away, with a flush of anger on his cheek.