He sits deep in thought. Not a sound in the room.
Then a knocking….
The man starts, rises to his feet, and stares about him with wide eyes, as if unable to recognise his surroundings. He glances towards the door, and a shudder of fear comes over him—are they coming to torture him again?
Furiously he rushes to the door and flings it wide. "Come in, then!" he cries. "Come in—as many as you please! Rags or finery, sane or mad, in—in! I've hung my head long enough! Bid them begone—and they come again—well, come in and have done. Bring out your reckoning, every one. Here's what's left of me—come and take your share!"
But he calls to the empty air. And his courage fails as he looks into the blank before him—as a warrior seeking vainly for enemies in ambush. Slowly he closes the door, and goes back again.
A knocking….
"Ghosts, eh? Invisible things? Come in, then—I'm ready."
And he faces about once more.
Again the knocking—and now he perceives a little bird seated outside on the window-sill, peeping into the room.
"You, is it? Away—off to the woods with you! This is no place for innocent things. Or what did you think to find? Greedy, evil eyes, and groans, and hearts dripping blood. To the woods, and stay there, out of reach of all this misery!"
But the bird lifts its head, and looks into his eyes.
"Do you hear? Away, go away!"
He taps at the window-pane himself. The bird flies off.
* * * * *
Once more cold fear comes over him; his pulses halt in dread.
"Not yet—not yet—no! One by one, to tear me slowly to pieces. Shadows of vengeance, retribution, following everywhere; burning eyes glaring at me from behind, fear that makes me tremble at every sound, and start in dread at every stranger's face. And if I forget for a moment, and think myself free, one of them comes again … ghosts, ghosts…."
He sat down heavily.
"Why do they follow me still? Is it not enough that I have lived like a hunted beast so long? Because I loved you once? And what did we swear to each other then—have you forgotten? Never to think of each other but with thankfulness for what each had given! We were rich, and poured out gold with open hands—why do you come as beggars now? And talk of poverty—as if I were not poorer than any of you all! Or do you come to mourn, to weep with me over all that we have lost?
"But still you come and ask, and ask, as if I were your debtor, and would not pay. Mad thought! I was your poet, and made you songs of love. Life was a poem, and love red flowers between. What use to tell me now that the poem was a promise, the red flowers figures on a score that I must pay? Go, and leave me in peace! I cannot pay! You know—you know I have pawned all I had long since—all, to the last wrack!"
His own thought filled him with new horror; drops of sweat stood out on his forehead.
"And you, that have suffered most of all—what had I left for you? You, a princess among the rest, the only one that never looked up to me humbly, but stepped bravely to meet me as an equal. Yours was the hardest lot of all—for I gave you the dregs of my life, rags that a beggar would despise…."
Suddenly he felt an inward shock; his heart seemed to check for a moment, then went on beating violently; the blood rushed to his head. Again the check, followed by the same racing heart-beat as before….
Instinctively he grasped his wrist to feel his pulse. A few quick beats, a pause, then on again—what is it?
The fear of death was on him now, and he sprang up as if thinking of flight. Gradually the fit passes off; he stands waiting, but it does not return, only a strange feeling of helplessness remains—helplessness and physical fear. He sits down again.
"Was that you, Life, that struck so heavy a blow? Have you come for your reckoning, too? Like an innkeeper, noting this and that upon the score, and calling for payment at last? I should know you by now—I have seen a glimpse of your face before….
"'Tis a heavy book you bring. Well, what shall we take first? That? Yes, of course—it was always the heaviest item with us. My father … what was it mother told of him? And his father before him….
"Look back, you say? Back along the tracks I made long ago? Good—I look; you go about your business in the proper way, I see. If you had come with sermons, and talk of sin and heaven and hell, I'd leave you to preach alone—none of that for me. I know … that love is in our flesh and blood, drawing us like a magnet—in our day, none draws back a single step of his way for the fear of sin and hell—there is always time to repent and be forgiven later on! But your book shows our acts on this side, and what comes of them on that—and we stand with bowed heads, seeing how all is written in our own blood."
He stared before him, as if at something tangible and real.
"Yes, there's the book, and there is my account. All these strokes and lines—what's that? Something I can't make out. Here's my road, there are my doings—that I understand. And here are all that I've had dealings with. But this mess of broken lines … this way and that…? Ah, consequences! Is that it? Well, well…. All these run together at one point—that's clear enough—myself, of course. But these others running out all ways, endlessly…. What's that you say? More consequences, but to others!
"No, no! Not all that! Something of the sort I was prepared for—but all that? Is it always so in your book—is everything set down?"
"All that leaves any trace behind—all acts that make for any consequence!"
"All? But man is a free agent—this does not look like freedom."
"Free to act, yes, but every act knits the fine threads of consequence—that can decide the fate of a life!"
"No—no! Close the book—I have seen enough! Who cares to think of a book with lines and threads of consequence, when fate is kind, and all seems easy going? I laughed at those who wasted their youth in prayer and fasting. And I laughed at the laws of life, for I could take Love, and enjoy it without fear of any tie—I was proud to feel myself free, to know that none had any claim on me—no child could call me father. But now, after many years, come those who speak of ties I never dreamed of. Here was a mother showing me a child—I had never touched her that way, yet you come and tell me there are laws I know nothing of. And when I beg and pray of you to grant me a child for myself and for her to whom it is life and death, you turn your back, and cry scornfully: 'Laugh, and take Love, and enjoy—you have had your will!'"
Again the terrifying sense of physical distress—of something amiss with heart and pulse. He sat waiting for a new shock, wondering if, perhaps, it would be the last … the end….
The door opened.
"Olof! Here I am at last—am I very late?… Why, what is the matter?…Olof…!"
Kyllikki hurried over to him. With an effort he pulled himself together, and answered calmly, with a smile:
"Don't get so excited—you frightened me! It's nothing … nothing…. I felt a little giddy for the moment, that was all. I've had it before —it's nothing to worry about. Pass off in a minute…."
She looked at him searchingly. "Olof…?"
"Honestly, it is nothing."
"It must be something to make you look like that. Olof, what is it? I have noticed it before—though you always tried to pass it off…."
"Well, and if it is," he answered impatiently, "it need not worry you."
"Olof, can you say that of anything between us two?"
He was silent for a moment. "Why not," he said at last, "if it is something that could only add needlessly to the other's burden?"
"Then more than ever," answered Kyllikki warmly.
She hurried into the next room and returned with a coverlet.
"You are tired out, Olof—lie down and rest." With tender firmness she forced him to lie down, and spread it over him.
"And now tell me all about it—it's no good trying to put it off with me. You know what I am." She sat down beside him and stroked his forehead tenderly.
Olof was silent for a moment. Then he decided. He would tell her all.
"Yes—I know you," he said softly, taking her hand in his.
* * * * *
It was growing dark when they sat up. Both were pale and shaken with emotion, but they looked at each other with a new light in their eyes, two human souls drawn closer together by hardship and sorrow.
"Stay where you are and rest a little, while I get the supper," said Kyllikki, as Olof would have risen. "And to-morrow—we can begin the new day," she added.
And, stooping down, she kissed him lightly on the brow.
"Your letter has just come—Kyllikki, you cannot think how I have been longing for it. I would have sent the girl to the station, only I knew you would not write till it was post day here.
"And you are well—that is the main thing; the only thing I care about these days. 'Strong enough to move mountains'—I can't say the same about myself. I have been having a miserable time. I am sorry I let you go—or, rather, that I sent you. I thought I should feel less anxious about you if you were there, but far from it. Why couldn't we have let it take place here? I am only now beginning to understand how completely we have grown together—I feel altogether helpless without you. If only it would come—and have it over, and you could be home again—you and the boy!
"And then I have something to tell you that I would rather not touch on at all, but we must have no secrets from each other now, not even a thought! It is the old uneasiness—it has been coming over me ever since you went away—as if I could not find rest when you are not near. I cannot get away from a feeling that all is not over yet—that things are only waiting for a favourable moment to break loose again. Try to understand me. You know how I suffered those two years when we prayed in vain for that which is granted to the poorest. And you know how I was almost beyond myself with joy when at last our prayers were heard. But now, when it is only a matter of days before it comes in reality—now, I am all overcome with dread. It will go off all right, the thing itself, I know—you are strong and healthy enough. But there is an avenging God, an invisible hand, that writes itsmene tekelat the very hour when joy is at its height. Think, if the one we are waiting for—it is horrible to think of!—if it should be wrong somehow, in body or soul—what could I do then? Nothing, only bow my head and acknowledge that the arm of fate had reached me at last. You cannot think what a dreadful time I had all alone here last evening. I cried and prayed that vengeance might not fall on you and him—the innocent—but on me alone—if all I have suffered up to now is not enough. And then a woodpecker came and sat outside under the window, with its eerie tapping. And a little after came a magpie croaking on the roof, like a chuckling fiend. It made me shudder all over. I dare say you will laugh at my weakness. But it might be one of those mysterious threads of fate. I have seen the like before—and you know how ill and nervous I was … at the time…. Now I have read your letter I feel calmer, but I know I shall not get over it altogether till I have seen him with my own eyes. Forgive me for writing about this, but I had to tell you. And I know it will not hurt you.
"But then I have been happy as well. I have been getting everything ready in your room—yours and his! You will see it all when you come, but I must tell you a little about it now. I have put down cork matting all over the floor, to keep out the draught. But when I had done it, I had a sort of guilty feeling. Only a bit of matting—nothing much, after all—but it came into my mind that many children have to run about on bare floors where the cold can nip their feet through the cracks. And I felt almost as if I ought to pull it all up again. But, after all, it was forhim—and what could be too good for him! I would lay it double in his room!
"I have some good news for you. The Perakorpi road is already begun. And then some bad news—the drainage business looks like being given up altogether—just when everything was ready, and we were going to start. Just quarrelling and jealousy among the people round—real peasant obstinacy, and of course with Tapola Antti at the head. A miserable lot! I should like to knock some of them down. I have fought as hard as I could for it, thundering like Moses at Sinai, and sacrificing the golden calf. The thing must go through at any cost. If they will not back me up, then I will start the work alone. And there are not many of them, anyway—we are to have a meeting again to-morrow.
"And then, when you come home, I can set to work in earnest. If onlyhemay turn out as I hope—then perhaps one day we might work on it together. I wish I had wings—then I should not need to sit sweating over this wretched paper!
"Keep well and strong, and may all good angels watch over you both!—Your impatient….
"Write soon—at once!"
"8September1900.
"DEAR,—Your letter was like a beating of your own heart. Yourself in every word—and it showed me a side of your nature that I care for more than I can tell.
"You are anxious—but there is nothing to be anxious about. How could there ever be anything wrong withourchild—in body or soul? Of course we must expect more troubles yet—but that has nothing to do with the child! I know you were in low spirits then, but body and soul were sound enough. And I feel so well and strong and happy now myself that itmustbe passed on to him—even if he were a stone! And then I am all overflowing with love for you and confidence in the future. And I shall feed him with it too, and then he will be the same. All that about the magpie and the woodpecker—you read it wrongly, that is all. The magpie simply came to give you my love—poor thing, she can't help having an ugly voice! And then the woodpecker—don't you see, it was just pecking out the worms from the timber—there must be no worm-eaten timber inhishome! That's what it meant.
"But I am glad you wrote about it all the same. For it showed me that he will be as we hope. Now I understand how terribly you must have suffered these last years. You'd never make a criminal, Olof; even I, a woman, could commit a crime with colder courage. Oh, but I love you for it! And you don't know how glad I am to think my child's father is like that. A wakeful, tender conscience—that is the best thing you can give him, though you give him so much.
"I know it will be a boy—and I can feel in my blood that he will be just the son to work with his father as you said.
"And then about his room—you take my breath away! I can see you are making preparations as if for a queen and an heir to the throne. I ought to tell you to undo it all again; but who could ever tell anyone to undo what was done in love—for it was for love you did it, not for show.
"So you are already fighting for your draining project; it is just as well, it will be worth the more. Anyhow, I know you will win. Fight as hard as you like, fight for me and for him. It is only a pity he can't set to work at once and help you.
"We too are longing to be home again. And perhaps it will not be so long now. But if it has to be, I can be patient as long as I must. We are better than ever now. Do you know, I am so happy these days I have taken to singing, just as I used to do when I was a girl. What do you say to that? Suppose he were to have a voice, and sing in the choir, and leave you to work at your drainage all by yourself!
"My love, my love, I kiss you right in your heart. The warmest love from us both—I know you will be writing to us soon.
"KYLLIKKI (waiting to be a mother)."
"His BIRTHPLACE,10th Sept., 11 a.m.
"FATHER!—Yes, that is what you are now. I can see your eyes light up. And a son, of course. At six o'clock this morning. All well, both going on finely;heis simply a picture of health, big and strong and full of life. And such a voice! If you want a man to shout out orders to the workmen…. I haven't looked at him properly yet. He is lying here just beside me; I can see his hand sticking out between the clothes. A fine little hand, not just fat and soft and flabby, but big and strong—his father's hand. The very hand to drain a marsh, you wait and see. And his soul—ah, you should see his eyes! His father's eyes. Now they won't let me write any more. I will tell you more next time. I have sent him a kiss with my eyes, from you—and there is a kiss for you in my thoughts.
"KYLLIKKI (the happy mother)."
The autumn sun was setting; it smiled upon the meadows, gleamed in the window-panes, and threw a kindly glow upon the distant forest. The air was cool.
Olof was in a strange mood to-day. He walked with light, springy step, and could not keep still for a moment; he was uneasy, and yet glad. He had sent a man to the station with a horse, and the little servant-maid had been dispatched on an errand to a distant village—he wished to be alone.
He stepped hastily into the bedroom, gave a searching glance round, looked at the thermometer on the wall, and laughed.
"Aha—beginning to look all right now."
Then he went back to the sitting-room. The coffee-pot was simmering its quiet, cheerful song on the fire; close by lay a goodly heap of white pine logs.
He lifted the pot from the fire, poured out a little of the coffee in a cup, and poured it back again. Then, thrusting his hands into his pockets, he walked up and down, smiling and whistling to himself.
"Wonder what she will think, when I don't come to the station to meet her there? But she'll understand… yes…."
He went back to the fire, poured out another half-cup of coffee, and tasted it.
"H'm—yes. It's good, I think it's good."
He took a bit of rag, wiped the pot carefully, and set it back. Then he looked at the clock.
"They ought to be at Aittamaki by now—or Simola at least…."
He stepped across to the cupboard, took out a white cloth and spread it on a tray, set out cups and saucers, cream jug and sugar bowl, and placed the tray on the table.
"There—that looks all right!"
Again he glanced impatiently at the clock.
"They'll be at the cross-roads now, at Vaarakorva … might take that little stretch at a trot … if only they don't drive too hard. Well, Kyllikki'll look to that herself…."
Again he felt that curious sense of lightness—as if all that weighed and burdened had melted away, leaving only a thin, slight shell, that would hardly keep to earth at all. He tramped up and down, looking out of the window every moment, not knowing what to do with himself.
"Now!" he cried, looking at the clock again. "Ten minutes more and they should be here!"
He sprang to the fire and threw on an armful of fine dry wood.
"There! Now blaze up as hard as you like. Bright eyes and a warm heart to greet them!"
He went into the bedroom and brought out a tiny basket-work cradle, that he had made himself. The bedding was ready prepared, white sheets hung down over the side, and a red-patterned rug smiled warmly—at the head a soft pillow in a snow-white case.
"There!" He set the cradle before the fire, and drew up the sofa close by. "He can lie there and we can sit here and look at him."
And now that all was ready, a dizziness of joy came over him—it seemed too good to be true. He looked out through the window once more; went out on to the steps and gazed down the road. Looked and listened, came back into the room, and was on the point of starting out to meet them, but thought of the fire—no, he could not leave the house.
At last—the brown figure of a horse showed out from behind the trees at the turn of the road. And at the sight, his heart throbbed so violently that he could not move a step; he stood there, looking out through the window—at the horse and cart, at Kyllikki with her white kerchief, and at the bundle in her arms.
Now they were at the gate. Olof ran out bareheaded, dashing down the path.
"Welcome!" he shouted as he ran.
"Olof!" Kyllikki's voice was soft as ever, and her eyes gleamed tenderly.
"Give him to me!" cried Olof, stretching out his arms impatiently.
And Kyllikki smiled and handed him a tiny bundle wrapped in woollen rugs.
Olof's hands trembled as he felt the weight of it in his arms.
"Help her down, Antti; and come back a little later on—I won't ask you in—not just now," he said confusedly to the driver.
The man laughed, and Kyllikki joined in.
But Olof took no heed—he was already on the way in with his burden. A few steps up the path he stopped, and lifted a corner of the wrappings with one hand. A tiny reddish face with two bright eyes looked up at him.
A tremor of delight thrilled him at the sight; he clasped the bundle closer to his breast, as if fearing to lose it. Hastily he covered up the little face once more, and hurried in.
Kyllikki watched him with beaming eyes. Following after, she stood in the doorway and looked round, with a little cry of surprise and pleasure, taking it all in at a glance—the genial welcome of the blazing fire, the tiny bed,—he had told her nothing of this,—the sofa close by, and the tray set out on the table, and coffee standing ready….
But Olof was bending over the cradle.
"These things—is it safe to undo them?" he asked, fumbling with safety-pins.
"Yes, that's all right," laughed Kyllikki, loosening her own cloak.
Olof had taken off the outer wrappings. He lifted the little arms, held the boy upright, looking at him critically, like a doctor examining recruits. "Long in the limbs—and sound enough, by the look of him!" Then he gazed earnestly into the child's face, with its wise, bright eyes, and seemed to find something there that promised well for the future.
"Dear little rascal!" he cried ecstatically, and tenderly he kissed the child's forehead. The boy made no sound, but seemed to be observing the pair.
Olof laid him down in the cradle. "Can't he say anything? Can't you laugh, little son?"
He blinked his eyes, smacked his lips, and uttered a little whistling sound as if calling some shy bird—he had never seen anything like it; it seemed to come of itself.
"Laughing—he's laughing … that's the way!"
Kyllikki was standing behind him, leaning against the sofa, watching them both.
"And his hands! Sturdy hands to drain a marsh! So mother was right, was she? Ey, such a little fist! A real marsh-mole!" And he kissed the tiny hands delightedly.
"But look at his nails—they want cutting already. Ah, yes, mother knew father would like to do it himself, so she did."
And he hurried to Kyllikki's work-basket, and took out a small pair of scissors. "Father'll manage it—come!"
And he fell on his knees beside the bed.
"Don't be afraid—softly, softly—there! Father's hands are none so hard, for all he's so big." He cut the nails, kissing the little fingers in between. The boy laughed. Kyllikki leaned over towards them, smiling more warmly still.
"There—now it's done! Look at him, Kyllikki! Isn't he splendid?" And he turned towards her. "But what—what am I thinking of all the time! Kyllikki, I haven't even kissed you yet. Welcome, dear, welcome a thousand times!"
He took her in his arms. "How well you look—and lovely! Why, you look younger than ever! Little mother—how shall I ever thank you for—this!"
"It was your gift to me," said Kyllikki softly, with a tender glance at the little bed.
Olof led her to a seat, and they talked together in the silent speech of the eyes that is for great moments only.
* * * * *
"Why…!" Olof sprang up suddenly. "I'm forgetting everything to-day.Here I've made coffee all ready, and now…."
He lifted the coffee-pot and set it on the tray.
"Did you make the coffee?" asked Kyllikki, smiling in wonder.
"And who else should do it on such a day? Here!"
And they sat down to table, without a word.
* * * * *
Presently the child began to whimper. Both rose to their feet.
"What's the matter, then—did it hurt?" said Kyllikki tenderly. She lifted the little one in her arms, and began talking to him with her eyes, and smiling, with delicious little movements of her head.
The child began to laugh.
Without a word, she laid him in Olof's arms. He thanked her with a look, and held the boy close to his breast. All else seemed to have vanished but this one thing. And he felt the warmth of the little body gradually spreading through clothes and wrappings to his own … it was like a gentle, soft caress. It thrilled him—and the arms that held the little burden trembled; he could not speak, but handed it back in silence to the mother.
She laid it in the cradle, set the pillow aright, and pulled up the coverlet, leaving only a little face showing above.
"It is a great trust, to be given such a little life to care for," said Olof, with a quiver in his voice, as they sat down on the sofa. "It seems too great a thing to be possible, somehow."
"But it is," said Kyllikki. "And do you know what I think? That forgiveness is a greater thing than punishment—and Life knows it!"
He nodded, and pressed her hand.
Again he glanced at the little red face on the pillow, and an expression of earnestness, almost of gloom, came over his own.
"Olof," said Kyllikki softly, taking his hand, "will you tell me what you are thinking of just now?"
He did not answer at once.
"No, no—you need not tell me. I know. But why think of that now, Olof? And you know—he at least, has a father and mother who have learned something of life; maybe he will not need to go through all we have done to get so far…."
"Ay, that was what I was thinking," said Olof.
And no more was said, but heartfelt wishes hovered protectingly about the little bed.
* * * * *
"Look now!" cried Kyllikki, after a while. "He's fallen asleep! Isn't he lovely?"
And warm sunshine seemed to fill the room—even to its darkest corner.
"Olof?" said Kyllikki, with a questioning glance towards the door of the adjoining room.
His face lit up, and together they stole on tiptoe to the door; Olof opened it, and Kyllikki stood on the threshold, looking into the little room—it was newly papered, and looked larger and brighter than before.
She turned and took his hand—her eyes told him all she thought and felt.
He put his arm round her waist, and his eyes lit with a sudden gleam of recollection.
"I told you once," he said dreamily, as they walked back into the sitting-room, "how sister Maya came to call me home, when I was still wandering about from place to place."
"Yes, I remember; it was so beautiful, Olof—I shall never forget."
"And how we came home after, and began…."
They had reached the window now. "Look!" said Olof suddenly, pointing out.
Down in the valley lay the marsh of Isosuo, spreading away almost immeasurably on every side. At the edge of the water two big channels were being cut, in front were a host of workmen clearing timber, while others behind them dug the channels in the soil. It was like the march of two great armies towards the land of the future. The setting sun cast its red glow over the powerful shoulders of the men as they worked, here and there a spade or an axe flashed for a moment; the water in the dykes glittered like silver, and the moist earth at the edge shone with a metallic gleam.
"Ah!" cried Kyllikki joyfully. "The work has begun!"
Olof turned her gently from the window towards him, put his arms round her, and looked into her eyes, as if trying to sum up in a single glance all they had seen and suffered, lived through and hoped.
"Yes, the work has begun," he said softly, and held her closer to his breast.