Chapter IV: Part 4

And he strode off with rapid steps.

But the girl flushed, and looked anxiously around, as if she had promised more than she could fulfil. She glanced along the shore--Olof was sitting a little distance away, with his back to her, already undressing.

"How childish I am!" she thought. And stepping briskly down to the water's edge, she began hastily taking off her clothes.

* * * * *

A splash in the water--Olof was almost lost to sight in the reeds. He took off his boots and hung them by one lace round his neck, then he fixed his bundle of clothes above, and tied it with the remaining lace.

"Ready?" he called over his shoulder, glancing down the stream.

Hurriedly the girl rolled her garments up in the blouse. Her white body shivered--in womanly embarrassment at her position, and with an ecstatic delight. Then with a splash the white figure dipped beneath the water, swam up, and hid in the reeds.

Olof swam upstream, his eyes fixed on the heap of clothing, and a faint smile on his lips. He took the bundle, tied his belt round it, and fastened it above his own. The double load stood up high above his head.

"They'll be all right now--if I don't make a mess of it," he assured her.

With long, slow strokes he made for the opposite shore. The girl stood motionless in the reeds, watching him as he swam.

"How strong and bold he is!" she thought. "And the wonderful things he does! What does he care for the river?--water between us is nothing to him. He makes everything do his will. How could one be afraid with him?"

"_Her_ clothes!" thought Olof. "And I am carrying them."

He reached the bank, untied the girl's bundle, and set it carefully ashore. Then swimming a little farther down, he flung his own things up on land.

"Haven't you started yet?" he called across to the girl--though he had been hoping all the time that she had not.

"No--I was just going to," she replied. "I--I forgot. It was such fun watching you."

"I'll come and meet you, if you like. It'll be safer perhaps...."

"Ye--es," said the girl.

She felt no shame now, though he was looking straight at her. He was filled with the strange delight that comes with any stepping over the bounds of everyday life into a world of fairyland, where all is pure, and nothing is forbidden, where the sense of being _two_ that go their own ways unseen is like a purging, fusing flame.

Olof swam rapidly across.

"You look like a water-witch there in the reeds," he cried delightedly, checking his stroke.

"And you're the water-sprite," she answered, with a joyous smile, as she struck out.

"Bravo, water-witch, you're swimming splendidly!" he cried. They were swimming side by side now, straight across the river.

The water rippled lightly about them; now and again the girl's white shoulder lifted above the surface, her long hair trailed behind over the water, that shone like gold in the sunset light.

"Wonderful!" he cried. "I've never seen anything so lovely."

"Nor I!" said the girl.

"Nor we!" laughed the trees behind them.

"Nor we!" nodded the bushes on the bank in front.

"It is like swimming in the river of forgetfulness," he went on. "All the past disappears, all that was bitter and evil is washed away, and we are but two parts of the same beautiful being that surrounds us."

"Yes, it is like that," said the girl, with feeling.

Slowly they came to land.

"It was very narrow, after all," said Olof regretfully, as he turned from her and went down to fetch his clothes. He dressed as quickly as he could, and hurried up to her again.

"Let me wring the water from your hair," he begged. She smiled permission. The water fell like drops of silver from his hands.

"Must you go now?" asked Olof sadly. "Let me go with you as far as the road at least."

Once more he looked regretfully at the river--as if to fix the recollection in his mind.

They walked up to the road without speaking, and stopped.

"It's ever so hard for me to say good-bye to you," he said, grasping her hands.

"Harder still for me," she answered in a low voice.

"Shall I ever forget you--you, and this evening?"

Her eyelids quivered, and she bowed her head.

"Kyllikki!" he cried desperately. "Would you hide your eyes from me?--Kyllikki...." There was hope and doubt in his eyes; he loosed his hold of her hands, and clasped his own as if questioningly about her waist.

The girl was trembling. She laid her hands on his shoulders, and then slowly twined her arms about his neck.

A tumult of delight came over him. He pressed her to him fervently, lifting her off her feet--her arms drew closer round him.

He saw the look in her eyes change--giddiness seized him, and he set her down.

"May I...?" he asked, with his eyes.

Her eyes consented--and their lips met....

When at last he let her go, the girl's face was changed almost beyond recognition. On her under lip showed a tiny drop of blood.

A cry of dismay rose up in him, but remained unuttered. A strange intoxication overpowered him--the red drop there was the seal of a friendship deeper and more mysterious than all else--in a wild kiss he drank the blood from her lip. He felt himself on the point of swooning--and wished the world would end there, in that moment.

He could not speak--he did not know whether to stay or go. A darkness seemed to close about him, and he staggered off like a drunken man, without looking back.

THE CAMP-FIRE AT NEITOKALLIO

A league of swift-flowing river, almost straight, with gently sloping meadows, forest-crowned, on either hand.

A grand, impressive sight at all seasons. In autumn, the swollen waters pour down as from a cornucopia; in winter, folk from the town come driving over the frozen flood, racing one against another; in spring, the river overflows its banks, spreading silt on the meadows as in the land of the Nile; and in summer, the haymakers are lulled by the song of the grasshoppers and the scent of the hay to dream of paradise, where the children of men even now may enter in for some few days in every year.

A league of river, a league of meadow land--but at one spot two great rocks stand out as if on guard.

One rises from the very verge, the water lapping its foot as it stands dreaming and gazing over to its fellow of the farther side. Neitokallio is its name.

The other is more cold and proud. It stands drawn back a little way from the bank, with head uplifted as in challenge, looking out through the treetops across the plain. And this is Valimaki.

At the foot of Valimaki a camp-fire was burning. It was midnight. A group of lumbermen were gathered round the fire, some lying stretched out with knapsacks under their heads, some leaning one against another. Blue clouds of smoke curled up from their pipes.

The red fire glowed and glowed, flaring up now and again into bright flame, tinging the fir stems on the slope as if with blood, and throwing weird reflections out on to the dark waters of the river. The men sat in silence over their pipes.

"Look!" said one at last, nodding up towards the head of the rock. "Looks almost as if she was sitting there still, looking down into the river."

Several nodded assent.

"Maybe there _is_ someone sitting there."

"Nay, 'tis only a bit of a bush or something. But 'tis the very same spot where she sat, that's true."

"What's the story?" asks one--a newcomer, on his first trip to Nuolijoki. "Some fairy tale or other?"

"Fairy tale?" one of the elders breaks in. "You're a stranger, young man, that's plain to see. 'Tis a true story enough, and not so long since it all happened neither."

"Fourteen years," says Antti, knocking the ashes from his pipe. "I remember it all as plain as yesterday. Ay, there's queer things happen in life."

"Did you see it yourself, then?"

"Ay, I did that--and not likely to forget it. 'Twas on that rock I saw her first time, and a young lad with her."

Some of the men sat up and began filling their pipes afresh.

"Her betrothed, maybe?"

"Ay--or something like it. I didn't know at the time. I was clearing stray logs here on the shore, and saw them sitting up there together, looking at the water. I sat down too for a bit, and lit a pipe, and thinking to myself; well, water's water, and water it'll be for all their looking. Anyhow, I doubt they must look at something, just to pass the time."

"Well, and what then? What happened?"

"Nay, they did but sit there a bit and then went away. But next day again, I was working there same as before, and there's my young miss a-sitting there in the very spot--only nobody with her this time."

Olof had been lying on his back, hands under his head, looking up into the darkness. All at once he sat up, and stared at the speaker.

"'Twas a queer girl, thinks I, and lights my pipe. Walking all those miles out from the town to sit on a rock--as if there wasn't rocks enough elsewhere. Anyway, 'twas no business of mine. And after that she was there every day--just about midday, always the same time, and always sitting just there in one place."

"But what was she doing there?"

"Doing? Nay, she wasn't doing anything. Just sitting there, and staring like."

"'Twas Antti she was staring at--that'll be it," laughed one. "You must have been a fine young fellow those days, Antti!"

"You keep your tongue between your teeth, young fellow; 'tis no laughing matter I'm telling you."

The men looked at one another, and nodded. A faint breath of wind sighed through the trees on the slope, a pair of twin stems creaked one against the other with a melancholy sound. The men puffed at their pipes.

"Well, there she sits, and never song nor word to hear. Lord knows what she'd be thinking of all the time. Then one day I came down to the river, and was going over to Metsamantila for some butter. Just passing by the rock I was, and there she is all of a sudden, coming towards me, and all dressed in black from top to toe."

"Ho!"

"I was all taken aback, you can think. She'd a black veil over her face, and all. But a sweet, pretty thing to see, ay, that she was--like a blessed angel. I pulled off my cap, and she looks up at me and nods. And it gave me such a queer sort of feeling, I just turned round and stood staring after her."

"Was it just a young girl?"

"Young? Ay, no more than twenty, at most. Well, I stood there watching her till she's out of sight among the trees. And then it all seemed clear enough. 'Twas her father or mother was dead, no doubt, and that's why she came out here all alone, for comfort, like. Anyway, I was going on. Then, just past the rock there's a man calls out, 'She's gone!'

"I was near falling backwards at that. I called out to see what was the matter, and ran down to the shore.

"'Thrown herself down!' cries out the other man, and goes racing off down to the water.

"We both ran all we could, but there was nothing to see. We waited a bit, but she didn't come up. So I went off to the village, and the other man to the town.

"They got her up after--at the first haul. She'd gone down like a stone to the bottom, just at the spot. But there was no getting her to life again, try all we could. Just as beautiful to look at she was, for all she was dead. Ay, a lovely thing, a lovely thing. We'd had to undo her clothes a bit, trying to bring her round, and her skin--'twas like white silk. Seemed almost a sin to touch her with our rough hands and all...."

* * * * *

No one spoke for a while.

"And was it just for sorrow, like?" asked one at last.

"Ay, sorrow enough. But 'twas neither father nor mother she was sorrowing for."

"Ah!... 'Twas a lover, then? Maybe she'd got into trouble."

"Nay, 'twas none of that sort. Just set on him--the young lad she'd been sitting there with at first--and he'd left her, that was all."

The men sat in silence. Olof's heart was beating so that he almost feared the rest must hear it. His eyelids quivered, and his brow was furrowed deep as he sat staring into the fire.

"'Tis that way sometimes with fine folk when they're in love," murmured one.

"'Tis a woman's way altogether," put in another, with an attempt at gaiety, as if to dispel the feeling of gloom. "Their heart's like a flimsy fairing--little watch looks all right, but just shake it a bit, and 'tis all to pieces."

"Maybe 'tis so with fine folk and ladies and such, but peasant girls are not so foolish. More like a grandfather's clock, say. Anything goes wrong, you've only to give it a shake, let it stop for an hour or so, and shake it again, and scold it a bit--and it's as right as ever. Go any way you like."

The men laughed--it was a relief to turn to something lighter.

"Ay, you're right there," put in a stout fellow with a loud voice. "'Twas so with my old woman once when she was young. Got set on a bit of a greenhorn chap, all soft as butter, and took it badly. But I saw 'twas no good for her nor anyone, and heaved him out of the way and took her myself. And well I did, for she's never troubled a thought about him since."

A shout of laughter went up from the men. They had recovered their spirits now.

"Ay, you may laugh," said an elderly man. "But 'tis not every man that troubles if what he thinks best is best for a woman herself." He paused a moment, and sat cleaning his pipe with a straw. "There's girls of our own sort that can't be handled that way to any good--and there's both men and girls that don't take things so lightly."

There was an earnest ring in his voice, a note almost of pain, and the men ceased to smile. Olof turned in surprise, and looked at the speaker--some of the others were making signs behind the old man's back.

"I know one man at least," he went on, "that loved a girl when he was young, and couldn't marry her. He didn't go off and kill himself--but it marked him, none the less, for all he was only a peasant himself. Sold his place, he did, and drank away the money, and wandered about the rest of his life to this day--and never forgotten her."

The old man was silent.

"Ay, 'tis plain to see she's in his mind now that he's old and grey," said one who had pointed to the speaker before.

The old man bowed his head, and pulled his cap down over his eyes; but they could see a quiver in his face, and the brass-bound pipe-stem trembled in his hand.

The men exchanged glances; none seemed wishful to speak.

"Ay, 'tis no light thing to play with," said one at last. "And each knows best what he's learned for himself."

Again a sighing of the trees on the hillside, and a mournful sound from the straining stems. The coming dawn threw a grey light on the rocky face of Neitokallio; far over the meadows a bird was calling.

"Getting light--'tis time we were about," said Olof, rising to his feet.

The men stared at him in wonder; his voice was strange and hard as that of the old man who had spoken before.

"Up with you--come!" said Olof, with sudden impatience. And, turning abruptly, he strode down to the shore.

The men stared after him, then, rising, covered their fire, and followed down to the river.

HAWTHORN

No! I must live while I am young; breathe freely while I can! But you, Hawthorn--do you know what life is?"

"Yes," the girl answered fervently; "it is love!"

"It is something else besides. Youth and spring and courage--and fate, that brings the children of men together."

"Yes...? I wonder why I never thought of that myself."

"What does it matter what we think? We drift along, knowing nothing of one another, like the errant winds or the stars in the skies. We pass by hundreds, without so much as a glance, until fate as in a lightning flash brings us face to face with the one appointed. And then--in a moment we know that we belong to each other, we are drawn together by magnetic force--for good or ill."

"I have felt the same--and I feel it more keenly now than ever," answered the girl, nestling trustingly close to him. "Each minute in your arms is worth more than all the rest of my life before."

"And you are to me as the sap of the trees in spring, that thrills me with ecstasy and makes me forget all else. And I _will_ feel it so!--drown my sad autumn and my joyless winter in the delight of spring. And I bless the fate that led you to me--there is none like you!"

"None?" the girl repeated happily, and yet in doubt. "Oh, if only I could be as you think."

"You are so! Every drop of blood in you is love and fire. The lightest touch of your shoe against my foot is more than the warmest embrace from any other--your breath is like a secret caress; you bring a scent of hawthorn with you everywhere that lifts me almost to madness."

"Do not talk like that, Olof. I am nothing--it is you that are all. Tell me--are all lovers as happy as we?"

"No."

"Why not? Is it because they--they can't love as we do?"

"They _dare_ not! They fear to be happy. Oh, how blind the world is! Wandering sadly with prayer, book and catechism in hand, when love and spring are waiting for all who will. And those who have grown old, when their blood is as lead in their veins, and they can but gaze with beggars' eyes on their own youth--they would have us too slaves of the prayer book and catechism like themselves."

"Is it really so...?"

"Yes, it is true. Only while we are young, only while the flood of youth runs free and bright in our veins can we be happy. And they are the greatest who dare to demand their share of life in full, to plunge unafraid into the waters, letting the waves break on their temples and life's salt flood wash their cheeks."

"And have I dared all this, Olof? Tell me, have I not?"

"Yes, you have. And it is just that which makes you lovely and bewitching as you are. It is a glorious thing to give oneself lip entirely to another, without question, without thought of return or reckoning--only to bathe body and soul in the deep wells of life!"

"Yes, yes.... And, do you know, Olof...?" The girl spoke earnestly, with a quiver in her voice.

"What? Tell me?"

But she could say no more, and, bursting into tears, hid her burning cheek against his breast, her body shaking with sobs.

"What--child, you are crying? What is it?"

"I don't know...." The girl was sobbing still. "Only that I can't--can't give you all I would."

"But you have given me more than I ever dared to hope for!"

"Not so much as I gladly would! Why do you not ask more of me? Tell me to die with you, and I am ready--I could die by fire with you. Or take my life now, here, this moment...."

The fire of her increasing passion seemed to have sent out a spark that glowed and burned in his soul.

"How can you speak so?" he asked, almost in dread. "It is madness, child."

"Madness--yes. But if you knew how I love you.... Say but one word and I will leave home--father and mother and all--and follow you like a beggar girl from place to place."

"And never care what people said?"

"Care? Why should I care for them? What do they know of love?"

"Little Hawthorn...." Olof bent her head back and looked straight into her eyes. "Was that a nice thing to say, now?"

The girl bowed her head. "No--but I wanted to do something, to make some sacrifice for your sake."

She was silent for a moment, then her eyes brightened once more. "Olof, now I know! I'll cut off one of the prettiest locks of my hair and you shall keep it for remembrance--that's what people do, isn't it? And you must keep it always--and think of me sometimes, even when you love someone else."

"Oh, my love! I don't know whether to laugh or cry when you say such things. But it is only now, in the gloom of the spring night. By daylight you will think differently."

"No, never! Not even in the grave!"

"And then--it's so childish. Must you have a keepsake from me too, to help you to remember?"

"No, of course not."

"Then why should I need one?"

"No, no--it's childish of me, of course. Forgive me, Olof--and don't be sorry any more. I ask nothing but to go on loving you."

"And I you--without thought or question."

"Yes. And I shall remember all my life how happy you have made me; I shall keep the memory of it all as a secret treasure till I die, and bless you...."

She rose up suddenly on her elbow.

"Olof--tell me something. Did you ever hear of anyone dying of happiness?"

"No--I have never heard of it. Why?"

"But when they are really, really happy...?"

"I don't think anyone could, even then."

"But they can die of sorrow sometimes, I've heard. And then if one really wants to...."

"Hawthorn!" He clasped her in a wild embrace. "There is no one like you in all the world. If _that_ were possible, I would ask nothing else."

"Would you--would you really care to ... with me?"

"Yes, yes ... to swoon in the scent of you and die ... to feel the strands of your hair twined round my throat, and die.... Well for me if I could, perhaps--and for others...."

SISTER MAYA

Sadness pervaded his soul, and he spoke to the evening gloom that stole in through the window and hovered about his pale face like a watcher.

"I too should have had a sister--sister Maya," he said dreamily.

"You had one--and the best that one could wish for," said the evening gloom.

"I don't remember--I was too young to know.... But mother always spoke so nicely of her ... the time I was ill, for instance."

"So your mother spoke of that. Yes, yes, she would...."

"It was when I was a child. I was very ill--on the point of death, she said. And mother and all the others were crying, and comforting themselves with the thought that little Olof would be an angel soon, and wear a crown. And sister Maya said then I should sit by her bedside with wings outspread, warding off evil dreams."

"Well if it had been so," said the evening gloom.

"But the girl, my sister, burst into tears, and cried that I should not be an angel, but a big man, bigger than father--ever so big and strong. And she threw her arms round my neck and said no one should ever come and take away Olof--no!"

"Ay," nodded the gloom, "so it was--yes."

"And my sister tried her own way to make me well again--fondling me and blinking her eyes and stroking me under the chin. And I began laughing, for all that I was ill. And she was all overjoyed at that, and more certain than ever that I was to get well again and grow a big strong man. And I laughed again, and life began laughing too--and after that, I gradually got well."

"Ay, 'twas so. And your sister, she looked after you and nursed you all by herself--no one else was allowed to touch you; yes, that was your sister Maya!"

"Then Maya was taken ill herself. And weak as she was, she would have me near her all the time, and made me sit by her bedside. And I only laughed at it all--I did not understand that my only sister was at death's door. Ay, sometimes I pinched her thin cheek, or pulled her hair, or flicked her ear in play...."

"So you have done since with many other girls--ay, and laughed at them."

"And then the others came and wanted to take me away, out of her sight, because I was so cruel."

"Ay, just so. If only someone had done the same thing afterwards, with the rest...."

"But Maya held my hand and would not let them. And even when she was dying I had to stay there, and with her last words she hoped that Olof would grow up and be a fine strong fellow, and a good man."

He relapsed into thought.

"And now ... here you are, a fine strong fellow, and...." The voice seemed urging him to go on.

"Why did my sister die? Oh, if only she were alive now!"

"Who can say--perhaps it is better for her as it is."

"If she were alive now, she would be in her best years. And she could live with me, we two together, and never caring about anyone else. Keep house together--and she should be my friend and sister--and all else! I know just what she would look like. Tall and slender, with fair hair, light as the flax at home, and all curling down over her shoulders. And she would carry her head high--not vain and proud, but noble and stately. And her eyes all fire and mischief. Deep eyes, with a reflection of strange worlds, and none could face them with so much as a thought of deceit. Like mother's eyes--only with all, all the fire of youth--almost like Kylli...."

"So ho!" laughed the gloom. "So that's what your sister's to be like.... Well, go on!"

"And her nature, too, would be strange. Independent, choosing her own way--such a nature as old folks say is no good thing for a lad, far less for a girl. But for her.... And in winter-time she would come racing home on ski--rushing into the place and making the doors shake. Then she would jump on my lap, put her cold hands on my shoulders, and look mischievously: 'Why, what's this, brother? As gloomy as a monk again, I declare!' And I should feel happier then, but still a little earnest, and say, 'Maya, Maya, what a child you are! As thoughtless as a boy. And such a noise you make about the place.' 'Oh, but you're always in the dumps--sitting here moping like a grey owl. You ought to go out and race through the snow, till it whirls up about your ears ... that's the thing to freshen you up....' And then she presses cold hands against my cheek, till I shiver, and looks teasingly. And then all my dull humour's gone, and I can't help laughing at her, and calling her a little impudent thing...."

Olof stopped, and smiled--as if to fix the picture of this bright young creature indelibly in his mind.

The voice of the gloom spoke again: "So she is to live just for _your_ pleasure--like all the others?"

The smile died from the young man's face.

"Go on--your sister is sitting on your lap, looking mischievously into your eyes...?"

"No, no--not like that--no. She looks earnestly, with eyes that no deceit can face, and says, 'Olof, what's this they are saying about you...?'

"'Saying--about me...?'

"And she looks at me still. 'Hard things they say, brother--that you play with women's hearts.... Is it true?'

"And I cannot meet her eyes, and bow my head.

"'Olof--remember that _I too am a woman_.'

"And that cuts me to the heart. 'Sister, sister, if you knew it all; if you knew how I have suffered myself. I never meant to play with them--only to be with them--as I am with you.'

"'As you are with me?' She looks at me; wonderingly. 'But you know--you must know--that you cannot be as a brother to them.'

"'Yes, I can--sometimes.'

"'But never quite. And still less can they be sisters to you. Surely you know enough to understand that.'

"'No!'

"'But you should know. Oh, think! With some men, perhaps, they might be as sister and brother--but not with you. You, with your dark eyes--I have always feared them. They beckon and call ... to evil and disaster.'

"'Sister--what must you think of me!' And I hide my head in her lap, as I used to do in mother's.

"'I am only sorry--bitterly sorry for you. And I can't help being fond of you, for I know your heart is good and pure--but you are weak; very, very weak.' And she strokes my forehead, as mother used to do.

"'Yes, I am weak, I know it. But I promise you....'

"'Don't promise!' she says almost sternly, and lifts a finger warningly. 'How many times have you promised, with tears in your eyes, and done the same again? Don't promise--but try to be stronger.'

"'I will try, sister--dear, dear sister.' And I take her hands and kiss them gratefully again and again...."

"Ho! so that's the way you talk together, is it?" said the gloom. "Well, I'm not sure it might not be a good thing if your sister were alive. Then, perhaps, if she talked like that to you occasionally, you might be a different man altogether."

The young man sat for a while in thought.

"Then suddenly she jumps up and lights the lamp--it is getting dark. And she comes and puts her hands on my shoulders and says, 'Let me help you checking those accounts--you know I can.'

"And she sits down at the table, and I watch her little hand gliding over the paper. And I set to work at the books, and so we work for a long time.

"Then suddenly she looks up, and begins talking again. 'Why, what a great man you're getting, Olof--keeping the books in an office of your own--and with a secretary into the bargain. There's never a lumberman risen so far at your age, and never a foreman that looks so fine, with office and clerk and all'

"And I laugh at that. 'And never one with such a sister to help--that I'm sure.'

"Then she turns serious again, and looks at me strangely. I can't make out what she means.

"'Tell me,' she says at last, 'how long are you going to go on with this wandering life? It's three years now.'

"'Is it so long as that?' I ask in surprise. 'Twill be longer yet, I doubt.'

"'If I were you, I would make an end of it at once. Let us both go home and take over the farm there--mother and father have worked so hard there all their lives--it's time they were allowed to rest.'

"I look at her without speaking, and she understands. 'Father? Never fear--he's forgotten his anger long ago. And mother and he are both waiting for you to come home--for brother Heikki is too young to take over the place....'

"'Do you really think so?'

"'Think? I know! And there's any amount of work all waiting for you. New ground to be sown, and a new barn to build, and we ought to have three times the stock we have now. And there's all Isosuo marsh--you've that to drain and cultivate. When are you going to begin?'

"'Drain the marsh? How could you think of that?'

"'Why shouldn't I? I'm your sister. It will be a big piece of work--father himself never ventured to try it--but you're a bigger man than your father--a big, strong man....'

"'Sister! Now I simply must give you a kiss. There's no one like you in all the world.

"And we go home the very next week. And all turns out just as you said--more live stock, new ground sown, clover where there was but marsh before, and Koskela is grown to a splendid place, known far and wide. And we are so happy--with you to keep house and me to work the land. And the years go by and we grow old, but our children....

"... Oh, misery! What am I dreaming of...?" "That was the best of your dreams so far," said the gloom, with a full glance of its coal-black eyes. "May it soon come true! But light your lamp now--it is dark as night in here now."

CLEMATIS

"If I were a poet, I would sing--a strange, wild song.

"And if I could string the quivering _kantele_, I would play on it a melody to my song.

"I would sing of you, and of love. Of clematis with the snow-white flowers. For you are as the clematis, my love, sweet and beautiful as its blossoms, dear as its growth about the windows of a home--and deep, endlessly deep, as life itself."

"But that is just what you are doing, Olof--for all you say is like a poem and a song," answered the girl. "Sing for me again--and let me just sit here at your feet and listen."

"Ah, if only you could sit there always, as now. Clematis--how strange that I should meet you--when I never thought to meet with any flower again--saw only the yellow faded leaves of autumn everywhere around."

"Autumn ... faded leaves...." The girl looked at him, timidly questioning. "Olof, don't be angry with me. But.... Have you loved others before? They say so many things about you."

The young man was silent a moment.

"Ay, there are many things to say, perhaps," he murmured sadly. "But you, Clematis--could you care for me; could you not love me altogether, if you knew I had loved another before?"

"No, no--'twas not meant so," said the girl hastily, touching his knee with a slight caress. "I was not thinking of myself...."

"But of...?"

They looked at each other in silence.

"Yes--I know what you mean. I can read it in your eyes." He laid one hand tenderly on the girl's head.

"Life is so strange. And human beings strangest of all. I have loved--but now I feel as one that had only dreamed strange fancies."

"But have you loved them really--in earnest? I mean, did you give them all you had to give--and can anyone give that more than once in life?" The girl spoke softly, but with such deep feeling that the young man found no words to answer, and sat silently staring before him.

"Who can tell," he said, after a while. "I thought I had given all I had long since, and had all that could ever be given me. I felt myself poor as the poorest beggar. Then you came, unlike all the others, a wealth of hidden treasure in yourself--none had ever given me what you gave. And now--I feel myself rich, young and unspoiled, as if I were crossing the threshold of life for the first time."

"Rich--ay, you are rich--as a prince. And I am your poorest little slave, sitting at your feet. But how can anyone ever be so rich--how can it be? I can never understand."

"Do you know what I think? I think that human beings are endlessly rich and deep, like Nature itself, that is always young, and only changes from one season to another. All that has happened to me before seems now only the rising of sap in spring. Now summer comes for the first time--all calm and warmth and happiness. I have been like a fairy palace, with a splendid hall to which none could find the key. But you had it all the time--the others could enter this little room or that, but only you had the key to the best of all."

"Is it really true, Olof? Oh, I shall remember those words for ever!"

"It is true--you were the first that taught me how deep and mysterious, how wonderful, the love of a man and a woman can be. That it is not just a chance meeting, and after that all kisses and embraces and overflow of feeling. But a quiet, calm happiness in the blood, like the sap in the trees, invisible, yet bearing all life in itself; speechless, yet saying everything without a single touch of our lips."

"Yes," said the girl earnestly. "But did you not know that before? I have always felt it so."

"No--I did not realise that it was so intimate a part of our nature; that it was the foundation of life and happiness for all on earth. Now at last I understand that we are nothing without one another--we are as earth without water, trees without roots or mould; or as the sky without sun and moon. And I know now much that I did not know before--the secret of all existence, the power that sustains us all."

"And you know that it is _love_--the greatest of all! But why does no one ever speak of it--I mean, of love itself, not merely the name?"

"I think it must be because it is too deep and sacred a thing to talk about; we do not understand it ever until we have experienced it each for himself. And those that have--they must be silent--for it is a thing to live on, not to talk about. Do you know, I have just remembered something I once saw. Just a scene in a poor little hut--but it explains it all...."

"Something you have seen yourself?"

"Yes. It was many years ago. It was a cold winter day, and I came to this hut I was speaking of--'twas a miserable place to look at. The windows were covered with frost, and an icy draught came through cracks in the walls. Two children were sitting by the stove, warming their feet that were all red with cold; the other two were quarrelling over the last crust of bread."

"Were they so poor as that?" asked the girl, her voice quivering with sympathy.

"Poor as could be. And in a heap of rags on the bed lay the mother, with a newborn child--the fifth. The man was sitting at the table. He looked at the children on the floor, and then at the mother and her little one in bed--looked at them--and laughed! And the joy in his pale, thin face--it was a wonderful sight...."

"And the mother?" asked the girl eagerly. "Was she happy too--more than he?"

"Yes, she laughed too for joy at everything--the children, and the rags, and the draughty hut, and all. And I was so astounded I didn't know where to look. Happy--in all that misery and wretchedness! Were they so utterly without feeling, then, that they could not cry? But now I understand it all. I know what made those poor folk happy in it all: they had found that thing we spoke of--the great secret. And it made the hut a palace for them, and the ragged children as dear as those of any king and queen--yes, they were happy."

The two sat in silence for a while. Olof felt a slight thrill pass through the girl's body to his own.

"I see it now," said the girl at last. "A little while ago I could not see what it was that made life so deep and wonderful. And do you know, Olof--I should like to be just such a poor woman as that--frost on the windows and rags for a bed, but ... but...." Bright tears shone in her eyes.

"But--what?" he asked tenderly, taking her head in his hands.

"But with the one I loved--to be mine--all mine, for ever!" she answered, looking straight into his eyes.

Olof started. It was as if something had come between them, something restless and ill-boding that broke the soft swell of the waves on which they drifted happily--something, he knew not what, that made its presence felt.

"Or--not that perhaps--but to have something of his--something he had given me--to lie beside me in a bed of rags and smile," said the girl. And laying her head in his lap she clung to him as if her body had been one with his.

* * * * *

The lamp was lit, and a little fire was burning on the hearth. The girl sat on the floor, as was her way, holding her lover's feet in her lap--wrapped in her apron, as if they were her own.

"Go on working--I won't disturb you," she said, "only sit here and warm your feet and look at you."

Olof gave her a quick, warm glance, and turned to his work again.

"Olof," said the girl, after a pause, "what shall I have to hold in my lap when you are gone?"

She looked up at him helplessly, as if he alone could aid her.

Olof made a movement of impatience, as if he had made an error in his reckoning that was hard to put right.

"Nothing, I suppose," he said at last, trying to speak lightly. "You had nothing before, you know."

"Ah, but that was different. Now, I must have something."

There was a strange ring in her voice--the young man laid down his pen and sat staring into the fire. It was like talking to a child--a queer child, full of feeling, knowing and imagining more than its elders often did. But still and for ever a child, asking simple questions now that were hard to answer without hurt.

The girl watched him anxiously.

"Don't be angry, Olof," she said entreatingly. "It's very silly of me, I know. Go on with your work, and don't bother about me. Do--or I shall be so sorry."

"You are so quick to feel things," said he, pressing her hand. "I'll talk to you about it all another time--do you understand?"

"Yes--another time. Don't think any more about it now."

But the words echoed insistently in his ears, with a hollow ring--as if he had spoken carelessly, to be rid of a child's questioning for the time. He took up his pen again, but could not work, only sat drawing squares and interrogations on the margin of the paper.

The girl moved closer, laid her cheek against his knee, and closed her eyes. But her mind was working still, and the light of a sudden impulse shone in her eyes when she looked up at him.

"Olof," she asked eagerly, "are you very busy?"

"No--no. What then?" From the tone of her voice he knew she had something important to say.

"There was just an old story that came into my mind--may I tell it to you, now?"

"Yes, yes, do," said Olof, with a sense of relief. "You are the only girl I have ever met who could tell fairy tales--and make them up yourself too."

"This is not one I made up myself. I heard it long ago," she answered.

"Well, and how does it begin?" said Olof briskly, taking her hands. "'Once upon a time...'?"

"Yes, those are the very words. Once upon a time there was a boy--and a girl. And they loved each other--especially the girl. No words could ever tell how she loved him." She looked at Olof as if to see the effect of what she had said.

"That begins well. Go on," said Olof. But a thought was slowly taking form in his mind.

"And they sat in the woods, under the tall birches, and talked of how happy they were. But the girl could not have the boy for her own--they had to say good-bye. He had to go away, and she knew she would never see him again."

Olof looked thoughtful--the fancy was taking root. "Go on--what happened then?"

"Then, just as he was going away, the girl said to him, 'Set a mark on me somehow, so that I shall always feel I belong to you, and no one can tear you from my heart.'

"The boy thought for a moment. 'Where shall I set the mark?' he asked.

"'Here, above my heart,' said the girl.

"And she bared her breast, and the boy took out his knife and with its sharp point scratched a little heart on her breast."

The girl shivered a little.

"And then he coloured it where he had cut, like sailors do with anchors on their arms. And when he had finished, he kissed it. And they said good-bye, and he went away."

Olof was touched--now he understood....

"And what then?" he asked softly. "What happened after, to the girl with a mark above her heart, and to him that made it?"

"The boy...." She stopped, at a loss, and then went on: "There's no more about him in the story. He went away. Only about the girl...."

"Yes, yes, of course," said Olof. "He went away. And the girl?"

"The girl--she looked at the mark every night when she undressed, and every morning when she dressed herself, for she felt as if he were there all the time, because of the mark. But then the time came when her parents said she must marry. And she didn't want to, but she had to all the same. But she did not love her husband, and was always looking secretly at the mark her lover had made, as if she were talking with him that way, and it made her happy."

"And the husband," asked Olof eagerly, "did he find out?"

"No. Men don't notice things like that as a rule. But then the girl bore a child--she was still a girl, for she had remained true to her lover. And the child had the very same mark in the same place.

"The husband saw the mark. 'What's this?' he asked in a stern voice.

"'Tis a birth-mark,' said the girl. "'Do not lie to me!' cried the man. 'It is more than that. Let me see your breast.'

"Now the girl did not want to do this, for she felt that the mark was nothing to do with him. But her husband's face grew dark with anger, and he tore away her clothes, and bared her breast. And now she would not try to hide the mark at all, but stood up straight and let him see. And before he could even ask, she told him what it was, 'That is the mark my lover made when I was a girl,' she said. 'For a sign that I should belong to him for ever--and I have.' And at that the husband's eyes flashed, and without a word he drew his knife and struck it through the mark deep into her breast...."

She would have said more, but her voice failed--she could feel Olof's knees trembling against her breast.

"You are good at telling stories," said he in a stifled voice. "But the end was too horrible."

"It was not horrible at all," she replied. "It was just as lovely as could be. The girl herself could have wished for nothing better. She died with a smile on her lips, as only those who are happy ever die.

"But it is not all ended yet--there is more to come."

"More?" cried Olof in surprise, at a loss to understand how she would go on.

"Yes," she continued. "For when she was dead, the girl came to the gate of heaven. And there stood St. Peter at the gate, as he always does.

"'You cannot enter in,' said St. Peter, 'for you bear on your breast the mark of sinful lust. 'But God heard it from His throne, and cried, 'Open and let her in!' And God looked at the girl's breast, and she did not flinch. 'You should know better,' He said to St. Peter reproachfully. 'Here is one that was faithful to her first love.... Enter in, My child.'"

Both were silent. A little blue flame rose from the embers on the hearth.

"Thanks, Clematis," whispered Olof, and kissed her hands that lay hot in his own. "I know what you meant. And how prettily you said it!"

"Are you sure you knew what I meant?" she asked. "I hadn't finished, you know...."

"What--not finished yet?"

"No!"

She drew her hands away, and as if summing up all she had said before, she clasped his knees and looked imploringly into his eyes.

"Give me that mark!"

Olof shivered--waves of heat and cold seemed passing through his body.

"No, no--my love! You must not ask that of me--it is more than I can do," he went on bitterly.

"You can, if you only will. Love can do all things."

"But now--after what you have said...."

"But you said yourself it was so pretty."

"Yes--there is a lovely thought in it--but the end was too horrible--you know what I mean."

"That was the loveliest of all. Oh, won't you do what I ask?" Her lips trembled, and she looked at him entreatingly.

Olof sighed deeply; drops of sweat stood out on his forehead. "How can I refuse you anything? But--but I could never forget it if I did, and...."

"Oh ... I almost thought that was how it would be. You cannot understand--for you are not me. But something I must have!" she went on passionately. "I cannot live without. Look!" She drew from her breast a little case of blue silk, hung by a red cord round her neck, "See--it just reaches to there!"

"It's very pretty," said Olof in relief, taking the case in his hand." And you want something to put in it?"

"Yes."

"A lock of hair or something? Are you as childish as all that?"

"No--not as childish as all that."

"A flower, then--or what?"

"No, nothing like that."

"You want me to write something, then?"

"No, no. I want yourself--your very self!"

Olof looked at her blankly--he could not guess what was in her mind. He felt himself more and more in the power of something he had been striving to escape.

"Oh, don't you understand? Your portrait."

"But--but I have only one. And--I have never given anyone my portrait."

"No," said the girl confidently. "You have kept it for me."

Olof felt himself shamed. What a poor creature he was grown! Why could he not rise up and take this strange rare child in his arms, and swear by all he revered that she had touched his inmost heart, that he was hers alone, for ever?

He sprang to his feet, and cried earnestly, "Yes! It was taken for you, and for no other!"

But the words ended in a sob--it was as if his blood were turned to sand. With trembling fingers he took out the portrait, and sank down as if paralysed into his seat.

The girl watched him with a starry gleam of ecstasy in her eyes.

But he could not meet her glance--he bent his head, thinking bitterly to himself, "What have I come to? Why do I cheat her and myself, why do I give these beggar's crumbs to one that should have all?"

The girl sat still with the same light of wonder in her eyes, looking now at the portrait, now at Olof himself.

"Yes, it is really you," she said at last, and touching the picture with her lips, she laid it in the case, and slipped it into her bosom.

"Now I have nothing more to ask," she said. "I shall thank you all my life for this. When you are gone, you will be with me still. I can talk to you at night before I sleep, and in the morning you will be the first thing I see. I can whisper to you just as I used to do. And when I am dead, you shall be buried with me."

Olof was overwhelmed with emotion--it was as if something within him had been rent asunder. He looked at the girl's face--how pure and holy it was! Why could not he himself be as she was? What was it that had happened to him?

He felt an impulse to throw himself on the floor at her feet and tell her all--and then rise up young and pure and whole again, able to feel as others did. But he could not; an icy voice within him told that the days of his spring-time were gone for ever. And as he felt her arms about him once more, he could only bend down humbly and touch her hair with his lips in silence, as if begging her to understand.

Warm drops were falling on his knees, warm drops fell on her hair. Welling from deep sources--but unlike, and flowing different ways.

DARK FURROWS

Sunday morning--a calm and peaceful time. Olof was up, and sat combing his hair before the glass.