Chapter VI: Part 6

"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 as
before? But it makes no difference now. Once _we_ are agreed,
ten fathers could make no difference. I feel now that I can do
what I will.

"And that is all for now, Kyllikki. You know how anxiously I
wait to hear from you--your answer means very much to me. But
I know it will be clear and true, whichever way it may be.
OLOF.

"My address is, Olof Koskela, as above."

* * * * *

"KOHISEVA, 2 _Oct_. 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 if _you_ had 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--that _you 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

"WATER-WITCH.

"P.S.--Father is the same, but what you say about that is what
I 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.

"KYLLIKKI."

MOISIO

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: "_If_ you 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 BROKEN STRING

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.

THE BRIDAL CHAMBER

Footsteps approaching.

A man, with a dark fire smouldering in his eyes, entered in--the pale bride followed him.

The man walked up and down the room with heavy strides, biting his lip and frowning angrily. Suddenly he stopped, and stood by the table against the farther wall, with a cold, piercing glance at the pale-faced girl.

She had been standing silent and thoughtful by the window--now she approached him with hesitant step.

"Olof," she murmured, her voice quivering with tender anxiety--"Olof--dearest, what does it mean?"

"Dearest?" He snapped out the word between clenched teeth like the rattle of hail against a window-pane. His voice trembled with tears and laughter, cutting scorn and bitterness. He grasped her roughly by the shoulders.

"Keep away!" he cried, boiling with rage, and thrust her from him with such violence that she stumbled and sank down on a sofa.

There she sat in the same position, struck helpless by the suddenness of the blow. Then she rose and, flushing slightly, walked resolutely up to him again.

"Olof, what does all this mean?" she asked. There was tenderness still in her voice, but beneath it a steely ring plain to be heard.

Olof felt his blood boiling in his veins--that she, guilty as she was, should dare to stand there with uplifted head, and look him calmly in the face! His eye fell on the myrtle wreath which she wore--emblem of bridal purity--and it seemed to mock him anew. He felt an almost irresistible impulse to fall on her and tear her in pieces.

"It means," he cried, stepping threateningly towards her, "that you have no right to wear that wreath--that you are an infamous cheat!"

And with a violent movement he tore the wreath and veil from her head, and trampled them underfoot, till the wires of the framework curled like serpents on the floor. "Liar--liar and hypocrite!" he cried.

Kyllikki did not move; she stood there still silent, only the red flush in her cheeks deepened.

Nothing was left of the wreath now but some strands of wire and a few loose leaves--Olof spurned it aside, and the veil after it. Then he drew himself up, and looked at Kyllikki with the eyes of a man who has crushed one foe and prepares to meet another.

"Will you be good enough to tell me what all this means?" said Kyllikki, calmly as ever, but with a new note in her voice that almost amazed herself.

"Tell you? Ay, by Heaven. If I had my pistol here, I'd answer you so that you should never ask again!"

Kyllikki shuddered--a chill sense of utter helplessness came over her. She was shamed and insulted, her bridal wreath trampled underfoot, and she herself here alone with a man who raved and threatened furiously. She looked at him earnestly, as if trying to read him through. And she felt that here was indeed something great and terrible, on which her future--their future--depended; a single word or gesture on her part might be fatal. Suddenly a thought crossed her mind and the blood rushed to her head.... Could he dare?... Was his anger greater than his love?

Swiftly she decided--now or never, it must be done, or all would be lost. Stepping across to a chest, she opened the lowest drawer and felt for something there ... no ... and she tried the next. A moment after, she rose to her feet and walked firmly over to where Olof stood.

A large, old-fashioned revolver was in her hand; the dark barrel glinted in the light as she laid it on the table.

"There is the thing you wanted. It is loaded. Now, answer me, if you please."

She spoke slowly, putting forth all her strength to keep her voice from trembling. Then stepping back, she stood waiting, her face pale, her eyes fixed on Olof's face.

It was the critical moment. To Kyllikki it seemed endless, as she stood there stiffly, dreading with every breath lest she should fall.

Olof stood motionless, staring at her as at a vision. Once before he had seen her thus--during the ordeal with her father. A stifling fear came over him as he marked the similarity.

"What do you mean--are you trying to drive me mad?" he cried in a choking voice. And tearing his hair, he rushed violently towards the door.

Kyllikki felt the blood coursing warmly through her veins once more.

Olof strode furiously up and down, then came to a standstill before her. His rage flamed up again, and he set himself to play the part of a judge.

"Defy me, would you?" he shouted, pale with anger. "Do you know what you are? A liar, a perjured hypocrite! Do you know what you have done? You have cheated me! You have ruined my wedding night, trampled on my happiness and my future--you have shamed me in the eyes of the world. You are no pure and innocent girl, but a...."

He stopped, breathless, and stood gasping for a moment, then went on brokenly: "But now it is out. Now you shall answer for it all. Do you know a fellow who was here to-night--a wretched little worm with a red rosette in his coat? You know who I mean well enough--deny it if you dare!"

"Yes, I know him well. What of it?"

"Ah, you know him--yes...." He gave a hoarse, nervous laugh. "That ghastly little abortion came to me to-night and told me...."

He stopped, on purpose to torture her the more.

"What did he tell you?" asked Kyllikki breathlessly.

"You know well enough ... _that you had given him long ago what should have been mine to-night!_"

He stood enjoying the effect of his words: Kyllikki staggered as if struck--exactly as he had intended.

The girl was trembling in every limb. She felt a loathing for the man before her--and for all his sex. These men, that lied about women, or cried out about what was _theirs_ on their wedding night, raved of _their_ happiness, demanding purity and innocence of others, but not of themselves ... she felt that there could be no peace, no reconciliation between them now, only bitterness and the ruin of all they had hoped for together.

"And what then?" she asked coldly, with lifted head.

"What then?" cried Olof wildly. "What...."

"Yes. Go on. That was only one. Are there no more who have told you the same thing?"

"More? My God--I could kill you now!"

"Do!" She faced him defiantly, and went on with icy calm: "And how many girls are there who can say the same of you?"

Olof started as if he had been stabbed. He put his hands to his head, and strode violently up and down, muttering wildly: "Kill you--yes, kill you and myself too, kill, kill, kill...."

So he went on for a while, then, flinging himself down on the sofa, he tore open his coat, snatched off the white rosette he wore, and threw it down, crying out in agony: "Why must I suffer like this? Was there ever such a wedding night? It is hell, hell...!"

Kyllikki stood calmly watching him. She was gradually feeling more sure of herself now. At last she moved towards him.

"Do you want me to love you?" she said quietly. "Or must I hate you and despise you? You listen to the stories of a drunken fool, instead of asking the one person in the world you should trust; you give me no explanation when I ask you. Is it any wonder, after all, that the man should have said what he did--to let you taste for once a drop of the poison you have poured out for who knows how many others? As for him, I knew him when we were children--there was some talk of our being married, years ago. He was five years older than I, and was too young then to know of any harm in an occasional caress. More than that never--though it seems in his drunken wickedness he tried to make out there was."

"Kyllikki, is it true?" cried Olof, springing to his feet.

"It is true. _I_ am still pure, but you--have you the right to ask a pure woman to be your wife?"

"Have I the right...." he began haughtily; but the words died on his lips, and he sank back on the sofa, covering his face with his hands, as if to keep out visions of dread.

"It would have been only just," Kyllikki went on, "if it had been as you believed--yes, it should have been so! And you knew it--and _so_ you stormed and threatened to kill me!"

She paused for a moment; Olof quailed under her glance.

"Pure and innocent," she continued; "yes, that is what you ask, that is your right. But have you for one moment thought of me? I, _who am innocent and pure_--what is given to me in return?"

"You are torturing me," answered Olof, wringing his hands. "I know, I know--and I have thought of you too.... Oh...."

"Thought of me?--yes, perhaps you have, now and again. There was something of it in your letter--you felt it then. And I took it as a prayer for forgiveness, and I could have faced it all as it was--I was thinking more of you than of myself. But now...."

"O God--this is madness!" cried Olof, his voice choking with sobs. "Is this the end?... And this night, this night that I have looked forward to in my brightest dreams--this new dawn that was to be ... crushed, crushed, a trampled wreath and veil ... and this is my wedding night!"

He flung himself face downward on the sofa, sobbing violently.

"Your wedding night?" said Kyllikki softly. "_Your_ wedding night? How many such have you not had before? But mine...." Her voice broke. "Oh, mine has never been, and never will be, never...."

She burst into a violent fit of weeping, and sank trembling to a seat.

And the bridal chamber echoed with sounds of woe, with utterances of misery that might have called the very walls to pity.

* * * * *

Olof wakened with a start; moving blindly, he had stumbled against her, and at the touch of her body he flung himself on his knees before her and hid his face in her lap.

"Kill me!" he moaned. "Forgive me and then kill me and make an end."

His passionate outburst seemed to calm her; she sat still, and her tears subsided.

"Speak to me!" cried Olof again. "If you cannot forgive me, then kill me, at least--or must I do it myself?"

But Kyllikki made no answer, only bent forward and, slipping her hands beneath his arms, drew him up, softly and slowly, and pressed him closer to her.

A sudden warmth filled him, and he threw his arms round her gratefully, as a child might do.

"Crush me, then, crush me to death, and I have all I asked for!"

But she did not speak, only held him closer. And so they lay in each other's arms, like children, worn out with weeping.

"Olof," said Kyllikki at last, freeing herself, "when you wrote, you said you did not ask me to share joy and happiness, but to work and suffer with you."

"Ay, then," said Olof bitterly. "And even then I still hoped for happiness."

"But, don't you see.... To-night, it is just that. Our first suffering together."

"It has ruined all!"

"Not all--only what we had hoped for to-night. All the rest is as it was."

"No, no, do not try to deceive yourself and me. And for myself--what do I care now? I have deserved it all--but you, you...."

"Say no more, Olof. Let this be ended now and never speak of it again. See, I have forgotten it already."

"All ... you...."

"Yes, all--for your sake. Oh, let us be content! No one in all the world can ever have all they hoped and wished for. And if we cannot have our wedding night as lovers--let us at least be friends and comrades now."

"Comrades? ... yes, in misery," sighed Olof. And they drew together in a close embrace; two suffering creatures, with no refuge but each other.

* * * * *

"Olof," whispered Kyllikki after a while, "we must go to rest now--you are worn out."

Both glanced at the white bridal bed--and each turned in dismay to the other, reading each other's thought.

"Can't we--can't we sleep here on the sofa?--it's nearly morning," said Kyllikki timidly.

Olof grasped her hand and pressed it to his lips without a word.

Kyllikki went to fetch some coverings. As she did so, she caught sight of something lying on the table, and keeping her back turned to Olof, she picked up the thing and put it back in the drawer. Olof's eyes followed her with a grateful glance.

But as she touched the pillows and the white linen she had worked with such hopes and kisses and loving thoughts for this very night, she broke down, and stood with quivering shoulders, fumbling with the bedclothes to hide her emotion.

Olof felt his eyelids quivering, warm drops fell on his cheek. He rose and stepped softly to her side.

"Kyllikki," he whispered entreatingly, "have you forgiven me--everything?"

"Yes, everything," she answered, smiling through her tears, and threw her arms round his neck. "It was childish of me to cry."

Gratefully, and with a new delight, he pressed her to his heart....

* * * * *

"Olof, don't put out the light yet--let it burn till the morning."

Kyllikki lay stretched on the sofa. Olof nodded, and laid himself down with his head in her lap and his feet on a chair by the side.

And two pairs of darkly glistening eyes fell to whispering together, like lonely stars in a dark autumn sky, while the earth sighed through the gloom.

THE SOMNAMBULIST

Olof was a sleep-walker, though he never dared to confess it even to himself. There was something mysterious and terrifying in the thought.

A soul that cannot rest, but goes forth when others sleep, on errands of its own; the body follows, but without consciousness. The eyes are open, but they see only that which the soul is pleased to notice on its way. It will climb like a squirrel to the roof, walk along narrow ridges at a giddy height. It will open windows and lean out over black depths, or play with keen-edged weapons as if they were toys. And the onlooker, in his waking senses, shudders at the sight, realising that it is the soul stealing forth on its nightly wanderings.

So it had been with Olof for a long time now--almost from the time when Kyllikki first became his.

The scene of their bridal night was forgotten; neither ever hinted at what had passed. They had tried to fuse with each other in the deep and beautiful relationship which had its roots deep in the soul of both, and in the earnest striving that was to clear and cultivate the ground on which their future should be built.

Olof was proud of his wife; she moved with the beauty of a summer Sunday in their new home--calm and clear-eyed, ever surrounded by a scent of juniper or heather. And he was filled with gratitude, respect, and love for her--for her tender and faithful comradeship.

Then, like a bird of night on silent wings, came this walking in his sleep.

It had happened many times without his knowing it. And still he refused to believe it, though he had more than once been on the point of waking to full consciousness. And he was glad that Kyllikki seemed to suspect nothing--for she said no word. He dreaded most of all the hour when she should wake and speak to him reproachfully: "Are my arms not warm enough to hold you; can your soul not find rest in my soul's embrace?"

Of late, the mere thought of this had made him restless. And to guard against it, he had thrown himself with redoubled energy into his work, as if life depended on the ditching and draining of a marsh. And gradually there grew out of this a new and far greater project, in which the entire neighbourhood would share.

* * * * *

It was in the quiet hour of dusk, when Olof had just come home from his work, and the walls of the room seemed whispering expectantly.

Silently as the dusk, Kyllikki stole into his opened arms, her eyes asking what he had to tell, and pouring out her own thoughts and feelings.

Olof laughed, but did not try to meet the innermost depth of her eyes; after a little, he ceased to look at her at all, but turned his gaze far off, as if looking out over the work of the day.

A little while passed thus.

Almost unconsciously Olof lifted one hand and loosened the plaits of his wife's hair, letting the long tresses fall freely over her shoulders. Smiling and looking into far distance, he passed his hand through the soft waves, and wrapping the ends about his fingers, clasped her waist.

"My own love," he whispered, gazing at her as through a veil, and bending to touch her lips.

And as they kissed, Kyllikki felt his arm tremble. Tenderly she looked into his eyes, but started in wonder at their strange expression--they seemed wandering far off.

And the dark forebodings that had long oppressed her filled her now with a sudden dread. The more she looked at him, the more she felt this fear--at last it was almost more than she could bear.

It was as if the soul that looked out of his eyes had suddenly vanished, leaving only a body that stiffened in a posture of embrace.

She trembled from head to foot, her whole body seemed turned to ice. Suddenly she tore herself away, and sank down on a seat; Olof stood without moving, as if turned to stone.

In a single moment, something terrible had passed between them, which neither dared to speak of, but which showed plainly in their eyes. A gulf seemed to have opened before their feet, filled with strange and horrible creatures, all waving tentacles and ghastly staring eyes.

Kyllikki covered her face with her hands as if to shut out the sight.

"Olof--your soul, your soul ..." she moaned, like a little child.

Olof stood as hovering on the verge of sleep and waking. But at sight of her trembling figure he seemed to come to himself, and tried to break loose from the spell.

"Kyllikki...!" he said imploringly.

She sat up, sobbing, and gazed at him as at one whom she did not know.

"Kyllikki, poor child!" he said brokenly, and sat down by her side. But his own voice sounded strange in his ears, and he could say no more--he felt as if he were a ghost, not daring to speak to a living human creature.

At sight of his unspoken misery, Kyllikki felt her own dread rise up stronger than ever.

"I knew the suffering would come," she said mournfully. "So many have had their place in your heart that I could not hope to fill it all myself at first. But I love you so, and I felt so strong, I thought I could win my way into it little by little until it was all mine ... and now...." She broke off, and fell to sobbing anew.

Olof would have given anything to speak to her then, but found no words.

"And it is so terrible to see it all and be helpless," she went on. "You are a wanderer still--and I cannot hold you ... you leave me--for those that wait for you...."

"O Heaven!" cried Olof in agony. "Kyllikki, don't--don't speak like that. You know I do not care for any other--would not be with any other but you."

"But you go--even against your will. And they come towards you smiling. I am all alone--and they are so many. And they must win--for I can give no more than one woman can. But they are for ever whispering to you of what a woman can give but once in her life--each in her own way...."

"Kyllikki!" Olof broke in imploringly.

But she went on unheeding, pouring out her words like a stream in flood-time.

"And they hate me because I thought to keep you for myself alone. And while you lie in my arms, they come smiling and whispering and thread their arms between us and offer you their lips...."

"Kyllikki!" he cried again, and grasped at her hand like a drowning man.

"And then--then it is no longer me you hold in your arms, but those others; not my lips, but theirs, you kiss...." She tore her hand away, and broke out weeping anew.

Olof sat as if turned to stone. The thing was said--it was as if a secret curse was for ever dogging his footsteps, and spreading poison all around.

Kyllikki's despair gathered and grew like an avalanche. What a blind self-deceit their life had been! How they had hoped and dreamed--with a gulf of naked hopelessness on every side!

"If only I had--what I have hoped for these last two years, then I could bear it all. For that--none could rob me of that! But now--I know why it has not come. And now there is no hope even of that!"

And she groaned aloud.

Olof felt as if a dagger's thrust had pierced the tenderest nerve of an already aching wound. He had tried to comfort her, though he himself had long since lost all hope. The fault could only lie with him--and now he understood! He felt himself crushed by a weight of despair, and sat there staring before him, without a word.

Kyllikki grew calmer after a while, and looked up. The silence of the place came to her now for the first time, and with it a new dread. She turned to Olof, and at sight of his face, drawn with despair, and darkly shadowed in the gloom, she realised what her words must have meant to him.

"Olof--dear!" she cried, taking his hand. "What have I done? I did not mean to reproach you. It might be my fault as well--it must be mine more than yours...."

But Olof sat motionless as before, save for a shiver that now and then passed through his frame.

And Kyllikki, seeing him thus, felt her own trouble fade; a wave of unspeakable tenderness and affection came over her.

"Don't--Olof, you must not be miserable for that," she said earnestly. "Oh, how could I ever say it--how could I be so thoughtless and selfish and cruel...?"

"No," said Olof--"it was not that. You could not help it. You were my conscience, that is all--as you must ever be, or you would not be the friend you are."

"Don't say that, Olof--it was just that I forgot. We are friends--and the one thing that can make and keep us friends is to toil and suffer together--Olof, _together_!"

Gently she drew closer to him, and threw her arms about him.

"Don't you see?" she went on softly. "It's all because I love you so. I want you for myself, all for myself. I will not let you go--no, you shall look at me. I will drive them away, all of them, if they try to come between us; oh, I am strong enough, I know. You are mine, Olof, do you hear? All mine--mine.... Oh, why do you sit there so? Speak to me, Olof!"

Her passionate earnestness burned like bright flames about him, gradually warming his heart to life again.

"Kyllikki, how good you are!" he said, and his eyes glistened as he spoke. "You are all I have in life--without you, I should be lost. If only--if only I could be sure of one thing...."

"What is it--tell me, Olof...?"

"That--that you do not despise me, but trust me, that you believe I only care to be yours."

"Trust you?--indeed I do," said Kyllikki. "I know we are both striving toward the same end. But there are enemies that are always on the watch. We must beat them--and we will! And I am yours--all yours--as the night when you said good-bye to Kohiseva. And you are mine--all mine ... and then, Olof--then it will come--the one thing I must have to live for...."

OUT OF THE PAST

"KIRKKALA, 7 _May_ 1899."

"Dearest,--You will not be angry because I write to you? How could you, you who are so good! I would not have written, but I must, for there is so much to tell you. It is spring now, as it was then, and it has brought with it such a longing that I must turn to you, speak to you--and then I can wait again till next spring. You must have known that I have been with you--surely you felt it? And now here I am, having learned by chance where you are.

"Do you remember the story I told you? About the girl and her lover and the mark on her breast? And what I asked for then, and you gave me? I have often wondered since whether, perhaps, you might have misunderstood it all--when I was so serious and thoughtful about it--if you thought I was not certain of myself, not sure that I should always be yours, as I wished to be. But it was not so, dear Olof; I knew myself well enough even then, though not so deeply as I do now. How strong and deep love is! I read once in a poem--surely you know it too:

"'The lightning stroke falls swifter than breath,
But the tree that is struck bears the mark till its death.'"

And so it is--there is no more to add; it is as if written by the finger of God. And so it must be, or what would our love be worth?

"But it is not all who understand it, even the half. Human beings are so strange--wondering and asking always--people ask, for instance, why I am always so lonely.... They cannot see that I am not lonely at all.

"Olof, if you knew all I have felt and suffered in these years! I hardly know if I dare tell you. But I must--I only turn to you now to say it all, so that I may feel easier after. I have longed for you so--more than I can ever say; I wonder how I have been able to live at all. Olof, Olof, do not look at me! I have only come to whisper a little in your ear.... I have had such dreadful thoughts. As if someone were always behind me whispering, 'Look, there is a knife--it is a friend; take it and press it deep in your breast--it will feel like the softest touch of the evening wind. Look, the river is in flood....' And I have hardly dared to pass by the well, for it looked up at me so strangely with its dark eye. And I know I should have given way if you had not saved me. When I thought how you would feel if you heard what I had done, I seemed to see you so clearly; you looked at me reproachfully, only looked at me without a word, and I felt ashamed that I had ever thought of what would cause you sorrow. And you nodded, and forgave me, and all was well again.

"Then I took to hoping that some miracle should bring you back to me. I hoped something might happen to you, so that I could buy your life with mine. You might be bitten by a snake--it does happen sometimes. Coming up one night with the lumbermen, and then next morning the news would be all over the place, how you had been bitten, and were on the point of death; and I would hurry down with the rest to where you were, and bend down beside you, and press my lips to the place and draw the poison out. And then I could feel it passing with your blood into my veins, in a great wave of happiness. And soon I should sink down beside you on the grass; but you would be saved, and you would know I had been true to you until death.