Chapter VII: Part 7

"So I waited year after year. Then I wanted you to be ill--very, very ill for a long time, and weak, till your heart could hardly beat at all for want of blood, and you lay in a trance. Then the doctors would say, if anyone would give their blood he might come to life again. But no one could be found, for there were only strangers there. Then I hear about it, and come quickly, and the doctors start at once, for there is no time to be lost. And they draw off my blood and let it flow into your body, and it acts at once, and you move a little, though you are still in a trance. 'A little more,' say the doctors--'see, the girl is smiling; it will do her no harm.' And they only see that I smile, and do not know how weak I am already. And when you wake, I am cold and pale already, but happy as a bride, and you kiss me on the lips like a lover. For now I am your bride, and one with you for ever, and I cannot die, for my blood lives in you!

"But all this was only dreams. You were not ill, nor bitten by a snake, and at last I did not even know where you were. And then I wanted to die, for I felt so weak. And I waited for it day after day and month after month--I had already written to say good-bye to you. But death did not come--I had to go on living.

"I have been so ill, Olof--it is my heart. Perhaps I am too sensitive; they called me a dreamer when I was a child. And even now that I am older they have said the same. But how could I ever forget you, and the hours that were the confession and communion of my whole life? How could I forget those evenings when I sat at your feet and looked into your eyes? Olof, I can feel it all still, and tremble at the thought of it.

"You must forgive me all this. It feels easier now that I have spoken to you and told you about it all--how I still feel, grateful to you for all you gave me then. I was very childish and poor then, and had nothing to give you in return--now, afterwards, I could perhaps have given you something too. I should have been so happy if we could have been together always; earth would have been like heaven, and none but angels everywhere. And even now I can be so happy, though I only have you in secret. Secretly I say good-night to you, and kiss you, and no one knows that you rest every night in my arms. And, do you know, Olof, there is one thing that is so strange, I hardly know what it means. Now, just lately, I have felt sometimes that you were really here, your living self, sitting beside me and whispering that I was yours, your love, your friend. And it makes me so happy--but I always cry afterwards.

"There was one thing more--but I can't think what it was. Something about ... yes, now I remember. The greatest and loveliest of all, that I asked you for Shall I tell you? The miracle has happened, though no one knows about it. You gave it me after all, that spring when I was so ill. And I could not live without it. He is two years old now--oh, if you could only see him! His eyes and his voice--they are just your very own. Do not be anxious about him. I will be so careful, and see that he grows up a fine man. I have sewed every stitch of his clothes myself, and he looks like a prince--there never was such a child. We are always together, and talking of you. I am sorry for mother sometimes; she looks so strangely at me, and says I go about talking to myself--but how could she know of my prince and his father, and why I talk? Talking to myself, she says. But I am talking to the child all the time.

"There, and what more was I going to say? I can't remember now. I feel so much better now I have told you all about it. And now the summer is coming--I always feel happier then. It was raining before, but now the sun has come out and the birds are singing. And so good-bye, my dearest, my sunshine, my summer.--Your own CLEMATIS.

"Do not write to me--I am better as I am. I know you have not forgotten me, that you could not forget ... and that is all I ask."

THE MARK

Olof was growing uneasy--a feeling of insecurity had come over him. The air seemed full of mysterious forces, whispering together and joining in alliance against him.

It had all looked clear and simple enough before. No one had ever stood in his way or threatened his plans. But now something was threatening him--something unknown, mysterious, but which he could not help feeling all the time.

He made every effort to resist--to gather arms and allies against what was to come. His project for draining the marsh was the first thing; he went about from one homestead to another, talking to the men one by one, and trying to interest them in the idea. A general meeting was held, and he made a great speech, putting out all his powers of persuasion; his voice rang with a convincing strength, and his words carried weight. And to begin with, all went well enough; it was agreed that an expert should be called in to investigate the whole question, and work out the probable cost of the undertaking.

But then came a period of waiting and inactivity, which sapped his strength anew. He had to seek about for some fresh task, for new difficulties to meet and overcome, in order to regain his confidence in himself. And so for a week he roved about in the forest between his own and the neighbouring parishes.

At last he found what he sought--the line for a new road, better and quicker than the old one.

It was a fine idea, that no one could deny. It would be a great gain to all in Hirviyoki, especially for those in the outlying parts; it meant a saving of miles on their way to the railway, the mills, and other centres.

And so once more Olof went from house to house, seeking adherents among the most influential men, so as to crush opposition before the matter was taken up for general discussion. He started with those nearest at hand, working gradually farther out.

"Is this Inkala?" asked Olof of a serving-girl, as he entered the courtyard; he did not know the place, nor who lived there.

"This is Inkala--yes," answered the girl.

"Is the master at home?"

"No; he went off to Muurila this morning."

"H'm. And when's he coming back?"

"Don't know at all. But maybe mistress'll know. If you'd go in by the front way, I'll tell her."

Olof walked up the front steps.

Hardly had he entered the room when a slender, fair-haired woman appeared from within.

"Good-day to ..." Olof began; but the greeting died on his lips, and a shiver passed through his body.

The woman stopped still; her lips moved, but uttered no word.

Stiffly, uneasily, they looked at each other. A glimpse of the past, a sequence of changes, things new and things familiar--the vision of a moment, seen in a flash.

A warm flush spread over the woman's cheeks, and she stepped forward without hesitation to greet the newcomer.

"Welcome, Olof," she said, with frank kindness, though her voice trembled slightly. "And is it really you? Sit down.'"

But Olof stood still, unable to recover himself.

"I dare say you're surprised to--to find me here," went on the woman, trying to speak easily and naturally, though her features and the look in her eyes revealed a certain emotion. "I have been here for four years now." She stopped, and cast down her eyes in confusion.

"Really--four years, is it as long as that...?" Olof stammered out the words awkwardly, and could say no more.

"But you've heard no news of me, I suppose, and my being here. I knew a little about you, though--that you had come back and were living near...."

"Yes, yes.... No, I had no idea ... I came prepared to find only strangers, and then ... to meet you here ... so far from...."

"Yes, it is a long way from my home." The woman grasped eagerly at something to talk of. "And it's all so different here, though it's not so far, after all, counting the miles. It was very strange and new at first, of course, but now I like it well enough. And we often go over to the old place, and father and mother come to see us here...."

"Yes, yes.... And how are they at home? Your mother and father?" Olof asked, with a ring of pleasant recollection in his voice.

"Finely, thank you. Father was bad for a time last winter, but he's got over it now, or nearly...."

She broke off and glanced at the door. It was thrust open a little, and a child's head looked in.

She stepped hastily across the room. "What do you want in here? Can't you see here are visitors--and you with your dirty overall on?"

"I wanted to see," said the little man stubbornly, with childish insistence, and clung to his mother.

Olof looked at the child as at a vision.

The woman stood, pale and confused, holding the boy by the hand.

"Come along, then, and say good-day," she stammered at last, hardly knowing what she did.

The boy came forward, and stood holding Olof's knees, looking up into his face.

Child and man gazed at each other without a word or movement, as if each were seeking for some explanation.

"I haven't seen you before," said the child at last. "Do you live a long way away?"

Olof felt himself trembling. The child's first words had set his heart beating wildly.

"But you mustn't stay here, dear," said the woman hastily, and led the boy away. "Go into the next room a little--mother's coming soon."

The child obeyed without a word, but in the doorway he turned, and again looked wonderingly at his mother and the strange man....

* * * * *

Olof was gone; the young mistress of Inkala sat alone in her room.

Thinking it over now, it seemed like a dream. Was it indeed Olof she had seen? Or had she been dreaming in broad daylight?

It had seemed natural enough at first. Both were surprised, of course, at the unexpected meeting, but soon they had found themselves talking calmly enough.

But the entry of the child had brought a touch of something strange and unspeakable--it seemed to change them all at once to another footing, bringing up a reckoning out of the past.

True, she had wondered now and again if fate would ever bring her face to face with Olof again--if he would ever see the child. But she had put the thought aside as painful to dwell upon.

And now, here they were, those two; no stranger but would at once have taken them for father and son, though in truth there was no kinship between them.

It was as if she were suddenly called upon to answer for her life.

First it was her son that questioned her, standing in the doorway, looking at both with his innocent eyes.

And then--a triple reckoning--to Olof, to her husband, and to God.

Until that day, her secret had been known to none but God and herself. And now--he knew it, he, the one she had resolved should never know.

And the third stood there too, like one insistent question, waiting to know....

"Daisy....?"

She would have told him, frankly and openly, as she herself understood it. How she had longed for him and the thought of him, and never dreamed that she could ever love another! Until at last he came--her husband. How good and honest and generous he had been--willing to take her, a poor cottage girl, and make her mistress of the place. And how she herself had felt so weak, so bitterly in need of friendship and support, until at last she thought she really loved him.

No, she could not tell him that--it would have been wrong every way--as if she had a different explanation for each.

And to Olof she said only: "I loved him, it is true. But our first child--you saw yourself. It's past understanding. It must have been that I could not even then forget--that first winter. I can find no other way...."

Olof sat helplessly, as in face of an inexplicable riddle.

Then she went on, speaking now to God, while Olof was pondering still.

"You know ... you know it all! I thought I had freed myself from him, but it was not so. My heart was given to him, and love had marked it with his picture, so that life had no other form for me. And then, when I loved again, and our first-born lay beneath my heart.... All that was in my thoughts that, time ... and after, when the child was to be born ... the struggle in my mind ... how I did not always wish myself it should be otherwise--dearly as I have paid for it since...."

And at last, in a whisper, she spoke to her husband:

"It was terrible--terrible. For your sake, because you had been so good--you, the only one I love. It was as if I were faithless to you, and yet I know my heart was true. I would have borne the secret alone, that is why I have never spoken of it to you before. But now I must--and it hurts me that any should have known it before."

Olof was waiting--she could see it in his eyes.

"You know, I need not tell you how it has made me suffer," she said, turning towards him. "And when the second time came, and I was again to be a mother, I wept and prayed in secret--and my prayer was heard. It was a girl--and her father's very image. And after that I felt safe, and calm again...."

She marked how Olof sighed, how the icy look seemed to melt from his eyes.

And she herself felt an unspeakable tenderness, a longing to open her heart to him. Of all she had thought of in those years of loneliness--life and fate and love.... Had he too, perhaps, thought of such things? And what had he come to in the end? She herself felt now that when two human beings have once been brought together by fate, once opened their hearts fully to each other, it is hard indeed for either to break the tie--hardest of all for the woman. And _first_ love is so strong--because one has dreamed of it and waited for it so long, till like a burning glass it draws together all the rays of one's being, and burns its traces ineffaceably upon the soul....

But his tongue was tied, as if they had been altogether strangers during those past years; as if they had nothing, after all, to say to each other but this one thing. And it was of this he was thinking now--with thoughts heavy as sighs.

"Life is so--and what is done cannot be undone--there is no escape...."

Those were Olof's words--all that he found to say to her in return.

"Escape? No! All that has once happened sets its mark on us, and follows us like a shadow; it will overtake us some day wherever we may go--I have learned that at least, and learned it in a way that is not easy to forget."

"You--have you too...?" Again she felt that inexpressible tenderness, the impulse to draw nearer to him. How much they would have to say to each other--the thoughts and lessons of all those years! She knew it well enough for her own part, and from his voice, too, she knew it was the same. And yet, it could not be. They seemed so very near each other, but for all that wide apart; near in the things of the past, but sundered inevitably in the present. Their hearts must be closed to each other--it showed in their eyes, and nothing could alter that.

... What happened after she hardly knew. Had they talked, or only thought together? She remembered only how he had risen at last and grasped her hand.

"Forgive me," he said, with a strange tremor in his voice, as if the word held infinitely much in itself.

And she could only stammer confusedly in return: "Forgive...!"

She hardly knew what it was they had asked each other to forgive, only that it was something that had to come, and was good to say, ending and healing something out of the past, freeing them at last each from the other....

One thing she remembered, just as he was going. She had felt she must say it then--a sincere and earnest thought that had often been in her mind.

"Olof--I have heard about your wife. And I am so glad she is--as she is. It was just such a wife you needed ... it was not everyone could have filled her place...."

Had she said it aloud? She fancied so--or was it perhaps only her eyes that had spoken? It might be so. One thing was certain--he had understood it, every word--she had read so much in his eyes.

And then he had gone away--hurriedly, as one who has stayed too long.

THE PILGRIMAGE

Visitors coming!

Oho--indeed!

The cat is sitting on the threshold, licking her paws.

But Olof sits deep in thought, whittling at the handle of a spade. A stillness as in church--no sound but the rasp of the knife blade on the wood, and the slow ticking of a clock.

Olof works away. The wood he cuts is clean and white, his shirt is clean and white--Kyllikki had washed it. Kyllikki has gone out.

The cat is making careful toilet, as for a great occasion.

Visitors coming!

Already steps are heard outside.

The door creaks, the cat springs into the middle of the room in a fright; Olof looks up from his work.

Enters a young woman, elegantly dressed, her hair town-fashion up on her head, under a coquettish summer hat--a scornful smile plays about the corners of her mouth.

She stands hesitating a moment, as if uncertain what to say.

"Good-day," she says at last, with assumed familiarity, and taking a hasty step forward, offers her hand.

Olof scans her in silence from head to foot--surely he should know her?--and yet, who can she be...? He _will_ not recognise her.

"Aha! You look surprised! Don't know me--don't you? Your own darling!'" She laughs harshly, contemptuously.

"Or perhaps you have seen so many others since--rowans and berries and flowers--that you can't, remember one from another?"

Olof's hand trembles, and his face turns white as the sleeves of his shirt.

The woman laughs again boldly, and flings herself on the sofa in a careless pose.

"Well, here we are again--staring at each other--what? Didn't use to stare that way, did we? What do you say?"

Olof has fallen into a seat; he looks at her, but makes no answer.

"And your princess--is she at home, may I ask?"

"No!" Olof answers with an angry ring in his voice.

The woman marks it, and draws herself up, as if in answer to a challenge.

"Good! I've no business with her. But I've something to say to you. And maybe it's best for her she's away. She'd not be over pleased to see me, I fancy." The words shot like venom from her tongue--a sting from laughing lips.

Her callousness seems to freeze him--while his blood boils at the insult to Kyllikki. He is about to speak: "Say what you will, but not an evil word of her!"--when the woman goes on:

"Well, it's no good sitting here solemn as an owl! I just thought I'd look you up--it's a long time since we met, isn't it? Let's have a little talk together--talk of love, for instance. I've learned a deal about that myself since the old days."

Olof was all ice now--the bold, scornful look in her eyes, and her short, bitter laugh froze every kindlier feeling in him.

Then suddenly the scornful smile vanishes from her face.

"Curse you all!" she cries wildly. "Oh, I know what men are now!" She stamps her foot violently. "Beasts--beasts, every one of you--only that some wear horns and others not, and it makes but little difference after all....

"Ay, you may stare! You're one of them yourself--though maybe just so much above the ruck of them that I'm willing to waste words on you. Listen to me!" She springs to her feet and moves towards him. "I hate you and despise you every one. Oh, I could tear the eyes out of every man on this earth--and yours first of all!"

A wild hatred flames in her big brown eyes, her face is contorted with passion; she is more like a fury than a human being.

"And as for your love ..." she went on, flinging herself down on the sofa once more. "Ay, you can twitter about it all so prettily, can't you?--till you've tempted us so near that the beast in you can grab us with its claws! Love--who is it you love? Shall I tell you? 'Tis _yourselves_! You beasts! We're just pretty dolls, and sweet little pets to be played with, aren't we? Until you fall on us with your wolfish lust ... 'tis all you think or care for--just that!"

She spoke with such intensity of feeling that Olof never thought of saying a word in defence--he felt as if he were being lashed and beaten--violently, yet no worse than he deserved.

"Well, why don't you say something? Aren't you going to stand up for your sex? Why don't you turn me out, eh? Fool--like the rest of you! What is it you offer us, tell me that? Your bodies! And what else? Your bodies again--ugh! And sweet words enough as long as you want us; but as soon as you've had your fill--you turn over on the other side and only want to sleep in peace...."

She gave him one long scornful glance, and sat silent for a moment, as if waiting for him to speak.

"Well--what are you sitting there writhing about for like a sick cat? What's the matter now? Oh, you're married, aren't you?--living in the state of holy matrimony ... take a wife and cleave to her ... one flesh, and all the rest of it ... flesh! Ugh! Holy matrimony indeed! As if that could hide the filth and misery of it all! No! Beasts glaring over the fence at what you want--and when it pleases you to break it down, why not? And your wives--shall I tell you what they are to you--what they know they are? The same as we others, no more ... your...."

A dark flush rose to Olof's cheeks, and he broke in violently:

"You ... you...."

"Oh yes, I'm coarse and vulgar and all the rest of it, yes, I know. But what about you men? You're worse than all! Marriage--it's all very well for the children. And even that.... Wasn't it the men that wanted the State to take over all children, what? A pretty thought--leave your young behind you where you please--and the State to look after them. Make love free and beautiful. Oh yes. And we're to have all the pain and trouble--and the State to pay--noble and generous, aren't you? What other beast gave you that grand idea, I wonder? The dogs that run in the streets...?"

Olof sat motionless, watching her passionate outburst as if fascinated. And beneath the ghastly mask he seemed to see the face of a young, innocent girl, with childish, trusting eyes, and....

"No, it's no good your trying that," the woman broke in. "I know what you're thinking of now. You hate me, loathe me, as I am now. And you're asking yourself if it really can be the same little bit of a child that used to sit on your knee and look up to you as if you were God Himself! No--I'm not--there's nothing left but bitterness. Can't you understand? Oh, we're coarse and sour and harsh and all the rest--all that you've made us. But I'll tell you what we are besides--ourselves, _ourselves_, for all that!"

She rose up from the sofa, and crossing the room, sat down on a chair close to where Olof was seated. Then, lowering her voice a little, she went on, as if striving with words and look to penetrate his soul:

"We are women--do you know what that means? And we long for love--all of us, good or bad--or, no, there is neither good nor bad among us, we are alike. We long for you, and for love. But how? Ah, you should know! Answer me, as you would to God Himself: _of all the women you have known, has any one of them ever craved your body_? Answer, and speak the truth!"

"No--no ... it is true!" stammered Olof confusedly.

"Good that you can be honest at least. And that is just what makes the gulf between us. For you, the body is all and everything, but not for us. We _can_ feel the same desire, perhaps--after you have taught us. But the thing we long for in our innermost heart--you never give us. You give us moments of intoxication, no more. And we are foolish enough to trust you. We are cheated of our due, but we hope on; we come to you and beg and pray for it, until at last we realise that you _can_ give us nothing but what in itself, by itself, only fills us with loathing...."

Olof breathed hard, as in a moment's respite at the stake, with the lash still threatening above his head.

"Yes, that is your way. You take us--but why will you never take us wholly? You give us money, or fine clothes, a wedding ring even--but never yourselves, never the thing we longed for in you from the first. You look on love as a pastime only; for us, it is life itself. But you never understand, only wash your hands of it all, and go your own ways self-satisfied as ever."

Olof was ashy pale and his eyelids quivered nervously.

The woman's face had lost its scornful look, the hardness of her features had relaxed. She was silent a moment, and when she spoke again, seemed altogether changed. She spoke softly and gently, with a tremor in her voice.

"Even you, Olof, even you do not understand. I know what you are thinking now. You ask, what right have I to reproach you, seeing that I was never yours as--as the others were? It is true, but for all that you were more closely bound to me, with a deeper tie, than with the others. What do I care for them? They do not matter--it is nothing to me if they ever existed or not. But you and I--we were united, though perhaps you cannot understand.... Olof! When I sat close to you, in your arms, I felt that my blood belonged to you, and that feeling I have never altogether lost. It is you I have been seeking through all these years--you, and something to still the longing you set to grow in my soul. Men fondled me with coarse hands, and had their will of me--and I thought of _your_ caresses; it was with you, with you I sinned!"

The sweat stood out in beads on Olof's brow--the torture was almost more than he could bear. "I know, I know!" he would have said. "Say no more--I know it all!" But he could not frame a single word.

She moved nearer, watching him closely.

And slipping to the floor beside him, she clasped his knees.

"Olof--don't look like that!" she cried. "Don't you see, it is not you alone I mean. Tear out your eyes--no, no, I didn't mean it, Olof! Oh, I am mad--we are all mad, we have sinned.... Do not hate me, do not send me away. I am worthless now, I know, but it was you I loved, Olof, you and no other."

Olof writhed in horror, as if all his past had come upon him suddenly like a monster, a serpent that was crushing him in its toils.

"No, let me stay a little yet, do not send me away. Only a moment, Olof, and I will go. No, I will not reproach you--you did not know me then. And I knew nothing--how should we have known?"

She was silent for a moment, watching his face. Then she went on:

"Tell me one thing--those others--have any of them come to you--since? Ah, I can see it in your eyes. None who have known you could ever forget. If only you had been like all the rest--we do not long for them when they are gone. But you were--you. And a woman must ever come back to the man that won her _heart_. We may think we hate him, but it is not true. And when life has had its way with us, and left us crushed and soiled--then we come back to him, as--how shall I say it?--as to holy church--no, as pilgrims, penitents, to a shrine ... come back to look for a moment on all that was pure and good ... to weep over all that died so soon...."

Her voice broke. She thrust aside the piece of wood he had been holding all the time, and sent it clattering to the floor; then grasping his hands, she pressed them to her eyes, and hid her head in his lap.

Olof felt the room darkening round him. He sat leaning forward, with his chin on his breast; heavy tears dropped from his eyes like the dripping of thawed snow from the eaves in spring.

For a long while they sat thus. At last the woman raised her head, and looked with tear-stained eyes into his.

"Olof, do not be harsh with me. I had to come--had to ease my heart of all that has weighed it down these years past. I have suffered so. And when I see you now, I understand you must have your own sorrows to bear. Forgive me all the cruel things I said. I had to say it all, that too, or I could not have told you anything; I wanted to cry the moment I saw you. Your wife--did I say anything? Oh, I do not hate her, you must not think I hate her. I can't remember what I said. But I am happier now, easier now that I have seen you."

Her glance strayed from his face, and wandered vaguely into distance, as if she had been sitting alone in the twilight, dreaming.

"Olof," she said after a while, turning to him with a new light in her eyes, "do you know, a pilgrimage brings healing. It is always so in books--the pilgrims are filled with hope, and go back with rejoicing to their home.... Home...!" She started, as if wakening at the word.

"Should I go home, I wonder? What do you say, Olof? Father and mother--they would be waiting for me. I know they would gladly take me back again, in spite of all. Do you know, Olof, I have not been home for two years now. I have been.... Oh no, I cannot, bear to think.... Yes, I will go home. Only let me sit here just a little while, and look into your eyes--as we used to do. I will be stronger after that."

And she sat looking at him. But Olof stared blankly before him, as at some train of shadowy visions passing before his eyes.

"You have changed, Olof, since I saw you last," murmured the woman at his feet. "Have you suffered?..."

Olof did not answer. He pressed his lips together, and great tears gathered anew in his eyes.

"Oh, life is cruel!" she broke out suddenly, and hid her face in his lap once more.

For a moment she lay thus; deep, heavy silence seemed to fill the room. At last she looked up.

"I am going now," she said. "But, Olof, are we...?" She looked at him, hoping he would understand.

He took both her hands in his. "Are you going--home?" he asked earnestly.

"Yes, yes. But tell me--are we...?"

"Yes, yes." He uttered the words in a sigh, as if to himself. Then, pressing her hand, he rose to his feet.

Staggering like a drunken man, he followed her to the door, and stood looking out after her as she went. Then the night mist seemed to rise all about him, swallowing up everything in its clammy gloom.

THE RECKONING

He sits deep in thought. Not a sound in the room.

Then a knocking....

The man starts, rises to his feet, and stares about him with wide eyes, as if unable to recognise his surroundings. He glances towards the door, and a shudder of fear comes over him--are they coming to torture him again?

Furiously he rushes to the door and flings it wide. "Come in, then!" he cries. "Come in--as many as you please! Rags or finery, sane or mad, in--in! I've hung my head long enough! Bid them begone--and they come again--well, come in and have done. Bring out your reckoning, every one. Here's what's left of me--come and take your share!"

But he calls to the empty air. And his courage fails as he looks into the blank before him--as a warrior seeking vainly for enemies in ambush. Slowly he closes the door, and goes back again.

A knocking....

"Ghosts, eh? Invisible things? Come in, then--I'm ready."

And he faces about once more.

Again the knocking--and now he perceives a little bird seated outside on the window-sill, peeping into the room.

"You, is it? Away--off to the woods with you! This is no place for innocent things. Or what did you think to find? Greedy, evil eyes, and groans, and hearts dripping blood. To the woods, and stay there, out of reach of all this misery!"

But the bird lifts its head, and looks into his eyes.

"Do you hear? Away, go away!"

He taps at the window-pane himself. The bird flies off.

* * * * *

Once more cold fear comes over him; his pulses halt in dread.

"Not yet--not yet--no! One by one, to tear me slowly to pieces. Shadows of vengeance, retribution, following everywhere; burning eyes glaring at me from behind, fear that makes me tremble at every sound, and start in dread at every stranger's face. And if I forget for a moment, and think myself free, one of them comes again ... ghosts, ghosts...."

He sat down heavily.

"Why do they follow me still? Is it not enough that I have lived like a hunted beast so long? Because I loved you once? And what did we swear to each other then--have you forgotten? Never to think of each other but with thankfulness for what each had given! We were rich, and poured out gold with open hands--why do you come as beggars now? And talk of poverty--as if I were not poorer than any of you all! Or do you come to mourn, to weep with me over all that we have lost?

"But still you come and ask, and ask, as if I were your debtor, and would not pay. Mad thought! I was your poet, and made you songs of love. Life was a poem, and love red flowers between. What use to tell me now that the poem was a promise, the red flowers figures on a score that I must pay? Go, and leave me in peace! I cannot pay! You know--you know I have pawned all I had long since--all, to the last wrack!"

His own thought filled him with new horror; drops of sweat stood out on his forehead.

"And you, that have suffered most of all--what had I left for you? You, a princess among the rest, the only one that never looked up to me humbly, but stepped bravely to meet me as an equal. Yours was the hardest lot of all--for I gave you the dregs of my life, rags that a beggar would despise...."

Suddenly he felt an inward shock; his heart seemed to check for a moment, then went on beating violently; the blood rushed to his head. Again the check, followed by the same racing heart-beat as before....

Instinctively he grasped his wrist to feel his pulse. A few quick beats, a pause, then on again--what is it?

The fear of death was on him now, and he sprang up as if thinking of flight. Gradually the fit passes off; he stands waiting, but it does not return, only a strange feeling of helplessness remains--helplessness and physical fear. He sits down again.

"Was that you, Life, that struck so heavy a blow? Have you come for your reckoning, too? Like an innkeeper, noting this and that upon the score, and calling for payment at last? I should know you by now--I have seen a glimpse of your face before....

"'Tis a heavy book you bring. Well, what shall we take first? That? Yes, of course--it was always the heaviest item with us. My father ... what was it mother told of him? And his father before him....

"Look back, you say? Back along the tracks I made long ago? Good--I look; you go about your business in the proper way, I see. If you had come with sermons, and talk of sin and heaven and hell, I'd leave you to preach alone--none of that for me. I know ... that love is in our flesh and blood, drawing us like a magnet--in our day, none draws back a single step of his way for the fear of sin and hell--there is always time to repent and be forgiven later on! But your book shows our acts on this side, and what comes of them on that--and we stand with bowed heads, seeing how all is written in our own blood."

He stared before him, as if at something tangible and real.

"Yes, there's the book, and there is my account. All these strokes and lines--what's that? Something I can't make out. Here's my road, there are my doings--that I understand. And here are all that I've had dealings with. But this mess of broken lines ... this way and that...? Ah, consequences! Is that it? Well, well.... All these run together at one point--that's clear enough--myself, of course. But these others running out all ways, endlessly.... What's that you say? More consequences, but to others!

"No, no! Not all that! Something of the sort I was prepared for--but all that? Is it always so in your book--is everything set down?"

"All that leaves any trace behind--all acts that make for any consequence!"

"All? But man is a free agent--this does not look like freedom."

"Free to act, yes, but every act knits the fine threads of consequence--that can decide the fate of a life!"

"No--no! Close the book--I have seen enough! Who cares to think of a book with lines and threads of consequence, when fate is kind, and all seems easy going? I laughed at those who wasted their youth in prayer and fasting. And I laughed at the laws of life, for I could take Love, and enjoy it without fear of any tie--I was proud to feel myself free, to know that none had any claim on me--no child could call me father. But now, after many years, come those who speak of ties I never dreamed of. Here was a mother showing me a child--I had never touched her that way, yet you come and tell me there are laws I know nothing of. And when I beg and pray of you to grant me a child for myself and for her to whom it is life and death, you turn your back, and cry scornfully: 'Laugh, and take Love, and enjoy--you have had your will!'"

Again the terrifying sense of physical distress--of something amiss with heart and pulse. He sat waiting for a new shock, wondering if, perhaps, it would be the last ... the end....

The door opened.

"Olof! Here I am at last--am I very late?... Why, what is the matter?... Olof...!"

Kyllikki hurried over to him. With an effort he pulled himself together, and answered calmly, with a smile:

"Don't get so excited--you frightened me! It's nothing ... nothing.... I felt a little giddy for the moment, that was all. I've had it before --it's nothing to worry about. Pass off in a minute...."

She looked at him searchingly. "Olof...?"

"Honestly, it is nothing."

"It must be something to make you look like that. Olof, what is it? I have noticed it before--though you always tried to pass it off...."

"Well, and if it is," he answered impatiently, "it need not worry you."

"Olof, can you say that of anything between us two?"

He was silent for a moment. "Why not," he said at last, "if it is something that could only add needlessly to the other's burden?"

"Then more than ever," answered Kyllikki warmly.

She hurried into the next room and returned with a coverlet.

"You are tired out, Olof--lie down and rest." With tender firmness she forced him to lie down, and spread it over him.

"And now tell me all about it--it's no good trying to put it off with me. You know what I am." She sat down beside him and stroked his forehead tenderly.

Olof was silent for a moment. Then he decided. He would tell her all.

"Yes--I know you," he said softly, taking her hand in his.

* * * * *

It was growing dark when they sat up. Both were pale and shaken with emotion, but they looked at each other with a new light in their eyes, two human souls drawn closer together by hardship and sorrow.

"Stay where you are and rest a little, while I get the supper," said Kyllikki, as Olof would have risen. "And to-morrow--we can begin the new day," she added.

And, stooping down, she kissed him lightly on the brow.

WAITING

"THE EMPTY HOUSE, 6/9/1900."

"Your letter has just come--Kyllikki, you cannot think how I have been longing for it. I would have sent the girl to the station, only I knew you would not write till it was post day here.

"And you are well--that is the main thing; the only thing I care about these days. 'Strong enough to move mountains'--I can't say the same about myself. I have been having a miserable time. I am sorry I let you go--or, rather, that I sent you. I thought I should feel less anxious about you if you were there, but far from it. Why couldn't we have let it take place here? I am only now beginning to understand how completely we have grown together--I feel altogether helpless without you. If only it would come--and have it over, and you could be home again--you and the boy!

"And then I have something to tell you that I would rather not touch on at all, but we must have no secrets from each other now, not even a thought! It is the old uneasiness--it has been coming over me ever since you went away--as if I could not find rest when you are not near. I cannot get away from a feeling that all is not over yet--that things are only waiting for a favourable moment to break loose again. Try to understand me. You know how I suffered those two years when we prayed in vain for that which is granted to the poorest. And you know how I was almost beyond myself with joy when at last our prayers were heard. But now, when it is only a matter of days before it comes in reality--now, I am all overcome with dread. It will go off all right, the thing itself, I know--you are strong and healthy enough. But there is an avenging God, an invisible hand, that writes its _mene tekel_ at the very hour when joy is at its height. Think, if the one we are waiting for--it is horrible to think of!--if it should be wrong somehow, in body or soul--what could I do then? Nothing, only bow my head and acknowledge that the arm of fate had reached me at last. You cannot think what a dreadful time I had all alone here last evening. I cried and prayed that vengeance might not fall on you and him--the innocent--but on me alone--if all I have suffered up to now is not enough. And then a woodpecker came and sat outside under the window, with its eerie tapping. And a little after came a magpie croaking on the roof, like a chuckling fiend. It made me shudder all over. I dare say you will laugh at my weakness. But it might be one of those mysterious threads of fate. I have seen the like before--and you know how ill and nervous I was ... at the time.... Now I have read your letter I feel calmer, but I know I shall not get over it altogether till I have seen him with my own eyes. Forgive me for writing about this, but I had to tell you. And I know it will not hurt you.

"But then I have been happy as well. I have been getting everything ready in your room--yours and his! You will see it all when you come, but I must tell you a little about it now. I have put down cork matting all over the floor, to keep out the draught. But when I had done it, I had a sort of guilty feeling. Only a bit of matting--nothing much, after all--but it came into my mind that many children have to run about on bare floors where the cold can nip their feet through the cracks. And I felt almost as if I ought to pull it all up again. But, after all, it was for _him_--and what could be too good for him! I would lay it double in his room!

"I have some good news for you. The Perakorpi road is already begun. And then some bad news--the drainage business looks like being given up altogether--just when everything was ready, and we were going to start. Just quarrelling and jealousy among the people round--real peasant obstinacy, and of course with Tapola Antti at the head. A miserable lot! I should like to knock some of them down. I have fought as hard as I could for it, thundering like Moses at Sinai, and sacrificing the golden calf. The thing must go through at any cost. If they will not back me up, then I will start the work alone. And there are not many of them, anyway--we are to have a meeting again to-morrow.

"And then, when you come home, I can set to work in earnest. If only _he_ may turn out as I hope--then perhaps one day we might work on it together. I wish I had wings--then I should not need to sit sweating over this wretched paper!

"Keep well and strong, and may all good angels watch over you both!--Your impatient....

"Write soon--at once!"

"8 _September_ 1900.

"DEAR,--Your letter was like a beating of your own heart. Yourself in every word--and it showed me a side of your nature that I care for more than I can tell.

"You are anxious--but there is nothing to be anxious about. How could there ever be anything wrong with _our_ child--in body or soul? Of course we must expect more troubles yet--but that has nothing to do with the child! I know you were in low spirits then, but body and soul were sound enough. And I feel so well and strong and happy now myself that it _must_ be passed on to him--even if he were a stone! And then I am all overflowing with love for you and confidence in the future. And I shall feed him with it too, and then he will be the same. All that about the magpie and the woodpecker--you read it wrongly, that is all. The magpie simply came to give you my love--poor thing, she can't help having an ugly voice! And then the woodpecker--don't you see, it was just pecking out the worms from the timber--there must be no worm-eaten timber in _his_ home! That's what it meant.

"But I am glad you wrote about it all the same. For it showed me that he will be as we hope. Now I understand how terribly you must have suffered these last years. You'd never make a criminal, Olof; even I, a woman, could commit a crime with colder courage. Oh, but I love you for it! And you don't know how glad I am to think my child's father is like that. A wakeful, tender conscience--that is the best thing you can give him, though you give him so much.

"I know it will be a boy--and I can feel in my blood that he will be just the son to work with his father as you said.

"And then about his room--you take my breath away! I can see you are making preparations as if for a queen and an heir to the throne. I ought to tell you to undo it all again; but who could ever tell anyone to undo what was done in love--for it was for love you did it, not for show.

"So you are already fighting for your draining project; it is just as well, it will be worth the more. Anyhow, I know you will win. Fight as hard as you like, fight for me and for him. It is only a pity he can't set to work at once and help you.

"We too are longing to be home again. And perhaps it will not be so long now. But if it has to be, I can be patient as long as I must. We are better than ever now. Do you know, I am so happy these days I have taken to singing, just as I used to do when I was a girl. What do you say to that? Suppose he were to have a voice, and sing in the choir, and leave you to work at your drainage all by yourself!

"My love, my love, I kiss you right in your heart. The warmest love from us both--I know you will be writing to us soon.

"KYLLIKKI (waiting to be a mother)."

"His BIRTHPLACE, _10th Sept., 11 a.m._

"FATHER!--Yes, that is what you are now. I can see your eyes light up. And a son, of course. At six o'clock this morning. All well, both going on finely; _he_ is simply a picture of health, big and strong and full of life. And such a voice! If you want a man to shout out orders to the workmen.... I haven't looked at him properly yet. He is lying here just beside me; I can see his hand sticking out between the clothes. A fine little hand, not just fat and soft and flabby, but big and strong--his father's hand. The very hand to drain a marsh, you wait and see. And his soul--ah, you should see his eyes! His father's eyes. Now they won't let me write any more. I will tell you more next time. I have sent him a kiss with my eyes, from you--and there is a kiss for you in my thoughts.

"KYLLIKKI (the happy mother)."

THE HOMECOMING

The autumn sun was setting; it smiled upon the meadows, gleamed in the window-panes, and threw a kindly glow upon the distant forest. The air was cool.

Olof was in a strange mood to-day. He walked with light, springy step, and could not keep still for a moment; he was uneasy, and yet glad. He had sent a man to the station with a horse, and the little servant-maid had been dispatched on an errand to a distant village--he wished to be alone.

He stepped hastily into the bedroom, gave a searching glance round, looked at the thermometer on the wall, and laughed.

"Aha--beginning to look all right now."

Then he went back to the sitting-room. The coffee-pot was simmering its quiet, cheerful song on the fire; close by lay a goodly heap of white pine logs.

He lifted the pot from the fire, poured out a little of the coffee in a cup, and poured it back again. Then, thrusting his hands into his pockets, he walked up and down, smiling and whistling to himself.

"Wonder what she will think, when I don't come to the station to meet her there? But she'll understand... yes...."

He went back to the fire, poured out another half-cup of coffee, and tasted it.