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The Song of the Blood-Red Flower

by Johannes Linnankoski · English · Gutenberg #12935 · 370,042 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Song of the Blood-Red Flower

Author: Johannes Linnankoski


        
Release date: July 18, 2004 [eBook #12935]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12935

Credits: Produced by Riikka Talonpoika, Cathy Smith and PG Distributed Proofreaders


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SONG OF THE BLOOD-RED FLOWER ***

THE SONG OF THE BLOOD-RED FLOWER

by

Johannes Linnankoski




_From the Finnish. Original Title: "Laulu Tulipunaisesta Kukasta_"
First Published in 1920.




CONTENTS


THE FAIRY OF THE FOREST

GAZELLE

A MOTHER'S EYES

FATHER AND SON

PANSY

AT SUNRISE

ROWAN

THE FIRST SNOWFALL

DAISY

THE RAPIDS

THE SONG OF THE BLOOD-RED FLOWER

WATER-SPRITE AND WATER-WITCH

THE CAMP-FIRE AT NEITOKALLIO

HAWTHORN

SISTER MAYA

CLEMATIS

DARK FURROWS

TO THE DREGS

BY THE ROADSIDE

THE CUPBOARD

THE HOUSE BUILDING

WAYS THAT MEET

MOISIO

THE BROKEN STRING

THE BRIDAL CHAMBER

THE SOMNAMBULIST

OUT OF THE PAST

THE MARK

THE PILGRIMAGE

THE RECKONING

WAITING

THE HOMECOMING




THE FAIRY OF THE FOREST


The setting sun shone on the wooded slopes of the hill. He clasped the
nearest trees in a burning embrace, offered his hand to those farther
off, and gave to them all a sparkling smile.

There was joy on the hillside.

The summer wind told fairy tales from the south. Told of the trees
there, how tall they are, how dense the forests, and the earth, how it
steams in the heat. How the people are dark as shadows, and their eyes
flashing with light. And all the trees in the wood strained their ears
to listen.

The cuckoo perched in the red-blossomed pine, near the reddest cluster
of all. "It may be as lovely as lovely can be," cuckooed he, "but
nowhere does the heart throb with delight as in Finland forests in
spring, and nowhere is such music in the air."

All the hillside nodded approvingly.

In a little glade half-way down the slope some newly-felled firs lay
tumbled this way and that--their red-blossomed tops were trembling
still.

On one of the stems a youth was seated.

He was tall and slender, as the trees he had just felled. His hat
swung on a twig, coat and waistcoat were hung on a withered branch.
His strong brown chest showed behind the white of the open shirt; the
upturned sleeves bared his powerful, sunburnt arms. He sat leaning
forward, looking at his right arm, bending and stretching it, watching
the muscles swell and the sinews tighten under the skin.

The young man laughed.

He caught up his axe, held it straight out at arm's length, and
flourished it gaily.

"Twenty-five down already, and the axe as light as ever!"

The cuckoo called. The young man looked toward the top of the hill.
"A wonderful spring," he thought. "Never have the trees flowered so
blood-red and bright, nor the brook sung so merrily, nor the cuckoo
called so near. 'T would be no surprise to see the wood-sprite herself
come out from the trees."

He rested his head in his hands.

"Some say they never come nowadays, but Grandfather, he's seen them
himself. They're grown shy, now that the woods are being cleared."

  "Come, strawberry blossom,
      Come, raspberry blossom,
   Come, little cows,
      It is late."

The sound came from the other side of the hill, like a tinkle of
silver bells on a lonely winter road.

The young man's heart beat faster. He started up, and turned towards
the sound, holding his breath to listen. But he heard nothing more,
save the heavy throbbing in his breast.

He took a few steps forward and stopped. "Will she come this way,
or...."

  "Come, summer star,
   Come, little cows,
          Hurry home."

It seemed quite close now, just beyond the ridge.

"Coming--she is coming this way!" He hurried on again, but, startled
at his own impatience, stopped once more, stepped back, and stood with
his eyes fixed on the crest of the hill.

Something golden shone through the trees, something that fluttered in
the wind. Below the gold a white blouse, a slender waist, and then a
blue skirt.

"The fairy of the forest!"

The girl was standing on the hilltop. She shaded her eyes, and began
walking toward the farther slope. What now? He was on the point of
racing after her, then jumped on to a tree stem, and put his hands
to his mouth as if to shout. Suddenly he dropped his hands and stood
irresolute. Then he jumped down, picked up his axe, mounted the stem
again, and looked at the girl intently.

"Wait till she gets to the big fir yonder; then if she doesn't look
round, I'll give one blow of the axe and see if she'll hear."

The girl walked on--the axe was raised....

  "Come, summer star...."

She turned round, and caught sight of him, started, and stopped,
blushing as she stood.

"Olof!"

"Annikki!"

He sprang down and hastened toward the girl.

She too came nearer.

"You here? And never said a word! How you frightened me!"

"I was just going to call when you turned round."

They shook hands, heartily, as comrades.

"Look!" he cried eagerly; "isn't it just like a palace all round--the
castle of Tapio, and I'm the lord of the castle, and you're the forest
fairy, come to visit me. And your clothes smell of the pine woods,
and there's a scent of birch in your hair, and you come playing on a
shepherd's pipe, music sweet as honey...."

The girl looked up in astonishment. "What--what makes you talk like
that?"

He stopped in some perplexity. "'Tis the forest talks so. But now you
must come in--right in to the palace."

They went through to the middle of the clearing.

"And have you felled all those, all by yourself?" She cast a warm
glance at his sunburnt neck and powerful shoulders. "How strong you
are!"

The boy stepped on more briskly.

"There! Now we're in the palace. And here's the seat of honour--isn't
it fine? And here's a bench at the side--but a guest must always have
the seat of honour."

"And what about the master of the house?" asked the girl, with a
laugh.

"He'll sit on the bench, of course."

They smiled at each other.

"And see, it's decked out all ready, with sprays of green and red fir
blossoms."

"Yes, indeed--a real palace. It's two years now since we had a talk
together, and now to meet in a palace...!"

"We've not seen much of each other, it's true," said he, with a ring
of remembrance in his voice. "And we used to be together whole summers
in the old days. Do you remember how you were mistress of the house,
with twenty-five milch cows in the shed, and as many sheep as Jacob at
the end of his last year's service?"

"Yes, yes, I remember." Her blue eyes sparkled, and the two young
people's laughter echoed over the hillside.

The forest woke from his dreams, and stopped to listen to the tale of
the children at play.

"And how we played snowballs on the way home from school? And your
hair was all full of snow, and I took it down--do you remember?--and
did it up again in the middle of the road."

"Yes, and did it all wrong; and the others laughed."

The trees winked at one another as if they had never beard such talk
before.

"And the confirmation classes after!" said the girl warmly. "Oh, I
shall never forget that time--the lovely summer days, and the shady
birches near the church...."

The trees nodded. The house with a cross on top--all they had heard of
it was the bell that rang there, and the big firs had wondered what
it was. Now here were human beings themselves telling what went on
inside.

"And you've grown up to a great big girl since then! It seems so
strange--as if you were the same and not the same."

"And you!" The gentle warmth of a woodland summer played in the girl's
blue eyes. "A tall, big woodcutter you've grown."

They were silent for a while.

The trees listened breathlessly.

A warm flood rose in the young man's breast--like a summer wave
washing the sands of an untrodden shore.

The girl's kerchief had fallen from her head. He picked it up and gave
it to her. Through the thin stuff their fingers touched; the youth
felt a thrill in every limb. Suddenly he grasped her hands, his eyes
gazing ardently into hers.

"Annikki!" he whispered. He could find no words for the tumult in his
veins. "Annikki!" he gasped again, entreatingly.

A faint flush had risen to her cheeks, but her glance met his calmly
and frankly. She pressed his hand in answer.

"More than anyone else in all the world?" he asked passionately.

She pressed his hand again, more warmly still.

He was filled with joy, yet somehow uneasy and confused. He wanted to
say something--warm, fervent words. Or do something--throw himself at
her feet and clasp her knees--anything. But he dared not.

Then his eyes fell on one of the treetops close by He slipped one hand
free, and broke off a cluster of blood-red flowers.

"Take them--will you? In memory of how you came to the castle--to
Tapiosborg."

"Olofsborg," she laughed.

The word broke the spell. They looked at each other, and again their
laughter rang through the woods.

He drew closer to her side, and tried to fasten the red flowers at her
breast. But as he bent down, his hair touched hers. He felt it first
as a soft, secret caress, hardly daring to believe it, then it was
like a burning current through his body, that stayed tingling like
fire in his veins. His breath seemed to choke him, his heart felt as
if it would burst. Passionately he threw his arms about her and held
her close.

The girl blushed. She made no resistance, but hid her troubled face
against his shoulder.

He pressed her closer. Through her thin blouse he could feel her
blood burning against his breast. He felt his senses going, a painful
weakness seemed to stifle him, as if only a violent movement could
give him breath. Feverishly he clenched his left hand, that was round
her waist; with his right beneath her chin he raised her head.

"Annikki!" he whispered, his lips still nearer. "Only one...."

She drew away, shaking her head, and looked at him reproachfully.

"How can you ask? You know--you know it wouldn't be right."

"Then you don't care for me, as you said!" he cried passionately, as
if accusing her of faithlessness.

The girl burst into tears, her slight shoulders quivering. The cluster
of flowers fell to the ground.

"My flowers ..." she cried.

A flush of shame burned in the young man's cheek. As if stricken
powerless, his hands loosed their hold, and he set the girl down by
his side.

She was trembling still. He gazed at her helplessly, as one who has
done wrong without intent.

"Annikki!" he said imploringly. "Forgive me, Annikki. I don't know
what made me do it. If you only knew how sorry I am."

The girl looked up, smiling through her tears. "I know--I know you
would never try to hurt me."

"And you'll be just the same now--as if nothing had happened--will
you?"

He took her hand, and his eyes sought hers. And trustingly she gave
him both.

"May I put them there again?" he asked shyly, picking up the flowers
from the ground.

The girl laughed; the blossom laughed.

"And then I must go--mother is waiting."

"Must you?"

They rose to their feet, and he fastened the blossoms at her breast.

"How good you are!" he said, with a sense of unspeakable joy and
thankfulness.

"And you too.... Good-bye, Olof."

"Good-bye--fairy!"

He stood in the clearing, watching her as she went, till the last
glimpse of her had vanished between the trees.

She turned round once, and the red flowers in her white blouse burned
like the glow of the setting sun on a white cloud.

"I'll fell no more to-day," said the youth, and sat down on a fallen
tree, with his head in his hands.




GAZELLE

  "My love is like a strawberry sweet,
      Strawberry sweet, strawberry sweet.
   I'll dance with her when next we meet,
      Next we meet, next we meet!"


The song came as a welcome from the playing-fields of the village
as Olof climbed the hill; it lightened his step, forcing him to keep
time.

Even the trees around seemed waving to the tune; the girls' thin
summer dresses fluttered, and here and there gay ribbons in their
hair.

"Come in the ring, Olof, come in the ring!"

Some of the girls broke the chain, and offered their hands.

There was Sunday merriment in the air, and all were intoxicated
with spring. The stream flowed glittering through the fields, with a
shimmer of heat above. The dancers quickened their pace almost to a
run. The lads had pushed their hats back, the sweat stood in beads
on their foreheads; the girls smiled with bright eyes, dimpled cheeks
a-quiver, and heaving breast.

  "My love is like a cranberry fair,
      A cranberry fair, a cranberry fair.
   For none but me she'll ever care,
      She'll ever care, and ever care."

"Oh, it's too hot--let's try another game!" cried one.

"Let's play last man out--that gives you time to breathe."

"Yes--yes. Here's my partner!"

The chain broke up, and the new game began.

"And I'm last man--go on. We'll soon find another. Last man out!"

They raced away on either side, the last man between. It was the very
place for this game, a gentle slope every way. The last man had no
easy task, for the couples agreed, and tried hard to join again.

"Full speed, that's the way!" cried the lookers-on. And the last man
put on the pace, rushed towards the meeting-point like a whirlwind,
and reached it in time. The girl swung round and dashed off to the
left, but made too short a turn, and was caught.

The game went on, growing fast and furious. All were in high spirits,
ready to laugh at the slightest thing; every little unexpected turn
and twist was greeted with shouts of glee.

Olof was last man now. He stood ready in front of the row, glancing to
either side.

"Last pair off'!"

The last two were ill-matched; a big broad-shouldered ditcher, and a
little slender girl of barely seventeen.

The man lumbered off in a wide curve, the girl shot away like a
weasel, almost straight ahead, her red bodice like a streak of flame
and her short plait straight out ahead.

"That's it--that's the way!" cried the rest.

The girl ran straight ahead at first, Olof hardly gaining on her at
all. Then she tried a zigzag across the grass. Olof took short cuts,
increasing his pace, and was almost at her heels.

"Now, now!" cried the others behind.

The girl gave a swift glance round, saw her pursuer already stretching
out his hand, and broke away suddenly to one side.

Olof slipped, and went down full length on the grass.

The girl's eyes twinkled mischievously, and a shout of laughter came
from the rest.

Olof would have been furious, but he paid no heed to the laughter now,
having just at that moment noticed something else. The girl's glance
as she turned--heavens, what eyes! And he had never noticed her
before....

He sprang up like a rocket and continued the pursuit.

The broad-shouldered partner was making hopeless efforts from the
other side of the course. "Don't waste your breath!" cried the men.
"He's got her now."

The big fellow stopped, and waited calmly for the end.

But it was not over yet. Olof was gaining steadily on the girl; turn
which way she pleased, he would have her now.

She saw the danger, and turned to rush down the slope. But, in
turning, one of her shoes came loose, and was flung high in air.

A shout of delight went up from the playground in the rear.

The girl stopped, at a loss now what to do. Olof, too, forgot the
pursuit, and stood watching the shoe; then suddenly he sprang forward
and caught it in the air as it fell.

A fresh burst of applause came from the lookers-on. "Bravo, bravo,
that's the way!"

"Go on, go on! Never mind about the shoe!" cried some of the girls, to
urge her on.

She dashed off again, Olof after her with the shoe in his hand.

The chase was worth looking at now; no ordinary game this, but a
contest, with victory or defeat at stake. The spectators were wild
with excitement, taking sides for one or other of the two.

The girl shot this way and that, like a shuttle in a loom, her slender
body gracefully bent, her head thrown back defiantly. Her plait had
come loose, and the hair streamed out behind her like a tawny mane. A
glimpse of a red stocking showed now and again beneath her dress.

For Olof, too, it had ceased to be a game. She was no longer one of a
couple he had to part, but a creature fie must tame--a young wild foal
with sparkling eyes and golden mane.

They reached the edge of the course; only a few feet now between them.

At last! thought Olof, holding himself in readiness for her next turn
up the slope.

But again she turned off downward. And as she wheeled about, Olof
again was aware of something he had not marked before--the curve of
her hips, her lithe, supple waist, and the splendid poise of her head.
He was so close now that her hair touched his face--touched it, or
was it only the air as it flew past his cheek? And from her eyes shot
beams of light, challenging, beckoning, urging him on.

Gazelle! The word flashed into his mind--a picture from some book he
had once read. The eyes, the lightfoot swiftness--yes, a gazelle. He
shouted the word aloud, victoriously, as he raced after her like one
possessed.

She sprang aside, and darted up a little hill just beyond the course.

"Look, look!" cried the rest. It was like running down a hare.

A glimpse of a red stocking up on the crest of the mound, and the
hunted creature vanished on the farther side, the hunter after her.

The final heat was but short. The girl was wearying already, and had
made for the shelter of the hill on purpose to avoid being caught in
sight of the rest. Olof tore madly down the slope. The girl gave one
glance round, turned vaguely with an instinct of defence; next moment
she felt Olof's two hands grasping her waist.

"You--gazelle!" he shouted triumphantly. But the pace was too hot for
a sudden stop; they lost their balance, and came down together, breast
to breast and eye to eye, rolling over on the slope.

It was all like a dream to Olof--he hardly knew what had happened.
Only that the girl was lying there across his breast, with her
loosened hair streaming over his face. It was like a caress in payment
for his exertions, and it almost stifled him. Still holding her, he
looked into her flushed face, into her wonderful eyes--Gazelle! He
felt like sinking off to sleep, to dream it over again, the charm and
wonder of it all....

"Oh, but come! The others...."

They looked at each other in confusion, and loosed their hold, but
were still so agitated they could hardly rise. Olof handed her the
shoe.

"Quick--put it on, and we'll go back."

She put on her shoe, but stood still, as if unable to move.

Olof flushed angrily. He was vexed at his own confusion, and with the
girl as well.

"Come!" he said commandingly, and gave her his hand. "We must run."

Shouts of applause greeted them as they appeared hand in hand in sight
of the rest.

As they came up, Olof felt his senses in a whirl once more, and
clenched his teeth in an effort to appear unconcerned.

"Well run, well run!" cried the others.

"Ha ha, Olof, you got the shoe, and the owner, too--but it's made you
fine and red."

"Enough to make anyone red," gasped Olof shortly.

"Now, on again! Last man out...."

"No, no--don't spoil it now. We shan't get another run like that."

"Yes, that's enough for to-day." Olof's eyes shone, and he stole a
glance at the gazelle.

"But we must have a dance before we go," cried the girls.

"A dance, then."

  "What do they mean, the two little stars,
      That shine in the sky so clearly?
   That a boy and a girl, a youth and a maid,
      They love each other dearly."

"'Tis a pretty song," thought Olof, and pressed the girl's hand
unconsciously, and she did not loose her hold. Then someone led Olof
into the ring.

  "What do they mean, the four little stars,
      That shine so bright in the sky?
   That I give my hand to my own true love,
      And bid the rest good-bye."

"I've never given a thought to the words before," thought Olof again,
and offered his hand to Gazelle.

  "What do they mean, the bright little stars,
      That shine and sparkle above?
   That hope and longing are part of life,
      And the rest of life is love."

"All very well," said someone, with a laugh, "but we must be getting
home. Some of us have a long way to go."

"Don't break up the party. We'll all go together. One more round
first--the last."

  "Never shall I leave my love,
      Never shall we part.
   Rocks may fall, and trees may fall,
   And the dark sea come and cover all,
      But never shall we part."

"Well, we must part some time--you can cry if you like. Good-bye,
good-bye."

And they shook hands all round.

Olof turned toward the girls, where they stood in a group, but was
checked by a glance from two deep, honest blue eyes--the fairy of
the forest! Her glance was clear and serene as before, but there
was something in it that pierced him like a steel. He felt suddenly
guilty, and turned pale. He could not move, but stood there fixed by
the glance of those blue eyes.

He could not stand there like that. He raised his head to look at the
fairy girl, but his glance turned aside, and met another's eyes. These
two looked at him, questioning, wondering. And they sent forth such
a stream of clear and sparkling light that all else seemed to vanish,
and the blood rushed to his cheeks.

"Good-night." He raised his hat to the girls, and turned his back.

The party broke up, all going their several ways.

  "Never shall I leave my love,
      Never shall we part...."

Some of the young men had crossed the stream already, and were singing
as they went. Olof walked up the hill towards his home.

  "Never shall we part...."

--he took up the words half aloud, and his face was set in a strange
expression of resolution and eager, almost fierce, delight.




A MOTHER'S EYES


The warm, soft twilight of a spring night filled the room. And all was
still.

"Oh, I have waited for you so!" whispered the girl, flinging her arms
round her lover's neck. "I was so afraid you would not come--that
something might have happened...."

"And what could happen, and who could keep me from coming to you? But
I could not come before--I don't know what it was made mother stay up
so late to-night."

"Do you think she ..." began the girl. But a passionate kiss closed
her lips.

"If you only knew how I have been longing for you," said he. "All day
I've been waiting for the evening to come. I've thought of nothing
else since I first looked into your eyes--Gazelle!"

"Do you mean it, Olof?" She nestled closer to him as she spoke.

"And do you know what I was thinking as I walked behind the plough?
I wanted you to be a tiny flower, to put in my breast, so I could
see you all the time. Or a sweet apple I could keep in my pocket and
fondle secretly--talk to you and play with you and no one ever to
know."

"How prettily you talk, Olof!"

"If anyone had told me, I would never have believed love was like
this. It's all so strange. Do you know, I want to...."

"Yes? Tell me!"

"Crush you to death--like this!"

"Oh, if I could die like that--now, now...."

"No, no--but to crush you slowly, in a long, long kiss."

The twilight quivered in the room. And all was still.

A sound, a creaking noise as of a door in the next room opening.

Two heads were raised from the pillow, two hearts stopped beating.

Again--and more distinctly now--as if someone moved.

He sat up; the girl grasped his hand in fear.

They could hear it plainly now--footsteps, coming nearer. Heavily,
hesitatingly, as if not knowing whether to go on or turn back.

Olof was petrified. It was all unreal as a dream, and yet--he knew
that step--would know it among a thousand.

"I must go!" He pressed the girl's hand fiercely, and reached
hurriedly for his hat. He groped his way toward the door, found the
handle, but had not strength to open it.

He strove to pull himself together. He must go--for the sake of the
girl who lay trembling there in bed, and more for the sake of her who
stood in the room beyond. The door opened and closed again.

An old woman stood there waiting. Motionless as a statue, her wrinkled
features set, her eyes full of a pain and bitterness that crushed him
like a burden.

For a while neither moved. The woman's face seemed to fade away into
the gloom, but the look in her eyes was there still. A sudden tremor,
and Olof saw no more, but felt a warm flood welling from beneath his
eyelids.

Without a word she turned, and went down the steps. Olof followed her.

With bowed head, and arms hanging loosely at her side, she walked on.
The last brief hour seemed to have aged her beyond all knowing.

He felt a violent impulse to run forward and throw himself on his
knees in the dust before her. But he dared not, and his feet refused
their service.

They came to Kankaala.

The porch seemed glowering at them like a questioning eye as they came
up. Olof started, and the blood rushed to his head.

"Who comes here?" queried the porch. "'Tis the mistress of Koskela,
or should be. And who is it walks behind, hanging his head? Surely not
her son?"

"Ay, 'tis her son, never fear," said the broad window above, grinning
all the length of the wall. "The son of the house been seeing his
light-o'-love, and his mother brings him home!"

"H'm," said the porch. "'Twas not that mother's way to go seeking her
sons, nor ever need of it before."

Olof's head dropped again.

Heavily the old woman trudged up Seppala hill.

"Who's this out and abroad so late?" creaked the wooden pail in its
chain above the well. "Mother and son? And what's the mischief now?"

Olof felt the ground quaking beneath his feet.

They were nearly home now. Musti the house-dog came to meet them,
wagging his tail in friendly wise. But suddenly it checked, and
crouched anxiously in the grass.

"What's mistress all so sorrowful about? And where have you been so
late at night?"

Olof turned his head aside, and walked by as if fearing to tread.

They reached the steps.

"What's this, what's this?" buzzed the vane on its pole by the fence.
Olof had made it himself one day, as a boy. It said no more, only
muttered again, "What's this?"

The old woman mounted the steps. She said no word, nor ever looked
behind her, but Olof followed her step by step. His own room was
at the side of the house, by the kitchen, but he went on after her
without a thought of escape.

She passed through the front room into the next, crossed to the
window, and sank down in a chair. Olof followed close behind her, and
stood, hat in hand.

There was a long silence.

"I never thought to go on such an errand as this to-night," said
the woman heavily. She did not look at him; her eyes seemed fixed on
something far away.

The boy's knees trembled, he could hardly stand.

"Shame--ay, 'twas shame I felt for you when you were born, old as I
was, and never thinking to have more. Mayhap 'twas a sign you'd bring
but shame to me after and all...." The words fell heavy as lead, and
brought him to his knees.

"Mother!" He could say no more, but hid his face in her lap, and cried
like a child.

A great warmth rose in the mother's breast and throbbed in her veins.

"Mother, I promise--you shall never go that way again for me. And ...
and...."

He broke off.

The warmth rose to her eyes, seeking an outlet there.

"And...?" she asked gently. "What then, my son?"

The young man's brow was deeply lined, as he strove to speak. Then
resolutely he looked up and said, "I will marry her."

"_Marry her_?" An icy wave came over her, and she gasped for breath.

"Olof," she went on in a trembling voice, "look at me. Have you--has
anything happened already?" Breathlessly she waited for his answer.

"No," said the boy, and looked her frankly in the eyes. "But I love
her."

The mother's hands trembled, and she sighed. But for a long while she
said no word, only sat looking as before out into vague distance, as
if seeking what to say.

"Ay," she said at last, "'tis right to marry where you love, and no
other. But a servant-girl--there's none of our race ever married that
way before. And as for love--you're over young to know."

Olof flushed angrily, and he would have spoken, but the noble dignity
of his mother's glance checked the thought ere it was uttered.

"Go now," she said gently. "We will talk of this another time."




FATHER AND SON


The early meal was over, and the farm hands pressed out through the
door.

"You, Olof, stay behind," said the master of Koskela from his seat at
the head of the table. "I've a word to say to you."

Olof felt his cheeks tingling. He knew what his father had to say--he
had been waiting for this.

The three were alone now--his mother stood by the stove. "Sit down,"
said the father coldly, from his place.

Olof obeyed. For a while nothing was heard but the slow beat of the
clock on the wall.

"I know where your mother was last night. Are you not ashamed?"

Olof bowed his head.

"'Tis a sound thrashing you should have--and don't be too sure but
that you'll have it yet."

Olof did not venture to look up, but the voice told that his father
was working himself into a passion.

"What's to come of you, hey, d'you think? Getting the wenches with
child to begin with--and what next?"

"Father!" It was his mother's voice. Her face was anxious, as if in
dread of coming disaster.

A glance of cold anger was all her husband's answer. He turned to the
boy once more, and went on:

"What next, hey? Bring home the brats for us to feed, maybe? Is it
that's in your mind?"

A flush of indignation spread over the young man's face. Was this his
father, speaking to him thus? Or some brutal stranger that had taken
his place?

And all at once a rush of feeling took possession of him, something
new and fierce and strange, filling him altogether. He raised his
head, as if to speak, but said no word, only rose up, as if someone
had taken him by the hand, and walked towards the door.

"Where are you going--what?"

"I've my work to do."

"He! You--you...." The words were flung at him like a hand reaching
for his throat. "Not a step till you've answered me, d'you hear! Was
it _that_ was in your mind?"

The young man hesitated. But a little time since he had felt himself
bowed down with shame, ready to make any reparation; now, in a moment,
all seemed changed, he felt he must hit back, must strike one blow for
all that had been growing and seething within him in secret these last
few days. He turned swiftly, and answered proudly and resolutely, with
lifted head:

"No! But to marry her--that was in my mind."

The old man's features set in a scornful sneer at the word. But the
look on his son's face made him hesitate, uncertain how to proceed.

"Marry her?" He bent forward in his seat, as if doubting whether he
had heard aright.

"Yes!" came the answer, more firmly than before.

And having spoken, Olof felt he must avenge the insult to himself and
to the girl, must strike once more with the weapon he had seen could
bite so keenly and so deep.

"And marry her _I will_!" The words fell like the snap of a lock.

"Boy--you dare!" It was the roar of a wounded beast. Furiously the old
man sprang to the door, snatching up a stick as he rose, seized the
boy by the collar, and flung him to his knees on the floor, making the
beams shake. It was all done in a moment. "You dare!" he cried again,
raising his stick.

Then suddenly his arm dropped as if broken, and the old man was hurled
across the room as a ball is thrown, to fall with a crash against the
opposite wall.

It was as if a hurricane had burst upon him. A sense of horror came
upon him; he felt himself deposed, like a lord of the manor declared
bankrupt before his underlings. He had no power over the boy
now--either as a father or as the stronger man. And there by the door
stood the lad, with the lithe strength of youth in his body and a fire
of defiance in his eyes.

The clock on the wall beat through the silence, as if questioning
earnestly what this might mean. But no one answered.

"So--that's it, is it?" gasped the father at last. "Ay!" answered the
son, his voice trembling with emotion, but threatening still.

The old man flung his stick in a corner, stepped back, and sat down
heavily in his place.

"If you've a drop of my blood in your veins," he said at last, "you'll
need no telling what must be the end of this."

"I know it," was the answer. "I'm going, never fear."

The mother pressed her clasped hands tighter, took a step forward and
opened her lips as if to speak, but the look on the two men's
faces silenced her, and she fell back in the voiceless blank of
unaccomplished purpose.

Again the clock was heard.

"I'd thought to make something of you," said the old man in icy tones.
"But you'd no fancy for book-learning and gentlefolks' ways, though
you'd a good head enough. Rather stick to the land, you would, and
flung away the books after a year of them. But a man that looks to
work his land as it should be--he's books of his own, or what's the
same--and that you must fling away now the same gait, it seems--to
waste yourself in a common strumpet's bed!"

The young man drew himself up, and his eyes flashed fire.

"Leave it unsaid!" cried his father. "'Tis best so." Then rising from
his seat, he stood a moment as if in thought, and passed through the
open door to the next room, opened a cupboard there and took something
out.

"No son of mine goes out from this house a beggar," said he proudly,
and held out his hand.

"You can put the money back," said the boy, with no less pride.

"'Tis but poor provision for a journey, anyway, if a man can't manage
for himself," he added, turning away.

His father stood still, looking at him earnestly, as if trying to read
something.

"'Tis no harm to a man to manage for himself if he can," said he
slowly. He spoke in no angry tone, but with a stern approval.

The boy stood thinking for a moment.

"Good-bye, father."

His father did not answer, but stared fixedly before him, and his eyes
hardened.

His mother had seated herself on a bench beside the window, her face
turned away, looking out--and warm drops fell on the sill.

The young man moved towards her slowly, as if questioning. She turned
towards him, and their eyes met--then they passed out of the room
together.

The old man remained seated, a sharp pain at his breast. A flush of
anger rose to his cheeks, and his lips trembled, but he could not
speak, and sat still, staring at the floor.

In the next room, the mother turned anxiously to her son, and grasped
his hand. "Olof!"

"Mother!" The boy was trembling. And fearing to lose control of his
feelings, he went on hastily: "Mother, I know, I know. Don't say any
more."

But she took both his hands in hers, and looked earnestly into his
eyes.

"I must say it--I couldn't before. Olof--you are your father's son,
and 'tis not your way, either of you, to care much what you do--if
it's building or breaking." And with intense earnestness, as if
concentrating all her being in her eyes and voice, she went on:
"_Never deceive, Olof; stand by your promise and word to all--whatever
their station_."

The boy pressed her hands with emotion, almost in fear, unable to
speak a word.

"God keep you safe from harm, my son." The mother's voice broke.
"Don't forget this is your home. Come back when, when...."

The boy pressed her hands once more, and turned hastily away. He must
go now, if he would have the strength to go at all.




PANSY


The clouds raced over the night sky; the riverbanks gazed at the
flowing water, at the heavy timber floating slowly over its surface.
"Let it come!" cried the long stretch of wild rapids below.

Under the lee of a steep bank, just at the point where the eddy
begins, flickered a small camp-fire. The lumbermen sat round it--four
of them there were. The boom had just been drawn aside, the baulks
from above came floating down in clean rows, needing no helping hand,
and for the past two hours there had been no block in the river. The
lumbermen were having an easy time to-night.

  "The farmer he sleeps in a cosy cot,
      With a roof above his head;
   The lumberman lies out under the stars,
      With the dew to soften his bed.
   But we'd not change our life so free
      For all the farmer's gold,
   Let clodhoppers snore at their ease o'nights,
      But we be lumbermen bold!"

The river woke from its dreams.

The river-guard, seated on piles of baulks by the waterside, shifted a
little.

  "But we be lumbermen bold!"

cried the nearest. And the song was passed on from one point to
another, from shore to shore, all down the rapids, to the gangs below.

Then all was silent again, for midnight loves not song, though it does
demand a call from man to man through the dark. It loves better to
listen, while the river tells of the dread sea-monster that yearly
craves a human life, whether grown or child, but always a life a year.

All things solemn and still now. The moon sits quiet as if in church,
and jesting dies on the roughest lips. Many call to mind things seen
at such a time--a man drawn down by an invisible grasp, to rise no
more, a widow wringing her hands and wailing, fatherless children
crying and sobbing. Some there are who have seen the marks of the
water-spirits on a drowned man's body, or maybe seen the thing itself
rise up at midnight, furrowing the water with a gleam of light where
it moves. Whose turn next? None can say, but the danger is never far
off.

The little camp-fire flickered, the roar of the rapids grew fainter.
The moon sits listening to the legends of the river, and gazing down
into the water.

Suddenly a great shout is heard from below. The men start up.

"Lock in, lock in! Close the boom!" comes the cry.

A murmur of relief from the men. Wakened abruptly from the spell of
the hour, they had taken the hail at first for a cry of distress. They
race up, lifting their poles above their heads as a sign the fairway
is blocked, and the word of command, "Lock in, lock in!" is flung from
man to man along the bank.

"Lock in it is!" cries the man at the head, and runs from the
camp-fire down to the waterside. The rope is slipped, the end of the
boom hauled close up to the shore and made fast again.

"'Twill hold a bit," says one. "But like to be a long spell for us
all--for there's none'll care to get far out on the block to-night, if
it lasts. Let's go down and see."

The party made their way down the path by the edge of the bank.

As the last of the timber comes down, the guards by the rapids join
them, one after another. "Where'll it be?"

"Down below somewhere, must be. If only it's not the Whirlstone
again."

"Ay, if it's that.... 'Tis no light work to get loose there in the
daytime, let alone by night."

The Whirlstone Rock it was; the baulks had gathered about it in an
inextricable mass. The shores were dark with men gathered to watch.

"Ay, 'tis there, sure enough, and fast as nails," said the men coming
in to the shore, after a vain attempt at breaking loose the block.

The Whirlstone was a point of rock, rising barely a yard above the
surface of the water, at the lower end of the rapids, where the
river began to widen out and clear. It lay rather to the right of the
fairway, and the timber floated clear, for the most part, to the left
of it. But a long stem bringing up against it broadside on would be
checked, and others packing against it form a fan-shaped mass reaching
from bank to bank. And it was a dangerous business to try and break
it, for the point of contact was at the rock itself out in the river,
and there was no time to reach the bank once the timber started to
spread. The usual way was to get out a boat from below, and even then,
it was a race for life to get clear before the loosened mass came
roaring down.

The foreman swore aloud. "I'll have that cursed rock out of the
fairway next summer, if I have to splinter it. Well, there's nothing
for it now; get your coffee, lads, and wait till it's light."

"Let's have a look at it first," cried a young, brisk voice in the
crowd. "Maybe we could get it clear."

"There's no clearing that in the dark," said the foreman. "Try, if you
like."

The young man sprang out on to the nearest point of the block, and
leaped across actively, with lifted pole, to the middle. Reaching
there, he bent down to see how the jam was fixed.

"Hallo!" came a hail from the rock. "It's easy enough. There's just
one stick here holding it up--a cut of the axe'll clear it."

"Ho!" cried the men ashore. "And who's to cut it loose, out there in
the dark and all?"

"Get a rope and haul it clear!" shouted the foreman.

"No use--can't be done that way."

The young man came ashore. "Mind if I lose the axe?" he asked the
foreman.

"Lose a dozen and welcome, if you can get it clear. Better than losing
two hours' work for fifteen men."

"Right. Give me an axe, somebody."

"'Tis fooling with death," cried one in the crowd. "Don't let him go."

"How d'you reckon to get back?" asked the foreman.

"Upstream at first, and come down after, when it clears."

"'Tis a mad trick," muttered the men.

"I'm not telling him to go, but I won't forbid him," said the foreman,
with emphasis. "And if 'twas any other man I'd not let him try, but
when Olof says he'll do a thing it's safe enough to be done. Sure you
can do it, lad?"

"Sure as can be. Where's the axe?"

He took the axe, and his pole, and balanced his way across to the
rock, gliding like a shadow, up and down as the piled stems led.

"He's pluck enough," said one.

"He's mad to try it," murmured some of the others sullenly.

The shadow had reached the rock. He laid the pole down at his feet,
gave one glance upstream, and stood ready. The axe-head flashed in the
air, the echo of the stroke rang from the steep banks. A second blow,
and a third--and then dead silence for a moment.

The men on the shore stood bending forward, straining their eyes to
see.

The shadow by the rock stood up, grasping his pole, thrust the point
lightly into one of the tangled baulks, and pressed with his left hand
against the haft. The right hand went up once more, the axe flashed
and fell. A thud as the blade came down, and a faint rushing sound....

The men on the bank held their breath and leaned forward again.

The shadow turned once more and cast a long, searching glance up the
stream. The right arm swung high, the axe flashed again....

A shrill, seething roar, like that of a rocket, was heard. The mass of
timber crashed and groaned, the water thundered like a beast in fury.

The shadow darted like an arrow over the shifting logs, slanting
upstream and towards the shore. He was half across the fairway now,
the pole swung round, the lithe body made a lightning turn, and he was
borne downstream at a furious pace.

Suddenly he lost his footing, fell, and disappeared.

"Good God!" cried the men.

"What did I say?"

"I ought never to have let him go!"

The timber crashed and the water roared, the great logs rose and fell
and tumbled one over another. Dark shadows hurried aimlessly hither
and thither on the banks.

"Downstream, lads, down!" cried the foreman.

"Ready to give a hand if he's carried inshore. Out with the boat,
quick!"

Shadows hurrying downstream....

"He's up again!" came a sudden shout from the farther shore. All
stopped.

And true enough, the daring lumberman was up again, hopping like a
bird from one racing log to another as they thrust and elbowed their
way down the rapids, rising and falling as in a loom. Then he settled
to the practised lumberman's easy poise on a log, and steered his way,
with lifted pole and carefully balanced body, out of the rapids.

"Well done, well done!"

"Ay, that's the sort. More eyes in his feet than many another in his
head."

They crowded thickly round the lad as he stepped ashore.

"What happened? How did you get up again?"

"'Twas easy enough. Only the bark broke away under foot, the sticks
themselves held fast. I was up again in a second--and the last part
was worth it all," said the boy, with a laugh.

"'Twas finely done," said the foreman. "But I don't want to see it
done again. You've done enough for to-night--go off and get a rest,
and to-morrow too, if you like."

"Thanks," said the young man, looked at his watch with a sly chuckle,
and flung down his pole on the grass.

       *       *       *       *       *

Behind white curtains in a little room lay a young girl.

It was midnight, yet she had not slept. Something had happened that
evening which kept her awake.

Strange--it was like a story or a dream; she had never heard of such
a thing happening to any she knew. And now--she had only to shut her
eyes, and it was there all over again, to the very life.

She had seen it that way many times already, till it was grown to
something like a story. She had watched it happening, standing by, as
it were, a looker-on, watching what passed between the girl there and
one other.

She was standing in the front room--the girl, that is--pouring the
warm milk through a big strainer.

"They're giving more milk already," thinks the girl, and laughs.

Then suddenly the door opens, and a crowd of lumbermen come hurrying
through the room, going out to their night's work. The girl stands
with her back turned to them as they pass, answering over her shoulder
the jests of the men as they go.

But the one that was last of all--he did not go on with the rest,
but stayed, as if in wonder, looking at her. A tall, slender lad. His
jacket was unbuttoned, his cap a trifle on one side, and a mischievous
expression played about his sunburnt face.

But the girl sees nothing, thinking the men have gone. And she, the
looker-on, finds it strange that the girl should not see.... What is
going to happen now?

Then the young man smiles, and steals forward noiselessly--the
looker-on is all excitement now, and on the point of crying out to
warn her.

Two hands reach out from behind and close gently over the girl's eyes.

"Oh!" screams the girl. "Who is it? How dare you!" And with a scream
she turns and sees him standing there.

"Good evening," says the young man, laughing, and raising his cap. And
the looker-on notes how the girl only blushes, and makes no answer.

"Did I frighten you?" he goes on. "I meant no harm, I'm sure."

"'Tis no matter," says the girl. "I was only startled for a moment."

"And you're not angry now?"

"Nay; why should I be? For a jest?"

"That's right. I felt directly I saw you as if we were old
friends--only I couldn't remember your name, so I thought I'd just
stop and ask."

Oh, but 'tis a handsome lad--and such a smile, thinks the girl looking
on.

"Pansy, they call me," says the other girl shyly, "but...."

"Say no more," the young man breaks in. "Pansy, they call you--'tis
enough for me."

Surely then the name must be a good one, since he seems to like it so,
thinks the girl looking on.

"And you...?" asks the girl. "You're a stranger, I think."

"Stranger?" cries the young man, with a laugh that echoes through the
room. "Couldn't you feel it was a friend and no 'stranger' when
my hands closed over your eyes?" And he looks at her with such
irresistible friendliness as he speaks, that she cannot but smile--and
the girl looking on smiles too.

"Olof's my name--and no stranger, if you please."

After that he seemed to be thinking for a moment, then suddenly he
asks, "Are you fond of flowers, Pansy?"

"Yes, indeed. And I've two of my own--a fuchsia and a balsamine,"
answers the girl.

"Red flowers both! And do you keep them in your window?"

"Where else should they be?"

"And can you see them from outside?"

"Indeed you can, now they're in bloom."

"And where is your window, then?" says he, with a sly little gleam in
his eyes. "Tell me, so I can see them too when I pass."

The girl opens her lips to answer, but checks herself suddenly. "Nay,
I'll not tell!"

Oh, but how cunning of him, thinks the looker-on. Never was such a sly
one. Anyone else would just have asked straight out where she slept.
And then of course the girl would have been offended at once. But this
young man--he says never a word of anything but flowers.

"In the parlour?" he asks, with a laugh.

"No!"

"Up in the loft, then?"

"No, nor there."

"Then it's the little room at the back."

"No, no!" cries the girl, all confused. "Not there, indeed it's not."

The young man laughs. "I can't guess any more. But it's cruel of you
not to tell."

And there again, mark the slyness of him, thinks the girl looking on.
Anyone else would have laughed out loud and said, "Now, I know!" and
the girl would have blushed.

"Well, we're friends now, real friends, aren't we?" says he, after a
while.

"'Tis early yet, for sure. But if so, what then?"

"Why, I was but thinking--if we were friends, I'd ask you--no, I won't
ask yet."

"You can ask if you like, 'twill do no harm," says the girl, curious
to hear.

"Only this--if anyone has ever--ever pressed your hand."

"No," says the girl, with a blush. "I'd never let them."

There again, so neatly put, thinks the looker-on. And how nice and
frank and handsome he looks.

"Now, I wonder if that's true," says he. "But I'll soon see. Give me
your hand a minute."

"What for?"

"Oh, I can read it, and find out all sorts of things."

"You?"

"Yes. Don't believe it? But you dare not try."

"Ho! Dare not, indeed!" And she gives him her hand.

Now what's going to happen, thinks the looker-on.

"H'm. It's true, by the look of things," says the young man seriously.
"No one has ever pressed your hand. But down there under the
window--there's more than one that's stopped to look at your flowers."

"How do you--Oh, you don't know really, you're making it all up."

"Sh! I'm telling your fortune. Listen! But what's this I see? Well,
I'd never have thought...."

"What--what is it?" asks the girl anxiously.

"What it is I dare not say. Only I'd never have thought it."

"Oh--you only say that because you can't find anything proper to say
at all."

"Shall I tell you what it is, then?" asks he, looking her straight in
the eyes.

"Yes--if you can."

"Right. But you mustn't be angry if I do." His voice falls to a
whisper. "Look--look there! He's coming--this very night!"

"He--who?" asks the girl uneasily.

"He--the one that you've been waiting for--the one that is to--press
your hand."

"It's not true!" cries the girl. "I'll never let him!"

"Sh! I can only say what it says there. He will _come_, be sure of
that. At midnight, or thereabouts. And he will not beg and pray and
ask as the others do, only knock at your window three times, softly,
but firmly--and then you'll know it's the right one, and no other....
But now I must go. Good-night, Pansy."

And with a wave of his cap he hurries out.

And she--the one that is looking on--marks how the girl stands all
confused for a while, and then goes softly to the door, watching him
till he is out of sight.

The story is ended--the girl opens her eyes.

And ended, too, the pleasant self-forgetfulness with which she had
watched the scene as acted by another--in place of it come doubts and
questionings out of the dark.

"What shall I do if he comes--what shall I do?"

Already she seemed to hear footsteps outside, her heart beat so
violently, she pressed her hand to her breast. And it was a relief
when no one came after all, and she hoped and hoped he would not come
at all, to spoil the pretty fairy story.

"But then--if he should not come? If he had been only jesting, after
all." That was worse still. "If he would only come--but only to the
window--look in at the flowers, but not to knock three times, no...."

She went back to the beginning again--a girl stood in the front room,
pouring warm milk through a big strainer....

A knocking at the window--three soft, short taps.

The girl sat up with a start, holding her breath. She raised her head,
and looked anxiously toward the window. The fuchsia and the balsamine
gazed at her from the sill with questioning eyes: "What is this you
are doing, Pansy?"

And behind the flowers was a dark shadow, against the blind. She
_felt_ that he was looking straight through at her: "I am here,
Pansy."

The shadow seemed calling her to account for something she had
promised. She hid her face in the pillow, and pulled the quilt over
her head. Her heart throbbed till the bed itself seemed to shake.

"_And he will not beg and pray and ask, as the others do_."

Slowly the girl drew herself up and remained sitting on the edge of
the bed, her hands in her lap.

"If he would only knock again, and give me time to think--to
think...."

The dark shadow did not move, the fuchsia and the balsamine stood
breathless.

Quietly she slipped to the floor and stepped forward doubtfully a pace
or two. There was a movement of the shadow; the girl trembled, and
caught at the bedpost for support.

The shadow stopped at once, and stood as before, calling her to
account.

With eyes cast down, she moved again towards the door--slowly,
hesitatingly, as if her heart were willing, but her limbs refused. She
could feel the shadow gliding round outside to the doorway. Her heart
throbbed as if it would burst; her fingers grasped feverishly at the
latch.

Then slowly, silently, the latch was raised; the girl fled to the
corner by the stove, and stood there covering her face with her hands.

The door opened, closed again, and the latch was pressed down firmly.

"Where are you, Pansy, little friend? Is it you there in the corner?"

He crossed over to her, and took both her hands in his.

"Hiding your face, and trembling...?" He looked steadily at her.

"I will go away in a moment," he said gently, as if asking
forgiveness. "I never thought you would feel it so."

"No, no!" said the girl anxiously. "It wasn't that...."

"Get into bed again and cover yourself up, or you'll be cold. And I'll
sit beside you a little, just while it's dark, and then go again."

Shy and confused, she sprang into bed and drew the clothes over her.

He looked at her a moment. Then pulling up a chair beside the bed, he
sat down, resting one elbow on the pillow.

"Pansy, why do you hide your eyes? Are you afraid? Is it because I am
here? Give me your hand. Who was it that was to press your hand? Do
you remember?

"Didn't you know I was coming? Hasn't the cuckoo been saying it all
the spring? Didn't the daisies tell you he was to come this summer?
And now, now that I am here, you look at me as if I were a stranger.
Is it because it has come true so suddenly?"

She pressed his hand. "Oh, you are not like the others."

"And how should I be? You did not care for them. The one you have been
waiting for--was he to be like them? Answer, dark-eyed Pansy-flower."

She clasped his wrist with both her hands, and drew herself closer to
him.

"And I have been waiting," he whispered tenderly, "for whom, do you
think? For one of the others? I have seen more than I can count--but
the moment I saw you, I knew who it was you were waiting for, and who
it was I sought."

The girl moved uneasily. There was a sound of footsteps outside, and
shadows moved behind the curtains of the window.

"Oh!" she whispered, shrinking in fear.

"Is that some of them?" asked the young man calmly.

"Yes. Oh, hide yourself, hide somewhere--they light matches outside
sometimes, and look in."

"I'll not move a step for any of them," he said resolutely, folding
his arms. "Don't be afraid, little one, there's nothing to fear."

A dark shadow climbed up outside. There was a scraping sound, and a
light shone into the room for a moment.

"There he is--sitting there as if he was master of the house!" The
shadow sprang down again.

A low murmur was heard outside, and footsteps receding.

A moment later, the whispering voices were heard again, and steps
approaching. Then something heavy was flung against the door with a
crash.

"There! Sleep well, my dears!" cried a scornful voice outside. A
chorus of laughter followed, the footsteps died away, and all was
still.

The young man rose to his feet. "The brutes!" he muttered, trembling
with anger. He sprang to the door, lifted the latch, and threw his
weight against it. The door did not move. His blood boiled, and again
he flung himself against the door. It creaked under the shock, but the
bar outside held fast.

"I heard who it was, anyhow," he said significantly. "I'll have a word
to say to some of them to-morrow."

"Oh," cried the girl, "now everyone will know--and we can't even get
out now."

"Don't be afraid, dear. If one way's barred, I'll soon find another."

He walked to the window, and pressed hard against the frame. The nails
gave way, and the woodwork hung loose.

"There! We can get out that way now. I'll take care of the
flowers--and I'll see those fellows hold their tongues--never fear."

Self-possessed and smiling, he came back to the bedside. "You poor
little thing, so easily scared! Not afraid now, are you?"

"No--not now you're here again."

"Why," said he gaily, "don't you see? It had to come like this--or
else--it would have been just like--any of the others!"

They both laughed, and the girl looked up at him through her tears. A
faint light of dawn showed through from without.

"And you haven't heard it all yet. I'll tell you--it's all different
from anything else--right from the beginning. I came here a way you'd
never dream--by way of the river, and past the jaws of death."

"What--what do you mean?"

And he told her what had passed among the rapids that night, when the
floating timber jammed against the Whirlstone Rock.

"And then we get locked in here, to make it unlike anything else all
through. And that's how I love you, Pansy--so that I have to come
to you through the rapids at night, and stay with you behind barred
doors. But _are_ you mine, my own? You haven't said so yet."

"Am I? Oh, Olof, how can you ask!" And she twined her arms lovingly
round his neck.

       *       *       *       *       *

The growing flush of dawn stole through the curtains, spreading a
faint gleam of rose on the girl's white arms.

"Red--red is all that is beautiful in the world," nodded the fuchsia
to the balsamine.

The sun rose over the far-curving slopes on either side of the river,
filled his lungs with the freshening coolness of the night, and drank
his morning cup of glistening dew. A light mist still hung over the
riverbed.

Olof strode down the slope with easy step, his heart swelling with
joy.

Down on the shore below the rapids stood a group of men, young fellows
from the village, who came down at times to earn a little extra by
keeping watch over the timber at night.

Olof cast his eyes over the group, and his pleasant feeling of
contentment vanished. He felt himself weighed down as by a burden.
But a little while since, he had lifted the heavy beam they had set
against the door of a girl's room, and carried it back to the barn,
the weight seeming as nothing to him in his gladness. But now....

"A single word, a look, would be enough. But if they just go on as if
nothing had happened--what can I do?"

A dark flush burned in his cheeks as he approached the group; he
glanced about him guardedly under his brows.

The men made no sign.

Olof picked up his pole from the grass, and began slowly wiping off
the dew, eyeing the men watchfully as he did so.

They stood about, apparently unconcerned.

He bit his lips. Was he to let it pass off like this?

He walked past them, with a burning glance.

As he did so, a low laugh was heard on the edge of the group.

Next moment came the sound of a heavy blow, and the jester measured
his length on the grass.

"You--what's that for? Who d'you think you are, young devil's brat,
what?" Two men came at him with a rush.

Olof gripped the first by the collar and crutch, and flung him head
foremost through the air. Then, taking the other as swiftly, he lifted
him high overhead, and threw him down like a crumpled rag.

"You swine--you filthy brutes!" His voice quivered with rage, his
eyes burned like fire, and he raised his clenched fists threateningly.
"Come on, the lot of you; I've more to settle with you yet."

There was an angry murmur from the crowd, but it died away as a calm,
manly voice spoke up:

"Seems to me, young man, you've settled fairly enough already for a
bit of fun and no harm meant. And if you're as good a man as I take
you for, you'll see yourself 'twas not done the way you seem to take
it. We've all been sort of proud of that little lass, and till now
there's never one of us passed through her door, though there's many
that would if they could. And when a bit of a chap from God knows
where comes along, and he's found sitting in there like her lord and
master...."

"And what's that to you?" Olof stepped forward threateningly.

"Quiet, lad, you've no call to shout," went on the other calmly. "I'm
not meaning to quarrel with you. We've known that girl, I say, since
we were youngsters together, and you're a stranger here. And it's
like to do her harm. Leave her alone, I say, and don't go making her
a byword in folk's mouths, for the sake of one that comes and goes so
light and easy as you."

"Stranger, you say?" Olof crossed his arms defiantly. "You know who
I am well enough. And you're the men to talk of a girl's honour to
me--you that hang about outside her window at night--a nice lot to
protect her! Mark my words, the lot of you. I go where I please, if
'twas to a princess in a palace. And I'll go the way I went last night
as long as I'm here in the place. And as sure as I stand here, if one
of you shows his head outside that window, or dares to say a coarse
word--ay, or so much as a look to hurt her, I'll thrash him till he
can't stand on his feet."

He turned and walked proudly up the hill. The men gazed after him
without a word.




AT SUNRISE


"The loveliest hour?" said the fuchsia warmly. "Why, now, give me the
night--'tis the best of all."

"I love it too," answered the balsamine. "Whispering here as we are
now, alone in the dark, only knowing the other is near, only seeing
the gleam of each other's eyes. But the morning, too, is beautiful--at
sunrise, when the dewdrops glisten and the leaves quiver in the
wakening breeze."

"True, that is true. All times are beautiful, all life. The morning,
when the cock crows, and the birds twitter, and the children newly
washed come out to play in the yard. The day, too, when the sunbeams
dance over the floor, and the haymakers come from the fields, with
sweat on their brows, home to the midday meal. And the evening,
when the shadows lengthen, and the cows come home, with their bells
tinkling along the fringe of the wood. But there's nothing can compare
with night--'tis at night we find ourselves, and only then."

"Find ourselves...?" echoed the balsamine. "Ah, yes, I understand...."

"Ourselves--and that faint song of the heart that is never heard in
the bright fullness of day," the fuchsia went on. "All day we belong
to the world, sharing all things in common, having nothing of our own.
But when the night falls, then our own time is near. Softly it steals
through the forest, patiently waits in a corner within doors, trembles
mysteriously in the air, and wakes to life all that has slept in
us through the day. It comes to us with a soft glow, in a swooning
fragrance of flowers. All things else are sleeping, none are astir
save those...."

A woman's arm showed faintly white through the gloom.

"All save those...?" whispered the balsamine.

"Save those who find themselves and waken into bloom."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Pansy--my wonderful delight--my love! You are like the
night--witching, ensnaring, all the mystery of a summer night, when
the summer lightning gleams."

"I never knew till now what youth is, what love is. Great and
beautiful, coming like a king in a golden chariot, beckoning, calling,
leading us on."

"Why are you trembling, love? And your hands are hot, and your
eyes--what are they saying?"

"I don't know--it's very hot. No, no, it's only that I'm too
happy...."

"Too happy?"

"No, no. I don't know what it is. Only I wish...."

"What is it? Tell me."

"I can't--I don't know what it is. I...."

"But tell me--can't you tell me what it is?"

"I can't say it. I--I'm frightened."

"Frightened? Why--have I frightened you?"

"You?--no, how could you? Only...."

"Tell me, then. Tell me. Only a word, and I shall know."

"I'm frightened--no, I can't say it. Only--Oh, I love you, if you knew
how I love you...."

       *       *       *       *       *

"The loveliest hour I ever knew," whispered the balsamine again, "was
when I bloomed for the first time--when my petals opened, and the sun
came and kissed right into my heart."

"I know, I know," murmured the fuchsia. "And I that am blooming now
for the second time--should I not know? We put forth flowers again,
and it is always sweet, but never like the first time of all--nothing
can ever be like that. For it is all a mystery then; the mantle of
something wonderful and unknown is over us. And we feel it and thrill
at what is coming, and ask ourselves--will it be to-day? Hoping and
fearing--and knowing all the time that it will come. Never a thought
of past or future, only for the hour that is upon us ... until at last
it comes, it comes--petals that blush and unfold, and all things else
seem to fade away, and we melt into a glory of warmth and light."

       *       *       *       *       *

The Spirit of Joy stood quietly smiling by the bed.

The girl's loose hair flowed like black silk over the pillow; his head
was resting there.

They held each other's hands and looked deep into each other's eyes.
The Spirit of Joy had stood there long, but had not heard them speak a
word--only seen them lying there in silence, smiling tenderly to each
other.

The sun rose slowly over the ridge of hills, but once clear of the
summit, its rays shot suddenly down across the intervening landscape,
in through the window.

The girl looked up; the sun was laughing full in her eyes.

She sat up in bed, as if waking from a deep sleep; all things seemed
strange and unexpected.

"Has the sun eyes too, I wonder?... Has it been watching me all these
mornings?"...

       *       *       *       *       *

After a little while she raised her head, and looked up shyly once
more.

The sun was watching her with a great questioning glance--as a mother
looks when she does not speak, but questions with her eyes alone.

The girl felt a shock, as if the blood had ceased to flow in her
veins; she cast down her eyes, and looked up no more. Two great pearly
tears quivered on her lashes.

"What is it?" asked her lover in dismay, half rising in his turn.
"What is it, Pansy?" He pressed her tenderly to him. "Why are your
eyes cast down?"

The teardrops trembled a moment and fell; the girl turned, and hid her
face in the pillow.

"Pansy, oh, my love!" he whispered, filled with a burning desire to
comfort her.

The girl's bare shoulders quivered, and her breast heaved with
suppressed sobs.

It was like a cold iron through his soul--as if he had been soaring
in the bluest heights, to fall now, broken-winged, among sharp rocks,
hearing sounds of misery on every side.

Heavily he threw himself down beside her, and hid his face in her dark
hair.

Two children of men, with shoulders heaving and faces wet with
tears.... The room seemed full of their sighing.

The sun turned away and hid his darkened face.

"It is sorrow," whispered the fuchsia, and a red tear fell on the
window-sill below.

       *       *       *       *       *

And yet, beneath the veil of sorrow showed a warm red glow--the great
secret that was between them. It was as if their eyes were opened, and
they saw each other truly for the first time--no longer a youth and
a maiden, but two human creatures thrilled with sorrow and joy in the
pale dawn.

"Can you ever forgive me?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"Forgive...?" echoed the girl, and threw her arms round his neck.

"And you will not think of me with bitterness?" he asked again.

"How could I ever think of you with bitterness--you who have been
everything to me? But why must you go away now?"

"Ay, why must we say good-bye now?" said he, with a sigh, as if hardly
knowing what he said.

"If you only knew how I shall miss you...."

"And if _you_ knew.... O Heaven! But what can I do?"

"Don't be unhappy for my sake; I know you can do nothing to change it.
And how can I ask more of you, after all you have given me? If only
I could see you again some time; only once, once even after many
years--if I only could...."

"Perhaps I may come one day--just to see you...."

"Come, come! I shall wait for you week after week."

       *       *       *       *       *

Slowly he drew out his watch, looked at it, and showed it to the girl.

"Yes, you must go now. But how can I ever let you go?"

"How can I ever go? Oh, if only it were always night, and day never to
come!"

"Yes--the last, long night--and after that the Judgment. I should
not fear it now. Only a minute--only a minute more. One more
look--there--and now I can never forget."

"Pansy, Pansy," he murmured tenderly. But his breast heaved with
distress--it was as if the latch had been torn from the door, leaving
it open to all who cared. "One thing you must promise me--after
this...." His voice was like that of a drowning man. "Never to care
for any other but the one you choose some day, for life."

"How should I ever care for any other?" said the girl wonderingly.
"And even then I shall love you just the same--even then."

"No, no, no! It would be worse than all. When you choose for life you
must give all your love."

"No need to tell me that," said the girl in a low voice that thrilled
him with pleasure and yet heightened his fears.

"Promise me! You don't know why I ask you, why I beg of you to promise
that. It is not for my own sake," he urged.

"I promised you that long ago--the first time we ever met," said the
girl, and cowered close to him.

They drew apart, and stood up.

Holding him by the hand, she followed him to the door. Then flinging
her arms about his neck, she clung to him as if she would never let
him go. He took her in his arms, himself on the point of swooning; he
felt her hair wet with tears against his cheek, and their lips met.

The girl's head was bent back, looking, not into his eyes as before,
but upward. And he saw how the look in her eyes changed, first to
ineffable tenderness, then to pious prayer--until it seemed freed
from all earth, gazing at some blessed vision afar off. As long as
she stood thus he could not move a limb. Then her eyelids quivered,
closed--and she drew her lips away.

He looked at them, saw a white, bloodless line--and he felt in that
moment as if some ineradicable, eternal seal had been pressed upon his
own.

"I can't leave you like this!" he cried desperately. "Look! To-night
we shall be at Kirveskallio--I can come from there. And I will come
every night as long as we are within reach."

The girl's face lit with a pale gleam as of autumn sunlight, but she
said no word. Only looked at him strangely, as he had never seen her
look before--and stood there, gazing at him still, as he passed out.




ROWAN


"Rowan--do you know why I call you so?" he asked, holding the girl's
hand clasped in his.

"It must have been because I blushed so when you spoke to me first,"
she answered shyly.

"No, no! Guess again."

"I can't guess, I'm sure. I never thought why it was--only that it was
a pretty name, and nice of you to call me so."

"Did you think I should give you an ugly name?" said the young man,
with a laugh. "But there's much in that name, if you only knew."

"Perhaps I know." She looked at him trustingly as she spoke.

"Not altogether. But never mind--I'll tell you some of it, though.
See, this last spring was all so wonderful to me, somehow, and I was
happy just to be alive. But then came the summer, and autumn: the
grass began to wither, and the leaves turned yellow, and it made my
heart ache to see."

"You weren't happy last summer?" she asked tenderly.

"No. You see, I could not forget the spring that had been so
wonderful, and I was longing for it all the time. If I'd stayed in the
same place, then perhaps.... But I'm a wanderer, once and for all...."

"Why do you never stay anywhere?"

"'Tis my nature, I suppose," he answered, staring before him.

"And where were you--that time?" asked the girl timidly, watching his
face.

"Oh, a long way off. Don't ask of that. I'm not thinking of that
spring now any more. It was only to tell you--who it was showed me
that the autumn can be lovely, too."

"Did someone show you that?"

"Yes, someone showed me--or, rather, I saw it the moment I set eyes on
her."

He took the girl's hands in his, and looked into her eyes.

"It was a little cluster of rowan berries. When I saw you, you were
like a young red rowan on the hillside. The birch was fading already,
the ash stood solemn and dull, but you were there with the red
berries, calling to me--no, not calling, but I saw you. And I stood
and looked as if a miracle had come, and said to myself, should I
speak to her, or just go by?"

"If you had just gone by...."

"I thought of going by--seeing I'm one that has no right ever to
stay.... I couldn't see if it was right to stop and look at you."

"Now I don't quite understand."

"You can't understand it at all--'twas only something I was trying to
think out myself.... But I did stop and look--and 'tis thanks to that
I've had this lovely autumn, after all."

"And I, too," whispered the girl.

"Yes, thanks to you, I have learned that autumn can be beautiful as
well; lovelier even than the spring--for the autumn is cooler, calmer,
and gentler than the spring. And it was then I learned for the first
time what it is that makes life beautiful--what it is that human
beings seek."

The girl has slipped down to the ground, and sat now looking up at
him, resting her arms on his knees.

"Tell me more--more about that. It's so pretty to hear, and I
understand it all, though I could never say it that way myself."

"Yes, you know, and all know, that there is nothing beautiful in life
but that one thing--and all of us live for that, and nothing else.
Without that we have only our hands and work for them, our teeth and
food for them; but, when that comes, all is changed. You have seen
yourself, and felt, how it changes everything."

"Oh, have I not! How could I help it?"

"How sad faces learn to smile, and eyes to speak, and how we learn a
new tongue altogether. Even the voice is changed, to a silvery ring.
All the world is changed, to something lovelier--and we ourselves grow
beautiful beyond words."

"Yes, yes--Olof, how wonderful of you! It is all like a beautiful
dream."

"Do you remember the time when you first began to care for me?"

"I shall always remember that time--always."

"It was pretty to watch--how you blushed and paled, and blushed again,
and never knew which way to turn your eyes, and your heart throbbed,
and you never dared confess even to yourself what made it so. I
watched you then, and I found myself wishing you might not see me at
all, only that I might watch you for ever from some secret place."

"Oh, but you don't know how it hurt, all the same--how anxious I was
all the time--I could not have borne it long, I know."

"Yes--I understand.... And you were more beautiful still when you
opened your heart to me. I read in your eyes as in an open book, and
it made life bright and beautiful again for me."

"I--I have done nothing at all ..." said the girl, blushing, and
looking down. But she raised her head again, laid one hand on his
knee, and looked questioningly at him.

He laughed in reply.

Slowly she drew herself up into his embrace, and put her arms about
his neck.

"May I sit here like this?"

"Yes, you may--like this," said he, slipping an arm round her waist.

The girl's face drew nearer to his own, still questioning.

"No, no," he murmured, and laid one hand gently on her shoulder, as if
seeking tenderly to hold her back.

"Why not?" asked the girl earnestly.

"Because it is better so. It would only hurt you more when we had to
say good-bye--after."

"Oh, but that's just why!" she cried passionately.

"No, no--I ask it of you," said he. And, taking the girl's head in his
two hands, he kissed her softly on the brow.

A gleam of infinite tenderness shone in her eyes, but she did not
speak, only bowed her head and nestled close to his breast.

A strange joy thrilled him--he felt he had won a victory over himself.
Through his thin shirt he could feel the girl's warm breath like a
wave of summer sunshine, and, smiling with happiness, he stroked her
hair.

It was in his mind to ask her if she did not think herself it was best
as he said, when suddenly, ere he could speak, a burning gasp struck
him like a flame; the girl's hot lips were pressing fiery kisses on
his breast; her arms slipped from his neck and twined themselves close
about his waist.

"God in heaven--be careful, child!" He took her arms and tried to
draw himself away. But, ere he could loosen her hold, he felt his body
thrill in answer to her passionate caress--a torrent of passion rose
within him: all thought of self-restraint was whirled away.

"Love, love!" he gasped, his voice almost breaking in tears. He drew
her up to him, and closed her thirsting lips with his own, crushing
her body against his own till both lay breathless....




THE FIRST SNOWFALL


This year, it came later than usual--not until just before Christmas.
And when it did come, it was like a rain of silver.

The children greeted it with joyful shouts and a wild throwing of
snowballs; the women carried shovelfuls of snow into the rooms and
spread it on the floor before sweeping; the men hung tinkling bells to
their horses' harness.

Men hurried briskly along the forest tracks, and the great high road
to the town was packed with an unbroken throng of pilgrims. All coming
and going exchanged greetings, even with strangers--a gay wave of the
hand and a few words about the snow.

       *       *       *       *       *

Twilight was falling.

Olof had just come in from his work in the forest, and was sitting
in his little room in the peasant's hut where he was quartered. An
elderly man stepped in--a farmer from the same village.

"Evening--and greetings from the town."

"Evening," said Olof heartily. "Come in and sit down."

"I've little time to sit. I'd a message for you, that was all. Stopped
at Valimaki on the way out, and someone gave me this for you."

He took out a small packet and handed it across.

Olof blushed up to the eyes, and stammered a word of thanks.

The messenger pretended not to notice his confusion, and went on,
smiling:

"I asked if maybe there was any message besides, and they said no,
just give it you as it was--but happen you'd like to hear how 'twas
given...?"

"Go on--tell me," said the young man, still with some embarrassment.

"Well, I pulled up there, as I said, and started off again just
towards dusk about. Got down just past the meadow below the house, and
hears someone running after. Thought maybe I'd left something behind,
and so I stopped. 'Twas a neat little maid, with red cheeks, and no
kerchief on her head. 'What's wrong?' says I.

"'Nothing,' says the little maid, and looks down at her shoes. 'Only
you said--didn't you say Olof was staying your way just now?'

"Well, that was right enough, and I said so. 'And what then?'

"'Why,' says she, 'I know him--and I'd a message for him.'

"'Aha,' says I, and laughed a bit.

"''Twas no more than a greeting,' says she, all of a hurry like.

"Why, then, I could carry it, 'twas an easy matter enough.

"'Can I trust you?' says the girl.

"'Why, d'you think I'd lose it on the way?' says I.

"'If you did--or if you went and told about it...'

"'Nay,' says I. 'I'm an old man, my dear, and not given to playing
tricks that away.'

"'Yes, I know,' says she. 'I can trust you.' And then she gives me
this.

"'That's for him?' says I. 'Give it him just as it is?'

"'Yes. You won't open it, I know. Though, to be sure, anyone can tell
what's inside. But be sure no one sees you give it him. There's no
message, only just that.'

"Well, I was just on the way to tell her I'd sense enough to do that
without being asked--but all of a sudden she's off, racing away with
her hair flying behind. Ay, that was the way of it, and now I've told
you, I'll be off."

"Good-night, then," said Olof. "And many thanks."

Olof sank into a chair by the table, holding the packet in his hand.
He knew well enough what was inside, but hesitated to open it. He was
thinking of what had happened there--he could see it himself as in
a vision. A bright-eyed girl, slight of figure, hardly more than
a child, sat at one end of the room, and at the other a traveller,
eating from the red-painted box in which he carried his food. The man
spoke of the weather, how the first snow had come, and it was good
going underfoot; where he came from, too, the woodcutters had already
started work. More work than usual this season, and the gang foreman
had taken on a new hand, a young fellow--Olof was his name.

And the girl all but cries his name aloud, blushes violently, and lays
down her work to listen. But the traveller says no more of what she is
longing to hear, only talks of this and that--all manner of trifling
things. The girl is restless, uncertain what to do--but she must do
something. And she watches the man's face closely as he sits smoking
his pipe on the bench. "He looks honest, and kindly," she thinks to
herself. "I could trust him, I know."

And then quietly she slips off to her own room, as if to fetch
something, and takes something from a drawer--a little thing she
has kept there long. Looks for some paper, or a bag, to put it in,
searches and looks again, and finds it at last, packs it up and ties
it round with string, tying the hardest knot she can manage, and
cutting the ends off close, so it can't be opened without being
seen--and laughs to herself.

Then she goes back to the room, with the thing in her pocket. The
traveller is getting ready to go.

"'Tis time to mix the cattle food," says the girl. And from the
kitchen window she can see the traveller come out to his horse and
make ready to start. He drives out of the yard and down the road at a
trot. "Now!" says she to herself, and races off after him.

Olof can see her as she runs--how her breast heaves as she comes up
with the cart and hails the driver. How she blushes and looks down,
and then, having gained her purpose, runs off again too full of joy
even to thank the messenger, running a race, as it were, with her own
delight. And then, once back at the house, she looks round anxiously
to every side, lest any should have seen her, and goes in to her work
again....

Filled with a quiet joy, Olof opens the packet.

A big, dark red apple carries her greeting.

"The very colour of the rowans!" he cries--as if the girl had chosen
that very one from a great store, though he knows well enough it was
likely the only one she had.

And his heart swells with joy and pride at the thought. "Was there
ever such a greeting--or such a girl!"

Once more his mind goes back to that happy autumn; he turns the apple
in his hand caressingly, and looks out through the window and smiles.

Then he notices that the apple seems harder to the touch in one place,
as if to call his attention to something. He looks at it again, and
sees that the skin on one side is raised, with a cut all round, is if
done with a knife. He lifts the flap of skin, and it comes away like a
lid; underneath is a folded slip of paper.

"More!" he cries, and with trembling hands, with joy at heart,
he unfolds it. Only a tiny fragment, and on one side a few words
awkwardly traced with pencil:

"Now I know what it is to be sad. Have you quite forgotten your Rowan?
I think of you every night when I go to sleep."

The apple falls into his lap, the paper trembles in his hand, and a
moisture dims his eyes.

He looks up. Great soft snowflakes are dropping slowly to the ground.

Minutes pass. The twilight deepens, till at last all is darkness, but
he sits there still looking out, with the paper in his hand.

He can no longer see--but he feels how the great soft snowflakes are
still falling....




DAISY


The daisy bloomed on the window-sill ... in the window of a little
room.

In spring and summer the daisy blooms--this one bloomed in the winter
too.

"And I know, and you know why you bloom in the winter," said the girl.
"'Tis to smile at him in greeting."

The daisy blooms only a few months together ... this one was in flower
already when Christmas came, and flowered the rest of the winter
through, more beautiful every day.

"And I know, and you know how long you will bloom. 'Twas when I set
you here at first it all began ... and when he is gone, and there's
none for you to smile at any more, then it will all be over.'"

The girl bent lower over the flower.

"She has but a single flower--so neat and sweet," she whispered,
pressing her delicate lips to the pale posy petals just unfolded.

"She has but a single friend--so tender and dear," smiled the flower
in answer, nodding slowly over toward the fields.

A tall youth on ski came gliding by, his cap at the back of his head,
and a knapsack strapped at his shoulders.

"At last!" cried the girl, and jumping down, ran out through the
passage to the steps in front of the house.

"Daisy!" said the newcomer. His voice was hardly audible, but his
eyes spoke plainly enough, as he stepped up and set his ski and staves
against the wall.

The girl answered with a nod and a radiant smile.

He hurried up the steps, and stood beside her.

"Daisy!" he said again, and pressed his cold hands playfully against
her cheeks.

"No, thank you!" cried the girl merrily, grasping his wrists. "I've
been waiting for you, though, ever so long. Mother's gone in to town,
and the men haven't come back from the woods yet."

"And you've been left all alone, and horribly frightened, of course,"
laughed the young man, holding the girl's head between his hands, and
pushing her before him in through the doorway.

They went inside, and he hung up his knapsack on the wall.

"Guess what I've been thinking of to-day all the way home?"

"Oh, you know I never can guess your riddles. What is it?"

"Only"--he drew her down on the seat beside him--"that you ought to
have a pair of ski too. If only I can get hold of some proper wood,
I'll make a pair in no time."

"No, no, 'tis not worth it. And I can't use them if you did."

"That's just why. You've got to learn. And then you'll be able to
come out with me. Come out to the forest one day, and I'll show you
something."

"What'll that be, I'd like to know? Only your ugly old stacks of
wood."

"Why, as to that, they're none so ugly, after all. And I'll lift you
up and set you on top of the highest of all.... No, that wasn't what
I meant. But you ought to see.... Out there in the forest, it's a
different world altogether. Roads and villages of its own--ay, and
churches and priests...."

"What nonsense you do talk!" laughed the girl.

"'Tis true, though, for all that. Come out with me, and see if it's
not as I say.... Come now, there's plenty of time."

"What are you thinking of? Of course we couldn't go now--nor any other
time."

"Yes, we can. And now best of all."

He went across to the corner by the cupboard, took a woollen wrap that
had been hung on the line to dry, and fastened it laughingly round her
head.

"There--now we're ready."

The girl laughed doubtfully, took off the wrap again, and stood
hesitating.

"Oh! Don't you understand yet?" He took the wrap and twisted it in his
hands. "You've got to pretend. It's two weeks gone now, and your ski
are all ready. We've tried them once or twice out in the meadow, and
you manage first-rate, able to go anywhere. And so off we go.... Look
there!"

The girl joined in the game. She moved across to the window, and
looked out into the yard.

"There! I've set the ski all ready, and we put them on. Father and
mother and brothers looking out to see us start. There--that's mother
knocking at the window.

"'Be careful not to take her up the big hills,' says mother. 'She'll
fall and hurt herself if you do!'

"And I tell her we're going up to the very top of the biggest hill we
can find. And off we go.

"And you get along splendidly. Fall--not a bit of it! Off we go to the
other end of the meadow, and then through the little copse out on to
Hirvisuo--all as easy as play.

"Then we come to a fence--and that's rather more than you can manage.
Nothing for it but I must pick you up and lift you over--and you put
your arms round me so prettily...."

Here the girl broke in hastily: "No, no! I shall turn back if you go
on like that!"

"No, you mustn't. It's a very high fence, this one. You can get over
the others, perhaps, by yourself. We'll see.--And so we go on, and
make our way up the slope of Kaltasenmaki--it's a heavy climb there.
But you know the ground--you've fetched the cows home from there many
a time. And it's just there the woodcutting begins.

"Now we're up at the top. It's early morning, of course, I forgot
that. The sun's just up, and the snow all glittering underfoot and
the frost like stars hung in the branches overhead. There! look at
the trees over there on the other side. All white and clean and
lovely--just like you. And stars of frost there too, sparkling like
your eyes. And you think it's lovely too--never dreamed the forest was
like that. And of course you haven't--for nobody can till they've
seen it for themselves. There! look at that great road there lower
down--that's the main track, where all the heavy timber goes--hauled
up from a dozen little paths either side--a score of loads sometimes,
one after another. And some of the men come singing, or whistling,
some talking and calling out to the rest; 'tis a merry business
carting down the timber loads to the river. And see there on the
slope--a couple of empty sledges on the way back--isn't it fine?

"And of course you say it is, and it was true all I told you about the
forest before. And it gets finer as we go on--you can hear the axe at
work all round about, echoing over across the valley. Now we must go
and say a word to the men.

"But you don't want to, but I say we must, and you can stay behind a
little if you like. And so off we go down the hillside--hey, what a
pace! And up the next, and there we are on the top. We can see them
at work down in the valley below. It looks like a lot of ants at work,
you think. And so it does. And we go across, and you've got to be
careful and show how nicely you can go. The snow's all frozen, and
creaks underfoot; the men look up, and the stupid ones stand staring
open-mouthed. And I bid them good-day, and go up to them a little
ahead, and they answer again, and some of them touch their caps, not
knowing quite what to do. All of them look astonished--what's this
come to see them now? And I tell them it's just a young lady from the
town, come out to see a bit of the country, and I'm showing her
round. They understand that all right. And then I tell them you're a
foreigner, and can't speak a word of their tongue, and that's why you
stay behind and won't come up. Then they're all surprised again at
that, and some of them won't believe there can be folk that don't
speak their language at all; but I tell them it's true all the same,
and they stare again, the stupid ones gaping wider than before.

"'She's put on country clothes so as not to be noticed,' I tell them;
'and if you saw her in her fine dresses, with a real hat on her head
and all--why, your eyes'd fall out of your heads, if you stare like
that now.' And they laugh at that, a roar of laugh that echoes all
round.

"Then I come back to you, and we go on again.

"But now you begin scolding me for playing silly tricks and telling
them all those wild tales--there's neither sense nor meaning in it,
you say. But then I simply ask you if you didn't see yourself what a
treat it was for the men. Simple woodcutter folk--it'll be something
to remember all their lives, how one day a beautiful foreign lady came
out to visit them in the forest. And then you must remember to be a
foreigner all day. If I have to speak to you when there's anyone else
about, I say it in Swedish; you can't speak Swedish, of course,
but all you have to do is just nod and smile and speak with your
eyes--that's all that's needed.

"'But I won't,' you say. 'I'm not going to pretend like that.'"

Here the girl herself broke in: "No, that I certainly wouldn't either,
so that's true enough."

"Oh, but you'd have to, you know, once we've started. And so we go
on. There's nobody from our parts among the gangs at work there, so
there's no risk of anyone knowing you really.

"And so we go on, from one gang to another. And it all goes off
splendidly. But then we come to a clearing, where the men are just
lighting a fire of pine knots. It's their dinner-time, and we're going
to sit down and have dinner with them, say I.

"But of course you make a fuss, and say you won't, but you give
in after a bit--it's easy enough. You've only to sit down, and say
'_Tack, Tack_' in Swedish whenever I pass you anything.

"The men are at work about the fire as we come up. And you're all
excitement, and red and white by turns, just like any grand lady from
foreign parts. And I tell them the same thing again, about you putting
on country clothes and all that, and ask if we may sit down--and
perhaps the foreign young lady might like to eat a morsel too.

"'We've naught that's fit to offer the likes of her,' say the men.

"'She can eat what other folks can, I suppose,' say I.

"Then they all tumble over one another to make a nice seat for you
with twigs of pine. Then we sit down, and I'm on the outside, in case
you want anything.

"Oh, it's grand. The fire flames up, and the snow melting like butter
all round and under, and the men's faces all aglow. One of them's
roasting a piece of meat, another fish, on a skewer, and the others
bring out their frozen bread and thaw it soft and fresh as if it had
just come out of the oven. And I do the same, toasting a piece of meat
and thawing some bread, and put one on the other and cut up your part
with my knife, to neat little bits all ready.

"And the men are all so interested they forget to eat.

"'I hope it's to your taste, my lady?' That's me talking in Swedish
as I pass it. And you nod and smile, and eat just a little to try, and
the moment you've tasted it you open your mouth and I know as sure as
anything you're just on the point of saying right out in Finnish that
it's first-rate, and you've never tasted anything so good.... So I
have to put in a word myself or you'll spoil it all. 'A little more,
if you please, my lady?' Like that."

But here the girl could contain herself no longer, and laughed
outright.

"What are you laughing at? That's not right a bit. No, you just blush,
and go on nibbling at a crust of bread, just like a tiny mouse....

"And the men nudge each other to look. Here's a fine lady sitting down
to eat as natural as can be, for all there's neither plate nor fork.
And it's all I can do to keep from laughing myself, and you have to
bite your lips and bend down behind me.

"Then I take out our milk bottle, that's been warming by the fire.

"'How'll they manage now?' says one, and all the rest look on to see.

"'Why, we'll just have to share and share about, unless the lady's to
go without,' say I. And then I make believe to whisper something in
your ear.

"And you nod, and take the bottle and drink, and hand it to me after.

"''Tis as good as newly milked,' say I. And you laugh, and the men
laugh too.

"Then I take a drink, and you again. I wipe the mouth of the bottle on
my sleeve each time before giving it you. And the men, of course, they
think that's a mighty fine way of doing things.

"'Never would have thought it,' says one of them. And they go on with
their meal.

"'Do as the folks you fall in with, it seems,' says one bolder than
the rest.

"'Just so,' say I, 'and that's as it should be'; and there's no saying
anything against that, and so we get on finely.

"Then when the meal's over, we lie down by the fire a bit. One man
takes out some leaf tobacco from his pack, and cuts it up on a tree
stump--hadn't had time before. Then he passes it round, and I fill my
pipe too, for all that I'm in company with a fine lady.

"And then we go on our way. But when we've got a few paces off, I turn
round suddenly and say, 'Here, you, Heikki, give us a bit of a sermon
for the young lady. 'Tis just the place for church.'

"'H'm,' says Heikki. 'I doubt it wouldn't do.'

"''Twill please her, for sure--I'll answer for that,' say I. 'And you
do it better than anything else. Antti can help with the service.'

"'Yes, yes!' cry the others. 'If she's wanting to see things out here.
Sermon, Heikki!'

"Heikki climbs up on a big rock, and Antti on a tree stump, and Heikki
starts off, grumbling out just like the priest at Kakela.

"'Is--any soul--from Keituri--here in--church to-day?'

"'Ay, lord and noble master, here be I,' says Antti in a deep base
that goes rumbling through the woods.

"And so they go through the service, and after, Heikki begins to
preach. It's the wildest nonsense, Swedish and Finnish and gipsy-talk
and all sorts of odd lingo muddled up together, and he pours out the
words like a river in flood. The men are in fits of laughter all the
time, and you--you're near to bursting.

"'The young lady bids me thank you very much,' say I, when it's over.
'Both of you. Says she's never heard so fine a sermon all her life.'

"''Tis well said,' say the men. 'Heikki, he's a wonder to preach, that
he is.'

"And so they wave their caps to us as we go off."

"Oh!" said the girl delightedly. "And is it really like that, I
wonder?"

"Yes, of course. Only you mustn't say anything. We must go home
now--then we can talk all about it after.

"And we go up the hill and start off down the other side.

"When we get down on the flat, you begin putting on the pace, to see
if you can go as fast as I can--and it's all I can do to keep up with
you. And your cheeks are red as roses, and you're so hot you take off
your kerchief and fasten it round your waist like a sash. And there
you are running beside me, bareheaded, and your bright hair lifting as
you go. I've never seen you look so beautiful before, and I tell you
so. You ought to be like that always.

"And so we come home, as happy as can be.... And here we are!"

"You _can_ make stories!" cried the girl. "It was wonderful! Just as
if we'd really been there and seen it all."

"Ah, we'll do it really one day, we must. And it'll be ever so much
easier then, after you've seen it once to-day."

"No, no! I never can, I know."

"Wait and see," said he. "Now you know what a grand life it is in the
forest in winter. A glorious life--though there's trouble, too, at
times--danger and hurt; but who cares for that? Do you wonder that I'm
always in high spirits when I come home? And when I am here, why,
'tis just like another little world, as clean and fresh as there....
Daisy--sit here, and let me look at you."

The girl sat down on his knee and rested one hand on his shoulder.

"Don't laugh at me," she said softly. "I'm not a bit clever, I know.
Just nothing--to you."

"You don't know a bit what you are--but I do. And shall I tell you,
just for once, what you are to me?"

The girl laughed happily. "If you'll be sure and only tell the truth!"

"The truth--of course! How could I help it? Now, listen. Once I was
in a big town, where there was a picture gallery, and lots of marble
statues--like the old Greeks used to make. You've read about them,
haven't you?"

"Yes, I think so. But I've never seen them."

"Well, there were lots of these statues, white as snow, and looking
just like life. And they were all naked, with never a rag to cover
them, but for all that one could look at them, as calm and pure as on
the face of God. For they were so beautiful that one could think
of nothing but the sacred beauty God has given to the human form.
And--can you guess what I'm going to say now?"

"How should I guess?" said the girl, looking down shyly, as if with
some inkling she would not confess of what was in his mind.

"Just this--you are like that to me: a marble statue, white and cool,
with a beauty that is holy in itself. And I thank God that made you so
beautiful and pure."

"Now you're laughing at me again," said the girl sadly.

"'Tis solemn earnest. Listen. Ask yourself, in the time we've been
together here, have we ever exchanged a single kiss, a single touch,
with any thought of passion?"

"Passion?" The girl's eyes looked frankly into his.

"Yes.... It might have been, you know. I am passionate by nature, but
when I look at you, it cools and dies. I am telling you the truth when
I say you have been like a healing, cooling draught to one in a fever.
And I believe you have changed me altogether, now and for ever after."

"I don't think I understand--not all of it. But have you really been
so happy?"

"So unspeakably happy. Yes. And glad to feel myself strong and
self-restrained. I have often thought that no one could ever dream
what happiness and beauty can live in one little grey village. Do you
know what I think? I believe that in every little grey village there
is a quiet, secret happiness, that no one knows."

"Not everywhere, Olof. It is not everywhere there is anyone like you."

"But you! I don't mean to say, of course, it should be just like ours.
But a happiness...."

He drew the girl to him, and their lips met in a long, gentle kiss.

"Can everyone kiss like you?" she whispered shyly, with a tender gleam
in her eyes.

"Maybe. I don't know."

"No, no--there's no one in the world like you. None that can talk like
you, or kiss like you. Do you know what I always think--always look
at, when you kiss me?"

"No--tell me, tell me!" he cried eagerly.

"No--I don't think I can."

"Something you can't tell _me_, Daisy-flower? Come, don't you think
it's your turn to tell me something now?"

"Well, then--only, you mustn't laugh. I know it's silly. I always--I
always look at your neck. There's a big vein just there, and it beats
so prettily all the time. And then I feel as if your soul were flowing
through it--right into me. And it does, for I can feel it!"

"That's the loveliest thing you've ever said in all your life," said
he solemnly. "We won't talk any more now, only be together...."

       *       *       *       *       *

Spring was near; it was open war between the sun and the cold. The
snowdrifts had begun to disappear.

Strange dreams were at work in Olof's mind.

"She loves me--warmly and truly," he told himself. "But is her love
deep and strong enough for her to forget all else, and give herself up
fully and freely to her lover?"

"And could you let her? Could you accept that sacrifice--from one like
her?"

"No, no. I didn't mean that, of course. But if only I could be
sure--could feel beyond all doubt that she _would_; that she was ready
to give up everything for my sake...."

"And you count _that_ the final test of love? Shame on you!"

The colour faded from the evening sky; the stars were lit ... the
errant fancies died away.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the brilliant sunlight they returned--the same strange dreams
welling up on every side, like the waters of spring. Behind and before
him, everywhere, insistently, an irresistible song.

"I must know--I must sound the uttermost depths of her love!"

"Can you not see how cruel it would be--cruel to her beyond all
others?"

"But only to know! To ask as if only in jest...."

"In jest? And you would jest with such a thing as this!"

And the dreams sank down into the hurrying waters; yet still the warm
clouds sailed across the sky.

       *       *       *       *       *

Like a rushing flood--the old desire again.

"Can anything be cruel that is meant in love? A question only--showing
in itself how deeply I love her? It is torture not to know; I must
break through it--I must learn the truth!"

"..." But the other voice was lost in a rush of foaming waters.

       *       *       *       *       *

He took the girl's hand in his, and spoke warmly, with beautiful
words.

Her fair brow darkened under a cloud--so dark seemed any cloud there
that for a moment he wished he had not spoken.

"I never thought you could doubt me," she murmured, almost in tears.
"Or ask--or ask for that!"

"Oh, my love," he thought. "If you only knew! Just one word, and then
I can tell you all--and we shall be doubly happy after."

So he thought, but he did not speak. And now he could think of nothing
but the moment when he could tell her that it was but a question in
all innocence--a trial of her love.

"It is because I love you as I do," she said, "that I could not do it.
We have been so happy--but _that_ would be something strange between
us. And now that you are going away...." She stopped, and the two
looked at each other sorrowfully. It was as if already something
strange had crept between them, as if they had hurt each other
unwittingly, and suffered at the thought.

       *       *       *       *       *

Day by day their parting drew nearer, the sun was veiled in a dreary
mist.

Then one day she came to him, strangely moved, and clung to him,
slight and yielding as the drooping curtains of the birch, swayed
by the wind. Clung to him, threw her arms warmly round his neck, and
looked into his eyes with a new light in her own.

"What--what is it?" he asked, with emotion, hovering between fear and
a strange delight.

"Olof--I am ... I can say it now...."

A tumult of joy rose up in him at her words. He clasped her to him in
a fervent embrace, and opened his lips to tell her the secret at last.
But his heart beat all too violently, a hand seemed clutching his
throat, and he could not utter a word, but crushed her closer to him,
and pressed his lips to hers.

Drawn two ways, he seemed, and now but one; all thought of the other
vanished utterly. His breast was almost bursting with a desperate
regret; he could not speak, and would not even if he could.

And then, as he felt the pressure of her embrace return his own,
regret was drowned in an ecstasy of surrender.

"I love you," she whispered, "as only _your mother_ ever could!"

Olof turned cold. It was as if a stranger had surprised them in an
intimate caress.

"Olof," she murmured, with an unspeakable tenderness in her eyes. And
as if some great thing had suddenly come into her mind she went on:
"You have never told me about your mother.... No, don't tell me now;
I know it all myself. She is tall like you, and stately, and upright
still as ever. And she has just the same bright eyes, and little
hollows at the temples, like you have. And she wears a dark striped
apron, with a little pocket at the side, where she keeps her knitting,
and takes it out now and then to work at as she goes."

"How could you know!" he cried, in pleased surprise. His fear was gone
now, and he felt only a wonderful depth of happiness at hearing the
girl speak so tenderly of his mother.

"'Tis only guessing. But do you know--I should so like to see her,
your mother, that...."

"That...?"

"Only ... only, I should like to see her so. Then I'd put my arms
round her neck and ... Olof, did your mother often kiss you?"

"No. Not often."

"But she stroked your hair, and often talked with you all alone, I
know."

"Yes ... yes."

His arms loosed their hold of the girl, and almost unconsciously he
thrust her a little away, staring out into the distance with a faint
smile on his lips and deepest earnest in his eyes.

The girl looked at him wonderingly.

"What is it?" she asked anxiously, as if fearing to have hurt him. But
he did not seem to hear, only stood looking out at nothing as before.

"Olof--what is it?" she asked again, in evident distress.

"Only--it was only my mother speaking to me all alone," he answered in
a low voice.

"Oh!" The girl sighed deeply. "Now--was it just now she spoke?"

He nodded.

The girl glanced at him and hesitated. "Won't you--won't you tell me
what she said?" she asked timidly.

"She told me it was wrong--a sinful wrong even to ask you...."

The girl gazed at him for a long time without speaking; the tenderness
in her eyes grew to unutterable depths.

"Oh," she whispered at last, very softly, "if she only knew how I love
her now--your mother! I never loved her so before." And she clasped
her arms round his neck.




THE RAPIDS


The rapids at Kohiseva are well known; none so well known, nor so ill
famed, in all the length of Nuoli River.

And the homestead at Moisio is a well-known place, for they are a
stubborn race that hold it; for generations past the masters of Moisio
have been known among their neighbours as men of substance, and hard
in their dealings to boot--unswerving and pitiless as the waters of
Kohiseva.

The daughter at Moisio is well known too; none carries her head so
high, and a tender glance from her eyes is more than any of the young
men round can boast of having won.

Kyllikki is her name--and no one ever had such a name--at least, folk
say there's no such name in the calendar.

       *       *       *       *       *

The lumbermen's rearguard had come to Kohiseva. They came by night,
and here they were at their first day's work there now. Some were
still busy floating the last of the timber down; others were clearing
the banks of lumber that had driven ashore.

It was evening, and the men were on their way to their quarters in the
village.

In the garden at Moisio a young girl was watering some plants newly
set.

A youth came walking down the road beyond the fence. Some distance
off, he caught sight of the girl, and watched her critically as he
came up.

"This must be the one they spoke of," he said to himself. "The girl
that's proud beyond winning!"

The girl's slender figure straightened as she rose from her stooping
position, and threw back the plaited hair that had fallen forward over
one shoulder; she bowed her head in demure self-consciousness.

"She's all they say, by her looks," thought the youth, and slackened
his steps involuntarily as he passed.

The girl watched him covertly. "So that's the one they've all been
talking about," she said to herself. "The one that's not like any of
the rest."

She bent down to fill her can.

"Shall I speak to her?" the young man asked himself.

"But suppose she'll have nothing to do with you?"

"H'm. 'Twould be the first that ever took it so!" And he smiled.

The girl bent over her work again; the young man came nearer.

"I wonder if he'll have the impudence to speak to me," she thought.
"'Twould be like him, from what they say. But let him try it with
me...!"

"Like to like's the best way, I doubt," said the youth to himself. "If
she's so proud, I'd better be the same." And he walked by resolutely,
without so much as a glance at her, after all.

"Ho!" The girl spilled some of the water with a splash to one side.
"So that's his way, is it?"

She cast a look of displeasure at him as he passed down the road--to
go by like that without a word was almost a greater offence than if he
had spoken.

       *       *       *       *       *

Next evening she was there again.

And this time he stopped.

"Good evening," he said, raising his hat with rather more of pride
than courtesy.

"Good evening." She flung the words at him over her shoulder, turning
her head but just so much as to show the corner of an eye.

Silence.

"What lovely roses!"

The speech was pleasant enough in itself, almost a compliment. But
there was a challenge in the words--as the speaker himself was aware.

"They're well enough," she answered carelessly, as if to imply that
she had no more to say--he could go on if he cared to.

"I wonder, now, if you'd give me one--one of the red ones yonder--if
it's not too much to ask?"

The girl drew herself up. "'Tis not our way at Moisio to give roses
over the fence to strangers--though there may be those elsewhere that
are willing enough."

"Though there may be those elsewhere...." The young man flushed. He
understood what was in her mind--the tone of her voice was enough. He
had expected something of this at their first encounter, but for all
that he was startled at the fierce resolution in her opening thrust.

"'Tis not my way to beg for roses over every fence," he answered
proudly. "Nor to ask a thing twice of anyone. Good-night!"

The girl looked at him, astonished. She had not expected anything like
this.

He walked on a few paces, then stopped suddenly, and clearing the
ditch with a leap, stood leaning against the fence.

"There's just one thing I'd like to say--if I may," he said, glancing
sharply at her.

"You can say what you please, I suppose," she answered.

"Just this, then," he went on. "If any day you should find you have
set too high a price upon your roses, then take the one I asked for,
and wear it yourself. It could not hurt your pride, I think. It would
only show that you counted me a fellow-creature at least."

"Too high at least to be given to any tramp that is bold enough to
ask," said the girl, facing him squarely. "If anyone cares for them,
he must venture more than that."

They looked each other straight in the eyes for a moment.

"I'll bear that in mind," said the youth, with emphasis. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye," said the girl.

He walked on, and she stood watching him.

"Not like the others--they were right in that," said she, and went on
with her work.

       *       *       *       *       *

That Sunday afternoon a crowd of people gathered on Kohiseva bridge.
There was not room for all, and the banks were thickly lined on either
side.

There were rumours of unusual doings abroad--and folk had come out to
see.

"Next Sunday afternoon at four," the news had run, "a match at
Kohiseva--shooting the rapids."

And folk pricked up their ears aghast--down the rapids at Kohiseva on
a stick of timber; it was more than any had ever ventured yet. True,
there was the man some ten years back--a foolhardy fellow from a
neighbouring district--who had tried the lower reach, which was less
dangerous by far, but he was dead when he came ashore.

Anyhow, it was to be done now. There were two gangs of lumbermen in
the place, and, as it chanced, men of unusual daring and skill in
each. A dispute had arisen between the headmen as to the merits of
their respective parties, and the only way to settle it was by a
match, the headman of the losing gang to stand treat all round.

All Kohiseva was afoot, and many had come in from the villages round.
It was no light thing to try the rapids there.

The sight-seers on the bridge moved this way and that, eagerly
discussing the event.

"'Tis a mad idea, for sure."

"Ay, they'll have been drunk the time, no doubt."

"There's no man in his sober senses would ever try it."

"But which of them is it?" asked one. "Who's going down?"

"One of them's just a mad young fool that'll do anything if you dare
him."

"Ay, there's some of that sort most ways to be found. But 'tis a mad
thing to do."

"None so mad, perhaps," put in another. "They say he's the cleverest
of them all."

"I doubt but Kohiseva'll be one too clever for him. And the
other--who's he?"

"Why, didn't you know? There he is standing over there; Olof, they
say's his name."

"That one? He looks a sight too fine for a lumberman at all."

"'Tis him none the less for that."

"What's he doing in the gang, anyway? 'Tis not his business, by the
look of him."

"Ay, you may say so, but there's none knows more about him than all
can see. Book-learned, they say he is, and speaks foreign lingos, but
Olof's all the name he goes by."

"H'm. Must be a queer sort."

"Ah, there's more than one queer sort among these gangs. But if any
ever gets through the rapids, I say 'twill be him and no other."

"Wait and see," grumbled an adherent of the opposite party.

"Hey--look! there's old man Moisio pushing through to the foremen.
Now, what's he want with them, I wonder?"

The foremen stood midway across the bridge. One of them, Falk, was
leaning against the parapet, puffing at his tasselled pipe, and
smiling. The other, Vantti he was called, a sturdy, thick-set fellow,
stood with his hands in his pockets and a cigar between his teeth.
Vantti came from the north-east, from Karelen, and was proud of it,
as he was proud of his Karelen dialect and his enormous Karelen
boots--huge, crook-toed thigh-boots that seemed to swallow him up to
the waist.

Moisio came up to the two. "What's this about the rapids?" he said
sternly. "If you've put up a match, as they're saying here, then I've
come to say you'd better put it off before harm comes of it. Five
men's lives the river's taken here in my time. And we've no wish for
more."

"Easy, Moisio," says Vantti, taking the cigar from his mouth, and
spitting a thin jet sideways. "No call to take it that way. 'Tis but a
bit of a show we've got up to amuse the village folk."

"Call it what you please," answered Moisio. "You'll mark what I
say. I'm answerable for order in this place, and if any harm comes
afterwards, I'll call you to account for it. 'Tis no lawful way, to
risk men's lives for a bet."

"Moisio's right," cried several among the crowd.

The two headmen consulted in a whisper.

"Ay, if that's the way of it," says Vantti at last, and offers his
hand. Falk takes it, and turns to face the crowd.

"Listen," he says aloud. "Vantti, here, and I, we take you to witness
that we've called off our bet here and now. So there's none can blame
us afterwards. If the two men who've entered for the match will cry
off too, there's an end of it. If not, 'tis their own affair."

All eyes were turned towards the two competitors, who stood facing
each other, with their friends around.

One of them, a young man in a bright red coat, lifts his head boldly.
"I'm not afraid of drowning, and not going to drown," he cries.

"You draw back, then," says Moisio to Olof. "He'll not care to make
the trip alone. No man's gone down the rapids here and lived--'tis
madness to try."

Olof scans the water with a critical eye, the crowd waiting
expectantly the while.

"I'll not deny it," says he at last. "Don't think I'm paying no heed
to what you say. But I've a reason of my own for doing something more
than most would venture--and I'll not draw back." He spoke loudly and
clearly; all on the bridge could hear his words.

Moisio said no more, but drew back a little.

"Well, who's to go first?" said Falk.

"Let me," says Redjacket.

"As you please," said Olof.

Moisio turned to the headmen again. "You'll have some men on the
farther bank," he said, "in case of accidents."

"Not on my account," puts in Redjacket scornfully. "But if the other
man here wants fishing up...."

"Have them there if you like," says Olof. "'Twill do no harm."

The men take up their poles; those on the bridge look expectantly down
the river.

Kohiseva Rapids are a lordly sight in spring, when the river is full.
The strong arch of the bridge spans its powerful neck, and just below,
the rapids begin, rushing down the first straight reach with a slight
fall here and there. Then curving to the right, and breaking in foam
against the rocky wall of Akeanlinna--a mighty fortress of stone
rising straight up in midstream, with a clump of bushes like a helmet
plume on its top. The river then divides, the left arm racing in spate
down to the mill, the right turning off through a channel blasted
out of the rock for the passage of timber going down. A wild piece of
water this; the foam dances furiously in the narrow cut, but it ends
as swiftly as the joy of life; over a ledge of rock the waves are
flung a couple of fathoms down into the whirlpool called Eva's Pool.
Here they check and subside, the channel widens out below, and the
water passes on at a slower pace through the easier rapids below.

That is Kohiseva. The rock of Akeanlinna would be left untroubled were
it not for the lumbermen and their work. In the floating season, the
channel between it and the left bank is filled with timber, gathering
like a great bridge, against which new arrivals fling themselves in
fury, till they are drawn down through the cut.

The task which the rival champions have set themselves to-day is to
make their way down the upper rapids as far as Akeanlinna, and there
spring off--if they can--at the block--for there is no getting down
through the cut on a timber baulk, and none could go over the ledge to
Eva's Pool and live.

The men have taken up their places on the bank, and the two
competitors are preparing to start.

"Wouldn't it be as well to send a couple of baulks down first, for
whirlpools and hidden rocks?" suggests Olof.

"Ho, yes!" cries his rival. "And get a surveyor to mark it all out
neatly on a chart--a fine idea!"

Redjacket's party burst out laughing at this, and all looked at Olof.

He flushes slightly, but says nothing, only bites his lip and turns
away to study the river once more.

Redjacket looks at him sneeringly, and, pole in hand, steps out on to
the boom, a little way above the bridge. Then, springing over to the
raft, he chooses his craft for the voyage--a buoyant pine stem, short
and thick, and stripped of its bark.

The young man smiles, with a curious expression, as he looks on.

"Did you see?" whispers one on the bridge to his neighbour. "Mark my
words, he knows what he's about."

"Look out ahead!" Redjacket slips his tree trunk under the boom, and
steps out on to it. Then with a touch of his foot he sends it round
and round--spinning it, and sending up the water on either side.

"Ay, he's a smart lad," say the onlookers on the bridge.

Redjacket stops his manoeuvres now, gives a bold glance towards the
bridge, then, with a shrill whistle, fixes the point of his pole in
the wood; and, stepping back a little, with his hands on his hips,
begins, mockingly, to "say his prayers."

"There! Ever see such a lad?" Redjacket's partisans look round proudly
at the rest.

"Look at him--look!"

"Have done with that!" cries a stern voice from the crowd. "'Tis no
time for mockery."

"What's it to you whether I choose to sing or pray?" cries Redjacket,
with an oath. But he stops his show of praying, all the same, and
picks up his pole again. He is nearing the bridge now.

Already the angry water swirls over the stem and laps his boots, but
he stands fast.

The speed increases, the log itself disappears in a flurry of
foam--those on the bridge hold their breath.

Then it comes up again. The current thrusts against its hinder end,
and the buoyant wood answers to it like the tail of a fish, slipping
sideways round; the steersman sways, but with a swing of his pole
recovers his balance, and stands steady as before.

A sigh of relief from the watchers.

"Tra la la la!" sings Redjacket, undismayed. And he takes a couple of
dance-steps on his log.

"He's no greenhorn, anyhow," the crowd agree. And some of them glance
at Olof--to see how he takes their praise of his rival.

But Olof does not seem to heed; he is watching the water with a
certain impatience--no more.

Just then Redjacket's log strikes a sunken rock, and is thrust
backward. A swift movement--the log comes down with a splash into the
foam; the man bends over, straightens his body, and stands upright as
before, then strikes an attitude, and sails on past the obstacle.

"Well done--well done!"

"'Twas a marvel he cleared it."

The log goes on its way, the man standing easily as ever.

Then once more it collides. The fore end lifts--an oath is heard--next
second the red jacket shows in a whirl of water. Then it disappears.

A movement of anxiety on the bridge--the watchers on the bank spring
to their feet.

He is up again, swimming athwart the stream. A few powerful strokes,
and he reaches the dead water close inshore.

Cursing aloud, he sits down and pours the water from his boots. One of
the men posted at Akeanlinna brings him his pole--but his hat is gone.
He hurries up along the bank.

"Enough--give over now!" cry those on the bridge.

"Go and tell your mother!" he answers furiously.

"Maybe he'd like to have that chart now, after all," says one, with a
sly glance.

He pulls off his red coat. "Seeing I've lost my hat, I can do without
a jacket." A blue shirt shows up on the raft; he picks out a fresh
log, thrusts it angrily under the boom, and comes floating down
towards the bridge.

"Now you can stare till you think you'll know me again."

Not a sound from those on the bridge.

The log shoots down, the man stands erect, and passes proudly under
the gaze of all. He plies his pole to the right, and the log swerves
a little to the opposite side--the first obstacle is safely passed,
though it almost cost him his footing again.

"Aha! He's on his guard this time! Maybe he'll do it, after all!"

"Well, he said you'd know him again!" Redjacket's party are recovering
confidence.

The log hurries on, the man balancing carefully with his pole.

Nearing the second rock now--the figure crouches down and steps a
little back. A sudden shock, a crash--his pole has broken, and the
blue shirt disappears in the rapids.

"Look! Right down there! He'll never get ashore this time." The
onlookers crowd together, straining to see.

The blue shirt comes into view for a moment.

"He'll never do it--'tis right out in midstream."

"Hi--look out there on the bank!"

"He'll be smashed to pieces on the Malli Rock."

"No, no! he's too far out."

The blue shirt is carried past the threatening rock, but making
straight for the big raft below. A clenched hand is raised to bid the
men there stand aside--he will manage alone. But they take no heed.
One thrusts a pole between the swimmer's legs as he nears the raft,
another grasps him by the neck, and they haul him up--a heavy pull,
with the water striving all the time to suck him under. Inch by inch
the blue shirt rises above the edge.

He limps ashore, supported by a man on either side. One knee is
bleeding.

"'Tis more than man can do!" he cries in a broken voice, shaking his
fist toward the bridge.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is a low murmur of voices on the bridge, an anxious whispering.
Olof picks up his pole. Close behind him a young girl plucks at the
sleeve of an elderly man, and seems to be urging him, entreating....

Moisio turns to Olof. "Once more I ask of you--let it be enough. You
have seen how your companion fared. Do not try it again."

"I must," answered Olof in a voice cold and hard as steel, with a ring
of confidence that impressed those who heard.

He goes off to the raft, picks out a log and tries its buoyancy with
care. A long pine stem, with the bark off, and floating deep in the
water.

"Ah--he's choosing a horse of another sort!"

"Tis another sort of rider, too, by his looks."

Olof was nearing the bridge now--calmly, without a word, watching the
course of the river all the time. Reaching the bridge, he raised his
eyes for a moment, and met the glance of a girl looking down. A faint
smile, and the slightest inclination of the head, no more.

"Good luck to you!" cried several of the onlookers; a certain sympathy
was evident among the crowd.

Now he glides under the bridge, on towards the perilous stage of the
journey--all watch with eager eyes.

The strange craft cleaves the waves, sending up spray on either
hand--but the heavy log, floating deep, hardly moves; the steersman
keeps his footing steadily as on firm ground.

"That's the way! Ah, he knows the sort of craft to choose for the
work!"

The log hurries on, the lithe figure bends a little, balancing with
the pole.

"Turn off--turn off! He's making straight for the rock!"

He stands poised, with muscles tense, his pole in readiness, his eyes
fixed on the whirl about the sunken rock, his knees slightly bent.

A shock--and he springs deftly in air as the heavy log is thrust
backward under him--taking his footing again as firmly as before.

"Bravo, bravo! Finely done!"

On again. A few quick, powerful strokes with the pole--and the rock
that had been his rival's undoing is safely passed.

"He'll do it! He's the man!" The onlookers were all excitement now.

The speed increases, the lithe figure swaying to either side. A thrust
from the left--he springs light-footed to meet it.

Once more his body is bent, his pole held firmly, knees crouching
deep--those on the bridge crane their necks to watch.

The next shock comes with a crash that is plainly heard by those
upstream; again he springs as the log thrusts back, and comes down
neatly as before. A few paces forward to get his balance, then back a
step or two like a tight-rope walker.

"That's the way, lad!"

"He knows how to dance!"

"Look out for Malli Rock!"

"Ay, if he can clear that!"

Malli Rock stands ready to meet the attack; the rapids are tearing
past on either side.

The log comes down, making full towards the smooth, sloping face of
the rock.

Olof swerves a little to the right, and leaps off, coming down in a
whirl of spray. The rock has done its part, and sent the end of the
log high out of the water; Olof lands on it and goes on again, the log
scraping the face of the rock as it passes.

"Sticks like a leech, he does! He's done it now!"

A cheer from the crowd.

Straight down in midstream now. A little ahead the river bends--he is
nearing the block at Akeanlinna.

"Now for the last lap!"

"Ay--and the worst of all!"

Two--three short paces back--the log brings up full against the block.

A leap and a crash, a run almost to the fore end of the log before he
can check his pace. The log is flung out again into the current, and
shivers as if paralysed by the blow. Then the water carries it down
again.

The men at their posts stare helplessly--one of them gives a cry, and
the onlookers shudder. "Heavens--he's missed it now!"

More shouting, and men running up and down the banks; others standing
as if rooted to the spot.

Olof glances at the mass of timber by the rock. A swing of the pole, a
sudden deft turn, and hurrying to the other end of the log, he begins
poling hard across the stream.

"He's making for the other bank!"

"He'll never do it--and there's no one there to help!"

"Oh--look! He'll be carried over the edge!"

Hard fighting now. Olof is striving to reach the farther bank,
the current is drawing the end of the log nearer and nearer the
falls--already the water is seething over it.

Two furious strokes, a swift step, and another, and, lifting his
pole, he flies through the air--toward the shore. The pole strikes
something, as all on the bridge can hear--then he is lost to sight.

A rush of men downstream, crying and shouting....

Then, a moment later, a waving of hats from the men at Akeanlinna, and
a cheer is passed from group to group upstream. Some stop, others race
on--he is saved--but how?

Then a tall figure appears standing on the shore, waving his hand
triumphantly. A mighty cheer from all the onlookers and a waving of
hats and kerchiefs. "There he is!"

Olof walks up with easy steps, but the blood is streaming down
his face. The first to meet him is a girl, her face pale, her body
trembling with emotion. She is standing by herself--the others are
still far off.

Olof stops and hesitates--shall he go to meet her, or turn off? The
girl casts down her eyes. He draws nearer--she looks up, and gives him
one deep, warm glance, and looks down again--her cheeks flushed.

Olof's face lights up, and he lifts his hat as he passes. Then the
crowd surges round him with shouts of applause.

"Bravo! Well done! Here's the man that's beaten Kohiseva! Who's the
best man now?"

Vantti steps forward and lays a hand on his shoulder. "Well done,
lad! 'Tis plain to see you're not born to be drowned." And the sturdy
fellow laughs till his great boots shake.

"You've made a name for yourself to-day," says Falk.

"'Olof' was a bit short, maybe...."

"Aha-a-a!"

"So now they'll call you Kohiseva--and a good name too!"

"'Tis as good as another," said Olof, with a laugh. "And longer,
anyway."

"And now we'll go down to the mill and see about drinks all round.
Twice round, it ought to be--'twas worth it!"

       *       *       *       *       *

When Olof came home that evening, a girl sat anxiously waiting at
Moisio.

A bright rose was stuck between the palings of the fence beside the
road. Olof sprang across the ditch--the girl drew her head back behind
the curtain.

He fastened the rose in his coat. With a grateful glance he searched
the garden, up towards the house, but no one was to be seen.

In the safe shelter of her room a girl sat bowed over the table with
her face hidden in her arms, crying softly.




THE SONG OF THE BLOOD-RED FLOWER


"Why are you so sad this evening, Olof?" asked the girl.

"Sad?" he repeated, almost to himself, staring absently before him.
"Yes--I wish I knew."

"But how--when it is yourself--don't you know?"

"No--that's the strange thing about it. I don't know."

There was a pause.

"I won't ask you if you don't like it," she said, after a while. "But
if I were sad, and had a friend, I should want to."

"And make your friend sad too--by telling things no friend could
understand?"

"Perhaps a friend might try."

But Olof seemed not to have heard. He leaned back, and his glance
wandered vaguely.

"Life is very strange," he said dreamily. "Isn't it strange to have
cared very much for a thing--and then one day to feel it as nothing at
all?"

She looked inquiringly at him.

"My own life, for instance. Up to now, it has been a beautiful story,
but now...."

"Now...?"

"Now, I can't see what it is--or if it is anything at all. Going from
place to place, from river to river--from one adventure to another...."

Again there was a pause.

"But why do you live so?" she asked timidly. "I have so often
wondered."

"I wonder myself sometimes why I must live so--or if I must--but it
goes on all the same."

"Must...? But your home ... your father and mother, are they still
alive? You have never spoken of them."

"Yes, they are still alive."

"And couldn't you live with them?"

"No," he said coldly. "They could not make me stay."

"But aren't you fond of them?" she asked in surprise.

He was silent a moment. "Yes," he said at last, "I am fond of them--as
I am fond of many other things. But there is nothing that can hold me
for long."

Something within him was striving for utterance--something he had long
restrained.

"And now," he went on, almost violently, "I want...." He stopped.

"You want...?"

"It is something to do with you, Kyllikki," he said earnestly, as if
in warning.

"Tell me. You need not be afraid," said the girl in a low voice.

"I want to say good-bye to you--and _not_ as friends," he said
passionately.

"Not--not as friends?"

"That is what I said. We met first--you know how it was--it was no
friendly meeting. And best if we could leave each other that way too."

"But why...?"

"Because--shall I tell you?"

"I want you to."

He looked her sharply and coldly in the eyes. "Because you have not
been what I hoped you would. Ay, and thought you would. I was proud
and happy when I knew I had won your friendship. But I thought I had
won more than that--something warmer and deeper--a thing complete."

She was silent for a moment.

"Warm and deep--a thing complete?" she repeated. "Did you _give_ that
yourself?"

"No! But I could have done. I wished to--but you made it impossible.
We have known each other now for a week--and what has come of it? I
have scarcely dared to take your hand."

"But what more could you...?"

"What more? Have you for my own--possess you. All or nothing!"

The girl seemed struggling with some inward feeling.

"May I ask you something?" she asked softly.

"Go on!"

"Have me for your own, you said." She hesitated, but went on
resolutely: "Does that mean--have me for your own to-day, and go away
to-morrow--and then, perhaps, think of me at times as one among a host
of others you have 'possessed'?"

He shot a glance at her, almost of hatred, but said no word.

"Perhaps," went on the girl calmly, "perhaps you too have not been
what I hoped and thought. If you had...."

"What then?" he asked quickly, as if in challenge.

"Then you would not--speak as you are doing now," she answered
evasively. "And perhaps what makes you angry now is only this--that
you can never have more than you are able to take yourself."

He looked at her in wonder.

"And perhaps"--her voice was scarcely audible now--"perhaps you cannot
take more than you are able to keep?"

She looked down in confusion, hardly knowing what she had said, only
that she had been forced to say it.

He sat watching her for a while thoughtfully, as if he had heard
something new and unexpected, and was pondering over it.

"You must have known yourself that I could never keep--or keep
to--anyone," he said at last.

"I know that," she answered; "you don't want to."

It was as if a fine, sharp thorn had pierced him to the heart, and
left its point there. The two sat looking at each other without a
word.

"And if I would...." He grasped her hand earnestly. "Do you think I
might dare?"

The girl turned pale, and did not speak.

"Answer me," he said insistently.

"Surely each must know that for himself," she answered at last,
speaking with difficulty.

"Kyllikki, Kyllikki, if you only knew!" he cried sorrowfully, and took
her hands in his. Then a sudden coldness came over him once more.

"And if I were to dare," he said, "there is one other besides you and
me."

"Are you afraid of him?" she asked sharply.

"No. But if he turned me from his door in scorn...."

"If the thought of that counts for so much," she said, with emphasis,
"then it were better not to ask. For, after--whom would you love more,
do you think; yourself, or the one you think you love?"

He winced under her glance.

"If it were for your sake I feared?" he asked, with some feeling.

"No need of that--as long as I know you are sure in your own mind. And
if you were sure--you need have no fear for me."

He looked at her in surprise and admiration.

"You are a strange girl, Kyllikki," he said at last. "I am only just
beginning to understand you. You are not as I hoped you would be--but
you are something more. I know what it must have cost you to say so
much. I shall not forget."

Again the trouble rose within him. "You, I understand," he said
wearily. "Yes. But myself--"

"You will find that out as well, some day," she said tenderly.

"If only there was time now...." He sat for a moment in thought.

"We are leaving to-morrow afternoon. If I have got things clear in my
own mind by then, I will come and see you before we go. But it will
be at the last minute. For if it comes to what I think it will, then I
must not stay a moment longer."

The girl nodded. Both rose to their feet.

"Kyllikki," he said, with emotion, taking her hands, "it may be this
is the last time I see you alone. Do not think hardly of me because I
am what I am."

"You could not be otherwise," she answered warmly. "I understand."

"I shall be grateful to you for that always. And perhaps...." His voice
broke. "Good-bye, Kyllikki!"

       *       *       *       *       *

It was Sunday afternoon. The lumbermen were getting ready to leave.
The young folk of the village, and some of the elders, had come down
to the creek at Kohiseva to see them start.

The water was almost clear of timber already, the boom was being
dragged slowly down the dead water by a few of the men. Some went
ahead, getting odd logs out of the way, others strolled idly about on
the shore, exchanging greetings with the villagers.

A little way down the bank a log is stranded with one end thrust far
inshore. Close by it lies a pole.

"That's Olof's," says one of the men. "He's not come down yet--busy up
at the village, it seems."

A girl in the group of lookers-on felt her heart beat suddenly.

"H'm--left it to ride down on, I suppose. Wants to take another turn
down the rapids before he goes."

"Ay, that's it. Likes that way better than going on a raft like
ordinary folk. That's him coming down, isn't it?"

Olof came racing down like the wind.

A girl in the group turned pale. She could see from his manner what
had passed. Something terrible it must have been to bring him down in
a fury like that.

He came nearer. His face was deadly pale, his lips compressed, and his
eyes flashed, though he looked out over the water all the time.

He raised his hat as he passed the group, but without a glance at
anyone.

"What's happened now?" The question was in all eyes, but no one spoke.

Olof grasped his pole, thrust off the log, and sprang out on it. He
took a few powerful strokes, and turned, casting his eyes over the
group on the shore. He was looking for one amongst them--and found
her.

"Good-bye!" he cried, waving his hat.

"Good-bye--good-bye! Come again some day to Kohiseva!"

The men waved their hats, the girls fluttered kerchiefs in farewell.

Olof was still facing toward the shore, paddling slowly out across the
creek.

Those on shore would have sent him a friendly word, but no one
spoke--all were looking at a girl whose face was strangely pale.

Paler than ever it seemed as the man stopped rowing, and fixed his
eyes on the group.

  "Ay, cast your coins in a beggar's hat,
      And he'll bless your charity.
  I was good enough for the girl I loved,
      But her kin were prouder than she!"

There was a depth of bitterness in the words--the listeners started
involuntarily.

"What's taken him all at once? Never heard him sing that way before!"

"Sh! Listen!"

The singer glanced down at the water, took a few strokes out, and went
on:

  "My home is where the rapids roar,
      Below the river's brink.
  All the rivers of all the world--
      Who cares if he swim or sink?"

The listeners glanced at one another--the meaning of the song was
growing clear.

  "'Twas no spring day that gave me life
      With sunlit skies and clear,
  But a leafless gloom that sent me forth
      To wander many a year.

  My mother wept in her garden lone,
      Or ever I was born; Looked at a
  blood-red flower and wept
      For that her heart was torn."

He was midway across now, paddling slowly, bending a little forward.
Those on the shore stood still, waiting.

  "And that same flower grew red in my way,
      And I wished it for my own.
  I won but little joy of its bloom
      That was in sorrow grown.

  But little joy when my father rose
      And drove me from his door,
  And my mother wept as I went to seek
      What sorrow was yet in store."

A girl was crying softly. The rest stood silent.

  "O blood-red flower, O flame-red flower,
      That ever you grew so red!
  Ask of my love if she knows you now,
      When all her tears are shed!"

With a wave of his hand the singer turned, and made his way swiftly
across the river.

Those on the shore waved in return, and stood watching and waving
long, but he did not look back.




WATER-SPRITE AND WATER-WITCH


Slowly the river flowed; the waves plashed, and the reeds swayed
lightly.

Green pine woods on one shore: the other was field and meadow, with a
road running through a little distance from the bank.

A girl came walking down the road, casting an anxious glance now and
again towards the river.

She stopped. A boom lay out in the river, lumbermen's poles were
strewn about on the farther bank. And something more--a man lay under
the trees at the edge of the wood, resting his head on one hand.

The girl looked at him thoughtfully. The man did not move. Still in
doubt, she took a step forward, and then drew back again. At last,
she turned off from the road, and walked resolutely down along a
watercourse straight towards the river.

Mingled emotion stirred in the young man's breast--joy at the meeting,
and wounded pride and bitterness. He felt an impulse to hurry across,
run to the girl and take her in his arms, forgetting all else. But
there was that between them cold and clear as the dividing water.

The girl reached the bank, and stood looking out over the water in
silence.

The young man could contain himself no longer. "You have come!" he
cried.

"How could I help it?" she said in a low voice--the words hardly
carried to the opposite bank.

"And I could not help thinking of you."

The river looked at the pair. "If only I were frozen over!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Couldn't you--couldn't you come across--just for a moment?" asked the
girl timidly.

"Just what I was going to do. But we can't stay there on the bank--the
men will be coming down directly."

He thought for a moment.

"Will you come over here if I come to fetch you? Then we can go up in
the woods where no one can see. Come over on the raft."

"Yes, I could do that!"

He took up his pole and set the raft loose--a couple of tree trunks,
no more, fastened together with withies--and rowed hurriedly across to
the opposite bank.

"Like a dear sister she comes," he thought to himself, as he helped
her on to the raft. The girl held his hands and looked deep into his
eyes, but without speaking.

"Sit there on the crosspiece--you can't stand up when it begins to
move."

She sat down obediently, and he rowed across.

"I never thought you could be such a friend," he said, as they stepped
ashore.

"Friend?" said the girl, with a tender, grateful glance--grateful
that he had found the very word for the feeling that had brought her
thither, and which had cost her so much already.

       *       *       *       *       *

The sun was setting. A youth and a girl walked down from the woods
towards the river bank, talking together.

Then suddenly they awoke from their dreams, and looked at each other
in dismay. The river was a waste of water only, the banks deserted,
the raft gone--neither of them had thought of how they were to get
back.

"What are we to do?" The mute question was in the eyes of both.

"You can't get back along this bank?" said the young man at last.

"All through Vaha-Kohiseva village and over the bridge--no. And I
ought to bring the calves home, too."

"There's no boat anywhere near?"

"No."

A gleam of resolution shone in the young man's eyes.

"Can you swim?" he asked suddenly, turning towards her.

"Swim?" she repeated in surprise. Then her face lit up as she grasped
his meaning. "Yes, indeed!"

"And _would_ you swim across with me if I carry your clothes?"

She trembled slightly--it was a daring plan, yet there was a certain
secret fascination in the thought.

"With you? Yes!" she cried.

"Good. You can undress here. Then roll up all your clothes in your
blouse, and tie it round with the sleeves. I'll go a little way off
and get ready. We'll manage all right, you see."

And he strode off with rapid steps.

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ye--es," said the girl.

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

Olof swam rapidly across.

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

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

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

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

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

"Nor I!" said the girl.

"Nor we!" laughed the trees behind them.

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

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

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

Slowly they came to land.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her eyelids quivered, and she bowed her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE CAMP-FIRE AT NEITOKALLIO


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Several nodded assent.

"Maybe there _is_ someone sitting there."

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

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

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

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

"Did you see it yourself, then?"

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

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

"Her betrothed, maybe?"

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

"Well, and what then? What happened?"

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

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

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

"But what was she doing there?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Ho!"

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

"Was it just a young girl?"

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

No one spoke for a while.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The old man was silent.

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

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

The men exchanged glances; none seemed wishful to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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




HAWTHORN


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

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

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

"Is it really so...?"

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

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

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

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

"What? Tell me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And never care what people said?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, of course not."

"Then why should I need one?"

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

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

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

She rose up suddenly on her elbow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




SISTER MAYA


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He relapsed into thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The smile died from the young man's face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'Yes, I can--sometimes.'

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

"'No!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The young man sat for a while in thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'Do you really think so?'

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

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

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

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

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

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




CLEMATIS


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

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

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

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

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

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

The young man was silent a moment.

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

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

"But of...?"

They looked at each other in silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Something you have seen yourself?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The girl watched him anxiously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The girl shivered a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What--not finished yet?"

"No!"

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

"Give me that mark!"

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

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

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

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

"But you said yourself it was so pretty."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

"A flower, then--or what?"

"No, nothing like that."

"You want me to write something, then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




DARK FURROWS


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

"Those wrinkles there on the temples are getting deeper," he thought.
"Well, after all, I suppose it looks more manly."

He laid down the comb, turned his head slightly, and looked in the
glass again.

"Paler, too, perhaps," he thought again. "Well, I'm no longer a
boy...."

He moved as if to rise.

"Look once more--a little closer," urged the glass.

Olof brushed his moustache and smiled.

"Can't you see anything?" the glass went on, with something like a
sneer. "Under the eyes, for instance?"

And suddenly he saw. The face that stared at him from the glass was
pale, and marked by the lines and wrinkles of those past years. And
under the eyes were two dark grey furrows, like heavy flourishes to
underline a word.

"Is it possible?" he cried, with a shudder.

"Is it any wonder?" said the glass coldly.

The face in the glass was staring at him yet, with the dark furrows
under the eyes.

"But what--how did they come there?" asked Olof in dismay.

"Need you ask?" said the glass. "Well, you have got your 'mark,'
anyhow--though it was not one you asked for."

       *       *       *       *       *

The face in the mirror stared at him; the dark furrows were there
still. He would have turned his head away, or closed his eyes, but
could not. He felt as if some great strong man were behind him with a
whip, bidding him sternly "Look!"

And he looked.

"Look closer--closer yet!" commanded his tormentor. "A few deep
lines--and what more?"

Olof looked again. The plainer furrows tailed off into a host of
smaller lines and tiny folds, this way and that, there seemed no end
to them. And again he shuddered.

"Count them!" cried the voice behind him.

"Impossible--they--they are so small!"

"Small they may be--but how many are there?"

Olof bent forward and tried to count.

"Well?"

No answer.

"How many are there?" thundered the voice--and Olof saw the whip
raised above his head.

"Nine or ten, perhaps," he answered.

"More! And what do they mean? Can you tell me that?"

"No."

"No? Then let me tell you, that you may know henceforward. The
first...?"

"I--I don't know."

"You know well enough. Bright eyes--that is the first."

He flinched involuntarily as under the lash. And now the strokes
followed sharply one on another.

"A fine figure and curling hair ... tears and empty promises ... a
thirst for beauty ... false brotherhood ... selfishness and the
desire for conquest ... dying voices of childhood ... dreams and
self-deceit...."

"Enough!"

"Not yet. There are little extras that you have not called to mind."

"Leave me in peace!" cried Olof almost threateningly.

"You could not leave yourself in peace. Look again--what more--what
more?"

"Go!" Olof sprang up with a cry like that of a wounded beast, took the
mirror and flung it against the stove, the pieces scattering with a
crash about the floor. His blood boiled, his eyes burned with a dark,
boding gleam.

"And what then?" he cried defiantly. "My mark? Why, then, let it be.
I'll go my own way, mark or no mark."

He picked up his hat and hurried out.




TO THE DREGS


"And now--I'll drink it to the dregs!

"Why not? I've tasted the rarest wine in cups of purest crystal--why
not swallow the lees of a baser drink from a tavern stoup? 'Tis the
last that drowns regret. Others have done so--why not I?

"Once we have tasted, we must drink--we must dip down into the murky
depths of life if we are to know it to the full--ay, drink with a
laugh, and go on our way with lifted head!

"Drink to the dregs--and laugh at life! Life does not waste tears over
us!"

Olof strode briskly out toward a certain quarter of the town, a
complex of narrow streets and little houses with stuffy rooms,
where glasses are filled and emptied freely, and men sit with
half-intoxicated women on their knees, sacrificing to insatiable
idols.

It was a summer evening, bright and clear. The noise of day had
ceased, and few were abroad. It seemed like a Sunday, just before
evening service, when all were preparing for devotion, and he alone
walked with workaday thoughts in his mind.

A narrow door with a grating in the centre. Olof stood a moment,
evidently in doubt, and walked on--his heart was thumping in his
breast. The consciousness of it irritated him, and turning back
impatiently, he knocked loudly at the door.

No sound from within. He felt as if thousands of eyes were watching
him sco

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