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."