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.