"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.