The dark of an autumn evening was abroad. It marched along the roads,
stole over the meadows, and sat brooding in the forest; the shimmering
waterways marked its track.
But at Moisio all the homestead was ablaze with light; every window
shed its bright stream into the night, as if from a single fire
within.
And from within came a constant sound of many voices, as of men
sitting round the hearth relating manifold adventures. Outside, all
round the house, were voices too, loud and low, soft and harsh, with
an undertone of whispering in corners, and footsteps moving here and
there. All that there was of life and light and sound in Kohiseva
seemed gathered this night at Moisio.
The fiddler played his hardest, the floor creaked, and the walls
quivered to the tramp of many feet; a stream of figures passed
continuously before the windows.
The wedding had taken place that afternoon. Then came feasting and
dancing--and the guests were dancing still, though it was close on
midnight.
The bridegroom was a fine upstanding fellow, and the bride a worthy
mate--as stately a pair as any had seen. All the neighbourhood agreed
in this--and all had seen the couple, though not all had been bidden
to the feast. A whisper had been passed among the crowd without,
followed by a shout from all, demanding to see the bride and
bridegroom. And when the pair came out and stood in the porch, with
their following behind, the onlookers greeted them with shouts and
cheers--just as at fine folk's weddings in the great cities, declared
those who knew.
The bridegroom was happy--and well he might be, with such a bride.
And the bride, too, was happy--as well she might be after waiting all
those years. All knew the story--the first strange wooing, with
the desperate venture down the rapids, and the lover's Song of
the Blood-Red Flower as he went away. And more was whispered
about--fragmentary tales of the bridegroom's adventurous life and the
trials of the girl who waited for him to return; rumour had gathered
what was known, and popular fancy had added thereto at will. The
stories passed from mouth to mouth among those outside, and even among
the guests within, reaching almost to the bridal pair themselves.
There was a touch of something legendary, heroic, about it all, that
shed a halo of romance even upon old Moisio's grey head.
* * * * *
Again they call for bridegroom and bride--the hero and heroine of the
story--manly courage and womanly faithfulness personified; a sight to
look on again and again. Again the light streamed out into the porch,
and again the shouts and cheers went up, and one or two of the more
curious and venturesome slipped into the house unbidden in the press.
It was a bright and festive scene within. The roof-beams were draped
with white, and the hangings glittered like newly-fallen snow in the
morning sunlight. The walls, too, were draped, and decked with wreaths
and garlands; here and there a bunch of fresh juniper twigs seeming to
speak of newly-arisen life.
* * * * *
The dancing ceased for a moment; the guests adjourned to the
well-furnished tables in an adjoining room--the women following the
bride, the men by themselves, with the bridegroom and old Moisio
himself. Trays clattered, glasses rang, a hum of gay voices filled the
room, and all eyes shone with a festive gleam.
Then the fiddler tuned up once more, and the guests streamed out back
into the hall. The men stayed a moment to finish their glasses, and
followed after.
The bridegroom came last. Suddenly it occurred to him to fetch
something for the fiddler, and he turned back. Having found what he
wanted, he was leaving the room, when a stranger barred his way.
Olof started; the man had come suddenly and silently as a ghost.
There was something uncanny about him as he stood there--a short,
heavily-built fellow, standing without a word, one hand in his
trousers pocket, a cigar in his mouth, and a red rosette, such as
peasants wear on holidays, in the buttonhole of what was evidently
his best coat. There he stood, gazing fixedly at Olof, with a curious
glitter in his eyes.
"I've a word to say to the bridegroom, if so be he's time to hear,"
said the man in a hoarse voice, still keeping the cigar between his
teeth.
"Why ... here I am, if you want me," said Olof, "though I don't know
who you are...."
"No," said the man, "you don't know who I am. And yet we're sort of
related--yes, that's the word--for all we've never met before."
He took a step forward.
"'Tis your wedding night--and I've come to wish you joy of it. You've
played with many a woman's heart in your time, and driven more than
one good lad to despair--maybe 'twill do you good to learn...."
"What?" cried Olof, with sudden fury. "Out with it, man!"
The fellow's glassy eyes seemed to be straining forward, the pupils
were glittering points of light.
"You, that have worked your will on any and all as it pleased
you--robbed your betters of all they had and cared for--'twill do you
good, maybe, to know that.... _Do you think you're taking an innocent
girl for your bride_?"
The man stood watching the effect of his words. He saw Olof's face
darken, his nostrils expand and quiver. Saw him tremble from head to
foot, like a tree about to fall, waiting but for the last stroke of
the axe. Well, he should have it....
"Well--how does it feel?" He bowed mockingly, and went on with a
sneer: "Wish you joy.... I've more reason, perhaps, than the others,
seeing we're partners, so to speak, in the same...."
"Liar--devil--coward!" Olof's rage broke loose. A step forward, almost
a spring, and with the strength of fury he seized the man by his coat
with both hands and lifted him from the floor.
"Say your prayers!" hissed Olof between his teeth, still holding
the man in mid-air, the shirt-front crushing under his grip. The man
struggled helplessly once or twice, then hung limp; the cigar fell
from his mouth, and Olof felt the body a dead weight in his hands.
"I ... I've been drinking," he gasped--"drinking... don't know what
I've been saying...." The words bubbled pitifully from the pale lips,
like the last drops from an empty barrel.
"Well for you!" Olof set the man down and loosed his hold. "Or I'd....
Huh! Get out of this--d'you hear?"
The man staggered, looking this way and that, then turned and stole
from the room without a word.
* * * * *
Olof stood alone. His brain was in a whirl, dazzling lights floated
before his eyes.
"It must be true! No one would ever dare unless...." There was no
doubt in his mind--it was only too natural that it should be so. The
retribution he had feared so long--it had come at last, and ruined all
in a moment.
The fiddler was playing louder than before; the whole house
shook--they were dancing again. To Olof the music seemed like a
mighty peal of scornful laughter, as if the host of people there were
laughing and dancing for joy at his shame.
"Make an end--make an end!" he cried to himself, and he rushed from
the room. How he was to end it he did not know--only that this was
unendurable--it was hell!
* * * * *
Smiling faces greeted Olof as he appeared in the doorway and stood
a moment, unable to get through the press. His brain cleared a
little--after all, he could not drive the guests from the house like a
madman with a knife in his hand.
They stood aside to let him pass, and he slipped round by the wall to
the farther end of the room, and went up to the fiddler.
"Will you sell it," he whispered--"sell your fiddle? There's a man
wants to buy it--he's asked me. Never mind about the price--say what
you like."
"Why ... I don't know. 'Tis an old friend," answered the man, playing
more softly as he spoke.
"Will you sell it? At your own price. Yes or no?"
"H'm ... well, say thirty marks?"
"Good! The man'll be here directly. And now, play a polka--and play
like the devil himself, as if you were kissing your girl for the last
time. The fastest you've ever played."
The fiddler nodded.
* * * * *
Olof walked up to a young girl and bowed. The fiddler broke off, and
struck up a polka at such a furious pace that the dancers stopped and
looked at one another in surprise.
But Olof went off in wild career with his partner, and several other
pairs followed. These, however, soon fell out, and all stood watching
the bridegroom, who danced like a man bewitched. His eyes blazed,
a strange smile played about his lips, and his head was lifted
defiantly.
The onlookers were filled with admiration and wonder--never had they
seen such a dance! Olof took a second partner, then a third; danced
a couple of rounds with each, and took a new. He did not lead them to
their places after, but slipped each lightly, bowed to another, and
whirled her off at the same furious pace.
"What's come over him now?" whispered the guests.
"He's going to dance with them all--for the last time, it seems."
"Ay, it looks like it!" And they laughed and watched the extraordinary
scene--after all, it would have been strange if something out of the
common had not happened at Olof's wedding.
Once more Olof set his partner down and bowed to another. Formally
this time, as if with emphasis: it was Kyllikki he had chosen now. The
girl stood dismayed, uneasy, not knowing what to think.
The fiddler, noting who was the latest choice, pressed his instrument
closer under his chin, and put his whole fire into the work. The music
swelled and sank, the bridal pair danced lightly and gracefully--sight
to see. Once, twice, three times, four times round, and still they
danced.
Then as they passed the fiddler for the fifth time, the music suddenly
stopped--Olof had snatched the instrument with his right hand as
he passed, and next moment it was shivered to a thousand fragments
against the table. A single string whined painfully as it broke.
A gasp went up from the onlookers; all stared in amazement at the
pair. Neither showed any sign of confusion; they stood easily, as if
the whole thing were a prearranged conclusion.
"I hope I haven't startled anyone,'" said Olof gaily. "But the fiddle
that has played my youth away--must play no more! Good-night!"
A sigh of relief and admiration passed through the crowd. What a
finish! What a youth! None but he could ever have done the like.
And the guests laughed, and the bridegroom laughed, and old Moisio
himself laughed where he sat: "Ay, that's the way! Turn your back on
the rest and give all to one--my daughter's worth a fiddle at least!"
But the bride was pale--as it might have been one Sunday evening
by the river, when she sat alone on the bank, watching a man stride
hastily away, with a flush of anger on his cheek.