Olof was growing uneasy--a feeling of insecurity had come over him.
The air seemed full of mysterious forces, whispering together and
joining in alliance against him.
It had all looked clear and simple enough before. No one had ever
stood in his way or threatened his plans. But now something was
threatening him--something unknown, mysterious, but which he could not
help feeling all the time.
He made every effort to resist--to gather arms and allies against what
was to come. His project for draining the marsh was the first thing;
he went about from one homestead to another, talking to the men one
by one, and trying to interest them in the idea. A general meeting
was held, and he made a great speech, putting out all his powers of
persuasion; his voice rang with a convincing strength, and his words
carried weight. And to begin with, all went well enough; it was agreed
that an expert should be called in to investigate the whole question,
and work out the probable cost of the undertaking.
But then came a period of waiting and inactivity, which sapped his
strength anew. He had to seek about for some fresh task, for new
difficulties to meet and overcome, in order to regain his confidence
in himself. And so for a week he roved about in the forest between his
own and the neighbouring parishes.
At last he found what he sought--the line for a new road, better and
quicker than the old one.
It was a fine idea, that no one could deny. It would be a great gain
to all in Hirviyoki, especially for those in the outlying parts; it
meant a saving of miles on their way to the railway, the mills, and
other centres.
And so once more Olof went from house to house, seeking adherents
among the most influential men, so as to crush opposition before the
matter was taken up for general discussion. He started with those
nearest at hand, working gradually farther out.
"Is this Inkala?" asked Olof of a serving-girl, as he entered the
courtyard; he did not know the place, nor who lived there.
"This is Inkala--yes," answered the girl.
"Is the master at home?"
"No; he went off to Muurila this morning."
"H'm. And when's he coming back?"
"Don't know at all. But maybe mistress'll know. If you'd go in by the
front way, I'll tell her."
Olof walked up the front steps.
Hardly had he entered the room when a slender, fair-haired woman
appeared from within.
"Good-day to ..." Olof began; but the greeting died on his lips, and a
shiver passed through his body.
The woman stopped still; her lips moved, but uttered no word.
Stiffly, uneasily, they looked at each other. A glimpse of the past,
a sequence of changes, things new and things familiar--the vision of a
moment, seen in a flash.
A warm flush spread over the woman's cheeks, and she stepped forward
without hesitation to greet the newcomer.
"Welcome, Olof," she said, with frank kindness, though her voice
trembled slightly. "And is it really you? Sit down.'"
But Olof stood still, unable to recover himself.
"I dare say you're surprised to--to find me here," went on the woman,
trying to speak easily and naturally, though her features and the look
in her eyes revealed a certain emotion. "I have been here for four
years now." She stopped, and cast down her eyes in confusion.
"Really--four years, is it as long as that...?" Olof stammered out the
words awkwardly, and could say no more.
"But you've heard no news of me, I suppose, and my being here. I knew
a little about you, though--that you had come back and were living
near...."
"Yes, yes.... No, I had no idea ... I came prepared to find only
strangers, and then ... to meet you here ... so far from...."
"Yes, it is a long way from my home." The woman grasped eagerly at
something to talk of. "And it's all so different here, though it's not
so far, after all, counting the miles. It was very strange and new at
first, of course, but now I like it well enough. And we often go over
to the old place, and father and mother come to see us here...."
"Yes, yes.... And how are they at home? Your mother and father?" Olof
asked, with a ring of pleasant recollection in his voice.
"Finely, thank you. Father was bad for a time last winter, but he's
got over it now, or nearly...."
She broke off and glanced at the door. It was thrust open a little,
and a child's head looked in.
She stepped hastily across the room. "What do you want in here? Can't
you see here are visitors--and you with your dirty overall on?"
"I wanted to see," said the little man stubbornly, with childish
insistence, and clung to his mother.
Olof looked at the child as at a vision.
The woman stood, pale and confused, holding the boy by the hand.
"Come along, then, and say good-day," she stammered at last, hardly
knowing what she did.
The boy came forward, and stood holding Olof's knees, looking up into
his face.
Child and man gazed at each other without a word or movement, as if
each were seeking for some explanation.
"I haven't seen you before," said the child at last. "Do you live a
long way away?"
Olof felt himself trembling. The child's first words had set his heart
beating wildly.
"But you mustn't stay here, dear," said the woman hastily, and led the
boy away. "Go into the next room a little--mother's coming soon."
The child obeyed without a word, but in the doorway he turned, and
again looked wonderingly at his mother and the strange man....
* * * * *
Olof was gone; the young mistress of Inkala sat alone in her room.
Thinking it over now, it seemed like a dream. Was it indeed Olof she
had seen? Or had she been dreaming in broad daylight?
It had seemed natural enough at first. Both were surprised, of course,
at the unexpected meeting, but soon they had found themselves talking
calmly enough.
But the entry of the child had brought a touch of something strange
and unspeakable--it seemed to change them all at once to another
footing, bringing up a reckoning out of the past.
True, she had wondered now and again if fate would ever bring her face
to face with Olof again--if he would ever see the child. But she had
put the thought aside as painful to dwell upon.
And now, here they were, those two; no stranger but would at once have
taken them for father and son, though in truth there was no kinship
between them.
It was as if she were suddenly called upon to answer for her life.
First it was her son that questioned her, standing in the doorway,
looking at both with his innocent eyes.
And then--a triple reckoning--to Olof, to her husband, and to God.
Until that day, her secret had been known to none but God and herself.
And now--he knew it, he, the one she had resolved should never know.
And the third stood there too, like one insistent question, waiting to
know....
"Daisy....?"
She would have told him, frankly and openly, as she herself understood
it. How she had longed for him and the thought of him, and never
dreamed that she could ever love another! Until at last he came--her
husband. How good and honest and generous he had been--willing to take
her, a poor cottage girl, and make her mistress of the place. And how
she herself had felt so weak, so bitterly in need of friendship and
support, until at last she thought she really loved him.
No, she could not tell him that--it would have been wrong every
way--as if she had a different explanation for each.
And to Olof she said only: "I loved him, it is true. But our first
child--you saw yourself. It's past understanding. It must have been
that I could not even then forget--that first winter. I can find no
other way...."
Olof sat helplessly, as in face of an inexplicable riddle.
Then she went on, speaking now to God, while Olof was pondering still.
"You know ... you know it all! I thought I had freed myself from him,
but it was not so. My heart was given to him, and love had marked it
with his picture, so that life had no other form for me. And then,
when I loved again, and our first-born lay beneath my heart.... All
that was in my thoughts that, time ... and after, when the child was
to be born ... the struggle in my mind ... how I did not always wish
myself it should be otherwise--dearly as I have paid for it since...."
And at last, in a whisper, she spoke to her husband:
"It was terrible--terrible. For your sake, because you had been so
good--you, the only one I love. It was as if I were faithless to you,
and yet I know my heart was true. I would have borne the secret
alone, that is why I have never spoken of it to you before. But now I
must--and it hurts me that any should have known it before."
Olof was waiting--she could see it in his eyes.
"You know, I need not tell you how it has made me suffer," she said,
turning towards him. "And when the second time came, and I was again
to be a mother, I wept and prayed in secret--and my prayer was heard.
It was a girl--and her father's very image. And after that I felt
safe, and calm again...."
She marked how Olof sighed, how the icy look seemed to melt from his
eyes.
And she herself felt an unspeakable tenderness, a longing to open
her heart to him. Of all she had thought of in those years of
loneliness--life and fate and love.... Had he too, perhaps, thought of
such things? And what had he come to in the end? She herself felt now
that when two human beings have once been brought together by fate,
once opened their hearts fully to each other, it is hard indeed for
either to break the tie--hardest of all for the woman. And _first_
love is so strong--because one has dreamed of it and waited for it
so long, till like a burning glass it draws together all the rays of
one's being, and burns its traces ineffaceably upon the soul....
But his tongue was tied, as if they had been altogether strangers
during those past years; as if they had nothing, after all, to say
to each other but this one thing. And it was of this he was thinking
now--with thoughts heavy as sighs.
"Life is so--and what is done cannot be undone--there is no
escape...."
Those were Olof's words--all that he found to say to her in return.
"Escape? No! All that has once happened sets its mark on us, and
follows us like a shadow; it will overtake us some day wherever we may
go--I have learned that at least, and learned it in a way that is not
easy to forget."
"You--have you too...?" Again she felt that inexpressible tenderness,
the impulse to draw nearer to him. How much they would have to say to
each other--the thoughts and lessons of all those years! She knew it
well enough for her own part, and from his voice, too, she knew it
was the same. And yet, it could not be. They seemed so very near each
other, but for all that wide apart; near in the things of the past,
but sundered inevitably in the present. Their hearts must be closed to
each other--it showed in their eyes, and nothing could alter that.
... What happened after she hardly knew. Had they talked, or only
thought together? She remembered only how he had risen at last and
grasped her hand.
"Forgive me," he said, with a strange tremor in his voice, as if the
word held infinitely much in itself.