MOISIO
Olof walked up the steps to the homestead at Moisio.
A trifle pale, perhaps, but confident, ready to meet whatever might chance, and determined to gain his end.
He opened the door and went in. There were two in the room: an old man with bushy brows—who, unaware of the visitor's approach, was on the point of going out himself—and a girl. She was waiting anxiously, and as the door opened, her heart beat as if it would leap from her breast.
All three stood for a moment in silence.
"Good-day to you," said Olof respectfully to the old man.
No one answered. Olof marked how the dark brows drew together like two murky storm-clouds.
"Good-day," came the answer at last, sharp and hard—as if the speaker were unwilling to deny a certain courtesy, even to the most unwelcome guest, in his own house.
Having said so much, however, he felt no further obligation, and went on sternly:
"I told you last time that I did not wish to see you again. What brings you here now?"
The words fell like strokes of an axe; the girl turned pale, and leaned against the wall.
"This," said Olof calmly. "When I spoke to you last time, matters did not pass off as they should. I beg your forgiveness for that. And now I have come to ask again for your daughter's hand."
"You—a wastrel…!" The old man's voice trembled with anger.
"I have been. But let us talk calmly, if you please."
"Lumberman!" The word was flung out with a bitterness and contempt that cut like a knife.
A dark flush rose to Olof's cheek; he was hard put to it already to control himself.
"True," he said, slowly and with emphasis. "I have been a lumberman. There are clodhoppers enough to ditch and plough, but good lumbermen are none so easy to find."
The old man raised his eyebrows, then lowered them again with an expression as of a beast about to spring.
"Go!" he thundered.
A deep silence followed. Olof bit his lip, then drawing himself up defiantly, he poured out a flood of words.
"You—you drove me out from here once before, and I went at your bidding. Now, I move not a step till we have fought this out between us. I came to you to-day with all respect—yes, and asked your pardon for last time, though even now I do not know which of us two was more in the wrong. And I am going now, but not at your bidding—and not alone. I have come to ask for what is mine by right—and I would do the same if she were a star in the skies of heaven!"
The old man was leaning forward with clenched fists; without a word he rushed towards the door.
Olof's mind was made up on the instant—he would take the man by the arms and set him down and bid him talk over matters quietly and decently, as became his age. He stepped forward resolutely.
"Father!" The girl sprang forward hastily between them, "Father—I … it is true. I am his by right!"
The words came like a blow from behind—the father turned and looked long at the girl.
"You…!" he cried, astounded. "You say—you are his by right? Ho! And perhaps you've been waiting for him, then, all these years, when you said 'No' to one after another?"
"Yes," she answered calmly. "And I have made up my mind to be his wife."
The old man took a step towards her.
"Made up your mind, have you…?"
"Yes," said the girl gently; "and I want you, father, to consent."
"But suppose I've made up my mind?" The old man drew himself up and stood between them, straight as a fir stem. "And this I say: My daughter's not for any wandering lumberman that has the impudence to ask."
He spoke with firmness and authority—matters seemed hopelessly at a deadlock. There was a moment of tense silence. Kyllikki bowed her head, then slowly she looked up and faced her father, steadily, confidently—Olof noticed with surprise how the two in that moment were alike. Expression and attitude were the same in both.
"And if she chooses to give herself—what then?"
The old man's eyes flashed.
"Then—why, she can go as his mistress, if she please, but not as my daughter!"
Silence again. Kyllikki flushed angrily; Olof was hardly able to restrain himself. But he realised that the two must be left to themselves for what concerned themselves—he could only make matters worse.
"Choose," said her father, coldly and with dignity. "And make haste about it—the fellow here is waiting. But mark this," he added with a sneer, as confident of victory: "If you go, you go at once. And you take with you nothing—not a rag nor stitch that was my daughter's. You go … dressed as you came. You understand!"
The two stood amazed at first, hardly comprehending. Then, as the meaning of his words dawned on them, in its fearful cruelty, they looked at him aghast.
"Father … is that your last word?" asked the girl earnestly.
"Yes!"
Pale and red by turns, she stood hardly seeming to breathe.
The old man's lips curved in a scornful smile. Olof stood waiting his sentence, unable to think or feel.
Then slowly the girl raised her head, seeming to tower over her surroundings. She raised her hands without a tremor, slipped the fastenings of her blouse, and almost before they could realise what she was doing, she stood bare-armed, bare-throated before them.
The smile faded from the old man's lips. Olof's heart beat with a wild delight—he felt an impulse to take the girl in his arms and carry her off.
Calmly she went on—unhooked her skirt and let it slip to the floor beside her blouse.
The old man's face was ashy pale. Olof turned his back in fury and disgust.
But the girl never flinched. Quietly she loosened the strings of her petticoat….
"Enough!" The old man's voice was like a cry from the underworld.
Olof turned—the girl looked inquiringly at him.
"Go! Take her—be off with you both!" cried her father, beyond himself. "Ay, you're hard," he went on, to the girl, "hard and obstinate as the rest of our blood ever were, too hard for your woman's clothes! And as for you, I hope you can keep a wife now you've got her. Of all the cursed…."
The young pair flushed, but they stood still, unable to move.
"Get your things on," said the old man impatiently. "And you—sit down."
A sudden wave of shame came over the girl; snatching up her clothes, she fled into the next room.
The master of Moisio walked slowly to the window and sat down heavily, a beaten man. Olof felt a thrill of pity for the old man.
They sat for a few moments in silence; then Kyllikki entered once more, blushing still, glanced hastily at Olof, and sat down, watching her father's face.
At last the old man turned. The scene had left its mark on him, but there was dignity still in his glance as he looked Olof full in the face.
"You've made yourself my son-in-law," he said, "though 'twas no wish of mine it should be so. But we may as well start with a clear understanding. 'Tis our way here to say what's to be said at once, or give a blow where it's needed—and have done with it."
"'Tis no bad way," said Olof, hardly knowing what he was saying. "My father's way was much the same."
There was a slight pause. "We've one or two things to talk over now," went on the old man. "I should like to hear, to begin with, what you're thinking of doing. Wandering about as before, maybe?"
"No. I've done with that. I've settled down in my own place—I'm building a house there," answered Olof.
"H'm. Building a house, are you? I could find you a house here, for that matter. I dare say you know I've no son to come after me. And I'm an old man now."
Olof looked wonderingly at him. "I understand now," he said slowly, "what you meant before. And I thank you for your kindness. But it's this way with me now—I can't live in another man's house; I must make a place for myself, and work for myself. I was to have had the farm at home, but I couldn't take it." "A farm?" cried the old man, rising to his feet. "Where—where do you come from, then?"
"From Kylanpaa in Hirviyoki—I don't know if you've heard of the place."
"I have been there, years ago," said the old man in a kindlier tone, taking a step towards him. "And what's the name of your place there?" he asked.
"Koskela."
"Koskela? That's a big place."
"Why, 'tis big enough," said Olof.
"And why didn't you say that before—when you were here last?" said the old man sharply. "'Twould have been better for both if you had."
Olof flushed slightly. "I never thought to take a wife but in my own name," he answered—"for myself, and what I might be worth by myself."
"Yes, that's your way," said the old man, scanning him critically. "I see it now."
He glanced out of the window and seemed to catch sight of something. "Don't mind what's past," he said kindly. "There's the horses coming from the smith's. I must look to them a minute. I'll be back again…." And he strode out.
The two that remained felt as if the calm of a bright Sunday morning filled the room after a stormy night. Blushingly the girl hurried across to her lover, who came towards her; she flung her arms round his neck, and whispered:
"Olof, I have never really known you until now!"
"And I," he answered, "have never known you till to-day."