THE HOMECOMING
The autumn sun was setting; it smiled upon the meadows, gleamed in the window-panes, and threw a kindly glow upon the distant forest. The air was cool.
Olof was in a strange mood to-day. He walked with light, springy step, and could not keep still for a moment; he was uneasy, and yet glad. He had sent a man to the station with a horse, and the little servant-maid had been dispatched on an errand to a distant village—he wished to be alone.
He stepped hastily into the bedroom, gave a searching glance round, looked at the thermometer on the wall, and laughed.
"Aha—beginning to look all right now."
Then he went back to the sitting-room. The coffee-pot was simmering its quiet, cheerful song on the fire; close by lay a goodly heap of white pine logs.
He lifted the pot from the fire, poured out a little of the coffee in a cup, and poured it back again. Then, thrusting his hands into his pockets, he walked up and down, smiling and whistling to himself.
"Wonder what she will think, when I don't come to the station to meet her there? But she'll understand… yes…."
He went back to the fire, poured out another half-cup of coffee, and tasted it.
"H'm—yes. It's good, I think it's good."
He took a bit of rag, wiped the pot carefully, and set it back. Then he looked at the clock.
"They ought to be at Aittamaki by now—or Simola at least…."
He stepped across to the cupboard, took out a white cloth and spread it on a tray, set out cups and saucers, cream jug and sugar bowl, and placed the tray on the table.
"There—that looks all right!"
Again he glanced impatiently at the clock.
"They'll be at the cross-roads now, at Vaarakorva … might take that little stretch at a trot … if only they don't drive too hard. Well, Kyllikki'll look to that herself…."
Again he felt that curious sense of lightness—as if all that weighed and burdened had melted away, leaving only a thin, slight shell, that would hardly keep to earth at all. He tramped up and down, looking out of the window every moment, not knowing what to do with himself.
"Now!" he cried, looking at the clock again. "Ten minutes more and they should be here!"
He sprang to the fire and threw on an armful of fine dry wood.
"There! Now blaze up as hard as you like. Bright eyes and a warm heart to greet them!"
He went into the bedroom and brought out a tiny basket-work cradle, that he had made himself. The bedding was ready prepared, white sheets hung down over the side, and a red-patterned rug smiled warmly—at the head a soft pillow in a snow-white case.
"There!" He set the cradle before the fire, and drew up the sofa close by. "He can lie there and we can sit here and look at him."
And now that all was ready, a dizziness of joy came over him—it seemed too good to be true. He looked out through the window once more; went out on to the steps and gazed down the road. Looked and listened, came back into the room, and was on the point of starting out to meet them, but thought of the fire—no, he could not leave the house.
At last—the brown figure of a horse showed out from behind the trees at the turn of the road. And at the sight, his heart throbbed so violently that he could not move a step; he stood there, looking out through the window—at the horse and cart, at Kyllikki with her white kerchief, and at the bundle in her arms.
Now they were at the gate. Olof ran out bareheaded, dashing down the path.
"Welcome!" he shouted as he ran.
"Olof!" Kyllikki's voice was soft as ever, and her eyes gleamed tenderly.
"Give him to me!" cried Olof, stretching out his arms impatiently.
And Kyllikki smiled and handed him a tiny bundle wrapped in woollen rugs.
Olof's hands trembled as he felt the weight of it in his arms.
"Help her down, Antti; and come back a little later on—I won't ask you in—not just now," he said confusedly to the driver.
The man laughed, and Kyllikki joined in.
But Olof took no heed—he was already on the way in with his burden. A few steps up the path he stopped, and lifted a corner of the wrappings with one hand. A tiny reddish face with two bright eyes looked up at him.
A tremor of delight thrilled him at the sight; he clasped the bundle closer to his breast, as if fearing to lose it. Hastily he covered up the little face once more, and hurried in.
Kyllikki watched him with beaming eyes. Following after, she stood in the doorway and looked round, with a little cry of surprise and pleasure, taking it all in at a glance—the genial welcome of the blazing fire, the tiny bed,—he had told her nothing of this,—the sofa close by, and the tray set out on the table, and coffee standing ready….
But Olof was bending over the cradle.
"These things—is it safe to undo them?" he asked, fumbling with safety-pins.
"Yes, that's all right," laughed Kyllikki, loosening her own cloak.
Olof had taken off the outer wrappings. He lifted the little arms, held the boy upright, looking at him critically, like a doctor examining recruits. "Long in the limbs—and sound enough, by the look of him!" Then he gazed earnestly into the child's face, with its wise, bright eyes, and seemed to find something there that promised well for the future.
"Dear little rascal!" he cried ecstatically, and tenderly he kissed the child's forehead. The boy made no sound, but seemed to be observing the pair.
Olof laid him down in the cradle. "Can't he say anything? Can't you laugh, little son?"
He blinked his eyes, smacked his lips, and uttered a little whistling sound as if calling some shy bird—he had never seen anything like it; it seemed to come of itself.
"Laughing—he's laughing … that's the way!"
Kyllikki was standing behind him, leaning against the sofa, watching them both.
"And his hands! Sturdy hands to drain a marsh! So mother was right, was she? Ey, such a little fist! A real marsh-mole!" And he kissed the tiny hands delightedly.
"But look at his nails—they want cutting already. Ah, yes, mother knew father would like to do it himself, so she did."
And he hurried to Kyllikki's work-basket, and took out a small pair of scissors. "Father'll manage it—come!"
And he fell on his knees beside the bed.
"Don't be afraid—softly, softly—there! Father's hands are none so hard, for all he's so big." He cut the nails, kissing the little fingers in between. The boy laughed. Kyllikki leaned over towards them, smiling more warmly still.
"There—now it's done! Look at him, Kyllikki! Isn't he splendid?" And he turned towards her. "But what—what am I thinking of all the time! Kyllikki, I haven't even kissed you yet. Welcome, dear, welcome a thousand times!"
He took her in his arms. "How well you look—and lovely! Why, you look younger than ever! Little mother—how shall I ever thank you for—this!"
"It was your gift to me," said Kyllikki softly, with a tender glance at the little bed.
Olof led her to a seat, and they talked together in the silent speech of the eyes that is for great moments only.
* * * * *
"Why…!" Olof sprang up suddenly. "I'm forgetting everything to-day.
Here I've made coffee all ready, and now…."
He lifted the coffee-pot and set it on the tray.
"Did you make the coffee?" asked Kyllikki, smiling in wonder.
"And who else should do it on such a day? Here!"
And they sat down to table, without a word.
* * * * *
Presently the child began to whimper. Both rose to their feet.
"What's the matter, then—did it hurt?" said Kyllikki tenderly. She lifted the little one in her arms, and began talking to him with her eyes, and smiling, with delicious little movements of her head.
The child began to laugh.
Without a word, she laid him in Olof's arms. He thanked her with a look, and held the boy close to his breast. All else seemed to have vanished but this one thing. And he felt the warmth of the little body gradually spreading through clothes and wrappings to his own … it was like a gentle, soft caress. It thrilled him—and the arms that held the little burden trembled; he could not speak, but handed it back in silence to the mother.
She laid it in the cradle, set the pillow aright, and pulled up the coverlet, leaving only a little face showing above.
"It is a great trust, to be given such a little life to care for," said Olof, with a quiver in his voice, as they sat down on the sofa. "It seems too great a thing to be possible, somehow."
"But it is," said Kyllikki. "And do you know what I think? That forgiveness is a greater thing than punishment—and Life knows it!"
He nodded, and pressed her hand.
Again he glanced at the little red face on the pillow, and an expression of earnestness, almost of gloom, came over his own.
"Olof," said Kyllikki softly, taking his hand, "will you tell me what you are thinking of just now?"
He did not answer at once.
"No, no—you need not tell me. I know. But why think of that now, Olof? And you know—he at least, has a father and mother who have learned something of life; maybe he will not need to go through all we have done to get so far…."
"Ay, that was what I was thinking," said Olof.
And no more was said, but heartfelt wishes hovered protectingly about the little bed.
* * * * *
"Look now!" cried Kyllikki, after a while. "He's fallen asleep! Isn't he lovely?"
And warm sunshine seemed to fill the room—even to its darkest corner.
"Olof?" said Kyllikki, with a questioning glance towards the door of the adjoining room.
His face lit up, and together they stole on tiptoe to the door; Olof opened it, and Kyllikki stood on the threshold, looking into the little room—it was newly papered, and looked larger and brighter than before.
She turned and took his hand—her eyes told him all she thought and felt.
He put his arm round her waist, and his eyes lit with a sudden gleam of recollection.
"I told you once," he said dreamily, as they walked back into the sitting-room, "how sister Maya came to call me home, when I was still wandering about from place to place."
"Yes, I remember; it was so beautiful, Olof—I shall never forget."
"And how we came home after, and began…."
They had reached the window now. "Look!" said Olof suddenly, pointing out.
Down in the valley lay the marsh of Isosuo, spreading away almost immeasurably on every side. At the edge of the water two big channels were being cut, in front were a host of workmen clearing timber, while others behind them dug the channels in the soil. It was like the march of two great armies towards the land of the future. The setting sun cast its red glow over the powerful shoulders of the men as they worked, here and there a spade or an axe flashed for a moment; the water in the dykes glittered like silver, and the moist earth at the edge shone with a metallic gleam.
"Ah!" cried Kyllikki joyfully. "The work has begun!"
Olof turned her gently from the window towards him, put his arms round her, and looked into her eyes, as if trying to sum up in a single glance all they had seen and suffered, lived through and hoped.
"Yes, the work has begun," he said softly, and held her closer to his breast.