THE MARK
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.
And she could only stammer confusedly in return: "Forgive…!"
She hardly knew what it was they had asked each other to forgive, only that it was something that had to come, and was good to say, ending and healing something out of the past, freeing them at last each from the other….
One thing she remembered, just as he was going. She had felt she must say it then—a sincere and earnest thought that had often been in her mind.
"Olof—I have heard about your wife. And I am so glad she is—as she is. It was just such a wife you needed … it was not everyone could have filled her place…."
Had she said it aloud? She fancied so—or was it perhaps only her eyes that had spoken? It might be so. One thing was certain—he had understood it, every word—she had read so much in his eyes.
And then he had gone away—hurriedly, as one who has stayed too long.