WAYS THAT MEET
"HIRVIYOKI, KYLANPAA, 28/9/97.
"Kyllikki,--You will be surprised, no doubt, to hear from me again after so many years. I am not sure of your address, and do not even know if you are still "Kyllikki," or possibly someone with another name that I do not know. I am too proud to ask news of you from any but yourself.
"And now to what I have to say. I have never been able to free myself from you quite, however much I wished. I have tried to forget you, to wipe away all trace of you from my soul, but in spite of everything you have followed me from place to place, year after year, and now, just lately, you have been ever before my eyes. Was it your friendship that followed me so, or my own guilty conscience--or perhaps my better self that has been longing for you, and silently calling for you, though I tried to stifle the voice?
"I do not know. I only know that my years of wandering are over now, and I have come to settle down in my own place. I may freely confess that I was weary and broken down, worn out and hopeless, when I came home--to see my mother for the last time, and follow her to the grave. And I cannot say, even now, that I am much better, though perhaps a little. I can feel something in me that seems to grow, something that gives me hope. So perhaps it is not altogether lost.
"I am building myself a house, and have other plans of a like sort. But there is one thing I miss, and the lack of it grows stronger every day: a friend and comrade, one that I could respect and trust entirely. Not one to share my good fortune, but one to be with me in toil and want.
"Kyllikki, you can never guess how I have suffered in doubt and questioning of late. Have I any right at all to hope for comradeship? Could I promise anything to anyone? And if so--to whom?... Kyllikki, you know me well enough to understand what I mean. It is no light question, and no easy one to answer.
"As far as I myself am concerned, I believe I see my way clear. And therefore I ask you--will you venture out upon the water with me once more--not the mere crossing of a little stream, but for a voyage that may lead we know not where? I cannot be sure that we should ever reach safely to land, only that if your hand is still free to give, and you are willing, and can trust me enough to offer it, then I will never let go, whatever may come.
"And one thing more--could a daughter of Moisio venture to share the lot of a poor settler? I can offer nothing more, and would not if I could. If she will, then I can dare anything.
"Again--would you _wish_ to join your life with mine? Or do you despise me, perhaps? I will not try to defend myself, and it would be useless in any case, for I know that little matters would not influence your decision; all must rest on what you think of me as a whole, and that is fixed already.
"One thing most of all--let there be no question of pity or giving out of charity. I fancy neither of us would ever give or take in that way, but I have heard say that pity counts for much in a woman"s heart. Myself, I do not think pity can go far, if the earlier feeling is once dead. And you know best yourself whether that is so.
"Is your father still alive? And does he still think as before? But it makes no difference now. Once _we_ are agreed, ten fathers could make no difference. I feel now that I can do what I will.
"And that is all for now, Kyllikki. You know how anxiously I wait to hear from you--your answer means very much to me. But I know it will be clear and true, whichever way it may be.
OLOF.
"My address is, Olof Koskela, as above."
"KOHISEVA, 2 _Oct_. 1897.
"OLOF,--Your letter found me. Kyllikki is unchanged--and you, I see, are much as I had thought you would be. Proud and exacting as ever, though not perhaps in quite the same way.
And well it is so, for if _you_ had seemed otherwise I should have suspected at once.
"Yes, I will venture. I am ready to venture anything. I did not even need to think it over; I had decided long since, and have not changed. I am not ashamed to tell you that I knew more of you than you thought. I have followed your doings and your movements from a distance, until you came home, and determined to wait for you till it was past hoping for. I feel I ought to tell you this at once, that you may know I am not building up fair hopes on no foundation, but know what I am doing, and what I can expect.
"You need not fear pity from me, Olof. I believe in fate, and in life as a thing with some meaning. I have often wondered, these last few years, if there could be any meaning in my life, and why fate had brought us so strangely together. Was it only to make us suffer? I came at last to the conclusion that if there were any meaning in my life, it must be with you; and if fate had any plan at all, it must be that you should come back to me some day, even though the way were hard. And you came, came with the very word I had been waiting to hear from your lips for years--that _you had need of me_!
All is easy after that; no need to doubt or hesitate. I can answer at once: I am ready.
"I do not think, or hope, that our way will be strewn with roses. But it is right, I feel that; and in time we shall reach our goal.
"Come, Olof, come soon. Four years I have waited--four years of longing, all my life"s longing.--Your
"WATER-WITCH.
"P.S.--Father is the same, but what you say about that is what I say myself.
"One thing I would ask you--let me see you alone first, before you meet my father. I could not bear to meet again after all these years in that way. Come to our old meeting-place beforehand, if you can, and let me know what day and time you will be there.
"KYLLIKKI."
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 pa.s.s 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.