"All ... you...."
"Yes, all--for your sake. Oh, let us be content! No one in all the world can ever have all they hoped and wished for. And if we cannot have our wedding night as lovers--let us at least be friends and comrades now."
"Comrades? ... yes, in misery," sighed Olof. And they drew together in a close embrace; two suffering creatures, with no refuge but each other.
"Olof," whispered Kyllikki after a while, "we must go to rest now--you are worn out."
Both glanced at the white bridal bed--and each turned in dismay to the other, reading each other"s thought.
"Can"t we--can"t we sleep here on the sofa?--it"s nearly morning,"
said Kyllikki timidly.
Olof grasped her hand and pressed it to his lips without a word.
Kyllikki went to fetch some coverings. As she did so, she caught sight of something lying on the table, and keeping her back turned to Olof, she picked up the thing and put it back in the drawer. Olof"s eyes followed her with a grateful glance.
But as she touched the pillows and the white linen she had worked with such hopes and kisses and loving thoughts for this very night, she broke down, and stood with quivering shoulders, fumbling with the bedclothes to hide her emotion.
Olof felt his eyelids quivering, warm drops fell on his cheek. He rose and stepped softly to her side.
"Kyllikki," he whispered entreatingly, "have you forgiven me--everything?"
"Yes, everything," she answered, smiling through her tears, and threw her arms round his neck. "It was childish of me to cry."
Gratefully, and with a new delight, he pressed her to his heart....
"Olof, don"t put out the light yet--let it burn till the morning."
Kyllikki lay stretched on the sofa. Olof nodded, and laid himself down with his head in her lap and his feet on a chair by the side.
And two pairs of darkly glistening eyes fell to whispering together, like lonely stars in a dark autumn sky, while the earth sighed through the gloom.
THE SOMNAMBULIST
Olof was a sleep-walker, though he never dared to confess it even to himself. There was something mysterious and terrifying in the thought.
A soul that cannot rest, but goes forth when others sleep, on errands of its own; the body follows, but without consciousness. The eyes are open, but they see only that which the soul is pleased to notice on its way. It will climb like a squirrel to the roof, walk along narrow ridges at a giddy height. It will open windows and lean out over black depths, or play with keen-edged weapons as if they were toys. And the onlooker, in his waking senses, shudders at the sight, realising that it is the soul stealing forth on its nightly wanderings.
So it had been with Olof for a long time now--almost from the time when Kyllikki first became his.
The scene of their bridal night was forgotten; neither ever hinted at what had pa.s.sed. They had tried to fuse with each other in the deep and beautiful relationship which had its roots deep in the soul of both, and in the earnest striving that was to clear and cultivate the ground on which their future should be built.
Olof was proud of his wife; she moved with the beauty of a summer Sunday in their new home--calm and clear-eyed, ever surrounded by a scent of juniper or heather. And he was filled with grat.i.tude, respect, and love for her--for her tender and faithful comradeship.
Then, like a bird of night on silent wings, came this walking in his sleep.
It had happened many times without his knowing it. And still he refused to believe it, though he had more than once been on the point of waking to full consciousness. And he was glad that Kyllikki seemed to suspect nothing--for she said no word. He dreaded most of all the hour when she should wake and speak to him reproachfully: "Are my arms not warm enough to hold you; can your soul not find rest in my soul"s embrace?"
Of late, the mere thought of this had made him restless. And to guard against it, he had thrown himself with redoubled energy into his work, as if life depended on the ditching and draining of a marsh.
And gradually there grew out of this a new and far greater project, in which the entire neighbourhood would share.
It was in the quiet hour of dusk, when Olof had just come home from his work, and the walls of the room seemed whispering expectantly.
Silently as the dusk, Kyllikki stole into his opened arms, her eyes asking what he had to tell, and pouring out her own thoughts and feelings.
Olof laughed, but did not try to meet the innermost depth of her eyes; after a little, he ceased to look at her at all, but turned his gaze far off, as if looking out over the work of the day.
A little while pa.s.sed thus.
Almost unconsciously Olof lifted one hand and loosened the plaits of his wife"s hair, letting the long tresses fall freely over her shoulders. Smiling and looking into far distance, he pa.s.sed his hand through the soft waves, and wrapping the ends about his fingers, clasped her waist.
"My own love," he whispered, gazing at her as through a veil, and bending to touch her lips.
And as they kissed, Kyllikki felt his arm tremble. Tenderly she looked into his eyes, but started in wonder at their strange expression--they seemed wandering far off.
And the dark forebodings that had long oppressed her filled her now with a sudden dread. The more she looked at him, the more she felt this fear--at last it was almost more than she could bear.
It was as if the soul that looked out of his eyes had suddenly vanished, leaving only a body that stiffened in a posture of embrace.
She trembled from head to foot, her whole body seemed turned to ice.
Suddenly she tore herself away, and sank down on a seat; Olof stood without moving, as if turned to stone.
In a single moment, something terrible had pa.s.sed between them, which neither dared to speak of, but which showed plainly in their eyes. A gulf seemed to have opened before their feet, filled with strange and horrible creatures, all waving tentacles and ghastly staring eyes.
Kyllikki covered her face with her hands as if to shut out the sight.
"Olof--your soul, your soul ..." she moaned, like a little child.
Olof stood as hovering on the verge of sleep and waking. But at sight of her trembling figure he seemed to come to himself, and tried to break loose from the spell.
"Kyllikki...!" he said imploringly.
She sat up, sobbing, and gazed at him as at one whom she did not know.
"Kyllikki, poor child!" he said brokenly, and sat down by her side.
But his own voice sounded strange in his ears, and he could say no more--he felt as if he were a ghost, not daring to speak to a living human creature.
At sight of his unspoken misery, Kyllikki felt her own dread rise up stronger than ever.