The Song of the Blood-Red Flower Part 44

"Will you sell it," he whispered--"sell your fiddle? There's a man wants to buy it--he's asked me. Never mind about the price--say what you like."

"Why ... I don't know. 'Tis an old friend," answered the man, playing more softly as he spoke.

"Will you sell it? At your own price. Yes or no?"

"H'm ... well, say thirty marks?"

"Good! The man'll be here directly. And now, play a polka--and play like the devil himself, as if you were kissing your girl for the last time. The fastest you've ever played."

The fiddler nodded.

Olof walked up to a young girl and bowed. The fiddler broke off, and struck up a polka at such a furious pace that the dancers stopped and looked at one another in surprise.

But Olof went off in wild career with his partner, and several other pairs followed. These, however, soon fell out, and all stood watching the bridegroom, who danced like a man bewitched. His eyes blazed, a strange smile played about his lips, and his head was lifted defiantly.

The onlookers were filled with admiration and wonder--never had they seen such a dance! Olof took a second partner, then a third; danced a couple of rounds with each, and took a new. He did not lead them to their places after, but slipped each lightly, bowed to another, and whirled her off at the same furious pace.

"What's come over him now?" whispered the guests.

"He's going to dance with them all--for the last time, it seems."

"Ay, it looks like it!" And they laughed and watched the extraordinary scene--after all, it would have been strange if something out of the common had not happened at Olof's wedding.

Once more Olof set his partner down and bowed to another. Formally this time, as if with emphasis: it was Kyllikki he had chosen now. The girl stood dismayed, uneasy, not knowing what to think.

The fiddler, noting who was the latest choice, pressed his instrument closer under his chin, and put his whole fire into the work. The music swelled and sank, the bridal pair danced lightly and gracefully--sight to see. Once, twice, three times, four times round, and still they danced.

Then as they pa.s.sed the fiddler for the fifth time, the music suddenly stopped--Olof had s.n.a.t.c.hed the instrument with his right hand as he pa.s.sed, and next moment it was shivered to a thousand fragments against the table. A single string whined painfully as it broke.

A gasp went up from the onlookers; all stared in amazement at the pair. Neither showed any sign of confusion; they stood easily, as if the whole thing were a prearranged conclusion.

"I hope I haven't startled anyone,'" said Olof gaily. "But the fiddle that has played my youth away--must play no more! Good-night!"

A sigh of relief and admiration pa.s.sed through the crowd. What a finish! What a youth! None but he could ever have done the like.

And the guests laughed, and the bridegroom laughed, and old Moisio himself laughed where he sat: "Ay, that's the way! Turn your back on the rest and give all to one--my daughter's worth a fiddle at least!"

But the bride was pale--as it might have been one Sunday evening by the river, when she sat alone on the bank, watching a man stride hastily away, with a flush of anger on his cheek.

THE BRIDAL CHAMBER

Footsteps approaching.

A man, with a dark fire smouldering in his eyes, entered in--the pale bride followed him.

The man walked up and down the room with heavy strides, biting his lip and frowning angrily. Suddenly he stopped, and stood by the table against the farther wall, with a cold, piercing glance at the pale-faced girl.

She had been standing silent and thoughtful by the window--now she approached him with hesitant step.

"Olof," she murmured, her voice quivering with tender anxiety--"Olof--dearest, what does it mean?"

"Dearest?" He snapped out the word between clenched teeth like the rattle of hail against a window-pane. His voice trembled with tears and laughter, cutting scorn and bitterness. He grasped her roughly by the shoulders.

"Keep away!" he cried, boiling with rage, and thrust her from him with such violence that she stumbled and sank down on a sofa.

There she sat in the same position, struck helpless by the suddenness of the blow. Then she rose and, flushing slightly, walked resolutely up to him again.

"Olof, what does all this mean?" she asked. There was tenderness still in her voice, but beneath it a steely ring plain to be heard.

Olof felt his blood boiling in his veins--that she, guilty as she was, should dare to stand there with uplifted head, and look him calmly in the face! His eye fell on the myrtle wreath which she wore--emblem of bridal purity--and it seemed to mock him anew. He felt an almost irresistible impulse to fall on her and tear her in pieces.

"It means," he cried, stepping threateningly towards her, "that you have no right to wear that wreath--that you are an infamous cheat!"

And with a violent movement he tore the wreath and veil from her head, and trampled them underfoot, till the wires of the framework curled like serpents on the floor. "Liar--liar and hypocrite!" he cried.

Kyllikki did not move; she stood there still silent, only the red flush in her cheeks deepened.

Nothing was left of the wreath now but some strands of wire and a few loose leaves--Olof spurned it aside, and the veil after it. Then he drew himself up, and looked at Kyllikki with the eyes of a man who has crushed one foe and prepares to meet another.

"Will you be good enough to tell me what all this means?" said Kyllikki, calmly as ever, but with a new note in her voice that almost amazed herself.

"Tell you? Ay, by Heaven. If I had my pistol here, I'd answer you so that you should never ask again!"

Kyllikki shuddered--a chill sense of utter helplessness came over her.

She was shamed and insulted, her bridal wreath trampled underfoot, and she herself here alone with a man who raved and threatened furiously.

She looked at him earnestly, as if trying to read him through. And she felt that here was indeed something great and terrible, on which her future--their future--depended; a single word or gesture on her part might be fatal. Suddenly a thought crossed her mind and the blood rushed to her head.... Could he dare?... Was his anger greater than his love?

Swiftly she decided--now or never, it must be done, or all would be lost. Stepping across to a chest, she opened the lowest drawer and felt for something there ... no ... and she tried the next. A moment after, she rose to her feet and walked firmly over to where Olof stood.

A large, old-fashioned revolver was in her hand; the dark barrel glinted in the light as she laid it on the table.

"There is the thing you wanted. It is loaded. Now, answer me, if you please."

She spoke slowly, putting forth all her strength to keep her voice from trembling. Then stepping back, she stood waiting, her face pale, her eyes fixed on Olof's face.

It was the critical moment. To Kyllikki it seemed endless, as she stood there stiffly, dreading with every breath lest she should fall.

Olof stood motionless, staring at her as at a vision. Once before he had seen her thus--during the ordeal with her father. A stifling fear came over him as he marked the similarity.

"What do you mean--are you trying to drive me mad?" he cried in a choking voice. And tearing his hair, he rushed violently towards the door.

Kyllikki felt the blood coursing warmly through her veins once more.