Chapter III: Part ONE (2)

Sssh! Bang! there went the first rocket. And then came cracking grasshoppers and divers that fizzed and spluttered in the water, and golden rains that vomited sparks round the gate posts, and bright Roman candles, and then rockets again and crackers and starlights.

Peter slipped down out of the tree. This was too much. He shrank as if the sparks had rained in his eyes. What was it that sparkled and cracked but Brundin’s arrogance. This abominable Brundin filled the skies with his violent, sneering, exultant pride.

But amidst the smell of powder there came some odours from the table and then it struck Peter that Brundin for the moment was not guarding his interests on the terrace. In a trice Peter was there. Like a frightened, thieving dog he gulped down pieces of meat, cake and whatever was left in the wine glasses. He had not time to taste anything properly and half choked himself, but somehow it did him good all the same. It was as if he had stolen back a little of his own, and with a somewhat easier mind he stole away into the darkness again.

The fireworks were over and the guests stumbled back to their punch glasses again. But now it seemed as if the last remnants of their dignity had vanished with the rockets. Some fell down on the chairs as if their legs had been struck off beneath them. And some stood with their arms round each others’ necks, panting, as if they would drown each other in friendship. And others were quarrelling with raised voices that were lost among the shy shadows of the still August night. But Brundin sat there unperturbed and contented in the midst of the noise, like the devil at a horsefair, smiling with half-closed eyes and puffing at his cigar.

Then Peter heard somebody come stamping out on the kitchen stairs where he was sitting. It was old Kristin. In the light of the lanterns which now caught fire and flared up one after the other she raised her trembling, bony arms like two withered branches. And she muttered a long string of reproaches and threats against the impious bailiff and his inhuman company. When she caught sight of Peter her voice, which seemed to have been worn down to a pale, feeble thread by all the unhappiness and misery of this world, broke and putting her cold, withered hand on his head, she said: “You poor orphan children! We all know what happens to them. You will never grow up to sit at Selambshof. No. No!”

Thereupon old Kristin stumped in again. But Peter felt the chill of that withered, trembling hand through his whole body right down to his toes.

Then Frida came carrying a tray of empty glasses, pursued by panting and shouting figures, which let fall coins in the pockets of her apron and in her hair and down her plump neck inside her cotton blouse. But she looked over their shoulders at Brundin, who was standing by the corner of his wing of the house making some mysterious signs.

Then the whole company broke up and returned home by land and down the avenue the babel of voices gradually disappeared.

Peter was just going to bed. He did not light the lamp, but sat for a moment balanced on the edge of the bed and listening to Stellan’s breathing beside him. Then he crept to the window again.

All was dark and silent. Only from a chink in a blind in the bailiff’s wing a narrow streak of light cut the darkness. Over the dusky house there hung the witchery of an unknown fear. As Peter stared out he seemed to see a shadow cross the yard and disappear under the lime tree by Brundin’s porch. Peter stole quietly down the stairs again. The sky had clouded over and it had become strangely oppressive. There was soughing and whispering in the darkness. Peter walked on the edge of the grass so that the gravel should not crunch beneath his feet. In the sweet smell under the lime tree he suddenly struck against something soft, and heard a low, frightened cry.

It was Hedvig, his sister. He had not seen her the whole evening. He pinched her arm:

“What are you doing here, girl?”

Hedvig was breathing heavily. Through the darkness he could almost see how pale she was.

“Frida!” It escaped her in a whisper, and she pointed to a window that stood open where the blind was drawn: “There, there!”

Peter put his arm round her waist in order to pass her on the narrow grass edge. She was trembling and she seemed in a cold sweat, blended of shame, curiosity and disgust.

“Go in again,” he mumbled harshly.

She gave a start as if he had struck her and ran in. But Peter stepped noiselessly up to the open window. There was light inside and he heard the sound of chairs being moved, giggles and whispering. But it was impossible to see anything. He carefully pushed aside the blind a little with a pencil.

Between a box in the window and the corner of a yellow wardrobe he could catch a glimpse over the end of the bed of some curls of brown hair and a big, dark hand that pressed against something soft and white.

Peter wanted to lift the blind higher but then a bottle on the window-sill tipped over and an arm was stretched out and put out the lamp.

He ran away as if possessed.

Now he lies stretched out on his bed, staring into the darkness. He lies as still as a terrified insect feigning death.

Fancy that it was Frida—the Frida who brought in his shoes and clothes in the morning!

Hitherto when Peter had looked at the girl he felt a certain uneasiness in her presence—an uneasiness which found expression chiefly in giggles and rudeness. But nothing in the world would have induced him to touch her.

But Brundin dared! For him nothing was forbidden and nothing dangerous. He did everything he liked.

By contrast with his own helplessness Brundin became a monster of power and impudence.

The darkness became oppressive round the poor boy, he suddenly felt the girl in his inmost being, in the very marrow of his bone. But not her alone, that was the horror of it! This man whom he dreaded, his pet horror was also there. His feelings were a strange mixture of shame, lust, fear, powerlessness, loneliness and grief. The very springs of life were diverted and unclean from the beginning. Even his first dreams of awakening were sullied by anxiety, and by cowardly, curious hate.

The more tired Peter became the more distinctly did he feel how the chill of old Kristin’s hand passed through his body. And Frida dissolved and disappeared. But Brundin remained. He pursued Peter deep into the night’s sleep.

His sleep was like that of one in a besieged fortress, where one hears the shots shattering bit by bit the walls that save one from destruction.

* * * * *

Yes, this was the story of Peter the Watch-dog.

We must not forget that this thin and anxious figure was the embryo of the future coarse and brutal Peter the Boss.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

V

+FEAR+

Excited and curious, Frida thrust her head into the girls’ room:

“If you please, Miss Hedvig,—you ought to let me make your bed on a day like this.”

Hedvig was leaning over her narrow bed with her black hair full of curling papers. She would soon be fifteen years old now. Her breasts were already filling out beneath her bodice. Her lips were very red, and looked almost skinless, in her long pale face.

“No,” she said vehemently, “Kristin must come up.”

For some time past Hedvig had made her own bed. She could not bear Frida to touch anything of hers. She seemed to shiver as in a cold draught and her teeth began to chatter as soon as the plump, laughing hussy came near her. But the maid did not pay her back in the same coin. The excellent Frida had no stiff-necked pride. With a mixture of good nature and bad conscience she only became more servile. “Kristin? very well.”

Humming softly as usual she vanished down the stairs.

Laura yawned, stretched herself lazily and shook her fair hair. For all her laziness her arch eyes sparkled. She was not in the least like her elder sister:

“You really are mad, Hedvig,” she said, jumping out of the bed.

Then Kristin came puffing and muttering up the stairs. Her old black frock had not shrunk as she herself had done, and it seemed almost empty when she sank down on the edge of the bed. Her hands twitched and trembled as if they had gone to sleep in her lap and were dreaming of knitting needles.

“Well, Hedvig, do you know your catechism, so that we need not be ashamed of you?”

Laura came up, stark naked, with a lather of soap on her neck:

“Know her catechism? when she is overflowing with it!”

The old woman had no smile for this fresh, plump young thing.

“Are you not ashamed, child, to talk like that of God’s word? And you won’t be ready in time either.”

Hedvig had done her hair and Kristin helped her on with the white frock that reached almost to her ankles. She fumbled a long time with the fastenings at the back, and then she arranged the pleats with bony, trembling fingers.

“Just like dressing a little bride,” she muttered. “And truth it is that it is the best of bridegrooms you are meeting today!”

But behind Kristin’s back Hedvig stole a glance at herself in the mirror. It was with a shy, unsteady look she saw her own image. There was not a spark of fresh and natural joy.

Now it was breakfast time. The other children, arrayed in their poor best, were already sitting round the table. But it was impossible to get Hedvig down. She remained in the little girls’ room, and in the end Kristin had to take a plate of porridge to her. Laura also soon came running back. A new frock was anyhow a new frock. And this was almost the beginning of long skirts and putting the hair up. And perhaps she might even see Hedvig cry!

A carriage was heard crunching the gravel outside. Hedvig jumped up. It was only old Hermansson. Yes! of course he must come with them. She sank down on her chair again. Laura was looking at her with big greedy eyes, purring like a cat.

“_He_ is also coming,” she said suddenly in a sleek little voice. “I heard him order the dog-cart.”

Hedvig turned pale, just as one’s knuckles whiten when one clenches one’s fist.

“What _he_?”

“Mr. Brundin, of course.”

Over Hedvig’s face spread an expression of anxious and obstinate defiance which made it look almost old. Everybody was waiting about for an opportunity to point her out, everybody—

“What right has he to come. His place is among the farmhands.” And with that she pushed Laura out of the room and locked the door.

But then she stole to the window and stood there hidden by the curtain.

Then the bailiff, Brundin, came driving in his little dog-cart. He wore a fur coat, a top hat thrust back on his head, and red dogskin gloves.

Hedvig devoured him with her eyes, just like a boy who steals his first glass of strong drink, and is frightened when it burns his throat. Then she caught sight of Peter. He was standing some distance away with his coarse red hands hanging out of his short sleeves. He pulled a face at the bailiff and then looked furtively up at the girls’ room. Hedvig ran away from the window, and sat down in a corner fidgetting with her handkerchief. She looked as if she had been struck.

Now they were calling her. Now she _must_ go down—“God! if only it were over,” she thought. Stiffly and hesitatingly, as if afraid to lose her balance, she greeted old Hermansson. But she shot past the outstretched hand of Brundin as if impelled by an invisible force, rushed out to the carriage and crept into a corner. With her pale face and her screwed-up eyes, she looked like some strange creature of the twilight which had been forced out into the merciless spring sunshine.

Old Kristin had to run after her with her coat and hat.

At last the carriage was full and they started off. Out in the yard in the sunshine it was still temptingly warm. The lilac bushes had great green buds and the damp soil of the flower beds was steaming round the bulbs. But in the avenue they met the cold air from the dirty snow in the ditches. And whenever a little cloud hid the sun for a moment, they were back in winter again. It was one of those treacherous and dangerous days when the cautious and the wise, such as old Hermansson, prefer to keep their fur coats on.

It was some distance to the Church, which was situated at a crossing of two roads, by the side of a plain which was chequered by the black, brown, and green of fallow land, pastures, and young rye.

Behind it rose a bare slope sprinkled with juniper trees which resembled dark solid flames. The Church was very old, without a tower. With its high black roof, its coarse walls of rustic stone, it resembled a fortress, a barn, or a cellar. And there was a musty smell beneath the vaulted roof, for in spite of the big rusty stove, the cold winter air still lingered.

With the troop of children close upon his heels old Hermansson squeezed himself into the high narrow pew. He did so the more calmly as the pew was at this moment the most respectable place. But to Mr. Brundin the hard wooden seat of duty at once seemed repugnant.

Hedvig stealthily joined the other children who were to be confirmed, and sat down under the pulpit.

The clergyman was an old shaggy-bearded man with a face like granite and reindeer-moss. This teacher of Our Lord began the catechism in a dry, hard voice, as if he were engaged in an interrogation on the four rules of arithmetic rather than in partaking of the divine sacrament. In this severe old Church, confronted by this severe old man, the gospel seemed to be a vain mockery and punishment, the great punishment, the only reality. It was strange to hear the young girlish voices answer his lifeless voice as it spelled out, without a spark of fire, the long record of judgment. It was as if Death had been sitting on a stone and piped a tune on a dry bone, while frightened Echo answered from the green shores of life. There was in the quick, breathless repetition of the lesson every degree of fear, from the side-glance which would avoid the whip, down to the low trembling sigh that dies out in a sob. But he who had ears to hear would nevertheless have been startled by Hedvig’s voice. She knew her lesson and her voice did not shake, but there was something unnaturally tense, something of keenest anguish in her voice.

What sort of a God was it whom Hedvig feared and whom she was to receive today at the altar rails. Let us pause to reflect on his origin and on his history, which is much older than Hedvig’s first meeting with the clergyman. From the beginning, he was a God from the Servants’ Hall and he was an inheritance from Hedvig’s first horror, the Bogey Man!

We never escape from our first impressions and experiences. They bind us with the fibres of deep-seated roots which we never draw up into the full light of consciousness.

There Kristin, severe and foreboding, stood over the little sugar thief whom she had caught: “Hedvig, if you do not leave the sugar box alone, the Bogey Man will come and take you.”

From the beginning these two experiences blended, and each by unfortunate association strengthened the influence of the other. The more frightened she grew of the Bogey Man, the more she thought of the sugar box, and the more she thought of the sugar box, the more frightened she grew of the Bogey Man. At last he overshadowed her whole existence. He was in the dark hole under the kitchen stairs; in Kristin’s big black book; in the dull eyes of her moribund apoplectic father, in the hawk-like face of her grandfather in there over the green sofa. The darker it grew, the more dangerous the Bogey Man became. She ate her supper slowly, slowly, in order to postpone the inevitable. Alone and silent in her fear, she sat amongst her sisters and brothers who romped and struggled round about her. Then they were driven to bed. “Please, Kristin, don’t pull down the blind. Dear Kristin, please leave the lamp a little longer.”

It was no use. In vain she pulled the bedclothes over her head, the Bogey Man was still there, the blackest thing in the darkness. And he came sneaking into her dreams and groped with his shadow hands about her little trembling heart so that she often awoke with a loud shriek in the middle of the night.

In her terror, Hedvig attached herself more and more closely to old Kristin, who knew all about all these ominous mysteries. And thus it came about that God succeeded to the Bogey Man.

But this intimacy during the long hours of twilight with an old, tired, and harried creature who had not the sense to spare tender ears, was dangerous. In everyday life Kristin’s God was a mean and nagging kitchen-God whose chief business was to punish the maids’ laziness and pilfering. But he had also his greater and more threatening moods when he emerged from his past in a small soldiers’ cottage in a mighty Småland forest in order to punish incendiaries and murderers and to look after brownies and trolls. When on Sunday evenings Kristin sat reading aloud from the Old Testament her voice would assume an expression of cruel lamentation, something submissively threatening which gripped Hedvig with a deep awe of the people through the dim and distant ages.

In the dark, Hedvig grew frightened of God. Not even school when it began with its monotonous and mechanical cramming, not even the alleviating joys of companionship, could kill her fear. Amidst the noise of the class-room she sat alone in communion with both the great and the dangerous. Before she could read properly, she spelled out greedily and eagerly the tale of the fall of man and the ten commandments. Especially the seventh commandment made a deep impression on her. Here was the terrible fascination of the unknown. By and by she began to read the Bible for herself. There was much to brood over, much that nourished her fears, which now began to undergo strange transformation. She could sit for hours thinking of such expressions as “circumcision,” “menstruation,” then she imagined she bore a son. Her gaze fastened on passages concerning the sin of fornication, the great Babylonian harlot, Absolom’s exploits on the roof of the house with King David’s concubines.

The darkness enclosing Hedvig’s God began to be oppressive. His too early threats provoked the very sins which he intended to prevent. She brooded over evil till at last it began to stir in her blood. Her ever present fear developed into stealthy, premature curiosity. It was no longer anything so white and innocent as sugar that Hedvig now stole. No! In the forbidden box now lay worm eaten, half rotten fruit fallen from the tree of knowledge of good and evil. But there was still the same fatal and even more intimate association of ideas as in the case of the sugar and the Bogey Man.

Soon Hedvig’s curiosity found something different from the shadowy figures of the old rat-eaten family Bible to brood over and to spy out, namely, the bailiff and Frida.

That sultry night when Peter caught her peeping under the blind into Brundin’s window had been a fateful night in her life. The discovery of the secret of the bailiff’s wing was the greatest and most dangerous discovery she had yet made. Hot and cold by turns, tempted, frightened, caught in the act, she had crept to bed. Her soul was outraged. Night and day the memory of that scene remained with her. She was afraid of Peter, disgusted with Frida, but could not get the man out of her thoughts. It was like an obsession. She avoided him, scarcely greeted him, could not for anything in the world look him in the face. But secretly she devoured him with her eyes. His bold, wicked self-assurance had some inexpressible allurement for her. She found herself incessantly following this sinner, and then fled, frightened and ashamed, to her bed. But as she had shaped her God out of fear, he had no pity and could not help her. This girlish love might have been the means of leading her out into the fresh air if it had not been of such a strange and stunted kind. As it was, it only threw her back more and more upon herself.

Such was the Hedvig who now knelt by the altar rails and received the bread and the wine from the hand of the old clergyman. She had grown up in the shadow of her own dreams like one of those long white shoots that grew down in the deep darkness. Not one poor single little bud of her being had been able to open out in the clear sunshine of the busy, living world. In a pew behind sat the genteel farmer, Brundin, with his pert military moustache, not for a moment suspecting that he was a terrible Behemoth, sucking the nourishment out of a poor little woman’s soul.

Communion was over. The girls rose with tear-stained faces and walked slowly, hesitatingly, down the aisle. Hedvig was pale and dry-eyed. Outside it had suddenly begun to snow, wet ice-cold snow, and it was pathetic to see her as she stood amongst these thinly clad, shivering children, slowly and awkwardly bidding each other good-bye, and looking like butterflies that have left their chrysalis too soon and have no flowers to rest on. The girl from Selambshof was better dressed than the poor peasant girls. And she was the prettiest of them too. But she looked more forlorn and colder than the poor lonely little snow-drops that shivered amongst the snowflakes on a poor man’s grave behind her.

Old Hermansson had something to say to the Vicar. Brundin came up to Hedvig and made his compliments.

“Well, Hedvig, that went off splendidly! Now you are a big grown-up lady and I suppose I must call you Miss Hedvig. But we must not let it snow any longer on your white hat.”

He led her to the carriage which was waiting with the hood up, helped her in and fastened the apron. Hedvig drew back as if his touch had scorched her. When he had gone she sat there trembling and with chattering teeth. Will he drive before or after us, she thought. If he drives before us, I can sit and look at him the whole time. But when her guardian at last arrived and they started with Brundin in front, she stared obstinately at a hole in the apron, because she was afraid of God.

Both old Hermansson and Brundin were to stay for dinner. A gloomy snow light filled the dining-room and there was a fire burning, just as in mid-winter. Hedvig sat stiff and silent in the place of honour, and scarcely tasted the food. Then her guardian solemnly drew forth a present from his coat pocket. It was a little watch with Hedvig’s initials engraved on it. He made a short admonitory speech before giving it to her and hoped that she would learn to make the same good use of time as he had done when he was young. He even finished with a little verse:

“May this watch the right time tell
To a little girl who works right well.”

Hedvig sat fidgetting on her chair with downcast eyes, as if she were being scolded. It was with difficulty that she stood up and returned thanks for the gift with a stiff curtsey.

Now it was Brundin’s turn to put his hand in his pocket. He pulled out a red case, opened the lid with a snap and, bowing gallantly, handed her a narrow gold brooch.

“Well, Miss Hedvig, I also take the liberty of offering a simple little gift. Please accept it, Miss Hedvig. Hall-marked!”

Hedvig blanched. Her glass trembled against the edge of her plate as she set it down. Her dark eyes fastened, wide-open with fright, on a spot on the wall opposite. She stretched out her hand like a blind man and groped for the case. But she stopped half way. She had suddenly caught sight of Frida, who, with a bottle of port in one hand and a napkin in the other, forgot her duties and bent over Brundin’s shoulder to stare greedily at the glittering ornament. Hedvig’s voice, unnaturally tense, suddenly cut the silence:

“No, I don’t want the brooch—give it to ... to Frida instead.”

She covered her face with her hands and ran upstairs and threw herself on her bed.

Nobody round the table said anything. Frida tittered a little. Then she stood crimson and fidgetted for a moment before she could pull herself together and go out. Brundin muttered something that sounded like a curse, and sat silently playing with his little fair moustache, looking half embarrassed and half self-satisfied. Peter almost collapsed with excitement.

Now Brundin will be kicked out, he thought, and an agreeable, cold shiver passed through his bones. Old Hermansson had become rigid, with his spoon half way between his mouth and his plate and looking very upset. At last Laura’s voice broke the spell:

“Hedvig is mad,” she said and jumped up as she sat on her chair, for she had a curious trick of being able to jump whilst sitting.

“There now, she is spoiling everything,” thought Peter, and gave her a pinch under the table. Quite right, old Hermansson did not seize Brundin by the collar and kick him out. Instead he rose with slow dignity, and took up the case and the brooch:

“I will teach this ill-bred girl how to receive a well-meant gift,” he said, with an air that promised full amends to Brundin. Then he stalked off after Hedvig.

He found her lying full length on her bed in her white frock, which looked like a shroud. She lay there dry-eyed staring up at the ceiling.

“Now put this brooch in your frock, Hedvig, and go down and say thank you nicely,” he said.

A shiver passed through her and the skin on her thin arms looked like goose flesh.

“Please, please, leave me alone,” she begged.

“Put the brooch on at once!”

“No, no, it is sinful,” she stammered and turned her face to the wall.

Then old Hermansson thought he ought not to insist any longer. He left the case on the table beside the bed and went downstairs again.

“The poor child has had a trying day today,” he said to the bailiff. “She seems strangely upset. I thought I ought to let her put off her apologies.”

Then he returned to his tart.

But up in her room Hedvig lay with the red case on her breast. Suddenly she tore out the brooch and stuck the pin deep into her left hand. Then she sucked drop after drop of the slowly oozing blood.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

VI

+THE TWO FAIR HEADS+

The terrace at Selambshof was adorned with two small ship’s-guns on gun-carriages of decayed oak. They were spiked with pine-needles and twigs, and it was long since a birthday salute had been fired with them. Laura sat astride of one of these, swinging her legs lazily and catching maple-blossoms in her hat. It was a fine day in the beginning of June, and with each breeze there rained down over the old cannon golden green maple blossoms, and the pools glistened after the night’s rain.

Sometimes it almost looked as if an idyl could exist even in the presence of the sham Gothic of Selambshof.

The sun gently warmed the fair down on Laura’s neck. She kept behind the house today, because she had put up her hair for the first time, though only for fun, of course. She thought it would be jolly to see what sort of a face Herman would make. He would probably appear in the avenue soon.

Otherwise it was rather empty at Selambshof this summer. Peter was laid up with measles. And there was not even Hedvig to quarrel with. She had been sent away to an old aunt in Sala. Usually she had sat and sulked in a corner since the day when she behaved so idiotically to Brundin. It was impossible to get her down into the garden, for she was frightened to approach the bailiff’s quarters. And when into the bargain old Kristin died she became so refractory that old Hermansson had to send her away.

Not that Laura understood the reason. But when she sat lonely like this and looked at the shadows of the leaves dancing and jumping about and overtaking each other down on the gravel, it amused her to think of that story. And then suddenly Laura thought of Herman again. Why was he really so anxious to be alone with her lately? Herman was not like his old self, no—there was something strange about him.

There he was already in the avenue!

Yes, there was Herman Hermansson coming up, with his schoolcap on the back of his head and swinging a stick. He tried to look quite unconcerned and indifferent. But he did not succeed, because secretly he stole anxious glances on all sides, and even his whistle sounded somehow shy, humble and supplicating.

Laura’s little woman’s heart beat happily and she felt a gay and mischievous wish to play a little with old Hermansson’s tall, fine boy. So she hurried into the kitchen before he had caught sight of her.

There sat Miss Isaksson, the new housekeeper. She was tall, pale, and thin, and she held the coffee grinder in one hand and a fat novel in the other. And she ground and read and nodded her head sadly to herself.

Laura peeped out of the window.

“Do they get married?” she giggled.

“I won’t look at the end,” sighed Miss Isaksson, “but it is a sad book, so they will probably both die.”

Now Herman was on the terrace. He glanced shyly round him and had a guilty look. Laura was enjoying herself and did not hurry. She had a vague feeling of superiority over both Herman and poor, thin Miss Isaksson. At last she was pleased to emerge on the steps with an air of marked indifference and boredom.

Herman jumped up as if someone had commanded “attention!” He certainly did not dare to make any comment on Laura’s having put her hair up, for that only increased his shyness and diffidence.

“Will you come fishing with me for a bit, Laura?”

“What! fishing?”

“Do, please, only for a short time.”

“Well, perhaps I will, if Stellan comes too.”

It was always the same, Stellan had to be there too, and so Herman was forced against his will to go and persuade that young lordling, who lay in a tattered old hammock in the park, staring at his toes, to join them. Only after a long discussion did he lazily get out of the hammock.

At last three floats bobbed about on the half-clear, glittering, greenish June water which can look so warm and inviting from the shore and is yet so icy cold when you venture in.

Stellan had the first bite.

“What rotten fish! Not worth while getting dirty for!”

He was in a bad temper. It irritated him that Herman could find any pleasure in putting on worms for that fat Laura.

Now it was Herman’s turn. His float dived deep down without his noticing it; he was so absorbed in Laura. And when at last he awoke he pulled so violently that the roach got free and the hook caught in Laura’s hat. Then Laura scolded him and Stellan shrugged his shoulders.

“Were you hoarse yesterday, Herman?” he said in a cold, mocking voice.

This formula had a crushing effect. Once when Herman had been reproved because he did not know his history lesson he had stood up and said: “Please sir, I was so hoarse yesterday that I could not learn my lesson.” Since then he was always asked the unfortunate question: “Were you hoarse yesterday, Herman?” And each time Laura laughed heartily. It was a cause of inexpressible suffering to his proud, chivalrous nature. Herman tried to keep up an appearance of gay indifference and to join in the laugh of these cruel companions. But his was a poor, weak mockery of a laugh.

They were already thoroughly tired of fishing and began to jump about on the stones and the roots of the alder trees along the shore. This year’s reeds were just beginning to come up between the yellow stalks of last year’s, the dragon flies flew past like blue, silken threads in a current of air, and dark, green beetles hovered up and down like little balls supported by an invisible force. The day was almost too warm and fine. They could not make up their minds to do anything—they only teased each other and had their little quarrels. Now they are amongst the cows in the Hökar meadow, and Herman catches sight of a starling hopping between the hind legs of the bell-cow and incessantly flying up to catch a fly on its udders.

“Look at that starling, Laura!” he cried, proud of the interesting observation he had made. “Look at that starling, he is friendly with the cow.”

“That’s nothing compared with Egypt,” snapped Stellan. “There the birds come and pick the teeth of the crocodiles. And they keep their mouths quite still. But of course, you haven’t heard of that.”

No, Herman had not heard of that, so probably he had been hoarse again.

Then Laura had an idea. She drew her brother aside.

“I say, Stellan, shall we get Herman to climb the oak?”

It was an enormous oak growing on a green hillock by the roadside, just where the avenue ended.

“All right!”

They sat down on a stone in the shade. Stellan looked up at the tree with the eyes of an expert.

“I say, Herman, that is an awfully difficult tree.”

“Not so very. If it weren’t so hot....”

“Yes, the first bit is easy. I can see that too—but further up there is a long bit without branches.”

“Nonsense. You can swing yourself up. If it weren’t so warm....”

“Of course—you can brag—but you daren’t do it,” scoffed Laura.

“Daren’t I?”

“No, you daren’t.”

Herman jumped up, red in the face, and tore off his coat. At last he had a chance of shining, and of dazzling the cruel one by a knightly deed.

“I’ll show you whether I dare!” he cried.

And then he began to climb. It really was a difficult tree. His fingers were already bleeding and, ritsch! he tore one of his shirt sleeves. For a moment he was on the point of falling down. The perspiration stood out on his forehead and his heart beat fast. But he set his teeth and struggled on. _She_ was standing down there admiring him.

Now he had reached the very top swaying in the wind. Breathless he pushed away a branch in order to be seen and to enjoy his triumph.

But the stone was empty. Nobody was visible.

“Laura,” he called, “Laura, do you see that I was not afraid?”

No answer. Down below everything was green, silent and empty. Above, abandoned, covered with dirt from the wet bark, Herman was sitting up among the whispering, swaying masses of leaves. His hands were aching, and he had an unpleasant sensation in his stomach. Most of all he would like to throw himself down and break his neck in order to punish a hard and unfeeling world.

He resisted this temptation, however, and climbed down with moderate care; he put on his coat and walked home in order to grind at the subjects in which he had failed in his examination last spring. You could see even by his back that he was deeply hurt and had nothing left but duty to live for.

But Laura stepped out from behind one of the trees in the avenue where she had been hiding with Stellan. She smiled and danced and her voice rang out clear and mocking in the mellow summer air:

“Were you hoarse yesterday, Herman? Were you hoarse yesterday?”

Herman did not answer. Only his back stiffened still more and he took still longer steps. And then he disappeared behind the willows by the wash house.

The next day Laura again sat astride the gun catching maple blossoms in her hat and looking down the avenue now and then, ready to begin the jolly game over again.

But that was not to be. Herman did not come. It was almost dinner time and still Herman did not come. “I see, he is sulking,” thought Laura. “Well, let him!” And with her nose in the air she hopped away to the lean Miss Isaksson and borrowed a big novel.

But Stellan was lying in the hammock like a fish in a net and yawned and became more and more sleepy and bad-tempered. At last he climbed out, however, opened the gate with a kick, without taking his hands out of his pockets, and slipped down to the jetty where the washing and rinsing was done, and where Selambshof’s rotten old rowing boat lay hopelessly water-logged and simply could not be made water tight.

“What an establishment this Selambshof! What a dilapidated, dull, impossible, old place!”

And just at this moment the special steamer with the usual Stonehill party for the summer arrived. He could see little Percy in white sailor trousers walking along the pier.

Stonehill lay on the other shore opposite Selambshof. It was an awfully fine place with a big globe mirror and white plaster statues and coloured glass windows round the verandahs, as was the fashion in the villas of the well-to-do at that time. And there were temples and hothouses with peaches and grapes, for Percy’s mother was awfully rich. His father had got his money by smuggling during the war in America. But now he was dead.

Stellan kicked angrily at what was left above water of the old rowing boat. How could he get across to Stonehill now?

It was only last summer that he had made the acquaintance of the “china doll.” He called Percy Hill “china doll” because he looked so brittle and so fine. That summer he had also had plenty of fun on the lake with Manne von Strelert at Kolsnäs, for Manne never wanted to be at home because his tutor was there. Stellan thought this was a pity, because there was nothing he admired so much as the horses at Kolsnäs. But Manne was so obstinate! And there was added spice in their excursions on the lake since they had noticed the boy in white stealing behind the rose hedge and the fine, high fence at Stonehill, and gazing enviously at them. In order to tease him they used to hover about the Stonehill landing stage. One day Manne called out:

“Won’t you come out on the lake with us?”

“I’m not allowed.”

“Come out on the landing stage, then.”

“Mother is afraid I might tumble in.”

“What have you got a sailor’s suit on for, then?”

The boy could not answer. He was a prisoner of the roses. He was a poor little land sailor, and the two sunburnt sailors jeered at him mercilessly.

“You’re a beastly coward,” called Manne. “I have ridden the legs off a horse and I have thrashed my tutor. You are a beastly coward.”

Then the boy in white stepped out on to the stage.

“My name is Percy,” he said with a wan, little smile, “and I am not a coward.”

Then he climbed into Stellan’s boat.

“Now, let us see who can splash the other most!” cried Manne, and Percy was wet through at once.

“Now you will be spanked when you get home.”

Percy’s face looked troubled.

“No, but I shall have to go to bed. And then the doctor will come, of course.”

At this stage in their acquaintance Stellan suddenly checked Manne’s arrogance and changed his tactics. He had suddenly come to think of all the fine things visible through the railings round Stonehill.

“Take off your coat and spread it out on the seat and it will soon dry,” he said.

Percy obeyed. After a moment’s reflection Stellan continued, “So you never get a thrashing?”

“No,” said Percy with something of a sigh.

“Must you go without your dinner, then?”

“Without dinner?” asked Percy astonished, “they stuff me with food.”

This somehow appealed to Stellan.

“Perhaps you are allowed to eat as much as you like in the hothouses,” he mumbled, almost shyly.

“Of course,” answered Percy with indifference.

“May I come with you some time?”

“Yes, come tomorrow, both of you, and we’ll have fruit juice and biscuits first, and then go into the hothouses.”

It was in this way Stellan penetrated beyond the high, white fence round Stonehill. From the beginning he tried to imitate the aristocratic indifference of the “china doll” to all the good things to eat. Except, of course, when he thought nobody was looking, and then he gobbled up all he could. Worldly wisdom and fine manners are all very well, but we are only human after all....

Yes, all this had happened the year before. Now he was cut off from all that splendour, because of the rotten old boat, and the gardener’s tarred punt he was ashamed to go in.

Stellan was already walking away from the pier, where the water glittered and beat so mockingly against the wet boards, when it suddenly struck him that at Ekbacken old Hermansson had a smart little craft that was decorated every Sunday with a fine display of streamers in the stem, and a flag in the stern.

“I was beastly stupid, yesterday,” he thought, “beastly stupid,” and his usual expression, the cool, half-sneer returned.

Stellan stole cautiously across the park so as not to be seen or have Laura on his heels. From the bend in the avenue he got a good view of Ekbacken. And he stopped a moment, impressed by the sight. It seemed as if he were looking at Ekbacken for the first time. An expression of amazing cunning came into Stellan’s face, as he passed in through the red wooden gateway. Already his thoughts travelled far, far beyond to old Hermansson’s fine, little boat.

Ekbacken Sawmill and Shipyard was a fine, old business that ran itself. Trustworthy, leisurely, old workers stalked about on the timber rafts inside the boom, and there were steady, old, grey sailors who had sailed in all the seas of the world and were caulking old brigs and barges. And inside in the office sat the book-keeper Lundbom, with eyeglasses and a leather shade, writing out bills to a lot of good and safe customers, who paid in cash and not with miserable acceptances. There also sat old Hermansson reading his paper. There was such a blessed peace that he had smoked half his cigar and the ash was still on it.

He looked up at Stellan with an expression of fatherly benevolence.

“Good-morning, my dear boy. You are looking for Herman, I suppose, but he is at his lessons now. Yes, that’s what happens when you flunk. Come along now, and let us have a talk.”

Stellan asked for nothing better. They went over to the house in a pretty oak wood just by the road to town. On the other side spread soft, billowing, green fields set with old, brown barns. This land also belonged to Ekbacken, but was let to tobacco growers. On the town side the estate was sheltered by some stony hillocks with a few pines here and there, behind which, however, some high, bare walls had entirely shot up and threatened to destroy the idyl.

The house itself was an old, but well-preserved one story house, long and low, where everything from the door handles to the brass doors of the Marieberg earthenware stoves was radiantly clean and polished.

“Why have I not been to Ekbacken more often?” thought Stellan.

Old Hermansson talked about school and praised Herman because he had worked hard, which praise the young man listened to with an open countenance. It opened up further vistas to him. Cleverly he manœuvred the conversation in the direction he wanted. School and school friends, of course! There was Manne at Kolsnäs. He was a jolly decent fellow. And his father, who was a chamberlain to the King, could come and go at court just as he pleased. And they had footmen and horses and everything else. It really was strange that Herman did not see more of Manne. Manne liked Herman awfully. He had told Stellan so—and fancy what fun it would be for Manne to look at all the boats in the yard. And Percy Hill. Didn’t Mr. Hermansson know him and how tremendously rich he was. And Percy was so awfully generous and kind and obedient. Mr. Hermansson would certainly like him....

It became clearer and clearer to Stellan. It was as if he could look straight through old Hermansson and discover his little vanity. Victory seemed already secure, when at last he got out his real purpose. It would soon be his birthday. He had been so often in Manne’s and Percy’s houses that he was really ashamed and wanted most awfully to invite them to something in return. But he could not do so at home, as Mr. Hermansson would understand. There was poor father who was nothing for strangers to look at. And besides, Peter had measles. So wouldn’t it be nice if Mr. Hermansson would be so awfully kind as to let him have a little party here at Ekbacken, where everything was so fine and elegant. And as to the cost, well, his mother had left Stellan something and he might use that.

“Nonsense, my boy,” beamed old Hermansson, “I will give a little dinner for you with pleasure.”

Then Stellan rushed into Herman and slapped him on the back:

“I say, you’re not angry still, are you? We’ll stick together—what?”

Herman, in the loneliness of his heart, was not the one to reject a word of reconciliation.

Next day they rigged out old Hermansson’s little lugger. For many years it had done nothing but lie by the pier and look smart, for old Hermansson was rather afraid of the lake, even though he was owner of a shipyard. But now, as I have already mentioned, the boat was fitted out. It was also the result of Stellan’s diabolical powers of persuasion that the boys were permitted to sail the boat. Herman had never dreamt of such happiness. They started at once for Stonehill and Kolsnäs and conveyed the invitation for the birthday party at Ekbacken.

* * * * *

At home at Selambshof Laura sank into ever deeper and deeper reflections. Herman no longer came up the avenue. And Stellan was also away most of the time. Our young lady felt lonely and very bored. Whenever she did get hold of Stellan he only shrugged his shoulders and looked contemptuous. And he always managed to get away without her discovering where he went.

But one fine day when she was sitting on the landing stage, there came a smart, white sailing boat gliding past. At the foresail-sheet sat Herman. But astern Stellan was lounging like a prince, his head against the tiller and his feet up against the gunwale. When he caught sight of Laura on the landing stage he put about so that Herman should not notice her. And Laura was so dumbfounded and furious that she did not call out to them. She roamed about on the shore and felt deserted, cheated of her fun. To crown all she saw Stellan try on an absolutely new, black suit with long trousers which had been sent from town.

“What are you getting a new suit for?”

“I’m giving a dinner,” said Stellan carelessly.

“Where? Here?”

“No! At Herman’s. My birthday’s coming.”

“I suppose I am to come too?”

“No, it’s a men’s dinner, you see, ta-ta!” With that he pushed Laura out of the room. The new suit was the logical result of Stellan’s diplomacy. Hang it all, you can’t very well appear in anything when you have such smart guests.

But Laura threw herself down on her bed and stared at the ceiling. She did not cry—but she wanted to tear her face. “How stupid I have been,” she thought, “goodness, how stupid I have been!”

Next morning she got up early. It was not yet nine o’clock when she came dancing into her guardian’s room at Ekbacken as he sat shaving with deliberate and methodical dignity. She shone like a little sunbeam, and had a bunch of the brightest wild flowers in her hand. Then she ran about for a vase and placed it between the washbasin and the soap dish, so that nobody could mistake the object of her attention.

“How awfully good of you, uncle, to give a dinner for Stellan.”

“And of course, you would love to come,” muttered her guardian through the lather.

“Rather, as it is Stellan’s birthday. But there are to be only boys?”

“Yes, but we ought to have a hostess, even though it is a men’s dinner.”

Laura suddenly grew serious, terribly serious.

“Oh, but my old red frock is worn out, and besides the sleeves are too short.”

“But supposing you came to town with me one day and bought a new frock....”

Laura jumped up in his lap and kissed him in the middle of the lather:

“Oh, thank you, dear darling. But don’t tell Stellan and Herman!”

Thus it came about that when at last that birthday dinner came off and the boys had already been down to look at the sawmill and had been climbing in the shrouds of the old brigs and had been chatting with the jolly old tars—who should be standing on the front steps to receive them like an amiable hostess but Laura, dressed in a brand new silk frock, almost down to her ankles and full of bows and frills.

For a moment Stellan frowned, but his face soon lit up with involuntary approval. At least one didn’t need to feel ashamed of the girl.

But Herman grew quite red in the face and was unable to get out a sound, but stole in without daring to look at her. She was altogether too lovely.

It was quite a smart dinner. Old Hermansson offered wine and even made a little speech for the young people. Speechmaking was his weakness.

While the others were going out into the garden for coffee, Laura seized the opportunity and gave Herman a kiss behind a door—a swift, fugitive, little kiss on the cheek. But for Herman it was as if the doors of Paradise had been suddenly flung open. He sat there mute amidst the chatter and laughter, and revelled in the wonderful thought that the girl in the silk frock, the beautiful Laura, had kissed him.

And Laura also paused in drinking her coffee and munching her sweets and remembered how his cheek had burnt her lips. It really was rather pleasant to kiss. Neither did it cost anything—possibly just the contrary....

They carefully avoided speaking to each other and they could not for the world have looked each other in the eyes.

After this Stellan and Laura detached themselves more and more from their brothers and sisters and came more and more frequently to Herman’s house. They both felt that the sombre and shabby Selambshof was not their chosen field. No! Ekbacken was quite different—here you escaped the sight of your father sitting about in his dull fashion. From here intercourse with Stonehill and Kolsnäs was easiest. Here, with their guardian, they had the exciting and pleasurable feeling of being at the heart of things. They felt already, those two fair heads, that it was Ekbacken that was to be their stepping stone to success in the world.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

VII

+BRUNDIN’S DOWNFALL+

It had been a long autumn. With grey creeping mists and ankle-deep slush, November had drawn a close ring round Selambshof.

Peter was alone in the day time. As he had failed again in his examination, he had had to leave school and it was not yet decided what he was going to do. But time passed quickly all the same, for recently he had lots of things to attend to.