Chapter IV: Part ONE (3)

For example, the great pig-slaughter. Since six o’clock this morning he had been strolling about in the dark yard and as soon as dawn came he was down by the pig-sty behind the cowshed.

The cowherd came trailing one poor pig after another. Then they were raised on to the slaughter block and instantly Anders, the stable man, stuck them in the neck so that the blood spurted out. The bailiff was there himself, and scratched the pigs’ backs with his stick and chatted in friendly tones to them before execution. But old Kristin was no longer there with the pail to collect the blood. As long as she kept going, she had taken part in the slaughter of the pigs. Silent and solemn she used to stand there bent over her pail, stirring the blood as did the rest of the tribe in days of old at the great winter sacrifice. There was a strange emptiness after her. But the crows were still here. Flocks of them settled in the high bare lime tree and their croaking seemed like the voice of the grey November day. Now and then they flew for a moment down towards the steaming hot tripe as if to give a reminder of their ancient rights.

I-i-i-i! squeaked a pig again, and the crows rose for a moment as if from the pressure of the cry. But Peter kept near the corner of the cowshed the whole time; he came no nearer, and Brundin thought he was frightened:

“Come and help us. What kind of a country lad are you to be frightened of the killing?”

But the bailiff was mistaken. Peter was not at all frightened because the pigs were squeaking. He was only afraid that they were squeaking for Brundin’s benefit and not for his own and Selambshof’s. He stood anyhow sufficiently near to hear what was called out at the weighing machine, and if you looked carefully you could see that his lips moved the whole time. He stood there counting and muttering the figures in an undertone in order to get them to stick in his memory. For Peter had really a great deal in his memory. It was not the first time he had stood aside like this and counted and measured. But then he also knew to a nicety how much grain, potatoes, milk and butter had been driven into town during the whole autumn. What cunning, what tricks and pretences, what long patient watches had not been necessary to keep count of all this. No, Peter was not troubled for the pigs’ sakes. There was good reason to look out for Peter the Watch-dog nowadays. He no more looked as if he was afraid of a beating. And he had become bigger of body and deeper of voice.

Of course Peter was still afraid of Brundin. But his terror no longer rose up like a mountain in front of him. Brundin’s great and wonderful power had already been dealt the first blow. That was when the mighty Brundin had agreed without protest to Frida’s being dismissed. Peter had brooded for days over this. And as he pondered he observed that Brundin did not reach into the clouds. And his great fear shrank up exquisitely into a little heap of envy, anxiety and angry suspicion.

Peter did not go to his guardian, because it was he who had placed Brundin in authority. Perhaps he was even in league with the dangerous fellow. Imagine suspecting old Hermansson! Ignorance is either very credulous or very suspicious. In this case it was suspicious. And besides Peter the Watch-dog was one of those who prefer hunting alone.

The pig sticking was finished. The November day was silent and grey as before.

Peter was still standing on his stone by the corner of the cowshed. Round him the filth resembled a bog and Brundin came splashing through it. He no longer looked so good-tempered. His little fairy moustache curled contemptuously at the rain, the mud, the smell of manure, and the whole of the November atmosphere. He stopped just in front of Peter, rocking on his heels and reflecting:

“Yes, Anders, get the dog-cart ready. I am going to town after dinner after all.”

Peter started. Brundin going into town! Here was an opportunity. He leaped after the bailiff through the mud. Outside the bailiff’s quarters he even sidled up to the object of his fear. And he was still like a great mountain when you came near him—a high mountain with mocking superior airs.

“I just wanted to come in and glance at the map for a moment,” muttered Peter.

Brundin hummed a little tune and good-humouredly led the boy into the office which lay to the right of the entrance hall in the bailiff’s wing.

Now Peter was actually in the lion’s den. The yellow cracked old plan of Selambshof hung over the sofa. For a long while Peter was tremendously interested in it. Then he began to glance round to right and left, and make strange trampling movements to and fro like a bear on a hot plate. Indeed he was not exactly beautiful to look at, but deserved perhaps a certain admiration. As a matter of fact he required a great deal of self-control to remain in Brundin’s room.

Peter looked for the accounts books of the estate. From outside he had often stolen a glance at them where they were lying on the writing desk. But now they were not there. They could not be anywhere else but in the big brown cupboard between the windows.

The key was in the lock.

Peter sat down on the sofa and turned over the pages of a price list. Brundin lit his pipe, looked over his papers and did not seem to be in a hurry. Peter perspired more and more.

At last the bailiff had to leave the room for a moment. Instantly Peter jumped up and took the key out of the cupboard. And he did more than that—he lifted off the hooks of one window, both the inner and the outer—Then another idea seized him: he took up another key from amongst the rubbish on the writing desk and pushed it into the keyhole of the cupboard so that nothing should be noticed. He was no fool.

Now the cracked old dinner gong sounded and with his booty in his damp hands, Peter stole out of the lion’s den.

After dinner came the first disappointment. The dog-cart was never brought out, for Brundin received some Saturday-guests and put off his journey to town until Sunday. Peter had got to wait—a difficult task. He could not stay at home. He felt so brittle and queer from the strain that he scarcely dared to put his foot down on the ground and still he had to go on walking and walking. Now he had already reached town and once there he of course made for the hay market. Shivering, and with a queer trembling in the pit of his stomach he stood in the Saturday crush, amidst sacks of potatoes and sides of beef, staring at a big sign on a low yellow house with a tiled roof:

AXEL BRUNDIN & CO.

Cereals, grain, and vegetables.

It was not the first time Peter had stood there spying. He felt a need, as it were, to assure himself all the time that the shop was still there. A fat old man usually stood in the doorway with his thumbs stuck in the armholes of his waistcoat. He was Brundin’s brother. He knew him from the crayfish party. Most of the produce of Selambshof went to him. And Peter had an intuition that here lay the solution of some of the problems that worried him.

Just fancy if only he could send in a policeman to take a big bag of money from that fat old rascal! Slowly Peter the Watch-dog sauntered homewards in the dark and raw November night.

He awoke very early on Sunday morning. First he examined the office window. Yes, the hooks were still unfastened. Then he might just slip down to the outhouses for a little. There had been frost during the night and there were a few light snowflakes in the air. Peter crept into the barn through a broken shutter. On the ground floor the pig carcases gleamed with a pale light in the deep twilight. He touched the hard cold fat. He felt how the pigs hung helpless there. And once more he had a frantic sense of his duty to defend them against Brundin. He promised them that they had not died in vain.

Then Peter climbed to the next floor. Here the grain lay about in big heaps on the floor. He sat down and let the wheat run through his fingers. Usually it is pleasant to sit in a granary and let the cool, round, fragrant grains of corn run softly through the fingers. It makes one think of summer and sunshine and the wide green fields.

But Peter, poor boy, had no such spacious feelings of the prospective farmer. Everything had been spoilt for him by Brundin. The gifts of the soil were poisoned for him by a premature greedy anxiety.

At breakfast Peter was very silent. He did not fight with his brothers and sisters, but of his own free will sat down next to his father, even though it was not his turn. Today was a great day and he tried to propitiate the Gods by this sacrifice. You must neglect nothing if you would succeed. He also stole to Church afterwards in order to be quite on the safe side. Straight as a poker he sat there trying to be really attentive, though of course he only listened to his own thoughts. Peter had a long intimate conversation with his God. And what kind of God had Peter the Watch-dog? He was related to his sister Hedvig’s God. Both had grown out of a common parentage. Old Kristin’s servants’ God. Both had drawn their nourishment from the terrors of those years of helplessness. But, whilst Hedvig’s God had been reared on the fear of desire and of sex, Peter’s God was from the first an economic potentate, who severely punished torn clothes and broken money-boxes, and he had gradually developed into a protector of the rights of property with the more specific function of making the bailiff of Selambshof smart. But Peter was afraid that God might not have had time to consider the matter properly and therefore he gave him in all humility a number of delicate little hints as to the most suitable way of dealing with Brundin.

Yes! such was Peter Selamb’s communion with God on this day of great expectations—which, however, became a day of disappointment.

At last evening came. The bailiff had already driven off to town and the yard was in darkness. Then Peter crept out in order to steal back Selambshof from Brundin. If only he could get a glance at that armful of big blue books all would be clear. His house-breaking was quite successful, the windows opened, as did also the door of the cupboard and in there he felt the books side by side. With the precious burden in his arms Peter stole up the dark stairs to the Observatory. He locked the door carefully, lit a piece of candle and sank down trembling with expectation at the table and began to examine the books.

And then he made a terrible discovery. He understood nothing, absolutely nothing of this system of figures and lines. “Debit,” “credit,” “carried forward,” etc., stood there. What it all meant he could not make out. The name Axel Brundin & Co. he found everywhere in the books. It stared out at him with ever-increasing mystery. It was not at all the straightforward way that Peter had imagined in connection with sacks of flour and barrels of potatoes. He found nothing to hold fast to. At last his head swam. He could not master Brundin’s row of figures.

Peter struck his forehead against the table, cursing and sobbing. This was a terrible defeat. Hopeless, miserable, stiff with cold, he stole down from the icy Observatory and put the books back in the cupboard without having succeeded in stealing a single one of the bailiff’s secrets.

That night chronicled a grievous relapse into the old sense of impotence. Peter lay again in a besieged fortress. And the Giant pursued him through a cycle of gruesome dreams. Amongst other things the “Dreadful One” ate six recently slaughtered pigs in a trice, whilst Frida stood stark naked before him and stirred a pail containing Peter’s blood.

But in spite of all this the old days were over. Peter the Watch-dog began slowly to pluck up courage again. As he brooded and brooded he realised at last that it was no longer possible to hunt alone. And so it came about that Peter too began to haunt Ekbacken. But he took very good care not to run up against Stellan and Laura, whose road lay in the same direction. He did not aim so high as they. He had no desire to talk to his guardian. No, Peter hovered about the old book-keeper, Lundbom. His opportunity came in the evenings when the old man sat in his own room smoking his pipe and drinking his hot whisky, with his books in front of him. He questioned him patiently and insistently until the old man felt touched by the interest of this promising youth in double-entry Italian book-keeping, and gave him proper instruction. Peter literally sucked up the information. He was not difficult to teach. Now he could calculate—he who had always failed in his examinations in mathematics. With every successful addition he added something to his power and with every correct subtraction he subtracted something from Brundin’s. Oh, what bliss it was to feel how his bugbear was again shrinking and growing less each day.

During these efforts, Peter had not ceased his observations. Now he knew what had been sent from the estate during four whole months, prices and all. Then he repeated his bold stroke one Saturday evening when the bailiff went to town as usual to enjoy himself. But this time he could decipher the mysterious writing. Oh! it was an hour of feverish triumph up there in the Observatory. Peter the Watch-dog found at once audacious frauds to fasten his teeth into, amongst other things, Axel Brundin who was only debited for 60 barrels of potatoes during November and December. But Peter knew for certain that the correct figure was 73. There he had a bite at the two brothers’ hind legs.

Peter lay sleepless the whole night and fed his revenge on Brundin.

Early on Sunday morning he stalked over to Ekbacken and found his guardian in bed. Now he no longer shunned the public gaze or beat about the bush. He went straight to the point, was bold and insinuating. He cast the stolen rye and potatoes straight in old Hermansson’s face. But his guardian jumped up highly offended.

“What are you saying, boy? Remember that you are talking of a person I have appointed. How did you get hold of the books? What do you know about the yield of the estate?”

But Peter was not to be intimidated. He came back time after time with his rye and his potatoes. Gradually his guardian began to soften.

“But it’s not possible,” he sighed dismally, “I am not accustomed to people betraying my confidence in this way. Very sad, really very sad, why did I ever undertake the thankless task of becoming your guardian. Most sad and unpleasant!”

After this he ordered his shaving water and began to dress. Peter sat still with his armful of books and watched his guardian. As soon as he was dressed he recovered his dignity and his authority:

“I shall arrange for an investigation,” he said. “Go back to your lessons now, my dear Peter. This is no matter for children.”

No, there Uncle Hermansson was right. This was no matter for children. That’s why he ought to have looked after it better himself.

Peter sauntered home again entirely liberated from his frightened sensation in the presence of grown-ups, and of their authority and their ability.

After service old Hermansson came solemnly driving up to Selambshof and conducted a great investigation in the office in the absence of Brundin.

There was no end to the revelations now. Everyone had something to say against the bailiff. As soon as the ice was broken, accusations poured in against the culprit. They almost fought to stick their knives into him in order to save their own skins.

Evidently Selambshof had been systematically robbed for years.

In the midst of all this, Brundin came driving back from town in a state of mild intoxication. The old Fairy Prince now cut a poor figure. He seemed quite nonplussed that the old servants should have so completely forgotten his gifts to them, his snuff, his gin, and his blind eye to their own little peculations. For a moment he stiffened and made an insolent effort to deny everything, but he failed miserably in the face of Anders’ evidence. Anders had become anxious about his carelessness in the matter of receipts, etc., and had himself written down all that he had driven into town in order to protect himself.

Peter did not now stand aside as at the sticking of the pigs. No, he stood in the midst of the crowd. Now he had a voice in the matter. Sometimes he laughed suddenly, a giggling, nervous laughter. The boy seemed suddenly to have grown into something more like a man. When the examination was over he suddenly looked quite disappointed. For his part he would have liked to go on for ever. The old servants left, however, and old Hermansson went home to consult a lawyer. Brundin sat alone in the office, ruminating. Then Peter thrust his face through the door, grinning:

“You thief,” he cried. “You cursed thief.”

Oh, it was heavenly to spit at the cracked Colossus, really to trample the old fear under foot.

No action was brought against Brundin. He himself possessed nothing, but his brother was frightened into paying a round sum corresponding to the proved losses of the estate.

Then came the ignominious departure. He had been ill for some days, but now he was off at last.

Peter did not show himself at first. But down under the lime tree stood Hedvig. She had come straight home when she heard of the scandal. There she stood pale and stiff and motionless and watched Brundin’s furniture being carried out. God only knows what she thought and felt. Perhaps it was a feeling of dismal deliverance.

Now the sledge with its load of furniture slipped towards the town crunching through the half-melted snow mixed with sand—a bad surface for sledging. Brundin had not even put his head outside the door but now he had to get out. Crestfallen, grey, with downcast eyes, he came out with a dining-room clock under his arm. Hedvig only stared at him. His eyes met hers for a moment when he was getting into the sledge. He bowed awkwardly and then the spring of the clock made a noise as if it had been broken. Hedvig did not bend her head, did not return his greeting. She stood there like a graven image and there was something of a rigid dark triumph in her expression.

But when Brundin disappeared down the avenue she stole into his empty house and with a face suddenly grey with the hunger of love she rubbed it against the empty walls.

But Peter stood down at the corner of the avenue. He had relapsed into his old habit of going somewhere alone to meditate. He wondered how it was that Brundin was not put into prison. Fancy if it was because old Hermansson did not dare to bring Brundin into Court. What was it Kristin used to say: “It’s a pity for those children who have to have a guardian,” she used to say. Well, Peter did not exactly believe that old Hermansson had cheated them. But he had all the same a vague feeling that the matter ought not to be forgotten.

The distrust we learn during the years when we have a right to be trustful easily becomes a dangerous weapon.

It was now a little later in the spring. A new bailiff of proved honesty had been appointed and Peter was sent to an elementary Agricultural School in the Upland plain.

He did not like being there. The other pupils seemed to him dull, the soil unfavourable. The Brundin case was still fermenting within him. He longed to be home. There are many kinds of homesickness, and one of them is of a kind not suitable for poetry.

Let us now look at our friend Peter during the spring ploughing. The pupils were standing in a bunch out on the clay and each one had to plough a plot with the new American steel plough.

“Press harder on the right guide. Not too shallow and not too deep. Look at the horses. The furrows must be straight as a die.”

Thus said the teacher. Peter was the last. He stood there changing feet and thinking that he would take root in the clay. At last it was his turn. He called to the horses and the furrow was started. It was a still April day with big white clouds in the sky. The horses’ sides and the newly turned clay soil shone in the sun. Down in a hollow hung a blue mist and further away a wood of budding birches shimmered like a purple-brown cloud. But Peter neither saw nor felt anything of all that. Nor did he enjoy seeing how finely the ploughshare cut through and turned up the frozen soil. He had no desire just to add furrow to furrow in the ploughed field. He only thought it was heavy, tiresome, lost labour. And all the same he looked like a peasant with his coarse features and his heavy awkward carriage, which he had probably inherited from his mother’s side. But a poison had entered into the peasant’s body. It was the infection of the town—the town that had begun to creep nearer and nearer Selambshof. It was anxiety to turn everything into money. If only he were back at Selambshof, he thought. But he did not long for the house or the trees. He longed to sneak about, and spy and struggle for possession of the money that he already scented. To go about here ploughing soil that was not even his own made him sick. He had already developed the habit of looking at everything from the point of view of ownership. You cannot take any interest in a thing for itself. No, nothing exists in itself but only as “mine” or “yours,” principally “mine.” To whom did this field belong? To the County? That is the same thing as nobody. That was empty, strange, and simply repellent, thought Peter. He had already begun to fear common interests and common institutions. They constituted a kind of silent affront to his selfishness.

Then Peter came slowly back on the return and moved alongside his first furrow. It did not look very straight. He was reproved by his instructor—he heard the mumbling and suppressed laughter of his fellow students. What stupid country bumpkins they were with their lazy self-confidence. Their rustic self-importance about spray-drains and dung-wells irritated him. What experience of life had they had? It would do them good to get caught in the snares of somebody like Brundin and to be really, thoroughly cheated for once. And then he began to think of that old story again. There was something strangely fascinating in thinking of Brundin’s tricks and wheezes. Of course he disapproved of it all. But he could not help thinking of it, all the same. “So that is what they call business,” thought Peter. “That is the way to get rich.” He felt a strange disquietude, one moment he was hot and the next cold. “I shall never allow anybody to cheat me,” he thought. “But how can you really make sure? The only way is, of course, to go to meet one’s enemy and forestall him. You must practise deception, not much, of course, but sufficient to prevent him from deceiving you.”

Peter had now done his allotted share of the ploughing. He stopped the horses and wiped his brow.

“You are not ploughing deep enough, or straight enough. This is not a surface-plough. You ought to get down to the subsoil all the way. What sort of a growth do you expect to get here?”

“I don’t care a damn,” thought Peter.

Then the Farm gong sounded and they moved homewards along the wet road. Peter jogged beside the horses with half-closed eyes. He was dreaming of Selambshof in figures. He had seen them,—when he pried into the books of the estate. There were rents for land and houses, for fishing rights, and quarries, for cartage and for the produce of the estate. Enormous sums in his eyes. “I shall control all that money,” he thought. “I shall be bailiff, and I shall have my reward, because I saved the estate from Brundin. No, don’t imagine that I can be kept out of all that.”

Peter breathed heavily. He felt a queer sucking sensation in his stomach. Fancy if it should all be his. Fancy if one day he should become rich, rich! No, he no longer had only fear and worries—certain timid, trembling voluptuous desires contracted his throat.

Is it then to be wondered at that Peter Selamb did not plough deep enough in the alien and unsympathetic Upland clay?

_These were the days of his betrothal to wealth._

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VIII

+SEPTEMBER SPRING+

Laura lay awake the whole night reading a novel, and at breakfast she only played with her food. Then she stole out into the pantry and took her usual draught of vinegar.

It was a day in the late summer, warm and still. Down the slope the August pears were tempting, the hammock and the lazy lapping of the water against the shutters of the bathing box were also a standing temptation. But Laura resisted them. For a whole fortnight she had struggled to get rid of her sunburn and to become pale and thin. Slowly she went back to her room and tried to think at each step that she was rather weak and feeble.

Laura’s room was small and shady. It lay on the ground floor overlooking the avenue. She walked up to the mirror and scrutinized herself carefully from head to foot. She was no longer a plump little bright-eyed imp with plaits of fair hair dangling behind, and fat legs. No, it was a pale, interesting-looking young lady who stood there with a curled fringe, neat waist and a tired and dreamy look in her eyes.

When Laura had gazed at herself for a long while, with mixed feelings of complete approval and vague pity, she stole to the window and sat down very carefully as if she had been made of some very brittle material. It was a narrow and rather dismal window in the thick walls of Selambshof. A spray of the sparse and dying vine on the north side of the house flapped against the window-sill. It bore a small bunch of grapes, green and no bigger than pin-heads. What sweet doll’s grapes they are, she thought suddenly, and she had a vision of a doll’s party in the nursery with grapes for dessert, but she punished herself immediately for this childishness. She had indeed other things to think of. Piously she laid her hands one over the other and settled down comfortably in the chair and with her newfound refinement of melancholy, she dreamed that she was in very weak health and very sad—a really seductive little dream!

Then Herman came walking towards the house, straight, smart, and correct. He was wearing a student’s cap, for by dint of hard work and an ambitious spirit he had come so far. And in spite of the heat he did not wear it tipped back, but on top of his head as if it were a part of the uniform of manhood and knowledge. And he did not look around him so nervously under an affected unconcern. No, now he looked just a little haughty as he came straight up to Laura’s window, climbed up on the seat and shook hands with her.

“Why do you never come to Ekbacken nowadays? It’s a fortnight since you were there.”

Laura half-closed her eyes and smiled a wan smile. Her hand dropped out of his and lay like a tired little bird on the window-sill:

“My dear Herman, we have been there too much already.”

“What nonsense!”

Laura was vexed at his clumsiness in not noticing her haggard appearance:

“Besides, I don’t feel very well, you know, Herman.”

That was too much, even for Herman. He could not help laughing.

“You ill, Laura! don’t talk such rubbish!”

What unfeeling, hard-hearted laughter. After all her efforts. At that moment she thoroughly detested him. But she did not answer sharply, she only looked deeply grieved and pained:

“Good-bye,” she murmured, “I am too tired to talk to you any longer. I must lie down for a while.”

Thereupon she closed the window in Herman’s face and pulled down the blind. Then she lay down on her bed and thought how unseeing and cold-hearted people were. Did they want to make her drink more vinegar? Well she was not frightened, although she had heard that it might make her really ill.

For another week Laura continued the darkness and vinegar treatment and then walked resolutely down to old Hermansson.

At Ekbacken the saws were humming as smoothly as ever in the red shed. The sailors were still there caulking the old smacks and old Lundbom was still casting up not unfavourable balances. Nothing had changed at Ekbacken except that it had grown a little older and more peaceful. But now and then a certain ill-disposed rival would rub his hands and think that Ekbacken would prove too good for this world.

Old Hermansson was not in the office. He did not often appear there nowadays. He sat in his dressing gown and smoking cap in the big easy chair in the drawing room, reading a newspaper that he held far from his eyes as if not to come into close contact with the restlessness and misery of the world.

Old Hermansson had aged considerably of late. He was almost always poorly now. But he did not complain. He protested with more and more marked dignity against his weakness. Unconsciously the Brundin case had dealt a nasty blow to his assurance and comfort. In consequence, his tone had become more self-satisfied and domineering than ever. The old man was really quite tender-hearted beneath his hard exterior and Stellan and Laura had at once perceived this, with the cruel insight of youth. They did not hesitate to exploit their guardian’s weakness for their own comfort.

Laura said “Good-morning,” and sank with a sigh into a chair, and looked worse than ever.

“What’s the matter with you, dear child? At your age one should not go about looking ill. Look at me, I shall soon be seventy and I am as well as ever.”

And saying this, he relapsed into the soft upholstery of his chair, his face twitching from rheumatism. But this had no effect on Laura:

“I can’t help it, I cough and have no appetite. I think I need a change of air.”

“Change of air! When do you think I have ever had a change of air in my life? And yet I have never been ill more than three days together in all my life!”

“Everybody can’t be as well as you, Uncle. And I am only a girl. Oh! if only Mother were alive so that I might have somebody to talk to.”

Laura’s voice trembled and the tears were already in her eyes. Her guardian grew alarmed:

“What’s the matter? What do you want to do, then, my dear child?”

Then Laura could restrain her desire no longer:

“I ... I want to go to a boarding school ... in Switzerland. You get such an appetite there. It would do my chest good. Elvira Lähnfeldt at Trefvinge is going to Neuchatel. Stellan told me so, for he was invited. Neuchatel is said to be so very suitable. And fancy to be able to talk French properly—and then the air,—”

Old Hermansson’s horizon did not stretch beyond the frontiers of his own country. He was dumbfounded by the audacity of the proposal:

“Impossible, my dear child, impossible!”

After the first attack Laura collected her forces for a more systematic siege:

“Oh, Uncle, you should live at Selambshof,” she wailed. “You would be ill in a week. Yes, it is so unpleasant at home since that dreadful business with Brundin.”

Laura glanced at her guardian; she seemed satisfied with the effect and continued:

“It is worst with Peter. He curses like a farm labourer and he swears at table. He is really no company for a young girl!”

That also had a good effect. Old Hermansson could not bear Peter since he had exposed Brundin. Laura already knew so much about the human heart. The old man nodded pensively:

“I admit that your brother Peter is not all that he ought to be. But if it is not always pleasant at home, you know that you are always welcome at Ekbacken.”

“Thank you. You are so awfully kind, both you and Herman. But ...” (Laura flushed beneath her self-induced pallor and glanced archly at her guardian) “but ... it looks strange for me to be always here. I don’t know if it is right any longer and then I thought that both you and Herman would like me to have some sort of education.”

Here she was interrupted by an attack of coughing, and she put her hand to her chest with an anxious and sudden air of distraction.

Her guardian looked very perplexed. As a matter of fact he looked upon the affection of the young pair for each other with some pleasure. He himself had originally been a poor clerk who had risen to his present position by marrying the daughter of his employer. To him Selambshof and the Selambs still seemed an old distinguished place and family. Yes! secretly he was even flattered by Laura’s walks with Herman. The thought of his future daughter-in-law being in a Swiss boarding school like the young lady at Trefvinge was also pleasant. So he slowly assumed an expression which was more of anxiety than of opposition.

“Well, my dear child, we must think it over.”

Laura had to control herself not to dance for joy so long as she was within sight of Ekbacken. But when she reached home she ate for the first time for a whole month till she was satisfied.

The following weeks were for Laura a time of glowing expectation, blissful faithlessness, touching farewells and a feeling almost approaching love.

On one of the first days of September, when the air had all the coolness and clearness of autumn, she and Herman were walking through the garden of Selambshof. The garden was situated on the southern slope, between the avenue and the lake, screened by a row of tall ash trees from the dismal, brooding, heaviness of the house. It was much neglected but it was a pleasant sort of neglect and this was after all a little corner of Selambshof where something of an idyll still lingered.

Laura and Herman were strolling slowly along the wet, half choked paths between currant bushes smothered in weeds and scraggy old apple trees covered with grey moss which still as if by a miracle bore beautiful shining apples. Here a tumbled-down fence lay with an appearance of infinite fatigue, and there the pestweed had pushed up into the light out of a half smothered ditch, and with its dense growth of enormous leaves had vanquished a row of raspberry bushes, where dry branches stretched up helplessly out of the green sea. Then there was a row of frames with broken glass and a bed of cabbages looking quite blue in the shade. Then came the long beds with a few asters and dahlias in front of the gardener’s dilapidated old cottage.

“It is very beautiful here,” whispered Laura. There was a note of surprise in her voice. It had evidently never occurred to her that it might be beautiful here. She glanced sideways at Herman who looked at once shy and hurt.

“If it is beautiful here why are you going away?”

The sun was not less bright because Herman turned away from her and grumbled. Laura pressed his hand encouragingly:

“I’ll soon be back,” she whispered softly.

She felt very superior to Selambshof and Herman and all the other everyday things which remained where they were put and never moved. But all the same there was a strange tenderness in her feeling of superiority. Sometimes she did not quite know if it was gay or sad.

Old Johannes, the gardener, sat in his porch and looked tranquilly at the neglect around him. He had been a sailor in his youth and divided his day into watches, four hours he smoked his pipe and four hours he rested. But during the day watch he slept. But somehow he managed to pay his rent so that he was not driven out. Until today Laura had only thought of the old man as something unkempt and dirty. She had never given him a further thought as she munched his apples. But now he suddenly appeared quite nice to her, sitting there in the sunshine. A bumble bee buzzed lazily round the patches on his trouser-knees. His hands seemed as if made of bark. His whole face was smothered with hair, just as the garden was with weeds. When he scratched his beard with his coarse nail there was a grating sound. But his eyes were wonderfully calm. It was as if in a quiet, still, protected corner the sun were shining down on a barrel of rainwater.

Laura suddenly realised why Tord spent so much time with the gardener.

“How is Tord’s fox?” she wondered.

She referred to a fox that had been caught in a trap and which Tord had been allowed to keep. It lived in a shed.

“Tord has got him on the leash,” smiled the old fellow, pleased at the interest in their common pet.

The door of a big grateless room stood open. The floor was covered with fruit. Laura dived in with the gardener and came out with her hat filled with the rosiest apples that ever woman tempted man with. Herman sighed and ate. It was all “sour grapes” to him. He pulled at Laura’s arm. He wanted to be alone with her. He was jealous of the garden, of the gardener, of the Swiss Alps, and of everything.

They moved on.

On the other side there was a hillock with terraces and ledges and some tumbled-down summer cottages. Here everything was silent, mysterious, and abandoned. Laura and Herman walked about in the small devastated gardens and peeped into the empty rooms where the winter seemed already to have thrown its shadow. Squeezed in between the lake and the hill lay a rambling old house given over to the rooks. It was a high house with three balconies, built over the water and embellished with some extraordinary extensions on the land side. Here the water splashed against the piles, covered with a green ooze, and the aspens, burnt red by the autumn, rustled, and the whole was illuminated by a strange light reflected from the paths covered with yellow leaves.

Herman succeeded in opening the door. Past empty cupboards, garden furniture and old gate-legged tables covered with marks left by glasses they penetrated to the highest balcony. Here the last flies of autumn buzzed against the window panes and tendrils of Virginia Creeper pushed in through the chinks and cracks.

They sank down on a garden seat strangely moved by this sunny brightness and forlorn melancholy. Herman dug his stick into the floor-boards and then he suddenly threw it aside and kissed her. He kissed her passionately and violently with bitter sealed lips. But she pulled him towards her and opened her lips softly. And she loved to feel how he tried to resist her but was not able to do so. No, humbly and helplessly he clung to her lips. This was their first real kiss. Everything before had been play. And she was going to leave all this behind. She felt so tenderly, so blissfully, so lovingly faithless. The tears came into her eyes and she smiled like a real little angel.

At this moment Laura happened to look out through one of the side windows. Who was that standing far away on the hill, almost on the same level as they were, if not Hedvig. She pretended to be interested in something out on the lake. But the expression of offended loneliness and stern disapproval in her pinched face was not to be mistaken. She had a disagreeable way of stealing upon you, had Hedvig. Of course she had seen everything. Of course she was green with envy because Laura had caught Herman and was going to Switzerland and was not as silly as Hedvig herself.

“So now we shall have her haunting this place,” muttered Laura. “Now this jolly place is spoilt for us.”

They pulled an old curtain before the window so that Hedvig should see nothing and then they stole away from “The Rookery” as silently as Indians. Now they were out in the wood on the other side of the avenue and they kissed each other again, but without lingering. A restless longing drove them on. They walked all the way to Träskängen and when they got there it was almost evening. A cold breeze met them as they jumped about from one dry spot to another.

In the deepest hollow there lay a white mist over banks of reeds and pools. But when they came up again on the other side of the hill towards the quarries it was so hot that they had to stop. In the twilight the scene around them seemed ragged and gloomy and deserted.

It was old Enoch who had started blasting here once upon a time. It seemed as if an evil spirit had ruled the forest, or some barren destructive fiend. Everywhere there were ravines, caves, treacherous holes and screes of clattering stones and loose boulders ready to slip away beneath your feet, and everything was enveloped in an almost impenetrable growth of young golden aspen.

And then the autumn moon rose above the forest in the west.

“It really is wonderfully fine,” whispered Herman, fascinated by the romance of this desolate wilderness.

“Yes, it is almost like the Alps,” answered Laura, and groped for him that she might feel him tremble with jealous love. But as soon as she had said it she trembled herself. Yes, she was playing a dangerous game up there among the rough boulders of Old Hök’s overgrown stony wilderness. Laura suddenly felt love clutching her heart with burning fingers. For a moment she gave herself up to this new and painful sensation, but then she became frightened, with the violent fear of a threatened egoism. She jumped up and pushed him away from her:

“No, now I must go home.”

But Herman insisted:

“No, we must go up to Enoch’s gorge,” he panted. “It is haunted, and up to the old quarrymen’s shed.”

His voice had never sounded so near her, so strangely near. She followed him against her will.

Enoch’s gorge was a perpendicular precipitous gully, blasted out of the rock. They held each others’ hands and crept up to the edge with their heads swimming. It was dark down below. Fancy if he pulls me down! the thought flashed through Laura’s head, and she suddenly tore her hand out of his.

Then they came to the shed. There were stones in front of the door, but Herman rolled them away. Inside something lay on a couple of overturned empty boxes. In the light of a match they saw a few books, a heap of strange stones, shells and horses’ teeth, a dried-up lizard and a broken bottle with fish spawn, by the side of a half-eaten piece of bread and butter.

Then somebody stood in the doorway. It was Tord. He looked unusually tall in the twilight. In spite of his sixteen years he was dressed in breeches and an outgrown sailor blouse, his long wrists sticking out from the sleeves. He stood quite still and stared at the invaders with an expression of fear and anger. And between his legs the fox thrust out his pointed nose and his bright eyes and sniffed. He had only three legs, poor thing, the fourth had been caught in the trap.

“What are you doing here?” growled Tord at last in a thick voice.

Herman and Laura were embarrassed to have been taken unawares and in their haste resorted to jeers.

Laura pushed some beetles on to Tord’s bread and butter.

“Here you are! a beetle sandwich!”

Tord turned pale. This was his refuge, his peaceful retreat. Here he had all his trophies from Träskängen, his lonely and glorious hunting ground for frog spawn, lizards, divers, birds’ eggs and bats—and now his poor secrets were captured by intruders. He stood there swinging his long bare arms. He gave one the impression of a dumb captive creature like the fox beside him. It was as if he could only express his feelings by a shriek. But now he clenched his fist and his face twitched with sudden and violent anger.

“Go away,” he cried. “Get away. This is my place.”

“All right, we are going.”

Laura dragged Herman with her. In the bushes beside them they heard the flop of a stone that Tord had cast after them. And then he called out something coarse after them, one of those impossible, foul expressions of impotent boyhood. Herman wanted to rush back and thrash him, but Laura stamped her foot on the ground and commanded him to take her home at once. She was suddenly short, cold, and offended, just as if Herman had injured her.

“You are silly,” she snapped. “What business had we up in that stupid quarry? Tell me what business we had there!”

In reality Laura was not in the least angry. She was afraid, and she sought relief for her fear in scolding him. Love had touched the egoism of her heart with a burning finger, and she felt restless in the twilight. That was the reason why she was so anxious to get home.

Poor Herman got no benefit from his kiss that evening. And there were no more kisses before her departure. Laura had suddenly grown careful, prim and full of moral qualms. Only at the very last, when her ticket was bought and the retreat clear did she recover some of her old amiability and mischief, and deigned graciously to cajole his heart out of his breast so as to have something to show to the other schoolgirls.

Now she was already standing on the step of the railway carriage with Elvira Lähnfeldt and Manne and his mother who were also travelling south. Cheerfully and with perfect ease she chatted to everybody. She was radiantly happy and her happiness made her beautiful. How could she be so happy when Herman was standing there with a void in his breast?

The train started. Her handkerchief was lost in the enveloping white steam.

On the way back to Ekbacken, Herman instinctively joined Stellan. With him the air seemed less oppressive and it seemed that something of Laura remained after all.

Stellan had not been very often at Ekbacken lately. And if he came it was to scold Laura, who was always there. Sisters are a doubtful blessing when they begin to take your friends away from you.

No, nowadays, Stellan went mostly to Manne at Kolsnäs. He had nobody else to turn to, because Percy was away in Jämtland for the summer on account of his chest. And Stonehill had been sold. Lake Mälare was beginning to be unfashionable and nice people moved out to sea. And then the town was creeping nearer, and it seemed to make the whole landscape look poor and ugly. They were already laying the foundation of a factory close to Stonehill. In those few years the fine place had already begun to look insignificant and neglected. Stellan avoided looking that way when he rowed over to Manne. He had to think of the footman and the horses at Kolsnäs in order not to feel sick of the old lake.

Manne had had a horse given to him in the spring, when he had at last succeeded in squeezing through his matriculation examination. The whole summer had been spent in wild riding. Every second day Manne lent Stellan his black horse, “Sultan,” for Manne was always a good friend. He had a kind, open smile and blue, somewhat misty eyes. He had already begun to lose the hair on the top of his head, but that did not prevent him from looking as boyish as ever. Nobody could look so splendidly unaware of the fact that necks can be broken. But his wild careering about was not restlessness. He did not worry about what he was going to be. That was quite superfluous, for his future was written on his face and the shape of his legs. He was a born Cavalry officer!

For Stellan the matter was not quite so simple—he was poor and besides, confound it, he had brains.

Anyhow, he enlarged his horizon. In company with Manne he sometimes rode across to Trefvinge, the great and magnificent Trefvinge. Stellan had always a strange cold sensation, a mixture of voluptuous ease and of hatred when his horse carried him across the grand stretch of gravel in front of its great white façade. Trefvinge was a real castle, a famous, historic castle of the seventeenth century. It impressed everybody against their wills, except the owner, Count Lähnfeldt, who had not been born a count. The lord of the castle himself scarcely ever appeared, but Elvira rode out with them. She was a slender girl with a shrill commanding voice, especially when she was excited. There was nothing shy about her and she had no particularly girlish manners, so she did not spoil sport. None of the young men were in love with her. Stellan used to tease her in a way that was sometimes cold and biting. It was as if he wanted to take his revenge because the castle in which she lived was so shockingly big and aristocratic.

In this way, then, the summer passed, and then Manne got the silly idea of going to Germany with his mother. That Elvira and Laura should go, of course, made no difference to Stellan, but Manne! That was a blow—because of “Sultan.”

Stellan had nothing but Herman and the sailing boat to fall back upon. And so after all the wild riding began sailing just as wild. Stellan could not remain still. In the autumn he felt that the cessation of the constraint of school had left a certain emptiness and restlessness. The future worried him.

Herman was with him in the boat. His future was Laura. He had thought of going to an English shipbuilding school in the autumn. But he could not make up his mind. He was caught in the memory of their kisses. He clung to Stellan, her brother. Yes, it was only for Stellan’s sake he took part in those chilly autumn sailing trips. He sat there huddled up in the spray and hugged Laura’s solitary little letter in his pocket and hoped that her brother would talk of her.

Stellan saw very well that Herman was not living in the same world as himself and that irritated him. He shrugged his shoulders with a contemptuous pity which perhaps at bottom was nothing more than the secret envy of the poor. He smiled grim little smiles when he saw Herman’s eyes directed towards him with the same expression of supplication. He pressed the helm and conspired with the autumn, the wind and the lake against this obstinate love. He was happiest when Herman was fully occupied in bailing out the water.