Then an old fellow rose and thanked the host. He fumbled with his wine glass and now and then squeezed out a word, just as if he had been on the point of suffocation before he got it out. And his shadow, ragged and giantlike, mounted the loosening plaster of the walls of Selambshof.
“Kalle Brundin,” he shouted, “Kalle Brundin! All here present join with me! And what do we join in? We join in the belief that this has been a damned fine party. Damned jolly to see you out here in your old Selambshof! Thank you, Kalle Brundin! A fourfold hurrah for Kalle Brundin and his Selambshof. May he live long: hip, hip, hurrah!”
In reply Kalle Brundin pointed with an elegant gesture to the landing stage and the steamer. And instantly the whole company stumbled towards it, so that the table was deserted.
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
