Hedvig was at once overcome by confused emotions of shame, indignation and furious suspicions. The impudent, shameless, immoral rabble! Before my eyes! Of course they were spying through the chinks in the blinds. And now they are laughing at me between their kisses. Yes, I have seen them often exchange glances of secret understanding. Fancy if they have seen me with the papers too. Fancy if they are conspiring to rob me. If they murder me one night and take everything and set fire to the house to hide their crime. …
Hedvig remained on her aching knees till the couple had passed through the gate and disappeared in the darkness of the forest. Then she dragged herself to bed and lay there listening with every nerve in the thick darkness. All the time she imagined she heard something move in the wardrobe. In the end she had to get up and bring the papers and the money into her bed. With her arm round the two heavy leather portfolios she at last fell into a restless slumber.
The following morning Hedvig dismissed the chauffeur and the parlourmaid. That was the beginning to the depopulation of Hill villa. Then she sold the car and had a fire and burglar proof safe built into the wall in the wardrobe. When it began to grow cold in the autumn she closed up the picture galleries and only heated a few rooms. By that time both the cook and the other maid and the gardener had gone. She had only one servant left, an old bad-tempered, silent, faithful servant of the Hill family.
The snow came and Hedvig got herself up at dawn, so as not to be seen, and swept the snow drifts from the gate. For long periods only one thin column of smoke rose from the chimneys to show that there was still flickering life in the big white villa. It gradually began to become a ghost-house.
VIII
Tord Sails Out to Sea
With its knife-sharp stem the big motor boat cut straight through the September storm. In the stern Stellan and Laura were lying, well protected from both draught and spray by canvas and bevelled glass screens. The splash of the waves mingled with the sound of jingling mirrors and trays in the elegant saloon.
“The motor runs nicely today,” observed Laura.
“It always runs well when you are on your way to something disagreeable,” mumbled Stellan.
“Do you think there is more vibration in the bows?”
“Of course there is nearer the motor. Why do you ask?”
“The vibration is nearly as good as massage. I have not had any for a whole week. It’s perfectly awful. I think I will move up there.”
Laura stepped up to the bows. Her life was now characterised by an incessant struggle against incipient corpulency. She took massage, had gymnastics, played games and rode. The fear of getting old forced her out of her feline laziness. She positively dared not sit still. “If I rest or if I lie on my back, then old age will come over me,” she thought. This new restlessness went hand in hand with an ardent desire to be in at everything, not to miss anything. She had fallen a helpless victim to the disease of seeing and being seen. Dances, first nights, private views, bazaars, matches:—everywhere you saw Countess von Borgk. And everywhere you saw her flirt with young men, preferably very young men.
It had not been exactly an agreeable surprise for Stellan to discover her at the great autumn shooting party at Granö. Stellan was no longer fond of female company. His wife he fortunately escaped. She was always at the seaside or at some sanatorium, but Laura he often met. But with the old bachelor Major von Brauner he had thought he would be free from her. Certainly Brauner had figured at Laura’s gambling evenings out in the Narvavägen, but Stellan did not know that relations had continued. Judge of his annoyance, then, when he turned in his motor boat and saw his pretty sister on the pier; Laura in short skirts, with puttees on her legs and a young painter fool carrying her gun.
And at dinner she came down, the only lady amongst so many men, half naked, wrapped in some green silk stuff that really cried aloud of her lost youth. And she herself gave the signal for the naughty stories after dinner. Grotesque!
As if that were not unpleasant enough they began to talk about the neighbouring Järnö. And who should start that topic but Laura. She was half lying in her chair and told lots of stories about dear old Tord. There was a moment of painful silence, but as the family itself did not seem to mind … well, then they let their tongues wag. Nobody mentioned such a trifle as that Tord had the Governor of the province at him all the time for neglect. That was to be seen in any paper. But now he had put up big notices:
Landing forbidden on penalty of death.
Tord of Järnö.
And he actually did shoot at people who entered his waters. Von Brauner himself had once sought shelter there during a thunderstorm and had heard the bullets whizz about his ears. The people round about were so furious that an accident might happen at any moment.
“A philosopher who has read too much Darwin and Nietzsche,” mumbled Stellan. “He wants to be a living protest against the more sentimental theories.”
Stellan tried to save the situation by being objective at the same time as he appealed to the sportman’s individualism and the aristocratic prejudices of the company.
But Laura laughed:
“Nonsense, he is just mad. But anyhow, madmen may be rather jolly.”
The following day Stellan left Gränö in order to go to Järnö and talk to Tord. It was not so easy to get Laura to come with him, because she felt very much at home amongst the shooting party. But now they were on their way anyhow. The motor
