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 midwinter. 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 halfway. 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 fidgeted 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 halfway 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
