“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 bookkeeper 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 manoeuvred 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.
