“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.
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 windowsill. It bore a small bunch of grapes, green and no bigger than pinheads. 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 windowsill:
“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:
“Goodbye,” 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
