Manne had had a horse given to him in the spring, when he had at last succeeded in squeezing through his matriculation examination. The whole summer had been spent in wild riding. Every second day Manne lent Stellan his black horse, “Sultan,” for Manne was always a good friend. He had a kind, open smile and blue, somewhat misty eyes. He had already begun to lose the hair on the top of his head, but that did not prevent him from looking as boyish as ever. Nobody could look so splendidly unaware of the fact that necks can be broken. But his wild careering about was not restlessness. He did not worry about what he was going to be. That was quite superfluous, for his future was written on his face and the shape of his legs. He was a born Cavalry officer!
For Stellan the matter was not quite so simple—he was poor and besides, confound it, he had brains.
Anyhow, he enlarged his horizon. In company with Manne he sometimes rode across to Trefvinge, the great and magnificent Trefvinge. Stellan had always a strange cold sensation, a mixture of voluptuous ease and of hatred when his horse carried him across the grand stretch of gravel in front of its great white façade. Trefvinge was a real castle, a famous, historic castle of the seventeenth century. It impressed everybody against their wills, except the owner, Count Lähnfeldt, who had not been born a count. The lord of the castle himself scarcely ever appeared, but Elvira rode out with them. She was a slender girl with a shrill commanding voice, especially when she was excited. There was nothing shy about her and she had no particularly girlish manners, so she did not spoil sport. None of the young men were in love with her. Stellan used to tease her in a way that was sometimes cold and biting. It was as if he wanted to take his revenge because the castle in which she lived was so shockingly big and aristocratic.
In this way, then, the summer passed, and then Manne got the silly idea of going to Germany with his mother. That Elvira and Laura should go, of course, made no difference to Stellan, but Manne! That was a blow—because of “Sultan.”
Stellan had nothing but Herman and the sailing boat to fall back upon. And so after all the wild riding began sailing just as wild. Stellan could not remain still. In the autumn he felt that the cessation of the constraint of school had left a certain emptiness and restlessness. The future worried him.
Herman was with him in the boat. His future was Laura. He had thought of going to an English shipbuilding school in the autumn. But he could not make up his mind. He was caught in the memory of their kisses. He clung to Stellan, her brother. Yes, it was only for Stellan’s sake he took part in those chilly autumn sailing trips. He sat there huddled up in the spray and hugged Laura’s solitary little letter in his pocket and hoped that her brother would talk of her.
Stellan saw very well that Herman was not living in the same world as himself and that irritated him. He shrugged his shoulders with a contemptuous pity which perhaps at bottom was nothing more than the secret envy of the poor. He smiled grim little smiles when he saw Herman’s eyes directed towards him with the same expression of supplication. He pressed the helm and conspired with the autumn, the wind and the lake against this obstinate love. He was happiest when Herman was fully occupied in bailing out the water.
Herman sat by the fore-sheet, and slackened and made fast. Now and then he looked astern at Stellan. There was a mixture of admiration, anxiety and something akin to secret pity in his look. Stellan wore the same expression now as at school when things were at their hottest—bold, independent, and scoffing. Oh! how Herman had envied him that he never allowed himself to be impressed by his teachers, that, in spite of his laziness, he always knew how to answer. Ugh! the water dashed in from the lee! But Stellan never condescended to luff up. It was almost terrible to see how indifferent he was. He was quite capable of sinking them. Herman was not afraid for himself. But he felt a pang in his heart. Was there not something strangely forlorn about Stellan. Did he not sit there alone with the wind and the grey lake. It seemed as if poor Stellan had been locked out from something. And he did not even know that he could knock at the door.
These were Herman’s thoughts as he clung wet and cold to the weather gunwale and received the worst spray over his back. For he had a little letter in his pocket to hug furtively.
One day something happened. But this time Herman sat at the helm and not Stellan.
There was a dash of fitful April weather at the beginning of October. The hot sun shone between big clouds and below were black squalls. It was not rough, but there came treacherous gusts of wind by the dips of the land. And into the bargain it was Saturday.
Old Hermansson’s trim little Ellida lay for the moment to lee as on a mirror. The sails hung slack, the boat lay over to windward and the sun was deliciously warm. Slowly they overhauled an absurd little overrigged boat, a real caricature of a boat. It was painted white, and on the stern was painted Kalla, in big black letters. Aboard were three workingmen from the new factory under construction. Their half-drunk bass voices rolled out over the water. One of them stood with his foot on
