The labourers on the estate were the only ones with whom Peter could talk on the subject. Obeying the instinct of a sort of subordinate, the future heir pried about for signs of discontent, for hints and suggestions. But he had little success. It was of importance that he should be very careful. He turned his questions over and over again in his mind before they passed his lips. In his timidity and excess of carefulness he began to beat about the bush so much that often he never reached his point at all. Those who asked for nothing better than to speak the truth about the bailiff did not understand what he was driving at. And cleverer ones and those with a bad conscience saw through him in their own way, and thought it best to beware of this sneaking, spying nuisance of a boy and not to criticise those in authority.
Down in the bend of the avenue Peter met Anders, who was driving home with a load of rye from the Hökar meadow. The boy climbed up in the rye beside the old stable hand, but he did not think how jolly it was to lie softly like this among the sheaves glowing with blue cornflowers and to swing gently along in the half-light under the old elms. Today his restlessness was worse than ever, and he grew quite bold of speech.
“How much is a load like this worth, Anders?”
“Oh, it’s worth a good deal of money. And it would fetch more if it wasn’t for the weeds.”
“Who takes care of the money?”
“The bailiff, of course.”
“But Anders, when they pay him the money, how can he know what is ours and what is his?”
“Well, Master Peter, the bailiff keeps his books.”
“But supposing somebody went and wrote something wrong in his books?”
“No, they can’t, for he keeps his books locked up, you see.”
“But suppose he should forget to write something in the books?”
Peter’s tone was one of entreaty, but Anders was impossible.
“It is his chief work to write down everything in the books,” he muttered with a side-glance.
Thus Peter helped to drive in the rye. They had reached the barn now and he jumped down no wiser than before. The cracked old gong rang for dinner, and it sounded like a funeral bell.
The dining-room smelt of sluring, a soup which was the abomination of all the children. They pushed the chairs about, kicked each other’s legs, and quarrelled because nobody wanted to sit next to father, who was horrid at table. They were just like a lot of crows on a branch at night time, pecking at each other because none wants to sit furthest out on the branch, in the darkness and emptiness. Finally Tord was pushed there, he was the smallest and weakest. Frida flung down the soup. It was worse than ever. There had probably been no time for cooking because of the preparations for the evening party. Peter shrank and held his hands to his ears so as not to hear his father eating his soup. There came a queer smell from the neighbourhood of Tord, who did not touch his food but pulled out a dirty handkerchief full of snakes’ eggs which he had found in the manure heap. Stellan waited upon his father. When he had lapped up his soup, the young man was there in a flash with his own full plate the contents of which disappeared just as quickly. Laura’s plate went the same way. Those two always adopted the same strategy. But Peter and Hedvig did their duty. There were bread fritters to follow. Old Kristin came in. Nowadays, there was not much left of her. Usually she sat in her little room mumbling as she knitted. But she still retained her power over Tord, so he had to sit there with his soup. He could be shut up with his plate for ever so long without uttering a sound. He was a strange, silent child, Tord.
Still hungry and out of humour Peter crept down into the garden and stole whatever he could find to eat there.
Then the steamer arrived with Brundin’s guests. There were corn dealers, greengrocers, and butchers from the town, nothing but rogues that he did business with. They at once sat down to smoke and drink punch at a long table on the terrace. From the beginning there were heard shouts of coarse, bass voices and roars of laughter, and it was clear that they had laid a solid foundation for their merriment in some inn in town. Frida, fresh and not at all shy, in spite of her seventeen years, flitted about the whole time bearing trays frequently replenished and was vigorously pinched, tickled and caressed. But in the midst of all shone Brundin in his check waistcoat, and whenever you looked at him he sat with glass uplifted and “Your health” on his lips.
Peter hovered about, gloomy and unnoticed, on the fringe of this festive party. He loitered about the bedroom window, he crept into the lilac hedge. In the end he secured himself up among the branches of the big maple tree below the signal-guns on the terrace. From there he saw them light the gay-coloured lanterns and bring in the enormous dishes of crayfish, with their fennel crowns to the accompaniment of wild shouts of welcome. The lanterns swung to and fro and the candles in the big candlesticks from off the sideboard flickered and flamed as if intoxicated, and cast a shimmering light on napkins tied round fat necks, on rolled-up shirt sleeves and rows of sparkling glasses simultaneously raised.
To crown all Peter saw how Stellan and Laura
