Anyhow, the son thought he would try to make the old man talk about something else. So he said:
“How is the man who went crazy last year getting on?”
“Oh, you mean Jan of Ruffluck! Well, he has been in his right mind since last fall. He’ll not be at the party, either. He’s only a poor crofter like myself; so him you’ll not miss, of course.”
This was true enough. However, the son was so glad of an excuse to speak of someone other than Lars Gunnarson, that he asked with genuine concern what was wrong with Jan of Ruffluck.
“Oh, he’s just sick from pining for a daughter who went away about two years ago, and who never writes to him.”
“The girl who went wrong?”
“So you knew about it, eh? But it isn’t because of that he’s grieving himself to death. It is the awful hardness and lack of love that he can’t bear up under.”
This forced colloquy was becoming intolerable. It made the son feel all the more uncomfortable.
“I’m going over to the stone farthest out,” he said. “I see a lot of fish splashing round it.”
By that move he was out of earshot of his father, and there was no further conversation between them for the remainder of the forenoon. But go where he would, he felt that the dim, lustreless eyes of the old man were following him. And this time he was actually glad when the guests arrived.
The dinner was served out of doors. When Ol’ Bengtsa had taken his place at the board he tried to cast off all worry and anxiety. When acting as host at a party, so much of the Ol’ Bengtsa of bygone days came to the fore it was easy to guess what manner of man he had once been.
No one from Falla was present. But it was plain that Lars Gunnarson was in everyone’s thoughts; which was not surprising since this was the day he had been warned to look out for. Now of course Ol’ Bengtsa’s son had to listen to further talk about the catechetical meeting at Falla, and he heard more about the pastor’s extraordinary dissertation on the duties of children toward their parents than he cared to hear. However, he said nothing; but Ol’ Bengtsa must have noticed that he was beginning to be bored, for he turned to him with the remark:
“What do you say to all this, Nils? I suppose you’re sitting there thinking to yourself it’s very strange Our Lord hasn’t written a commandment for parents on how they shall treat their children?”
This was wholly unexpected. The son could feel the blood mounting to his face. It was as if he had done something dreadful, and been caught at it.
“But my dear father!” he protested, “I’ve never said or thought—”
“True,” the old man struck in, turning now to his guests. “I know you will hardly believe what I tell you, but it’s a fact that this son of mine has never spoken an unkind word to me; neither has his wife.”
These remarks were not addressed to anyone in particular, nor did anyone feel disposed to respond to them.
“They have been put to some pretty hard tests,” Ol’ Bengtsa went on. “It was a large property they were deprived of. They could have been landed proprietors by this time if I had only done the right thing. Yet they have never uttered a word of complaint and every summer they pay me a visit, just to show they are not angry with me.”
The old man’s face looked so dead now, and his voice sounded so hollow! The son could not tell whether he was trying to come out with something or whether he talked merely for talk’s sake.
“Now it’s altogether different with Lisa,” said Ol’ Bengtsa, pointing at the daughter-in-law with whom he lived. “She scolds me every day for not holding on to my property.”
The daughter-in-law, not in the least perturbed, retorted with a good-natured laugh: “And you scold me because I can’t find time to patch all the holes in the boys’ clothes.”
“That’s true,” the old man admitted. “You see, we’re not shy; we say right out what we think and tell each other everything. What I’ve got is hers, and what she’s got is mine; so I’m beginning to think it is she who is my real child.”
Again the son felt embarrassed, and troubled as well.
There was something the old man wanted to force from him—something of a personal nature; but surely he could not expect it to be forthcoming here, before all this company?
It was a great relief to the son of Ol’ Bengtsa when on looking up he saw Lars Gunnarson and his wife standing at the gate. Not he alone, but everyone was glad to see them. Now it was as if all their gloomy misgivings had suddenly been dispelled.
Lars and his wife made profuse apologies for being so late. Lars had been suffering from a bad headache and had feared he would not be able to come at all; but it had abated somewhat so he decided to come to the party, thinking he would forget about his aches and pains if he got out among people.
He looked a bit hollow-eyed, but he was as jolly and sociable as he had been the year before. He had barely got down the first mouthful of food when he and the son of Ol’ Bengtsa fell to talking of the lumber business, of big profits and interest on loans.
The poor rustics round about them, aghast at the mere mention of these large figures, were afraid to open their mouths. Ol’ Bengtsa was the only one who wanted to have his say in the matter.
“Since you’re talking of money,” he said, “I wonder, Nils, if you remember that note for 17,000 rix-dollars I got from the old ironmaster at Doveness? It was mislaid, if you recollect, and couldn’t be found at the time when I was in such hard straits.
