“Traitor, traitor to his home and to the soil that had nourished him.”
And so it happened when Kolsnäs was thrown into the market in Laura’s drawing room. It was not the first estate that had suffered such a fate, nor would it be the last.
This affair had scarcely become known before Laura came rushing into Stellan’s room. She was furiously angry.
“You have behaved abominably” she cried. “You have acted behind my back. Why was I not told anything? I had almost promised Levy that he should be allowed to do Manne that little service.”
Stellan made no effort to defend himself. He atoned for his crime by giving his sister a beautiful bracelet of brilliants. There were several of Laura’s jewels that had their little history.
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One warm and calm Saturday evening in July Peter sat alone in his office and examined his books. Round about him Selambshof seemed deserted. Not a single soul had been visible the whole afternoon. But far away from Kolsnäs on the other side of the lake an accordion was heard. They were dancing in a barn and everybody was there.
Peter puffed aloud. He cursed the low, mellow, rich sunshine and the still air in which so many small winged creatures were hovering about! With his massive body he felt alone and helpless. He had often felt so of late. And then there was practically nothing else but the books, the soiled, faded Selambshof books up on the shelf by the fireplace, to busy himself with. But Peter did not look only at the books of the current year, he went back several years. Their soiled columns constituted his excursions into the past, his diaries and memoirs. Here there were entries and totals at which he had always smiled contentedly. In his memory they were associated with all those who had let themselves be cheated by him in one way or another and sometimes he had the feeling of being amongst good and faithful friends. Yes, there are many ways of fighting loneliness in this world.
Today Peter was more than unusually obstinate with his books. He had already penetrated so far back in the books that the handwriting was not his own scrawl nor that of Inglund’s but a soft elegant handwriting with almost sensuous curls and flourishes. It was Brundin’s beautiful handwriting, which still made Peter feel sick. He tried for the hundredth time to enjoy the stale sweetness of victory. But it did not bring him joy. He still had a queer feeling that Brundin had cheated him of something ... something that Peter the Boss would never enjoy.