The first Sunday after Midsummer Day there was a grand party at the
seine-maker's to which every one in the Ashdales had been invited.
The old man and his daughter-in-law were in the habit of
entertaining the whole countryside on this day of each year.
Folks wondered, of course, how two people who were so pitiably poor
could afford to give a big feast, but to all who knew the whys and
wherefores it seemed perfectly natural.
As a matter of fact, when the seine-maker was a rich man he gave
his two sons a farmstead each. The elder son wasted his substance
in much the same way as Ol' Bengtsa himself had done, and died
poor. The younger son, who was the more steady and reliable, kept
his portion and even increased it, so that now he was quite well-to-do.
But what he owned at the present time was as nothing to what he
might have had if his father had not recklessly made away with both
money and lands, to no purpose whatever. If such wealth had only
come into the hands of the son in his younger days, there is no
telling to what he might have attained. He could have been owner of
all the woodlands in the Lovsjö district, had a shop at Broby, and
a steamer plying Lake Löven; he might even have been master of the
ironworks at Ekeby. Naturally he found it difficult to excuse the
father's careless business methods, but he kept his thoughts to
himself.
When the crash came for Ol' Bengtsa, a good many persons, Bengtsa
among them, expected the son to come to his aid by the sacrifice of
his own property. But what good would that have done? It would only
have gone to the creditors. It was with the idea in mind that the
father should have something to fall back upon when all his
possessions were gone, that the son had held on to his own.
It was not the fault of the younger son that Ol' Bengtsa had taken
up his abode with the widow of the elder son, for he had begged the
father more than a hundred times to come and live with him. The
father's refusal to accept this offer seemed almost like an act of
injustice; for because of it the son got the name of being mean and
hard-hearted among those who knew the old man was badly off. Still,
there was no ill-feeling between the two.
The son, accompanied by his wife and children, always drove down to
the Ashdales over the steep and perilous mountain road once every
summer, just to spend a day with his father.
If people had only known how badly he and his wife felt every time
they saw the wretched hovel, the ramshackle outhouse, the stony
potato patch, and the sister-in-law's ragged children, they would
have understood how his heart went out to his father. The worst of
all was that the father persisted in giving a big party in their
honour. Every time they bade the old man good-bye they begged him
not to invite all the neighbours in when they came again the next
year; but he was obdurate; he would not forego his yearly feast,
though he could ill afford the expense. Seeing how aged and broken
he looked, one would hardly have thought there was so much of the
old happy-go-lucky Ol' Bengtsa of Lusterby still left in him, but
the desire to do things on a grand scale still clung to him. It had
caused him misfortune from which he could never recover.
The son had learned inadvertently that the old man and the
sister-in-law scrimped the whole year just to be able to give a
grand spread on the day he was at home. And then it was nothing but
eat, eat the whole time! He and his family were hardly out of the
wagon before they were served with coffee and all kinds of tempting
appetizers. And later came the dinner to all the neighbours with a
fish course, a meat course, and game, and rice-cakes, and fruit-mold
with whipped cream, and quantities of wines and spirits. It was
enough to make one weep! He and his wife did nothing to encourage
this foolishness. On the contrary, they brought with them only such
plain fare as they were accustomed to have every day; but for all
that they could not escape the feasting. Sometimes they felt that
rather than let the old man ruin himself on their account they
might better remain away altogether. Yet they feared to do so, lest
their good intentions should be misinterpreted.
And what a strange company they were thrown in with at these
Parties--old blacksmiths and fishermen and backwoodsmen! If such
good, substantial folk as the Falla family had not been in the
habit of coming, too, there would have been no one there with whom
they could have exchanged a word.
Ol' Bengtsa's son had liked the late Eric of Falla best, but he
also entertained in a high regard for Lars Gunnarson, the present
master of Falla. Lars Gunnarson came of rather obscure people, but
he was a man who had the good sense to marry well, and who would
doubtless forge ahead and gain for himself both wealth and
position. When the old man told his son that Lars Gunnarson was not
likely to come to the party this year, the latter was very much
disappointed.
"But it's no fault of mine," Ol' Bengsta declared. "Lars isn't
exactly my kind, but all the same, on your account, I went down to
Falla yesterday and invited him."
"Maybe he's weary of these parties," said the son.
"Oh, no," returned Ol' Bengtsa. "I'm sure he'd be only too glad to
come, but there's something that's keeping him away." He did not
explain further just then, but while they were having their coffee,
he went back to the subject. "You mustn't feel so badly because
Lars isn't coming this evening," he said. "I don't believe you'd
care for his company any more."
"You don't mean that he has taken to drink?"
"That wasn't such a bad guess! He took to it suddenly in the
spring, and since Midsummer Day he hasn't drawn a sober breath."
During these visits the father and son immediately they had
finished their coffee always went fishing. The old man usually kept
very still on these occasions, so as not to scare the fish away,
but this year was the exception. He spoke to the son time and
again. His words came with difficulty, as always, still there
seemed to be more life in him now than ordinarily. Evidently there
was something special he wanted to say, or rather something he
wished to draw from his son. He was like one who stands outside an
empty house shouting and calling, in the hope that somebody will
come and open the door to him.
He harked back to Lars Gunnarson several times, relating in part
what had occurred at the catechetical meeting, and he even dragged
in all the gossip that had been circulated about Lars in the
Ashdales since Eric's death.
The son granted that Lars might not be altogether blameless; if he
had now begun drinking it was a bad sign.
"I'm curious to see how he'll get through this day," said Ol'
Bengtsa.
Just then the son felt a nibble, and did not have to answer. There
was nothing in this whole story that had any bearing upon the
common interests of himself and his father, yet he could not but
feel there was some hidden intent back of the old man's words.
"I hope he'll drive over to the parsonage this evening," pursued
Ol' Bengtsa. "There is forgiveness of sins for him who will seek
it."
A long silence ensued. The son was too busy baiting his hook to
think of replying. Besides, this was not anything which called for
a response. Presently there came from the old man such a heavy sigh
that he had to look over toward him.
"Father! Can't you see you've got a nibble? I believe you are
letting the perch jerk the rod away from you."
The old man quickly pulled up his line and released the fish from
the hook. His fingers seemed to be all thumbs and the perch slipped
from his hands back into the water.
"It isn't meant that I shall catch any fish to-day, however much I
may want to."
Yes, there was certainly something he wished the son to say--to
Confess--but surely he did not expect him to liken himself to one
who was suspected of having caused the death of his father-in-law?
Ol' Bengtsa did not bait his hook again. He stood upon a stone,
with his hands folded--his half-dead eyes fixed on the smooth water.
"Yes--there is pardon for all," he said musingly, "for all who let
their old parents lie waiting and freezing in icy chilliness--
pardon even to this day. But afterward it will be too late!"
Surely this could never have been said for the son's benefit. The
father was no doubt thinking aloud, as is the habit of old people.
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 some one 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 every one'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 any one in particular, nor did
any one 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 every one 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. Just
the same, I wrote to the ironmaster requesting immediate payment;
but received the reply that he was dying. Later on, after his
death, the administrators of the estate declared they could find no
record of my claim. I was informed that it wasn't possible for them
to pay me unless I produced the note. We searched high and low for
it, both I and my sons, but we couldn't find it."
"You don't mean to tell me that you've come across it at last!" the
son exclaimed.
"It was the strangest thing imaginable!" the old man went on. "Jan
of Ruffluck came over here one morning and told me he knew for a
certainty that the note was in the secret drawer of my cedar chest.
He had seen me take it out in a dream, he said."
"But you must have looked there?"
"Yes, I did search through the secret drawer on the left-hand side.
But Jan said it was in the drawer on the right, and then, when I
looked more carefully, I found a secret drawer that I'd never known
about; and in that lay the note."
"You probably put it there some time when you were in your cups."
"Very likely I did."
The son laid down his knife and fork for a moment, then took them
up again. Something in the old man's tone made him a bit wary.
"Maybe it's just a hoax," he thought to himself. Aloud he said, "it
was outlawed, of course?"
"Oh, yes," replied the old man, "it would doubtless have been so
regarded by any other debtor. But I rowed across to Doveness one
day and took the note to the new ironmaster, who admitted at once
that it was good. 'It's as clear as day that I must pay my father's
debt, Ol' Bengtsa,' he said. 'But you'll have to give me a few
weeks' grace. It is a large sum to pay out all at once.'"
"That was spoken like a man of honour!" said the son, bringing his
hand down heavily on the table. A sense of gladness stole in upon
him in spite of his suspicions. To think that it was something so
splendid the old man had been holding back from him the whole day!
"I told the ironmaster that he needn't pay me just then; that if he
would only give me a new note the money could remain in his
safekeeping."
"That was well," said the son approvingly. There was a strong, glad
ring in his voice, that betrayed an eagerness he would rather not
have shown, for he knew of old that one could never be quite sure
of Ol' Bengtsa--in the very next breath he might say it was just a
yarn.
"You don't believe me," observed the old man. "Would you like to
see the note? Run in and get it, Lisa!"
Almost immediately the son had the note before his eyes. First he
glanced at the signature, and recognized the firm, legible hand of
the ironmaster. Then he looked at the figures, and found them
correct. He nodded to his wife, who sat opposite him, that it was
all right, at the same time passing the note to her, knowing how
interested she would be to see it.
The wife examined the note carefully. "What does this mean?" she
asked--"'Payable to Lisa Persdotter of Lusterby'--is Lisa to have
the money?"
"Yes," the old man answered. "She gets this money because she has
been a good daughter to me."
"But this is unfair--"
"No, it is not unfair," drawled the old man in a tired voice. "I
have squared myself and owe nobody anything. I might have had one
other creditor," he added turning to this son, "but after looking
into matters, I find that I haven't."
"You mean me, I suppose," said the son. "But you don't seem to
think I--" All that the son had wanted to say to the father was
left unsaid, as he was interrupted by a piercing shriek from the
opposite side of the table.
Lars Gunnarson had just seized a bottle of brandy and put it to
his mouth. His wife, screaming from terror, was trying to take it
from him. He held her back until he had emptied half the contents,
whereupon he set the bottle down and turned to his wife, his face
flushed, his eyes staring wildly, his hands clenched.
"Didn't you hear it was Jan who found the note?" he said in a
hoarse voice. "All his dreams come true! Can't you comprehend that
the man has the gift of second sight? You'll see that something
dreadful will happen to me this day, as he has predicted."
"Why he has only cautioned you to be on your guard," said the wife.
"You begged and teased me to come here so that I should forget what
day it was, and now I get this reminder!"
Again Lars raised the brandy bottle to his lips. This time,
however, the wife cast herself upon him with prayers and tears.
Replacing the bottle on the table, he said with a laugh: "Keep it!
Keep it for all of me!" With that he rose and kicked the chair out
of his way. "Good-bye to you, Ol' Bengtsa," he said to the host. "I
hope you will pardon my leaving, but to-day I must go to a place
where I can drink in peace."
He rushed toward the gate, his wife following. When he was passing
out into the road, he pushed her back. "Why can't you let me be!"
he cried fiercely. "I've had my warning, and I go to meet my doom!"