No, he could not bear to look any longer.
With his eyes on the ground and his big hands hanging awkwardly by his sides Peter strolled round the yard and out into the fields. He lumbered about like a watch-dog, sniffing reflectively at every corner. Everywhere he scented decay. From his own father, who sat there heedless and inert on his bench by the front door, and who in the depth of his decay had no thought for anything else but his next meal, this ruin spread itself over garden, barn, stable and granary—and out over fields, meadows and forest. There were a thousand things that whispered of it, the weeds in the paths, the broken glass of the cucumber frames, the broken down, moss-covered fences, bottomless patches of road, bare neglected forest slopes. There were a thousand things Peter would have liked to ask Brundin about, but when he met him smart and resplendent with a big cigar in the corner of his mouth, a kind of paralysis of fear overtook him. Not with red-hot tongs could one have dragged a straightforward, direct question out of the boy—and that even though the bailiff had never uttered an unkind word to him, but on the contrary had cracked good-natured jokes with him and had offered him good things from town which Peter had grabbed clumsily and disappeared with, like a dog who is afraid of a thrashing.
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.”