Stellan had nothing but Herman and the sailing boat to fall back upon. And so after all the wild riding began sailing just as wild. Stellan could not remain still. In the autumn he felt that the cessation of the constraint of school had left a certain emptiness and restlessness. The future worried him.
Herman was with him in the boat. His future was Laura. He had thought of going to an English shipbuilding school in the autumn. But he could not make up his mind. He was caught in the memory of their kisses. He clung to Stellan, her brother. Yes, it was only for Stellan’s sake he took part in those chilly autumn sailing trips. He sat there huddled up in the spray and hugged Laura’s solitary little letter in his pocket and hoped that her brother would talk of her.
Stellan saw very well that Herman was not living in the same world as himself and that irritated him. He shrugged his shoulders with a contemptuous pity which perhaps at bottom was nothing more than the secret envy of the poor. He smiled grim little smiles when he saw Herman’s eyes directed towards him with the same expression of supplication. He pressed the helm and conspired with the autumn, the wind and the lake against this obstinate love. He was happiest when Herman was fully occupied in bailing out the water.
Herman sat by the fore-sheet, and slackened and made fast. Now and then he looked astern at Stellan. There was a mixture of admiration, anxiety and something akin to secret pity in his look. Stellan wore the same expression now as at school when things were at their hottest—bold, independent, and scoffing. Oh! how Herman had envied him that he never allowed himself to be impressed by his teachers, that, in spite of his laziness, he always knew how to answer. Ugh! the water dashed in from the lee! But Stellan never condescended to luff up. It was almost terrible to see how indifferent he was. He was quite capable of sinking them. Herman was not afraid for himself. But he felt a pang in his heart. Was there not something strangely forlorn about Stellan. Did he not sit there alone with the wind and the grey lake. It seemed as if poor Stellan had been locked out from something. And he did not even know that he could knock at the door.
These were Herman’s thoughts as he clung wet and cold to the weather gunwale and received the worst spray over his back. For he had a little letter in his pocket to hug furtively.
One day something happened. But this time Herman sat at the helm and not Stellan.
There was a dash of fitful April weather at the beginning of October. The hot sun shone between big clouds and below were black squalls. It was not rough, but there came treacherous gusts of wind by the dips of the land. And into the bargain it was Saturday.
Old Hermansson’s trim little “Ellida” lay for the moment to lee as on a mirror. The sails hung slack, the boat lay over to windward and the sun was deliciously warm. Slowly they overhauled an absurd little overrigged boat, a real caricature of a boat. It was painted white, and on the stern was painted “Kalla,” in big black letters. Aboard were three workingmen from the new factory under construction. Their half-drunk bass voices rolled out over the water. One of them stood with his foot on the gunwale, gripping the stays with one hand and flourishing a bottle in the other. Never had the sun shone on such recklessness.
Stellan’s eyes flashed:
“This will be interesting,” he muttered.