“My name is Peer Holm!” said the boy, instinctively drawing himself up as he had done when the bishop had patted his head at the confirmation and asked his name.
The schoolmaster pursed up his lips, took off his spectacles and wiped them, put them on again, and turned to the bookshelves with a sigh. “Ah, indeed!—yes—yes—I almost thought as much.”
Then he came forward and laid a hand kindly on Peer’s shoulder.
“My dear boy—that is out of the question.”
A shiver went through Peer. Had he done something wrong again?
“See here, my boy—have you considered that there may be others of that name in this same place?”
“Yes—but—”
“Wait a minute—and that you would occasion these—others—the deepest pain and distress if it should become known that—well, how matters stand. You see, I am treating you as a grown-up man—a gentleman. And I feel sure you would not wish to inflict a great sorrow—a crushing blow—upon a widow and her innocent children. There, there, my boy, there’s nothing to cry about. Life, my young friend, life has troubles that must be faced. What is the name of the farm, or house, where you have lived up to now?”
“T—Troen.”
“Troen—a very good name indeed. Then from to-day on you will call yourself Peer Troen.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“And if any one should ask about your father, remember that you are bound in honour and conscience not to mention your benefactor’s name.”
“Y-yes.”
“Well, then, as soon as you have made up your mind, come at once and let me know. We shall be great friends yet, you will see. You’re sure you wouldn’t like to try America? Well, well, come along out to the kitchen and see if we can find you some breakfast.”
Peer found himself a moment after sitting on a chair in the kitchen, where there was such a good smell of coffee. “Bertha,” said the schoolmaster coaxingly, “you’ll find something good for breakfast for my young friend here, won’t you?” He waved a farewell with his hand, took down his socks from a string above the stove, and disappeared through the door again.
Chapter IV
When a country boy in blue homespun, with a peaked cap on his blond head, goes wandering at random through the streets of a town, it is no particular concern of any one else. He moves along, gazing in at shop windows, hands deep in his pockets, whistling, looking at everything around him—or at nothing at all. And yet—perhaps in the head under that peaked cap it seems as if a whole little world had suddenly collapsed, and he may be whistling hard to keep from crying in the streets for people to see. He steps aside to avoid a cart, and runs into a man, who drops his cigar in the gutter. “Confounded country lout!” says the man angrily, but passes on and has forgotten boy and all the next moment. But a little farther on a big dog comes dashing out of a yard and unluckily upsets a fat old woman on the pavement, and the boy with the peaked cap, for all his troubles, cannot help doubling up and roaring with laughter.
That afternoon, Peer sat on one of the ramparts below the fortress, biting at a stalk of grass, and twirling the end in his fingers. Below him lay town and fjord in the mild October sunlight; the rumble of traffic, the noises from workshops and harbour, came up to him through the rust-brown luminous haze. There he sat, while the sentry on the wall above marched back and forth, with his rifle on his shoulder, left—right—left.
You may climb very high up indeed, and fall down very deep, and no such terrible harm done after all, as long as you don’t absolutely break your neck. And gradually Peer began to realise that he was still alive, after all. It is a bad business when the world goes against you, even though you may have some one to turn to for advice and sympathy. But when all the people round you are utter strangers, there is nothing to be done but sit down and twirl a straw, and think things out a bit for yourself. Peer’s thoughts were of a thing in a long dressing-gown that had taken his bank book and locked it up and rattled the keys at him and said “Yah!” and deposed him from his bishopric and tried to sneeze and squeeze him into a trade, where he’d have to carry a pressing-iron all his life and be Peer Troen, Tailor. But he wouldn’t have that. He sat there bracing himself up, and trying to gather together from somewhere a thing he had never had much need of before—to wit, a will of his own, something to set up against the whole wide world. What was he to do now? He felt he would like to go back to Troen first of all, and talk things over with the old father and mother; they would be sorry for him there, and say “Poor boy,” and pray for him—but after a day or two, he knew, they would begin to glance at him at meals, and remember that there was no one to pay for him now, and that times were hard. No, that was no refuge for him now. But what could he do, then? Clearly it was not such a simple matter to be all alone in the world.
A little later he found himself on a hillside by the Cathedral churchyard, sitting under the yellowing trees, and wondering dreamily where his father was to be buried. What a difference between him and that schoolmaster man! No preaching with him; no whining about what his boy might call himself or might not. Why must he go and die?
It was strange to think of that fine strong man, who had brushed his hair and beard so carefully with his silver-backed brush—to think that he was lying still in a coffin now, and would soon be covered up with earth.
People were coming up the hill now, and passing in to the churchyard. The men wore black clothes and tall shiny hats—but there were some officers too, with plumes and sashes. And then a regimental band—with its brass instruments. Peer slipped into the churchyard with the crowd, but kept apart from the rest, and took up his stand a little way off, beside a big monument. “It must be father’s funeral,” he thought to himself, and was broad awake at once.
This, he guessed, must be the Cadet School, that came marching in, and formed up in two lines from the mortuary chapel to the open grave. The place was nearly full of people now; there were women holding handkerchiefs to their eyes, and an elderly lady in black went into the chapel, on the arm of a tall man in uniform. “That must be father’s wife,” thought Peer, “and the young ladies there in black are—my half-sisters, and that young lieutenant—my half-brother.” How strange it all was! A sound of singing came from the chapel. And a little later six sergeants came out, carrying a coffin all heaped with flowers. “Present arms!” And the soldiers presented, and the band played a slow march and moved off in front of the coffin, between the two lines of soldiers. And then came a great following of mourners. The lady in black came out again, sobbing behind her handkerchief, and hardly able to follow, though she clung to the tall officer’s arm. But in front of the pair, just behind the coffin itself, walked a tall man in splendid uniform, with gold epaulettes, plumed hat, and sword, bearing a cushion with two jewelled stars. And the long, long train of mourners moved slowly, gently on, and there—there by the grave, stood the priest, holding a spade.
Peer was anxious to hear what the priest would have to say about his father. Involuntarily he stole a little nearer, though he felt somehow that it would not do to come too close.
A hymn was sung at the graveside, the band accompanying. Peer took off his cap. He was too taken up to notice that one of the mourners was watching him intently, and presently left the group and came towards him. The man wore spectacles, and a shiny tall hat, and it was not until he began to sneeze that Peer recognised him. It was the schoolmaster, glaring at him now with a face so full of horror and fury that the spectacles almost seemed to be spitting fire.
“You—you—Are you mad?” he whispered in Peer’s face, clenching his black gloved hands. “What are you doing here? Do you want