“Do you hear that, Froken Bull? Stop a minute, here’s some news for you.”
The girl addressed turned aside and joined them. “Oh, the same piece of news that’s all over the town, I suppose. Well, I can tell you, he’s most tremendously nice.”
“Sh!” whispered the telegraphist. Peer Holm was just coming out of the Grand Hotel, dressed in a grey suit, and with a dark coat over his arm. He was trying to get a newly-lit cigar to draw, as he walked with a light elastic step past the group at the corner. A little farther up the street he encountered Merle, and took her arm, and the two walked off together, the young people at the corner watching them as they went.
“And when is it to be?” asked the telegraphist.
“He wanted to be married immediately, I believe,” said Froken Bull, “but I suppose they’ll have to wait till the banns are called, like other people.”
Lorentz D. Uthoug’s long, yellow-painted wooden house stood facing the market square; the office and the big ironmonger’s shop were on the ground floor, and the family lived in the upper storeys. “That’s where he lives,” people would say. Or “There he goes,” as the broad, grey-bearded man passed down the street. Was he such a big man, then? He could hardly be called really rich, though he had a saw-mill and a machine-shop and a flour-mill, and owned a country place some way out of the town. But there was something of the chieftain, something of the prophet, about him. He hated priests. He read deep philosophical works, forbade his family to go to church, and had been visited by Bjornson himself. It was good to have him on your side; to have him against you was fatal—you might just as well clear out of the town altogether. He had a finger in everything that went on; it was as if he owned the whole town. He had been known to meet a youth he had never spoken to before in the street and accost him with a peremptory “Understand me, young man; you will marry that girl.” Yet for all this, Lorentz Uthoug was not altogether content. True, he was head and shoulders above all the Ringeby folks, but what he really wanted was to be the biggest man in a place a hundred times as large.
And now that he had found a son-in-law, he seemed as it were to be walking quietly round this stranger from the great world, taking his measure, and asking in his thoughts: “Who are you at bottom? What have you seen? What have you read? Are you progressive or reactionary? Have you any proper respect for what I have accomplished here, or are you going about laughing in your sleeve and calling me a whale among the minnows?”
Every morning when Peer woke in his room at the hotel he rubbed his eyes. On the table beside his bed stood a photograph of a young girl. What? Is it really you, Peer, that have found someone to stand close to you at last? Someone in the world who cares about you. When you have a cold, there’ll be people to come round and be anxious about you, and ask how you are getting on. And this to happen to you!
He dined at the Uthougs’ every day, and there were always flowers beside his plate. Often there would be some little surprise—a silver spoon or fork, or a napkin-ring with his initials on. It was like gathering the first straws to make his new nest. And the pale woman with the spectacles looked kindly at him, as if to say: “You are taking her from me, but I forgive you.”
One day he was sitting in the hotel, reading, when Merle came in.