Between a box in the window and the corner of a yellow wardrobe he could catch a glimpse over the end of the bed of some curls of brown hair and a big, dark hand that pressed against something soft and white.
Peter wanted to lift the blind higher but then a bottle on the windowsill tipped over and an arm was stretched out and put out the lamp.
He ran away as if possessed.
Now he lies stretched out on his bed, staring into the darkness. He lies as still as a terrified insect feigning death.
Fancy that it was Frida—the Frida who brought in his shoes and clothes in the morning!
Hitherto when Peter had looked at the girl he felt a certain uneasiness in her presence—an uneasiness which found expression chiefly in giggles and rudeness. But nothing in the world would have induced him to touch her.
But Brundin dared! For him nothing was forbidden and nothing dangerous. He did everything he liked.
By contrast with his own helplessness Brundin became a monster of power and impudence.
The darkness became oppressive round the poor boy, he suddenly felt the girl in his inmost being, in the very marrow of his bone. But not her alone, that was the horror of it! This man whom he dreaded, his pet horror was also there. His feelings were a strange mixture of shame, lust, fear, powerlessness, loneliness and grief. The very springs of life were diverted and unclean from the beginning. Even his first dreams of awakening were sullied by anxiety, and by cowardly, curious hate.
The more tired Peter became the more distinctly did he feel how the chill of old Kristin’s hand passed through his body. And Frida dissolved and disappeared. But Brundin remained. He pursued Peter deep into the night’s sleep.
His sleep was like that of one in a besieged fortress, where one hears the shots shattering bit by bit the walls that save one from destruction.
Yes, this was the story of Peter the Watchdog.
We must not forget that this thin and anxious figure was the embryo of the future coarse and brutal Peter the Boss.
V
Fear
Excited and curious, Frida thrust her head into the girls’ room:
“If you please, Miss Hedvig—you ought to let me make your bed on a day like this.”
Hedvig was leaning over her narrow bed with her black hair full of curling papers. She would soon be fifteen years old now. Her breasts were already filling out beneath her bodice. Her lips were very red, and looked almost skinless, in her long pale face.
“No,” she said vehemently, “Kristin must come up.”
For some time past Hedvig had made her own bed. She could not bear Frida to touch anything of hers. She seemed to shiver as in a cold draught and her teeth began to chatter as soon as the plump, laughing hussy came near her. But the maid did not pay her back in the same coin. The excellent Frida had no stiff-necked pride. With a mixture of good nature and bad conscience she only became more servile. “Kristin? very well.”
Humming softly as usual she vanished down the stairs.
Laura yawned, stretched herself lazily and shook her fair hair. For all her laziness her arch eyes sparkled. She was not in the least like her elder sister:
“You really are mad, Hedvig,” she said, jumping out of the bed.
Then Kristin came puffing and muttering up the stairs. Her old black frock had not shrunk as she herself had done, and it seemed almost empty when she sank down on the edge of the bed. Her hands twitched and trembled as if they had gone to sleep in her lap and were dreaming of knitting needles.
“Well, Hedvig, do you know your catechism, so that we need not be ashamed of you?”
Laura came up, stark naked, with a lather of soap on her neck:
“Know her catechism? when she is overflowing with it!”
The old woman had no smile for this fresh, plump young thing.
“Are you not ashamed, child, to talk like that of God’s word? And you won’t be ready in time either.”
Hedvig had done her hair and Kristin helped her on with the white frock that reached almost to her ankles. She fumbled a long time with the fastenings at the back, and then she arranged the pleats with bony, trembling fingers.
“Just like dressing a little bride,” she muttered. “And truth it is that it is the best of bridegrooms you are meeting today!”
But behind Kristin’s back Hedvig stole a glance at herself in the mirror. It was with a shy, unsteady look she saw her own image. There was not a spark of fresh and natural joy.
Now it was breakfast time. The other children, arrayed in their poor best, were already sitting round the table. But it was impossible to get Hedvig down. She remained in the little girls’ room, and in the end Kristin had to take a plate of porridge to her. Laura also soon came running back. A new frock was anyhow a new frock. And this was almost the beginning of long skirts and putting the hair up. And perhaps she might even see Hedvig cry!
A carriage was heard crunching the gravel outside. Hedvig jumped up. It was only old Hermansson. Yes! of course he must come with them. She sank down on her chair again. Laura was looking at her with big greedy eyes, purring like a cat.
“He is also coming,” she said suddenly in a sleek little voice. “I heard him order the dogcart.”
Hedvig turned pale, just as one’s knuckles whiten when one clenches one’s fist.
“What he?”
“Mr. Brundin, of course.”
Over Hedvig’s face spread an expression of anxious and obstinate defiance which made it look almost old. Everybody was waiting about for an opportunity to point her out, everybody—
“What right has he
