Kitabı oku: «Egholm and his God», sayfa 11

XVII

Egholm went up to the station in a great state of excitement every time a train was due from Odense. There had come a wondrous letter in a blue envelope from the Brethren there – a document to the effect that the community had voted him a gift of money. It would be delivered in person within a few days, by Evangelist Karlsen.

The letter lay on the floor, as if deposited by mysterious means from above. And certainly no one had heard the postman come.

Egholm gave thanks to God. That was a thing which should be done to the full, and preferably a little before the fulfilment of his prayer.

For the first few days he talked a great deal about the practice he had gradually acquired in the art of prayer. But as Karlsen still failed to appear, he grew silent, and began going up to meet the trains. And then at last, on the eighth day, just as he came home tired and discouraged from the station, there sat the Evangelist himself in the parlour.

He, too, looked as if some angel had brought him on wings through the air, though, as a matter of fact, this was not the case. He explained himself that he had come by train from Jutland.

Egholm forgot to take off his coat; he sat down opposite his ancient enemy, lacking words with which to begin. And, truth to tell, he was humiliated and abashed after all at having to accept a gift, in view of what had passed. What made things worse was that the Evangelist was grown so surpassingly elegant in his dress. No more butcher-boots – nothing like it. Striped trousers he wore, and a smart-looking collar and cuffs. True, the last were of indiarubber, but still… His moustache was simply beyond description, and the blue-black wether-eyes glittered like globes of lightning. Under his chair was a handbag, undeniably new, but, of course, … no, of course, it couldn’t be the money in that.

Karlsen looked round the room, and thrust his shoulders back, as if preparing to speak, but still he did not seem to find the suitable “word.”

What was he to say? As for the gift, that could wait a little. A sermon would hardly do either, though he was known to be a first-rate hand at that. Suppose he were to launch out with a suitable text? Yes, that would be the thing!

Karlsen went about, so to speak, with his pockets full of texts, which he used, now to smite the head of an unruly disciple, now to scatter like golden largesse among the poor. He had, too, long extracts from Revelations, which could be flung like lassos to entangle the ungodly, cooling draughts from the Sermon on the Mount, and blood and fire from the Mosaic portions of the Old Testament. But it always took a certain degree of opposition before he could be brought to use them.

Egholm asked in a very general way how the Brotherhood was getting on.

“First-rate,” said Karlsen, with an absent yawn – “first-rate,” and relapsed into silence.

Egholm could not keep away from the scene of the crime. He stammered out:

“Karlsen, you mustn’t regard my attack – my somewhat over-zealous attack, perhaps – that evening, you know, as – as evidence of enmity towards the Brethren. Not in the least. There was much in the Brotherhood that I greatly appreciated. A certain simplicity… No; if hard words were said, they were due to a momentary indignation over the refusal to give me a plain, straightforward answer to my definite question, regarding that text in the Epistle to the Hebrews, which – at any rate to my humble mind – expressly annuls all giving of tithes.”

Karlsen gloated awhile over Egholm’s downcast eyes and the tip of his tongue creeping over dry lips. He wrinkled up his forehead deeply, and said, with that crafty, ingratiating smile that was so thoroughly his own:

“An answer, my dear friends – why, of course. Nothing easier. You shall have it to-day. I’ve a big fat book here in my bag; you can read it there to your heart’s content…”

“A book?..”

“Yes. Half a minute, I’ll show you. Six kroner’s the price of it, but there’s edifying reading for more than twice the money. Guaranteed. A big fat book, bound cloth boards. Let me show you.”

“No, no. I’ll take your word for it. No doubt it’s excellent. But … er … well…”

It would be sheer madness to offend Karlsen now, and send him away with the three or four hundred kroner, but still, there was no sense in spending the six kroner if it could be helped. Egholm knew the book well enough himself – a rambling translation from the English.

“But … er … well, you know, there was nothing said about that on the night. If only they’d given me an answer in some way or other, I’m sure I’d never have resigned from the Brotherhood at all.”

“You never did resign from the Brotherhood!”

“Well, no, not resigned exactly … that is to say…”

Egholm sat crushed and despairing in the arm-chair, letting Karlsen do with him as he pleased.

“No, my dear good man, what possessed you to say so? If you weren’t a disciple still, of course we shouldn’t have troubled to help you. Nothing to do with us, you understand. As it is, why, we hung up a box for you at the meeting.”

Egholm sighed inaudibly, and inwardly reduced his claim to half. So they had hung up a collecting box for him. Well, well. He knew those boxes. There were a number of them – hung along the wall like a row of young birds with hungrily gaping mouths. He remembered how the Evangelist used to draw attention to them discreetly before closing the proceedings for each evening – quite unnecessarily, by the way, seeing that Karlsen senior, the Angel of the flock, stood with hand outstretched in farewell, just where the boxes began.

“And now, my dear friends, we have heard the Word, for our souls’ good, and that we can take with us in our hearts. And, in return, let us not forget to put something in the boxes. No one calls upon you to give much. When each gives what he can, it is enough. The first is for the hall, that we may have a place to meet in; the second is for light and firing – neither of these can be got for nothing, my dear friends – and the third is for myself – I need hardly remind you, my dear friends, that I cannot live on air. The fourth is for members of the Brotherhood in distress, and the fifth towards the purchase of a library. Put a little in each, and your conscience will be at ease!”

On tithe nights the boxes were not in evidence.

Egholm remembered that according to an unwritten law it was permissible to pass by the boxes for Brethren in distress and for the library. How would it have been with the sixth in the row, hung up for Egholm in the throes of poverty?

“Did any of them give anything?” he asked humbly.

“Oh, it brought in quite a lot,” said Karlsen comfortingly. “Quite a decent little sum. You see” – he leaned forward confidentially and plucked at Egholm’s coat collar, almost stupefying him with his tobacco-laden breath – “I got the old man to stand beside it!”

He gave Egholm a friendly shake, and laughed in a spluttering shower.

“But there’s one condition. I may as well tell you that first as last. The condition of your receiving this gift is, that your wife becomes a member of the Brotherhood. Both of you, you understand – or no gift! For it’s her fault we’ve had all this bother about you. Yes, I’ve found that out. She’s from Aalborg. I know those obstinate Jutland folk!”

“My wife!” cried Egholm. New difficulties towered before him at the idea, but, at the same time, the value of the gift seemed to increase. He sprang to his feet, and ran to the kitchen door.

“Well, there you are. Now you can talk it over with her,” said Karlsen, with a laugh, leaning his head back and showing the scar of his “glands” and his ill-shaven throat. “But, look here, tell her at the same time I’m staying till the eight o’clock train, so you’ll have to find me a bite of something to eat. You know what it says about us Evangelists: we’re to have neither scrip nor staff, but take that which is set before us.”

Fru Egholm was busy plaiting hair at the kitchen table. Her husband could see from the way she tugged at her work that she had followed the conversation in the next room.

“Never as long as I live,” she said firmly.

A catastrophe seemed imminent, but Egholm was so destitute of physical or moral force at the moment that he contented himself with a threatening gesture.

“And as for supper,” she went on, “wild horses wouldn’t give us more than we’ve got, and that’s no more than bread and dripping and a rind of cheese.”

“Nothing hot – not even a cup of tea?”

“Only the clove.”

“Only the clove! As if that wasn’t good enough.”

Clove tea was one of Egholm’s minor inventions. One day when the tea and coffee canisters were as empty as his empty purse, he had manufactured an aromatic beverage from cloves and hot water. He himself drank it thereafter in quantities and with relish, and Sivert was for a time in his good books merely on account of the audible “Aaah!” which he gave when it was poured out. Fru Egholm, too, conceded that it was certainly cheap – a packet of cloves costing two øre sufficed for a whole month. But Hedvig would not touch it.

“Good enough for that young humbug, yes.”

Once more Egholm felt his hands itching with murderous instincts, but when the tension was at its height, a spark flew over to some nerve of humour. He bent down almost double, put one hand to his mouth like a funnel, and whispered in his wife’s ear:

“Sh! Remember, his father’s an Angel!”

The Evangelist closed his puffy eyes reflectively for a moment when Egholm returned and stated what was the menu for the day.

“H’m. I’ll stay, all the same,” he said. And added a moment after: “If there’s eggs, I like them hard boiled.”

“Hard boiled – yes, yes,” said Egholm, precisely in the manner of a waiter, and disappeared into the kitchen once more.

“I never heard the like – that rascally scamp … thinks we can dig up eggs out of the ground – and that in December! Why, only to ask at the grocer’s they’d think we were mad. Eggs, indeed! Eggs – on credit! No, as long as we can get what’s barely needful. Why…”

But Egholm, with great ends in view, wasted little time in talk. He went out himself, and returned five minutes later with a bag of eggs and a lump of sausage, which he set down triumphantly on the kitchen table. Thus supper was provided of a kind to exceed Karlsen’s expectations, and set him in good humour.

Both laughed, Karlsen, however, the louder, when the host’s egg was found to be bad. As for the clove tea, Karlsen, like Hedvig, did not find it to his taste. He explained that he liked something with a little more colour, his taste and smell having suffered through smoking.

Then, at a suitable moment, Egholm said:

“My wife says she won’t come into the Brotherhood at any price – not just at the moment, that is to say. But perhaps later, I’ve no doubt … that is to say…”

And he waited for the answer with the sweat standing out on his forehead.

“Oh, well, never mind. Hang the condition. We’ll leave it out.”

Egholm could have knelt at his feet.

Karlsen went on to tell of the Brotherhood and its doings. Everything was going on first-rate. Fru Westergaard had got dropsy, and there was every likelihood – here Karlsen clicked his tongue in anticipation – every likelihood of her bequeathing them a whole heap of money. The Angel went to see her practically every day, and, in case of need, the Prophet from Copenhagen would come too.

“Father’s in touch with a heap of them, you know. By letter. He got a letter the other day from John the Apostle. He’s in London.”

“John the Apostle? You don’t mean… Is that…”

“Exactly. He lives in London. Don’t you know it’s written: ‘If he tarry till I come, what is that to thee?’ Yes, he’ll be here all right, up to the day of the coming again. Father’s got his address, but he keeps himself quiet, you understand, mostly. And Father doesn’t say where he is, but I managed to get hold of it, all the same. I sent him a picture post card from Veile only yesterday.”

Egholm ran in to borrow a pipe from Marinus. On the way he whispered to his wife:

“He’s the biggest liar on earth. But if only he’d hand over that money… I can’t stand the suspense. Put in a prayer meanwhile.”

The Evangelist puffed great clouds, and delivered another turn or so.

“I’ve something to tell you, my dear friend – in confidence, that is. The Star of Bethlehem’s been seen!”

He bent over Egholm and stared full into his eyes.

“Yes, the Star of Bethlehem – right over Odense, it was.”

And he puffed a spurt of smoke into Egholm’s face, his own contracting into an unconcealed grin.

“My father, the Angel, was standing in his office, and he saw it. It isn’t everyone that can see it, you know. But I could. It was the hugest star I’ve ever seen.”

Egholm condescended to shake his head as if deeply impressed. For the rest, his every nerve-cell was concentrating in an effort to hypnotise Karlsen’s hand into Karlsen’s pocket for that bundle of notes.

At eleven minutes past seven the Evangelist laid down his pipe and buttoned his coat.

“The money! Er – you’ll excuse me, but – you’re not forgetting … that gift… No hurry, of course, not in the least…”

“You shall have it. I’m not forgetting it, no,” said Karlsen, with unction. “It’s not a great sum, but with the blessing of the Lord it may go a long way.”

He drew out a leather purse with a string from his pocket, unfastened the lace with exasperating care, and flung out a hand with a two-kroner piece.

“Two kroner! Is that – the gift? Karlsen, you don’t mean it!” said Egholm, weeping.

“One daler, yes,” said Karlsen, laughing heartily. But his expression changed suddenly, possibly influenced by Egholm’s threatening look, and, resuming his dignified manner, he went on:

“The gift was originally forty-two kroner altogether, that being the sum found when the box was opened. Fru Westergaard gave thirty-five herself. You were in her good books, my friend.”

Karlsen allowed himself a momentary lapse from dignity to the extent of a single wink.

“The rocking-chair,” murmured Egholm reminiscently.

“But,” went on the Evangelist, “you owed arrears of tithe ever since February of last year…”

His voice grew thick with imminent laughter.

“So we decided to annex the forty kroner for tithes – and here’s the rest!”

“Decided … who decided? When the money was collected for me? Impossible!”

“The congregation agreed to it,” said Karlsen unconcernedly. Then suddenly he dug one thumb into his despairing brother’s ribs, uttered a sound like the rasp of a saw, and whispered:

“And Fru Westergaard was there, too – my son!”

Limp and utterly dispirited, Egholm walked up with Karlsen to the station. A strange feeling of detachment had come over him, and the inclination to weep that he always felt after great excitement.

Karlsen walked a couple of paces ahead, talking gaily over his shoulder.

“What say?” queried Egholm against the wind. The handbag with edifying works at six kroner cloth boards weighed heavily in his numbed hand.

“I say, it’s a good thing we’re near the end of the month.”

“Yes,” agreed Egholm. “But what d’you mean?”

“Pay day, my dear man. And I can do with it!”

“But I thought – I thought the work was voluntary. It says in the Rules of the Brotherhood…”

“Well, what d’you expect me to live on?”

“Why, gifts.”

“Huh! A long way that’d go. About as far as…”

“No, of course…” agreed Egholm meekly, shifting the bag to his other hand.

“But they don’t pay me enough,” said the Evangelist harshly. “Not by a long way. Everything’s getting dearer, and I’ve had a lot of extra expenses into the bargain. I helped a poor girl that had got into trouble. A Frøken Madsen. Bought her a cigar shop in Kerteminde; it cost an awful sum. But she was a sort of relation – not of mine, you understand. My wife’s people. But I count it all the same, of course. No, they’ll have to give me a rise. And they will, too, I know. They can’t do without me, and that’s the end of it.”

They reached the station, and Karlsen took his ticket.

“Second class, I said,” he cried, and winked at Egholm.

“Came from Veile, and going back to Veile. Life’s one long journey. Anyhow, it’s what we’re supposed to do: go out into the world and make converts. Know a man named Justesen in Veile? Horse-dealer. No? Ah, he’s a man if you like! Never troubles to ask the price when he finds a pair to suit him. ‘Bring ’em along’ – that’s all he says.”

“Horse-dealers don’t go in much for religion as a rule.”

“Not him – no. But his wife!” said Karlsen, rasping again like a saw. “His wife… Had a wire from Justesen last evening; he’s coming home to-day and going off again by the night train to Hamburg. So off I go to look up my old friend Egholm – what?”

“Yes…” said Egholm.

He stood in the waiting-room a little after the train had gone, warming himself by the stove. Then he shook his head and staggered off homewards.

Again and again he tried to reckon up how he stood.

“No hope of getting to work on the boat now,” he muttered. But, to his surprise, he found his thoughts refused to dwell on this disaster, which should by rights have overshadowed all else.

No; he could think of one thing – he was hungry.

For months past he had not had a decent meal, and, though he had not realised it himself, his looking forward to that gift from the Brotherhood had been associated with an indomitable desire for food.

Outside his own door he stopped. The scent of the clove tea came to greet him, and revolted him for the first time. He turned round and walked away again, out over the sandhills, along the quay, and down between the warehouses.

The group of fishermen sighted his thin, fluttering figure in the gloom, shook themselves, and pressed their backs closer against the wall of the shed.

But Egholm found at last an old green rowing boat among those drawn up on the beach. He struck a match, and made sure it was the one.

Then he clambered up on to it, and knelt down on the boards.

The wind tore his plaintive prayer to shreds, and strewed a shower of broken, unmeaning sounds out over the harbour and the town.

XVIII

Egholm’s God was perhaps not as generous as might be wished, but, on the other hand, possessed of limitless patience as a listener, differing in this regard considerably from the children of men. It was perhaps this which led Egholm, the ever restless, to come again faithfully with his hopes and his prayers, though he might have turned away in dudgeon but a short while back.

It was not brain-weariness. That was an ailment Egholm never knew. He lived, as it were, under full sail all day and night. He rose in the morning, swallowed his clove tea, hurried out to his place of prayer in the woods, and came back about dinner-time. Then he would mess about for a few hours in the studio, while his thoughts flew all ways at will, generally down to the beach, where he struggled with imaginary parts of his machine in an imaginary boat, but ready and willing to occupy themselves with anything of any sort anywhere in the world. Egholm felt it a wasted day when he had not stowed away a couple of new inventions in the warehouse of his mind. And a night that brought him nothing but sleep and rest he counted empty and unfruitful. Better a touch of the horrors than just nothing. For, painful as it was to have Clara Steen’s face there before him in the dark, taking the blows that Anna should have had, still, after all – in the long run – one could get used to anything. Yes.

True, it was no use striking Anna, but it was at least excusable. And God never said anything about it to him out in the woods where he prayed. More especially since that boy had come home it was excusable … nay, it was a simple necessity.

Thus Egholm forgave his God and revenged himself on his family.

His wife noticed, too, how the boy’s coming had brought a kind of ferment into their home life. Ah, why should it be so? There he sat, the little lad, at her side, as simple and innocent as when he was a child, helping her at her work. She did all she could to make him appear a harmless and useful item about the house. She would have liked to make him invisible, but his father saw the boy to the exclusion of all else, circled round him, shot sparks at him, and might be found gripping him by the hair if she only went out into the kitchen for a minute.

Things could not go on like this. And so one afternoon she put on the best things she possessed, and went out with Sivert to try and find him a place.

With trembling knees she walked straight into Lund’s smart drapery shop. After all, he couldn’t do more than eat her. And she always went to him for what she needed in the way of thread and material, and that was the truth. They stood just inside the door, waiting for other customers to be served first. Modesty, that was the way.

There! Minna Lund, the daughter of the house, coming in with coffee for the assistant. Was there ever such a place? She set down the tray on a step-ladder, and began pulling out drawers full of ribbons.

A little princess, that was the least one could call her – though little was hardly the word, seeing she was half a head taller than her father. Why, she could wind off as many yards of ribbon as she pleased, without even asking the price.

And the mother, standing there, fell to weaving a long and beautiful future for her boy in Lund’s splendid house. Those two young people – they would surely have an eye to each other… And then when Sivert’s apprenticeship was at an end, and Lund was getting on in years, who knows… Once they found out what a heart the boy had, surely there’d be no one in the world they’d sooner trust with their daughter and the shop…

She pressed Sivert’s hand; for here was Lund himself right in front of her, bowing politely. He wouldn’t eat her, no fear of that…

So Fru Egholm had thought of having her son apprenticed to the business? Why, a nice idea, to be sure…

Lund was a little man with a full beard, and elegantly dressed in brand-new things, but with a thread or a piece of fluff here and there. And his manner was precisely the same.

He talked with studied ease and distinction, flourishing the roll of material before him into a fan as he spoke. And so thoroughly did he possess the gift of salesmanship that a moment later Fru Egholm was eagerly discussing with him how much it would take for a pair of curtains.

“Or we’ve a rather better quality,” said Lund, reaching for another roll. But here Fru Egholm came to herself, and thrust Sivert forward.

“Well, you know, I’m afraid,” said Lund kindly – he had only forgotten the business of the apprenticeship for a moment – “we could hardly … you see, we make a point of taking only boys – pupils in the business that is – from better-class homes. The customers demand it.”

“But” – the mother was ready to sink into the ground for shame – but … Sivert was from a better-class home. Not meaning herself, of course, but her husband. He knew all sorts of languages, English and French and so on. And only a little time back he’d been an assistant on the railway – why they had his uniform coat in the house now! Hr. Lund ought just to hear him talk and speak up for himself, like he did with those people from the Public Health Committee. And as for Sivert, he was as good and honest a lad as any could wish to have.

Hr. Lund didn’t doubt it for a moment, but – er – well, one could hardly see it, for instance, from the way he was dressed, you know. Now, could you? And Lund bent over the counter with a smile, whereby his own coat was brought in close proximity to Sivert’s blouse. He he! Still, he might just examine the young man a little. Sivert was given two or three smart questions, while his mother was on the point of swooning from confusion. Then Lund turned calmly round and took down the roll of material before mentioned – the rather better quality…

“But how about the place?” asked Fru Egholm doubtfully. “Is he to have it?”

“Eh? Oh, no. I’ve no use for him. Did you notice he said ‘drawers’? Well, ‘knickers’ is the proper word – at any rate, the one we use in this establishment. A little trap of mine, you know. He he!”

Fru Egholm sighed, purchased resignedly a reel of No. 50 white, and left the shop. She and Sivert went to many places that day – to a barber’s, to Bro, the grocer, and at last to the editor of the Knarreby News– only to wander home at last discouraged at a total failure all round.

Well, she would leave it for a day or two, and look round.

“Find him a place?” asked Egholm.

“Well – there’s places enough where they’d be glad to have him…”

“That is to say, you didn’t find him a place?”

Fru Egholm was so very loth to utter that little decisive “No.” She talked eagerly about the Christmas sales at Bro’s and Lund’s.

“… And, do you know, the editor, he knew about your plans with the machine business. He asked a heap of things, and said you were a genius.”

The subject was wisely chosen. And it did draw off attention for the moment from the matter in hand, but then her husband lapsed into his gloomy thoughts once more.

“No – we’ll never get rid of him now. Who’d ever have him? What can you use a head like that for, anyway? He’s little better than a lunatic. Eh? What do you say?”

Here Fru Egholm suddenly appeared unwontedly versed in the Scriptures. She answered boldly, and with emphasis:

“Well, there’s one place where Sivert won’t be set behind the rest – even if they’re ever so much of a genius.”

“Eh, what – what do you say?”

“I say: Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven!”

Egholm gasped, utterly at a loss, and made no answer.

Sivert slept in the little back room where Hedvig had her couch. He lay on the floor, upon a sort of bed of some nondescript material, and slept in his clothes to keep warm. Nevertheless, he went to bed with a smile on his lips. His father’s persecution could not shatter his joy at being at home. Even the blows and kicks he got beat into him the fact that he was at home, and he took them without complaint. Yes, all was well, everything.

Next morning, as Egholm was gulping down his tea, he caught sight of Sivert’s bowed and huddled figure slipping across the yard. Ordinarily, Sivert stole out of his room by the window, and kept out of the way till his father had gone out – there was no sense in giving him the trouble of getting angry if it could be avoided. But to-day the boy had overslept himself.

Egholm reached out and rapped at the window, at the imminent risk of breaking the glass.

Sivert stopped, gave a sickly smile, turned round twice where he stood, and made towards the gate.

“Here, you fool!” roared his father, and Sivert stopped again.

“Be quick and come in,” whispered his mother out from the kitchen door.

“Well, why don’t you come? Put on your cap and come along with me.”

Sivert obeyed without a word.

Egholm held the boy close to his side, and they marched down the path towards the beach.

“Go on ahead, so I can keep an eye on you,” he commands. And Sivert walks on ahead with the transcendent smile of the martyr-about-to-be. He knows now he is to die, but it doesn’t matter so much, after all. Going to drown him, he supposes, since they are making towards the water.

“Know what you’ve got to do?” asks his father.

“Yes,” says Sivert, smiling again. And a little after, he ventures to add: “But if – if you don’t mind, I’d like it better if you’d take a nice soft stone and batter my head with it. I’d die quite soon that way…”

“Soft stone?” says Egholm mechanically, busy with his own thoughts. “Nonsense. You walk straight on; that’s all you’ve got to do.”

“Ah well,” sighs Sivert, breaking into a trot. “I was only thinking, perhaps I’m not a good one to drown, after all. I can’t swim, you know.”

“Who’s talking about drowning? That can wait till to-morrow, anyway. You’re coming out with me to a place of mine, to pray.”

“I think I’d like that better, yes,” said Sivert. But his voice showed only the slightest possible change of tone.

They walked along the beach a long way, out to the woods. Sivert walked with an unsteady gait; he would really rather have died after all if only he might be left to himself for a single minute first… But his father drove him on like a donkey in front. The boy’s strangeness of manner irritated him.

“Walk properly, boy, and keep your mind on godly things!”

“Yes,” said Sivert, and managed to call to mind a verse of a hymn, which he proceeded to mutter as he went. But he still walked unsteadily, bending spasmodically every now and then.

“We can stop here,” said his father, as they reached a wooded slope, where some young pines stood out from a thin covering of snow.

“Do you know the text: ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit’? Good. We’ll say that text, and then a prayer, that you’ll repeat after me word for word. You understand?”

Then, while they were still in the preparatory stage, kneeling opposite each other with bared heads, something happened which destroyed at one blow all possibility of further co-operation.

Under cover of his cap, held before him in his folded hands, Sivert has managed to undo one button…

Egholm hears a peculiar sound … springs up with a roar…

Off goes Sivert like a hare across the ice, unable to stop what he had already begun. It looked as if he were spinning a thread behind him like a spider. He had no intention of returning, however. He had but one thought – home.

Egholm did not attempt to pursue. He tried to go on with his prayer, but gave it up, and went into the woods. He walked all the morning, and came round by a wide detour into Knarreby about dinner-time. But his haste was such that he passed by the house without thought of hunger or thirst. Not till he was in the main street did he slacken his pace, and begin looking absently into the shop windows. They were crammed with all manner of things – Christmas was near. There were ducks, and these he noticed in particular, but all the rest made one confused medley to his eyes. Nevertheless, he went up to the next window and gazed at it attentively, as if mentally selecting something specially rare and costly as a present for his love.