Egholm and his God. Buchholtz Johannes
strange thing, dear friends—he has the word—the word of the Spirit!”
Having thus laid down a flattering position for himself, young Karlsen went on to praise his new convert as one docile and of a good heart. She had come this evening of all evenings—a first Wednesday—on purpose that she might pay her tithe. No, there was no drawing back. And in truth it would be a fool’s game to try it on. The Lord, He could see straight through a drawer in a table or the cover of a bank-book, never fear of that. And what was His, that He was going to have. Yes, that was His way. And woe unto him that falleth into the hands of the living God!
Far down by the door, old Karlsen was modestly seated on the extreme end of a bench. In his lap was a japanned tin box. There was a slight rattle during the next hymn, as he took out his keys and opened the casket.
The bench was so placed that the disciples could only pass by in single file. The old women from the almshouses, who had been sitting farthest back, were now the first to pass. As a matter of fact, they were exempt from the tithe contribution, having no income beyond their food and lodging. But most of them, nevertheless, managed to deposit a copper two or five øre piece with the Angel as they went out, though he never so much as looked up.
Why should he look? The money was not for himself, but for God. He was only sitting there holding the black tin box.
There was a clicking of purse-clips, and a soft ring of coin. Lystrup, the cobbler, dropped his money, and crawled miserably over the floor beneath the benches, looking for that which was lost.
Those who had paid stopped behind to see the others share their fate.
Fru Westergaard, Egholm, and the Evangelist came down together.
“But—but how do you manage when it doesn’t work out exactly?” said the lady, nervously trying to do sums in her head.
“It always works out exactly,” said Karlsen, with superior calm.
“As long as it’s kroner, of course, I understand. But when it’s kroner and øre?”
She gave it up as hopeless, and drew out a crumpled book from the little bag she carried.
“Here you are; you can see. I get my money from the bank, you know; it’s in a book like this.”
Egholm craned up on tiptoe. The Evangelist wormed up closer, his face a curious mingling of venom and sweetness; even old Karlsen thrust the box under his arm and rose to his feet.
“My spectacles!” And he slapped his pockets so that the money rattled in the box.
Two hundred and sixty-six kroner thirty øre.
That was the figure that showed again and again down the page in the cross-shaded columns, with Fru Westergaard’s signature after. There was a murmur from the waiting crowd.
“How much was it?”
“Eh, to think now! And every month!”
“Over two hundred and fifty, that is,” explained Lystrup, the cobbler.
“That will be twenty-six kroner sixty-three to us,” said the Evangelist, as if it were the merest trifle.
“Not sixty-three øre?—that can’t be,” said the disciple energetically, looking round for support.
Egholm could not meet her eyes; it pained him that Karlsen was so evidently right.
“But I only get thirty øre, and you say I’m to pay out sixty-three! No, thank you, that’s trying it on, I know.”
“It’s the law—it’s the law.” Old Karlsen drummed on his box.
“Oh, I won’t put up with it!” Fru Westergaard’s grey cheeks flushed with a red spot.
“Not an øre less.”
Young Karlsen stood planted in the opening between the bench and the wall. He wore high boots, with his trousers thrust into them, and stood with his feet a little apart. There was something ominous written, as it were, between the lines in his face. His shoulders were slightly raised—a very respectable pair of shoulders had young Karlsen.
Fru Westergaard tucked away her book again with trembling hands.
“Perhaps you’ll let me pass?”
“It’s twenty-six sixty-three, all the same,” said the Evangelist, without moving an inch.
“I won’t give more than twenty-six thirty!” She stamped her foot. Mirre growled softly, and sniffed round and round Karlsen’s legs.
“Twenty-six sixty-three.”
“Sh!” old Karlsen intervened. “We’ll take what Fruen thinks is right. The Lord is long-suffering. … Lauritz, you can be putting out the corner lights.”
Thus did the Angel, by his wisdom and gentleness, save one soul for the congregation of the Brethren.
Fru Westergaard had, it appeared, the money in a separate compartment of her bag, all ready counted out. Handing them to Angel Karlsen, she said:
“And you’re quite sure there’s no Hell, really?”
“No Hell. …”
Young Karlsen was standing on a bench, puffing at one of the lights. He turned warningly towards his father.
“No,” he cried. “That’s right. No Hell. You know, we talked it over. …”
Angel Karlsen bowed his head in silence, but Fru Westergaard stared wildly before her.
“Hell, hell fire, all yellow flames. …”
Egholm could contain himself no longer. He would show the lady and the rest of them how a true disciple settled up his accounts with God. With a smile and a gesture as if he had been casting a rose into his mistress’ lap, he flung his paper bag of money into the Angel’s casket. The bag burst with the shock, and the coins came twirling out; the old man had to use both hands to guard them, and could hardly close the box.
“Wait, there’s more yet!” cried Egholm, and his voice broke. He held the silver spoon aloft in two fingers, then pressed it in through the crack at the lid of the box.
But the box was full to repletion, and the bowl of the spoon would not go in.
Egholm felt there had never been so magnificent an offering.
Yet another of the Brethren passed by that strait place—Meilby, the photographer. Not one single copper øre did he put in, but Angel Karlsen only turned his eyes meekly to the other side.
III
February had set in. Fru Egholm’s seventh was making ever stronger demands on her heart’s blood. While she toiled at her work, the young citizen to come was pleased to kick about occasionally, or turn over on the other side, making her faint and dizzy. But, recovering, she would smile, and whisper softly: “There there, now, bide your time, little man.” She had her own convictions that it was to be a boy.
Egholm stood in front of the mirror, smoothing his wreath of hair. His pupil was due for the English lesson.
“The Pupil” was a subject of considerable importance in the house, especially to Egholm’s own mind. It was no other than Meilby, the sharp-tongued photographer, who had started taking lessons in the previous November. After many mysterious hints, and exacting a promise of silence, he had confided to Egholm that he was going to America in a few months’ time. Egholm had grabbed at him avidly and without ceremony, as a chance of work. Regarded as a pupil, he was by no means promising. He had but the faintest