The words seemed to have a sort of hypnotic power; for a moment, Hedvig quivered with hope that it might really come to pass. Then she remembered how often she had heard the same thing; how many times she had been forced to kneel thus on aching knees in prayer for the same, but to no avail. From the time she was first able to speak, her tongue had praised the Lord. Now, it revolted her; something within her seemed to rise in protest; she felt that she hated God.
Never for a moment did she doubt His existence; on the contrary, she seemed to see His face. But it was a face hard and cold as stone, with eyes looking absently out. The ardent prayers of men were powerless to affect Him.
She began mumbling an oath every time her father found a new form for his praise.
It was otherwise with Egholm himself. He felt stronger and stronger as he went on; and at sight of Hedvig’s lips moving, he burst into tears, and found courage to speak out without reserve.
For it was a curious fact that more courage was needed to ask for little things. It was a simple matter enough to pray for wealth and happiness in general, but to-day he managed to get out the matter that really troubled him.
“Dear, good Lord, grant me—or only lend me—one hundred kroner; even fifty would do. You know what it’s for—that boat, the green boat of Ulrik’s. Not his new one, but the old. You know, dear Lord, I want it for my steam-turbine. And I’ve come to a dead stop now, and can’t move a step if you won’t lend me a miserable fifty kroner....”
His voice had altered now to a wheedling tone, with a marked city accent. He made a sort of half scrape-and-bow, and finished off.
“A—far....” prattled Emanuel.
It was Egholm’s habit after a prayer to embrace his wife. He made as if to do so now, but, to his surprise, she thrust him away with every indication of ill-will.
“No! Don’t think you’re going to get me on to that sort of thing, because I won’t.”