"Who do you read to?"
"Oh, to the sick, but it is not often I can get so far."
"Do you go and visit the sick?"
"Yes, it is just the sick I do visit."
"The sick? What can you do for them?"
"Oh, I help them as well as I can."
"You?" repeated Edward, with all the astonishment he was capable of.
After a pause he went on. "But how do you help them? Do you take food
to them?"
"Sometimes I do. I help them whenever they need it; I change the straw
under them."
"Change the straw?"
"Why, yes, they lie upon straw, and then, don't you see, they would lie
on there, no matter how dirty it got, for they are ill and cannot help
themselves, and often in the daytime they are left quite alone when
every one is out at work and the children are at school. So when I come
in the afternoon, I go first to the boats just in from along the coast
with straw, and there I buy what I need and carry it up and then take
away the old straw."
"But, my dear fellow, have you got money to buy it with?" asked Edward.
"My aunt collects money for me, and so does Josephine too."
"Josephine!" exclaimed the brother.
"Yes; oh, but perhaps I ought not to have told."
"Who does Josephine get money from?" asked Edward, with all an elder
brother's aroused curiosity.
Ole bethought himself a moment, then answered decidedly and clearly:
"From your father."
"From father?"
Edward knew quite well that even though it were Josephine who asked
their father for money, he would never give it for any useless purpose;
he always liked to know what it was wanted for. Therefore his father
must approve of what Ole did, and that took away all doubt from
Edward's mind. Ole could feel how entirely he changed his view of the
matter; he could see it, too, in his eyes. He longed to tell him more
about it all, and he did so. He explained how, often when he went
there, there was hard work for him to do; he was obliged to light the
fire and cook for them.
"Can you cook?"
"Of course I can, and clean up too, and buy all that is needed, and
send a messenger rowing across to the apothecary; for the doctor may
have written a prescription, but no one ever thinks of sending it
over."
"And have you time to do all this?"
"Directly after dinner I finish work at the Schultzes, and I learn my
own lessons at night."
And he talked on, telling all there was to tell, until he, too,
remembered that they ought to get down from the mountain before dark.
Edward walked on in front, deep in thought; the other followed after
with his box.
There, on the slope of the hill, they could hear the roaring of the
waves as if in the air; it was like the low murmur of a distant crowd,
but high above their heads. They felt it getting very cold; the moon
was up, but no stars were to be seen; yes, one solitary one peeped
forth.
"And what made you think of doing this?" asked Edward, turning round.
Ole stood still too. He moved his box backward and forward from one
hand to the other; should he make a bold venture and tell all?
Edward understood at once that he had not heard everything, and that
what remained to be told was the most important part of all.
"Can't you tell me?" he asked, as though it was quite immaterial.
"Yes, I think I can;" but he kept on changing his box from hand to hand
without saying a word.
Then Edward became impatient and began trying to persuade him, to which
Ole had no objections, but still he hesitated.
"Surely it is nothing wicked?"
"No, it is not wicked." And he added, after a pause, "It is rather
something grand, very grand and great."
"Really something great?"
"In reality the grandest thing in all the world."
"But what can you mean?"
"Well, then, if only you will not tell, not to a living soul--do you
hear?--I might tell you."
"What is it, Ole?"
"I am going to be a missionary."
"A missionary?"
"Yes, a missionary among the heathen, the regular savages, don't you
know, those who eat people." He saw that Edward was almost speechless;
so he made haste to tell him all sorts of things about cyclones, raging
wild beasts, and poisonous snakes. "You see one requires to be prepared
for such things."
"How prepared--for raging wild beasts and poisonous snakes?" Edward
began to think everything possible.
"The people are the worst," said Ole, who had to give in about the wild
beasts; "they are such dreadful heathens, and cruel and ugly and wicked
into the bargain. So it will not be so easy to manage them. One must
have practice."
"But how can you get practice in that sort of thing here? They are not
heathens down in the fishing village?"
"No, but they can teach one how to bear a little of everything; there
is no use complaining down there, but just be ready to do all sorts of
hard work. They are often so suspicious when they are ill and fretful,
and some of them are downright brutes. Just fancy, one evening one of
them was going to hit me."
"Hit you?"
"I prayed to God that she would, but she only cursed and swore." Ole's
eyes glistened, his whole face was beaming. "In one of the tracts I
have in my box it says that that is the mistake of our missionaries,
they go out to their work without having any practice or experience.
And it says, too, that the art of winning people is a very difficult
one, but hardest of all it is to win them for the kingdom of God, and
that we ought to strive to do it from our childhood upward; that is
what the book says, and I mean to do it. For to be a missionary is
higher and greater than anything upon earth; greater than to be king,
greater than to be emperor or pope. That is all in the tract, and this,
too, that a missionary said: 'If I had ten lives, I would give them all
to the mission.' And I mean to do the same."
They were walking side by side; unconsciously Ole had turned to the
stars as they began to twinkle, and they both stood still awhile gazing
into space. Beneath them lay the harbour with its dimly outlined ships,
the silent, empty wharfs, and the scattered lights from the town;
beyond was the shore, gray with snow and the dark sea-waves rolling up;
they could hear the sound again, faintly in the distance, the monotony
of the roar seemed in keeping with the star-spangled twilight. An
invisible wave of sympathy passed between the lads, and seemed to link
them together. There was no one Ole was so anxious should think well of
him as his friend here with his jaunty fur cap; while Edward was
thinking all the time how much better Ole was than he; for he knew
quite well that he was far from good, and indeed he was told of it
every day. He glanced sideways at the peasant boy. The peaked cap
was pulled down over his ears, the big gloves, the thick scarf, the
coarse cloth jacket, and trousers hanging loosely on him; the heavy,
iron-bound boots--a curious figure--but his eyes alone made up for it
all. And then the innocent, trusting expression, though it was rather
an old-fashioned face.... Ole would decidedly be a great man some day.
They trotted on again, Edward in front, Ole after him, down toward the
"hill-town," as that part was called which lay nearest the hill-side,
and which consisted chiefly of workmen's houses, a few workshops, and
some smaller factories. As yet the streets were neither properly paved
nor lighted, and now the muddy snow was stiffening into ice as night
came on. The lanterns, few and far between, hung in the middle of the
streets, on ropes stretched across from opposite houses; they were made
to be hoisted up and down. They had been badly cleaned and burned
dimly. Here and there one of the small workshops had its own private
lantern, which was hung up outside on the steps. Edward stopped again
under one of these; he felt he must ask more questions. He wanted to
know more particularly who it was Ole went to see among the fisher
people--whether it was anyone they both knew.
Ole boldly put down his box on the steps, and stood there resting his
hand on it; he smiled. "Do you know Martha from the docks?" The whole
town knew her; she was a clever woman, but much given to drink, and on
Saturday evenings the school-boys always had great fun with her, when
she stood leaning up against a wall, abusing them roundly with gestures
not of the most refined, in fact, quite unmentionable. This, however,
was just what the boys were waiting for, and was invariably received
with shouts of delight.
"What! Dock Martha?" shrieked Edward. "Do you suppose you can convert
her?"
"Hush! hush! For goodness' sake, not so loud," implored Ole, reddening
and looking anxiously round.
Edward repeated, in a whisper: "Do you think anyone could ever convert
Martha?"
"I believe I am on the high road to do so," whispered the other,
mysteriously.
"Come, you won't get me to believe that," and he smiled with squinting
eyes.
"Just you wait and hear. You know she fell on the ice this winter and
was badly hurt?"
"Yes, I know that."
"Well, she is still laid up, and now everyone is tired of helping her,
for she is so cross and so wicked. At first she was very disagreeable
to me; I could hardly bear it; but I took no notice, and now it is
nothing but, 'my little angel,' and 'my lamb,' and 'my pigeon,' and
'dear child;' for I have taken care of her, and got clothes and food
for her, and bedclothes too, and have done much for her that was not at
all pleasant; that I have. And yet it was she who wanted to beat me the
other evening. I was going to help her up, and somehow she managed to
hurt her bad foot. She shrieked with pain and lifted her stick, but
then she thought better of it, and began to curse and abuse me
dreadfully. Now we are good friends again, and the other day I ventured
to read the Bible to her."
"What! to Martha?"
"Yes, the Sermon on the Mount, and she cried, lad."
"She cried? Then did she understand it?"
"No, for she cried so that she could not have heard much of it. But I
don't think she cried on account of what was in the Bible, for she
began as soon as ever I took it out."
The two boys stood looking at each other; a noise of hammering was
heard over from the backyard, and in the far distance a steam-whistle;
then the faint cry of a child from across the street.
"Did she say anything?"
"She said she felt much too miserable to listen to anything. So I
explained that it was just the most wretched and miserable whom God
wanted. But she seemed not to hear that at all. She only begged me to
go away, and to go round and see if Lars the washerman had come home."
"Lars the washerman!" cried Edward so loud that again Ole had to check
him; Lars was the woman's sweetheart.
"Yes, just fancy his being fond of that creature. But they all say
there is a great deal of good in Lars. He goes there every evening to
see what he can do for her. This evening he came earlier than usual, so
I got away; but generally I stay there much longer."
"Have you read to her more than once?"
"Yes, to-day I did. She began to cry at once, but I do think she heard
me to-day; for I read about the Prodigal Son, and she said: 'I expect I
am one of his swine.'" Both the lads laughed. "Then I spoke to her and
said I could not believe that, and that I would try and pray. 'Oh,'
said she, 'there's not much use in that;' but when I began to say 'Our
Father,' she became perfectly crazy, just as though she were
frightened, and sat up in bed crying out that she would not hear
another word, not for anything. Then she lay down again and sobbed most
bitterly."
"So you never said your prayer after all?"
"No, for then Lars came in, and she told me to go. But you see, it did
some good. Don't you think I am on the right way?"
Edward was not sure about it. It was clear that his admiration had
received a blow. Soon after they separated.