felt pathetic on the occasion. Carl said it was a shame for a fellow to
have to turn out when his bones were splitting--and Jacob soberly bade
Ben "Goot-Pye!" and walked off with his satchel as if it weighed a
hundred pounds.
XXXII
THE CRISIS
While the boys are nursing their fatigue, we will take a peep into the
Brinker cottage.
Can it be that Gretel and her mother have not stirred since we saw them
last? That the sick man upon the bed has not even turned over? It was
four days ago and there is the sad group just as it was before. No, not
precisely the same, for Raff Brinker is paler; his fever is gone, though
he knows nothing of what is passing. Then, they were alone in the bare,
clean room. Now there is another group in an opposite corner.
Dr. Boekman is there, talking in a low tone with a stout young man who
listens intently. The stout young man is his student and assistant. Hans
is there also. He stands near the window respectfully waiting until he
shall be accosted.
"You see, Vollenhoven," said Dr. Boekman, "it is a clear case of"--and
here the doctor went off into a queer jumble of Latin and Dutch that I
cannot conveniently translate.
After a while, as Vollenhoven looked at him rather blankly, the learned
man condescended to speak to him in simpler phrase.
"It is probably like Rip Donderdunck's case," he explained, in a low,
mumbling tone. "He fell from the top of Voppelploot's windmill. After
the accident the man was stupid, and finally became idiotic. In time he
lay helpless like yon fellow on the bed, moaned, too, like him, and
kept constantly lifting his hand to his head. My learned friend Von
Choppem performed an operation upon this Donderdunck, and discovered
under the skull a small dark sac, which pressed upon the brain. This had
been the cause of the trouble. My friend Von Choppem removed it--a
splendid operation! You see according to Celsus"--and here the doctor
again went off into Latin.
"Did the man live?" asked the assistant, respectfully.
Dr. Boekman scowled. "That is of no consequence. I believe he died, but
why not fix your mind on the grand features of the case. Consider a
moment how"--and he plunged into Latin mysteries more deeply than ever.
"But, mynheer," gently persisted the student, who knew that the doctor
would not rise to the surface for hours unless pulled at once from his
favorite depths. "Mynheer, you have other engagements to-day, three legs
in Amsterdam, you remember, and an eye in Broek, and that tumor up the
canal."
"The tumor can wait," said the doctor reflectively. "That is another
beautiful case--a beautiful case! The woman has not lifted her head from
her shoulder for two months--magnificent tumor, sir!"
The doctor by this time was speaking aloud. He had quite forgotten where
he was.
Vollenhoven made another attempt.
"This poor fellow on the bed, mynheer. Do you think you can save him?"
"Ah, indeed, certainly," stammered the doctor, suddenly perceiving that
he had been talking rather off the point--"certainly, that is--I hope
so----"
"If any one in Holland can, mynheer," murmured the assistant with honest
bluntness--"it is yourself."
The doctor looked displeased--growled out a tender request for the
student to talk less, and beckoned Hans to draw near.
This strange man had a great horror of speaking to women, especially on
surgical matters. "One can never tell," he said, "what moment the
creatures will scream or faint." Therefore he explained Raff Brinker's
case to Hans and told him what he believed should be done to save the
patient.
Hans listened attentively, growing red and pale by turns, and throwing
quick, anxious glances toward the bed.
"It may _kill_ the father--did you say, mynheer?" he exclaimed at last,
in a trembling whisper.
"It may, my boy. But I have a strong belief that it will cure and not
kill. Ah! if boys were not such dunces, I could lay the whole matter
before you, but it would be of no use."
Hans looked blank at this compliment.
"It would be of no use," repeated Dr. Boekman indignantly; "a great
operation is proposed--but one might as well do it with a hatchet. The
only question asked is--'will it kill?'"
"The question is _everything_ to us, mynheer," said Hans, with tearful
dignity.
Dr. Boekman looked at him in sudden dismay.
"Ah! exactly so. You are right, boy, I am a fool. Good boy. One does not
wish one's father killed--of course not. I am a fool."
"Will he die, mynheer, if this sickness goes on?"
"Humph! this is no new illness. The same thing growing worse every
instant--pressure on the brain--will take him off soon like _that_,"
said the doctor, snapping his fingers.
"And the operation _may_ save him," pursued Hans. "How soon, mynheer,
can we know?"
Dr. Boekman grew impatient.
"In a day, perhaps, an hour. Talk with your mother, boy, and let her
decide. My time is short."
Hans approached his mother; at first, when she looked up at him, he
could not utter a syllable; then turning his eyes away he said in a firm
voice:
"I must speak with the mother alone."
Quick little Gretel, who could not quite understand what was passing,
threw rather an indignant look at Hans, and walked away.
"Come back, Gretel, and sit down," said Hans sorrowfully.
She obeyed.
Dame Brinker and her boy stood by the window while the doctor and his
assistant, bending over the bed-side, conversed together in a low tone.
There was no danger of disturbing the patient. He appeared like one
blind and deaf. Only his faint, piteous moans showed him to be a living
man. Hans was talking earnestly, and in a low voice, for he did not wish
his sister to hear.
With dry, parted lips, Dame Brinker leaned toward him searching his
face, as if suspecting a meaning beyond his words. Once she gave a
quick, frightened sob that made Gretel start, but, after that, listened
calmly.
When Hans ceased to speak, his mother turned, gave one long, agonized
look at her husband, lying there so pale and unconscious, and threw
herself on her knees, beside the bed.
Poor little Gretel! what did all this mean? She looked with questioning
eyes at Hans; he was standing, but his head was bent as if in
prayer;--at the doctor; he was gently feeling her father's head, and
looked like one examining some curious stone;--at the assistant; the man
coughed and turned away;--at her mother; Ah! little Gretel, that was the
best you could do--to kneel beside her and twine your warm, young arms
about her neck--to weep and implore God to listen.
When the mother arose, Dr. Boekman, with a show of trouble in his eyes,
asked gruffly, "Well, jufvrouw, shall it be done?"
"Will it pain him, mynheer?" she asked in a trembling voice.
"I cannot say. Probably not. Shall it be done?"
"It may _cure_ him, you said, and--mynheer, did you tell my boy
that--perhaps--perhaps"--she could not finish.
"Yes, jufvrouw, I said the patient might sink under the operation--but
we will hope it may prove otherwise." (He looked at his watch. The
assistant moved impatiently toward the window.) "Come, jufvrouw, time
presses. Yes, or no?"
Hans wound his arm about his mother. It was not his usual way. He even
leaned his head against her shoulder.
"The meester awaits an answer," he whispered.
Dame Brinker had long been the head of her house in every sense--Many a
time she had been very stern with Hans, ruling him with a strong hand,
and rejoicing in her motherly discipline--_now_ she felt so weak, so
helpless. It was something to feel that firm embrace. There was strength
even in the touch of that yellow hair.
She turned to her boy imploringly.
"Oh, Hans! What shall I say?"
"Say what God tells thee, mother," answered Hans, bowing his head.
One quick, questioning prayer to Heaven rose from the mother's heart.
The answer came.
She turned toward Dr. Boekman.
"It is right, mynheer. I consent."
"Humph!" grunted the doctor, as if to say you've been long enough about
it. Then he conferred a moment with his assistant, who listened with
great outward deference but was inwardly rejoicing at the grand joke he
would have to tell his fellow students. He had actually seen a tear in
"old Boekman's" eye.
Meanwhile Gretel looked on in trembling silence--but when she saw the
doctor open a leathern case, and take out one sharp, gleaming instrument
after another, she sprang forward.
"Oh mother--the poor father meant no wrong. Are they going to _murder_
him?"
"I do not know, child," screamed Dame Brinker looking fiercely at
Gretel. "I DO NOT KNOW."
"This will not do, jufvrouw," said Dr. Boekman sternly, and at the same
time he cast a quick, penetrating look at Hans--"you and the girl must
leave the room. The boy may stay."
Dame Brinker drew herself up in an instant. Her eyes flashed. Her whole
countenance was changed. She looked like one who had never wept, never
felt a moment's weakness. Her voice was low but decided. "I stay with my
husband, mynheer."
Dr. Boekman looked astonished. His orders were seldom disregarded in
this style. For an instant his eye met hers.
"You may remain, jufvrouw," he said in an altered voice.
Gretel had already disappeared.
In one corner of the cottage was a small closet where her rough,
box-like bed was fastened against the wall: none would think of the
trembling little creature crouching there in the dark.
Dr. Boekman took off his heavy coat; he filled an earthen basin with
water and placed it near the bed. Then turning to Hans he asked:
"Can I depend upon you, boy?"
"You can, mynheer."
"I believe you. Stand at the head, here--your mother may sit at your
right--so," and he placed a chair near the cot.
"Remember, jufvrouw, there must be no cries, no fainting."
Dame Brinker answered him with a look.
He was satisfied.
"Now, Vollenhoven."
Oh! that case with the terrible instruments. The assistant lifted them.
Gretel who had been peering, with brimming eyes, through the crack of
the closet door, could remain silent no longer.
She rushed frantically across the apartment, seized her hood, and ran
from the cottage.
XXXIII
GRETEL AND HILDA
It was recess-hour. At the first stroke of the school-house bell, the
canal seemed to give a tremendous shout, and grow suddenly alive with
boys and girls. The sly thing, shining so quietly under the noonday sun,
was a kaleidoscope at heart, and only needed a shake from that great
clapper to start it into dazzling changes.
Dozens of gaily clad children were skating in and out among each other,
and all their pent-up merriment of the morning was relieving itself in
song and shout and laughter. There was nothing to check the flow of
frolic. Not a thought of school-books came out with them into the
sunshine. Latin, Arithmetic, Grammar, all were locked up for an hour in
the dingy schoolroom. The teacher might be a noun if he wished, and a
proper one at that, but _they_ meant to enjoy themselves. As long as the
skating was as perfect as this, it made no difference whether Holland
were on the North Pole or the Equator; and, as for Philosophy, how could
they bother themselves about inertia and gravitation and such things,
when it was as much as they could do to keep from getting knocked over
in the commotion.
In the height of the fun, one of the children called out:
"What is that?"
"What? Where?" cried a dozen voices.
"Why--don't you see? That dark thing over there by the idiot's
cottage."
"I don't see anything," said one.
"I do," shouted another, "it's a dog!"
"Where's any dog?" put in a squeaky voice that we have heard
before--"It's no such thing--it's a heap of rags."
"Pooh! Voost," retorted another gruffly, "that's about as near the fact
as you ever get; it's the goose-girl, Gretel, looking for rats."
"Well, what of it?" squeaked Voost; "isn't _she_ a bundle of rags, I'd
like to know?"
"Ha! ha! Pretty good for you, Voost! You'll get a medal for wit yet, if
you keep on."
"You'd get something else, if her brother Hans were here. I'll warrant
you would!" said a muffled up little fellow, with a cold in his head.
As Hans was _not_ there, Voost could afford to scout the insinuation.
"Who cares for _him_, little sneezer? I'd fight a dozen like him any
day, and you in the bargain."
"You would! would you? I'd like to catch you at it," and, by way of
proving his words, the sneezer skated off at the top of his speed.
Just then a general chase after three of the biggest boys of the school
was proposed,--and friend and foe, frolicsome as ever, were soon united
in a common cause.
Only one of all that happy throng remembered the dark little form by the
idiot's cottage. Poor, frightened Gretel! She was not thinking of them,
though their merry laughter floated lightly toward her, making her feel
like one in a dream.
How loud the moans were behind the darkened window--What if those
strange men were really killing her father!
The thought made her spring to her feet with a cry of horror!
"Ah! no," she sobbed, sinking upon the frozen mound of earth where she
had been sitting, "mother is there, and Hans. They will care for him.
But how pale they were. And even Hans was crying!
"Why did the cross old meester keep _him_, and send me away," she
thought. "I could have clung to the mother and kissed her. That always
makes her stroke my hair and speak gentle, even after she has scolded
me. How quiet it is now! Oh, if the father should die, and Hans, and the
mother, what _would_ I do?" and Gretel, shivering with cold, buried her
face in her arms, and cried as if her heart would break.
The poor child had been tasked beyond her strength during the past four
days. Through all, she had been her mother's willing little handmaiden,
soothing, helping and cheering the half-widowed woman by day, and
watching and praying beside her all the long night. She knew that
something terrible and mysterious was taking place at this moment,
something that had been too terrible and mysterious for even kind, good
Hans to tell.
Then new thoughts came. Why had not Hans told her? It was a shame. It
was _her_ father as well as his. She was no baby. She had once taken a
sharp knife from the father's hand. She had even drawn him away from the
mother on that awful night when Hans, big as he was, could not help her.
Why then must she be treated like one who could do nothing? Oh, how very
still it was--how bitter, bitter cold! If Annie Bouman had only stayed
home instead of going to Amsterdam it wouldn't be so lonely. How cold
her feet were growing--was it the moaning that made her feel as if she
were floating in the air!
This would not do--the mother might need her help at any moment!
Rousing herself with an effort, Gretel sat upright, rubbing her eyes and
wondering--wondering that the sky was so bright and blue--wondering at
the stillness in the cottage--more than all, at the laughter rising and
falling in the distance.
Soon she sank down again, the strange medley of thought growing more and
more confused in her bewildered brain.
What a strange lip the meester had! How the stork's nest upon the roof
seemed to rustle and whisper down to her! How bright those knives were,
in the leathern case--brighter perhaps than the silver skates. If she
had but worn her new jacket she would not shiver so. The new jacket was
pretty--the only pretty thing she had ever worn. God had taken care of
her father so long, He would do it still, if those two men would but go
away. Ah, now the meesters were on the roof, they were clambering to the
top--no--it was her mother and Hans,--or the storks--it was so dark who
could tell? and the mound rocking, swinging in that strange way. How
sweetly the birds were singing. They must be winter birds, for the air
was thick with icicles--not one bird--but twenty. Oh! hear them,
mother--wake me, mother, for the race--I am so tired with crying, and
crying----
A firm hand was laid upon her shoulder.
"Get up, little girl!" cried a kind voice. "This will not do, for you to
lie here and freeze."
Gretel slowly raised her head. She was so sleepy that it seemed nothing
strange to her that Hilda van Gleck should be leaning over her, looking
with kind, beautiful eyes into her face. She had often dreamed it
before.
But she had never dreamed that Hilda was shaking her roughly, almost
dragging her by main force--never dreamed that she heard her saying,
"Gretel! Gretel Brinker! you _must_ wake!"
This was real. Gretel looked up. Still the lovely delicate young lady
was shaking, rubbing, fairly pounding her. It must be a dream. No, there
was the cottage--and the stork's nest, and the meester's coach by the
canal. She could see them now quite plainly. Her hands were tingling,
her feet throbbing--Hilda was forcing her to walk.
At last Gretel began to feel like herself again.
"I have been asleep," she faltered, rubbing her eyes with both hands and
looking very much ashamed.
"Yes, indeed, entirely too much asleep," laughed Hilda, whose lips were
very pale, "but you are well enough now--lean upon me, Gretel; there,
keep moving--you will soon be warm enough to go by the fire--now let me
take you into the cottage."
"Oh, no! no! no! jufvrouw, not in there! the meester is there. He sent
me away!"
Hilda was puzzled, but she wisely forbore to ask at present for an
explanation. "Very well, Gretel--try to walk faster--I saw you upon the
mound some time ago; but I thought you were playing--that is right--keep
moving."
All this time the kind-hearted girl had been forcing Gretel to walk up
and down, supporting her with one arm, and, with the other, striving as
well as she could to take off her own warm sacque.
Suddenly Gretel suspected her intention.
"Oh, jufvrouw! jufvrouw!" she cried imploringly. "_Please_ never think
of such a thing as _that_--oh! please keep it on, I am burning all over,
jufvrouw! I really am burning--not burning exactly--but pins and needles
pricking all over me--oh! jufvrouw, don't."
The poor child's dismay was so genuine that Hilda hastened to reassure
her.
"Very well, Gretel, move your arms then--so. Why, your cheeks are as
pink as roses, already. I think the meester would let you in now--he
certainly would--is your father so very ill?"
"Ah, jufvrouw," cried Gretel, weeping afresh, "he is dying, I think.
There are two meesters in with him at this moment, and the mother has
scarce spoken to-day. Can you hear him moan, jufvrouw?" she added, with
sudden terror; "the air buzzes so I cannot hear. He may be dead! oh, I
do wish I could hear him!"
Hilda listened. The cottage was very near, but not a sound could be
heard.
Something told her that Gretel was right. She ran to the window.
"You cannot see there, my lady," sobbed Gretel eagerly; "the mother has
oiled paper hanging inside. But at the other one, in the south end of
the cottage, you can look in where the paper is torn."
Hilda in her anxiety ran round, past the corner where the low roof was
fringed with its loosened thatch.
A sudden thought checked her.
"It is not right for me to peep into another's house in this way," she
said to herself--then softly calling to Gretel, she added, in a whisper,
"You may look--perhaps he is only sleeping."
Gretel tried to walk briskly toward the spot, but her limbs were
trembling. Hilda hastened to her support.
"You are sick, yourself, I fear," she said kindly.
"No, not sick, jufvrouw--but my heart cries all the time now, even when
my eyes are as dry as yours--why! Jufvrouw, your eyes are not dry! Are
you crying for _us_! Oh, jufvrouw--if God sees you! Oh! I know father
will get better now----" and the little creature, even while reaching to
look through the tiny window, kissed Hilda's hand again and again.
The sash was sadly patched and broken, a torn piece of paper hung
half-way down across it. Gretel's face was pressed to the window.
"Can you see anything?" whispered Hilda at last.
"Yes--the father lies very still, his head is bandaged and all their
eyes are fastened upon him. Oh, jufvrouw!" almost screamed Gretel, as
she started back, and by a quick, dexterous movement shook off her heavy
wooden shoes, "I _must_ go in to my mother! Will you come with me?"
"Not now; the bell is ringing. I shall come again soon. Good-bye!"
Gretel scarce heard the words. She remembered for many a day afterward
the bright, pitying smile on Hilda's face, as she turned away.
XXXIV
THE AWAKENING
An angel could not have entered the cottage more noiselessly. Gretel,
not daring to look at any one, slid softly to her mother's side.
The room was very still. She could hear the old doctor breathe. She
could almost hear the sparks as they fell into the ashes on the hearth.
The mother's hand was very cold but a burning spot glowed on her cheek;
and her eyes were like a deer's--so bright, so sad, so eager.
At last there was a movement upon the bed, very slight, but enough to
cause them all to start; Dr. Boekman leaned eagerly forward.
Another movement. The large hand, so white and soft for a poor man's
hand, twitched--then raised itself steadily toward the forehead.
It felt the bandage, not in a restless, crazy way, but with a
questioning movement, that caused even Dr. Boekman to hold his breath.
Then the eyes opened slowly.
"Steady! steady!" said a voice that sounded very strangely to Gretel.
"Shift that mat higher, boys! now throw on the clay. The waters are
rising fast--no time to----"
Dame Brinker sprang forward like a young panther.
She seized his hands, and leaning over him, cried, "Raff! Raff, boy,
speak to me!"
"Is it you, Meitje?" he asked faintly--"I have been asleep, hurt, I
think--where is little Hans?"
"Here I am, father!" shouted Hans half mad with joy. But the doctor held
him back.
"He knows us!" screamed Dame Brinker. "Great God! he knows us! Gretel!
Gretel! come, see your father!"
In vain Dr. Boekman commanded "silence!" and tried to force them from
the bedside. He could not keep them off.
Hans and his mother laughed and cried together, as they hung over the
newly-awakened man. Gretel made no sound, but gazed at them all with
glad, startled eyes. Her father was speaking in a faint voice.
"Is the baby asleep, Meitje?"
"The baby!" echoed Dame Brinker. "Oh, Gretel! that is _you_! And he
calls Hans, 'little Hans.' Ten years asleep! Oh, mynheer, you have saved
us all. He has known nothing for ten years! Children, why don't you
thank the meester?"
The good woman was beside herself with joy. Dr. Boekman said nothing;
but as his eye met hers, he pointed upward. She understood. So did Hans
and Gretel.
With one accord they knelt by the cot, side by side. Dame Brinker felt
for her husband's hand even while she was praying. Dr. Boekman's head
was bowed; the assistant stood by the hearth with his back toward them.
"Why do you pray?" murmured the father, looking feebly from the bed, as
they rose. "Is it God's day?"
It was not Sunday; but his vrouw bowed her head--she could not speak.
[Illustration: _There was a movement upon the bed_]
"Then we should have a chapter," said Raff Brinker, speaking slowly, and
with difficulty. "I do not know how it is. I am very, very weak. Mayhap
the minister will read to us."
Gretel lifted the big Dutch Bible from its carved shelf. Dr. Boekman,
rather dismayed at being called a minister, coughed and handed the
volume to his assistant.
"Read," he muttered; "these people must be kept quiet or the man will
die yet."
When the chapter was finished, Dame Brinker motioned mysteriously to the
rest by way of telling them that her husband was asleep.
"Now, jufvrouw," said the doctor in a subdued tone, as he drew on his
thick woolen mittens, "there must be perfect quiet. You understand. This
is truly a most remarkable case. I shall come again to-morrow. Give the
patient no food to-day," and, bowing hastily, he left the cottage,
followed by his assistant.
His grand coach was not far away; the driver had kept the horses moving
slowly up and down by the canal, nearly all the time the doctor had been
in the cottage.
Hans went out also.
"May God bless you, mynheer!" he said, blushing and trembling. "I can
never repay you, but if----"
"Yes, you can," interrupted the doctor, crossly. "You can use your wits
when the patient wakes again. This clacking and snivelling is enough to
kill a well man, let alone one lying on the edge of his grave. If you
want your father to get well, keep 'em quiet."
So saying, Dr. Boekman, without another word, stalked off, to meet his
coach, leaving Hans standing there with eyes and mouth wide open.