after recess, and for imperfect recitations.
She had remained near the cottage until she heard Dame Brinker laugh,
until she had heard Hans say, "Here I am, father!" and then she had gone
back to her lessons. What wonder that she missed them! How could she get
a long string of Latin verbs by heart, when her heart did not care a fig
for them, but would keep saying to itself, "Oh, I am so glad! I am so
glad!"
XXXV
BONES AND TONGUES
Bones are strange things. One would suppose that they knew nothing at
all about school affairs, but they do. Even Jacob Poot's bones, buried
as they were in flesh, were sharp in the matter of study hours.
Early on the morning of his return they ached through and through,
giving Jacob a twinge at every stroke of the school-bell--as if to say
"stop that clapper! There's trouble in it." After school, on the
contrary, they were quiet and comfortable; in fact, seemed to be taking
a nap among their cushions.
The other boys' bones behaved in a similar manner--but that is not so
remarkable. Being nearer the daylight than Jacob's, they might be
expected to be more learned in the ways of the world. Master Ludwig's,
especially, were like beauty, only skin deep; they were the most knowing
bones you ever heard of. Just put before him ever so quietly, a
Grammar-book with a long lesson marked in it, and immediately the sly
bone over his eyes would set up such an aching! Request him to go to the
garret for your foot-stove--instantly the bones would remind him that he
was "too tired." Ask him to go to the confectioner's, a mile away, and
_presto!_ not a bone would remember that it ever had been used before.
Bearing all this in mind you will not wonder when I tell you that our
five boys were among the happiest of the happy throng pouring forth from
the schoolhouse that day.
Peter was in excellent spirits. He had heard through Hilda of Dame
Brinker's laugh and of Hans' joyous words, and he needed no further
proof that Raff Brinker was a cured man. In fact the news had gone forth
in every direction, for miles around. Persons who had never before cared
for the Brinkers, or even mentioned them, except with a contemptuous
sneer or a shrug of pretended pity, now became singularly familiar with
every point of their history. There was no end to the number of
ridiculous stories that were flying about.
Hilda, in the excitement of the moment, had stopped to exchange a word
with the doctor's coachman, as he stood by the horses, pommelling his
chest and clapping his hands. Her kind heart was overflowing. She could
not help pausing to tell the cold, tired-looking man that she thought
the doctor would be out soon; she even hinted to him that she
suspected--only suspected--that a wonderful cure had been performed--an
idiot brought to his senses. Nay, she was _sure_ of it--for she had
heard his widow laugh--no, not his widow, of course, but his wife--for
the man was as much alive as anybody, and, for all she knew, sitting up
and talking like a lawyer.
All this was very indiscreet. Hilda in an impenitent sort of way felt it
to be so.
But it is always so delightful to impart pleasant or surprising news!
She went tripping along by the canal, quite resolved to repeat the sin,
_ad infinitum_, and tell nearly every girl and boy in the school.
Meantime, Janzoon Kolp came skating by. Of course, in two seconds, he
was striking slippery attitudes, and shouting saucy things to the
coachman, who stared at him in indolent disdain.
This, to Janzoon, was equivalent to an invitation to draw nearer. The
coachman was now upon his box gathering up the reins and grumbling at
his horses.
Janzoon accosted him.
"I say. What's going on at the idiot's cottage? Is your boss in there?"
Coachman nodded mysteriously.
"Whew!" whistled Janzoon, drawing closer. "Old Brinker dead?"
The driver grew big with importance, and silent in proportion.
"See here, old pincushion, I'd run home yonder and get you a chunk of
gingerbread if I thought you could open your mouth."
Old pincushion was human--long hours of waiting had made him ravenously
hungry. At Janzoon's hint, his countenance showed signs of a collapse.
"That's right, old fellow," pursued his tempter, "hurry up--what
news--old Brinker dead?"
"No--CURED! got his wits," said the coachman, shooting forth his words,
one at a time, like so many bullets.
Like bullets (figuratively speaking) they hit Janzoon Kolp. He jumped as
if he had been shot.
"Goede Gunst! you don't say so!"
The man pressed his lips together, and looked significantly toward
Master Kolp's shabby residence.
Just then Janzoon saw a group of boys in the distance. Hailing them in a
rowdy style, common to boys of his stamp all over the world, whether in
Africa, Japan, Amsterdam or Paris--he scampered toward them, forgetting
coachman, gingerbread, everything but the wonderful news.
Therefore by sundown it was well known throughout the neighboring
country that Dr. Boekman chancing to stop at the cottage had given the
idiot Brinker a tremendous dose of medicine, as brown as gingerbread. It
had taken six men to hold him while it was poured down. The idiot had
immediately sprung to his feet, in full possession of all his
faculties--knocked over the doctor, or thrashed him (there was admitted
to be a slight uncertainty as to which of these penalties was
inflicted), then sat down and addressed him for all the world like a
lawyer. After that he had turned and spoken beautifully to his wife and
children. Dame Brinker had laughed herself into violent hysterics. Hans
had said, "Here I am, father! your own dear son," and Gretel had said,
"Here I am, father, your own dear Gretel!" and the doctor had afterward
been seen leaning back in his carriage looking just as white as a
corpse.
XXXVI
A NEW ALARM
When Dr. Boekman called the next day at the Brinker cottage, he could
not help noticing the cheerful, comfortable aspect of the place. An
atmosphere of happiness breathed upon him as he opened the door. Dame
Brinker sat complacently knitting beside the bed, her husband was
enjoying a tranquil slumber, and Gretel was noiselessly kneading rye
bread on the table in the corner.
The doctor did not remain long. He asked a few simple questions,
appeared satisfied with the answers, and after feeling his patient's
pulse, said--"Ah, very weak yet, jufvrouw; very weak, indeed. He must
have nourishment. You may begin to feed the patient, ahem! not too much,
but what you do give him let it be strong and of the best."
"Black bread we have, mynheer, and porridge," replied Dame Brinker,
cheerily; "they have always agreed with him well."
"Tut! tut!" said the doctor frowning, "nothing of the kind. He must have
the juice of fresh meat, white bread, dried and toasted, good Malaga
wine, and--ahem! The man looks cold--give him more covering, something
light and warm. Where is the boy?"
"Hans, mynheer, has gone into Broek to look for work. He will be back
soon. Will the meester please be seated?"
Whether the hard polished stool offered by Dame Brinker did not look
particularly tempting, or whether the dame herself frightened him,
partly because she was a woman, and partly because an anxious,
distressed look had suddenly appeared in her face, I cannot say. Certain
it is that our eccentric doctor looked hurriedly about him, muttered
something about "extraordinary case," bowed, and disappeared, before
Dame Brinker had time to say another word.
Strange that the visit of their good benefactor should have left a
cloud, yet so it was. Gretel frowned, an anxious childish frown, and
kneaded the bread-dough violently, without looking up. Dame Brinker
hurried to her husband's bedside, leaned over him, and fell into silent
but passionate weeping.
In a moment Hans entered.
"Why, mother," he whispered in alarm, "what ails thee? Is the father
worse?"
She turned her quivering face toward him, making no attempt to conceal
her distress.
"Yes. He is starving--perishing. The meester said it."
Hans turned pale.
"What does this mean, mother? We must feed him at once. Here, Gretel,
give me the porridge."
"Nay!" cried his mother, distractedly, yet without raising her voice,
"it may kill him. Our poor fare is too heavy for him. Oh, Hans, he will
die--the father will _die_ if we use him this way. He must have meat,
and sweet wine, and a dek-bed. Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do?"
she sobbed, wringing her hands. "There is not a stiver in the house."
Gretel pouted; it was the only way she could express sympathy just then;
her tears fell one by one into the dough.
"Did the meester say he _must_ have these things, mother?" asked Hans.
"Yes, he did."
"Well, mother, don't cry, _he shall have them_; I shall bring meat and
wine before night. Take the cover from my bed. I can sleep in the
straw."
"Yes, Hans; but it is heavy, scant as it is. The meester said he must
have something light and warm. He will perish. Our peat is giving out,
Hans. The father has wasted it sorely, throwing it on when I was not
looking, dear man."
"Never mind, mother," whispered Hans, cheerfully. "We can cut down the
willow tree and burn it, if need be; but I'll bring home something
to-night. There _must_ be work in Amsterdam, though there's none in
Broek. Never fear, mother; the worst trouble of all is past. We can
brave anything now that the father is himself again."
"Aye!" sobbed Dame Brinker, hastily drying her eyes, "that is true
indeed."
"Of course it is. Look at him, mother, how softly he sleeps. Do you
think God would let him starve, just after giving him back to us. Why,
mother, I'm as _sure_ of getting all the father needs, as if my pocket
was bursting with gold. There, now, don't fret." And hurriedly kissing
her, Hans caught up his skates and slipped from the cottage.
Poor Hans! Disappointed in his morning's errand, half sickened with this
new trouble, he wore a brave look, and tried to whistle as he tramped
resolutely off with the firm intention of mending matters.
Want had never before pressed as sorely upon the Brinker family. Their
stock of peat was nearly exhausted, and all the flour in the cottage
was in Gretel's dough. They had scarcely cared to eat during the past
few days--scarcely realized their condition. Dame Brinker had felt so
sure that she and the children could earn money before the worst came,
that she had given herself up to the joy of her husband's recovery. She
had not even told Hans that the few pieces of silver in the old mitten
were quite gone.
Hans reproached himself, now, that he had not hailed the doctor when he
saw him enter his coach and drive rapidly away in the direction of
Amsterdam.
"Perhaps there is some mistake," he thought. "The meester surely would
have known that meat and sweet wine were not at our command; and yet the
father looks very weak--he certainly does. I _must_ get work. If Mynheer
van Holp were back from Rotterdam I could get plenty to do. But Master
Peter told me to let him know if he could do aught to serve us. I shall
go to him at once. Oh, if it were but summer!"
All this time Hans was hastening toward the canal. Soon his skates were
on, and he was skimming rapidly toward the residence of Mynheer van
Holp.
"The father must have meat and wine at once," he muttered, "but how can
I earn the money in time to buy them to-day? There is no other way but
to go, as I _promised_, to Master Peter. What would a gift of meat and
wine be to him? When the father is once fed, I can rush down to
Amsterdam and earn the morrow's supply."
Then came other thoughts--thoughts that made his heart thump heavily and
his cheeks burn with a new shame--"It is _begging_, to say the least.
Not one of the Brinkers has ever been a beggar. Shall I be the first?
Shall my poor father just coming back into life learn that his family
have asked for charity--he, always so wise and thrifty? No," cried Hans
aloud, "better a thousand times to part with the watch.
"I can at least borrow money on it, in Amsterdam!" he thought, turning
around. "That will be no disgrace. I can find work at once, and get it
back again. Nay, perhaps I can even _speak to the father about it_!"
This last thought almost made the lad dance for joy. Why not, indeed,
speak to the father? He was a rational being now. "He may wake," thought
Hans, "quite bright and rested--may tell us the watch is of no
consequence, to sell it of course! Hoezza!" and Hans almost flew over
the ice.
A few moments more and the skates were again swinging from his arm. He
was running toward the cottage.
His mother met him at the door.
"Oh, Hans!" she cried, her face radiant with joy, "the young lady has
been here with her maid. She brought everything--meat, jelly, wine and
bread--a whole basketful! Then the meester sent a man from town with
more wine, and a fine bed and blankets for the father. Oh! he will get
well now. God bless them!"
"God bless them!" echoed Hans, and for the first time that day, his eyes
filled with tears.
XXXVII
THE FATHER'S RETURN
That evening Raff Brinker felt so much better that he insisted upon
sitting up a while on the rough, high-backed chair by the fire. For a
few moments there was quite a commotion in the little cottage. Hans was
all-important on the occasion, for his father was a heavy man, and
needed something firm to lean upon. The dame, though none of your
fragile ladies, was in such a state of alarm and excitement at the bold
step they were taking in lifting him without the meester's orders, that
she came near pulling her husband over, even while she believed herself
to be his main prop and support.
"Steady, vrouw, steady," panted Raff; "have I grown old and feeble, or
is it the fever makes me thus helpless?"
"Hear the man!" laughed Dame Brinker, "talking like any other Christian.
Why, you're only weak from the fever, Raff. Here's the chair, all fixed
snug and warm; now, sit thee down--hi-di-didy--there we are!"
With these words, Dame Brinker let her half of the burden settle slowly
into the chair. Hans prudently did the same.
Meanwhile Gretel flew about generally, bringing every possible thing to
her mother to tuck behind the father's back and spread over his knees.
Then she twitched the carved bench under his feet, and Hans kicked the
fire to make it brighter.
The father was "sitting up" at last. What wonder that he looked about
him like one bewildered. "Little Hans" had just been almost carrying
him. "The baby" was over four feet long, and was demurely brushing up
the hearth with a bundle of willow wisps. Meitje, the vrouw, winsome and
fair as ever, had gained at least fifty pounds in what seemed to him a
few hours. She also had some new lines in her face that puzzled him. The
only familiar things in the room were the pine table that he had made
before he was married, the Bible upon the shelf, and the cupboard in the
corner.
Ah! Raff Brinker, it was only natural that your eyes should fill with
hot tears even while looking at the joyful faces of your loved ones. Ten
years dropped from a man's life are no small loss; ten years of manhood,
of household happiness and care; ten years of honest labor, of conscious
enjoyment of sunshine and outdoor beauty, ten years of grateful
life--One day looking forward to all this; the next, waking to find them
passed, and a blank. What wonder the scalding tears dropped one by one
upon your cheek!
Tender little Gretel! The prayer of her life was answered through those
tears. She _loved_ her father from that moment. Hans and his mother
glanced silently at each other when they saw her spring toward him and
throw her arms about his neck.
"Father, _dear_ father," she whispered, pressing her cheek close to his,
"don't cry. We are all here."
"God bless thee," sobbed Raff, kissing her again and again. "I had
forgotten that!"
Soon he looked up again, and spoke in a cheerful voice: "I should know
her, vrouw," he said, holding the sweet young face between his hands,
and gazing at it as though he were watching it grow. "I should know
her. The same blue eyes, and the lips, and, ah! me, the little song she
could sing almost before she could stand. But that was long ago," he
added, with a sigh, still looking at her dreamily, "long ago; it's all
gone now."
"Not so, indeed," cried Dame Brinker, eagerly. "Do you think I would let
her forget it? Gretel, child, sing the old song thou hast known so
long!"
Raff Brinker's hands fell wearily and his eyes closed, but it was
something to see the smile playing about his mouth, as Gretel's voice
floated about him like an incense.
It was a simple air; she had never known the words.
With loving instinct she softened every note, until Raff almost fancied
that his two-year-old baby was once more beside him.
* * * * *
As soon as the song was finished, Hans mounted a wooden stool and began
to rummage in the cupboard.
"Have a care, Hans," said Dame Brinker, who through all her poverty was
ever a tidy housewife. "Have a care, the wine is there at your right,
and the white bread beyond it."
"Never fear, mother," answered Hans, reaching far back on an upper
shelf, "I shall do no mischief."
Jumping down, he walked toward his father, and placed an oblong block of
pine-wood in his hands. One of its ends was rounded off, and some deep
cuts had been made on the top.
"Do you know what it is, father?" asked Hans.
Raff Brinker's face brightened. "Indeed I do, boy; it is the boat I was
making you yest--alack, not yesterday, but years ago."
"I have kept it ever since, father; it can be finished when your hand
grows strong again."
"Yes, but not for you, my lad. I must wait for the grandchildren. Why,
you are nearly a man. Have you helped your mother, boy, through all
these years?"
"Aye, and bravely," put in Dame Brinker.
"Let me see," muttered the father, looking in a puzzled way at them all,
"how long is it since the night when the waters were coming in? 'Tis the
last I remember."
"We have told thee true, Raff. It was ten years last Pinxter-week."
"Ten years--and I fell then, you say. Has the fever been on me ever
since?"
Dame Brinker scarce knew how to reply. Should she tell him all? Tell him
that he had been an idiot, almost a lunatic? The doctor had charged her
on no account to worry or excite his patient.
Hans and Gretel looked astonished when the answer came.
"Like enough, Raff," she said, nodding her head, and raising her
eyebrows, "when a heavy man like thee falls on his head, it's hard to
say what will come--but thou'rt well _now_, Raff. Thank the good Lord!"
The newly-awakened man bowed his head.
"Aye, well enough, mine vrouw," he said, after a moment's silence, "but
my brain turns somehow like a spinning-wheel. It will not be right till
I get on the dykes again. When shall I be at work, think you?"
"Hear the man!" cried Dame Brinker delighted, yet frightened, too, for
that matter; "we must get him on the bed, Hans. Work, indeed!"
They tried to raise him from the chair--but he was not ready yet.
"Be off with ye!" he said, with something like his old smile (Gretel had
never seen it before); "does a man want to be lifted about like a log? I
tell you before three suns I shall be on the dykes again. Ah! there'll
be some stout fellows to greet me. Jan Kamphuisen and young Hoogsvliet.
They have been good friends to thee, Hans, I'll warrant."
Hans looked at his mother. Young Hoogsvliet had been dead five years.
Jan Kamphuisen was in the jail at Amsterdam.
"Aye, they'd have done their share no doubt," said Dame Brinker,
parrying the inquiry, "had we asked them. But what with working and
studying, Hans has been busy enough without seeking comrades."
"Working and studying," echoed Raff, in a musing tone; "can the
youngsters read and cipher, Meitje?"
"You should hear them!" she answered proudly. "They can run through a
book while I mop the floor. Hans there is as happy over a page of big
words as a rabbit in a cabbage patch--as for ciphering----"
"Here, lad, help a bit," interrupted Raff Brinker. "I must get me on the
bed again."
XXXVIII
THE THOUSAND GUILDERS
None seeing the humble supper eaten in the Brinker cottage that night
would have dreamed of the dainty fare hidden away near by. Hans and
Gretel looked rather wistfully toward the cupboard as they drank their
cupful of water and ate their scanty share of black bread; but even in
thought they did not rob their father.
"He relished his supper well," said Dame Brinker nodding sidewise toward
the bed, "and fell asleep the next moment--Ah, the dear man will be
feeble for many a day. He wanted sore to sit up again, but while I made
show of humoring him, and getting ready, he dropped off. Remember that,
my girl, when you have a man of your own (and many a day may it be
before that comes to pass), remember you can never rule by differing;
'humble wife is husband's boss----' Tut! tut! never swallow such a
mouthful as that again, child; why, I could make a meal off of two such
pieces. What's in thee, Hans? One would think there were cob-webs on the
wall."
"Oh, no, mother, I was only thinking----"
"Thinking, about what? Ah, no use asking," she added in a changed tone.
"I was thinking of the same a while ago--well, well--It's no blame if we
_did_ look to hear something by this time about the thousand guilders;
but, not a word--no--it's plain enough he knows naught about them."
Hans looked up anxiously, dreading lest his mother should grow
agitated, as usual, when speaking of the lost money; but she was
silently nibbling her bread and looking with a doleful stare toward the
window.
"Thousand guilders," echoed a faint voice from the bed. "Ah, I am sure
they have been of good use to you, vrouw, through the long years while
your man was idle."
The poor woman started up. These words quite destroyed the hope that of
late had been glowing within her.
"Are you awake, Raff?" she faltered.
"Yes, Meitje, and I feel much better. Our money was well saved, vrouw, I
was saying. Did it last through all these ten years?"
"I--I--have not got it, Raff, I----" She was going to tell him the whole
truth, when Hans lifted his finger warningly and whispered:
"Remember what the meester told us; the father must not be worried."
"Speak to him, child," she answered, trembling.
Hans hurried to the bedside.
"I am glad you are feeling better," he said, leaning over his father;
"another day will see you quite strong again."
"Aye, like enough. How long did the money last, Hans? I could not hear
your mother. What did she say?"
"I said, Raff," stammered Dame Brinker in great distress, "that it was
all gone."
"Well, well, wife, do not fret at that; one thousand guilders is not so
very much for ten years, and with children to bring up; but it has
helped to make you all comfortable. Have you had much sickness to
bear?"
"N-no," sobbed Dame Brinker lifting her apron to her eyes.
"Tut--tut, woman, why do you cry?" said Raff, kindly; "we will soon fill
another pouch, when I am on my feet again. Lucky I told you all about it
before I fell."
"Told me what, man?"
"Why, that I buried the money. In my dream just now, it seemed I had
never said aught about it."
Dame Brinker started forward. Hans caught her arm.
"Hist! mother," he whispered, hastily leading her away, "we must be very
careful." Then while she stood with clasped hands waiting in breathless
anxiety, he once more approached the cot. Trembling with eagerness he
said:
"That was a troublesome dream. Do you remember _when_ you buried the
money, father?"
"Yes, my boy. It was before daylight on the same day I was hurt. Jan
Kamphuisen said something, the sundown before, that made me distrust his
honesty. He was the only one living besides mother who knew we had saved
a thousand guilders--so I rose up that night and buried the
money--blockhead that I was ever to suspect an old friend!"
"I'll be bound, father," pursued Hans in a laughing voice, motioning to
his mother and Gretel to remain quiet--"that you've forgotten where you
buried it."
"Ha! ha! not I, indeed--but good-night, my son, I can sleep again."
Hans would have walked away, but his mother's gestures were not to be
disobeyed--so he said gently:
"Good-night, father. Where did you say you buried the money? I was only
a little one then."
"Close by the willow sapling behind the cottage," said Raff Brinker
drowsily.
"Ah, yes. North side of the tree, wasn't it, father?"