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.
"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.
Hilda was reprimanded severely that day for returning late to school 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."