The Silver Skates Read online

Page 18


  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 exclaimed 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 favourite depths. “Mynheer, you have other engagements today: three legs in Amsterdam, you remember, and an eye in Broek, and that tumour up the canal.”

  “The tumour 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 tumour, 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 anyone 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 Blinker’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 towards the bed.

  “It may kill 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 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 bedside, 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 leant towards 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 Dame Blinker arose, Dr Boekman, with a show of trouble in his eyes, asked gruffly: “Well, Juffrouw, 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, Juffrouw, 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 towards the window. “Come, Juffrouw, time presses. Yes, or no?”

  Hans wound his arm about his mother. It was not his usual way. He even leant 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 towards 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 forwards.

  “Oh, Mother – 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, Juffrouw,” 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, Juffrouw,” 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, Juffrouw, there must be no cries, no fainting.”

  Dame Blinker 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.

  Chapter 33

  Gretel and Hilda

  It was recess hour. At the first stroke of the schoolhouse 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 towards 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 Mother and kissed her. That always makes her stroke my hair and speak gently, even after she has scolded me! How quiet it is now! Oh, if Father should die, and Hans, and 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 her father’s hand. She had even drawn him away from 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 at 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 – 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 drea
mt it before.

  But she had never dreamt that Hilda was shaking her roughly, almost dragging her by main force – never dreamt 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! Juffrouw, 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 sack.

  Suddenly Gretel suspected her intention.

  “Oh, Juffrouw! Juffrouw!’” she cried imploringly. “Please never think of such a thing as that – oh! Please keep it on, I am burning all over, Juffrouw! I really am burning – not burning exactly – but pins and needles pricking all over me – oh, Juffrouw, don’t!”