The Silver Skates Page 23

  “What thinking on, big eyes?” chirruped his mother, half reading his thoughts as she bustled about, preparing the dinner. “What thinking on? Why, Raff, would ye believe it, the child thought to carry Amsterdam back on his head. Bless us! He would have bought as much coffee as would have filled this firepot. ‘No, no, my lad,’ says I, ‘no time for leaks when the ship is rich laden!’ And then how he stared. Ay, just as he stares this minute. Hoot, lad! fly around a mite. Ye’ll grow to the chimney place with your staring and wondering. Now, Raff, here’s your chair at the head of the table, where it should be, for there’s a man to the house now – I’d say it to the king’s face. Ay, that’s the way, lean on Hans – there’s a strong staff for you! Growing like a weed too, and it seems only yesterday since he was toddling. Sit by, my man, sit by.”

  “Can you call to mind, Vrouw,” said Raff, settling himself cautiously in the big chair, “the wonderful music box that cheered your working in the big house at Heidelberg?”

  “Ay, that I can,” answered the dame. “Three turns of a brass key, and the witchy thing would send the music fairly running up and down one’s back. I remember it well, but, Raff” – growing solemn in an instant – “you would never throw our guilders away for a thing like that?”

  “No, no, not I, Vrouw, for the good Lord has already given me a music box without pay.”

  All three cast quick, frightened glances at one another and at Raff. Were his wits on the wing again?

  “Ay, and a music box that fifty pouchful would not buy from me,” insisted Raff. “And it’s set going by the turn of a mop handle, and it slips and glides around the room, everywhere in a flash, carrying the music about till you’d swear the birds were back again.”

  “Holy St Bavo!” screeched the dame. “What’s in the man?”

  “Comfort and joy, Vrouw, that’s what’s in him! Ask Gretel, ask my little music box Gretel, if your man has lacked comfort and joy this day.”

  “Not he, Mother,” laughed Gretel. “He’s been my music box, too. We sang together half the time you were gone.”

  “Ay, so,” said the dame, greatly relieved. “Now, Hans, you’ll never get through with a piece like that. But never mind, chick, thou’st had a long fasting. Here, Gretel, take another slice of the sausage – it’ll put blood in your cheeks.”

  “Oh! oh! Mother,” laughed Gretel, eagerly holding forth her platter, “blood don’t grow in girls’ cheeks. You mean roses – isn’t it roses, Hans?”

  While Hans was hastily swallowing a mammoth mouthful in order to give a suitable reply to this poetic appeal, Dame Brinker settled the matter with a quick:

  “Well, roses or blood, it’s all one to me, so the red finds its way on your sunny face. It’s enough for Mother to get pale and weary-looking, without—”

  “Hoot, Vrouw,” spoke up Raff hastily, “thou’rt fresher and rosier this minute than both our chicks put together.”

  This remark, though not bearing very strong testimony to the clearness of Raff’s newly awakened intellect, nevertheless afforded the dame intense satisfaction. The meal accordingly passed off in the most delightful manner.

  After dinner, the affair of the watch was talked over, and the mysterious initials duly discussed.

  Hans had just pushed back his stool, intending to start at once for Mynheer van Holp’s, and his mother had risen to put the watch away in its old hiding place, when they heard the sound of wheels upon the frozen ground.

  Someone knocked at the door, opening it at the same time.

  “Come in,” stammered Dame Brinker, hastily trying to hide the watch in her bosom. “Oh, is it you, Mynheer? Good day. Father is nearly well, as you see. It’s a poor place to greet you in, Mynheer, and the dinner not cleared away.”

  Dr Boekman scarcely noticed the dame’s apology. He was evidently in haste.

  “Ahem!” he exclaimed, “not needed here, I perceive. The patient is mending fast.”

  “Well he may, Mynheer,” cried the dame, “for only last night we found a thousand guilders that’s been lost to us these ten years.”

  Dr Boekman opened his eyes.

  “Yes, Mynheer,” said Raff. “I bid the vrouw tell you, though it’s to be held a secret among us, for I see you can keep your lips closed as well as any man.”

  The doctor scowled. He never liked personal remarks.

  “Now, Mynheer,” continued Raff, “you can take your rightful pay. God knows you have earned it, if bringing such a poor tool back to the world, and his family, can be called service. Tell the vrouw what’s to pay, Mynheer – she will hand out the sum right willingly.”

  “Tut! Tut!” said the doctor kindly, “say nothing about money. I can find plenty of such pay any time, but gratitude comes seldom. That boy’s ‘thank you’,” he added, nodding sideways towards Hans, “was pay enough for me.”

  “Like enough ye have a boy of your own,” said Dame Brinker, quite delighted to see the great man becoming so sociable.

  Dr Boekman’s good nature vanished at once. He gave a growl (at least, it seemed so to Gretel), but made no actual reply.

  “Do not think the vrouw meddlesome, Mynheer,” said Raff. “She has been sore touched of late about a lad whose folks have gone away, none know where, and I had a message for them from the young gentleman.”

  “The name was Boomphoffen,” said the dame eagerly. “Do you know aught of the family, Mynheer?”

  The doctor’s reply was brief and gruff.

  “Yes. A troublesome set. They went long since to America.”

  “It might be, Raff,” persisted Dame Brinker timidly, “that the meester knows somebody in that country, though I’m told they are mostly savages over there. If he could get the watch to the Boomphoffens with the poor lad’s message, it would be a most blessed thing.”

  “Tut, Vrouw, why pester the good meester, and dying men and women wanting him everywhere! How do ye know ye have the true name?”

  “I’m sure of it,” she replied. “They had a son Lambert, and there’s an L. for Lambert and a B. for Boomphoffen on the back, though to be sure there’s an odd J. too, but the meester can look for himself.”

  So saying, she drew forth the watch.

  “L.J.B.!” cried Dr Boekman, springing towards her.

  Why attempt to describe the scene that followed? I need only say that the lad’s message was delivered to his father at last – delivered while the great surgeon was sobbing like a little child.

  “Laurens! My Laurens!” he cried, gazing with yearning eyes at the watch as he held it tenderly in his palm. “Ah, if I had but known sooner! Laurens a homeless wanderer! Great Heavens, he may be suffering, dying at this moment! Think, man, where is he? Where did my boy say the letter must be sent?”

  Raff shook his head sadly.

  “Think!” implored the doctor. Surely the memory so lately awakened through his aid could not refuse to serve him in a moment like this.

  “It is all gone, Mynheer,” sighed Raff.

  Hans, forgetting distinctions of rank and station, forgetting everything but that his good friend was in trouble, threw his arms around the doctor’s neck.

  “I can find your son, Mynheer. If alive, he is somewhere. The earth is not so very large – I will devote every day of my life to the search. Mother can spare me now. You are rich, Mynheer – send me where you will.”

  Gretel began to cry. It was right for Hans to go, but how could they ever live without him?

  Dr Boekman made no reply – neither did he push Hans away. His eyes were fixed anxiously upon Raff Brinker. Suddenly he lifted the watch, and with trembling eagerness attempted to open it. Its stiffened spring yielded at last; the case flew open, disclosing a watch-paper in the back bearing a group of blue forget-me-nots. Raff, seeing a shade of intense disappointment pass over the doctor’s face, hastened to say:

  “There was
something else in it, Mynheer, but the young gentleman tore it out before he handed it to me. I saw him kiss it as he put it away.”

  “It was his mother’s picture,” moaned the doctor. “She died when he was ten years old. Thank God the boy had not forgotten! Both dead? It is impossible!” he cried, starting up. “My boy is alive. You shall hear his story. Laurens acted as my assistant. By mistake he portioned out the wrong medicine for one of my patients – a deadly poison – but it was never administered, for I discovered the error in time. The man died that day. I was detained with other bad cases until the next evening. When I reached home, my boy was gone. Poor Laurens!” sobbed the doctor, breaking down completely. “Never to hear from me through all these years. His message disregarded. Oh, what must he have suffered!”

  Dame Brinker ventured to speak. Anything was better than to see the meester cry.

  “It is a mercy to know the young gentleman was innocent. Ah, how he fretted! Telling you, Raff, that his crime was like unto murder. It was sending the wrong physic he meant. Crime indeed! Why, our own Gretel might have done that! Like enough the poor young gentleman heard that the man was dead – that’s why he ran, Mynheer. He said, you know, Raff, that he never could come back to Holland again, unless” – she hesitated – “ah, your honour, ten years is a dreary time to be waiting to hear from—”

  “Hist, Vrouw!” said Raff sharply.

  “Waiting to hear,” groaned the doctor, “and I, like a fool, sitting stubbornly at home, thinking he had abandoned me. I never dreamt, Brinker, that the boy had discovered the mistake. I believed it was youthful folly, ingratitude, love of adventure, that sent him away. My poor, poor Laurens!”

  “But you know all now, Mynheer,” whispered Hans. “You know he was innocent of wrong, that he loved you and his dead mother. We will find him. You shall see him again, dear meester.”

  “God bless you!” said Dr Boekman, seizing the boy’s hand. “It may be as you say. I shall try, and, Brinker, if ever the faintest gleam of recollection concerning him should come to you, you will send word at once?”

  “Indeed we will!” cried all but Hans, whose silent promise would have satisfied the doctor even had the others not spoken.

  “Your boy’s eyes,” he said, turning to Dame Brinker, “are strangely like my son’s. The first time I met him it seemed that Laurens himself was looking at me.”

  “Ay, Mynheer,” replied the mother proudly, “I have marked that you were much drawn to the child.”

  For a few moments the meester seemed lost in thought. Then, arousing himself, he spoke in a new voice:

  “Forgive me, Raff Brinker, for this tumult. Do not feel distressed on my account. I leave your house today a happier man than I have been for many a long year. Shall I take the watch?”

  “Certain you must, Mynheer. It was your son’s wish.”

  “Even so,” responded the doctor, regarding his treasure with a queer frown, for his face could not throw off its bad habits in an hour, “even so. And now I must be gone. No medicine is needed by my patient, only peace and cheerfulness, and both are here in plenty. Heaven bless you, my good friends! I shall ever be grateful to you.”

  “May Heaven bless you too, Mynheer, and may you soon find the dear young gentleman,” said Dame Brinker earnestly, after hurriedly wiping her eyes upon the corner of her apron.

  Raff uttered a hearty “Amen!”, and Gretel threw such a wistful, eager glance at the doctor that he patted her head as he turned to leave the cottage.

  Hans went out also.

  “When I can serve you, Mynheer, I am ready.”

  “Very well, boy,” replied Dr Boekman with peculiar mildness. “Tell them within to say nothing of what has just passed. Meantime, Hans, when you are with your father, watch his mood. You have tact. At any moment he may suddenly be able to tell us more.”

  “Trust me for that, Mynheer.”

  “Good day, my boy!” cried the doctor as he sprang into his stately coach.

  “Aha!” thought Hans, as it rolled away, “the meester has more life in him than I thought.”

  Chapter 44

  The Race

  The 20th of December came at last, bringing with it the perfection of winter weather. All over the level landscape lay the warm sunlight. It tried its power on lake, canal and river, but the ice flashed defiance and showed no sign of melting. The very weathercocks stood still to enjoy the sight. This gave the windmills a holiday. Nearly all the past week they had been whirling briskly. Now, being rather out of breath, they rocked lazily in the clear, still air. Catch a windmill working when the weathercocks have nothing to do!

  There was an end to grinding, crushing and sawing for that day. It was a good thing for the millers near Broek. Long before noon they concluded to take in their sails and go to the race. Everybody would be there: already the north side of the frozen Y was bordered with eager spectators. The news of the great skating match had travelled far and wide. Men, women and children in holiday attire were flocking towards the spot. Some wore furs and wintry cloaks or shawls, but many, consulting their feelings rather than the almanac, were dressed as for an October day.

  The site selected for the race was a faultless plain of ice near Amsterdam, on that great arm of the Zuiderzee which Dutchmen of course must call the Eye. The townspeople turned out in large numbers. Strangers in the city deemed it a fine chance to see what was to be seen. Many a peasant from the northward had wisely chosen the twentieth as the day for the next city trading. It seemed that everybody, young and old, who had wheels, skates or feet at command had hastened to the scene.

  There were the gentry in their coaches, dressed like Parisians fresh from the boulevards; Amsterdam children in charity uniforms; girls from the Roman Catholic orphan house in sable gowns and white headbands; boys from the Burgher Asylum, with their black tights and short-skirted harlequin coats. There were old-fashioned gentlemen in cocked hats and velvet knee breeches; old-fashioned ladies, too, in stiff, quilted skirts and bodices of dazzling brocade. These were accompanied by servants bearing foot stoves and cloaks. There were the peasant folk arrayed in every possible Dutch costume. Shy young rustics in brazen buckles, simple village maidens concealing their flaxen hair under fillets of gold, women whose long, narrow aprons were stiff with embroidery, women with short corkscrew curls hanging over their foreheads, women with shaved heads and close-fitting caps and women in striped skirts and windmill bonnets. Men in leather, in homespun, in velvet and broadcloth; burghers in model European attire, and burghers in short jackets, wide trousers and steeple-crowned hats.

  There were beautiful Friesland girls in wooden shoes and coarse petticoats, with solid gold crescents encircling their heads, finished at each temple with a golden rosette, and hung with lace a century old. Some wore necklaces, pendants and earrings of the purest gold. Many were content with gilt or even with brass, but it is not an uncommon thing for a Friesland woman to have all the family treasure in her headgear. More than one rustic lass displayed the value of two thousand guilders upon her head that day.

  Scattered throughout the crowd were peasants from the island of Marken, with sabots, black stockings and the widest of breeches; also women from Marken, with short blue petticoats and black jackets gaily figured in front. They wore red sleeves, white aprons and a cap like a bishop’s mitre over their golden hair.

  The children often were as quaint and odd-looking as their elders. In short, one-third of the crowd seemed to have stepped bodily from a collection of Dutch paintings.

  Everywhere could be seen tall women and stumpy men, lively-faced girls and youths whose expression never changed from sunrise to sunset.

  There seemed to be at least one specimen from every known town in Holland. There were Utrecht water-bearers, Gouda cheese-makers, Delft pottery-men, Schiedam distillers, Amsterdam diamond-cutters, Rotterdam merchants, dried-up herring-packers and two sleepy-eyed she
pherds from Texel. Every man of them had his pipe and tobacco pouch. Some carried what might be called the smoker’s complete outfit: a pipe, tobacco, a pricker with which to clean the tube, a silver net for protecting the bowl and a box of the strongest of brimstone matches.

  A true Dutchman, you must remember, is rarely without his pipe on any possible occasion. He may for a moment neglect to breathe, but when the pipe is forgotten he must be dying indeed. There were no such sad cases here. Wreaths of smoke were rising from every possible quarter. The more fantastic the smoke wreath, the more placid and solemn the smoker.

  Look at those boys and girls on stilts! That is a good idea. They can see over the heads of the tallest. It is strange to see those little bodies high in the air, carried about on mysterious legs. They have such a resolute look on their round faces, what wonder that nervous old gentlemen, with tender feet, wince and tremble while the long-legged little monsters stride past them.

  You will read in certain books that the Dutch are a quiet people – so they are generally – but listen, did ever you hear such a din? All made up of human voices – no, the horses are helping somewhat, and the fiddles are squeaking pitifully (how it must pain fiddles to be tuned!), but the mass of the sound comes from the great vox humana that belongs to a crowd.

  That queer little dwarf going about with a heavy basket, winding in and out among the people, helps not a little. You can hear his shrill cry above all the other sounds: “Pypen en tabac! Pypen en tabac!”

  Another, his big brother, though evidently some years younger, is selling doughnuts and bon-bons. He is calling on all pretty children far and near to come quickly or the cakes will be gone.

  You know quite a number among the spectators. High up in yonder pavilion, erected upon the border of the ice, are some persons whom you have seen very lately. In the centre is Madame van Gleck. It is her birthday, you remember. She has the post of honour. There is Mynheer van Gleck, whose meerschaum has not really grown fast to his lips – it only appears so. There are Grandfather and Grandmother whom you met at the St Nicholas fête.