Looking For Work
Luxuries unfit us for returning to hardships easily endured before. The wooden runners squeaked more than ever. It was as much as Hans could do to get on with the clumsy old things; still, he did not regret that he had parted with his beautiful skates, but resolutely pushed back the boyish trouble that he had not been able to keep them just a little longer, at least until after the race.
Mother surely will not be angry with me, he thought, for selling them without her leave. She has had care enough already. It will be full time to speak of it when I take home the money.
Hans went up and down the streets of Amsterdam that day, looking for work. He succeeded in earning a few stivers by assisting a man who was driving a train of loaded mules into the city, but he could not secure steady employment anywhere. He would have been glad to obtain a situation as porter or errand boy, but though he passed on his way many a loitering shuffling urchin, laden with bundles, there was no place for him. Some shopkeepers had just supplied themselves; others needed a trimmer, more lightly built fellow (they meant better dressed but did not choose to say so); others told him to call again in a month or two, when the canals would probably be broken up; and many shook their heads at him without saying a word.
At the factories he met with no better luck. It seemed to him that in those great buildings, turning out respectively such tremendous quantities of woolen, cotton, and linen stuffs, such world-renowned dyes and paints, such precious diamonds cut from the rough, such supplies of meal, of bricks, of glass and china—that in at least one of these, a strong-armed boy, able and eager to work, could find something to do. But no—nearly the same answer met him everywhere. No need of more hands just now. If he had called before Saint Nicholas’s Day they might have given him a job as they were hurried then; but at present they had more boys than they needed. Hans wished they could see, just for a moment, his mother and Gretel. He did not know how the anxiety of both looked out from his eyes, and how, more than once, the gruffest denials were uttered with an uncomfortable consciousness that the lad ought not be turned away. Certain fathers, when they went home that night, spoke more kindly than usual to their youngsters, from memory of a frank, young face saddened at their words, and before morning one man actually resolved that he would instruct his head man Blankert to set the boy from Broek at something if he should come in again.
But Hans knew nothing of all this. Toward sundown he started on his return to Broek, uncertain whether the strange, choking sensation in his throat arose from discouragement or resolution. There was certainly one more chance. Mynheer van Holp might have returned by this time. Master Peter, it was reported, had gone to Haarlem the night before to attend to something connected with the great skating race. Still, Hans would go and try.
Fortunately Peter had returned early that morning. He was at home when Hans reached there and was just about starting for the Brinker cottage.
“Ah, Hans!” he cried as the weary boy approached the door. “You are the very one I wished to see. You are the very one I wished to see. Come in and warm yourself.”
After tugging at his well-worn hat, which always WOULD stick to his head when he was embarrassed, Hans knelt down, not by way of making a new style of oriental salute, nor to worship the goddess of cleanliness who presided there, but because his heavy shoes would have filled the soul of a Broek housewife with horror. When their owner stepped softly into the house, they were left outside to act as sentinels until his return.
Hans left the Van Holp mansion with a lightened heart. Peter had brought word from Haarlem that young Brinker was to commence working upon the summer-house doors immediately. There was a comfortable workshop on the place and it was to be at his service until the carving was done.
Peter did not tell him that he had skated all the way to Haarlem for the purpose of arranging this plan with Mynheer van Holp. It was enough for him to see the glad, eager look rise on young Brinker’s face.
“I THINK I can do it,” said Hans, “though I have never learned the trade.”
“I am SURE you can,” responded Peter heartily. “You will find every tool you require in the workshop. It is nearly hidden yonder by that wall of twigs. In summer, when the hedge is green, one cannot see the shop from here at all. How is your father today?”
“Better, mynheer. He improves every hour.”
“It is the most astonishing thing I ever heard of. That gruff old doctor is a great fellow after all.”
“Ah, mynheer,” said Hans warmly, “he is more than great. He is good. But for the meester’s kind heart and great skill my poor father would yet be in the dark. I think, mynheer,” he added with kindling eyes, “surgery is the very noblest science in the world!”
Peter shrugged his shoulders. “Very noble it may be, but not quite to my taste. This Dr. Boekman certainly has skill. As for his heart—defend me from such hearts as his!”
“Why do you say so, mynheer?” asked Hans.
Just then a lady slowly entered from an adjoining apartment. It was Mevrouw van Holp arrayed in the grandest of caps and the longest of satin aprons ruffled with lace. She nodded placidly as Hans stepped back from the fire, bowing as well as he knew how.
Peter at once drew a high-backed oaken chair toward the fire, and the lady seated herself. There was a block of cork on each side of the chimney place. One of these he placed under his mother’s feet.
Hans turned to go.
“Wait a moment, if you please, young man,” said the lady. “I accidentally overheard you and my son speaking, I think, of my friend Dr. Boekman. You are right, young man. Dr. Boekman has a very kind heart. You perceive, Peter, that we may be quite mistaken in judging a person solely by his manners, though a courteous deportment is by no means to be despised.”
“I intended no disrespect, mother,” said Peter, “but surely one has no right to go growling and snarling through the world as they say he does.”
“They say. Ah, Peter, ‘they’ means everybody or nobody. Surgeon Boekman has had a great sorrow. Many years ago he lost his only child under very painful circumstances. A fine lad, except that he was a thought too hasty and high-spirited. Before then Gerard Boekman was one of the most agreeable gentlemen I ever knew.”
So saying, Mevrouw van Holp, looking kindly upon the two boys, rose, and left the room with the same dignity with which she had entered.
Peter, only half convinced, muttered something about “the sin of allowing sorrow to turn all one’s honey into gall” as he conducted his visitor to the narrow side door. Before they parted, he advised Hans to keep himself in good skating order, “for,” he added, “now that your father is all right, you will be in fine spirits for the race. That will be the prettiest skating show ever seen in this part of the world. Everybody is talking of it; you are to try for the prize, remember.”
“I shall not be in the race, mynheer,” said Hans, looking down.
“Not in the race! Why not, indeed!” And immediately Peter’s thoughts swept on a full tide of suspicion toward Carl Schummel.
“Because I cannot, mynheer,” answered Hans as he bent to slip his feet into his big shoes.
Something in the boy’s manner warned Peter that it would be no kindness to press the matter further. He bade Hans good-bye, and stood thoughtfully watching him as he walked away.
In a minute Peter called out, “Hans Brinker!”
“Yes, mynheer.”
“I’ll take back all I said about Dr. Boekman.”
“Yes, mynheer.”
Both were laughing. But Peter’s smile changed to a look of puzzled surprise when he saw Hans kneel down by the canal and put on the wooden skates.
“Very queer,” muttered Peter, shaking his head as he turned to go into the house. “Why in the world doesn’t the boy wear his new ones?”
The Fairy Godmother
The sun had gone down quite out of sight when our hero—with a happy heart but with something like a sneer on his countenance as he jerked off the wooden “runners”—trudged hopefully toward the tiny hutlike building, known of old as the “idiot’s cottage.”
Duller eyes than his would have discerned two slight figures moving near the doorway.
That gray well-patched jacket and the dull blue skirt covered with an apron of still duller blue, that faded close-fitting cap, and those quick little feet in their great boatlike shoes, they were Gretel’s of course. He would have known them anywhere.
That bright coquettish red jacket, with its pretty skirt, bordered with black, that graceful cap bobbing over the gold earrings, that dainty apron, and those snug leather shoes that seemed to have grown with the feet—why if the Pope of Rome had sent them to him by express, Hans could have sworn they were Annie’s.
The two girls were slowly pacing up and down in front of the cottage. Their arms were entwined, of course, and their heads were nodding and shaking as emphatically as if all the affairs of the kingdom were under discussion.
With a joyous shout Hans hastened toward them.
“Huzza, girls, I’ve found work!”
This brought his mother to the cottage door.
She, too, had pleasant tidings. The father was still improving. He had been sitting up nearly all day and was now sleeping as Dame Brinker declared, “Just as quiet as a lamb.”
“It is my turn now, Hans,” said Annie, drawing him aside after he had told his mother the good word from Mynheer van Holp. “Your skates are sold, and here’s the money.”
“Seven guilders!” cried Hans, counting the pieces in astonishment. “Why, that is three times as much as I paid for them.”
“I cannot help that,” said Annie. “If the buyer knew no better, that is not our fault.”
Hans looked up quickly.
“Oh, Annie!”
“Oh, Hans!” she mimicked, pursing her lips, and trying to look desperately wicked and unprincipled.
“Now, Annie, I know you would never mean that! You must return some of this money.”
“But I’ll not do any such thing,” insisted Annie. “They’re sold, and that’s an end of it.” Then, seeing that he looked really pained, she added in a lower tone, “Will you believe me, Hans, when I say that there has been no mistake, that the person who bought your skates INSISTED upon paying seven guilders for them?”
“I will,” he answered, and the light from his clear blue eyes seemed to settle and sparkle under Annie’s lashes.
Dame Brinker was delighted at the sight of so much silver, but when she learned that Hans had parted with his treasures to obtain it, she sighed and then exclaimed, “Bless thee, child! That will be a sore loss for thee!”
“Here, Mother,” said the boy, plunging his hands far into his pocket, “here is more—we shall be rich if we keep on!”
“Aye, indeed,” she answered, eagerly reaching forth her hand. Then, lowering her voice, added, “We SHOULD be rich but for that Jan Kamphuisen. He was at the willow tree years ago, Hans. Depend upon it!”
“Indeed, it seems likely,” sighed Hans. “Well, Mother, we must give up the money bravely. It is certainly gone. The father has told us all he knows. Let us think no more about it.”
“That’s easy saying, Hans. I shall try, but it’s hard and my poor man wanting so many comforts. Bless me! How girls fly about! They were here but this instant. Where did they run to?”
“They slipped behind the cottage,” said Hans, “like enough to hide from us. Hist! I’ll catch them for you! They both can move quicker and softer than yonder rabbit, but I’ll give them a good start first.”
“Why, there IS a rabbit, sure enough. Hold, Hans, the poor thing must have been in sore need to venture from its burrow in this bitter weather. I’ll get a few crumbs for it within.”
So saying, the good woman bustled into the cottage. She soon came out again, but Hans had forgotten to wait, and the rabbit, after taking a cool survey of the premises, had scampered off to unknown quarters. Turning the corner of the cottage, Dame Brinker came upon the children. Hans and Gretel were standing before Annie, who was seated carelessly upon a stump.
“That is as good as a picture!” cried Dame Brinker, halting in admiration of the group. “Many a painting have I seen at the grand house at Heidelberg not a whit prettier. My two are rough chubs, Annie, but YOU look like a fairy.”
“Do I?” laughed Annie, sparkling with animation. “Well, then, Gretel and Hans, imagine I’m your godmother just paying you a visit. Now I’ll grant you each a wish. What will you have, Master Hans?”
A shade of earnestness passed over Annie’s face as she looked up at him; perhaps it was because she wished from the depths of her heart that for once she could have a fairy’s power.
Something whispered to Hans that, for a moment, she was more than mortal. “I wish,” said he solemnly, “that I could find something I was searching for last night!”
Gretel laughed merrily. Dame Brinker moaned. “Shame on you, Hans!” And she went wearily into the cottage.
The fairy godmother sprang up and stamped her foot three times.
“Thou shalt have thy wish,” said she. “Let them say what they will.” Then, with playful solemnity, she put her hand in her apron pocket and drew forth a large glass bead. “Bury this,” said she, giving it to Hans, “where I have stamped, and ere moonrise thy wish shall be granted.”
Gretel laughed more merrily than ever.
The godmother pretended great displeasure.
“Naughty child,” said she, scowling terribly. “In punishment for laughing at a fairy, THY wish shall not be granted.”
“Ha!” cried Gretel in high glee, “better wait till you’re asked, godmother. I haven’t made any wish!”
Annie acted her part well. Never smiling, through all their merry laughter, she stalked away, the embodiment of offended dignity.
“Good night, fairy!” they cried again and again.
“Good night, mortals!” she called out at last as she sprang over a frozen ditch and ran quickly homeward.
“Oh, isn’t she just like flowers—so sweet and lovely!” cried Gretel, looking after her in great admiration. “And to think how many days she stays in that dark room with her grandmother. Why, brother Hans! What is the matter? What are you going to do?”
“Wait and see!” answered Hans as he plunged into the cottage and came out again, all in an instant, bearing the spade and ysbreeker in his hands. “I’m going to bury my magic bead!”
Raff Brinker still slept soundly. His wife took a small block of peat from her nearly exhausted store and put it upon the embers. Then opening the door, she called gently, “Come in, children.”
“Mother! Mother! See here!” shouted Hans.
“Holy Saint Bavon!” exclaimed the dame, springing over the doorstep. “What ails the boy!”
“Come quick, Mother,” he cried in great excitement, working with all his might and driving in the ysbreeker at each word. “Don’t you see? THIS is the spot—right here on the south side of the stump. Why didn’t we think of it last night? THE STUMP is the old willow tree—the one you cut down last spring because it shaded the potatoes. That little tree wasn’t here when Father... Huzza!”
Dame Brinker could not speak. She dropped on her knees beside Hans just in time to see him drag forth THE OLD STONE POT!
He thrust in his hand and took out a piece of brick, then another, then another, then the stocking and the pouch, black and moldy, but filled with the long-lost treasure!
Such a time! Such laughing! Such crying! Such counting after they went into the cottage! It was a wonder that Raff did not waken. His dreams were pleasant, however, for he smiled in his sleep.
Dame Brinker and her children had a fine supper, I can assure you. No need of saving the delicacies now.
“We’ll get Father some nice fresh things tomorrow,” Dame Brinker said as she brought forth cold meat, wine, bread, and jelly, and placed them on the clean pine table. “Sit by, children, sit by.”
That night Annie fell asleep wondering whether it was a knife Hans had lost and thinking how funny it would be if he should find it, after all.
Hans had scarcely closed his eyes before he found himself trudging along a thicket; pots of gold were lying all around, and watches and skates, and glittering beads were swinging from every branch.
Strange to say, each tree, as he approached it, changed into a stump, and on the stump sat the prettiest fairy imaginable, clad in a scarlet jacket and a blue petticoat.
The Mysterious Watch
Something else than the missing guilders was brought to light on the day of the fairy godmother’s visit. This was the story of the watch that for ten long years had been so jealously guarded by Raff’s faithful vrouw. Through many an hour of sore temptation she had dreaded almost to look upon it, lest she might be tempted to disobey her husband’s request. It had been hard to see her children hungry and to know that the watch, if sold, would enable the roses to bloom in their cheeks again. “But nay,” she would exclaim, “Meitje Brinker is not one to forget her man’s last bidding, come what may.”
“Take good care of this, mine vrouw,” he had said as he handed it to her—that was all. No explanation followed, for the words were scarcely spoken when one of his fellow workmen rushed into the cottage, crying, “Come, man! The waters are rising! You’re wanted on the dikes.”
Raff had started at once, and that was the last Dame Brinker saw of him in his right mind.
On the day when Hans was in Amsterdam looking for work, and Gretel, after performing her household labors, was wandering in search of chips, twigs, anything that could be burned, Dame Brinker with suppressed excitement had laid the watch in her husband’s hand.
“It wasn’t in reason,” as she afterward said to Hans, “to wait any longer, when a word from the father would settle all. No woman living but would want to know how he came by that watch.” Raff Brinker turned the bright polished thing over and over in his hand, then he examined the bit of smoothly ironed black ribbon fastened to it. He seemed hardly to recognize it. At last he said, “Ah, I remember this! Why, you’ve been rubbing it, vrouw, till it shines like a new guilder.”
“Aye,” said Dame Brinker, nodding her head complacently.
Raff looked at it again. “Poor boy!” he murmured, then fell into a brown study.
This was too much for the dame. “‘Poor boy!’” she echoed, somewhat tartly. “What do you think I’m standing here for, Raff Brinker, and my spinning awaiting, if not to hear more than that?”
“I told ye all, long since,” said Raff positively as he looked up in surprise.
“Indeed, and you never did!” retorted the vrouw.
“Well, if not, since it’s no affair of ours, we’ll say no more about it,” said Raff, shaking his head sadly. “Like enough while I’ve been dead on the earth, all this time, the poor boy’s died and been in heaven. He looked near enough to it, poor lad!”
“Raff Brinker! If you’re going to treat me this way, and I nursing you and bearing with you since I was twenty-two years old, it’s a shame. Aye, and a disgrace,” cried the vrouw, growing quite red and scant of breath.
Raff’s voice was feeble yet. “Treat you WHAT way, Meitje?”
“What way,” said Dame Brinker, mimicking his voice and manner. “What way? Why, just as every woman in the world is treated after she’s stood by a man through the worst, like a—”
“Meitje!”
Raff was leaning forward with outstretched arms. His eyes were full of tears.
In an instant Dame Brinker was at his feet, clasping his hands in hers.
“Oh, what have I done! Made my good man cry, and he not back with me four days! Look up, Raff! Nay, Raff, my own boy, I’m sorry I hurt thee. It’s hard not to be told about the watch after waiting ten years to know, but I’ll ask thee no more, Raff. Here, we’ll put the thing away that’s made the first trouble between us, after God just gave thee back to me.”
“I was a fool to cry, Meitje,” he said, kissing her, “and it’s no more than right that ye should know the truth. But it seemed as if it might be telling the secrets of the dead to talk about the matter.”
“Is the man—the lad—thou wert talking of dead, think thee?” asked the vrouw, hiding the watch in her hand but seating herself expectantly on the end of his long foot bench.
“It’s hard telling,” he answered.
“Was he so sick, Raff?”
“No, not sick, I may say; but troubled, vrouw, very troubled.”
“Had he done wrong, think ye?” she asked, lowering her voice.
Raff nodded.
“MURDER?” whispered the wife, not daring to look up.
“He said it was like to that, indeed.”
“Oh! Raff, you frighten me. Tell me more, you speak so strange and you tremble. I must know all.”
“If I tremble, mine vrouw, it must be from the fever. There is no guilt on my soul, thank God!”
“Take a sip of this wine, Raff. There, now you are better. It was like to a crime, you were saying.”
“Aye, Meitje, like to murder. THAT he told me himself. But I’ll never believe it. A likely lad, fresh and honest-looking as our own youngster but with something not so bold and straight about him.”
“Aye, I know,” said the dame gently, fearing to interrupt the story.
“He came upon me quite suddenly,” continued Raff. “I had never seen his face before, the palest, frightenedest face that ever was. He caught me by the arm. ‘You look like an honest man,’ says he.”
“Aye, he was right in that,” interrupted the dame emphatically.
Raff looked somewhat bewildered.
“Where was I, mine vrouw?”
“The lad took hold of your arm, Raff,” she said, gazing at him anxiously.
“Aye, so. The words come awkward to me, and everything is like a dream, ye see.”
“S-stut! What wonder, poor man.” She sighed, stroking his hand. “If ye had not had enough for a dozen, the wit would never have come to ye again. Well, the lad caught me by the arm and said ye looked honest. (Well he might!) What then? Was it noontime?
“Nay, before daylight—long before early chimes.”
“It was the same day you were hurt,” said the dame. “I know it seemed that you went to your work in the middle of the night. You left off where he caught your arm, Raff.”
“Yes,” resumed her husband, “and I can see his face this minute—so white and wild-looking. ‘Take me down this river a way,’ says he. I was working then, you’ll remember, far down on the line, across from Amsterdam. I told him I was no boatman. ‘It’s an affair of life and death,’ says he. ‘Take me on a few miles. Yonder skiff is not locked, but it may be a poor man’s boat and I’d be loath to rob him!’ (The words might differ some, vrouw, for it’s all like a dream.) Well, I took him down—it might be six or eight miles—and then he said he could run the rest of the way on shore. I was in haste to get the boat back. Before he jumped out, he says, sobbing-like, ‘I can trust you. I’ve done a thing—God knows I never intended it—but the man is dead. I must fly from Holland.”
“What was it? Did he say, Raff? Had he been shooting at a comrade, as they do down at the University at Gottingen?”
“I can’t recall that. Mayhap he told me, but it’s all like a dream. I said it wasn’t for me, a good Hollander, to cheat the laws of my country by helping him off that way, but he kept saying, ‘God knows I am innocent!’ And he looked at me in the starlight as fair, now, and clear-eyed as our little Hans might—and I just pulled away faster.”
“It must have been Jan Kamphuisen’s boat,” remarked Dame Brinker dryly. “None other would have left his oars out that careless.”
“Aye, it was Jan’s boat, sure enough. The man will be coming in to see me Sunday, likely, if he’s heard, and young Hoogsvliet too. Where was I?”
“Where were you? Why, not very far, forsooth—the lad hadn’t yet given ye the watch—alack, I misgive whether he came by it honestly!”
“Why, vrouw,” exclaimed Raff Brinker in an injured tone. “He was dressed soft and fine as the prince himself. The watch was his own, clear enough.”
“How came he to give it up?” asked the dame, looking uneasily at the fire, for it needed another block of peat.
“I told ye just now,” he answered with a puzzled air.
“Tell me again,” said Dame Brinker, wisely warding off another digression.
“Well, just before jumping from the boat, he says, handing me the watch, ‘I’m flying from my country as I never thought I could. I’ll trust you because you look honest. Will you take this to my father—not today but in a week—and tell him his unhappy boy sent it, and tell him if ever the time comes that he wants me to come back to him, I’ll brave everything and come. Tell him to send a letter to—to’—there, the rest is all gone from me. I CAN’T remember where the letter was to go. Poor lad, poor lad!” resumed Raff, sorrowfully, taking the watch from his vrouw’s lap as he spoke. “And it’s never been sent to his father to this day.”
“I’ll take it, Raff, never fear—the moment Gretel gets back. She will be in soon. What was the father’s name, did you say? Where were you to find him?”
“Alack!” answered Raff, speaking very slowly. “It’s all slipped me. I can see the lad’s face and his great eyes, just as plain—and I remember his opening the watch and snatching something from it and kissing it—but no more. All the rest whirls past me; there’s a sound like rushing waters comes over me when I try to think.”
“Aye. That’s plain to see, Raff, but I’ve had the same feeling after a fever. You’re tired now. I must get ye straight on the bed again. Where IS the child, I wonder?”
Dame Brinker opened the door, and called, “Gretel! Gretel!”
“Stand aside, vrouw,” said Raff feebly as he leaned forward and endeavored to look out upon the bare landscape. “I’ve half a mind to stand beyond the door just once.”
“Nay, nay.” She laughed. “I’ll tell the meester how ye tease and fidget and bother to be let out in the air; and if he says it, I’ll bundle ye warm tomorrow and give ye a turn on your feet. But I’m freezing you with this door open. I declare if there isn’t Gretel with her apron full, skating on the canal like wild. Why, man,” she continued almost in a scream as she slammed the door, “thou’rt walking to the bed without my touching thee! Thou’lt fall!”
The dame’s thee proved her mingled fear and delight, even more than the rush which she made toward her husband. Soon he was comfortably settled under the new cover, declaring, as his vrouw tucked him in snug and warm, that it was the last daylight that should see him abed.
“Aye! I can hope it myself,” laughed Dame Brinker, “now you have been frisking about at that rate.” As Raff closed his eyes, the dame hastened to revive her fire, or rather to dull it, for Dutch peat is like a Dutchman, slow to kindle, but very good at a blaze once started. Then, putting her neglected spinning wheel away, she drew forth her knitting from some invisible pocket and seated herself by the bedside.
“If you could remember the man’s name, Raff,” she began cautiously, “I might take the watch to him while you’re sleeping. Gretel can’t but be in soon.”
Raff tried to think but in vain.
“Could it be Boomphoffen?” suggested the dame. “I’ve heard how they’ve had two sons turn out bad—Gerard and Lambert?”
“It might be,” said Raff. “Look if there’s letters on the watch; that’ll guide us some.”
“Bless thee, man,” cried the happy dame, eagerly lifting the watch. “Why, thou’rt sharper than ever! Sure enough. Here’s letters! L.J.B. That’s Lambert Boomphoffen, you may depend. What the J is for I can’t say, but they used to be grand kind o’ people, high-feathered as fancy fowl. Just the kind to give their children all double names, which isn’t Scripture, anyway.”
“I don’t know about that, vrouw. Seems to me there’s long mixed names in the holy Book, hard enough to make out. But you’ve got the right guess at a jump. It was your way always,” said Raff, closing his eyes. “Take the watch to Boompkinks and try.”
“Not Boompkinks. I know no such name; it’s Boomphoffen.”
“Aye, take it there.”
“Take it there, man! Why the whole brood of them’s been gone to America these four years. But go to sleep, Raff, you look pale and out of strength. It’ll al come to you, what’s best to do, in the morning.
“So, Mistress Gretel! Here you are at last!”
Before Raff awoke that evening, the fairy godmother, as we know, had been in the cottage, the guilders were once more safely locked in the big chest, and Dame Brinker and the children were faring sumptuously on meat and white bread and wine.
So the mother, in the joy of her heart, told them the story of the watch as far as she deemed it prudent to divulge it. It was no more than fair, she thought, that the poor things should know after keeping the secret so safe ever since they had been old enough to know anything.
A Discovery
The next sun brought a busy day to the Brinkers. In the first place the news of the thousand guilders had, of course, to be told to the father. Such tidings as that surely could not harm him. Then while Gretel was diligently obeying her mother’s injunction to “clean the place fresh as a new brewing,” Hans and the dame sallied forth to revel in the purchasing of peat and provisions.
Hans was careless and contented; the dame was filled with delightful anxieties caused by the unreasonable demands of ten thousand guilders’ worth of new wants that had sprung up like mushrooms in a single night. The happy woman talked so largely to Hans on their way to Amsterdam and brought back such little bundles after all that he scratched his bewildered head as he leaned against the chimney piece, wondering whether “Bigger the pouch, tighter the string” was in Jacob Cats, and therefore true, or whether he had dreamed it when he lay in a fever.
“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 half Amsterdam back on his head. Bless us! He would have bought us as much coffee as would have filled this fire pot. ‘No, no, my lad,’ says I. ‘No time for leaks when the ship is rich laden.’ And then how he stared—aye—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. Aye, 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?”
“Aye, 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?
“Aye, 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 Saint Bavon!” 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.”
“Aye, 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 doesn’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 immense satisfaction. The meal accordingly went on 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! The 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 a 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 sidewise toward 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 knows 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 toward 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 heaven! He may be suffering, dying at this moment! Think, man, where is he? Where did my boy say that 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 he must 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 that 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 honor, ten years is a dreary time to be waiting to hear from—”
“Hist, vrouw!” said Raff sharply.
“Waiting to hear”—the doctor groaned—“and I, like a fool, sitting stubbornly at home, thinking that he had abandoned me. I never dreamed, 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—I shall try—and, Brinker, if ever the faintest gleam of recollection concerning him should come to you, you will send me 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.”
“Aye, 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?”
“Certainly, 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 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 happened. Meantime, Hans, when you are with his 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.