Hans Brinker; Or, The Silver Skates

by Mary Mapes Dodge

  XXXII

  THE CRISIS

  While the boys are nursing their fatigue, we will take a peep into theBrinker cottage.

  Can it be that Gretel and her mother have not stirred since we saw themlast? That the sick man upon the bed has not even turned over? It wasfour days ago and there is the sad group just as it was before. No, notprecisely the same, for Raff Brinker is paler; his fever is gone, thoughhe knows nothing of what is passing. Then, they were alone in the bare,clean room. Now there is another group in an opposite corner.

  Dr. Boekman is there, talking in a low tone with a stout young man wholistens intently. The stout young man is his student and assistant. Hansis there also. He stands near the window respectfully waiting until heshall be accosted.

  "You see, Vollenhoven," said Dr. Boekman, "it is a clear case of"--andhere the doctor went off into a queer jumble of Latin and Dutch that Icannot conveniently translate.

  After a while, as Vollenhoven looked at him rather blankly, the learnedman condescended to speak to him in simpler phrase.

  "It is probably like Rip Donderdunck's case," he explained, in a low,mumbling tone. "He fell from the top of Voppelploot's windmill. Afterthe accident the man was stupid, and finally became idiotic. In time helay helpless like yon fellow on the bed, moaned, too, like him, andkept constantly lifting his hand to his head. My learned friend VonChoppem performed an operation upon this Donderdunck, and discoveredunder the skull a small dark sac, which pressed upon the brain. This hadbeen the cause of the trouble. My friend Von Choppem removed it--asplendid operation! You see according to Celsus"--and here the doctoragain went off into Latin.

  "Did the man live?" asked the assistant, respectfully.

  Dr. Boekman scowled. "That is of no consequence. I believe he died, butwhy not fix your mind on the grand features of the case. Consider amoment how"--and he plunged into Latin mysteries more deeply than ever.

  "But, mynheer," gently persisted the student, who knew that the doctorwould not rise to the surface for hours unless pulled at once from hisfavorite depths. "Mynheer, you have other engagements to-day, three legsin Amsterdam, you remember, and an eye in Broek, and that tumor up thecanal."

  "The tumor can wait," said the doctor reflectively. "That is anotherbeautiful case--a beautiful case! The woman has not lifted her head fromher shoulder for two months--magnificent tumor, sir!"

  The doctor by this time was speaking aloud. He had quite forgotten wherehe 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 thathe had been talking rather off the point--"certainly, that is--I hopeso----"

  "If any one in Holland can, mynheer," murmured the assistant with honestbluntness--"it is yourself."

  The doctor looked displeased--growled out a tender request for thestudent to talk less, and beckoned Hans to draw near.

  This strange man had a great horror of speaking to women, especially onsurgical matters. "One can never tell," he said, "what moment thecreatures will scream or faint." Therefore he explained Raff Brinker'scase to Hans and told him what he believed should be done to save thepatient.

  Hans listened attentively, growing red and pale by turns, and throwingquick, anxious glances toward the bed.

  "It may _kill_ the 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 notkill. Ah! if boys were not such dunces, I could lay the whole matterbefore 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 greatoperation is proposed--but one might as well do it with a hatchet. Theonly question asked is--'will it kill?'"

  "The question is _everything_ to us, mynheer," said Hans, with tearfuldignity.

  Dr. Boekman looked at him in sudden dismay.

  "Ah! exactly so. You are right, boy, I am a fool. Good boy. One does notwish 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 everyinstant--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 herdecide. My time is short."

  Hans approached his mother; at first, when she looked up at him, hecould not utter a syllable; then turning his eyes away he said in a firmvoice:

  "I must speak with the 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 hisassistant, bending over the bed-side, conversed together in a low tone.There was no danger of disturbing the patient. He appeared like oneblind and deaf. Only his faint, piteous moans showed him to be a livingman. Hans was talking earnestly, and in a low voice, for he did not wishhis sister to hear.

  With dry, parted lips, Dame Brinker leaned toward him searching hisface, as if suspecting a meaning beyond his words. Once she gave aquick, frightened sob that made Gretel start, but, after that, listenedcalmly.

  When Hans ceased to speak, his mother turned, gave one long, agonizedlook at her husband, lying there so pale and unconscious, and threwherself on her knees, beside the bed.

  Poor little Gretel! what did all this mean? She looked with questioningeyes at Hans; he was standing, but his head was bent as if inprayer;--at the doctor; he was gently feeling her father's head, andlooked like one examining some curious stone;--at the assistant; the mancoughed and turned away;--at her mother; Ah! little Gretel, that was thebest you could do--to kneel beside her and twine your warm, young armsabout her neck--to weep and implore God to listen.

  When the mother arose, Dr. Boekman, with a show of trouble in his eyes,asked gruffly, "Well, jufvrouw, 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 boythat--perhaps--perhaps"--she could not finish.

  "Yes, jufvrouw, I said the patient might sink under the operation--butwe will hope it may prove otherwise." (He looked at his watch. Theassistant moved impatiently toward the window.) "Come, jufvrouw, timepresses. Yes, or no?"

  Hans wound his arm about his mother. It was not his usual way. He evenleaned 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 atime she had been very stern with Hans, ruling him with a strong hand,and rejoicing in her motherly discipline--_now_ she felt so weak, sohelpless. It was something to feel that firm embrace. There was strengtheven 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 toward Dr. Boekman.

  "It is right, mynheer. I consent."

  "Humph!" grunted the doctor, as if to say you've been long enough aboutit. Then he conferred a moment with his assistant, who listened withgreat outward deference but was inwardly rejoicing at the grand joke hewould 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 thedoctor open a leathern case, and take out one
sharp, gleaming instrumentafter another, she sprang forward.

  "Oh mother--the poor father meant no wrong. Are they going to _murder_him?"

  "I do not know, child," screamed Dame Brinker looking fiercely atGretel. "I DO NOT KNOW."

  "This will not do, jufvrouw," said Dr. Boekman sternly, and at the sametime he cast a quick, penetrating look at Hans--"you and the girl mustleave the room. The boy may stay."

  Dame Brinker drew herself up in an instant. Her eyes flashed. Her wholecountenance was changed. She looked like one who had never wept, neverfelt a moment's weakness. Her voice was low but decided. "I stay with myhusband, mynheer."

  Dr. Boekman looked astonished. His orders were seldom disregarded inthis style. For an instant his eye met hers.

  "You may remain, jufvrouw," 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 thetrembling little creature crouching there in the dark.

  Dr. Boekman took off his heavy coat; he filled an earthen basin withwater 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 yourright--so," and he placed a chair near the cot.

  "Remember, jufvrouw, there must be no cries, no fainting."

  Dame Brinker 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 ofthe closet door, could remain silent no longer.

  She rushed frantically across the apartment, seized her hood, and ranfrom the cottage.