The Silver Skates

by Mary Mapes Dodge

  All this time Hans was hastening towards the canal. Soon his skates were on, and he was skimming rapidly towards the residence of Mynheer van Holp.

  “My father must have meat and wine at once,” he muttered, “but how can I earn the money in time to buy them today? 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 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 Father about it!”

  This last thought almost made the lad dance for joy. Why not, indeed, speak to 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! Huzza!” and Hans almost flew over the ice.

  A few moments more and the skates were again swinging from his arm. He was running towards 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 your 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.

  Chapter 37

  The Father’s Return

  That evening Raff Brinker felt so much better that he insisted upon sitting up awhile 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 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 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.

  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 labour, of conscious enjoyment of sunshine and outdoor beauty; ten years of grateful life. One day looking forwards 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 towards 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 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 towards his father, and placed an oblong block of pinewood 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 Blinker’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?”

  “Ay, 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 Pinkster 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.

  “Ay, 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.

  “Ay, they’d have done their share, no doubt,” said Dame Brinker, parrying the enquiry, “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.”

  Chapter 38

  The Thousand Guilders

  None seeing the humble supper eaten in the Brinker cottage that night would have dreamt of the dainty fare hidden away nearby. Hans and Gretel looked rather wistfully towards the cupboard as they drank their cupful of water and ate their scanty share of black bread, but even in thought they did not rob their father.

  “He relished his supper well,” said Dame Brinker, nodding sideways towards the bed, “and fell asleep the next moment. Ah, the dear man will be feeble for many a day. He wanted sore to sit up again, but while I made show of humouring him, and getting ready, he dropped off. Remember that, my girl, when you have a man of your own (and many a day may it be before that comes to pass) – remember you can never rule by differing. ‘Humble wife is husband’s boss.’ Tut! tut! Never swallow such a mouthful as that again, child. Why, I could make a meal off of two such pieces. What’s in thee, Hans? One would think there were cobwebs on the wall.”

  “Oh no, Mother, I was only thinking—”

  “Thinking? About what? Ah, no use asking,” she added in a changed tone. “I was thinking of the same a while ago. Well, well – it’s no blame if we did look to hear something by this time about the thousand guilders, but not a word – no, it’s plain enough he knows naught about them.”

  Hans looked up anxiously, dreading lest his mother should grow agitated, as usual, when speaking of the lost money, but she was silently nibbling her bread and looking with a doleful stare towards the window.

  “Thousand guilders,” echoed a faint voice from the bed. “Ah, I am sure they have been of good use to you, Vrouw, through the long years while your man was idle.”

  The poor woman started up. These words quite destroyed the hope that of late had been glowing within her.

  “Are you awake, Raff?” she faltered.

  “Yes, Meitje, and I feel much better. Our money was well saved, Vrouw, I was saying. Did it last through all those ten years?”

  “I – I have not got it, Raff, I—” She was going to tell him the whole truth, when Hans lifted his finger warningly and whispered:

  “Remember what the meester told us; Father must not be worried.”

  “Speak to him, child,” she answered, trembling.

  Hans hurried to the bedside.

  “I am glad you are feeling better,” he said, leaning over his father. “Another day will see you quite strong again.”

  “Ay, like enough. How long did the money last, Hans? I could not hear your mother. What did she say?”

  “I said, Raff,” stammered Dame Brinker in great distress, “that it was all gone.”

  “Well, well, wife, do not fret at that. One thousand guilders is not so very much for ten years, and with children to bring up, but it has helped to make you all comfortable. Have you had much sickness to bear?”

  “N-no,” sobbed Dame Brinker, lifting her apron to her eyes.

  “Tut, tut, woman, why do you cry?” said Raff kindly. “We will soon fill another pouch, when I am on my feet again. Lucky I told you all about it before I fell.”

  “Told me what, man?”

  “Why, that I buried the money. In my dream just now it seemed I had never said aught about it.”

  Dame Brinker started forwards. Hans caught her arm.

  “Hist! Mother,” he whispered, hastily leading her away, “we must be very careful.” Then, while she stood with clasped hands waiting in breathless anxiety, he once more approached the cot. Trembling with eagerness, he said:

  “That was a troublesome dream. Do you remember when you buried the money, Father?”

  “Yes, my boy. It was just before daylight on the same day I was hurt. Jan Kamphuisen said something, the sundown before, that made me distrust his honesty. He was the only one living, besides Mother, who knew we had saved a thousand guilders, so I rose up that night and buried the money – blockhead that I was ever to suspect an old friend!”

  “I’ll be bound, Father,” pursued Hans in a laughing voice, motioning to his mother and Gretel to remain quiet, “that you’ve forgotten where you buried it.”

  “Ha! Ha! Not I indeed – but goodnight, my son; I can sleep again.”

  Hans would have walked away, but his mother’s gestures were not to be disobeyed, so he said gently:

  “Goodnight, Father. Where did you say you buried the money? I was only a little one then.”

  “Close by the willow sapling behind the cottage,” said Raff Brinker drowsily.

  “Ah, yes. North side of the tree, wasn’t it, Father?”

  “No, the south side. Ah, you know the spot well enough, you rogue – like enough you were there when your mother lifted it. Now, son – easy – shift this pillow – so. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Father!” said Hans, ready to dance for joy.

  The moon rose very late that night, shining in, full and clear, at the little window. But its beams did not disturb Raff Brinker. He slept soundly – so did Gretel. As for Hans and his mother, they had something else to do.

  After making a few hurried preparations, they stole forth with bright, expectant faces, bearing a broken spade and a rusty implement that had done many a day’s service when Raff was a hale worker on the dykes.

  It was so light out of doors they could see the willow tree distinctly. The frozen ground was hard as stone, but Hans and his mother were resolute. Their only dread was that they might disturb the sleepers in the cottage.

  “This ice-breaker is just the thing, Mother,” said Hans, striking many a vigorous blow, “but the ground has set so firm it’ll be a fair match for it.”

  “Never fear, Hans,” she answered, watching him eagerly. “Here, let me try awhile.”

  They soon succeeded in making an impression – one opening, and the rest was not so difficult.

  Still they worked on, taking turns and whispering cheerily to one another. Now and then Dame Brinker stepped noiselessly over the threshold and listened, to be certain that her husband slept.

  “What grand news it will be for him,” she said, laughing, “when he is strong enough to bear it. How I should like to put the pouch and the stocking, just as we find them, all full of money, near him, this blessed night, for the dear man to see when he wakens.”

  “We must get them first, Mother,” panted Hans, still tugging away at his work.

  “There’s no doubt of that. They can’t slip away from us now,” she answered, shivering with cold and excitement, as she crouched beside the opening. “Like enough we’ll find them stowed in the old earthen pot I lost long ago.”

  By this time Hans too began to tremble, but not with cold. He had penetrated a foot deep for quite a space on the south side of the tree. At any moment they might come upon the
treasure.

  Meantime, the stars winked and blinked at each other as if to say: “Queer country, this Holland! How much we do see, to be sure!”

  “Strange that dear Father should have put it down so woeful deep,” said Dame Brinker in rather a provoked tone. “Ah, the ground was soft enough then, I warrant. How wise of him to mistrust Jan Kamphuisen, and Jan in full credit at the time. Little I thought that handsome fellow with his gay ways would ever go to jail! Now, Hans, let me take a turn – it’s lighter work, d’ye see, the deeper we go. I’d be loath to kill the tree, Hans. Will we harm it, think you?”

  “I cannot say,” he answered gravely.

  Hour after hour mother and son worked on. The hole grew larger and deeper. Clouds began to gather in the sky, throwing elfish shadows as they passed. Not until moon and stars faded away and streaks of daylight began to appear, did Meitje Brinker and Hans look hopelessly into each other’s face.

  They had searched thoroughly, desperately, all round the tree – south, north, east, west. The hidden money was not there!

  Chapter 39

  Glimpses

  Annie Bouman had a healthy distaste for Janzoon Kolp. Janzoon Kolp, in his own rough way, adored Annie. Annie declared she could not “to save her life” say one civil word to that odious boy. Janzoon believed her to be the sweetest, sauciest creature in the world. Annie laughed among her playmates at the comical flapping of Janzoon’s tattered and dingy jacket; he sighed in solitude over the floating grace of her jaunty blue petticoat. She thanked her stars that her brothers were not like the Kolps, and he growled at his sister because she was not like the Boumans. They seemed to exchange natures whenever they met. His presence made her harsh and unfeeling, and the very sight of her made him gentle as a lamb. Of course they were thrown together very often. It is thus that in some mysterious way we are convinced of error and cured of prejudice. In this case, however, the scheme failed. Annie detested Janzoon more and more at each encounter, and Janzoon liked her better and better every day.