 CHAPTER 45 Joy and the Cottage Sometimes you were surprised to learn that Raph and his fro were at the skating race. You would have been more so had you been with them on the evening of that merry 20th of December. To see the Brinker Cottage standing sulkily alone on the frozen marsh, with its bulgy, rheumatic-looking walls and its slouched hat of a roof pulled far over its eyes, one would never suspect that a lively scene was passing within. Without nothing was left of the day but a low line of blaze at the horizon. A few ventures and clouds had already taken fire, and others, with their edges burning, were lost in the gathering smoke. A stray gleam of sunshine slipping down from the willow stump crept stealthily under the cottage. It seemed to feel that the inmates would give it welcome if it could only get near them. The room under which it hid was as clean as clean could be. The very cracks and the rafters were polished. Delicious odors filled the air. A huge peat fire upon the hearth sent flashes of harmless lightning at the somber walls. It played in turn upon the Great Leather Bible, upon Gretel's closet bed, the household things upon their pegs, and the beautiful silver skates and the flowers upon the table. Dame Brinker's honest face shone and twinkled in the changing light. People in Huns, with arms entwined, were leaning against the fireplace, laughing merrily, and Raph Brinker was dancing. I do not mean that he was pirouetting or cutting a pigeon wing, either of which would have been entirely too undignified for the father of a family. I simply affirm that while they were chatting pleasantly together, Raph suddenly sprang from his seat, snapped his fingers, and performed two or three flourishes very much like the climax of a Highland fling. Next he caught his froe and his arms, and fairly lifted her from the ground in his delight. Huzzah! he cried, I have it! I have it! It's Thomas Higgs. That's the name. It came upon me like a flash. Write it down, lad. Write it down. Someone knocked at the door. It's the Meister! cried the delighted Dame. God, a goonst! How things come to pass! Mother and children came in merry collision as they rushed to open the door. It was not the doctor after all, but three boys, Peter van Hope, Lumbert and Ben. Good evening, young gentleman! said Dame Brinker so happy and proud that she would scarcely have been surprised at a visit from the King himself. Good evening, you fro! said the trio, making magnificent bows. Dear me! thought Dame Brinker as she bobbed up and down like a churned asher. It's lucky I learned a curtsy at Heidelberg. Raph was content to return the boys' salutations with a respectful nod. Pray be seated, young masters! said the Dame as Gretel bashfully thrust the stool at them. There's a lack of chairs, as you see, but this one by the fire is at your service, and if you don't mind the hardness, that oak-chest is as good a seat as the best. That's right, Hans, pull it out. By the time the boys were seated to the Dame's satisfaction, Peter, acting as a spokesman, had explained that they were going to attend a lecture at Amsterdam, and had stopped on the way to return Hans's strap. Oh, my near! cried Hans earnestly. It is too much trouble. I am very sorry. No trouble at all, Hans. I could have waited for you to come to your work to-morrow had I not wished to call. And Hans, talking of your work, my father is much pleased with it. A carver by Treg could not have done it better. He would like to have the South Arbor ornamented also, but I told him you were going to school again. I, put in Raff Brinker emphatically, Hans must go to school at once, and Gretel is well. That is true. I am glad to hear you say so, responded Peter, turning toward the father, and very glad to know that you are again a well man. Yes, young master, a well man, and able to work as steady as ever. Thank God! Here Hans hastily wrote something on the edge of a time-worn albunac that hung by the chimney place. I, that's right, lad, set it down. Figs, wigs, alack, alack! cried Raff in great dismay. It's gone again. All right, father, said Hans. The name's down now in black and white. Here, look at it, father. May have the rest will come to you. If we had the place as well it would be complete. Then turning to Peter he said in a low tone, I have an important errand in town, my dear, and if— Whist! exclaimed the dame, lifting her hands. Not to Amsterdam to-night, and you've owned your legs were aching under you. Nay, nay, it'll be soon enough to go at early daylight. Daylight indeed, echoed Raff. That would never do. Nay, ma'cha, he must go this hour. The fro looked for an instant as if Raff's recovery was becoming rather a doubtful benefit. Her word was no longer sole law in the house. Fortunately the proverb, humble wife his husband's boss, had taken deep root in her mind, even as the dame pondered, it bloomed. Very well, Raff, she said smilingly, it is thy boy as well as mine. Ah, I've a troublesome house, young masters. Just then Peter drew a long strap from his pocket. Handing it to Hans he said in an undertone, I need not thank you for lending me this, drinker. Such boys as you do not ask for thanks. But I must say you did me a great kindness, and I am proud to acknowledge it. I did not know, he added laughingly, until fairly in the race how anxious I was to win. Hans was glad to join in Peter's laugh. He covered his embarrassment and gave his face a chance to cool off a little. Honest, generous boys like Hans have such a stupid way of blushing when you least expect it. It was nothing, my dear, said the dame, hastening to her son's relief. The lad's whole soul wasn't having you win the race I know it was. This helped matters beautifully. Ah, my dear, Hans hurried to say, from the first start I felt stiff and strange on my feet. I was well out of it, so long as I had no chance of winning. Peter looked rather distressed. We may hold different opinions here. That part of the business troubles me. It is too late to mend it now, but it would be really a kindness to me if— The rest of Peter's speech was uttered so confidentially that I cannot record it. Enough to say, Hans soon started back in dismay, and Peter, looking very much ashamed, stammered out something to the effect that he would keep them, since he won the race, but it was all wrong. Here Van Monen coughed, as if to remind Peter that lecture-hour was approaching fast. At the same moment Ben laid something upon table. Ah, exclaimed Peter, I forgot my other errand. Your sister ran off so quickly today that Madame Van Gleck had no opportunity to give her the case for her skates. Shhh! said Dame Brinker, shaking her head reproachfully at Gretel. She was a very rude girl, I'm sure. Secretly she was thinking that very few women had such a fine little daughter. No, indeed! Peter laughed. She did exactly the right thing—ran home with her richly won treasures. Who would not? Don't let us detain you, Hans. He continued turning around as he spoke, but Hans, who was eagerly watching his father, seemed to have forgotten their presence. Meantime, Raph lost in thought, was repeating under his breath. Thomas Higgs, Thomas Higgs, ah, that's the name. I'll act if I could but remember the place as well. The skate case was elegantly made of crimson maraco, ornamented with silver. If a fairy had designed its delicate tracery, they could not have been more daintedly beautiful. For the fleetest was written upon the cover in sparkling letters. It was lined with velvet, and in one corner was stamped the name and address of the maker. Gretel thanked Peter in her own simple way, then, being quite delighted and confused and not knowing what else to do. She lifted the case, carefully examining it in every part. It's made by my near Birmingham, she said after a while, still blushing and holding it before her eyes. Birmingham, replied Lumbert von Monan, that's the name of a place in England. Let me see it. Ha, ha, ha! he laughed, holding the open case toward the firelight. No wonder you thought so, but it's a slight mistake. The case was made at Birmingham, but the maker's name is in smaller letters. Ha, they're so small I can't read them. Let me try, said Peter, leaning over his shoulder. Why, man, it's perfectly distinct. It's T-H—uh, it's T—well, said Lumbert triumphantly. If you can read it so easily, let's hear it. T-H—what? T-H-T-H. Oh, why, Thomas Higgs, to be sure, replied Peter, pleased to be able to decipher it at last. Then, feeling that they had been acting rather unceremoniously, he turned to Hans. Peter turned pale. What was the matter with the people? Raph and Hans had started up and were staring at him in glad amazement. Gretel looked wild. Dame Brinker, with an unlighted candle in her hand, was rushing about the room, crying, Hans, Hans, where's your hat? Oh, the meister! Oh, the meister! Birmingham, Higgs, exclaimed Hans. Did you say Higgs? We found him. I must be off. You see, young masters, the dame was panting at the same time snatching Hans's hat from the bed. You see, we know him. He's our—no, he isn't. I mean, oh, Hans, you must go to Amsterdam this minute. Good night, my dears. Panted Hans, radiant with sudden joy. Good night. You will excuse me. I must go. Birmingham, Higgs, Higgs, Birmingham. And, seizing his hat from his mother and his skates from Gretel, he rushed from the cottage. What could the boys think but that the whole Brinker family had suddenly gone crazy? They bade an embarrassed good evening and turned to go, but Raph stopped them. This Thomas Higgs, young masters, is a—a person. Ah! exclaimed Peter, quite sure that Raph was the most crazy of all. Yes, a person. Ah! him. A friend. We thought him dead. I hope it is the same man, in England, did you say? Yes, Birmingham, answered Peter. It must be Birmingham in England. I know the man, said Ben, addressing Lumbert. His factory is not four miles from our place. A queer fellow, still as an oyster, doesn't seem at all like an Englishman. I've often seen him. A solemn-looking chap with magnificent eyes. He made a beautiful writing-case once for me to give Jenny on her birthday. Makes pocket-books, telescope-cases, and all kinds of leather-work. As this was said in English, Van Monen, of course, translated it for the benefit of all concerned, noticing, meanwhile, that neither Raph nor his fro looked very miserable, although Raph was trembling and the dame's eyes were swimming with tears. You may believe that the doctor heard every word of the story, when later in the evening he came driving back with Hans. The three young gentlemen had been gone some time, Dame Brinker said, but like enough by hurrying it would be easy to find them coming out from the lecture, wherever that was. True, said Raph, nodding his head. The fro always hits upon the right thing. It would be well to see the young English gentleman in my near before he forgets all about Thomas Higgs. It's a slip-rename, do you see. One can't hold it safe a minute. It come upon me sudden and strong as a pile-driver, and my boy wrote it down. Aye, my dear, I'd haste to talk with the English lad. He's seen your son many a time, only to think on it. Dame Brinker took up the thread of the discourse. You'll pick out the lad quick enough, my dear, because he's in company with Peter Van Hope, and his hair curls up over his forehead like foreign folks, and if you hear him speak he talks big and fast, only it's English, but that wouldn't be any hindrance to your honour. The doctor had already lifted his hat to go. With a beaming face he muttered something about it being just like the young scamp to give himself a rascally English name, called Hans my son, thereby making that young gentleman as happy as a lord, and left the cottage with very little ceremony, considering what a great maester he was. The grumbling coachman comforted himself by speaking his mind as he drove back to Amsterdam. Since the doctor was safely stowed away in the coach and could not hear a word, it was a fine time to say terrible things of folks who had no manner of feeling for nobody, and who were always wanting the horses a dozen times of a night. While LibriVox Recordings are in the public domain, for more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording has been Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Hans Brinker or The Silver Skates by Mary Maeve Stodge Chapter 46 The Mysterious Disappearance of Thomas Higgs Higgs's factory was a mine of delight for the Gossips of Birmingham. It was a small building, but quite large enough to hold a mystery. Who the proprietor was, or where he came from, none could tell. He looked like a gentleman, that was certain, though everybody knew he had risen from an apprenticeship, and he could handle his pen like a writing master. Years ago he had suddenly appeared in the place a lad of eighteen, learned his trade faithfully, and risen in the confidence of his employer, been taken in as a partner soon after the time was up. Finally, when old Willet died, had assumed the business on his own hands. This was all that was known of his affairs. It was a common remark among some of the good people that he never had a word to say to a Christian soul, while others declared that though he spoke beautifully when he chose to, there was something wrong in his accent. A tidy man, too, they called him, all but for having that scandalous green pond alongside of his factory, which wasn't deep enough for an eel, and was just a fever nest as sure as you live. His nationality was a great puzzle. The English name spoke plain enough for one side of his house, but of what manner of nation was his mother? If she had been an American, he'd certainly have had high cheekbones and reddish skin. If a German, he would have known the language, and Squire Smith declared that he didn't. If French, and his having that frog pond made it seem likely, it would come out in his speech. No, there was nothing he could be but Dutch. And strangest of all, though the man always pricked up his ears when you talked of Holland, he didn't seem to know the first thing about the country when you put him to the point. Anyhow, as no letters ever came to him from his mother's family in Holland, and as nobody living had ever seen old Higgs, the family couldn't be anything much. Probably Thomas Higgs himself was no better than he should be, for all he pretended to carry himself so straight. And for their parts the Gossips declared they were not going to trouble their heads about him. Consequently Thomas Higgs and his affairs were never failing subjects of discussion. Picture then, the consternation among all the good people when it was announced by somebody who was there and ought to know, that the post-boy had that very morning handed Higgs a foreign-looking letter, and the man had turned as white as the wall, rushed to his factory, talked a bit with one of the head workmen, and without bidding a creature goodbye was off bag and baggage before you could wink, ma'am. Mistress Scrubs, his landlady, was in deep affliction. The dear soul became quite out of breath while speaking of him, to leave lodgings in that sudden way without never so much as a day's warning, which was what every woman who didn't wish to be trodden underfoot, which thank heaven wasn't her way, had a perfect right to expect. Yes, and a week's warning now you mention it, and without even so much as saying, many thanks, Mistress Scrubs, for all past kindnesses, which were most numerous, though she said it who shouldn't say it. Least wise she wasn't never no kind of person to be looking for thanks every minute. It was really scandalous, though to be sure Mr. Higgs paid up everything to the last far then, and it fairly brought tears to my eyes to see his dear empty boots lying there in the corner of his room, which alone showed trouble of mine, for he always stood him up straight as soldiers, though being half-sold twice they hadn't, of course, been worth taking away. Whereupon her dearest friend, Miss Scrumpkins, ran home to tell all about it, and as everybody knew the Scrumpkins's, a shining gossamer of news was soon woven from one end of the street to the other. An investigating committee met that evening at Mrs. Snigam's, sitting in secret session over her best China. Though invited only to a quiet tea, the amount of judicial business they transacted on the occasion was prodigious. The biscuits were actually cold before the committee had a chance to eat anything. There was so much to talk over, and it was so important that it should be firmly established that each member had always been certain sure that something extraordinary would be happening to that man yet, and that it was nearly eight o'clock before Mrs. Snigam gave anybody a second cup. CHAPTER 47. BROAD SUNSHINE One snowy day in January, Lawrence Bookman went with his father to pay his respects to the Brinker family. Raph was resting after the labors of the day. Gretel, having filled and lighted his pipe, was brushing every speck of ash from the hearth. The dame was spinning, and Hans, perched upon a stool by the window, was diligently studying his lessons. It was a peaceful, happy household whose main excitement during the past week had been the looking forward to this possible visit from Thomas Higgs. As soon as the grand presentation was over, Dame Brinker insisted upon giving her guests some hot tea. It was enough to freeze anyone, she said, to be out in such crazy, blustering weather. While they were talking with her husband, she whispered to Gretel that the young gentleman's eyes and her boys were certainly as much alike as four beans. To say nothing of a way they both had of looking as if they were stupid and yet knew as much as a body's grandfather. Gretel was disappointed. She had looked forward to a tragic scene, such as Annie Bowman had often described to her from storybooks. And here was the gentleman who came so near being a murderer, who for ten years had been wandering over the face of the earth, who believed himself deserted and scorned by his father, the very young gentleman who had fled from his country in such magnificent trouble, sitting by the fire just as pleasant and natural as could be. To be sure his voice had trembled when he talked with her parents, and he had met his father's look with a bright kind of smile that would have suited a dragon-killer bringing the waters of perpetual youth to his king. But after all he wasn't at all like the conquered hero in Annie's book. He did not say, lifting his arm toward heaven, I hereby swear to be forever faithful to my home, my God, and my country, which would have been only right and proper under the circumstances. All things considered, Gretel was disappointed. Raph, however, was perfectly satisfied. The message was delivered. Dr. Bookman had his son safe and sound, and the poor lad had done nothing sinful after all, except in thinking that his father would have abandoned him for an accident. To be sure the graceful stripling had become rather a heavy man. Raph had unconsciously hoped to clasp that same boyish hand again, but all things were changed to Raph, for that matter. So he pushed back every feeling but joy as he saw father and son sitting side by side at his hearth-stone. Meantime Hans was wholly occupied in the thought of Thomas Higgs's happiness in being able to be the maester's assistant again, and Dame Brinker was sighing softly to herself, wishing that the lad's mother were alive to see him, such a fine young gentleman as he was, and wondering how Dr. Bookman could bear to see this overwatch getting so dull. He had worn it ever since Raph handed it over, that was evident. What had he done with the gold one he used to wear? The light was shining full upon Dr. Bookman's face. How concheted he looked! How much younger and brighter than formerly. The hard lines were quite melding away. He was laughing as he said to the father, Am I not a happy man, Raph Brinker? My son will sell out his factory this month, and open a warehouse in Amsterdam. I shall have all my spectacle cases for nothing. Hans started from his reverie. A warehouse, my dear, and will Thomas Higgs, I mean is your son not to be your assistant again? A shade passed over the maester's face, but he brightened with an effort, as he replied, Oh no, Lawrence has had quite enough of that. He wishes to be a merchant. Hans appeared so surprised and disappointed that his friend asked good-naturedly, Why so silent, boy, is it any disgrace to be a merchant? Not a disgrace, my dear, stammered Hans, but what? Why, the other calling is so much better, answered Hans, so much nobler. I think, my dear, he added with enthusiasm, that to be a surgeon, to cure the sick and cripple, to save human life, to be able to do what you have done for my father, is the grandest thing on earth. The doctor was regarding him sternly. Hans felt rebuked. His cheeks were flushed. Hot tears were gathering under his lashes. It is an ugly business, boy, this surgery, said the doctor, still frowning at Hans. It requires great patience, self-denial, and perseverance. I am sure that it does, cried Hans. It calls for wisdom, too, and a reverence for God's work. Ah, my dear, it may have its trials and drawbacks, but you do not mean what you say. It is great and noble, not ugly. Pardon me, my dear, it is not for me to speak so boldly. Dr. Bookman was evidently displeased. He turned his back on the boy and conferred aside with Lawrence. Meanwhile the dame scowled a terrible warning at Hans. These great people, she knew well enough, never liked to hear poor folk speak up so pertly. The maester turned around. How old are you, Hans-Brenker? Fifteen, my dear, was the startled reply. Would you like to become a physician? Yes, my dear, answered Hans, quivering with excitement. Would you be willing, with your parents' consent, to devote yourself to study, to go to the university, and in time be a student in my office? Yes, my dear, you would not grow restless, thank you, and change your mind just as I had set my heart upon preparing you to be my successor? Hans's eyes flashed. No, my dear, I would not change. You may believe him there, cried the dame, who could remain quiet no longer. This is like a rock when once he decides, and as for study, my dear, the child has almost grown fast to his books of late. He can jumble off Latin already, like any priest. The doctor smiled. Well, Hans, I see nothing to prevent us from carrying out this plan, if your father agrees. Ahem! said Raph, too proud of his boy to be very meek. The fact is, my dear, I prefer an active out-of-door life myself. But if the lads inclined to study for a maester, and he'd have the benefit of your good word to push him on in the world, it's all one to me. The money's all that's wanting, but it might not be long with too strong a pair of arms to earn it before we—tut, tut! interrupted the doctor. If I take your right-hand man away, I must pay the cost, and glad enough will I be to do it. It will be like having two sons, eh, Lawrence? One a merchant and the other a surgeon. I shall be the happiest man in Holland. Come to me in the morning, Hans, and we will arrange matters at once. Hans bowed ascent. He dared not trust himself to speak. And Brinker, continued the doctor, my son Lawrence will need a trusty, ready man like you when he opens his warehouse in Amsterdam. Someone to oversee matters, and see that the lazy clowns round about the place do their duty. Someone to— Oh, why don't you tell him yourself, you rascal? This lass was addressed to the son, and did not sound half as fierce as it looks in print. The rascal and Raph soon understood each other perfectly. I'm loath to leave the dykes, said the latter after they had talked together a while, but it is such a good offer, my dear, I'd be robbing my family if I let it go past me. Take a long look at Hans as he sits there staring gratefully at the maester, for you shall not see him again for many years. And Gretel, ah, what a vista of puzzling work suddenly opens before her. Yes, for dear Hans's sake she will study now. If he really is to be a maester, his sister must not shame his greatness. How faithfully those glancing eyes shall yet seek for the jewels that lie hidden in rocky schoolbooks, and how they shall yet brighten and droop at the coming of one whom she knows of now only as the boy who wore a red cap on that wonderful day when she found the silver skates in her apron. But the doctor and Lawrence are going. Dane Brinker is making her best curtsy. Raph stands beside her, looking every inch a man as he grasps the maester's hand. Through the open cottage door we can look out upon the leveled Dutch landscape, all alive with the falling snow. CHAPTER 48 CONCLUSION Our story is nearly told. Time passes in Holland just as surely and steadily as here. In that respect no country is odd. To the Brinker family it has brought great changes. Hans has spent the years faithfully and profitably, conquering obstacles as they arose and pursuing one object with all the energy of his nature. If often the way has been rugged his resolution has never failed. Sometimes he echoes with his good friend. The words said long ago in that little cottage near Brook. Surgery is an ugly business, but always in his heart of hearts lingers the echo of those truer words. It is great and noble. It awakes a reverence for God's work. Were you in Amsterdam today you might see the famous Dr. Brinker riding in his grand coach to visit his patients. Or it might be you would see him skating with his own boys and girls upon the frozen canal. For Annie Bowman, the beautiful, frank-hearted peasant girl, you would inquire in vain. But Annie Brinker, the fro of the great physician, is very like her. Only, as Hans says, she is even lovelier, wiser, more like a fairy godmother than ever. Peter Van Holp also is a married man. I could have told you before that he and Hilda would join Hans and glide through life together. Just as years ago they skimmed side by side over the frozen Sunlit River. At one time I came near hinting that Katrina and Carl would join Hans. It is fortunate that the report was not started, for Katrina changed her mind and is single to this day. The lady is not quite so merry as formerly, and, I grieve to say, some of the tinkling bells are out of tune. But she is the life of her social circle still. I wish she would be an earnest just for a little while, but no, it is not in her nature. Her cares and sorrows do nothing more than disturb the tinkling. They never waken any deeper music. She's soul has been stirred to its depths during these long years. Her history would tell how seed carelessly sown is sometimes reaped in anguish, and how a golden harvest may follow a painful planting. If I mistake not, you may be able to read the written record before long. That is, if you are familiar with the Dutch language. In the witty but earnest author whose words are welcomed to this day and thousands of Holland homes, few could recognize the haughty, flippant, richie who scoffed at little Gretel. Lumberd van Monen and Ludwig van Hopp are good Christian men, and what is more easily to be seen at a glance thriving citizens. Both are dwellers in Amsterdam, but one clings to the old city of that name, and the other is a pilgrim to the new. Van Monen's present home is not far from Central Park, and he says, if the New Yorkers do their duty, the park will in time equal his beautiful Bosch near the Hague. He often thinks of the Katrina of his boyhood, but he is glad now that Katrina, the woman, sent him away, though it seemed at the time his darkest hour. Ben's sister Jenny has made him very happy, happier than he could have been with anyone else in the wide world. Carl Schummel has had a hard life. His father met with reverses in business, and his Carl had not many warm friends, and, above all, was not sustained by noble principles. He has been tossed about by Fortune's battledore, until his gayest feathers are nearly all knocked off. He is a bookkeeper in the thriving Amsterdam house of Bookman and Schimmelpenik. Vustenvalbert, the junior partner, treats him kindly, and he, in turn, is very respectful to the monkey with a long name for a tale. Of all our group of Holland friends, Jacob Pute is the only one who has passed away. Good-natured, true-hearted, and unselfish to the last, he is more now as heartily as he was loved and laughed at while on earth. He grew to be very thin before he died, thinner than Benjamin Dobbs, who is now portliest among the portly. Raph Brinker and his fro have been living comfortably in Amsterdam for many years—a faithful, happy pair, as simple and straightforward in their good fortune as they were patient and trustful in darker days. They have a zomerhurl near the old cottage, and thither they often repair with their children and grandchildren on the pleasant summer afternoons when the pond lilies rear their queenly heads above the water. The story of Hans Brinker would be but half-told if we did not leave him with Gretel standing near. Dear, quick, patient little Gretel, what is she now? Ask old Dr. Bookman. He will declare that she is the finest singer, the loveliest woman in Amsterdam. Ask Hans and Annie, and they will assure you that she is the dearest sister ever known. Ask her husband. He will tell you that she is the brightest, sweetest little wife in Holland. Ask Dame Brinker and Raph. Their eyes will glisten with joyous tears. Ask the poor, and the air will be filled with blessings. But lest you forget a tiny form trembling and sobbing on the mound before the Brinker cottage, ask the Van Gleks. They will never weary of telling of the darling little girl who won the silver skates.