Kabanata Kabanata 35 · A New Alarm

. A New Alarm

When Dr. Boekman called the next day at the Brinker cottage, he could

not help noticing the cheerful, comfortable aspect of the place. An

atmosphere of happiness breathed upon him as he opened the door. Dame

Brinker sat complacently knitting beside the bed, her husband was

enjoying a tranquil slumber, and Gretel was noiselessly kneading rye

bread on the table in the corner.

The doctor did not remain long. He asked a few simple questions,

appeared satisfied with the answers, and after feeling his patient’s

pulse, said, “Ah, very weak yet, jufvrouw. Very weak, indeed. He must

have nourishment. You may begin to feed the patient. Ahem! Not too much,

but what you do give him let it be strong and of the best.”

“Black bread, we have, mynheer, and porridge,” replied Dame Brinker

cheerily. “They have always agreed with him well.”

“Tut, tut!” said the doctor, frowning. “Nothing of the kind. He must

have the juice of fresh meat, white bread, dried and toasted, good

Malaga wine, and--ahem! The man looks cold. Give him more covering,

something light and warm. Where is the boy?”

“Hans, mynheer, has gone into Broek to look for work. He will be back

soon. Will the meester please be seated?”

Whether the hard polished stool offered by Dame Brinker did not look

particularly tempting, or whether the dame herself frightened him,

partly because she was a woman, and partly because an anxious,

distressed look had suddenly appeared in her face, I cannot say. Certain

it is that our eccentric doctor looked hurriedly about him, muttered

something about “an extraordinary case,” bowed, and disappeared before

Dame Brinker had time to say another word.

Strange that the visit of their good benefactor should have left a

cloud, yet so it was. Gretel frowned, an anxious, childish frown, and

kneaded the bread dough violently without looking up. Dame Brinker

hurried to her husband’s bedside, leaned over him, and fell into silent

but passionate weeping.

In a moment Hans entered.

“Why, Mother,” he whispered in alarm, “what ails thee? Is the father

worse?”

She turned her quivering face toward him, making no attempt to conceal

her distress.

“Yes. He is starving--perishing. A meester said it.”

Hans turned pale.

“What does this mean, Mother? We must feed him at once. Here, Gretel,

give me the porridge.”

“Nay!” cried his mother, distractedly, yet without raising her voice.

“It may kill him. Our poor fare is too heavy for him. Oh, Hans, he will

die--the father will DIE, if we use him this way. He must have meat

and sweet wine and a dekbed. Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?” she

sobbed, wringing her hands. “There is not a stiver in the house.”

Gretel pouted. It was the only way she could express sympathy just then.

Her tears fell one by one into the dough.

“Did the meester say he MUST have these things, Mother?” asked Hans.

“Yes, he did.”

“Well, Mother, don’t cry, HE SHALL HAVE THEM. I shall bring meat and

wine before night. Take the cover from my bed. I can sleep in the

straw.”

“Yes, Hans, but it is heavy, scant as it is. The meester said he must

have something light and warm. He will perish. Our peat is giving out,

Hans. The father has wasted it sorely, throwing it on when I was not

looking, dear man.”

“Never mind, Mother,” whispered Hans cheerfully. “We can cut down the

willow tree and burn it, if need be, but I’ll bring home something

tonight. There MUST be work in Amsterdam, though there’s none in Broek.

Never fear, Mother, the worst trouble of all is past. We can brave

anything now that the father is himself again.”

“Aye!” sobbed Dame Brinker, hastily drying her eyes. “That is true

indeed.”

“Of course it is. Look at him, Mother, how softly he sleeps. Do you

think God would let him starve, just after giving him back to us? Why,

Mother, I’m as SURE of getting all the father needs as if my pocket were

bursting with gold. There, now, don’t fret.” And, hurriedly kissing her,

Hans caught up his skates and slipped from the cottage.

Poor Hans! Disappointed in his morning’s errand, half sickened with this

new trouble, he wore a brave look and tried to whistle as he tramped

resolutely off with the firm intention of mending matters.

Want had never before pressed so sorely upon the Brinker family. Their

stock of peat was nearly exhausted, and all the flour in the cottage was

in Gretel’s dough. They had scarcely cared to eat during the past few

days, scarcely realized their condition. Dame Brinker had felt so sure

that she and the children could earn money before the worst came that

she had given herself up to the joy of her husband’s recovery. She had

not even told Hans that the few pieces of silver in the old mitten were

quite gone.

Hans reproached himself, now, that he had not hailed the doctor when

he saw him enter his coach and drive rapidly away in the direction of

Amsterdam.

Perhaps there is some mistake, he thought. The meester surely would

have known that meat and sweet wine were not at our command; and yet the

father looks very weak--he certainly does. I MUST get work. If Mynheer

van Holp were back from Rotterdam, I could get plenty to do. But Master

Peter told me to let him know if he could do aught to serve us. I shall

go to him at once. Oh, if it were but summer!

All this time Hans was hastening toward the canal. Soon his skates were

on, and he was skimming rapidly toward the residence of Mynheer van

Holp.

“The 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 the 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 has

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 THE FATHER ABOUT IT!

This last thought made the lad dance for joy. Why not, indeed, speak

to the 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! And Hans almost flew over the ice.

A few moments more and the skates were again swinging from his arm. He

was running toward 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 the 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.