第 十五 章 · Homes

. Homes

It must not be supposed that our young Dutchmen had already forgotten

the great skating race which was to take place on the twentieth. On the

contrary, they had thought and spoken of it very often during the day.

Even Ben, though he had felt more like a traveler than the rest, had

never once, through all the sight-seeing, lost a certain vision of

silver skates which, for a week past, had haunted him night and day.

Like a true “John Bull,” as Jacob had called him, he never doubted that

his English fleetness, English strength, English everything, could at

any time enable him, on the ice, to put all Holland to shame, and the

rest of the world too, for that matter. Ben certainly was a superb

skater. He had enjoyed not half the opportunities for practicing that

had fallen to his new comrades but he had improved his share to the

utmost and was, besides, so strong of frame, so supple of limb, in

short, such a tight, trim, quick, graceful fellow in every way that he

had taken to skating as naturally as a chamois to leaping or an eagle to

soaring.

Only to the heavy heart of poor Hans had the vision of the silver skates

failed to appear during that starry winter night and the brighter sunlit

day.

Even Gretel had seen them flitting before her as she sat beside her

mother through those hours of weary watching--not as prizes to be won,

but as treasures passing hopelessly beyond her reach.

Rychie, Hilda, and Katrinka--why, they had scarcely known any other

thought than “The race, the race. It will come off on the twentieth!”

These three girls were friends. Though of nearly the same age, talent,

and station, they were as different as girls could be.

Hilda van Gleck, as you already know, was a warm-hearted, noble girl of

fourteen. Rychie Korbes was beautiful to look upon, far more sparkling

and pretty than Hilda but not half so bright and sunny within. Clouds

of pride, of discontent, and envy had already gathered in her heart

and were growing bigger and darker every day. Of course, these often

relieved themselves very much after the manner of other clouds. But who

saw the storms and the weeping? Only her maid or her father, mother, and

little brother--those who loved her better than all. Like other clouds,

too, hers often took queer shapes, and what was really but mist and

vapory fancy assumed the appearance of monster wrongs and mountains of

difficulty. To her mind, the poor peasant girl Gretel was not a human

being, a God-created creature like herself--she was only something that

meant poverty, rags, and dirt. Such as Gretel had no right to feel,

to hope; above all, they should never cross the paths of their

betters--that is, not in a disagreeable way. They could toil and labor

for them at a respectful distance, even admire them, if they would do it

humbly, but nothing more. If they rebel, put them down; if they suffer,

“Don’t trouble me about it” was Rychie’s secret motto. And yet how witty

she was, how tastefully she dressed, how charmingly she sang; how much

feeling she displayed (for pet kittens and rabbits), and how completely

she could bewitch sensible, honest-minded lads like Lambert van Mounen

and Ludwig van Holp!

Carl was too much like her, within, to be an earnest admirer, and

perhaps he suspected the clouds. He, being deep and surly and always

uncomfortably in earnest, of course preferred the lively Katrinka, whose

nature was made of a hundred tinkling bells. She was a coquette in her

infancy, a coquette in her childhood, and now a coquette in her school

days. Without a thought of harm she coquetted with her studies, her

duties, even her little troubles. She coquetted with her mother, her

pet lamb, her baby brother, even with her own golden curls--tossing them

back as if she despised them. Everyone liked her, but who could love

her? She was never in earnest. A pleasant face, a pleasant heart, a

pleasant manner--these satisfy for an hour. Poor happy Katrinka! She

tinkled, tinkled so merrily through their early days, but life is so apt

to coquette with them in turn, to put all their sweet bells out of tune

or to silence them one by one!

How different were the homes of these three girls from the tumbling

old cottage where Gretel dwelt. Rychie lived in a beautiful house near

Amsterdam, where the carved sideboards were laden with services of

silver and gold and where silken tapestries hung in folds from ceiling

to floor.

Hilda’s father owned the largest mansion in Broek. Its glittering roof

of polished tiles and its boarded front, painted in half a dozen various

colors, were the admiration of the neighborhood.

Katrinka’s home, not a mile distant, was the finest of Dutch country

seats. The garden was so stiffly laid out in little paths and patches

that the birds might have mistaken it for a great Chinese puzzle with

all the pieces spread out ready for use. But in summer it was beautiful;

the flowers made the best of their stiff quarters, and, when the

gardener was not watching, glowed and bent about each other in the

prettiest way imaginable. Such a tulip bed! Why, the queen of the

fairies would never care for a grander city in which to hold her court!

But Katrinka preferred the bed of pink and white hyacinths. She loved

their freshness and fragrance and the lighthearted way in which their

bell-shaped blossoms swung in the breeze.

Carl was both right and wrong when he said that Katrinka and Rychie were

furious at the very idea of the peasant Gretel joining in the race. He

had heard Rychie declare that it was “Disgraceful, shameful, too bad!”

which in Dutch, as in English, is generally the strongest expression an

indignant girl can use; and he had seen Katrinka nod her pretty head and

heard her sweetly echo, “Shameful, too bad!” as nearly like Rychie as

tinkling bells can be like the voice of real anger. This had satisfied

him. He never suspected that had Hilda, not Rychie, first talked with

Katrinka upon the subject, the bells would have jingled as willing an

echo. She would have said, “Certainly, let her join us,” and would

have skipped off thinking no more about it. But now Katrinka with sweet

emphasis pronounced it a shame that a goose-girl, a forlorn little

creature like Gretel, should be allowed to spoil the race.

Rychie Korbes, being rich and powerful (in a schoolgirl way), had

other followers besides Katrinka who were induced to share her opinions

because they were either too careless or too cowardly to think for

themselves.

Poor little Gretel! Her home was sad and dark enough now. Raff Brinker

lay moaning upon his rough bed, and his vrouw, forgetting and forgiving

everything, bathed his forehead, his lips, weeping and praying that he

might not die. Hans, as we know, had started in desperation for Leyden

to search for Dr. Boekman and induce him, if possible, to come to their

father at once. Gretel, filled with a strange dread, had done the work

as well as she could, wiped the rough brick floor, brought peat to

build up the slow fire, and melted ice for her mother’s use. This

accomplished, she seated herself upon a low stool near the bed and

begged her mother to try to sleep awhile.

“You are so tired,” she whispered. “Not once have you closed your eyes

since that dreadful hour last night. See, I have straightened the willow

bed in the corner, and spread everything soft upon it I could find, so

that the mother might lie in comfort. Here is your jacket. Take off that

pretty dress. I’ll fold it away very carefully and put it in the big

chest before you go to sleep.”

Dame Brinker shook her head without turning her eyes from her husband’s

face.

“I can watch, mother,” urged Gretel, “and I’ll wake you every time the

father stirs. You are so pale, and your eyes are so red! Oh, mother,

DO!”

The child pleaded in vain. Dame Brinker would not leave her post.

Gretel looked at her in troubled silence, wondering whether it were very

wicked to care more for one parent than for the other, and sure--yes,

quite sure--that she dreaded her father while she clung to her mother

with a love that was almost idolatry.

Hans loves the father so well, she thought, why cannot I? Yet I could

not help crying when I saw his hand bleed that day, last month, when he

snatched the knife--and now, when he moans, how I ache, ache all over.

Perhaps I love him, after all, and God will see that I am not such a

bad, wicked girl as I thought. Yes, I love the poor father--almost as

Hans does--not quite, for Hans is stronger and does not fear him. Oh,

will that moaning go on forever and ever! Poor mother, how patient

she is; SHE never pouts, as I do, about the money that went away so

strangely. If he only could, for one instant, open his eyes and look at

us, as Hans does, and tell us where mother’s guilders went, I would not

care for the rest. Yes, I would care; I don’t want the poor father to

die, to be all blue and cold like Annie Bouman’s little sister. I KNOW I

don’t. Dear God, I don’t want Father to die.

Her thoughts merged into a prayer. When it ended the poor child scarcely

knew. Soon she found herself watching a little pulse of light at the

side of the fire, beating faintly but steadily, showing that somewhere

in the dark pile there was warmth and light that would overspread it

at last. A large earthen cup filled with burning peat stood near the

bedside; Gretel had placed it there to “stop the father’s shivering,”

she said. She watched it as it sent a glow around the mother’s form,

tipping her faded skirt with light and shedding a sort of newness over

the threadbare bodice. It was a relief to Gretel to see the lines in

that weary face soften as the firelight flickered gently across it.

Next she counted the windowpanes, broken and patched as they were, and

finally, after tracing every crack and seam in the walls, fixed her gaze

upon a carved shelf made by Hans. The shelf hung as high as Gretel

could reach. It held a large leather-covered Bible with brass clasps, a

wedding present to Dame Brinker from the family at Heidelberg.

Ah, how handy Hans is! If he were here, he could turn the father some

way so the moans would stop. Dear, dear! If this sickness lasts,

we shall never skate anymore. I must send my new skates back to the

beautiful lady. Hans and I will not see the race. And Gretel’s eyes,

that had been dry before, grew full of tears.

“Never cry, child,” said her mother soothingly. “This sickness may not

be as bad as we think. The father has lain this way before.”

Gretel sobbed now.

“Oh, mother, it is not that alone--you do not know all. I am very, very

bad and wicked!”

“YOU, Gretel! you so patient and good!” and a bright, puzzled look

beamed for an instant upon the child. “Hush, lovey, you’ll wake him.”

Gretel hid her face in her mother’s lap and tried not to cry.

Her little hand, so thin and brown, lay in the coarse palm of her

mother’s, creased with many a hard day’s work. Rychie would have

shuddered to touch either, yet they pressed warmly upon each other.

Soon Gretel looked up with that dull, homely look which, they say, poor

children in shanties are apt to have, and said in a trembling voice,

“The father tried to burn you--he did--I saw him, and he was LAUGHING!”

“Hush, child!”

The mother’s words came so suddenly and sharply that Raff Brinker, dead

as he was to all that was passing around him, twitched slightly upon the

bed.

Gretel said no more but plucked drearily at the jagged edge of a hole

in her mother’s holiday gown. It had been burned there. Well for Dame

Brinker that the gown was woolen.