Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates / Серебряные коньки. Книга для чтения на английском языке

Then new thoughts came. Why had not Hans told her? It was a shame. It was HER father as well as his. She was no baby. She had once taken a sharp knife from the father’s hand. She had even drawn him away from the mother on that awful night when Hans, as big as he was, could not help her. Why, then, must she be treated like one who could do nothing? oh, how very still it was – how bitter, bitter cold! If Annie Bouman had only stayed home instead of going to Amsterdam, it wouldn’t be so lonely. How cold her feet were growing! Was it the moaning that made her feel as if she were floating in the air?

This would not do[327] – the mother might need her help at any moment!

Rousing herself with an effort, Gretel sat upright, rubbing her eyes and wondering – wondering that the sky was so bright and blue, wondering at the stillness in the cottage, more than all, at the laughter rising and falling in the distance.

Soon she sank down again, the strange medley of thought growing more and more confused in her bewildered brain.

What a strange lip the meester had! How the stork’s nest upon the roof seemed to rustle and whisper down to her! How bright those knives were in the leather case – brighter perhaps than the silver skates. If she had but worn her new jacket, she would not shiver so. The new jacket was pretty – the only pretty thing she had ever worn. God had taken care of her father so long. He would do it still, if those two men would but go away. Ah, now the meesters were on the roof, they were clambering to the top – no – it was her mother and Hans – or the storks. It was so dark, who could tell? And the mound rocking, swinging in that strange way. How sweetly the birds were singing. They must be winter birds, for the air was thick with icicles – not one bird but twenty. Oh! hear them, Mother. Wake me, Mother, for the race. I am so tired with crying, and crying —

A firm hand was laid upon her shoulder.

“Get up, little girl!” cried a kind voice. “This will not do, for you to lie here and freeze.”

Gretel slowly raised her head. She was so sleepy that it seemed nothing strange to her that Hilda van Gleck should be leaning over her, looking with kind, beautiful eyes into her face. She had often dreamed it before.

But she had never dreamed that Hilda was shaking her roughly, almost dragging her by main force; never dreamed that she heard her saying, “Gretel! Gretel Brinker! You MUST wake!”

This was real. Gretel looked up. Still the lovely delicate young lady was shaking, rubbing, fairly pounding her. It must be a dream. No, there was the cottage – and the stork’s nest and the meester’s coach by the canal. She could see them now quite plainly. Her hands were tingling, her feet throbbing. Hilda was forcing her to walk[328].

At last Gretel began to feel like herself again.

“I have been asleep,” she faltered, rubbing her eyes with both hands and looking very much ashamed.

“Yes, indeed, entirely too much asleep” – laughed Hilda, whose lips were very pale – “but you are well enough now. Lean upon me, Gretel. There, keep moving, you will soon be warm enough to go by the fire. Now let me take you into the cottage.”

“Oh, no! no! no! jufvrouw, not in there! The meester is there. He sent me away!”

Hilda was puzzled, but she wisely forebore to ask at present for an explanation. “Very well, Gretel, try to walk faster. I saw you upon the mound, some time ago, but I thought you were playing. That is right, keep moving.”

All this time the kindhearted girl had been forcing Gretel to walk up and down, supporting her with one arm and, with the other, striving as well as she could to take off her own warm sacque.

Suddenly Gretel suspected her intention.

“Oh, jufvrouw! jufvrouw!” she cried imploringly. “PLEASE never think of such a thing as THAT. Oh! please keep it on, I am burning all over, jufvrouw! I really am burning. Not burning exactly, but pins and needles pricking all over me. Oh, jufvrouw, don’t!”

The poor child’s dismay was so genuine that Hilda hastened to reassure her.

“Very well, Gretel, move your arms then – so. Why, your cheeks are as pink as roses, already. I think the meester would let you in now, he certainly would. Is your father so very ill?”

“Ah, jufvrouw,” cried Gretel, weeping afresh, “he is dying, I think. There are two meesters in with him at this moment, and the mother has scarcely spoken today. Can you hear him moan, jufvrouw?” she added with sudden terror. “The air buzzes so I cannot hear. He may be dead! Oh, I do wish I could hear him!”

Hilda listened. The cottage was very near, but not a sound could be heard[329].

Something told her that Gretel was right. She ran to the window.

“You cannot see there, my lady,” sobbed Gretel eagerly. “The mother has oiled paper hanging inside. But at the other one, in the south end of the cottage, you can look in where the paper is torn.”

Hilda, in her anxiety, ran around, past the corner where the low roof was fringed with its loosened thatch.

A sudden thought checked her.