Chapter Four.If the reader can imagine the feelings of a man who, sentenced to death, and having resigned himself to his fate, finds himself unexpectedly reprieved; who, having recomposed his mind after the agitation arising from a renewal of those hopes and expectations which he had abandoned, once more dwells upon future prospects, and indulges in pleasing anticipations: we say, that if the reader can imagine this, and then what would be that man’s feelings when he finds that the reprieve is revoked, and that he is to suffer, he may then form some idea of the state of Philip’s mind when he quitted the cottage.Long did he walk, careless in which direction, with the letter in his clenched hand, and his teeth firmly set. Gradually he became more composed: and out of breath with the rapidity of his motion, he sat down upon a bank, and there he long remained, with his eyes riveted upon the dreaded paper, which he held with both his hands upon his knees.Mechanically he turned the letter over; the seal was black. Philip sighed:— “I cannot read it now,” thought he, and he rose and continued his devious way.For another half-hour did Philip keep in motion, and the sun was not many degrees above the horizon. Philip stopped and looked at it till his vision failed. “I could imagine that it was the eye of God,” thought Philip, “and perhaps it may be. Why, then, merciful Creator, am I thus selected from so many millions to fulfil so dire a task?”Philip looked about him for some spot where he might be concealed from observation—where he might break the seal, and read this mission from a world of spirits. A small copse of brushwood, in advance of a grove of trees, was not far from where he stood. He walked to it, and sat down, so as to be concealed from any passers by. Philip once more looked at the descending orb of day, and by degrees he became composed.“It is thy will,” exclaimed he; “it is my fate, and both must be accomplished.”Philip put his hand to the seal,—his blood thrilled when he called to mind that it had been delivered by no mortal hand, and that it contained the secret of one in judgment. He remembered that that one was his father; and that it was only in the letter that there was hope,—hope for his poor father, whose memory he had been taught to love, and who appealed for help.“Coward that I am, to have lost so many hours!” exclaimed Philip; “yon sun appears as if waiting on the hill, to give me light to read.”Philip mused a short time; he was once more the daring Vanderdecken. Calmly he broke the seal, which bore the initials of his father’s name, and read as follows:—“ToCatherine.“One of those pitying spirits whose eyes rain tears for mortal crimes has been permitted to inform me by what means alone my dreadful doom may be averted.“Could I but receive on the deck of my own ship the holy relic upon which I swore the fatal oath, kiss it in all humility, and shed one tear of deep contrition on the sacred wood, I then might rest in peace.“How this may be effected, or by whom so fatal a task will be undertaken, I know not. O Catherine, we have a son—but, no, no, let him not hear of me. Pray for me, and now, farewell.“I. Vanderdecken.”“Then it is true, most horribly true,” thought Philip; “and my father is even nowIn Living Judgment. And he points to me,—to whom else should he? Am I not his son, and is it not my duty?”“Yes, father,” exclaimed Philip aloud, falling on his knees, “you have not written these lines in vain. Let me peruse them once more.”Philip raised up his hand; but although it appeared to him that he had still hold of the letter, it was not there—he grasped nothing. He looked on the grass to see if it had fallen—but no, there was no letter, it had disappeared. Was it a vision?—no, no, he had read every word. “Then it must be to me, and me alone, that the mission was intended. I accept the sign.“Hear me, dear father,—if thou art so permitted,—and deign to hear me, gracious Heaven—hear the son who, by this sacred relic, swears that he will avert your doom, or perish. To that will he devote his days; and having done his duty, he will die in hope and peace. Heaven, that recorded my rash father’s oath, now register his son’s upon the same sacred cross, and may perjury on my part be visited with punishment more dire than his! Receive it, Heaven, as at the last I trust that in thy mercy thou wilt receive the father and the son: and if too bold, O pardon my presumption.”Philip threw himself forward on his face, with his lips to the sacred symbol. The sun went down, and the twilight gradually disappeared; night had, for some time, shrouded all in darkness, and Philip yet remained in alternate prayer and meditation!But he was disturbed by the voices of some men, who sat down upon the turf but a few yards from where he was concealed. The conversation he little heeded; but it had roused him and his first feeling was to return to the cottage, that he might reflect over his plans; but although the men spoke in a low tone, his attention was soon arrested by the subject of their conversation, when he heard the name mentioned of Mynheer Poots. He listened attentively, and discovered that they were four disbanded soldiers, who intended that night to attack the house of the little doctor, who had, they knew, much money in his possession.“What I have proposed is the best,” said one of them; “he has no one with him but his daughter.”“I value her more than his money,” replied another; “so, recollect before we go, it is perfectly understood that she is to be my property.”“Yes, if you choose to purchase her, there’s no objection,” replied a third.“Agreed; how much will you in conscience ask for a paling girl?”“I say five hundred guilders,” replied another.“Well, be it so, but on this condition, that if my share of the booty does not amount to so much, I am to have her for my share, whatever it may be.”“That’s very fair,” replied the other: “but I’m much mistaken if we don’t turn more than two thousand guilders out of the old man’s chest.”“What do you two say—is it agreed—shall Baetens have her?”“O yes,” replied the others.“Well, then,” replied the one who had stipulated for Mynheer Poots’s daughter, “now I am with you heart and soul. I loved that girl, and tried to get her,—I positively offered to marry her, but the old hunks refused me, an ensign, an officer; but now I’ll have revenge. We must not spare him.”“No, no,” replied the others.“Shall we go now, or wait till it is later? In an hour or more the moon will be up,—we may be seen.”“Who is to see us? unless, indeed, some one is sent for him. The later the better, I say.”“How long will it take us to get there? Not half an hour if we walk. Suppose we start in half an hour hence, we shall just have the moon to count the guilders by.”“That’s all right. In the meantime, I’ll put a new flint in my lock, and have my carbine loaded. I can work in the dark.”“You are used to it, Jan.”“Yes, I am,—and I intend this ball to go through the old rascal’s head.”“Well, I’d rather you should kill him than I,” replied one of the others, “for he saved my life at Middleburgh, when every one made sure I’d die.”Philip did not wait to hear any more; he crawled behind the bushes until he gained the grove of trees, and passing through them, made a détour, so as not to be seen by these miscreants. That they were disbanded soldiers, many of whom were infesting the country, he knew well. All his thoughts were now to save the old doctor and his daughter from the danger which threatened them; and for a time he forgot his father, and the exciting revelations of the day. Although Philip had not been aware in what direction he had walked when he set off from the cottage, he knew the country well; and now that it was necessary to act, he remembered the direction in which he should find the lonely house of Mynheer Poots: with the utmost speed he made his way for it, and in less than twenty minutes he arrived there out of breath.As usual, all was silent, and the door fastened. Philip knocked, but there was no reply. Again and again he knocked, and became impatient. Mynheer Poots must have been summoned, and was not in the house; Philip therefore called out so as to be heard within, “Maiden, if your father is out, as I presume he must be, listen to what I have to say—I am Philip Vanderdecken. But now I overheard four wretches, who have planned to murder your father, and rob him of his gold. In one hour, or less, they will be here, and I have hastened to warn and to protect you, if I may. I swear upon the relic that you delivered to me this morning, that what I state is true.”Philip waited a short time, but received no answer.“Maiden,” resumed he, “answer me, if you value that which is more dear to you than even your father’s gold to him. Open the casement above, and listen to what I have to say. In so doing there is no risk; and even if it were not dark, already have I seen you.”A short time after this second address, the casement of the upper window was unbarred, and the slight form of the fair daughter of Mynheer Poots was to be distinguished by Philip through the gloom.“What wouldst thou young sir, at this unseemly hour? and what is it thou wouldst impart, but imperfectly heard by me, when thou spokest this minute at the door?”Philip then entered into a detail of all that he had overheard, and concluded by begging her to admit him, that he might defend her.“Think, fair maiden, of what I have told you. You have been sold to one of those reprobates, whose name I think they mentioned was Baetens. The gold, I know, you value not; but think of thine own dear self—suffer me to enter the house, and think not for one moment that my story is feigned. I swear to thee, by the soul of my poor dear mother, now, I trust, in heaven, that every word is true.”“Baetens, did you say, sir?”“If I mistook them not, such was the name; he said he loved you once.”“That name I have in memory—I know not what to do, or what to say: my father has been summoned to a birth, and may be yet away for many hours. Yet how can I ope the door to you—at night—he not at home—I alone? I ought not—cannot—yet do I believe you. You surely never could be so base as to invent this tale.”“No—upon my hopes of future bliss I could not, maiden! you must not trifle with your life and honour, but let me in.”“And if I did, what could you do against such numbers?”“They are four to one—would soon overpower you, and one more life would be lost.”“Not if you have arms; and I think your father would not be left without them. I fear them not—you know that I am resolute.”“I do indeed—and now you’d risk your life for those you did assail. I thank you, thank you kindly, sir—but dare not ope the door.”“Then, maiden, if you’ll not admit me, here will I now remain; without arms, and but ill able to contend with four armed villains; but still, here will I remain and prove my truth to one I will protect ’gainst any odds—yes, even here!”“Then shall I be thy murderer!—but that must not be. Oh! sir—swear, swear by all that’s holy, and by all that’s pure, that—you do not deceive me.”“I swear by thyself, maiden, than all to me more sacred!”The casement closed, and in a short time a light appeared above. In a minute or two more the door was opened to Philip by the fair daughter of Mynheer Poots. She stood with the candle in her right hand, the colour in her cheeks varying—now flushing red, and again deadly pale. Her left hand was down by her side, and in it she held a pistol half concealed. Philip perceived this precaution on her part, but took no notice of it; he wished to re-assure her.“Maiden!” said he, not entering, “if you still have doubts—if you think you have been ill advised in giving me admission—there is yet time to close the door against me; but for your own sake I entreat you not. Before the moon is up, the robbers will be here. With my life I will protect you, if you will but trust me. Who indeed could injure one like you?”She was indeed (as she stood irresolute and perplexed from the peculiarity of her situation, yet not wanting in courage when it was to be called forth) an object well worthy of gaze and admiration. Her features thrown into broad light and shade by the candle which at times was half extinguished by the wind—her symmetry of form and the gracefulness and singularity of her attire—were matter of astonishment to Philip. Her head was without covering, and her long hair fell in plaits behind her shoulders; her stature was rather under the middle size, but her form perfect; her dress was simple but becoming, and very different from that usually worn by the young women of the district. Not only her features but her dress would at once have indicated to a traveller that she was of Arab blood, as was the fact.She looked in Philip’s face as he spoke—earnestly, as if she would have penetrated into his inmost thoughts; but there was a frankness and honesty in his bearing, and a sincerity in his manly countenance, which re-assured her. After a moment’s hesitation she replied—“Come in, sir; I feel that I can trust you.”Philip entered. The door was then closed and made secure.“We have no time to lose, maiden,” said Philip: “but tell me your name, that I may address you as I ought.”“My name is Amine,” replied she, retreating a little.“I thank you for that little confidence; but I must not dally. What arms have you in the house, and have you ammunition?”“Both. I wish that my father would come home.”“And so do I,” replied Philip, “devoutedly wish he would, before these murderers come; but not, I trust, while the attack is making, for there’s a carbine loaded expressly for his head, and if they make him prisoner, they will not spare his life, unless his gold and your person are given in ransom. But the arms, maiden—where are they?”“Follow me,” replied Amine, leading Philip to an inner room on the upper floor. It was the sanctum of her father, and was surrounded with shelves filled with bottles and boxes of drugs. In one corner was an iron chest, and over the mantelpiece were a brace of carbines and three pistols.“They are all loaded,” observed Amine, pointing to them, and laying on the table the one which she had held in her hand.Philip took down the arms and examined all the primings. He then took up from the table the pistol which Amine had laid there, and threw open the pan. It was equally well prepared. Philip closed the pan, and with a smile observed:—“So this was meant for me, Amine?”“No—not for you—but for a traitor, had one gained admittance.”“Now, maiden,” observed Philip, “I shall station myself at the casement which you opened, but without a light in the room. You may remain here, and can turn the key for your security.”“You little know me,” replied Amine. “In that way at least I am not fearful: I must remain near you and reload the arms—a task in which I am well practised.”“No, no,” replied Philip, “you might be hurt.”“I may. But think you I will remain here idly, when I can assist one who risks his life for me? I know my duty, sir, and I shall perform it.”“You must not risk your life, Amine,” replied Philip; “my aim will not be steady if I know that you’re in danger. But I must take the arms into the other chamber, for the time is come.”Philip, assisted by Amine, carried the carbines and pistols into the adjoining chamber; and Amine then left Philip, carrying with her the light. Philip, as soon as he was alone, opened the casement and looked out—there was no one to be seen; he listened, but all was silent. The moon was just rising above the distant hill, but her light was dimmed by fleecy clouds, and Philip watched for a few minutes; at length he heard a whispering below. He looked out, and could distinguish through the dark the four expected assailants, standing close to the door of the house. He walked away softly from the window, and went into the next room to Amine, whom he found busy preparing the ammunition.“Amine, they are at the door, in consultation. You can see them now without risk. I thank them, for they will convince you that I have told the truth.”Amine, without reply, went into the front room and looked out of the window. She returned, and laying her hand upon Philip’s arm, she said—“Grant me your pardon for my doubts. I fear nothing now but that my father may return too soon, and they seize him.”Philip left the room again, to make his reconnoissance. The robbers did not appear to have made up their mind—the strength of the door defied their utmost efforts, so they attempted stratagem. They knocked, and as there was no reply, they continued to knock louder and louder: not meeting with success, they held another consultation, and the muzzle of a carbine was then put to the keyhole, and the piece discharged. The lock of the door was blown off, but the iron bars which crossed the door within, above and below, still held it fast.Although Philip would have been justified in firing upon the robbers when he first perceived them in consultation at the door, still there is that feeling in a generous mind which prevents the taking away of life, except from stern necessity; and this feeling made him withhold his fire until hostilities had actually commenced. He now levelled one of the carbines at the head of the robber nearest to the door, who was busy examining the effect which the discharge of the piece had made, and what further obstacles intervened. The aim was true, and the man fell dead, while the others started back with surprise at the unexpected retaliation. But in a second or two a pistol was discharged at Philip, who still remained leaning out of the casement, fortunately without effect; and the next moment he felt himself drawn away, so as to be protected from their fire. It was Amine, who, unknown to Philip, had been standing by his side.“You must not expose yourself, Philip,” said she, in a low tone.“She called me Philip,” thought he, but made no reply.“They will be watching for you at the casement now,” said Amine. “Take the other carbine, and go below in the passage. If the lock of the door is blown off, they may put their arms in, perhaps, and remove the bars. I do not think they can, but I’m not sure; at all events, it is there you should now be, as there they will not expect you.”“You are right,” replied Philip, going down.“But you must not fire more than once there; if another fall, there will be but two to deal with, and they cannot watch the casement and force admittance too. Go—I will reload the carbine.”Philip descended softly and without a light. He went up to the door, and perceived that one of the miscreants, with his arm through the hole where the lock was blown off, was working at the upper iron bar, which he could just reach. He presented his carbine, and was about to fire the whole charge into the body of the man under his raised arm, when there was a report of fire-arms from the robbers outside.“Amine has exposed herself,” thought Philip, “and may be hurt.”The desire of vengeance prompted him first to fire his piece through the man’s body, and then he flew up the stairs to ascertain the state of Amine. She was not at the casement; he darted into the inner room, and found her deliberately loading the carbine.“My God! how you frightened me, Amine. I thought by their firing that you had shown yourself at the window.”“Indeed I did not; but I thought that when you fired through the door they might return your fire, and you be hurt; so I went to the side of the casement and pushed out on a stick some of my father’s clothes, and they who were watching for you fired immediately.”“Indeed, Amine! who could have expected such courage and such coolness in one so young and beautiful?” exclaimed Philip, with surprise.“Are none but ill-favoured people brave, then?” replied Amine, smiling.“I did not mean that, Amine—but I am losing time. I must to the door again. Give me that carbine, and reload this.”Philip crept down stairs that he might reconnoitre, but before he had gained the door he heard at a distance the voice of Mynheer Poots. Amine, who also heard it, was in a moment at his side with a loaded pistol in each hand.“Fear not, Amine,” said Philip, as he unbarred the door, “there are but two, and your father shall be saved.”The door was opened, and Philip, seizing his carbine, rushed out; he found Mynheer Poots on the ground between the two men, one of whom had raised his knife to plunge it into his body, when the ball of the carbine whizzed through his head. The last of the robbers closed with Philip, and a desperate struggle ensued—it was however, soon decided by Amine stepping forward and firing one of the pistols through the robber’s body.We must here inform our readers that Mynheer Poots, when coming home, had heard the report of fire-arms in the direction of his own house. The recollection of his daughter and of his money—for to do him justice he did love her best—had lent him wings; he forgot that he was a feeble old man and without arms; all he thought of was to gain his habitation. On he came, reckless, frantic, and shouting, and rushed into the arms of the two robbers, who seized and would have despatched him, had not Philip so opportunely come to his assistance.As soon as the last robber fell, Philip disengaged himself and went to the assistance of Mynheer Poots, whom he raised up in his arms and carried into the house as if he were an infant. The old man was still in a state of delirium from fear and previous excitement.In a few minutes, Mynheer Poots was more coherent.“My daughter!” exclaimed he—“my daughter! where is she?”“She is here father, and safe,” replied Amine.“Ah! my child is safe,” said he, opening his eyes and staring. “Yes, it is even so—and my money—my money—where is my money?” continued he, starting up.“Quite safe, father.”“Quite safe—you say quite safe—are you sure of it?—let me see.”“There it is, father, as you may perceive, quite safe—thanks to one whom you have not treated so well.”“Who—what do you mean?—Ah, yes, I see him now—’tis Philip Vanderdecken—he owes me three guilders and a half, and there is a phial—did he save you—and my money, child?”“He did, indeed at the risk of his life.”“Well, well, I will forgive him the whole debt—yes, the whole of it; but—the phial is of no use to him—he must return that. Give me some water.”It was some time before the old man could regain his perfect reason. Philip left him with his daughter, and, taking a brace of loaded pistols, went out to ascertain the fate of the four assailants. The moon, having climbed above the bank of clouds which had obscured her, was now high in the heavens, shining bright, and he could distinguish clearly. The two men lying across the threshold of the door were quite dead. The others, who had seized upon Mynheer Poots, were still alive, but one was expiring and the other bled fast. Philip put a few questions to the latter, but he either would not or could not make any reply; he removed their weapons and returned to the house, where he found the old man attended by his daughter, in a state of comparative composure.“I thank you, Philip Vanderdecken—I thank you much. You have saved my dear child, and my money—that is little, very little—for I am poor. May you live long and happily!”Philip mused; the letter and his vow were, for the first time since he fell in with the robbers, recalled to his recollection, and a shade passed over his countenance.“Long and happily—no, no,” muttered he, with an involuntary shake of the head.“And I must thank you,” said Amine, looking inquiringly in Philip’s face. “O, how much have I to thank you for!—and indeed I am grateful.”“Yes, yes, she is very grateful,” interrupted the old man; “but we are poor—very poor. I talked about my money because I have so little, and I cannot afford to lose it; but you shall not pay me the three guilders and a half—I am content to lose that, Mr Philip.”“Why should you lose even that, Mynheer Poots?—I promised to pay you, and will keep my word. I have plenty of money—thousands of guilders, and know not what to do with them.”“You—you—thousands of guilders!” exclaimed Poots. “Pooh, nonsense, that won’t do.”“I repeat to you, Amine,” said Philip, “that I have thousands of guilders: you know I would not tell you a falsehood.”“I believed you when you said so to my father,” replied Amine.“Then, perhaps, as you have so much, and I am so very poor, Mr Vanderdecken—”But Amine put her hand upon her father’s lips, and the sentence was not finished.“Father,” said Amine, “it is time that we retire. You must leave us for to-night, Philip.”“I will not,” replied Philip; “nor, you may depend upon it, will I sleep. You may both to bed in safety. It is indeed time that you retire—good night, Mynheer Poots. I will but ask a lamp, and then I leave you—Amine, good night.”“Good night,” said Amine, extending her hand, “and many, many thanks.”“Thousands of guilders!” muttered the old man, as Philip left the room and went below.
If the reader can imagine the feelings of a man who, sentenced to death, and having resigned himself to his fate, finds himself unexpectedly reprieved; who, having recomposed his mind after the agitation arising from a renewal of those hopes and expectations which he had abandoned, once more dwells upon future prospects, and indulges in pleasing anticipations: we say, that if the reader can imagine this, and then what would be that man’s feelings when he finds that the reprieve is revoked, and that he is to suffer, he may then form some idea of the state of Philip’s mind when he quitted the cottage.
Long did he walk, careless in which direction, with the letter in his clenched hand, and his teeth firmly set. Gradually he became more composed: and out of breath with the rapidity of his motion, he sat down upon a bank, and there he long remained, with his eyes riveted upon the dreaded paper, which he held with both his hands upon his knees.
Mechanically he turned the letter over; the seal was black. Philip sighed:— “I cannot read it now,” thought he, and he rose and continued his devious way.
For another half-hour did Philip keep in motion, and the sun was not many degrees above the horizon. Philip stopped and looked at it till his vision failed. “I could imagine that it was the eye of God,” thought Philip, “and perhaps it may be. Why, then, merciful Creator, am I thus selected from so many millions to fulfil so dire a task?”
Philip looked about him for some spot where he might be concealed from observation—where he might break the seal, and read this mission from a world of spirits. A small copse of brushwood, in advance of a grove of trees, was not far from where he stood. He walked to it, and sat down, so as to be concealed from any passers by. Philip once more looked at the descending orb of day, and by degrees he became composed.
“It is thy will,” exclaimed he; “it is my fate, and both must be accomplished.”
Philip put his hand to the seal,—his blood thrilled when he called to mind that it had been delivered by no mortal hand, and that it contained the secret of one in judgment. He remembered that that one was his father; and that it was only in the letter that there was hope,—hope for his poor father, whose memory he had been taught to love, and who appealed for help.
“Coward that I am, to have lost so many hours!” exclaimed Philip; “yon sun appears as if waiting on the hill, to give me light to read.”
Philip mused a short time; he was once more the daring Vanderdecken. Calmly he broke the seal, which bore the initials of his father’s name, and read as follows:—
“ToCatherine.“One of those pitying spirits whose eyes rain tears for mortal crimes has been permitted to inform me by what means alone my dreadful doom may be averted.“Could I but receive on the deck of my own ship the holy relic upon which I swore the fatal oath, kiss it in all humility, and shed one tear of deep contrition on the sacred wood, I then might rest in peace.“How this may be effected, or by whom so fatal a task will be undertaken, I know not. O Catherine, we have a son—but, no, no, let him not hear of me. Pray for me, and now, farewell.“I. Vanderdecken.”
“ToCatherine.
“One of those pitying spirits whose eyes rain tears for mortal crimes has been permitted to inform me by what means alone my dreadful doom may be averted.
“Could I but receive on the deck of my own ship the holy relic upon which I swore the fatal oath, kiss it in all humility, and shed one tear of deep contrition on the sacred wood, I then might rest in peace.
“How this may be effected, or by whom so fatal a task will be undertaken, I know not. O Catherine, we have a son—but, no, no, let him not hear of me. Pray for me, and now, farewell.
“I. Vanderdecken.”
“Then it is true, most horribly true,” thought Philip; “and my father is even nowIn Living Judgment. And he points to me,—to whom else should he? Am I not his son, and is it not my duty?”
“Yes, father,” exclaimed Philip aloud, falling on his knees, “you have not written these lines in vain. Let me peruse them once more.”
Philip raised up his hand; but although it appeared to him that he had still hold of the letter, it was not there—he grasped nothing. He looked on the grass to see if it had fallen—but no, there was no letter, it had disappeared. Was it a vision?—no, no, he had read every word. “Then it must be to me, and me alone, that the mission was intended. I accept the sign.
“Hear me, dear father,—if thou art so permitted,—and deign to hear me, gracious Heaven—hear the son who, by this sacred relic, swears that he will avert your doom, or perish. To that will he devote his days; and having done his duty, he will die in hope and peace. Heaven, that recorded my rash father’s oath, now register his son’s upon the same sacred cross, and may perjury on my part be visited with punishment more dire than his! Receive it, Heaven, as at the last I trust that in thy mercy thou wilt receive the father and the son: and if too bold, O pardon my presumption.”
Philip threw himself forward on his face, with his lips to the sacred symbol. The sun went down, and the twilight gradually disappeared; night had, for some time, shrouded all in darkness, and Philip yet remained in alternate prayer and meditation!
But he was disturbed by the voices of some men, who sat down upon the turf but a few yards from where he was concealed. The conversation he little heeded; but it had roused him and his first feeling was to return to the cottage, that he might reflect over his plans; but although the men spoke in a low tone, his attention was soon arrested by the subject of their conversation, when he heard the name mentioned of Mynheer Poots. He listened attentively, and discovered that they were four disbanded soldiers, who intended that night to attack the house of the little doctor, who had, they knew, much money in his possession.
“What I have proposed is the best,” said one of them; “he has no one with him but his daughter.”
“I value her more than his money,” replied another; “so, recollect before we go, it is perfectly understood that she is to be my property.”
“Yes, if you choose to purchase her, there’s no objection,” replied a third.
“Agreed; how much will you in conscience ask for a paling girl?”
“I say five hundred guilders,” replied another.
“Well, be it so, but on this condition, that if my share of the booty does not amount to so much, I am to have her for my share, whatever it may be.”
“That’s very fair,” replied the other: “but I’m much mistaken if we don’t turn more than two thousand guilders out of the old man’s chest.”
“What do you two say—is it agreed—shall Baetens have her?”
“O yes,” replied the others.
“Well, then,” replied the one who had stipulated for Mynheer Poots’s daughter, “now I am with you heart and soul. I loved that girl, and tried to get her,—I positively offered to marry her, but the old hunks refused me, an ensign, an officer; but now I’ll have revenge. We must not spare him.”
“No, no,” replied the others.
“Shall we go now, or wait till it is later? In an hour or more the moon will be up,—we may be seen.”
“Who is to see us? unless, indeed, some one is sent for him. The later the better, I say.”
“How long will it take us to get there? Not half an hour if we walk. Suppose we start in half an hour hence, we shall just have the moon to count the guilders by.”
“That’s all right. In the meantime, I’ll put a new flint in my lock, and have my carbine loaded. I can work in the dark.”
“You are used to it, Jan.”
“Yes, I am,—and I intend this ball to go through the old rascal’s head.”
“Well, I’d rather you should kill him than I,” replied one of the others, “for he saved my life at Middleburgh, when every one made sure I’d die.”
Philip did not wait to hear any more; he crawled behind the bushes until he gained the grove of trees, and passing through them, made a détour, so as not to be seen by these miscreants. That they were disbanded soldiers, many of whom were infesting the country, he knew well. All his thoughts were now to save the old doctor and his daughter from the danger which threatened them; and for a time he forgot his father, and the exciting revelations of the day. Although Philip had not been aware in what direction he had walked when he set off from the cottage, he knew the country well; and now that it was necessary to act, he remembered the direction in which he should find the lonely house of Mynheer Poots: with the utmost speed he made his way for it, and in less than twenty minutes he arrived there out of breath.
As usual, all was silent, and the door fastened. Philip knocked, but there was no reply. Again and again he knocked, and became impatient. Mynheer Poots must have been summoned, and was not in the house; Philip therefore called out so as to be heard within, “Maiden, if your father is out, as I presume he must be, listen to what I have to say—I am Philip Vanderdecken. But now I overheard four wretches, who have planned to murder your father, and rob him of his gold. In one hour, or less, they will be here, and I have hastened to warn and to protect you, if I may. I swear upon the relic that you delivered to me this morning, that what I state is true.”
Philip waited a short time, but received no answer.
“Maiden,” resumed he, “answer me, if you value that which is more dear to you than even your father’s gold to him. Open the casement above, and listen to what I have to say. In so doing there is no risk; and even if it were not dark, already have I seen you.”
A short time after this second address, the casement of the upper window was unbarred, and the slight form of the fair daughter of Mynheer Poots was to be distinguished by Philip through the gloom.
“What wouldst thou young sir, at this unseemly hour? and what is it thou wouldst impart, but imperfectly heard by me, when thou spokest this minute at the door?”
Philip then entered into a detail of all that he had overheard, and concluded by begging her to admit him, that he might defend her.
“Think, fair maiden, of what I have told you. You have been sold to one of those reprobates, whose name I think they mentioned was Baetens. The gold, I know, you value not; but think of thine own dear self—suffer me to enter the house, and think not for one moment that my story is feigned. I swear to thee, by the soul of my poor dear mother, now, I trust, in heaven, that every word is true.”
“Baetens, did you say, sir?”
“If I mistook them not, such was the name; he said he loved you once.”
“That name I have in memory—I know not what to do, or what to say: my father has been summoned to a birth, and may be yet away for many hours. Yet how can I ope the door to you—at night—he not at home—I alone? I ought not—cannot—yet do I believe you. You surely never could be so base as to invent this tale.”
“No—upon my hopes of future bliss I could not, maiden! you must not trifle with your life and honour, but let me in.”
“And if I did, what could you do against such numbers?”
“They are four to one—would soon overpower you, and one more life would be lost.”
“Not if you have arms; and I think your father would not be left without them. I fear them not—you know that I am resolute.”
“I do indeed—and now you’d risk your life for those you did assail. I thank you, thank you kindly, sir—but dare not ope the door.”
“Then, maiden, if you’ll not admit me, here will I now remain; without arms, and but ill able to contend with four armed villains; but still, here will I remain and prove my truth to one I will protect ’gainst any odds—yes, even here!”
“Then shall I be thy murderer!—but that must not be. Oh! sir—swear, swear by all that’s holy, and by all that’s pure, that—you do not deceive me.”
“I swear by thyself, maiden, than all to me more sacred!”
The casement closed, and in a short time a light appeared above. In a minute or two more the door was opened to Philip by the fair daughter of Mynheer Poots. She stood with the candle in her right hand, the colour in her cheeks varying—now flushing red, and again deadly pale. Her left hand was down by her side, and in it she held a pistol half concealed. Philip perceived this precaution on her part, but took no notice of it; he wished to re-assure her.
“Maiden!” said he, not entering, “if you still have doubts—if you think you have been ill advised in giving me admission—there is yet time to close the door against me; but for your own sake I entreat you not. Before the moon is up, the robbers will be here. With my life I will protect you, if you will but trust me. Who indeed could injure one like you?”
She was indeed (as she stood irresolute and perplexed from the peculiarity of her situation, yet not wanting in courage when it was to be called forth) an object well worthy of gaze and admiration. Her features thrown into broad light and shade by the candle which at times was half extinguished by the wind—her symmetry of form and the gracefulness and singularity of her attire—were matter of astonishment to Philip. Her head was without covering, and her long hair fell in plaits behind her shoulders; her stature was rather under the middle size, but her form perfect; her dress was simple but becoming, and very different from that usually worn by the young women of the district. Not only her features but her dress would at once have indicated to a traveller that she was of Arab blood, as was the fact.
She looked in Philip’s face as he spoke—earnestly, as if she would have penetrated into his inmost thoughts; but there was a frankness and honesty in his bearing, and a sincerity in his manly countenance, which re-assured her. After a moment’s hesitation she replied—
“Come in, sir; I feel that I can trust you.”
Philip entered. The door was then closed and made secure.
“We have no time to lose, maiden,” said Philip: “but tell me your name, that I may address you as I ought.”
“My name is Amine,” replied she, retreating a little.
“I thank you for that little confidence; but I must not dally. What arms have you in the house, and have you ammunition?”
“Both. I wish that my father would come home.”
“And so do I,” replied Philip, “devoutedly wish he would, before these murderers come; but not, I trust, while the attack is making, for there’s a carbine loaded expressly for his head, and if they make him prisoner, they will not spare his life, unless his gold and your person are given in ransom. But the arms, maiden—where are they?”
“Follow me,” replied Amine, leading Philip to an inner room on the upper floor. It was the sanctum of her father, and was surrounded with shelves filled with bottles and boxes of drugs. In one corner was an iron chest, and over the mantelpiece were a brace of carbines and three pistols.
“They are all loaded,” observed Amine, pointing to them, and laying on the table the one which she had held in her hand.
Philip took down the arms and examined all the primings. He then took up from the table the pistol which Amine had laid there, and threw open the pan. It was equally well prepared. Philip closed the pan, and with a smile observed:—
“So this was meant for me, Amine?”
“No—not for you—but for a traitor, had one gained admittance.”
“Now, maiden,” observed Philip, “I shall station myself at the casement which you opened, but without a light in the room. You may remain here, and can turn the key for your security.”
“You little know me,” replied Amine. “In that way at least I am not fearful: I must remain near you and reload the arms—a task in which I am well practised.”
“No, no,” replied Philip, “you might be hurt.”
“I may. But think you I will remain here idly, when I can assist one who risks his life for me? I know my duty, sir, and I shall perform it.”
“You must not risk your life, Amine,” replied Philip; “my aim will not be steady if I know that you’re in danger. But I must take the arms into the other chamber, for the time is come.”
Philip, assisted by Amine, carried the carbines and pistols into the adjoining chamber; and Amine then left Philip, carrying with her the light. Philip, as soon as he was alone, opened the casement and looked out—there was no one to be seen; he listened, but all was silent. The moon was just rising above the distant hill, but her light was dimmed by fleecy clouds, and Philip watched for a few minutes; at length he heard a whispering below. He looked out, and could distinguish through the dark the four expected assailants, standing close to the door of the house. He walked away softly from the window, and went into the next room to Amine, whom he found busy preparing the ammunition.
“Amine, they are at the door, in consultation. You can see them now without risk. I thank them, for they will convince you that I have told the truth.”
Amine, without reply, went into the front room and looked out of the window. She returned, and laying her hand upon Philip’s arm, she said—“Grant me your pardon for my doubts. I fear nothing now but that my father may return too soon, and they seize him.”
Philip left the room again, to make his reconnoissance. The robbers did not appear to have made up their mind—the strength of the door defied their utmost efforts, so they attempted stratagem. They knocked, and as there was no reply, they continued to knock louder and louder: not meeting with success, they held another consultation, and the muzzle of a carbine was then put to the keyhole, and the piece discharged. The lock of the door was blown off, but the iron bars which crossed the door within, above and below, still held it fast.
Although Philip would have been justified in firing upon the robbers when he first perceived them in consultation at the door, still there is that feeling in a generous mind which prevents the taking away of life, except from stern necessity; and this feeling made him withhold his fire until hostilities had actually commenced. He now levelled one of the carbines at the head of the robber nearest to the door, who was busy examining the effect which the discharge of the piece had made, and what further obstacles intervened. The aim was true, and the man fell dead, while the others started back with surprise at the unexpected retaliation. But in a second or two a pistol was discharged at Philip, who still remained leaning out of the casement, fortunately without effect; and the next moment he felt himself drawn away, so as to be protected from their fire. It was Amine, who, unknown to Philip, had been standing by his side.
“You must not expose yourself, Philip,” said she, in a low tone.
“She called me Philip,” thought he, but made no reply.
“They will be watching for you at the casement now,” said Amine. “Take the other carbine, and go below in the passage. If the lock of the door is blown off, they may put their arms in, perhaps, and remove the bars. I do not think they can, but I’m not sure; at all events, it is there you should now be, as there they will not expect you.”
“You are right,” replied Philip, going down.
“But you must not fire more than once there; if another fall, there will be but two to deal with, and they cannot watch the casement and force admittance too. Go—I will reload the carbine.”
Philip descended softly and without a light. He went up to the door, and perceived that one of the miscreants, with his arm through the hole where the lock was blown off, was working at the upper iron bar, which he could just reach. He presented his carbine, and was about to fire the whole charge into the body of the man under his raised arm, when there was a report of fire-arms from the robbers outside.
“Amine has exposed herself,” thought Philip, “and may be hurt.”
The desire of vengeance prompted him first to fire his piece through the man’s body, and then he flew up the stairs to ascertain the state of Amine. She was not at the casement; he darted into the inner room, and found her deliberately loading the carbine.
“My God! how you frightened me, Amine. I thought by their firing that you had shown yourself at the window.”
“Indeed I did not; but I thought that when you fired through the door they might return your fire, and you be hurt; so I went to the side of the casement and pushed out on a stick some of my father’s clothes, and they who were watching for you fired immediately.”
“Indeed, Amine! who could have expected such courage and such coolness in one so young and beautiful?” exclaimed Philip, with surprise.
“Are none but ill-favoured people brave, then?” replied Amine, smiling.
“I did not mean that, Amine—but I am losing time. I must to the door again. Give me that carbine, and reload this.”
Philip crept down stairs that he might reconnoitre, but before he had gained the door he heard at a distance the voice of Mynheer Poots. Amine, who also heard it, was in a moment at his side with a loaded pistol in each hand.
“Fear not, Amine,” said Philip, as he unbarred the door, “there are but two, and your father shall be saved.”
The door was opened, and Philip, seizing his carbine, rushed out; he found Mynheer Poots on the ground between the two men, one of whom had raised his knife to plunge it into his body, when the ball of the carbine whizzed through his head. The last of the robbers closed with Philip, and a desperate struggle ensued—it was however, soon decided by Amine stepping forward and firing one of the pistols through the robber’s body.
We must here inform our readers that Mynheer Poots, when coming home, had heard the report of fire-arms in the direction of his own house. The recollection of his daughter and of his money—for to do him justice he did love her best—had lent him wings; he forgot that he was a feeble old man and without arms; all he thought of was to gain his habitation. On he came, reckless, frantic, and shouting, and rushed into the arms of the two robbers, who seized and would have despatched him, had not Philip so opportunely come to his assistance.
As soon as the last robber fell, Philip disengaged himself and went to the assistance of Mynheer Poots, whom he raised up in his arms and carried into the house as if he were an infant. The old man was still in a state of delirium from fear and previous excitement.
In a few minutes, Mynheer Poots was more coherent.
“My daughter!” exclaimed he—“my daughter! where is she?”
“She is here father, and safe,” replied Amine.
“Ah! my child is safe,” said he, opening his eyes and staring. “Yes, it is even so—and my money—my money—where is my money?” continued he, starting up.
“Quite safe, father.”
“Quite safe—you say quite safe—are you sure of it?—let me see.”
“There it is, father, as you may perceive, quite safe—thanks to one whom you have not treated so well.”
“Who—what do you mean?—Ah, yes, I see him now—’tis Philip Vanderdecken—he owes me three guilders and a half, and there is a phial—did he save you—and my money, child?”
“He did, indeed at the risk of his life.”
“Well, well, I will forgive him the whole debt—yes, the whole of it; but—the phial is of no use to him—he must return that. Give me some water.”
It was some time before the old man could regain his perfect reason. Philip left him with his daughter, and, taking a brace of loaded pistols, went out to ascertain the fate of the four assailants. The moon, having climbed above the bank of clouds which had obscured her, was now high in the heavens, shining bright, and he could distinguish clearly. The two men lying across the threshold of the door were quite dead. The others, who had seized upon Mynheer Poots, were still alive, but one was expiring and the other bled fast. Philip put a few questions to the latter, but he either would not or could not make any reply; he removed their weapons and returned to the house, where he found the old man attended by his daughter, in a state of comparative composure.
“I thank you, Philip Vanderdecken—I thank you much. You have saved my dear child, and my money—that is little, very little—for I am poor. May you live long and happily!”
Philip mused; the letter and his vow were, for the first time since he fell in with the robbers, recalled to his recollection, and a shade passed over his countenance.
“Long and happily—no, no,” muttered he, with an involuntary shake of the head.
“And I must thank you,” said Amine, looking inquiringly in Philip’s face. “O, how much have I to thank you for!—and indeed I am grateful.”
“Yes, yes, she is very grateful,” interrupted the old man; “but we are poor—very poor. I talked about my money because I have so little, and I cannot afford to lose it; but you shall not pay me the three guilders and a half—I am content to lose that, Mr Philip.”
“Why should you lose even that, Mynheer Poots?—I promised to pay you, and will keep my word. I have plenty of money—thousands of guilders, and know not what to do with them.”
“You—you—thousands of guilders!” exclaimed Poots. “Pooh, nonsense, that won’t do.”
“I repeat to you, Amine,” said Philip, “that I have thousands of guilders: you know I would not tell you a falsehood.”
“I believed you when you said so to my father,” replied Amine.
“Then, perhaps, as you have so much, and I am so very poor, Mr Vanderdecken—”
But Amine put her hand upon her father’s lips, and the sentence was not finished.
“Father,” said Amine, “it is time that we retire. You must leave us for to-night, Philip.”
“I will not,” replied Philip; “nor, you may depend upon it, will I sleep. You may both to bed in safety. It is indeed time that you retire—good night, Mynheer Poots. I will but ask a lamp, and then I leave you—Amine, good night.”
“Good night,” said Amine, extending her hand, “and many, many thanks.”
“Thousands of guilders!” muttered the old man, as Philip left the room and went below.
Chapter Five.Philip Vanderdecken sat down at the porch of the door; he swept his hair from his forehead, which he exposed to the fanning of the breeze; for the continued excitement of the last three days had left a fever on his brain which made him restless and confused. He longed for repose, but he knew that for him there was no rest. He had his forebodings—he perceived in the vista of futurity a long-continued chain of danger and disaster, even to death; yet he beheld it without emotion and without dread. He felt as if it were only three days that he had begun to exist; he was melancholy, but not unhappy. His thoughts were constantly recurring to the fatal letter—its strange supernatural disappearance seemed pointedly to establish its supernatural origin, and that the mission had been intended for him alone; and the relic in his possession more fully substantiated the fact.“It is my fate, my duty,” thought Philip. Having satisfactorily made up his mind to these conclusions, his thoughts reverted to the beauty, the courage, and presence of mind shown by Amine. “And,” thought he, as he watched the moon soaring high in the heavens, “is this fair creature’s destiny to be interwoven with mine? The events of the last three days would almost warrant the supposition. Heaven only knows, and Heaven’s will be done. I have vowed, and my vow is registered, that I will devote my life to the release of my unfortunate father—but does that prevent my loving Amine?—No, no; the sailor on the Indian seas must pass months and months on shore before he can return to his duty. My search must be on the broad ocean, but how often may I return? and why am I to be debarred the solace of a smiling hearth?—and yet—do I right in winning the affections of one who, if she loves, would, I am convinced, love so dearly, fondly truly—ought I to persuade her to mate herself with one whose life will be so precarious?—but is not every sailor’s life precarious, daring the angry waves, with but an inch of plank ’tween him and death? Besides, I am chosen to fulfil a task—and if so, what can hurt me, till in Heaven’s own time it is accomplished? but then how soon, and how is it to end?—in death! I wish my blood were cooler, that I might reason better.”Such were the meditations of Philip Vanderdecken, and long did he revolve such chances in his mind. At last the day dawned, and as he perceived the blush upon the horizon, less careful of his watch he slumbered where he sat. A slight pressure on the shoulder made him start up and draw the pistol from his bosom. He turned round and beheld Amine.“And that pistol was intended for me,” said Amine, smiling, repeating Philip’s words of the night before.“For you, Amine?—yes, to defend you, if ’twere necessary, once more.”“I know it would—how kind of you to watch this tedious night after so much exertion and fatigue! but it is now broad day.”“Until I saw the dawn, Amine, I kept a faithful watch.”“But now retire and take some rest. My father is risen—you can lie down on his bed.”“I thank you, but I feel no wish for sleep. There is much to do. We must to the burgomaster and state the facts, and these bodies must remain where they are until the whole is known. Will your father go, Amine, or shall I?”“My father surely is the more proper person, as the proprietor of the house. You must remain; and if you will not sleep, you must take some refreshment. I will go in and tell my father; he has already taken his morning’s meal.”Amine went in, and soon returned with her father, who had consented to go to the burgomaster. He saluted Philip kindly as he came out; shuddered as he passed on one side to avoid stepping over the dead bodies, and went off at a quick pace to the adjacent town, where the burgomaster resided.Amine desired Philip to follow her, and they went into her father’s room, where, to his surprise, he found some coffee ready for him—at that time a rarity, and one which Philip did not expect to find in the house of the penurious Mynheer Poots; but it was a luxury which, from his former life, the old man could not dispense with.Philip, who had not tasted food for nearly twenty-four hours, was not sorry to avail himself of what was placed before him. Amine sat down opposite to him, and was silent during his repast.“Amine,” said Philip at last, “I have had plenty of time for reflection during this night, as I watched at the door. May I speak freely?”“Why not?” replied Amine. “I feel assured that you will say nothing that you should not say, or should not meet a maiden’s ear.”“You do me justice, Amine. My thoughts have been upon you and your father. You cannot stay in this lone habitation.”“I feel it is too lonely; that is for his safety—perhaps for mine—but you know my father—the very loneliness suits him—the price paid for rent is little, and he is careful of his money.”“The man who would be careful of his money should place it in security—here it is not secure. Now, hear me, Amine. I have a cottage surrounded, as you may have heard, by many others, which mutually protect each other. That cottage I am about to leave—perhaps for ever; for I intend to sail by the first ship to the Indian seas.”“The Indian seas! why so?—did you not last night talk of thousands of guilders?”“I did, and they are there; but, Amine, I must go—it is my duty. Ask me no more, but listen to what I now propose. Your father must live in my cottage; he must take care of it for me in my absence; he will do me a favour by consenting, and you must persuade him. You will there be safe. He must also take care of my money for me. I want it not at present—I cannot take it with me.”“My father is not to be trusted with the money of other people.”“Why does your father hoard? He cannot take his money with him when he is called away. It must be all for you—and is not then my money safe?”“Leave it then in my charge, and it will be safe; but why need you go and risk your life upon the water, when you have such ample means?”“Amine, ask not that question. It is my duty as a son, and more I cannot tell, at least at present.”“If it is your duty I ask no more. It was not womanish curiosity—no, no—it was a better feeling, I assure you, which prompted me to put the question.”“And what was that better feeling, Amine?”“I hardly know—many good feelings perhaps mixed up together—gratitude, esteem, respect, confidence, good-will. Are not these sufficient?”“Yes, indeed, Amine, and much to gain upon so short an acquaintance; but still I feel them all, and more, for you. If, then, you feel so much for me, do oblige me by persuading your father to leave this lonely house this day, and take up his abode in mine.”“And where do you intend to go yourself?”“If your father will not admit me as a boarder for the short time I remain here, I will seek some shelter elsewhere; but if he will, I will indemnify him well—that is, if you raise no objection to my being for a few days in the house?”“Why should I? Our habitation is no longer safe, and you offer us a shelter. It were, indeed, unjust and most ungrateful to turn you out from beneath your own roof.”“Then persuade him, Amine. I will accept of nothing, but take it as a favour; for I should depart in sorrow if I saw you not in safety.—Will you promise me?”“I do promise to use my best endeavours—nay, I may as well say at once it shall be so; for I know my influence. Here is my hand upon it. Will that content you?”Philip took the small hand extended towards him. His feelings overcame his discretion; he raised it to his lips. He looked up to see if Amine was displeased, and found her dark eye fixed upon him, as once before when she admitted him, as if she would see his thoughts—but the hand was not withdrawn.“Indeed, Amine,” said Philip, kissing her hand once more, “you may confide in me.”“I hope—I think—nay, I am sure I may,” at last replied she.Philip released her hand. Amine returned to her seat and for some time remained silent, and in a pensive attitude. Philip also had his own thoughts, and did not open his lips. At last Amine spoke.“I think I have heard my father say that your mother was very poor—a little deranged; and that there was a chamber in the house which had been shut up for years.”“It was shut up till yesterday.”“And there you found your money? Did your mother not know of the money?”“She did, for she spoke of it on her death-bed.”“There must have been some potent reasons for not opening the chamber.”“There were.”“What were they, Philip?” said Amine, in a soft and low tone of voice.“I must not tell, at least I ought not. This must satisfy you—’twas the fear of an apparition.”“What apparition?”“She said that my father had appeared to her.”“And did he, think you, Philip?”“I have no doubt that he did. But I can answer no more questions, Amine. The chamber is open now, and there is no fear of his re-appearance.”“I fear not that,” replied Amine, musing. “But,” continued she, “is not this connected with your resolution of going to sea?”“So far will I answer you, that it has decided me to go to sea; but I pray you ask no more. It is painful to refuse you, and my duty forbids me to speak further.”For some minutes they were both silent, when Amine resumed—“You were so anxious to possess that relic, that I cannot help thinking it has connection with the mystery. Is it not so?”“For the last time, Amine, I will answer your question—it has to do with it; but now no more.”Philip’s blunt and almost rude manner of finishing his speech was not lost upon Amine, who replied:—“You are so engrossed with other thoughts, that you have not felt the compliment shown you by my taking such interest about you, sir?”“Yes, I do—I feel and thank you too, Amine. Forgive me, if I have been rude; but recollect, the secret is not mine—at least, I feel as if it were not. God knows, I wish I never had known it, for it has blasted all my hopes in life.”Philip was silent; and when he raised his eyes, he found that Amine’s were fixed upon him.“Would you read my thoughts, Amine, or my secret?”“Your thoughts, perhaps—your secret I would not; yet do I grieve that it should oppress you so heavily as evidently it does. It must, indeed, be one of awe to bear down a mind like yours, Philip.”“Where did you learn to be so brave, Amine?” said Philip, changing the conversation.“Circumstances make people brave or otherwise; those who are accustomed to difficulty and danger fear them not.”“And where have you met with them, Amine?”“In the country where I was born, not in this dank and muddy land.”“Will you trust me with the story of your former life, Amine? I can be secret, if you wish.”“That you can be secret, perhaps, against my wish, you have already proved to me,” replied Amine, smiling; “and you have a claim to know something of the life you have preserved. I cannot tell you much, but what I can will be sufficient. My father, when a lad, on board of a trading vessel, was taken by the Moors, and sold as a slave to a Hakim, or physician, of their country. Finding him very intelligent, the Moor brought him up as an assistant, and it was under this man that he obtained a knowledge of the art. In a few years he was equal to his master; but, as a slave, he worked not for himself. You know, indeed it cannot be concealed, my father’s avarice. He sighed to become as wealthy as his master, and to obtain his freedom; he became a follower of Mahomet, after which he was free, and practised for himself. He took a wife from an Arab family, the daughter of a chief whom he had restored to health, and he settled in the country. I was born; he amassed wealth, and became much celebrated; but the son of a Bey dying under his hands was the excuse for persecuting him. His head was forfeited, but he escaped; not, however, without the loss of all his beloved wealth. My Mother and I went with him; he fled to the Bedouins, with whom we remained some years. There I was accustomed to rapid marches, wild and fierce attacks, defeat and flight, and oftentimes to indiscriminate slaughter. But the Bedouins paid not well for my father’s services, and gold was his idol. Hearing that the Bey was dead, he returned to Cairo, where he again practised. He was allowed once more to amass until the heap was sufficient to excite the cupidity of the new Bey; but this time he was fortunately made acquainted with the intentions of the ruler. He again escaped, with a portion of his wealth, in a small vessel, and gained the Spanish coast; but he never has been able to retain his money long. Before he arrived in this country he had been robbed of almost all, and has now been for these three years laying up again. We were but one year at Middleburg, and from thence removed to this place. Such is the history of my life, Philip.”“And does your father still hold the Mahomedan faith, Amine?”“I know not. I think he holds no faith whatever: at least he hath taught me none. His god is gold.”“And yours?”“Is the God who made this beautiful world, and all which it contains—the God of nature—name him as you will. This I feel, Philip, but more I fain would know; there are so many faiths, but surely they must be but different paths leading alike to heaven. Yours is the Christian faith, Philip. Is it the true one? But every one calls his own the true one, whatever his creed may be.”“It is the true and only one, Amine. Could I but reveal—I have such dreadful proofs—”“That your own faith is true: then is it not your duty to reveal these proofs? Tell me, are you bound by any solemn obligations never to reveal?”“No, I am not; yet do I feel as if I were. But I hear voices—it must be your father and the authorities—I must go down and meet them.”Philip rose and went down stairs. Amine’s eyes followed him as he went and she remained looking towards the door.“Is it possible,” said she, sweeping the hair from off her brow, “so soon,—yes, yes, ’tis even so. I feel that I would sooner share his hidden woe—his dangers—even death itself were preferable with him, than ease and happiness with any other. And it shall be strange indeed if I do not. This night my father shall move into his cottage; I will prepare at once.”The report of Philip and Mynheer Poots was taken down by the authorities, the bodies examined, and one or two of them recognised as well-known marauders. They were then removed by the order of the burgomaster. The authorities broke up their council, and Philip and Mynheer Poots were permitted to return to Amine. It will not be necessary to repeat the conversation which ensued: it will be sufficient to state that Poots yielded to the arguments employed by Amine and Philip, particularly the one of paying no rent. A conveyance for the furniture and medicines was procured, and in the afternoon most of the effects were taken away. It was not, however, till dusk that the strong box of the doctor was put into the cart, and Philip went with it as a protector. Amine also walked by the side of the vehicle, with her father. As it may be supposed, it was late that night before they had made their arrangements, and had retired to rest.
Philip Vanderdecken sat down at the porch of the door; he swept his hair from his forehead, which he exposed to the fanning of the breeze; for the continued excitement of the last three days had left a fever on his brain which made him restless and confused. He longed for repose, but he knew that for him there was no rest. He had his forebodings—he perceived in the vista of futurity a long-continued chain of danger and disaster, even to death; yet he beheld it without emotion and without dread. He felt as if it were only three days that he had begun to exist; he was melancholy, but not unhappy. His thoughts were constantly recurring to the fatal letter—its strange supernatural disappearance seemed pointedly to establish its supernatural origin, and that the mission had been intended for him alone; and the relic in his possession more fully substantiated the fact.
“It is my fate, my duty,” thought Philip. Having satisfactorily made up his mind to these conclusions, his thoughts reverted to the beauty, the courage, and presence of mind shown by Amine. “And,” thought he, as he watched the moon soaring high in the heavens, “is this fair creature’s destiny to be interwoven with mine? The events of the last three days would almost warrant the supposition. Heaven only knows, and Heaven’s will be done. I have vowed, and my vow is registered, that I will devote my life to the release of my unfortunate father—but does that prevent my loving Amine?—No, no; the sailor on the Indian seas must pass months and months on shore before he can return to his duty. My search must be on the broad ocean, but how often may I return? and why am I to be debarred the solace of a smiling hearth?—and yet—do I right in winning the affections of one who, if she loves, would, I am convinced, love so dearly, fondly truly—ought I to persuade her to mate herself with one whose life will be so precarious?—but is not every sailor’s life precarious, daring the angry waves, with but an inch of plank ’tween him and death? Besides, I am chosen to fulfil a task—and if so, what can hurt me, till in Heaven’s own time it is accomplished? but then how soon, and how is it to end?—in death! I wish my blood were cooler, that I might reason better.”
Such were the meditations of Philip Vanderdecken, and long did he revolve such chances in his mind. At last the day dawned, and as he perceived the blush upon the horizon, less careful of his watch he slumbered where he sat. A slight pressure on the shoulder made him start up and draw the pistol from his bosom. He turned round and beheld Amine.
“And that pistol was intended for me,” said Amine, smiling, repeating Philip’s words of the night before.
“For you, Amine?—yes, to defend you, if ’twere necessary, once more.”
“I know it would—how kind of you to watch this tedious night after so much exertion and fatigue! but it is now broad day.”
“Until I saw the dawn, Amine, I kept a faithful watch.”
“But now retire and take some rest. My father is risen—you can lie down on his bed.”
“I thank you, but I feel no wish for sleep. There is much to do. We must to the burgomaster and state the facts, and these bodies must remain where they are until the whole is known. Will your father go, Amine, or shall I?”
“My father surely is the more proper person, as the proprietor of the house. You must remain; and if you will not sleep, you must take some refreshment. I will go in and tell my father; he has already taken his morning’s meal.”
Amine went in, and soon returned with her father, who had consented to go to the burgomaster. He saluted Philip kindly as he came out; shuddered as he passed on one side to avoid stepping over the dead bodies, and went off at a quick pace to the adjacent town, where the burgomaster resided.
Amine desired Philip to follow her, and they went into her father’s room, where, to his surprise, he found some coffee ready for him—at that time a rarity, and one which Philip did not expect to find in the house of the penurious Mynheer Poots; but it was a luxury which, from his former life, the old man could not dispense with.
Philip, who had not tasted food for nearly twenty-four hours, was not sorry to avail himself of what was placed before him. Amine sat down opposite to him, and was silent during his repast.
“Amine,” said Philip at last, “I have had plenty of time for reflection during this night, as I watched at the door. May I speak freely?”
“Why not?” replied Amine. “I feel assured that you will say nothing that you should not say, or should not meet a maiden’s ear.”
“You do me justice, Amine. My thoughts have been upon you and your father. You cannot stay in this lone habitation.”
“I feel it is too lonely; that is for his safety—perhaps for mine—but you know my father—the very loneliness suits him—the price paid for rent is little, and he is careful of his money.”
“The man who would be careful of his money should place it in security—here it is not secure. Now, hear me, Amine. I have a cottage surrounded, as you may have heard, by many others, which mutually protect each other. That cottage I am about to leave—perhaps for ever; for I intend to sail by the first ship to the Indian seas.”
“The Indian seas! why so?—did you not last night talk of thousands of guilders?”
“I did, and they are there; but, Amine, I must go—it is my duty. Ask me no more, but listen to what I now propose. Your father must live in my cottage; he must take care of it for me in my absence; he will do me a favour by consenting, and you must persuade him. You will there be safe. He must also take care of my money for me. I want it not at present—I cannot take it with me.”
“My father is not to be trusted with the money of other people.”
“Why does your father hoard? He cannot take his money with him when he is called away. It must be all for you—and is not then my money safe?”
“Leave it then in my charge, and it will be safe; but why need you go and risk your life upon the water, when you have such ample means?”
“Amine, ask not that question. It is my duty as a son, and more I cannot tell, at least at present.”
“If it is your duty I ask no more. It was not womanish curiosity—no, no—it was a better feeling, I assure you, which prompted me to put the question.”
“And what was that better feeling, Amine?”
“I hardly know—many good feelings perhaps mixed up together—gratitude, esteem, respect, confidence, good-will. Are not these sufficient?”
“Yes, indeed, Amine, and much to gain upon so short an acquaintance; but still I feel them all, and more, for you. If, then, you feel so much for me, do oblige me by persuading your father to leave this lonely house this day, and take up his abode in mine.”
“And where do you intend to go yourself?”
“If your father will not admit me as a boarder for the short time I remain here, I will seek some shelter elsewhere; but if he will, I will indemnify him well—that is, if you raise no objection to my being for a few days in the house?”
“Why should I? Our habitation is no longer safe, and you offer us a shelter. It were, indeed, unjust and most ungrateful to turn you out from beneath your own roof.”
“Then persuade him, Amine. I will accept of nothing, but take it as a favour; for I should depart in sorrow if I saw you not in safety.—Will you promise me?”
“I do promise to use my best endeavours—nay, I may as well say at once it shall be so; for I know my influence. Here is my hand upon it. Will that content you?”
Philip took the small hand extended towards him. His feelings overcame his discretion; he raised it to his lips. He looked up to see if Amine was displeased, and found her dark eye fixed upon him, as once before when she admitted him, as if she would see his thoughts—but the hand was not withdrawn.
“Indeed, Amine,” said Philip, kissing her hand once more, “you may confide in me.”
“I hope—I think—nay, I am sure I may,” at last replied she.
Philip released her hand. Amine returned to her seat and for some time remained silent, and in a pensive attitude. Philip also had his own thoughts, and did not open his lips. At last Amine spoke.
“I think I have heard my father say that your mother was very poor—a little deranged; and that there was a chamber in the house which had been shut up for years.”
“It was shut up till yesterday.”
“And there you found your money? Did your mother not know of the money?”
“She did, for she spoke of it on her death-bed.”
“There must have been some potent reasons for not opening the chamber.”
“There were.”
“What were they, Philip?” said Amine, in a soft and low tone of voice.
“I must not tell, at least I ought not. This must satisfy you—’twas the fear of an apparition.”
“What apparition?”
“She said that my father had appeared to her.”
“And did he, think you, Philip?”
“I have no doubt that he did. But I can answer no more questions, Amine. The chamber is open now, and there is no fear of his re-appearance.”
“I fear not that,” replied Amine, musing. “But,” continued she, “is not this connected with your resolution of going to sea?”
“So far will I answer you, that it has decided me to go to sea; but I pray you ask no more. It is painful to refuse you, and my duty forbids me to speak further.”
For some minutes they were both silent, when Amine resumed—
“You were so anxious to possess that relic, that I cannot help thinking it has connection with the mystery. Is it not so?”
“For the last time, Amine, I will answer your question—it has to do with it; but now no more.”
Philip’s blunt and almost rude manner of finishing his speech was not lost upon Amine, who replied:—
“You are so engrossed with other thoughts, that you have not felt the compliment shown you by my taking such interest about you, sir?”
“Yes, I do—I feel and thank you too, Amine. Forgive me, if I have been rude; but recollect, the secret is not mine—at least, I feel as if it were not. God knows, I wish I never had known it, for it has blasted all my hopes in life.”
Philip was silent; and when he raised his eyes, he found that Amine’s were fixed upon him.
“Would you read my thoughts, Amine, or my secret?”
“Your thoughts, perhaps—your secret I would not; yet do I grieve that it should oppress you so heavily as evidently it does. It must, indeed, be one of awe to bear down a mind like yours, Philip.”
“Where did you learn to be so brave, Amine?” said Philip, changing the conversation.
“Circumstances make people brave or otherwise; those who are accustomed to difficulty and danger fear them not.”
“And where have you met with them, Amine?”
“In the country where I was born, not in this dank and muddy land.”
“Will you trust me with the story of your former life, Amine? I can be secret, if you wish.”
“That you can be secret, perhaps, against my wish, you have already proved to me,” replied Amine, smiling; “and you have a claim to know something of the life you have preserved. I cannot tell you much, but what I can will be sufficient. My father, when a lad, on board of a trading vessel, was taken by the Moors, and sold as a slave to a Hakim, or physician, of their country. Finding him very intelligent, the Moor brought him up as an assistant, and it was under this man that he obtained a knowledge of the art. In a few years he was equal to his master; but, as a slave, he worked not for himself. You know, indeed it cannot be concealed, my father’s avarice. He sighed to become as wealthy as his master, and to obtain his freedom; he became a follower of Mahomet, after which he was free, and practised for himself. He took a wife from an Arab family, the daughter of a chief whom he had restored to health, and he settled in the country. I was born; he amassed wealth, and became much celebrated; but the son of a Bey dying under his hands was the excuse for persecuting him. His head was forfeited, but he escaped; not, however, without the loss of all his beloved wealth. My Mother and I went with him; he fled to the Bedouins, with whom we remained some years. There I was accustomed to rapid marches, wild and fierce attacks, defeat and flight, and oftentimes to indiscriminate slaughter. But the Bedouins paid not well for my father’s services, and gold was his idol. Hearing that the Bey was dead, he returned to Cairo, where he again practised. He was allowed once more to amass until the heap was sufficient to excite the cupidity of the new Bey; but this time he was fortunately made acquainted with the intentions of the ruler. He again escaped, with a portion of his wealth, in a small vessel, and gained the Spanish coast; but he never has been able to retain his money long. Before he arrived in this country he had been robbed of almost all, and has now been for these three years laying up again. We were but one year at Middleburg, and from thence removed to this place. Such is the history of my life, Philip.”
“And does your father still hold the Mahomedan faith, Amine?”
“I know not. I think he holds no faith whatever: at least he hath taught me none. His god is gold.”
“And yours?”
“Is the God who made this beautiful world, and all which it contains—the God of nature—name him as you will. This I feel, Philip, but more I fain would know; there are so many faiths, but surely they must be but different paths leading alike to heaven. Yours is the Christian faith, Philip. Is it the true one? But every one calls his own the true one, whatever his creed may be.”
“It is the true and only one, Amine. Could I but reveal—I have such dreadful proofs—”
“That your own faith is true: then is it not your duty to reveal these proofs? Tell me, are you bound by any solemn obligations never to reveal?”
“No, I am not; yet do I feel as if I were. But I hear voices—it must be your father and the authorities—I must go down and meet them.”
Philip rose and went down stairs. Amine’s eyes followed him as he went and she remained looking towards the door.
“Is it possible,” said she, sweeping the hair from off her brow, “so soon,—yes, yes, ’tis even so. I feel that I would sooner share his hidden woe—his dangers—even death itself were preferable with him, than ease and happiness with any other. And it shall be strange indeed if I do not. This night my father shall move into his cottage; I will prepare at once.”
The report of Philip and Mynheer Poots was taken down by the authorities, the bodies examined, and one or two of them recognised as well-known marauders. They were then removed by the order of the burgomaster. The authorities broke up their council, and Philip and Mynheer Poots were permitted to return to Amine. It will not be necessary to repeat the conversation which ensued: it will be sufficient to state that Poots yielded to the arguments employed by Amine and Philip, particularly the one of paying no rent. A conveyance for the furniture and medicines was procured, and in the afternoon most of the effects were taken away. It was not, however, till dusk that the strong box of the doctor was put into the cart, and Philip went with it as a protector. Amine also walked by the side of the vehicle, with her father. As it may be supposed, it was late that night before they had made their arrangements, and had retired to rest.
Chapter Six.“This, then, is the chamber, which has so long been closed,” said Amine, on entering it the next morning long before Philip had awakened from the sound sleep produced by the watching of the night before. “Yes, indeed, it has the air of having long been closed.” Amine looked around her, and then examined the furniture. Her eyes were attracted to the birdcages: she looked into them:— “Poor little things!” continued she, “and here it was his father appeared unto his mother. Well, it may be so,—Philip saith that he hath proofs; and why should he not appear? Were Philip dead, I should rejoice to see his spirit,—at least it would be something. What am I saying—unfaithful lips, thus to betray my secret?—The table thrown over:— that looks like the work of fear; a workbox, with all its implements scattered,—only a woman’s fear: a mouse might have caused all this; and yet there is something solemn in the simple fact that, for so many years, not a living being has crossed these boards. Even that a table thus overthrown could so remain for years seems scarcely natural, and therefore has its power on the mind. I wonder not that Philip feels there is so heavy a secret belonging to this room—but it must not remain in this condition—it must be occupied at once.”Amine, who had long been accustomed to attend upon her father, and perform the household duties, now commenced her intended labours.Every part of the room, and every piece of furniture in it, were cleaned; even the cobwebs and dust were cleared away, and the sofa and table brought from the corner to the centre of the room; the melancholy little prisons were removed; and when Amine’s work of neatness was complete, and the sun shone brightly into the opened window, the chamber wore the appearance of cheerfulness.Amine had the intuitive good sense to feel that strong impressions wear away when the objects connected with them are removed. She resolved, then, to make Philip more at ease; for, with all the fire and warmth of blood inherent in her race, she had taken his image to her heart, and was determined to win him. Again and again did she resume her labour, until the pictures about the room, and every other article, looked fresh and clean.Not only the birdcages, but the workbox and all the implements, were removed; and the piece of embroidery, the taking up of which had made Philip recoil as if he had touched an adder, was put away with the rest. Philip had left the keys on the floor. Amine opened the buffets, cleaned the glazed doors, and was busy rubbing up the silver flagons, when her father came into the room.“Mercy on me!” exclaimed Mynheer Poots; “and is all that silver?—then it must be true, and he has thousands of guilders; but where are they?”“Never do you mind, father; yours are now safe, and for that you have to thank Philip Vanderdecken.”“Yes, very true; but as he is to live here—does he eat much—what will he pay me? He ought to pay well, as he has so much money.”Amine’s lips were curled with a contemptuous smile, but she made no reply.“I wonder where he keeps his money; and he is going to sea as soon as he can get a ship? Who will have charge of his money when he goes?”“I shall take charge of it, father,” replied Amine.“Ah—yes—well—we will take charge of it. The ship may be lost.”“No,wewill not take charge of it, father: you will have nothing to do with it. Look after your own.”Amine placed the silver in the buffets, locked the doors, and took the keys with her when she went out to prepare breakfast, leaving the old man gazing through the glazed doors at the precious metal within. His eyes were rivetted upon it, and he could not remove them. Every minute he muttered, “Yes, all silver.”Philip came down stairs; and as he passed by the room, intending to go into the kitchen, he perceived Mynheer Poots at the buffet, and he walked into the room. He was surprised as well as pleased with the alteration. He felt why and by whom it was done, and he was grateful. Amine came in with the breakfast, and their eyes spoke more than their lips could have done; and Philip sat down to his meal with less of sorrow and gloom upon his brow.“Mynheer Poots,” said Philip, as soon as he had finished, “I intend to leave you in possession of my cottage, and I trust you will find yourself comfortable. What little arrangements are necessary, I will confide to your daughter previous to my departure.”“Then you leave us, Mr Philip, to go to sea? It must be pleasant to go and see strange countries—much better than staying at home. When do you go?”“I shall leave this evening for Amsterdam,” replied Philip, “to make my arrangements about a ship; but I shall return, I think, before I sail.”“Ah! you will return. Yes—you have your money and your goods to see to; you must count your money. We will take good care of it. Where is your money, Mr Vanderdecken?”“That I will communicate to your daughter this forenoon, before I leave. In three weeks, at the furthest, you may expect me back.”“Father,” said Amine, “you promised to go and see the child of the burgomaster; it is time you went.”“Yes, yes—by-and-by—all in good time; but I must wait the pleasure of Mr Philip first: he has much to tell me before he goes.”Philip could not help smiling when he remembered what had passed when he first summoned Mynheer Poots to the cottage; but the remembrance ended in sorrow and a clouded brow.Amine, who knew what was passing in the minds of both her father and Philip, now brought her father’s hat, and led him to the door of the cottage; and Mynheer Poots, very much against his inclination—but never disputing the will of his daughter—was obliged to depart.“So soon, Philip?” said Amine, returning to the room.“Yes, Amine, immediately; but I trust to be back once more before I sail; if not, you must now have my instructions. Give me the keys.”Philip opened the cupboard below the buffet, and the doors of the iron safe.“There, Amine, is my money. We need not count it, as your father would propose. You see that I was right when I asserted that I had thousands of guilders. At present they are of no use to me, as I have to learn my profession. Should I return some day, they may help me to own a ship. I know not what my destiny may be.”“And should you not return?” replied Amine, gravely.“Then they are yours, as well as all that is in this cottage, and the cottage itself.”“You have relations, have you not?”“But one, who is rich—an uncle, who helped us but little in our distress, and who has no children. I owe him but little—and he wants nothing. There is but one being in this world who has created an interest in this heart, Amine, and it is you. I wish you to look upon me as a brother. I shall always love you as a dear sister.”Amine made no reply. Philip took some more money out of the bag which had been opened, for the expenses of his journey, and then locking up the safe and cupboard, gave the keys to Amine. He was about to address her when there was a slight knock at the door, and in entered Father Seysen, the priest.“Save you my son; and you, my child, whom as yet I have not seen. You are, I suppose, the daughter of Mynheer Poots?”Amine bowed her head.“I perceive, Philip, that the room is now opened; and I have heard of all that has passed. I would now talk with thee, Philip, and must beg this maiden to leave us for a while alone.”Amine quitted the room; and the priest, sitting down on the couch, beckoned Philip to his side. The conversation which ensued was too long to repeat. The priest first questioned Philip relative to his secret; but on that point he could not obtain the information which he wished. Philip stated as much as he did to Amine, and no more. He also declared his intention of going to sea, and that, should he not return, he had bequeathed his property—the extent of which he did not make known—to the doctor and his daughter. The priest then made inquiries relative to Mynheer Poots, asking Philip whether he knew what his creed was, as he had never appeared at any church, and report said that he was an infidel. To this Philip, as usual, gave his frank answer, and intimated that the daughter, at least, was anxious to be enlightened, begging the priest to undertake a task to which he himself was not adequate. To this request Father Seysen, who perceived the state of Philip’s mind with regard to Amine, readily consented. After a conversation of nearly two hours, they were interrupted by the return of Mynheer Poots, who darted out of the room the instant he perceived Father Seysen. Philip called Amine, and having begged her as a favour to receive the priest’s visits, the good old man blessed them both and departed.“You did not give him any money, Mr Philip?” said Mynheer Poots, when Father Seysen had left the room.“I did not,” replied Philip; “I wish I had thought of it.”“No, no—it is better not—for money is better than what he can give you; but he must not come here.”“Why not, father,” replied Amine, “if Mr Philip wishes it? It is his own house.”“O yes, if Mr Philip wishes it; but you know he is going away.”“Well, and suppose he is—why should not the Father come here? He shall come here to see me.”“See you, my child!—what can he want with you? Well, then, if he comes, I will not give him one stiver—and then he’ll soon go away.”Philip had no opportunity of further converse with Amine; indeed he had nothing more to say. In an hour he bade her farewell in presence of her father, who would not leave them, hoping to obtain from Philip some communication about the money which he was to leave behind him.In two days Philip arrived at Amsterdam, and having made the necessary inquiries, found that there was no chance of vessels sailing for the East Indies for some months. The Dutch East India Company had long been formed, and all private trading was at an end. The Company’s vessels left only at what was supposed to be the most favourable season for rounding the Cape of Storms, as the Cape of Good Hope was designated by the early adventurers. One of the ships which were to sail with the next fleet was the Ter Schilling, a three-masted vessel, now laid up and unrigged.Philip found out the captain, and stated his wishes to sail with him, to learn his profession as a seaman; the captain was pleased with his appearance, and as Philip not only agreed to receive no wages during the voyage, but to pay a premium as an apprentice learning his duty, he was promised a berth on board as the second mate, to mess in the cabin; and he was told that he should be informed whenever the vessel was to sail. Philip having now done all that he could in obedience to his vow, determined to return to the cottage; and once more he was in the company of Amine.We must now pass over two months, during which Mynheer Poots continued to labour at his vocation, and was seldom within doors, and our two young friends were left for hours together. Philip’s love for Amine was fully equal to hers for him. It was more than love,—it was a devotion on both sides, each day increasing. Who indeed could be more charming, more attractive in all ways than the high-spirited, yet tender Amine? Occasionally the brow of Philip would be clouded when he reflected upon the dark prospect before him; but Amine’s smile would chase away the gloom and as he gazed on her, all would be forgotten. Amine made no secret of her attachment; it was shown in every word, every look, and every gesture. When Philip would take her hand, or encircle her waist with his arm, or even when he pressed her coral lips, there was no pretence of coyness on her part. She was too noble, too confiding; she felt that her happiness was centred in his love, and she lived but in his presence. Two months had thus passed away, when Father Seysen, who often called, and had paid much attention to Amine’s instruction, one day came in as Amine was encircled in Philip’s arms.“My children,” said he, “I have watched you for some time:— this is not well. Philip, if you intend marriage, as I presume you do, still it is dangerous. I must join your hands.”Philip started up.“Surely I am not deceived in thee, my son,” continued the priest in a severe tone.“No, no, good Father; but I pray you leave me now: to-morrow you may come, and all will be decided. But I must talk with Amine.”The priest quitted the room, and Amine and Philip were again alone. The colour in Amine’s cheek varied and her heart beat, for she felt how much her happiness was at stake.“The priest is right, Amine,” said Philip sitting down by her. “This cannot last;—would that I could ever stay with you; how hard a fate is mine! You know I love the very ground you tread upon, yet I dare not ask thee to wed to misery.”“To wed with thee would not be wedding misery, Philip,” replied Amine, with downcast eyes.“’Twere not kindness on my part, Amine. I should indeed be selfish.”“I will speak plainly, Philip,” replied Amine. “You say you love me,—I know not how men love,—but this I know, how I can love. I feel that to leave me now were indeed unkind and selfish on your part; for, Philip, I—I should die. You say that you must go away—that fate demands it,—and your fatal secret. Be it so;—but cannot I go with you?”“Go with me, Amine—unto death?”“Yes, death; for what is death but a release? I fear not death, Philip; I fear but losing thee. Nay, more; is not your life in the hands of Him who made all? then why so sure to die? You have hinted to me that you are chosen—selected for a task;—if chosen, there is less chance of death; for until the end be fulfilled, if chosen, you must live. I would I knew your secret, Philip: a woman’s wit might serve you well: and if it did not serve you, is there no comfort, no pleasure in sharing sorrow as well as joy with one you say you dote upon?”“Amine, dearest Amine, it is my love, my ardent love alone, which makes me pause; for, O Amine, what pleasure should I feel if we were this hour united? I hardly know what to say, or what to do. I could not withhold my secret from you if you were my wife, nor will I wed you till you know it. Well, Amine, I will cast my all upon the die. You shall know this secret, learn what a doomed wretch I am, though from no fault of mine, and then you yourself shall decide. But remember my oath is registered in heaven, and I must not be dissuaded from it: keep that in mind, and hear my tale,—then if you choose to wed with one whose prospects are so bitter, be it so,—a short-lived happiness will then be mine, but for you, Amine—”“At once the secret, Philip,” cried Amine, impatiently.Philip then entered into a detail of what our readers are acquainted with. Amine listened in silence; not a change of feature was to be observed in her countenance during the narrative. Philip wound up with stating the oath which he had taken. “I have done,” said Philip, mournfully.“’Tis a strange story, Philip,” replied Amine: “and now hear me;—but give me first that relic,—I wish to look upon it. And can there be such virtue—I had nigh said, such mischief—in this little thing? Strange; forgive me, Philip,—but I’ve still my doubts upon this tale ofEblis. You know I am not yet strong in the new belief which you and the good priest have lately taught me. I do not say that itcannotbe true: but still, one so unsettled as I am may be allowed to waver. But, Philip, I’ll assume that all is true. Then, if it be true, without the oath you would be doing but your duty; and think not so meanly of Amine as to suppose she would restrain you from what is right. No, Philip, seek your father, and, if you can, and he requires your aid, then save him. But, Philip do you imagine that a task like this, so high, is to be accomplished at one trial? O! no; if you have been so chosen to fulfil it, you will be preserved through difficulty and danger until you have worked out your end. You will be preserved and you will again and again return;—be comforted—consoled—be cherished—and be loved by Amine as your wife. And when it pleases Him to call you from this world, your memory, if she survive you, Philip, will equally be cherished in her bosom. Philip, you have given me to decide;—dearest Philip, I am thine.”Amine extended her arms, and Philip pressed her to his bosom. That evening Philip demanded his daughter of the father, and Mynheer Poots, as soon as Philip opened the iron safe and displayed the guilders, gave his immediate consent.Father Seysen called the next day and received his answer—and three days afterwards, the bells of the little church of Terneuse were ringing a merry peal for the union of Amine Poots and Philip Vanderdecken.
“This, then, is the chamber, which has so long been closed,” said Amine, on entering it the next morning long before Philip had awakened from the sound sleep produced by the watching of the night before. “Yes, indeed, it has the air of having long been closed.” Amine looked around her, and then examined the furniture. Her eyes were attracted to the birdcages: she looked into them:— “Poor little things!” continued she, “and here it was his father appeared unto his mother. Well, it may be so,—Philip saith that he hath proofs; and why should he not appear? Were Philip dead, I should rejoice to see his spirit,—at least it would be something. What am I saying—unfaithful lips, thus to betray my secret?—The table thrown over:— that looks like the work of fear; a workbox, with all its implements scattered,—only a woman’s fear: a mouse might have caused all this; and yet there is something solemn in the simple fact that, for so many years, not a living being has crossed these boards. Even that a table thus overthrown could so remain for years seems scarcely natural, and therefore has its power on the mind. I wonder not that Philip feels there is so heavy a secret belonging to this room—but it must not remain in this condition—it must be occupied at once.”
Amine, who had long been accustomed to attend upon her father, and perform the household duties, now commenced her intended labours.
Every part of the room, and every piece of furniture in it, were cleaned; even the cobwebs and dust were cleared away, and the sofa and table brought from the corner to the centre of the room; the melancholy little prisons were removed; and when Amine’s work of neatness was complete, and the sun shone brightly into the opened window, the chamber wore the appearance of cheerfulness.
Amine had the intuitive good sense to feel that strong impressions wear away when the objects connected with them are removed. She resolved, then, to make Philip more at ease; for, with all the fire and warmth of blood inherent in her race, she had taken his image to her heart, and was determined to win him. Again and again did she resume her labour, until the pictures about the room, and every other article, looked fresh and clean.
Not only the birdcages, but the workbox and all the implements, were removed; and the piece of embroidery, the taking up of which had made Philip recoil as if he had touched an adder, was put away with the rest. Philip had left the keys on the floor. Amine opened the buffets, cleaned the glazed doors, and was busy rubbing up the silver flagons, when her father came into the room.
“Mercy on me!” exclaimed Mynheer Poots; “and is all that silver?—then it must be true, and he has thousands of guilders; but where are they?”
“Never do you mind, father; yours are now safe, and for that you have to thank Philip Vanderdecken.”
“Yes, very true; but as he is to live here—does he eat much—what will he pay me? He ought to pay well, as he has so much money.”
Amine’s lips were curled with a contemptuous smile, but she made no reply.
“I wonder where he keeps his money; and he is going to sea as soon as he can get a ship? Who will have charge of his money when he goes?”
“I shall take charge of it, father,” replied Amine.
“Ah—yes—well—we will take charge of it. The ship may be lost.”
“No,wewill not take charge of it, father: you will have nothing to do with it. Look after your own.”
Amine placed the silver in the buffets, locked the doors, and took the keys with her when she went out to prepare breakfast, leaving the old man gazing through the glazed doors at the precious metal within. His eyes were rivetted upon it, and he could not remove them. Every minute he muttered, “Yes, all silver.”
Philip came down stairs; and as he passed by the room, intending to go into the kitchen, he perceived Mynheer Poots at the buffet, and he walked into the room. He was surprised as well as pleased with the alteration. He felt why and by whom it was done, and he was grateful. Amine came in with the breakfast, and their eyes spoke more than their lips could have done; and Philip sat down to his meal with less of sorrow and gloom upon his brow.
“Mynheer Poots,” said Philip, as soon as he had finished, “I intend to leave you in possession of my cottage, and I trust you will find yourself comfortable. What little arrangements are necessary, I will confide to your daughter previous to my departure.”
“Then you leave us, Mr Philip, to go to sea? It must be pleasant to go and see strange countries—much better than staying at home. When do you go?”
“I shall leave this evening for Amsterdam,” replied Philip, “to make my arrangements about a ship; but I shall return, I think, before I sail.”
“Ah! you will return. Yes—you have your money and your goods to see to; you must count your money. We will take good care of it. Where is your money, Mr Vanderdecken?”
“That I will communicate to your daughter this forenoon, before I leave. In three weeks, at the furthest, you may expect me back.”
“Father,” said Amine, “you promised to go and see the child of the burgomaster; it is time you went.”
“Yes, yes—by-and-by—all in good time; but I must wait the pleasure of Mr Philip first: he has much to tell me before he goes.”
Philip could not help smiling when he remembered what had passed when he first summoned Mynheer Poots to the cottage; but the remembrance ended in sorrow and a clouded brow.
Amine, who knew what was passing in the minds of both her father and Philip, now brought her father’s hat, and led him to the door of the cottage; and Mynheer Poots, very much against his inclination—but never disputing the will of his daughter—was obliged to depart.
“So soon, Philip?” said Amine, returning to the room.
“Yes, Amine, immediately; but I trust to be back once more before I sail; if not, you must now have my instructions. Give me the keys.”
Philip opened the cupboard below the buffet, and the doors of the iron safe.
“There, Amine, is my money. We need not count it, as your father would propose. You see that I was right when I asserted that I had thousands of guilders. At present they are of no use to me, as I have to learn my profession. Should I return some day, they may help me to own a ship. I know not what my destiny may be.”
“And should you not return?” replied Amine, gravely.
“Then they are yours, as well as all that is in this cottage, and the cottage itself.”
“You have relations, have you not?”
“But one, who is rich—an uncle, who helped us but little in our distress, and who has no children. I owe him but little—and he wants nothing. There is but one being in this world who has created an interest in this heart, Amine, and it is you. I wish you to look upon me as a brother. I shall always love you as a dear sister.”
Amine made no reply. Philip took some more money out of the bag which had been opened, for the expenses of his journey, and then locking up the safe and cupboard, gave the keys to Amine. He was about to address her when there was a slight knock at the door, and in entered Father Seysen, the priest.
“Save you my son; and you, my child, whom as yet I have not seen. You are, I suppose, the daughter of Mynheer Poots?”
Amine bowed her head.
“I perceive, Philip, that the room is now opened; and I have heard of all that has passed. I would now talk with thee, Philip, and must beg this maiden to leave us for a while alone.”
Amine quitted the room; and the priest, sitting down on the couch, beckoned Philip to his side. The conversation which ensued was too long to repeat. The priest first questioned Philip relative to his secret; but on that point he could not obtain the information which he wished. Philip stated as much as he did to Amine, and no more. He also declared his intention of going to sea, and that, should he not return, he had bequeathed his property—the extent of which he did not make known—to the doctor and his daughter. The priest then made inquiries relative to Mynheer Poots, asking Philip whether he knew what his creed was, as he had never appeared at any church, and report said that he was an infidel. To this Philip, as usual, gave his frank answer, and intimated that the daughter, at least, was anxious to be enlightened, begging the priest to undertake a task to which he himself was not adequate. To this request Father Seysen, who perceived the state of Philip’s mind with regard to Amine, readily consented. After a conversation of nearly two hours, they were interrupted by the return of Mynheer Poots, who darted out of the room the instant he perceived Father Seysen. Philip called Amine, and having begged her as a favour to receive the priest’s visits, the good old man blessed them both and departed.
“You did not give him any money, Mr Philip?” said Mynheer Poots, when Father Seysen had left the room.
“I did not,” replied Philip; “I wish I had thought of it.”
“No, no—it is better not—for money is better than what he can give you; but he must not come here.”
“Why not, father,” replied Amine, “if Mr Philip wishes it? It is his own house.”
“O yes, if Mr Philip wishes it; but you know he is going away.”
“Well, and suppose he is—why should not the Father come here? He shall come here to see me.”
“See you, my child!—what can he want with you? Well, then, if he comes, I will not give him one stiver—and then he’ll soon go away.”
Philip had no opportunity of further converse with Amine; indeed he had nothing more to say. In an hour he bade her farewell in presence of her father, who would not leave them, hoping to obtain from Philip some communication about the money which he was to leave behind him.
In two days Philip arrived at Amsterdam, and having made the necessary inquiries, found that there was no chance of vessels sailing for the East Indies for some months. The Dutch East India Company had long been formed, and all private trading was at an end. The Company’s vessels left only at what was supposed to be the most favourable season for rounding the Cape of Storms, as the Cape of Good Hope was designated by the early adventurers. One of the ships which were to sail with the next fleet was the Ter Schilling, a three-masted vessel, now laid up and unrigged.
Philip found out the captain, and stated his wishes to sail with him, to learn his profession as a seaman; the captain was pleased with his appearance, and as Philip not only agreed to receive no wages during the voyage, but to pay a premium as an apprentice learning his duty, he was promised a berth on board as the second mate, to mess in the cabin; and he was told that he should be informed whenever the vessel was to sail. Philip having now done all that he could in obedience to his vow, determined to return to the cottage; and once more he was in the company of Amine.
We must now pass over two months, during which Mynheer Poots continued to labour at his vocation, and was seldom within doors, and our two young friends were left for hours together. Philip’s love for Amine was fully equal to hers for him. It was more than love,—it was a devotion on both sides, each day increasing. Who indeed could be more charming, more attractive in all ways than the high-spirited, yet tender Amine? Occasionally the brow of Philip would be clouded when he reflected upon the dark prospect before him; but Amine’s smile would chase away the gloom and as he gazed on her, all would be forgotten. Amine made no secret of her attachment; it was shown in every word, every look, and every gesture. When Philip would take her hand, or encircle her waist with his arm, or even when he pressed her coral lips, there was no pretence of coyness on her part. She was too noble, too confiding; she felt that her happiness was centred in his love, and she lived but in his presence. Two months had thus passed away, when Father Seysen, who often called, and had paid much attention to Amine’s instruction, one day came in as Amine was encircled in Philip’s arms.
“My children,” said he, “I have watched you for some time:— this is not well. Philip, if you intend marriage, as I presume you do, still it is dangerous. I must join your hands.”
Philip started up.
“Surely I am not deceived in thee, my son,” continued the priest in a severe tone.
“No, no, good Father; but I pray you leave me now: to-morrow you may come, and all will be decided. But I must talk with Amine.”
The priest quitted the room, and Amine and Philip were again alone. The colour in Amine’s cheek varied and her heart beat, for she felt how much her happiness was at stake.
“The priest is right, Amine,” said Philip sitting down by her. “This cannot last;—would that I could ever stay with you; how hard a fate is mine! You know I love the very ground you tread upon, yet I dare not ask thee to wed to misery.”
“To wed with thee would not be wedding misery, Philip,” replied Amine, with downcast eyes.
“’Twere not kindness on my part, Amine. I should indeed be selfish.”
“I will speak plainly, Philip,” replied Amine. “You say you love me,—I know not how men love,—but this I know, how I can love. I feel that to leave me now were indeed unkind and selfish on your part; for, Philip, I—I should die. You say that you must go away—that fate demands it,—and your fatal secret. Be it so;—but cannot I go with you?”
“Go with me, Amine—unto death?”
“Yes, death; for what is death but a release? I fear not death, Philip; I fear but losing thee. Nay, more; is not your life in the hands of Him who made all? then why so sure to die? You have hinted to me that you are chosen—selected for a task;—if chosen, there is less chance of death; for until the end be fulfilled, if chosen, you must live. I would I knew your secret, Philip: a woman’s wit might serve you well: and if it did not serve you, is there no comfort, no pleasure in sharing sorrow as well as joy with one you say you dote upon?”
“Amine, dearest Amine, it is my love, my ardent love alone, which makes me pause; for, O Amine, what pleasure should I feel if we were this hour united? I hardly know what to say, or what to do. I could not withhold my secret from you if you were my wife, nor will I wed you till you know it. Well, Amine, I will cast my all upon the die. You shall know this secret, learn what a doomed wretch I am, though from no fault of mine, and then you yourself shall decide. But remember my oath is registered in heaven, and I must not be dissuaded from it: keep that in mind, and hear my tale,—then if you choose to wed with one whose prospects are so bitter, be it so,—a short-lived happiness will then be mine, but for you, Amine—”
“At once the secret, Philip,” cried Amine, impatiently.
Philip then entered into a detail of what our readers are acquainted with. Amine listened in silence; not a change of feature was to be observed in her countenance during the narrative. Philip wound up with stating the oath which he had taken. “I have done,” said Philip, mournfully.
“’Tis a strange story, Philip,” replied Amine: “and now hear me;—but give me first that relic,—I wish to look upon it. And can there be such virtue—I had nigh said, such mischief—in this little thing? Strange; forgive me, Philip,—but I’ve still my doubts upon this tale ofEblis. You know I am not yet strong in the new belief which you and the good priest have lately taught me. I do not say that itcannotbe true: but still, one so unsettled as I am may be allowed to waver. But, Philip, I’ll assume that all is true. Then, if it be true, without the oath you would be doing but your duty; and think not so meanly of Amine as to suppose she would restrain you from what is right. No, Philip, seek your father, and, if you can, and he requires your aid, then save him. But, Philip do you imagine that a task like this, so high, is to be accomplished at one trial? O! no; if you have been so chosen to fulfil it, you will be preserved through difficulty and danger until you have worked out your end. You will be preserved and you will again and again return;—be comforted—consoled—be cherished—and be loved by Amine as your wife. And when it pleases Him to call you from this world, your memory, if she survive you, Philip, will equally be cherished in her bosom. Philip, you have given me to decide;—dearest Philip, I am thine.”
Amine extended her arms, and Philip pressed her to his bosom. That evening Philip demanded his daughter of the father, and Mynheer Poots, as soon as Philip opened the iron safe and displayed the guilders, gave his immediate consent.
Father Seysen called the next day and received his answer—and three days afterwards, the bells of the little church of Terneuse were ringing a merry peal for the union of Amine Poots and Philip Vanderdecken.