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."