It was not until late in the autumn that Philip was roused from his
dream of love (for what, alas! is every enjoyment of this life but a
dream?) by a summons from the captain of the vessel with whom he had
engaged to sail. Strange as it may appear, from the first day which put
him in possession of his Amine, Philip had no longer brooded over his
future destiny; occasionally it was recalled to his memory, but
immediately rejected, and, for the time, forgotten. Sufficient he
thought it, to fulfil his engagement when the time should come; and
though the hours flew away, and day succeeded day, week week, and month
month, with the rapidity accompanying a life of quiet and unvarying
bliss, Philip forgot his vow in the arms of Amine, who was careful not
to revert to a topic which would cloud the brow of her adored husband.
Once, indeed, or twice, had old Poots raised the question of Philip's
departure, but the indignant frown and the imperious command of Amine
(who knew too well the sordid motives which actuated her father, and
who, at such times, looked upon him with abhorrence) made him silent,
and the old man would spend his leisure hours in walking up and down the
parlour with his eyes riveted upon the buffets, where the silver
tankards now beamed in all their pristine brightness.
One morning, in the month of October, there was a tapping with the
knuckles at the cottage door. As this precaution implied a stranger,
Amine obeyed the summons.
"I would speak with Master Philip Vanderdecken," said the stranger, in a
half-whispering sort of voice.
The party who thus addressed Amine was a little meagre personage,
dressed in the garb of the Dutch seaman of the time, with a cap made of
badger-skin hanging over his brow. His features were sharp and
diminutive, his face of a deadly white, his lips pale, and his hair of a
mixture between red and white. He had very little show of beard--
indeed, it was most difficult to say what his age might be. He might
have been a sickly youth early sinking into decrepitude, or an old man,
hale in constitution, yet carrying no flesh. But the most important
feature, and that which immediately riveted the attention of Amine, was
the eye of this peculiar personage--for he had but one; the right
eye-lid was closed, and the ball within had evidently wasted away; but
his left eye was, for the size of his face and head, of unusual
dimensions, very protuberant, clear and watery, and most unpleasant to
look upon, being relieved by no fringe of eyelash either above or below
it. So remarkable was the feature, that when you looked at the man, you
saw his eye and looked at nothing else. It was not a man with one eye,
but one eye with a man attached to it; the body was but the tower of the
lighthouse, of no further value, and commanding no further attention,
than does the structure which holds up the beacon to the venturous
mariner; and yet, upon examination, you would have perceived that the
man, although small, was neatly made; that his hands were very different
in texture and colour from those of common seamen; that his features in
general, although sharp, were regular; and that there was an air of
superiority even in the obsequious manner of the little personage, and
an indescribable something about his whole appearance which almost
impressed you with awe. Amine's dark eyes were for a moment fixed upon
the visitor, and she felt a chill at her heart for which she could not
account, as she requested that he would walk in.
Philip was greatly surprised at the appearance of the stranger, who, as
soon as he entered the room, without saying a word sat down on the sofa
by Philip in the place which Amine had just left. To Philip there was
something ominous in this person taking Amine's seat; all that had
passed rushed into his recollection and he felt that there was a summons
from his short existence of enjoyment and repose to a life of future
activity, danger, and suffering. What peculiarly struck Philip was,
that when the little man sat beside him, a sensation of sudden cold ran
through his whole frame. The colour fled from Philip's cheek, but he
spoke not. For a minute or two there was a silence. The one-eyed
visitor looked round him, and turning from the buffets, he fixed his
eyes on the form of Amine, who stood before him; at last the silence was
broken by a sort of giggle on the part of the stranger, which ended in--
"Philip Vanderdecken--he! he!--Philip Vanderdecken, you don't know me?"
"I do not," replied Philip, in a half angry tone.
The voice of the little man was most peculiar--it was a sort of subdued
scream, the notes of which sounded in your ear long after he had ceased
to speak.
"I am Schriften, one of the pilots of the Ter Schilling," continued the
man; "and I'm come--he! he!"--and he looked hard at Amine--"to take you
away from love,"--and looking at the buffets--"he! he! from comfort, and
from this also," cried he, stamping his foot on the floor as he rose
from the sofa--"from terra firma--he! he!--to a watery grave perhaps.
Pleasant!" continued Schriften, with a giggle; and with a countenance
full of meaning he fixed his one eye on Philip's face.
Philip's first impulse was to put his new visitor out of the door; but
Amine, who read his thoughts, folded her arms as she stood before the
little man, and eyed him with contempt, as she observed:--
"We all must meet our fate, good fellow; and, whether by land or sea,
death will have his due. If death stare him in the face, the cheek of
Philip Vanderdecken will never turn as white as yours is now."
"Indeed!" replied Schriften, evidently annoyed at this cool
determination on the part of one so young and beautiful; and then fixing
his eye upon the silver shrine of the Virgin on the mantelpiece--"You
are a Catholic, I perceive--he!"
"I am a Catholic," replied Philip; "but does that concern you? When
does the vessel sail?"
"In a week--he! he!--only a week for preparation--only seven days to
leave all--short notice!"
"More than sufficient," replied Philip, rising up from the sofa. "You
may tell your captain that I shall not fail. Come, Amine, we must lose
no time."
"No, indeed," replied Amine, "and our first duty is hospitality:
Mynheer, may we offer you refreshment after your walk?"
"This day week," said Schriften, addressing Philip, and without making a
reply to Amine. Philip nodded his head, the little man turned on his
heel and left the room, and in a short time was out of sight.
Amine sank down on the sofa. The breaking-up of her short hour of
happiness had been too sudden, too abrupt, and too cruelly brought about
for a fondly doting, although heroic woman. There was an evident
malignity in the words and manner of the one-eyed messenger, an
appearance as if he knew more than others, which awed and confused both
Philip and herself. Amine wept not, but she covered her face with her
hands as Philip, with no steady pace, walked up and down the small room.
Again, with all the vividness of colouring, did the scenes half
forgotten recur to his memory. Again did he penetrate the fatal
chamber--again was it obscure. The embroidery lay at his feet, and once
more he started as when the letter appeared upon the floor.
They had both awakened from a dream of present bliss, and shuddered at
the awful future which presented itself. A few minutes was sufficient
for Philip to resume his natural self-possession. He sat down by the
side of his Amine, and clasped her in his arms. They remained silent.
They knew too well each other's thoughts; and, excruciating as was the
effort, they were both summoning up their courage to bear, and steeling
their hearts against, the conviction that, in this world, they must now
expect to be for a time, perhaps for ever, separated.
Amine was the first to speak: removing her arm; which had been wound
round her husband, she first put his hand to her heart, as if to
compress its painful throbbings, and then observed--
"Surely that was no earthly messenger, Philip! Did you not feel chilled
to death when he sat by you? I did as he came in."
Philip, who had the same thought as Amine, but did not wish to alarm
her, answered confusedly--
"Nay, Amine, you fancy--that is, the suddenness of his appearance and
his strange conduct have made you imagine this; but I saw in him but a
man who, from his peculiar deformity, has become an envious outcast of
society--debarred from domestic happiness, from the smiles of the other
sex; for what woman could smile upon such a creature? His bile raised
at so much beauty in the arms of another, he enjoyed a malignant
pleasure in giving a message which he felt would break upon those
pleasures from which he is cut off. Be assured, my love, that it was
nothing more."
"And even if my conjecture were correct, what does it matter?" replied
Amine. "There can be nothing more, nothing which can render your
position more awful, and more desperate. As your wife, Philip, I feel
less courage than I did when I gave my willing hand. I knew not then
what would be the extent of my loss; but fear not, much as I feel here,"
continued Amine, putting her hand to her heart--"I am prepared, and
proud that he who is selected for such a task is my husband." Amine
paused. "You cannot, surely, have been mistaken, Philip?"
"No! Amine, I have not been mistaken, either in the summons, or in my
own courage, or in my selection of a wife," replied Philip, mournfully,
as he embraced her. "It is the will of Heaven."
"Then may its will be done," replied Amine, rising from her seat. "The
first pang is over. I feel better now, Philip. Your Amine knows her
duty."