"But one short week, Philip--"
"I would it had been but one day," replied he; "it would have been long
enough. He has come too soon--the one-eyed monster."
"Nay, not so, Philip. I thank him for the week--'tis but a short time
to wean myself from happiness. I grant you, that were I to teaze, to
vex, to unman you with my tears, my prayers, or my upbraidings (as some
wives would do, Philip), one day would be more than sufficient for such
a scene of weakness on my part, and misery on yours. But, no, Philip,
your Amine knows her duty better. You must go like some knight of old
to perilous encounter, perhaps to death; but Amine will arm you, and
show her love by closing carefully each rivet to protect you in your
peril, and will see you depart full of hope and confidence, anticipating
your return. A week is not too long, Philip, when employed as I trust I
shall employ it--a week to interchange our sentiments, to hear your
voice, to listen to your words (each of which will be engraven on my
heart's memory), to ponder on them, and feed my love with them is your
absence and in my solitude. No! no! Philip; I thank God that there is
yet a week."
"And so do I, then, Amine! and, after all, we knew that this must come."
"Yes! but my love was so potent, that it banished memory."
"And yet, during our separation, your love must feed on memory, Amine."
Amine sighed. Here their conversation was interrupted by the entrance
of Mynheer Poots, who, struck with the alteration in Amine's radiant
features, exclaimed, "Holy prophet! what is the matter now?"
"Nothing more than what we all knew before," replied Philip; "I am about
to leave you--the ship will sail in a week."
"Oh! you will sail in a week?"
There was a curious expression in the face of the old man as he
endeavoured to suppress, before Amine and her husband, the joy which he
felt at Philip's departure. Gradually he subdued his features into
gravity, and said--
"That is very bad news, indeed."
No answer was made by Amine or Philip, who quitted the room together.
We must pass over this week, which was occupied in preparations for
Philip's departure. We must pass over the heroism of Amine, who
controlled her feelings, racked as she was with intense agony at the
idea of separating from her adored husband. We cannot dwell upon the
conflicting emotions in the breast of Philip, who left competence,
happiness, and love, to encounter danger privation, and death. Now, at
one time, he would almost resolve to remain, and then at others, as he
took the relic from his bosom, and remembered his vow registered upon
it, he was nearly as anxious to depart. Amine, too, as she fell asleep
in her husband's arms, would count the few hours left them; or she would
shudder, as she lay awake and the wind howled, at the prospect of what
Philip would have to encounter. It was a long week to both of them,
and, although they thought that time flew fast, it was almost a relief
when the morning came that was to separate them; for, to their feelings,
which, from regard to each other, had been pent up and controlled they
could then give vent; their surcharged bosoms could be relieved;
certainty had driven away suspense, and hope was still left to cheer
them and brighten up the dark horizon of the future.
"Philip," said Amine, as they sat together with their hands entwined, "I
shall not feel so much when you are gone. I do not forget that all this
was told me before we were wed, and that for my love I took the hazard.
My fond heart often tells me that you will return; but it may deceive
me--return you _may_, but not in life. In this room I shall await you;
on this removed to its former station, I shall sit; and if you cannot
appear to me alive, O refuse me not, if it be possible, to appear to me
when dead. I shall fear no storm, no bursting open of the window. O
no! I shall hail the presence even of your spirit. Once more: let me
but see you--let me be assured that you are dead--and then I shall know
that I have no more to live for in this world, and shall hasten to join
you in a world of bliss. Promise me, Philip."
"I promise all you ask, provided Heaven will so permit; but, Amine," and
Philip's lips trembled, "I cannot--merciful God! I am indeed tried.
Amine, I can stay no longer."
Amine's dark eyes were fixed upon her husband--she could not speak--her
features were convulsed--nature could no longer hold up against her
excess of feeling--she fell into his arms, and lay motionless. Philip,
about to impress a last kiss upon her pale lips, perceived that she had
fainted.
"She feels not now," said he, as he laid her upon the sofa; "it is
better that it should be so--too soon will she awake to misery."
Summoning to the assistance of his daughter Mynheer Poots, who was in
the adjoining room, Philip caught up his hat, imprinted one more fervent
kiss upon her forehead, burst from the house, and was out of sight long
before Amine had recovered from her swoon.