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 the 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 the 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
reappearance."
"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 Middleburgh, 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 everyone 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 faith is true; then is it not your duty to reveal these
proofs? Tell me, are you bound by any solemn obligation 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 downstairs. 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 may be supposed, it was late that night
before they had made their arrangements, and had retired to rest.