"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 bird-cages; 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 thus 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 bird-cages, 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, _we_ will 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 riveted upon it, and he could not remove them. Every minute
he muttered, "Yes, all silver."
Philip came downstairs; 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-bye--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 awhile 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
of _Eblis_. 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 it
_cannot_ be 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.