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
although 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 seamen 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 almost 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
mantel-piece--"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 were 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 arms, 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."
Philip made no reply; when, after a few moments, Amine continued:
"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 tease, 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 in 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 sofa, 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.