“Can you listen to me, dearest?” said Philip, after a silence of a few moments.
“O speak—speak, love; I can listen for ever.”
In a few words Philip then recounted what had taken place, and the occasion of his unexpected return, and felt himself more than repaid for all that he had suffered, by the fond endearments of his still agitated Amine.
“And your father, Amine?”
“He is well; we will talk of him to-morrow.”
“Yes,” thought Philip, as he awoke next morning, and dwelt upon the lovely features of his still slumbering wife; “yes, God is merciful. I feel that there is still happiness in store for me; nay, more, that that happiness also depends upon my due performance of my task, and that I should be punished if I were to forget my solemn vow. Be it so,—through danger and to death will I perform my duty, trusting to His mercy for a reward both here below and in heaven above. Am I not repaid for all that I have suffered? O yes more than repaid,” thought Philip, as with a kiss he disturbed the slumber of his wife, and met her full dark eyes fixed upon him, beaming with love and joy.
Before Philip went down stairs, he inquired about Mynheer Poots.
“My father has indeed troubled me much,” replied Amine. “I am obliged to lock the parlour when I leave it, for more than once I have found him attempting to force the locks of the buffets. His love of gold is insatiable: he dreams of nothing else, he has caused me much pain, insisting that I never should see you again, and that I should surrender to him all your wealth. But he fears me, and he fears your return much more.”
“Is he well in health?”
“Not ill, but still evidently wasting away—like a candle burnt down to the socket, flitting and flaring alternately; at one time almost imbecile, at others, talking and planning as if he were in the vigour of his youth. O what a curse it must be—that love of money! I believe—I’m shocked to say so, Philip,—that that poor old man, now on the brink of a grave into which he can take nothing, would sacrifice your life and mine to have possession of those guilders, the whole of which I would barter for one kiss from thee.”
“Indeed, Amine, has he then attempted anything in my absence?”
“I dare not speak my thoughts, Philip, nor will I venture upon surmises, which it were difficult to prove. I watch him carefully;—but talk no more about him. You will see him soon, and do not expect a hearty welcome, or believe that, if given, it is sincere, I will not tell him of your return, as I wish to mark the effect.”
Amine then descended to prepare breakfast, and Philip walked out for a few minutes. On his return, he found Mynheer Poots sitting at the table with his daughter.
“Merciful Allah! am I right?” cried the old man: “is it you, Mynheer Vanderdecken?”
“Even so,” replied Philip; “I returned last night.”
“And you did not tell me, Amine.”
“I wished that you should be surprised,” replied Amine.
“I am surprised! When do you sail again, Mynheer Philip? very soon, I suppose? perhaps to-morrow?” said Mynheer Poots.
“Not for many months, I trust,” replied Philip.
“Not for many months!—that is a long while to be idle. You must make money. Tell me, have you brought back plenty this time?”
“No,” replied Philip; “I have been wrecked, and very nearly lost my life.”
“But you will go again?”
“Yes, in good time I shall go again.”
“Very well, we will take care of your house and your guilders.”
“I shall perhaps save you the trouble of taking care of my guilders,” replied Philip, to annoy the old man, “for I mean to take them with me.”
“To take them with you! for what, pray?” replied Poots, in alarm.
“To purchase goods where I go, and make more money.”
“But you may be wrecked again and then the money will be all lost. No, no; go yourself, Mynheer Philip; but you must not take your guilders.”
“Indeed I will,” replied Philip; “when I leave this, I shall take all my money with me.”
During this conversation it occurred to Philip that, if Mynheer Poots could only be led to suppose that he took away his money with him, there would be more quiet for Amine who was now obliged, as she had informed him, to be constantly on the watch. He determined, therefore, when he next departed, to make the doctor believe that he had taken his wealth with him.
Mynheer Poots did not renew the conversation, but sank into gloomy thought. In a few minutes he left the parlour, and went up to his own room, when Philip stated to his wife what had induced him to make the old man believe that he should embark his property.
“It was thoughtful of you, Philip, and I thank you for your kind feeling towards me; but I wish you had said nothing on the subject. You do not know my father; I must now watch him as an enemy.”
“We have little to fear from an infirm old man,” replied Philip, laughing. But Amine thought otherwise, and was ever on her guard.
The spring and summer passed rapidly away, for they were happy. Many were the conversations between Philip and Amine, relative to what had passed—the supernatural appearance of his father’s ship, and the fatal wreck.
Amine felt that more dangers and difficulty were preparing for her husband, but she never once attempted to dissuade him from renewing his attempts in fulfilment of his vow. Like him, she looked forward with hope and confidence, aware that, at some time, his fate must be accomplished, and trusting only that that hour would be long delayed.
At the close of the summer, Philip again went to Amsterdam, to procure for himself a berth in one of the vessels which were to sail at the approach of winter.
The wreck of the Ter Schilling was well known; and the circumstances attending it, with the exception of the appearance of the Phantom Ship, had been drawn up by Philip on his passage home, and communicated to the Court of Directors. Not only on account of the very creditable manner in which that report had been prepared, but in consideration of his peculiar sufferings and escape, he had been promised by the Company a berth, as second mate, on board of one of their vessels, should he be again inclined to sail to the East Indies.
Having called upon the Directors, he received his appointment to the Batavia, a fine vessel of about 400 tons burden. Having effected his purpose, Philip hastened back to Terneuse, and, in the presence of Mynheer Poots, informed Amine of what he had done.
“So you go to sea again?” observed Mynheer Poots.
“Yes, but not for two months, I expect,” replied Philip.
“Ah!” replied Poots, “in two months!” and the old man muttered to himself.
How true it is that we can more easily bear up against a real evil than against suspense! Let it not be supposed that Amine fretted at the thought of her approaching separation from her husband; she lamented it, but feeling his departure to be an imperious duty, and having it ever in her mind, she bore up against her feelings, and submitted, without repining, to what could not be averted. There was, however, one circumstance, which caused her much uneasiness—that was the temper and conduct of her father. Amine, who knew his character well, perceived that he already secretly hated Philip, whom he regarded as an obstacle to his obtaining possession of the money in the house; for the old man was well aware that if Philip were dead, his daughter would care little who had possession of, or what became of it. The thought that Philip was about to take that money with him had almost turned the brain of the avaricious old man. He had been watched by Amine, and she had seen him walk for hours muttering to himself, and not, as usual, attending to his profession.
A few evenings after his return from Amsterdam, Philip, who had taken cold, complained of not being well.
“Not well!” cried the old man, starting up; “let me see—yes, your pulse is very quick. Amine, your poor husband is very ill. He must go to bed, and I will give him something which will do him good. I shall charge you nothing, Philip—nothing at all.”
“I do not feel so very unwell, Mynheer Poots,” replied Philip; “I have a bad headache certainly.”
“Yes, and you have fever also, Philip, and prevention is better than cure; so go to bed, and take what I send you, and you will be well to-morrow.”
Philip went up stairs, accompanied by Amine; and Mynheer Poots went into his own room to prepare the medicine. So soon as Philip was in bed, Amine went down stairs, and was met by her father, who put a powder into her hands to give to her husband, and then left the parlour.
“God forgive me if I wrong my father,” thought Amine, “but I have my doubts. Philip is ill, more so than he will acknowledge; and if he does not take some remedies, he may be worse—but my heart misgives me—I have a foreboding. Yet surely he cannot be so diabolically wicked.”
Amine examined the contents of the paper: it was a very small quantity of dark-brown powder, and, by the directions of Mynheer Poots, to be given in a tumbler of warm wine. Mynheer Poots had offered to heat the wine. His return from the kitchen broke Amine’s meditations.
“Here is the wine, my child; now give him a whole tumbler of wine, and the powder, and let him be covered up warm, for the perspiration will soon burst out and it must not be checked. Watch him, Amine, and keep the clothes on, and he will be well to-morrow morning.” And Mynheer Poots quitted the room, saying, “Good night, my child.”
Amine poured out the powder into one of the silver mugs on the table, and then proceeded to mix it up with the wine. Her suspicions had, for the time been removed by the kind tone of her father’s voice. To do him justice as a medical practitioner, he appeared always to be most careful of his patients. When Amine mixed the powder, she examined and perceived that there was no sediment, and the wine was as clear as before. This was unusual, and her suspicions revived.
“I like it not,” said she; “I fear my father—God help me!—I hardly know what to do—I will not give it to Philip. The warm wine may produce perspiration sufficient.”
Amine paused, and again reflected. She had mixed the powder with so small a portion of wine that it did not fill a quarter of the cup; she put it on one side, filled another up to the brim with the warm wine, and then went up to the bedroom.
On the landing-place she was met by her father, whom she supposed to have retired to rest.
“Take care you do not spill it, Amine. That is right, let him have a whole cupful. Stop, give it to me; I will take it to him myself.”
Mynheer Poots took the cup from Amine’s hands, and went into Philip’s room.
“Here, my son, drink this off, and you will be well,” said Mynheer Poots, whose hand trembled so that he spilt the wine on the coverlid. Amine, who watched her father, was more than ever pleased that she had not put the powder into the cup. Philip rose on his elbow, drank off the wine, and Mynheer Poots then wished him good night.
“Do not leave him, Amine, I will see all right,” said Mynheer Poots, as he left the room. And Amine, who had intended to go down for the candle left in the parlour, remained with her husband, to whom she confided her feelings and also the fact that she had not given him the powder.
“I trust that you are mistaken, Amine,” replied Philip; “indeed I feel sure that you must be. No man could be so bad as you suppose your father.”
“You have not lived with him as I have—you have not seen what I have seen,” replied Amine. “You know not what gold will tempt people to do in this world—but, however, I may be wrong. At all events, you must go to sleep, and I shall watch you, dearest. Pray do not speak—I feel I cannot sleep just now—I wish to read a little—I will lie down by-and-by.”
Philip made no further objections, and was soon in a sound sleep, and Amine watched him in silence till midnight long had passed.
“He breathes heavily,” thought Amine; “but had I given him that powder, who knows if he had ever awoke again? My father is so deeply skilled in the Eastern knowledge, that I fear him. Too often has he, I well know, for a purse well filled with gold, prepared the sleep of death. Another would shudder at the thought; but he, who has dealt out death at the will of his employers, would scruple little to do so even to the husband of his own daughter; and I have watched him in his moods and know his thoughts and wishes. What a foreboding of mishap has come over me this evening!—what a fear of evil! Philip is ill, ’tis true, but not so very ill. No! no! Besides his time is not yet come; he has his dreadful task to finish. I would it were morning. How soundly he sleeps!—and the dew is on his brow. I must cover him up warm, and watch that he remains so. Some one knocks at the entrance-door. Now will they wake him. ’Tis a summons for my father.”
Amine left the room, and hastened down stairs. It was as she supposed, a summons for Mynheer Poots to a woman taken in labour. “He shall follow you directly,” said Amine; “I will now call him up.” Amine went up stairs to the room where her father slept, and knocked; hearing no answer, as usual, she knocked again.
“My father is not used to sleep in this way,” thought Amine, when she found no answer to her second call. She opened the door and went in. To her surprise, her father was not in bed. “Strange,” thought she; “but I do not recollect having heard his footsteps coming up after he went down to take away the lights.” And Amine hastened to the parlour, where, stretched on the sofa, she discovered her father apparently fast asleep; but to her call he gave no answer. “Merciful Heaven! is he dead?” thought she, approaching the light to her father’s face. Yes, it was so!—his eyes were fixed and glazed—his lower jaw had fallen.
For some minutes, Amine leant against the wall in a state of bewilderment; her brain whirled; at last she recovered herself.
“’Tis to be proved at once,” thought she, as she went up to the table, and looked into the silver cup in which she had mixed the powder—it was empty! “The God of Righteousness hath punished him!” exclaimed Amine; “but O! that this man should have been my father! Yes! it is plain. Frightened at his own wicked, damned intentions, he poured out more wine from the flagon, to blunt his feelings of remorse, and not knowing that the powder was still in the cup, he filled it up and drank himself—the death he meant for another! For another!—and for whom? one wedded to his own daughter!—Philip! my husband! Wert thou not my father,” continued Amine, looking at the dead body, “I would spit upon thee? and curse thee!—but thou art punished, and may God forgive thee! thou poor, weak, wicked creature!”
Amine then left the room and went up stairs, where she found Philip still fast asleep, and in a profuse perspiration.
Most women would have awakened their husbands, but Amine thought not of herself; Philip was ill, and Amine would not arouse him to agitate him. She sat down by the side of the bed, and with her hands pressed upon her forehead, and her elbows resting on her knees, she remained in deep thought until the sun had risen and poured his bright beams through the casement.
