She was roused from her reflections by another summons at the door of the cottage. She hastened down to the entrance, but did not open the door.
“Mynheer Poots is required immediately,” said the girl, who was the messenger.
“My good Therese,” replied Amine, “my father has more need of assistance than the poor woman; for his travail in this world I fear, is well over. I found him very ill when I went to call him, and he has not been able to quit his bed. I must now entreat you to do my message, and desire Father Seysen to come hither; for my poor father is, I fear, in extremity.”
“Mercy on me!” replied Therese. “Is it so? Fear not but I will do your bidding, Mistress Amine.”
The second knocking had awakened Philip, who felt that he was much better, and his headache had left him. He perceived that Amine had not taken any rest that night, and he was about to expostulate with her, when she at once told him what had occurred.
“You must dress yourself, Philip,” continued she, “and must assist me to carry up his body, and place it in his bed, before the arrival of the priest. God of mercy! had I given you that powder, my dearest Philip—but let us not talk about it. Be quick, for Father Seysen will be here soon.”
Philip was soon dressed, and followed Amine down into the parlour. The sun shone bright, and its rays were darted upon the haggard face of the old man, whose fists were clenched, and his tongue fixed between the teeth on one side of his mouth.
“Alas! this room appears to be fatal. How many more scenes of horror are to pass within it?”
“None, I trust,” replied Amine; “this is not, to my mind, the scene of horror. It was when that old man (now called away—and a victim to his own treachery) stood by your bed-side, and with every mark of interest and kindness, offered you the cup—that was the scene of horror,” said Amine, shuddering—“one which long will haunt me.”
“God forgive him! as I do,” replied Philip, lifting up the body, and carrying it up the stairs to the room which had been occupied by Mynheer Poots.
“Let it at least be supposed that he died in his bed, and that his death was natural,” said Amine. “My pride cannot bear that this should be known, or that I should be pointed at as the daughter of a murderer! O Philip!”
Amine sat down, and burst into tears.
Her husband was attempting to console her, when Father Seysen knocked at the door. Philip hastened down to open it.
“Good morning, my son. How is the sufferer?”
“He has ceased to suffer, father.”
“Indeed!” replied the good priest, with sorrow in his countenance; “am I then too late? yet have I not tarried.”
“He went off suddenly, father, in a convulsion,” replied Philip, leading the way up stairs.
Father Seysen looked at the body and perceived that his offices were needless, and then turned to Amine, who had not yet checked her tears.
“Weep, my child, weep! for you have cause,” said the priest. “The loss of a father’s love must be a severe trial to a dutiful and affectionate child. But yield not too much to your grief, Amine; you have other duties, other ties, my child—you have your husband.”
“I know it, father,” replied Amine; “still must I weep, for I was his daughter.”
“Did he not go to bed last night then that his clothes are still upon him? When did he first complain?”
“The last time that I saw him, father,” replied Philip; “he came into my room and gave me some medicine, and then he wished me good night. Upon on a summons to attend a sick bed, my wife went to call him, and found him speechless.”
“It has been sudden,” replied the priest; “but he was an old man, and old men sink at once. Were you with him when he died?”
“I was not, sir,” replied Philip; “before my wife had summoned me and I had dressed myself, he had left this world.”
“I trust, my children, for a better.” Amine shuddered. “Tell me Amine,” continued the priest, “did he show signs of grace before he died? for you know full well that he has long been looked on as doubtful in his creed and little attentive to the rites of our holy church.”
“There are times, holy father,” replied Amine, “when even a sincere Christian can be excused, even if he give no sign. Look at his clenched hands, witness the agony of death on his face, and could you, in that state expect a sign?”
“Alas! ’tis but too true, my child: we must then hope for the best. Kneel with me, my children, and let us offer up a prayer for the soul of the departed.”
Philip and Amine knelt with the priest, who prayed fervently; and as they rose, they exchanged a glance which fully revealed what was passing in the mind of each.
“I will send the people to do their offices for the dead, and prepare the body for interment,” said Father Seysen; “but it were as well not to say that he was dead before I arrived, or to let it he supposed that he was called away without receiving the consolations of our holy creed.”
Philip motioned his head in assent as he stood at the foot of the bed, and the priest departed. There had always been a strong feeling against Mynheer Poots in the village;—his neglect of all religious duties—the doubt whether he was even a member of the church—his avarice and extortion—had created for him a host of enemies; but, at the same time, his great medical skill, which was fully acknowledged, rendered him of importance. Had it been known that his creed (if he had any) was Mahomedan, and that he had died in attempting to poison his son-in-law, it is certain that Christian burial would have been refused him, and the finger of scorn would have been pointed at his daughter. But as Father Seysen, when questioned, said, in a mild voice, that “he had departed in peace,” it was presumed that Mynheer Poots had died a good Christian although he had acted little up to the tenets of Christianity during his life. The next day the remains of the old man were consigned to the earth with the usual rites; and Philip and Amine were not a little relieved in their minds at everything having passed off so quietly.
It was not until after the funeral had taken place that Philip, in company with Amine, examined the chamber of his father-in-law. The key of the iron chest was found in his pocket; but Philip had not yet looked into this darling repository of the old man. The room was full of bottles and boxes of drugs, all of which were either thrown away, or, if the utility of them was known to Amine, removed to a spare room. His table contained many drawers, which were now examined, and among the heterogeneous contents were many writings in Arabic—probably prescriptions. Boxes and papers were also found, with Arabic characters written upon them; and in the box which they first took up was a powder similar to that which Mynheer Poots had given to Amine. There were many articles and writings, which made it appear that the old man had dabbled in the occult sciences, as they were practised at that period, and those they hastened to commit to the flames.
“Had all these been seen by Father Seysen!” observed Amine, mournfully. “But here are some printed papers, Philip!”
Philip examined them, and found that they were acknowledgments of shares in the Dutch East-India Company.
“No, Amine, these are money, or what is as good—these are eight shares in the Company’s capital, which will yield us a handsome income every year. I had no idea that the old man made such use of his money. I had some intention of doing the same with a part of mine before I went away, instead of allowing it to remain idle.”
The iron chest was now to be examined. When Philip first opened it; he imagined that it contained but little; for it was large and deep, and appeared to be almost empty; but when he put his hands down to the bottom, he pulled out thirty or forty small bags, the contents of which, instead of being silver guilders, were all coins of gold; there was only one large bag of silver money. But this was not all; several small boxes and packets were also discovered, which, when opened, were found to contain diamonds and other precious stones. When everything was collected, the treasure appeared to be of great value.
“Amine, my love, you have indeed brought me an unexpected dower,” said Philip.
“You may well say unexpected,” replied Amine. “These diamonds and jewels my father must have brought with him from Egypt. And yet how penuriously were we living until we came to this cottage! And with all this treasure he would have poisoned my Philip for more! God forgive him!”
Having counted the gold, which amounted to nearly fifty thousand guilders, the whole was replaced, and they left the room.
“I am a rich man,” thought Philip, after Amine had left him; “but of what use are riches to me? I might purchase a ship and be my own captain, but would not the ship be lost? That certainly does not follow; but the chances are against the vessel; therefore I will have no ship. But is it right to sail in the vessels of others with this feeling?—I know not; this, however, I know, that I have a duty to perform, and that all our lives are in the hands of a kind Providence, which calls us away when it thinks fit. I will place most of my money in the shares of the Company, and if I sail in their vessels, and they come to misfortune by meeting with my poor father, at least I shall be a common sufferer with the rest. And now to make my Amine more comfortable.”
Philip immediately made a great alteration in their style of living. Two female servants were hired: the rooms were more comfortably furnished; and in everything in which his wife’s comfort and convenience were concerned, he spared no expense. He wrote to Amsterdam and purchased several shares in the Company’s stock. The diamonds and his own money he still left in the hands of Amine. In making these arrangements the two months passed rapidly away; and everything was complete when Philip again received his summons, by letter, to desire that he would join his vessel. Amine would have wished Philip to go out as a passenger instead of going as an officer, but Philip preferred the latter, as otherwise he could give no reason for his voyage to India.
“I know not why,” observed Philip, the evening before his departure, “but I do not feel as I did when I last went away; I have no foreboding of evil this time.”
“Nor have I,” replied Amine; “but I feel as if you would be long away from me, Philip; and is not that an evil to a fond and anxious wife?”
“Yes, love, it is; but—”
“O, yes, I know it is your duty, and you must go,” replied Amine, burying her face in his bosom.
The next day Philip parted from his wife, who behaved with more fortitude than on their first separation. “All were lost but he was saved,” thought Amine. “I feel that he will return to me. God of Heaven, Thy will be done!”
Philip soon arrived at Amsterdam; and having purchased many things which he thought might be advantageous to him in case of accident, to which he now looked forward as almost certain, he embarked on board the Batavia, which was lying at single anchor, and ready for sea.
* * *
Chapter Twelve.
Philip had not been long on board, ere he found that they were not likely to have a very comfortable passage; for the Batavia was chartered to convey a large detachment of troops to Ceylon and Java, for the purpose of recruiting and strengthening the Company’s forces at those places. She was to quit the fleet off Madagascar, and run direct for the Island of Java; the number of soldiers on board being presumed sufficient to insure the ship against any attack or accidents from pirates or enemies’ cruisers. The Batavia, moreover, mounted thirty guns, and had a crew of seventy-five men. Besides military stores, which formed the principal part of her cargo, she had on board a large quantity of specie for the Indian market. The detachment of soldiers was embarking when Philip went on board, and in a few minutes the decks were so crowded that it was hardly possible to move. Philip, who had not yet spoken to the captain, found out the first mate, and immediately entered upon his duty, with which, from his close application to it during his former voyage and passage home, he was much better acquainted than might have been imagined.
In a short time all traces of hurry and confusion began to disappear, the baggage of the troops was stowed away, and the soldiers having been told off in parties, and stationed with their messing utensils between the guns of the main deck, room was thus afforded for working the ship. Philip showed great activity as well as method in the arrangements proposed and the captain, during a pause in his own arduous duties, said to him—
“I thought you were taking it very easy, Mr Vanderdecken, in not joining the ship before, but, now you are on board, you are making up for lost time. You have done more during the forenoon than I could have expected. I am glad that you are come, though very sorry you were not here when we were stowing the hold, which, I am afraid, is not arranged quite so well as it might be. Mynheer Struys, the first mate, has had more to do than he could well give attention to.”
“I am sorry that I should not have been here, sir,” replied Philip; “but I came as soon as the Company sent me word.”
“Yes, and as they know that you are a married man, and do not forget that you are a great shareholder, they would not trouble you too soon. I presume you will have the command of a vessel next voyage. In fact, you are certain of it, with the capital you have invested in their funds. I had a conversation with one of the senior accountants on the subject this very morning.”
Philip was not very sorry that his money had been put out to such good interest, as to be the captain of a ship was what he earnestly desired. He replied, that “he certainly did hope to command a ship after the next voyage, when he trusted that he should feel himself quite competent to the charge.”
“No doubt, no doubt, Mr Vanderdecken. I can see that clearly. You must be very fond of the sea.”
“I am,” replied Philip; “I doubt whether I shall ever give it up.”
“Never give it up! You think so now. You are young, active, and full of hope; but you will tire of it by and bye, and be glad to lay by for the rest of your days.”
“How many troops do we embark?” inquired Philip.
“Two hundred and forty-five rank and file, and six officers. Poor fellows! there are but few of them will ever return: nay, more than one-half will not see another birthday. It is a dreadful climate. I have landed three hundred men at that horrid hole, and in six months, even before I had sailed, there were not one hundred left alive.”
“It is almost murder to send them there,” observed Philip.
“Pshaw! they must die somewhere, and if they die a little sooner, what matter? Life is a commodity to be bought and sold like any other. We send out so much manufactured goods and so much money to barter for Indian commodities. We also send out so much life, and it gives a good return to the Company.”
“But not to the poor soldiers, I am afraid.”
