“Oh! that I had my mother’s art,” repeated Amine once more as she entered the cottage; “then would I know where I was at this moment. Oh! for the black mirror, in which I used to peer at her command, and tell her what passed in array before me. How well do I remember that time—the time of my father’s absence, when I looked into the liquid on the palm of my hand, and told her of the Bedouin camp—of the skirmish—the horse without a rider—and the turban on the sand!” And again Amine fell into deep thought. “Yes,” cried she, after a time, “thou canst assist me, mother! Give me in a dream thy knowledge; thy daughter begs it as a boon. Let me think again. The word—what was the word? what was the name of the spirit—Turshoon? Yes, methinks it was Turshoon. Mother! mother! help your daughter.”
“Dost thou call upon the Blessed Virgin, my child?” said Father Mathias, who had entered the room as she pronounced the last words. “If so, thou dost well, for she may appear to thee in thy dreams, and strengthen thee in the true faith.”
“I called upon my own mother, who is in the land of spirits, good father,” replied Amine.
“Yes; but as an infidel, not, I fear, in the land of the blessed spirits, my child.”
“She hardly will be punished for following the creed of her fathers, living where she did, where no other creed was known?” replied Amine indignantly. “If the good on earth are blessed in the next world—if she had, as you assert she had, a soul to be saved—an immortal spirit—He who made that spirit will not destroy it because she worshipped as her fathers did. Her life was good: why should she be punished for ignorance of that creed which she never had an opportunity of rejecting?”
“Who shall dispute the will of Heaven, my child? Be thankful that you are permitted to be instructed, and to be received into the bosom of the holy church.”
“I am thankful for many things, father; but I am weary, and must wish you a good night.”
Amine retired to her room—but not to sleep. Once more did she attempt the ceremonies used by her mother, changing them each time, as doubtful of her success. Again the censer was lighted—the charms essayed; again the room was filled with smoke as she threw in the various herbs which she had knowledge of, for all the papers thrown aside at her father’s death had been carefully collected, and on many were directions found as to the use of those herbs. “The word! the word! I have the first—the second word! Help me, mother!” cried Amine, as she sat by the side of the bed, in the room, which was now so full of smoke that nothing could be distinguished. “It is of no use,” thought she, at last, letting her hands fall at her side; “I have forgotten the art. Mother! mother! help me in my dreams this night.”
The smoke gradually cleared away, and, when Amine lifted up her eyes, she perceived a figure standing before her. At first she thought she had been successful in her charm; but, as the figure became more distinct, she perceived that it was Father Mathias, who was looking at her with a severe frown and contracted brow, his arms folded before him.
“Unholy child! what dost thou?”
Amine had roused the suspicions of the priests, not only by her conversation, but by several attempts which she had before made to recover her lost art; and on one occasion, in which she had defended it, both Father Mathias and Father Seysen had poured out the bitterest anathemas upon her, or any one who had resort to such practices. The smell of the fragrant herbs thrown into the censer, and the smoke, which afterwards had escaped through the door and ascended the stairs, had awakened the suspicious of Father Mathias, and he had crept up silently, and entered the room without her perceiving it. Amine at once perceived her danger. Had she been single, she would have dared the priest; but, for Philip’s sake, she determined to mislead him.
“I do no wrong, father,” replied she calmly, “but it appears to me not seemly that you should enter the chamber of a young woman during her husband’s absence. I might have been in my bed. It is a strange intrusion.”
“Thou canst not mean this, woman! My age—my profession—are a sufficient warranty,” replied Father Mathias, somewhat confused at this unexpected attack.
“Not always, father, if what I have been told of monks and priests be true,” replied Amine. “I ask again, why comest thou here into an unprotected woman’s chamber?”
“Because I felt convinced that she was practising unholy arts.”
“Unholy arts!—what mean you? Is the leech’s skill unholy? Is it unholy to administer relief to those who suffer?—to charm the fever and the ague, which rack the limbs of those who live in this unwholesome climate?”
“All charms are most unholy.”
“When I said charms, father, I meant not what you mean; I simply would have said a remedy. If a knowledge of certain powerful herbs, which, properly combined, will form a specific to ease the suffering wretch—an art well known unto my mother, and which I now would fain recall—if that knowledge, or a wish to regain that knowledge, be unholy, then are you correct.”
“I heard thee call upon thy mother for her help.”
“I did, for she well knew the ingredients; but I, I fear, have not the knowledge that she had. Is that sinful, good father?”
“’Tis, then, a remedy that you would find?” replied the priest; “I thought that thou didst practise that which is most unlawful.”
“Can the burning of a few weeds be then unlawful? What did you expect to find? Look you, father, at these ashes—they may, with oil, be rubbed into the pores and give relief—but can they do more? What do you expect from them—a ghost?—a spirit?—like the prophet raised for the King of Israel?” And Amine laughed aloud.
“I am perplexed, but not convinced,” replied the priest.
“I, too, am perplexed and not convinced,” responded Amine, scornfully. “I cannot satisfy myself that a man of your discretion could really suppose that there was mischief in burning weeds; nor am I convinced that such was the occasion of your visit at this hour of the night to a lone woman’s chamber. There may be natural charms more powerful than those you call supernatural. I pray you, father, leave this chamber. It is not seemly. Should you again presume, you leave the house. I thought better of you. In future, I will not be left at any time alone.”
This attack of Amine’s upon the reputation of the old priest was too severe. Father Mathias immediately quitted the room, saying, as he went out, “May God forgive you for your false suspicions and great injustice! I came here for the cause I have stated, and no more.”
“Yes!” soliloquised Amine, as the door closed, “I know you did; but I must rid myself of your unwelcome company. I will have no spy upon my actions—no meddler to thwart me in my will. In your zeal you have committed yourself, and I will take the advantage you have given me. Is not the privacy of a woman’s chamber to be held sacred by you sacred men! In return for assistance in distress—for food and shelter—you would become a spy. How grateful, and how worthy of the creed which you profess!” Amine opened her door as soon as she had removed the censer, and summoned one of the women of the house to stay that night in her room, stating that the priest had entered her chamber, and she did not like the intrusion.
“Holy father! is it possible?” replied the woman. Amine made no reply, but went to bed; but Father Mathias heard all that passed as he paced the room below. The next day he called upon Father Seysen, and communicated to him what had occurred and the false suspicions of Amine.
“You have acted hastily,” replied Father Seysen, “to visit a woman’s chamber at such an hour of the night.”
“I had my suspicions, good Father Seysen.”
“And she will have hers. She is young and beautiful.”
“Now, by the blessed Virgin—”
“I absolve you, good Mathias,” replied Father Seysen, “but still, if known, it would occasion much scandal to our church.”
And known it soon was; for the woman who had been summoned by Amine did not fail to mention the circumstance and Father Mathias found himself everywhere so coldly received, and, besides, so ill at ease with himself, that he very soon afterwards quitted the country, and returned to Lisbon, angry with himself for his imprudence, but still more angry with Amine for her unjust suspicions.
* * *
Chapter Twenty One.
The cargo of the Dort was soon ready, and Philip sailed and arrived at Amsterdam without any further adventure. That he reached his cottage, and was received with delight by Amine need hardly be said. She had been expecting him; for the two ships of the squadron, which had sailed on his arrival at Batavia, and which had charge of his despatches, had, of course, carried letters to her from Philip, the first letters she had ever received from him during his voyages. Six weeks after the letters Philip himself made his appearance, and Amine was happy. The Directors were, of course, highly satisfied with Philip’s conduct, and he was appointed to the command of a large armed ship, which was to proceed to India in the spring, one-third of which, according to agreement, was purchased by Philip out of the funds which he had in the hands of the Company. He had now five months of quiet and repose to pass away, previous to his once more trusting to the elements and this time, as it was agreed, he had to make arrangements on board for the reception of Amine.
Amine narrated to Philip what had occurred between her and the priest Mathias, and by what means she had rid herself of his unwished for surveillance.
“And were you practising your mother’s arts, Amine?”
“Nay, not practising them, for I could not recall them, but I was trying to recover them.”
“Why so, Amine? this must not be. It is, as the good father said, ‘unholy.’ Promise me you will abandon them now and for ever.”
“If that act be unholy, Philip, so is your mission. You would deal and co-operate with the spirits of another world—I would do no more. Abandon your terrific mission—abandon your seeking after disembodied spirits, stay at home with you Amine, and she will cheerfully comply with your request.”
“Mine is an awful summons from the Most High.”
“Then the Most High permits your communion with those who are not of this world?”
“He does; you know even the priests do not gainsay it although they shudder at the very thought.”
“If then He permits to one, He will to another; nay, ought that I can do is but with His permission.”
“Yes, Amine, so does He permit evil to stalk on the earth but He countenances it not.”
“He countenances your seeking after your doomed father, your attempts to meet him; nay, more He commands it. If you are thus permitted, why may not I be? I am your wife, a portion of yourself; and when I am left over a desolate hearth while you pursue your course of danger, may not I appeal also to the immaterial world to give me that intelligence which will soothe my sorrow, lighten my burden, and which, at the same time, can hurt no living creature? Did I attempt to practise these arts for evil purposes, it were just to deny them me, am wrong to continue them; but I would but follow in the step of my husband, and seek, as he seeks, with a good intent.”
“But it is contrary to our faith.”
“Have the priests declared your mission contrary to their faith? or, if they have, have they not been convinced to the contrary, and been awed to silence? But why argue, my dear Philip? Shall I not now be with you? and while with you I will attempt no more. You have my promise; but if separated I will not say but I shall then require of the invisible a knowledge of my husband’s motions, when in search of the invisible also.”
The winter passed rapidly away, for it was passed by Philip in quiet and happiness; the spring came on, the vessel was to be fitted out, and Philip and Amine repaired to Amsterdam.
The Utrecht was the name of the vessel to which he had been appointed, a ship of 400 tons, newly launched, and pierced for twenty-four guns. Two more months passed away, during which Philip superintended the fitting and loading of the vessel, assisted by his favourite Krantz, who served in her as first mate. Every convenience and comfort that Philip could think of was prepared for Amine; and in the month of May he started with orders to stop at Gambroon and Ceylon, run down the Straits of Sumatra, and from thence to force his way into the China seas, the Company having every reason to expect from the Portuguese the most determined opposition to the attempt. His ship’s company was numerous, and he had a small detachment of soldiers on board to assist the supercargo, who carried out many thousand dollars to make purchases at ports in China, where their goods might not be appreciated. Every care had been taken in the equipment of the vessel, which was perhaps the finest, the best manned, and freighted with the most valuable cargo, which had ever been sent out by the India Company.
The Utrecht sailed with a flowing sheet, and was soon clear the English Channel; the voyage promised to be auspicious, favouring gales bore them without accident to within a few hundred miles of the Cape of Good Hope, when, for the first time, they were becalmed. Amine was delighted: in the evenings she would pace the deck with Philip; then all was silent, except the splash of the wave as it washed against the side of the vessel—all was in repose and beauty, as the bright southern constellations sparkled over their heads.
“Whose destinies can be in these stars, which appear not to those who inhabit the northern regions?” said Amine, as she cast her eyes above, and watched them in their brightness; “and what does that falling meteor portend? what causes its rapid descent from heaven?”
“Do you then put faith in stars, Amine?”
“In Araby we do; and why not? They were not spread over the sky to give light—for what then?”
“To beautify the world. They have their uses, too.”
“Then you agree with me—they have their uses, and the destinies of men are there concealed. My mother was one of those who could read them well. Alas! for me they are a sealed book.”
“Is it not better so, Amine?”
“Better!—say better to grovel on this earth with our selfish, humbled race, wandering in mystery and awe, and doubt, when we can communicate with the intelligences above! Does not the soul leap at her admission to confer with superior powers? Does not the proud heart bound at the feeling that its owner is one of those more gifted than the usual race of mortals? Is it not a noble ambition?”
“A dangerous one—most dangerous.”
“And therefore most noble. They seem as if they would speak to me: look at you bright star—it beckons to me.”
For some time, Amine’s eyes were raised aloft; she spoke not, and Philip remained at her side. She walked to the gangway of the vessel, and looked down upon the placid wave, pierced by the moonbeams far below the surface.
“And does your imagination, Amine, conjure up a race of beings gifted to live beneath that deep blue wave, who sport amidst the coral rocks, and braid their hair with pearls?” said Philip, smiling.
