“Not if they are mortal,” replied Amine.
“Yes, if they are mortal. But, mortal or not, I do see that which I would avert. Tempt not destiny further.”
“Who can avert it? If I take your counsel, still was it my destiny to take your counsel. If I take it not, still it was my destiny.”
“Well, then, avoid what threatens you.”
“I fear not, yet do I thank you. Tell me, Schriften, hast thou not thy fate some way interwoven with that of my husband? I feel that thou hast.”
“Why think you so, lady?”
“For many reasons: twice you have summoned him—twice have you been wrecked, and miraculously reappeared and recovered. You know, too, of his mission—that is evident.”
“But proves nothing.”
“Yes! it proves much; for it proves that you knew what was supposed to be known but to him alone.”
“It was known to you, and holy men debated on it,” replied Schriften, with a sneer.
“How knew you that, again?”
“He! he!” replied Schriften. “Forgive me, lady; I meant not to affront you.”
“You cannot deny that you are connected mysteriously and incomprehensibly with this mission of my husband’s. Tell me, is it, as he believes, true and holy?”
“If he thinks that it is true and holy, it becomes so.”
“Why, then, do you appear his enemy?”
“I am not his enemy, fair lady.”
“You are not his enemy?—why, then, did you once attempt to deprive him of the mystic relic by which the mission is to be accomplished?”
“I would prevent his further search, for reasons which must not be told. Does that prove that I am his enemy? Would it not be better that he should remain on shore with competence and you, than be crossing the wild seas on this mad search? Without the relic it is not to be accomplished. It were a kindness, then, to take it from him.”
Amine answered not, for she was lost in thought.
“Lady,” continued Schriften, after a time, “I wish you well. For your husband I care not, yet do I wish him no harm. Now, hear me; if you wish for your future life to be one of ease and peace—if you wish to remain long in this world with the husband of your choice, of your first and warmest love—if you wish that he should die in his bed at a good old age, and that you should close his eyes, with children’s tears lamenting, and their smiles reserved to cheer their mother—all this I see, and can promise is in futurity, if you will take that relic from his bosom and give it up to me. But if you would that he should suffer more than man has ever suffered, pass his whole life in doubt anxiety, and pain, until the deep wave receive his corpse, then let him keep it. If you would that your own days be shortened, and yet those remaining be long in human suffering—if you would be separated from him, and die a cruel death—then let him keep it. I can read futurity and such must be the destiny of both. Lady, consider well; I must leave you now. To-morrow I will have your answer.”
Schriften walked away and left Amine to her own reflections. For a long while she repeated to herself the conversation and denunciations of the man, whom she was now convinced was not of this world, and was in some way or another deeply connected with her husband’s fate. “To me he wishes well, no harm to my husband, and would prevent his search. Why would he?—that he will not tell. He has tempted me tempted me most strangely. How easy ’twere to take the relic whilst Philip sleeps upon my bosom—but how treacherous! And yet a life of competence and ease, a smiling family, a good old age; what offers to a fond and doting wife! And if not, toil, anxiety, and a watery grave; and for me! Pshaw! that’s nothing. And yet to die separated from Philip, is that nothing? Oh, no, the thought is dreadful.—I do believe him. Yes he has foretold the future, and told it truly. Could I persuade Philip? No! I know him well; he has vowed, and is not to be changed. And yet, if the relic were taken without his knowledge, he would not have to blame himself. Who then would he blame? Could I deceive him? I, the wife of his bosom, tell a lie? No! no! it must not be. Come what will, it is our destiny, and I am resigned. I would that Schriften had not spoken! Alas! we search into futurity, and then would fain retrace our steps, and wish we had remained in ignorance.”
“What makes you so pensive, Amine?” said Philip, who some time afterwards walked up to where she was seated.
Amine replied not at first. “Shall I tell him all?” thought she. “It is my only chance—I will.” Amine repeated the conversation between her and Schriften. Philip made no reply; he sat down by Amine and took her hand. Amine dropped her head upon her husband’s shoulder. “What think you, Amine?” said Philip, after a time.
“I could not steal your relic, Philip; perhaps you’ll give it to me.”
“And my father, Amine, my poor father—his dreadful doom to be eternal! He who appealed, was permitted to appeal to his son, that that dreadful doom might be averted. Does not the conversation of this man prove to you that my mission is not false? Does not his knowledge of it strengthen all? Yet, why would he prevent it?” continued Philip, musing.
“Why I cannot tell, Philip, but I would fain prevent it. I feel that he has power to read the future, and has read aright.”
“Be it so; he has spoken, but not plainly. He has promised me what I have long been prepared for—what I vowed to Heaven to suffer. Already have I suffered much, and am prepared to suffer more. I have long looked upon this world as a pilgrimage, and (selected as I have been) trust that my reward will be in the other. But, Amine, you are not bound by oath to Heaven, you have made no compact. He advised you to go home. He talked of a cruel death. Follow his advice and avoid it.”
“I am not bound by oath, Philip; but hear me; as I hope for future bliss, I now bind myself.”
“Hold, Amine!”
“Nay, Philip, you cannot prevent me; for if you do now, I will repeat it when you are absent. A cruel death were a charity to me, for I shall not see you suffer. Then may I never expect future bliss, may eternal misery be my portion, if I leave you as long as fate permits us to be together. I am yours—your wife; my fortunes, my present, my future, my all, are embarked with you, and destiny may do its worst, for Amine will not quail. I have no recreant heart to turn aside from danger or from suffering. In that one point, Philip, at least, you chose, you wedded well.”
Philip raised her hand to his lips in silence, and the conversation was not resumed. The next evening, Schriften came up again to Amine. “Well, lady?” said he.
“Schriften, it cannot be,” replied Amine; “yet do I thank you much.”
“Lady, if he must follow up his mission, why should you?”
“Schriften, I am his wife—as for ever, in this world, and the next. You cannot blame me.”
“No,” replied Schriften, “I do not blame, I admire you. I feel sorry. But, after all, what is death? Nothing. He! he!” and Schriften hastened away, and left Amine to herself.
* * *
Chapter Twenty Two.
The Utrecht sailed from Gambroon, touched at Ceylon, and proceeded on her voyage in the Eastern seas. Schriften still remained on board; but since his last conversation with Amine he had kept aloof, and appeared to avoid both her and Philip; still there was not, as before, any attempt to make the ship’s company disaffected, nor did he indulge in his usual taunts and sneers. The communication he had made to Amine had also its effect upon her and Philip; they were more pensive and thoughtful; each attempted to conceal their gloom from the other; and when they embraced, it was with the mournful feeling that perhaps it was an indulgence they would soon be deprived of: at the same time, they steeled their hearts to endurance and prepared to meet the worst. Krantz wondered at the change, but of course could not account for it. The Utrecht was not far from the Andaman Isles, when Krantz, who had watched the barometer, came in early one morning and called Philip.
“We have every prospect of a typhoon, sir,” said Krantz; “the glass and the weather are both threatening.”
“Then we must make all snug. Send down top-gallant yards and small sails directly. We will strike top-gallant masts. I will be out in a minute.”
Philip hastened on deck. The sea was smooth, but already the moaning of the wind gave notice of the approaching storm. The vacuum in the air was about to be filled up, and the convulsion would be terrible; a white haze gathered fast, thicker and thicker; the men were turned up, everything of weight was sent below, and the guns were secured. Now came a blast of wind which careened the ship, passed over, and in a minute she righted as before; then another and another, fiercer and fiercer still. The sea, although smooth, at last appeared white as a sheet with foam, as the typhoon swept along in its impetuous career; it burst upon the vessel, which bowed down to her gunnel and there remained; in a quarter of an hour the hurricane had passed over, and the vessel was relieved, but the sea had risen, and the wind was strong. In another hour the blast again came, more wild, more furious than the first, the waves were dashed into their faces, torrents of rain descended, the ship was thrown on her beam ends, and thus remained till the wild blast had passed away, to sweep destruction far beyond them, leaving behind it a tumultuous angry sea.
“It is nearly over, I believe, sir,” said Krantz. “It is clearing up a little to windward.”
“We have had the worst of it, I believe,” said Philip.
“No! there is worse to come,” said a low voice near to Philip. It was Schriften who spoke.
“A vessel to windward scudding before the gale,” cried Krantz.
Philip looked to windward, and in the spot where the horizon was clearest, he saw a vessel under topsails and foresail, standing right down. “She is a large vessel; bring me my glass.” The telescope was brought from the cabin, but before Philip could use it, a haze had again gathered up to windward, and the vessel was not to be seen.
“Thick again,” observed Philip, as he shut in his telescope; “we must look out for that vessel, that she does not run too close to us.”
“She has seen us, no doubt, sir,” said Krantz.
After a few minutes the typhoon again raged, and the atmosphere was of a murky gloom. It seemed as if some heavy fog had been hurled along by the furious wind; nothing was to be distinguished except the white foam of the sea, and that not the distance of half a cable’s length, where it was lost in one dark grey mist. The storm-stay-sail, yielding to the force of the wind, was rent into strips and flogged and cracked with a noise even louder than the gale. The furious blast again blew over, and the mist cleared up a little.
“Ship on the weather beam close aboard of us,” cried one of the men.
Krantz and Philip sprang upon the gunwale, and beheld the large ship bearing right down upon them, not three cables’ length distant.
“Helm up! she does not see us, and she will be aboard of us!” cried Philip. “Helm up, I say, hard up, quick!”
The helm was put up, as the men, perceiving their imminent danger, climbed upon the guns to look if the vessel altered her course; but no—down she came, and the head-sails of the Utrecht having been carried away, to their horror they perceived that she would not answer her helm, and pay off as they required.
“Ship ahoy!” roared Philip through his trumpet—but the gale drove the sound back.
“Ship ahoy!” cried Krantz on the gunwale, waving his hat. It was useless—down she came, with the waters foaming under her bows, and was now within pistol-shot of the Utrecht.
“Ship ahoy!” roared all the sailors, with a shout that must have been heard: it was not attended to: down came the vessel upon them, and now her cutwater was within ten yards of the Utrecht. The men of the Utrecht, who expected that their vessel would be severed in half by the concussion, climbed upon the weather gunwale, all ready to catch at the ropes of the other vessel, and climb on board of her. Amine, who had been surprised at the noise on deck, had come out, and had taken Philip by the arm.
“Trust to me—the shock—,” said Philip. He said no more; the cutwater of the stranger touched their sides; one general cry was raised by the sailors of the Utrecht,—they sprang to catch at the rigging of the other vessel’s bowsprit, which was now pointed between their masts—they caught at nothing—nothing—there was no shock—no concussion of the two vessels—the stranger appeared to cleave through them—her hull passed along in silence—no cracking of timbers—no falling of masts—the foreyard passed through their mainsail, yet the canvas was unrent—the whole vessel appeared to cut through the Utrecht, yet left no trace of injury—not fast, but slowly, as if she were really sawing through her by the heaving and tossing of the sea with her sharp prow. The stranger’s forechains had passed their gunwale before Philip could recover himself. “Amine,” cried he at last, “the Phantom Ship!—my father!”
The seamen of the Utrecht, more astounded by the marvellous result than by their former danger, threw themselves down upon deck; some hastened below, some prayed, others were dumb with astonishment and fear. Amine appeared more calm than any, not excepting Philip; she surveyed the vessel as it slowly forced its way through; she beheld the seamen on board of her coolly leaning over the gunwale, as if deriding the destruction they had occasioned; she looked for Vanderdecken himself, and on the poop of the vessel, with his trumpet under his arm she beheld the image of her Philip—the same hardy, strong build—the same features—about the same age apparently—there could be no doubt it was the doomed Vanderdecken.
“See, Philip,” said she, “see your father!”
“Even so—Merciful Heaven! It is—it is!” and Philip, overpowered by his feelings, sank upon deck.
The vessel had now passed over the Utrecht; the form of the elder Vanderdecken was seen to walk aft and look over the taffrail; Amine perceived it to start and turn away suddenly—she looked down, and saw Schriften shaking his fist in defiance at the supernatural being! Again the Phantom Ship flew to leeward before the gale, and was soon lost in the mist but, before that, Amine had turned and perceived the situation of Philip. No one but herself and Schriften appeared able to act or move. She caught the pilot’s eye, beckoned to him, and with his assistance Philip was led into the cabin.
* * *
Chapter Twenty Three.
“I have then seen him,” said Philip, after he had lain down on the sofa in the cabin for some minutes to recover himself while Amine bent over him. “I have at last seen him, Amine! Can you doubt now?”
“No, Philip, I have now no doubt,” replied Amine, mournfully; “but take courage, Philip.”
“For myself, I want not courage—but for you, Amine—you know that his appearance portends a mischief that will surely come.”
“Let it come,” replied Amine, calmly; “I have long been prepared for it, and so have you.”
“Yes, for my self; but not for you.”
