“Father,” said Amine, “it is time that we retire. You must leave us for to-night, Philip.”
“I will not,” replied Philip; “nor, you may depend upon it, will I sleep. You may both to bed in safety. It is indeed time that you retire—good night, Mynheer Poots. I will but ask a lamp, and then I leave you—Amine, good night.”
“Good night,” said Amine, extending her hand, “and many, many thanks.”
“Thousands of guilders!” muttered the old man, as Philip left the room and went below.
Chapter Five.
Philip Vanderdecken sat down at the porch of the door; he swept his hair from his forehead, which he exposed to the fanning of the breeze; for the continued excitement of the last three days had left a fever on his brain which made him restless and confused. He longed for repose, but he knew that for him there was no rest. He had his forebodings—he perceived in the vista of futurity a long-continued chain of danger and disaster, even to death; yet he beheld it without emotion and without dread. He felt as if it were only three days that he had begun to exist; he was melancholy, but not unhappy. His thoughts were constantly recurring to the fatal letter—its strange supernatural disappearance seemed pointedly to establish its supernatural origin, and that the mission had been intended for him alone; and the relic in his possession more fully substantiated the fact.
“It is my fate, my duty,” thought Philip. Having satisfactorily made up his mind to these conclusions, his thoughts reverted to the beauty, the courage, and presence of mind shown by Amine. “And,” thought he, as he watched the moon soaring high in the heavens, “is this fair creature’s destiny to be interwoven with mine? The events of the last three days would almost warrant the supposition. Heaven only knows, and Heaven’s will be done. I have vowed, and my vow is registered, that I will devote my life to the release of my unfortunate father—but does that prevent my loving Amine?—No, no; the sailor on the Indian seas must pass months and months on shore before he can return to his duty. My search must be on the broad ocean, but how often may I return? and why am I to be debarred the solace of a smiling hearth?—and yet—do I right in winning the affections of one who, if she loves, would, I am convinced, love so dearly, fondly truly—ought I to persuade her to mate herself with one whose life will be so precarious?—but is not every sailor’s life precarious, daring the angry waves, with but an inch of plank ’tween him and death? Besides, I am chosen to fulfil a task—and if so, what can hurt me, till in Heaven’s own time it is accomplished? but then how soon, and how is it to end?—in death! I wish my blood were cooler, that I might reason better.”
Such were the meditations of Philip Vanderdecken, and long did he revolve such chances in his mind. At last the day dawned, and as he perceived the blush upon the horizon, less careful of his watch he slumbered where he sat. A slight pressure on the shoulder made him start up and draw the pistol from his bosom. He turned round and beheld Amine.
“And that pistol was intended for me,” said Amine, smiling, repeating Philip’s words of the night before.
“For you, Amine?—yes, to defend you, if ’twere necessary, once more.”
“I know it would—how kind of you to watch this tedious night after so much exertion and fatigue! but it is now broad day.”
“Until I saw the dawn, Amine, I kept a faithful watch.”
“But now retire and take some rest. My father is risen—you can lie down on his bed.”
“I thank you, but I feel no wish for sleep. There is much to do. We must to the burgomaster and state the facts, and these bodies must remain where they are until the whole is known. Will your father go, Amine, or shall I?”
“My father surely is the more proper person, as the proprietor of the house. You must remain; and if you will not sleep, you must take some refreshment. I will go in and tell my father; he has already taken his morning’s meal.”
Amine went in, and soon returned with her father, who had consented to go to the burgomaster. He saluted Philip kindly as he came out; shuddered as he passed on one side to avoid stepping over the dead bodies, and went off at a quick pace to the adjacent town, where the burgomaster resided.
Amine desired Philip to follow her, and they went into her father’s room, where, to his surprise, he found some coffee ready for him—at that time a rarity, and one which Philip did not expect to find in the house of the penurious Mynheer Poots; but it was a luxury which, from his former life, the old man could not dispense with.
Philip, who had not tasted food for nearly twenty-four hours, was not sorry to avail himself of what was placed before him. Amine sat down opposite to him, and was silent during his repast.
“Amine,” said Philip at last, “I have had plenty of time for reflection during this night, as I watched at the door. May I speak freely?”
“Why not?” replied Amine. “I feel assured that you will say nothing that you should not say, or should not meet a maiden’s ear.”
“You do me justice, Amine. My thoughts have been upon you and your father. You cannot stay in this lone habitation.”
“I feel it is too lonely; that is for his safety—perhaps for mine—but you know my father—the very loneliness suits him—the price paid for rent is little, and he is careful of his money.”
“The man who would be careful of his money should place it in security—here it is not secure. Now, hear me, Amine. I have a cottage surrounded, as you may have heard, by many others, which mutually protect each other. That cottage I am about to leave—perhaps for ever; for I intend to sail by the first ship to the Indian seas.”
“The Indian seas! why so?—did you not last night talk of thousands of guilders?”
“I did, and they are there; but, Amine, I must go—it is my duty. Ask me no more, but listen to what I now propose. Your father must live in my cottage; he must take care of it for me in my absence; he will do me a favour by consenting, and you must persuade him. You will there be safe. He must also take care of my money for me. I want it not at present—I cannot take it with me.”
“My father is not to be trusted with the money of other people.”
“Why does your father hoard? He cannot take his money with him when he is called away. It must be all for you—and is not then my money safe?”
“Leave it then in my charge, and it will be safe; but why need you go and risk your life upon the water, when you have such ample means?”
“Amine, ask not that question. It is my duty as a son, and more I cannot tell, at least at present.”
“If it is your duty I ask no more. It was not womanish curiosity—no, no—it was a better feeling, I assure you, which prompted me to put the question.”
“And what was that better feeling, Amine?”
“I hardly know—many good feelings perhaps mixed up together—gratitude, esteem, respect, confidence, good-will. Are not these sufficient?”
“Yes,
