own the true one, whatever his creed may be.”
“It is the true and only one, Amine. Could I but reveal—I have such dreadful proofs—”
“That your own faith is true: then is it not your duty to reveal these proofs? Tell me, are you bound by any solemn obligations never to reveal?”
“No, I am not; yet do I feel as if I were. But I hear voices—it must be your father and the authorities—I must go down and meet them.”
Philip rose and went down stairs. Amine’s eyes followed him as he went and she remained looking towards the door.
“Is it possible,” said she, sweeping the hair from off her brow, “so soon—yes, yes, ’tis even so. I feel that I would sooner share his hidden woe—his dangers—even death itself were preferable with him, than ease and happiness with any other. And it shall be strange indeed if I do not. This night my father shall move into his cottage; I will prepare at once.”
The report of Philip and Mynheer Poots was taken down by the authorities, the bodies examined, and one or two of them recognised as well-known marauders. They were then removed by the order of the burgomaster. The authorities broke up their council, and Philip and Mynheer Poots were permitted to return to Amine. It will not be necessary to repeat the conversation which ensued: it will be sufficient to state that Poots yielded to the arguments employed by Amine and Philip, particularly the one of paying no rent. A conveyance for the furniture and medicines was procured, and in the afternoon most of the effects were taken away. It was not, however, till dusk that the strong box of the doctor was put into the cart, and Philip went with it as a protector. Amine also walked by the side of the vehicle, with her father. As it may be supposed, it was late that night before they had made their arrangements, and had retired to rest.
Chapter Six.
“This, then, is the chamber, which has so long been closed,” said Amine, on entering it the next morning long before Philip had awakened from the sound sleep produced by the watching of the night before. “Yes, indeed, it has the air of having long been closed.” Amine looked around her, and then examined the furniture. Her eyes were attracted to the birdcages: she looked into them:—“Poor little things!” continued she, “and here it was his father appeared unto his mother. Well, it may be so—Philip saith that he hath proofs; and why should he not appear? Were Philip dead, I should rejoice to see his spirit—at least it would be something. What am I saying—unfaithful lips, thus to betray my secret?—The table thrown over:—that looks like the work of fear; a workbox, with all its implements scattered—only a woman’s fear: a mouse might have caused all this; and yet there is something solemn in the simple fact that, for so many years, not a living being has crossed these boards. Even that a table thus overthrown could so remain for years seems scarcely natural, and therefore has its power on the mind. I wonder not that Philip feels there is so heavy a secret belonging to this room—but it must not remain in this condition—it must be occupied at once.”
Amine, who had long been accustomed to attend upon her father, and perform the household duties, now commenced her intended labours.
Every part of the room, and every piece of furniture in it, were cleaned; even the cobwebs and dust were cleared away, and the sofa and table brought from the corner to the centre of the room; the melancholy little prisons were removed; and when Amine’s work of neatness was complete, and the sun shone brightly into the opened window, the chamber wore the appearance of cheerfulness.
Amine had the intuitive good sense to feel that strong impressions wear away when the objects connected with them are removed. She resolved, then, to make Philip more at ease; for, with all the fire and warmth of blood inherent in her race, she had taken his image to her heart, and was determined to win him. Again and again did she resume her labour, until the pictures about the room, and every other article, looked fresh and clean.
Not only the birdcages, but the workbox and all the implements, were removed; and the piece of embroidery, the taking up of which had made Philip recoil as if he had touched an adder, was put away with the rest. Philip had left the keys on the floor. Amine opened the buffets, cleaned the glazed doors, and was busy rubbing up the silver flagons, when her father came into the room.
“Mercy on me!” exclaimed Mynheer Poots; “and is all that silver?—then it must be true, and he has thousands of guilders; but where are they?”
“Never do you mind, father; yours are now safe, and for that you have to thank Philip Vanderdecken.”
“Yes, very true; but as he is to live here—does he eat much—what will he pay me? He ought to pay well, as he has so much money.”
Amine’s lips were curled with a contemptuous smile, but she made no reply.
“I wonder where he keeps his money; and he is going to sea as soon as he can get a ship? Who will have charge of his money when he goes?”
“I shall take charge of it, father,” replied Amine.
“Ah—yes—well—we will take charge of it. The ship may be lost.”
“No, we will not take charge of it, father: you will have nothing to do with it. Look after your own.”
Amine placed the silver in the buffets, locked the doors, and took the keys with her when she went out to prepare breakfast, leaving the old man gazing through the glazed doors at the precious metal within. His eyes were rivetted upon it, and he could not remove them. Every minute he muttered, “Yes, all silver.”
Philip came down stairs; and as he passed by the room, intending to go into the kitchen, he perceived Mynheer Poots at the buffet, and he walked into the room. He was surprised as well as pleased with the alteration. He felt why and by whom it was done, and he was grateful. Amine came in with the breakfast, and their eyes spoke more than their lips could have done; and Philip sat down to his meal with less of sorrow and gloom upon his brow.
“Mynheer Poots,” said Philip, as soon as he had finished, “I intend to leave you in possession of my cottage, and I trust you will find yourself comfortable. What little arrangements are necessary, I will confide to your daughter previous to my departure.”
“Then you leave us, Mr. Philip, to go to sea? It must be pleasant to go and see strange countries—much better than staying at home. When do you go?”
“I shall leave this evening for Amsterdam,” replied Philip, “to make my arrangements about a ship; but I shall return, I think, before I sail.”
“Ah! you will return. Yes—you have your money and your goods to see to; you must count your money. We will take good care of it. Where is your money, Mr. Vanderdecken?”
“That I will communicate to your daughter this forenoon, before I leave. In three weeks, at the furthest, you may expect me back.”
“Father,” said Amine, “you promised to go and see the child of the burgomaster; it is time you went.”
“Yes, yes—by-and-by—all in good time; but I must wait the pleasure of Mr. Philip first: he has much to tell me before he goes.”
Philip could not help smiling when he remembered what had passed when he first summoned Mynheer Poots to the cottage; but
