Chapter 3

The glass doors of the buffets on each side of the
chimney-piece were also so dimmed that little of what was within could
be distinguished: the light and heat which had been poured into the
room, even for so short a time, had already gathered up the damp of many
years, and it lay as a mist, and mingled with the dust upon the panes of
glass: still here and there a glittering of silver vessels could be
discerned, for the glass doors had protected them from turning black,
although much dimmed in lustre.

On the wall facing the window were other prints, in frames equally
veiled in damp and cobwebs and also two bird-cages. The bird-cages
Philip approached, and looked into them. The occupants, of course, had
long been dead; but at the bottom of the cages was a small heap of
yellow feathers, through which the little white bones of the skeletons
were to be seen, proving that they had been brought from the Canary
Isles; and, at that period, such birds were highly valued. Philip
appeared to wish to examine everything before he sought that which he
most dreaded, yet most wished, to find. There were several chairs round
the room: on one of them was some linen; he took it up. It was some
that must have belonged to him when he was yet a child. At last, Philip
turned his eyes to the wall not yet examined (that opposite the chimney
piece), through which the door was pierced, and behind the door as it
lay open, he was to find the table, the couch, the work-box, and the
FATAL LETTER. As he turned round, his pulse, which had gradually
recovered its regular motion, beat more quickly, but he made the effort,
and it was over. At first he examined the walls, against which were
hung swords and pistols of various sorts but chiefly Asiatic bows and
arrows, and other implements of destruction. Philip's eyes gradually
descended upon the table and little couch behind it, where his mother
stated herself to have been seated when his father made his awful visit.
The work-box and all its implements were on the table, just as she had
left them. The keys she mentioned were also lying there, but Philip
looked, and looked again; there was no letter, he now advanced nearer,
examined closely--there was none that he could perceive, either on the
couch or on the table--or on the floor. He lifted up the work-box to
ascertain if it was beneath--but no. He examined among its contents,
but no letter was there. He turned over the pillows of the couch, but
still there was no letter to be found. And Philip felt as if there had
been a heavy load removed from his panting chest. "Surely, then,"
thought he, as he leant against the wall, "this must have been the
vision of a heated imagination. My poor mother must have fallen asleep,
and dreamt this horrid tale. I thought it was impossible, at least I
hoped so. It must have been as I suppose; the dream was too powerful,
too like a fearful reality,--partially unseated my poor mother's
reason." Philip reflected again, and was then satisfied that his
suppositions were correct.

"Yes, it must have been so, poor dear mother! how much thou hast
suffered; but thou art now rewarded, and with thy God."

After a few minutes (during which he surveyed the room again and again
with more coolness, and perhaps some indifference, now that he regarded
the supernatural history as not true), Philip took out of his pocket the
written paper found with the key, and read it over,--"The iron cupboard
under the buffet farthest from the window."

"'Tis well." He took the bunch of keys from off the table, and soon
fitted one to the outside wooden doors which concealed the iron safe. A
second key on the bunch opened the iron doors; and Philip found himself
in possession of a considerable sum of money, amounting, as near as he
could reckon, to ten thousand guilders, in little yellow sacks.

"My poor mother!" thought he; "and has a mere dream scared thee to
penury and want, with all this wealth in thy possession?" Philip
replaced the sacks, and locked up the cupboards, after having taken out
of one, already half emptied, a few pieces for his immediate wants. His
attention was next directed to the buffets above, which with one of the
keys, he opened; he found that they contained china, and silver flagons,
and cups of considerable value. The locks were again turned, and the
bunch of keys thrown upon the table.

The sudden possession of so much wealth added to the conviction, to
which Philip had now arrived that there had been no supernatural
appearance, as supposed, by his mother, naturally revived and composed
his spirits; and he felt a reaction which amounted almost to hilarity.
Seating himself on the couch, he was soon in a reverie, and, as before
reverted to the lovely daughter of Mynheer Poots indulging in various
castle-buildings, all ending, as usual, when we choose for ourselves, in
competence and felicity. In this pleasing occupation he remained for
more than two hours, when his thoughts again reverted to his poor mother
and her fearful death.

"Dearest, kindest mother!" apostrophised Philip aloud, as he rose from
his leaning position, "here thou wert, tired with watching over my
infant slumbers, thinking of my absent father and his dangers, working
up thy mind and anticipating evil, till thy fevered sleep conjured up
this apparition. Yes, it must have been so; for see here, lying on the
floor, is the embroidery, as it fell from thy unconscious hands, and
with that labour ceased thy happiness in this life. Dear, dear mother!"
continued he; a tear rolling down his cheek as he stooped to pick up the
piece of muslin, "how much hast thou suffered when--God of Heaven!"
exclaimed Philip, as he lifted up the embroidery, starting back with
violence, and overturning the table, "God of Heaven, and of Judgment,
there is--there _is_," and Philip clasped his hands, and bowed his head
in awe and anguish, as in a changed and fearful tone he muttered
forth--"the LETTER!"

It was but too true,--underneath the embroidery on the floor had lain
the fatal letter of Vanderdecken. Had Philip seen it on the table when
he first went into the room, and was prepared to find it, he would have
taken it up with some degree of composure: but to find it now, when he
had persuaded himself that it was all an illusion on the part of his
mother; when he had made up his mind that there had been no supernatural
agency; after he had been indulging in visions of future bliss and
repose, was a shock that transfixed him where he stood and for some time
he remained in his attitude of surprise and terror. Down at once fell
the airy fabric of happiness which he had built up during the last two
hours; and as he gradually recovered from his alarm, his heart filled
with melancholy forebodings. At last he dashed forward, seized the
letter, and burst out of the fatal room.

"I cannot, dare not, read it here," exclaimed he: "no, no, it must be
under the vault of high and offended Heaven, that the message must be
received." Philip took his hat, and went out of the house; in calm
despair he locked the door, took out the key, and walked he knew not
whither.

CHAPTER FOUR.

If the reader can imagine the feelings of a man who, sentenced to death,
and having resigned himself to his fate, finds himself unexpectedly
reprieved; who, having recomposed his mind after the agitation arising
from a renewal of those hopes and expectations which he had abandoned,
once more dwells upon future prospects, and indulges in pleasing
anticipations: we say, that if the reader can imagine this, and then
what would be that man's feelings when he finds that the reprieve is
revoked, and that he is to suffer, he may then form some idea of the
state of Philip's mind when he quitted the cottage.

Long did he walk, careless in which direction, with the letter in his
clenched hand, and his teeth firmly set. Gradually he became more
composed: and out of breath with the rapidity of his motion, he sat down
upon a bank, and there he long remained, with his eyes riveted upon the
dreaded paper, which he held with both his hands upon his knees.

Mechanically he turned the letter over; the seal was black. Philip
sighed:--"I cannot read it now," thought he, and he rose and continued
his devious way.

For another half-hour did Philip keep in motion, and the sun was not
many degrees above the horizon. Philip stopped and looked at it till
his vision failed. "I could imagine that it was the eye of God,"
thought Philip, "and perhaps it may be. Why, then, merciful Creator, am
I thus selected from so many millions to fulfil so dire a task?"

Philip looked about him for some spot where he might be concealed from
observation--where he might break the seal, and read this mission from a
world of spirits. A small copse of brushwood, in advance of a grove of
trees, was not far from where he stood. He walked to it, and sat down,
so as to be concealed from any passers by. Philip once more looked at
the descending orb of day, and by degrees he became composed.

"It is thy will," exclaimed he; "it is my fate, and both must be
accomplished."

Philip put his hand to the seal,--his blood thrilled when he called to
mind that it had been delivered by no mortal hand, and that it contained
the secret of one in judgment. He remembered that that one was his
father; and that it was only in the letter that there was hope,--hope
for his poor father, whose memory he had been taught to love, and who
appealed for help.

"Coward that I am, to have lost so many hours!" exclaimed Philip; "yon
sun appears as if waiting on the hill, to give me light to read."

Philip mused a short time; he was once more the daring Vanderdecken.
Calmly he broke the seal, which bore the initials of his father's name,
and read as follows:--

"To CATHERINE.

"One of those pitying spirits whose eyes rain tears for mortal crimes
has been permitted to inform me by what means alone my dreadful doom
may be averted.

"Could I but receive on the deck of my own ship the holy relic upon
which I swore the fatal oath, kiss it in all humility, and shed one
tear of deep contrition on the sacred wood, I then might rest in
peace.

"How this may be effected, or by whom so fatal a task will be
undertaken, I know not. O Catherine, we have a son--but, no, no, let
him not hear of me. Pray for me, and now, farewell.

"I. VANDERDECKEN."

"Then it is true, most horribly true," thought Philip; "and my father is
even now IN LIVING JUDGMENT. And he points to me,--to whom else should
he? Am I not his son, and is it not my duty?"

"Yes, father," exclaimed Philip aloud, falling on his knees, "you have
not written these lines in vain. Let me peruse them once more."

Philip raised up his hand; but although it appeared to him that he had
still hold of the letter, it was not there--he grasped nothing. He
looked on the grass to see if it had fallen--but no, there was no
letter, it had disappeared. Was it a vision?--no, no, he had read every
word. "Then it must be to me, and me alone, that the mission was
intended. I accept the sign.

"Hear me, dear father,--if thou art so permitted,--and deign to hear me,
gracious Heaven--hear the son who, by this sacred relic, swears that he
will avert your doom, or perish. To that will he devote his days; and
having done his duty, he will die in hope and peace. Heaven, that
recorded my rash father's oath, now register his son's upon the same
sacred cross, and may perjury on my part be visited with punishment more
dire than his! Receive it, Heaven, as at the last I trust that in thy
mercy thou wilt receive the father and the son: and if too bold, O
pardon my presumption."

Philip threw himself forward on his face, with his lips to the sacred
symbol. The sun went down, and the twilight gradually disappeared;
night had, for some time, shrouded all in darkness, and Philip yet
remained in alternate prayer and meditation!

But he was disturbed by the voices of some men, who sat down upon the
turf but a few yards from where he was concealed. The conversation he
little heeded; but it had roused him and his first feeling was to return
to the cottage, that he might reflect over his plans; but although the
men spoke in a low tone, his attention was soon arrested by the subject
of their conversation, when he heard the name mentioned of Mynheer
Poots. He listened attentively, and discovered that they were four
disbanded soldiers, who intended that night to attack the house of the
little doctor, who had, they knew, much money in his possession.

"What I have proposed is the best," said one of them; "he has no one
with him but his daughter."

"I value her more than his money," replied another; "so, recollect
before we go, it is perfectly understood that she is to be my property."

"Yes, if you choose to purchase her, there's no objection," replied a
third.

"Agreed; how much will you in conscience ask for a paling girl?"

"I say five hundred guilders," replied another.

"Well, be it so, but on this condition, that if my share of the booty
does not amount to so much, I am to have her for my share, whatever it
may be."

"That's very fair," replied the other: "but I'm much mistaken if we
don't turn more than two thousand guilders out of the old man's chest."

"What do you two say--is it agreed--shall Baetens have her?"

"O yes," replied the others.

"Well, then," replied the one who had stipulated for Mynheer Poots's
daughter, "now I am with you heart and soul. I loved that girl, and
tried to get her,--I positively offered to marry her, but the old hunks
refused me, an ensign, an officer; but now I'll have revenge. We must
not spare him."

"No, no," replied the others.

"Shall we go now, or wait till it is later? In an hour or more the moon
will be up,--we may be seen."

"Who is to see us? unless, indeed, some one is sent for him. The later
the better, I say."

"How long will it take us to get there? Not half an hour if we walk.
Suppose we start in half an hour hence, we shall just have the moon to
count the guilders by."

"That's all right. In the meantime, I'll put a new flint in my lock,
and have my carbine loaded. I can work in the dark."

"You are used to it, Jan."

"Yes, I am,--and I intend this ball to go through the old rascal's
head."

"Well, I'd rather you should kill him than I," replied one of the
others, "for he saved my life at Middleburgh, when every one made sure
I'd die."

Philip did not wait to hear any more; he crawled behind the bushes until
he gained the grove of trees, and passing through them, made a detour,
so as not to be seen by these miscreants. That they were disbanded
soldiers, many of whom were infesting the country, he knew well. All
his thoughts were now to save the old doctor and his daughter from the
danger which threatened them; and for a time he forgot his father, and
the exciting revelations of the day. Although Philip had not been aware
in what direction he had walked when he set off from the cottage, he
knew the country well; and now that it was necessary to act, he
remembered the direction in which he should find the lonely house of
Mynheer Poots: with the utmost speed he made his way for it, and in less
than twenty minutes he arrived there out of breath.

As usual, all was silent, and the door fastened. Philip knocked, but
there was no reply. Again and again he knocked, and became impatient.
Mynheer Poots must have been summoned, and was not in the house; Philip
therefore called out so as to be heard within, "Maiden, if your father
is out, as I presume he must be, listen to what I have to say--I am
Philip Vanderdecken. But now I overheard four wretches, who have
planned to murder your father, and rob him of his gold. In one hour, or
less, they will be here, and I have hastened to warn and to protect you,
if I may. I swear upon the relic that you delivered to me this morning,
that what I state is true."

Philip waited a short time, but received no answer.

"Maiden," resumed he, "answer me, if you value that which is more dear
to you than even your father's gold to him. Open the casement above,
and listen to what I have to say. In so doing there is no risk; and
even if it were not dark, already have I seen you."

A short time after this second address, the casement of the upper window
was unbarred, and the slight form of the fair daughter of Mynheer Poots
was to be distinguished by Philip through the gloom.

"What wouldst thou young sir, at this unseemly hour? and what is it thou
wouldst impart, but imperfectly heard by me, when thou spokest this
minute at the door?"

Philip then entered into a detail of all that he had overheard, and
concluded by begging her to admit him, that he might defend her.

"Think, fair maiden, of what I have told you. You have been sold to one
of those reprobates, whose name I think they mentioned was Baetens. The
gold, I know, you value not; but think of thine own dear self--suffer me
to enter the house, and think not for one moment that my story is
feigned. I swear to thee, by the soul of my poor dear mother, now, I
trust, in heaven, that every word is true."

"Baetens, did you say, sir?"

"If I mistook them not, such was the name; he said he loved you once."

"That name I have in memory--I know not what to do, or what to say: my
father has been summoned to a birth, and may be yet away for many hours.
Yet how can I ope the door to you--at night--he not at home--I alone?
I ought not--cannot--yet do I believe you. You surely never could be so
base as to invent this tale."

"No--upon my hopes of future bliss I could not, maiden! you must not
trifle with your life and honour, but let me in."

"And if I did, what could you do against such numbers?"

"They are four to one--would soon overpower you, and one more life would
be lost."

"Not if you have arms; and I think your father would not be left without
them. I fear them not--you know that I am resolute."

"I do indeed--and now you'd risk your life for those you did assail. I
thank you, thank you kindly, sir--but dare not ope the door."

"Then, maiden, if you'll not admit me, here will I now remain; without
arms, and but ill able to contend with four armed villains; but still,
here will I remain and prove my truth to one I will protect 'gainst any
odds--yes, even here!"

"Then shall I be thy murderer!--but that must not be. Oh! sir--swear,
swear by all that's holy, and by all that's pure, that--you do not
deceive me."

"I swear by thyself, maiden, than all to me more sacred!"

The casement closed, and in a short time a light appeared above. In a
minute or two more the door was opened to Philip by the fair daughter of
Mynheer Poots. She stood with the candle in her right hand, the colour
in her cheeks varying--now flushing red, and again deadly pale. Her
left hand was down by her side, and in it she held a pistol half
concealed. Philip perceived this precaution on her part, but took no
notice of it; he wished to re-assure her.

"Maiden!" said he, not entering, "if you still have doubts--if you think
you have been ill advised in giving me admission--there is yet time to
close the door against me; but for your own sake I entreat you not.
Before the moon is up, the robbers will be here. With my life I will
protect you, if you will but trust me. Who indeed could injure one like
you?"

She was indeed (as she stood irresolute and perplexed from the
peculiarity of her situation, yet not wanting in courage when it was to
be called forth) an object well worthy of gaze and admiration. Her
features thrown into broad light and shade by the candle which at times
was half extinguished by the wind--her symmetry of form and the
gracefulness and singularity of her attire--were matter of astonishment
to Philip. Her head was without covering, and her long hair fell in
plaits behind her shoulders; her stature was rather under the middle
size, but her form perfect; her dress was simple but becoming, and very
different from that usually worn by the young women of the district.
Not only her features but her dress would at once have indicated to a
traveller that she was of Arab blood, as was the fact.

She looked in Philip's face as he spoke--earnestly, as if she would have
penetrated into his inmost thoughts; but there was a frankness and
honesty in his bearing, and a sincerity in his manly countenance, which
re-assured her. After a moment's hesitation she replied--

"Come in, sir; I feel that I can trust you."

Philip entered. The door was then closed and made secure.

"We have no time to lose, maiden," said Philip: "but tell me your name,
that I may address you as I ought."

"My name is Amine," replied she, retreating a little.

"I thank you for that little confidence; but I must not dally. What
arms have you in the house, and have you ammunition?"

"Both. I wish that my father would come home."

"And so do I," replied Philip, "devoutedly wish he would, before these
murderers come; but not, I trust, while the attack is making, for
there's a carbine loaded expressly for his head, and if they make him
prisoner, they will not spare his life, unless his gold and your person
are given in ransom. But the arms, maiden--where are they?"

"Follow me," replied Amine, leading Philip to an inner room on the upper
floor. It was the sanctum of her father, and was surrounded with
shelves filled with bottles and boxes of drugs. In one corner was an
iron chest, and over the mantelpiece were a brace of carbines and three
pistols.

"They are all loaded," observed Amine, pointing to them, and laying on
the table the one which she had held in her hand.

Philip took down the arms and examined all the primings. He then took
up from the table the pistol which Amine had laid there, and threw open
the pan. It was equally well prepared. Philip closed the pan, and with
a smile observed:--

"So this was meant for me, Amine?"

"No--not for you--but for a traitor, had one gained admittance."

"Now, maiden," observed Philip, "I shall station myself at the casement
which you opened, but without a light in the room. You may remain here,
and can turn the key for your security."

"You little know me," replied Amine. "In that way at least I am not
fearful: I must remain near you and reload the arms--a task in which I
am well practised."

"No, no," replied Philip, "you might be hurt."

"I may. But think you I will remain here idly, when I can assist one
who risks his life for me? I know my duty, sir, and I shall perform
it."

"You must not risk your life, Amine," replied Philip; "my aim will not
be steady if I know that you're in danger. But I must take the arms
into the other chamber, for the time is come."

Philip, assisted by Amine, carried the carbines and pistols into the
adjoining chamber; and Amine then left Philip, carrying with her the
light. Philip, as soon as he was alone, opened the casement and looked
out--there was no one to be seen; he listened, but all was silent. The
moon was just rising above the distant hill, but her light was dimmed by
fleecy clouds, and Philip watched for a few minutes; at length he heard
a whispering below. He looked out, and could distinguish through the
dark the four expected assailants, standing close to the door of the
house. He walked away softly from the window, and went into the next
room to Amine, whom he found busy preparing the ammunition.

"Amine, they are at the door, in consultation. You can see them now
without risk. I thank them, for they will convince you that I have told
the truth."

Amine, without reply, went into the front room and looked out of the
window. She returned, and laying her hand upon Philip's arm, she
said--"Grant me your pardon for my doubts. I fear nothing now but that
my father may return too soon, and they seize him."

Philip left the room again, to make his reconnoissance. The robbers did
not appear to have made up their mind--the strength of the door defied
their utmost efforts, so they attempted stratagem. They knocked, and as
there was no reply, they continued to knock louder and louder: not
meeting with success, they held another consultation, and the muzzle of
a carbine was then put to the keyhole, and the piece discharged. The
lock of the door was blown off, but the iron bars which crossed the door
within, above and below, still held it fast.

Although Philip would have been justified in firing upon the robbers
when he first perceived them in consultation at the door, still there is
that feeling in a generous mind which prevents the taking away of life,
except from stern necessity; and this feeling made him withhold his fire
until hostilities had actually commenced. He now levelled one of the
carbines at the head of the robber nearest to the door, who was busy
examining the effect which the discharge of the piece had made, and what
further obstacles intervened. The aim was true, and the man fell dead,
while the others started back with surprise at the unexpected
retaliation. But in a second or two a pistol was discharged at Philip,
who still remained leaning out of the casement, fortunately without
effect; and the next moment he felt himself drawn away, so as to be
protected from their fire. It was Amine, who, unknown to Philip, had
been standing by his side.

"You must not expose yourself, Philip," said she, in a low tone.

"She called me Philip," thought he, but made no reply.

"They will be watching for you at the casement now," said Amine. "Take
the other carbine, and go below in the passage. If the lock of the door
is blown off, they may put their arms in, perhaps, and remove the bars.
I do not think they can, but I'm not sure; at all events, it is there
you should now be, as there they will not expect you."

"You are right," replied Philip, going down.

"But you must not fire more than once there; if another fall, there will
be but two to deal with, and they cannot watch the casement and force
admittance too. Go--I will reload the carbine."

Philip descended softly and without a light. He went up to the door,
and perceived that one of the miscreants, with his arm through the hole
where the lock was blown off, was working at the upper iron bar, which
he could just reach. He presented his carbine, and was about to fire
the whole charge into the body of the man under his raised arm, when
there was a report of fire-arms from the robbers outside.

"Amine has exposed herself," thought Philip, "and may be hurt."

The desire of vengeance prompted him first to fire his piece through the
man's body, and then he flew up the stairs to ascertain the state of
Amine. She was not at the casement; he darted into the inner room, and
found her deliberately loading the carbine.

"My God! how you frightened me, Amine. I thought by their firing that
you had shown yourself at the window."

"Indeed I did not; but I thought that when you fired through the door
they might return your fire, and you be hurt; so I went to the side of
the casement and pushed out on a stick some of my father's clothes, and
they who were watching for you fired immediately."

"Indeed, Amine! who could have expected such courage and such coolness
in one so young and beautiful?" exclaimed Philip, with surprise.

"Are none but ill-favoured people brave, then?" replied Amine, smiling.

"I did not mean that, Amine--but I am losing time.