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:—
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“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. I must to the door again. Give me that carbine, and reload this.”
Philip crept down stairs that he might reconnoitre, but before he had gained the door he heard at a distance the voice of Mynheer Poots. Amine, who also heard it, was in a moment at his side with a loaded pistol in each hand.
“Fear not, Amine,” said Philip, as he unbarred the door, “there are but two, and your father shall be saved.”
The door was opened, and Philip, seizing his carbine, rushed out; he found Mynheer Poots on the ground between the two men, one of whom had raised his knife to plunge it into his body, when the ball of the carbine whizzed through his head. The last of the robbers closed with Philip, and a desperate struggle ensued—it was however, soon decided by Amine stepping forward and firing one of the pistols through the robber’s body.
We must here inform our readers that Mynheer Poots, when coming home, had heard the report of fire-arms in the direction of his own house. The recollection of his daughter and of his money—for to do him justice he did love her best—had lent him wings; he forgot that he was a feeble old man and without arms; all he thought of was to gain his habitation. On he came, reckless, frantic, and shouting, and rushed into the arms of the two robbers, who seized and would have despatched him, had not Philip so opportunely come to his assistance.
As soon as the last robber fell, Philip disengaged himself and went to the assistance of Mynheer Poots, whom he raised up in his arms and carried into the house as if he were an infant. The old man was still in a state of delirium from fear and previous excitement.
In a few minutes, Mynheer Poots was more coherent.
“My daughter!” exclaimed he—“my daughter! where is she?”
“She is here father, and safe,” replied Amine.
“Ah! my child is safe,” said he, opening his eyes and staring. “Yes, it is even so—and my money—my money—where is my money?” continued he, starting up.
“Quite safe, father.”
“Quite safe—you say quite safe—are you sure of it?—let me see.”
“There it is, father, as you may perceive, quite safe—thanks to one whom you have not treated so well.”
“Who—what do you mean?—Ah, yes, I see him now—’tis Philip Vanderdecken—he owes me three guilders and a half, and there is a phial—did he save you—and my money, child?”
“He did, indeed at the risk of his life.”
“Well, well, I will forgive him the whole debt—yes, the whole of it; but—the phial is of no use to him—he must return that. Give me some water.”
It was some time before the old man could regain his perfect reason. Philip left him with his daughter, and, taking a brace of loaded pistols, went out to ascertain the fate of the four assailants. The moon, having climbed above the bank of clouds which had obscured her, was now high in the heavens, shining bright, and he could distinguish clearly. The two men lying across the threshold of the door were quite dead. The others, who had seized upon Mynheer Poots, were still alive, but one was expiring and the other bled fast. Philip put a few questions to the latter, but he either would not or could not make any reply; he removed their weapons and returned to the house, where he found the old man attended by his daughter, in a state of comparative composure.
“I thank you, Philip Vanderdecken—I thank you much. You have saved my dear child, and my money—that is little, very little—for I am poor. May you live long and happily!”
Philip mused; the letter and his vow were, for the first time since he fell in with the robbers, recalled to his recollection, and a shade passed over his countenance.
“Long and happily—no, no,” muttered he, with an involuntary shake of the head.
“And I must thank you,” said Amine, looking inquiringly in Philip’s face. “O, how much have I to thank you for!—and indeed I am grateful.”
“Yes, yes, she is very grateful,” interrupted the old man; “but we are poor—very poor. I talked about my money because I have so little, and I cannot afford to lose it; but you shall not pay me the three guilders and a half—I am content to lose that, Mr Philip.”
“Why should you lose even that, Mynheer Poots?—I promised to pay you, and will keep my word. I have plenty of money—thousands of guilders, and know not what to do with them.”
“You—you—thousands of guilders!” exclaimed Poots. “Pooh, nonsense, that won’t do.”
“I repeat to you, Amine,” said Philip, “that I have thousands of guilders: you know I would not tell you a falsehood.”
“I believed you when you said so to my father,” replied Amine.
“Then, perhaps, as you have so much, and I am so very poor, Mr Vanderdecken—“
But Amine put her hand upon her father’s lips, and the sentence was not finished.
“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.