gravely.
“Then they are yours, as well as all that is in this cottage, and the cottage itself.”
“You have relations, have you not?”
“But one, who is rich—an uncle, who helped us but little in our distress, and who has no children. I owe him but little—and he wants nothing. There is but one being in this world who has created an interest in this heart, Amine, and it is you. I wish you to look upon me as a brother. I shall always love you as a dear sister.”
Amine made no reply. Philip took some more money out of the bag which had been opened, for the expenses of his journey, and then locking up the safe and cupboard, gave the keys to Amine. He was about to address her when there was a slight knock at the door, and in entered Father Seysen, the priest.
“Save you my son; and you, my child, whom as yet I have not seen. You are, I suppose, the daughter of Mynheer Poots?”
Amine bowed her head.
“I perceive, Philip, that the room is now opened; and I have heard of all that has passed. I would now talk with thee, Philip, and must beg this maiden to leave us for a while alone.”
Amine quitted the room; and the priest, sitting down on the couch, beckoned Philip to his side. The conversation which ensued was too long to repeat. The priest first questioned Philip relative to his secret; but on that point he could not obtain the information which he wished. Philip stated as much as he did to Amine, and no more. He also declared his intention of going to sea, and that, should he not return, he had bequeathed his property—the extent of which he did not make known—to the doctor and his daughter. The priest then made inquiries relative to Mynheer Poots, asking Philip whether he knew what his creed was, as he had never appeared at any church, and report said that he was an infidel. To this Philip, as usual, gave his frank answer, and intimated that the daughter, at least, was anxious to be enlightened, begging the priest to undertake a task to which he himself was not adequate. To this request Father Seysen, who perceived the state of Philip’s mind with regard to Amine, readily consented. After a conversation of nearly two hours, they were interrupted by the return of Mynheer Poots, who darted out of the room the instant he perceived Father Seysen. Philip called Amine, and having begged her as a favour to receive the priest’s visits, the good old man blessed them both and departed.
“You did not give him any money, Mr. Philip?” said Mynheer Poots, when Father Seysen had left the room.
“I did not,” replied Philip; “I wish I had thought of it.”
“No, no—it is better not—for money is better than what he can give you; but he must not come here.”
“Why not, father,” replied Amine, “if Mr. Philip wishes it? It is his own house.”
“O yes, if Mr. Philip wishes it; but you know he is going away.”
“Well, and suppose he is—why should not the Father come here? He shall come here to see me.”
“See you, my child!—what can he want with you? Well, then, if he comes, I will not give him one stiver—and then he’ll soon go away.”
Philip had no opportunity of further converse with Amine; indeed he had nothing more to say. In an hour he bade her farewell in presence of her father, who would not leave them, hoping to obtain from Philip some communication about the money which he was to leave behind him.
In two days Philip arrived at Amsterdam, and having made the necessary inquiries, found that there was no chance of vessels sailing for the East Indies for some months. The Dutch East India Company had long been formed, and all private trading was at an end. The Company’s vessels left only at what was supposed to be the most favourable season for rounding the Cape of Storms, as the Cape of Good Hope was designated by the early adventurers. One of the ships which were to sail with the next fleet was the Ter Schilling, a three-masted vessel, now laid up and unrigged.
Philip found out the captain, and stated his wishes to sail with him, to learn his profession as a seaman; the captain was pleased with his appearance, and as Philip not only agreed to receive no wages during the voyage, but to pay a premium as an apprentice learning his duty, he was promised a berth on board as the second mate, to mess in the cabin; and he was told that he should be informed whenever the vessel was to sail. Philip having now done all that he could in obedience to his vow, determined to return to the cottage; and once more he was in the company of Amine.
We must now pass over two months, during which Mynheer Poots continued to labour at his vocation, and was seldom within doors, and our two young friends were left for hours together. Philip’s love for Amine was fully equal to hers for him. It was more than love—it was a devotion on both sides, each day increasing. Who indeed could be more charming, more attractive in all ways than the high-spirited, yet tender Amine? Occasionally the brow of Philip would be clouded when he reflected upon the dark prospect before him; but Amine’s smile would chase away the gloom and as he gazed on her, all would be forgotten. Amine made no secret of her attachment; it was shown in every word, every look, and every gesture. When Philip would take her hand, or encircle her waist with his arm, or even when he pressed her coral lips, there was no pretence of coyness on her part. She was too noble, too confiding; she felt that her happiness was centred in his love, and she lived but in his presence. Two months had thus passed away, when Father Seysen, who often called, and had paid much attention to Amine’s instruction, one day came in as Amine was encircled in Philip’s arms.
“My children,” said he, “I have watched you for some time:—this is not well. Philip, if you intend marriage, as I presume you do, still it is dangerous. I must join your hands.”
Philip started up.
“Surely I am not deceived in thee, my son,” continued the priest in a severe tone.
“No, no, good Father; but I pray you leave me now: to-morrow you may come, and all will be decided. But I must talk with Amine.”
The priest quitted the room, and Amine and Philip were again alone. The colour in Amine’s cheek varied and her heart beat, for she felt how much her happiness was at stake.
“The priest is right, Amine,” said Philip sitting down by her. “This cannot last;—would that I could ever stay with you; how hard a fate is mine! You know I love the very ground you tread upon, yet I dare not ask thee to wed to misery.”
“To wed with thee would not be wedding misery, Philip,” replied Amine, with downcast eyes.
“ ’Twere not kindness on my part, Amine. I should indeed be selfish.”
“I will speak plainly, Philip,” replied Amine. “You say you love me—I know not how men love—but this I know, how I can love. I feel that to leave me now were indeed unkind and selfish on your part; for, Philip, I—I should die. You say that you must go away—that fate demands it—and your fatal secret. Be it so;—but cannot I go with you?”
“Go with me, Amine—unto death?”
“Yes, death; for what is death but a release? I fear not death, Philip; I fear but losing thee. Nay, more; is not your life in the hands of Him who made all? then why so sure to die? You have hinted to me that you are chosen—selected for a task;—if chosen, there is less chance of death; for until the end be fulfilled, if chosen, you must live. I would I knew your secret, Philip: a woman’s wit might serve you well: and if it did not serve you, is there no comfort, no pleasure in sharing sorrow as well as joy with one you say you dote upon?”
“Amine, dearest Amine, it is my love, my ardent love alone, which makes me pause; for, O Amine, what pleasure should I feel if we were this hour united? I hardly know what to say, or what to do. I could not withhold my secret from you if you were my wife, nor will I wed you till you know it. Well, Amine, I will cast my all upon the die. You shall know this secret, learn what a doomed wretch I am, though from no fault of mine, and then you yourself shall decide. But remember my oath is registered in heaven, and I must not be dissuaded from it: keep that in mind, and hear my tale—then if you