“FAR be it from me to wish to annoy you, my son,” said Father Mathias, as with difficulty he kept pace with the rapid strides of Philip, who was now within a quarter of a mile of his home; “but still, recollect that this is but a transitory world, and that much time has elapsed since you quitted this spot. For that reason, I would fain desire you, if possible, to check these bounding aspirations after happiness, these joyful anticipations in which you have indulged since we quitted the vessel. I hope and trust in the mercy of God, that all will be right, and that in a few minutes you will be in the arms of your much-loved wife; but still, in proportion as you allow your hopes to be raised, so will you inevitably have them crushed should disappointment cross your path. At Flushing we were told that there has been a dreadful visitation in this land, and death may not have spared even one so young and fair.”
“Let us haste on father,” replied Philip; “what you say is true, and suspense becomes most dreadful.”
Philip increased his speed, leaving the old man to follow him: he arrived at the bridge with its wooden gate. It was then about seven o’clock in the morning, for they had crossed the Scheldt at the dawn of day.
Philip observed that the lower shutters were still closed.
“They might have been up and stirring before this,” thought he, as he put his hand to the latch of the door. It was not fastened. Philip entered; there was a light burning in the kitchen; he pushed open the door, and beheld a maid-servant leaning back in her chair, in a profound sleep. Before he had time to go in and awaken her, he heard a voice at the top of the stairs, saying, “Marie, is that the doctor?”
Philip waited no longer; in three bounds he was on the landing-place above, and pushing by the person who had spoken, he opened the door of Amine’s room.
A floating wick in a tumbler of oil gave but a faint and glimmering light; the curtains of the bed were drawn, and by the side of it was kneeling a figure which was well known to Philip—that of Father Seysen. Philip recoiled; the blood retreated to his heart; he could not speak: panting for breath, he supported himself against the wall, and at last vented his agony of feeling by a deep groan, which aroused the priest, who turned his head, and perceiving who it was, rose from his knees, and extended his hand in silence.
“She is dead, then!” at last exclaimed Philip.
“No! my son, not dead; there is yet hope. The crisis is at hand; in one more hour her fate will be decided: then, either will she be restored to your arms, or follow the many hundreds whom this fatal epidemic has consigned to the tomb.”
Father Seysen then led Philip to the side of the bed, and withdrew the curtain. Amine lay insensible, but breathing heavily; her eyes were closed. Philip seized her burning hand, knelt down, pressed it to his lips, and burst into a paroxysm of tears. As soon as he had become somewhat composed, Father Seysen persuaded him to rise and sit with him by the side of the bed.
“This is a melancholy sight to witness at your return, Philip,” said he; “and to you who are so ardent, so impetuous, it must be doubly so; but God’s will be done. Remember, there is yet hope—not strong hope, I grant; but still, there is hope, for so told me the medical man who has attended her, and who will return, I expect, in a few minutes. Her disease is a typhus fever, which has swept off whole families within these last two months, and still rages violently; fortunate indeed, is the house which has to mourn but one victim. I would that you had not arrived just now, for it is a disease easily communicated. Many have fled from the country for security. To add to our misfortunes, we have suffered from the want of medical advice, for the physician and the patient have been swept away together.”
The door was now slowly opened, and a tall, dark man, in a brown cloak, holding to his nose a sponge saturated with vinegar, entered the room. He bowed his head to Philip and the priest, and then went to the bedside. For a minute he held his fingers to the pulse of the sufferer, then laying down her arm, he put his hand to her forehead, and covered her up with the bedclothes. He handed to Philip the sponge and vinegar, making a sign that he should use it, and beckoned Father Seysen out of the room.
In a minute the priest returned. “I have received his directions, my son; he thinks that she may be saved. The clothes must be kept on her, and replaced if she should throw them off; but everything will depend upon quiet and calm after she recovers her senses.”
“Surely, we can promise her that,” replied Philip.
“It is not the knowledge of your return, or even the sight of you, which alarms me. Joy seldom kills, even when the shock is great, but there are other causes for uneasiness.”
“What are they, holy Father?”
“Philip, it is now thirteen days that Amine has raved, and during that period I have seldom quitted her but to perform the duties of my office to others who required it. I have been afraid to leave her, Philip, for in her ravings she has told such a tale even unconnected as it has been, as has thrilled my soul with horror. It evidently has long lain heavily on her mind, and must retard her recovery. Philip Vanderdecken, you may remember that I would once have had the secret from you—the secret which forced your mother to her tomb, and which now may send your young wife to follow her, for it is evident that she knows all. Is it not true?”
“She does know all,” replied Philip, mournfully.
“And she has in her delirium told all. Nay, I trust she has told more than all; but of that we will not speak now: watch her, Philip. I will return in half an hour, for by that time, the doctor tells me, the symptoms will decide whether she will return to reason, or be lost to you for ever.”
Philip whispered to the priest that he had been accompanied by Father Mathias, who was to remain as his guest, and requested him to explain the circumstances of his present position to him, and see that he was attended to. Father Seysen then quitted the room, when Philip sat down by the bedside, and drew back the curtain.
Perhaps there is no situation in life so agonising to the feelings as that in which Philip was now placed. His joyful emotions, when expecting to embrace in health and beauty the object of his warmest affections, and of his continual thought during his long absence, suddenly checked by disappointment, anxiety and grief, at finding her lying emaciated, changed, corrupted with disease—her mind overthrown—her eyes unconscious of his presence—her existence hanging by a single hair—her frame prostrate before the king of terrors, who hovers over her with uplifted dart, and longs for the fiat which should permit him to pierce his unconscious victim.
“Alas!” thought Philip, “is it thus we meet, Amine? Truly did Father Mathias advise me, as I hurried so impetuously along, not (as I fondly thought) to happiness, but to misery. God of Heaven! be merciful, and forgive me. If I have loved this angelic creature of thy formation, even more than I have thee, spare her, good Heaven, spare her—or I am lost for ever.”
Philip covered up his face, and remained for some time in prayer. He then bent over his Amine, and impressed a kiss upon her burning lips. They were burning hot; still there was moisture upon them, and Philip perceived that there was also moisture on her forehead. He felt her hand, and the palm of it was moist; and carefully covering her with the bedclothes, he watched her with anxiety and hope.
In a quarter of an hour he had the delight of perceiving that Amine was in a profuse perspiration; gradually her breathing became less heavy, and instead of the passive state in which she had remained, she moved, and became restless. Philip watched, and replaced the clothes as she threw them off, until she at last appeared to have fallen into a profound and sweet sleep. Shortly after, Father Seysen and the physician made their appearance. Philip stated, in few words, what had occurred. The doctor went to the bedside, and in half a minute returned.
“Your wife is spared to you, Mynheer, but it is not advisable that she should see you so unexpectedly; the shock may be too great in her weak state; she must be allowed to sleep as long as possible; on her waking she will have returned to reason. You must leave her then to Father Seysen.”
“May I not remain in the room until she awakes? I will then hasten away unobserved.”
“That will be useless; the disease is contagious, and you have been here too long already. Remain below; you must change your clothes, and see that they prepare a bed for her in another room, to which she must be transported as soon as you think she can bear it; and then let these windows be thrown open, that the room may be properly ventilated. It will not do to have a wife just rescued from the jaws of death run the risk of falling a sacrifice to the attentions necessary to a sick husband.”
Philip perceived the prudence of this advice, and quitting the room with the medical man, he went and changed his clothes, and then joined Father Mathias, whom he found in the parlour below.
“You were right, Father,” said Philip, throwing himself on the sofa.
“I am old and suspicious, you are young and buoyant, Philip; but I trust all may yet be well.”
“I trust so too,” replied Philip. He then remained silent and absorbed in thought, for now that the imminent danger was over, he was reflecting upon what Father Seysen had communicated to him, relative to Amine’s having revealed the secret whilst in a state of mental aberration. The priest, perceiving that his mind was occupied, did not interrupt him. An hour had thus passed, when Father Seysen entered the room.
“Return thanks to Heaven, my son. Amine has awakened, and is perfectly sensible and collected. There is now little doubt of her recovery. She has taken the restorative ordered by the doctor though she was so anxious to repose once more, that she could hardly be persuaded to swallow it. She is now again fast asleep, and watched by one of the maidens, and in all probability will not move for many hours; but every moment of such sleep is precious, and she must not be disturbed. I will now see to some refreshment, which must be needful to us all. Philip, you have not introduced me to your companion, who, I perceive, is of my own calling.”
“Forgive me, sir,” replied Philip; “you will have great pleasure in making acquaintance with Father Mathias who has promised to reside with me, I trust, for some time. I will leave you together, and see to the breakfast being prepared; for the delay of which I trust Father Mathias will accept my apology.”
Philip then left the room and went into the kitchen. Having ordered what was requisite to be taken into the parlour, he put on his hat and walked out of the house. He could not eat; his mind was in a state of confusion; the events of the morning had been too harassing and exciting, and he felt as if the fresh air was necessary to his existence.
As he proceeded, careless in which direction, he met many with whom he had been acquainted, and from whom he had received condolence at his supposed bereavement, and congratulations when they learnt from him that the danger was over; and from them he also learnt how fatal had been the pestilence.
Not one-third of the inhabitants of Terneuse and the surrounding country remained alive, and those who had recovered were in a state of exhaustion, which prevented them from returning to their accustomed occupations. They had combated disease, but remained the prey of misery and want; and Philip mentally vowed that he would appropriate all his savings to the relief of those around him. It was not until more than two hours had passed away that Philip returned to the cottage. On his arrival he found that Amine still slumbered, and the two priests were in conversation below.
“My son,” said Father Seysen, “let us now have a little explanation. I have had a long conference with this good father, who hath much interested me with his account of the extension of our holy religion among the Pagans. He hath communicated to me much to rejoice at, and much to grieve for; but, among other questions put to him, I have (in consequence of what I have learnt during the mental alienation of your wife) interrogated him upon the point of a supernatural appearance of a vessel in the Eastern seas. You observe, Philip, that your secret is known to me, or I could not have put that question. To my surprise he hath stated a visitation of the kind to which he was eye-witness, and which cannot reasonably be accounted for, except by supernatural interposition. A strange and certainly most awful visitation! Philip, would it not be better (instead of leaving me in a maze of doubt) that you now confided to us both all the facts connected with this strange history, so that we may ponder on them, and give you the benefit of advice of those who are older than yourself, and who by their calling may be able to decide more correctly whether this supernatural power has been exercised by a good or evil intelligence?”
“The holy father speaks well, Philip Vanderdecken,” observed Mathias.
“If it be the work of the Almighty, to whom should you confide, and by whom should you be guided, but by those who do his service on this earth? If of the evil one, to whom but to those whose duty and wish it is to counteract his baneful influence? And reflect, Philip, that this secret may sit heavily on the mind of your cherished wife, and may bow her to the grave, as it did your (I trust) sainted mother. With you, and supported by your presence, she may bear it well; but recollect how many are the lonely days and nights that she must pass during your absence, and how much she must require the consolation and help of others. A secret like this must be as a gnawing worm, and, strong as she may be in courage, must shorten her existence but for the support and the balm she may receive from the ministers of our faith. It was cruel and selfish of you, Philip, to leave her, a lone woman, to bear up against your absence, and at the same time oppressed with so fatal a knowledge.”
“You have convinced me, holy father,” replied Philip. “I feel that I should before this have made you acquainted with this strange history. I will now state the whole of the circumstances which have occurred, but with little hope your advice can help me in a case so difficult, and in a duty so peremptory, yet so perplexing.”
Philip then entered into a minute detail of all that had passed, from the few days previous to his mother’s death until the present time, and when he had concluded, he observed,—“You see father, that I have bound myself by a solemn vow—that that vow has been recorded and accepted, and it appears to me that I have nothing now to do but to follow my peculiar destiny.”
“My son, you have told us strange and startling things—things not of this world—if you are not deceived. Leave us now. Father Mathias and I will consult upon this serious matter; and, when we are agreed, you shall know our decision.”
Philip went upstairs to see Amine; she was still in a deep sleep. He dismissed the servant, and watched by the bedside. For nearly two hours did he remain there, when he was summoned down to meet the two priests.
“We have had a long conversation, my son,” said Father Seysen, “upon this strange and perhaps supernatural occurrence. I say perhaps, for I would have rejected the frenzied communications of your mother as the imaginings of a heated brain; and for the same reason I should have been equally inclined to suppose that the high state of excitement that you were in at the time of her death may have disordered your intellect; but as Father Mathias positively asserts that a strange, if not supernatural, appearance of a vessel did take place, on his passage home, and which appearance tallies with and corroborates the legend—if so I may call it—to which you have given evidence, I say that it is not impossible but that it is supernatural.”
“Recollect that the same appearance of the Phantom Ship has been permitted to me and to many others,” replied Philip.
“Yes,” replied Father Seysen; “but who is there alive of those who saw it but yourself? But that is of little importance. We will admit that the whole affair is not the work of man, but of a superior intelligence.”
“Superior, indeed!” replied Philip. “It is the work of Heaven!”
“That is a point not so easily admitted; there is another power as well as that which is divine—that of the devil!—the arch-enemy of mankind! But as that power, inferior to the power of God, cannot act without his permission, we may indirectly admit that it is the will of Heaven that such sighs and portents should be allowed to be given on certain occasions.”
“Then our opinions are the same, good Father.”
“Nay, not exactly, my son. Elymas, the sorcerer, was permitted to practise his arts—gained from the devil—that it might be proved, by his overthrow and blindness, how inferior was his master to the Divine Ruler; but it does not therefore follow that sorcery generally was permitted. In this instance it may be true that the evil one has been permitted to exercise his power over the captain and crew of that ship, and, as a warning against such heavy offences, the supernatural appearance of the vessel may be permitted. So far we are justifiable in believing. But the great questions are, first, whether it be your father who is thus doomed? and, secondly, how far you are necessitated to follow up this mad pursuit, which, it appears to me—although it may end in your destruction—cannot possibly be the means of rescuing your father from his state of unhallowed abeyance? Do you understand me, Philip?”
“I certainly understand what you would say, Father; but—“
“Answer me not yet. It is the opinion of this holy Father as well as of myself, that, allowing the facts to be as you suppose, the revelations made to you are not from on high, but the suggestions of the devil to lead you into danger and ultimately to death; for if it were your task, as you suppose, why did not the vessel appear on this last voyage, and how can you (allowing that you met her fifty times) have communication with that, or with those which are but phantoms and shadows, things not of this world? Now, what we propose is, that you should spend a proportion of the money left by your father in masses for the repose of his soul, which your mother, in other circumstances, would certainly have done; and that, having so done, you should remain quietly on shore until some new sign should be given to you which may warrant our supposing that you are really chosen for this strange pursuit?”
“But my oath, Father—my recorded vow!”
“From that, my son, the holy Church hath power to absolve you; and that absolution you shall receive. You have put yourself into our hands, and by our decision you must be guided. If there be wrong, it is we, and not you, who are responsible; but, at present, let us say no more. I will now go up, and so soon as your wife awakens, prepare her for your meeting.”
When Father Seysen had quitted the room, Father Mathias debated the matter with Philip. A long discussion ensued, in which similar arguments were made use of by the priest; and Philip, although not convinced, was at least doubtful and perplexed. He left the cottage.
“A new sign—a corroborative sign,” thought Philip; “surely there have been signs and wonders enough. Still it may be true that masses for my father’s soul may relieve him from his state of torture. At all events, if they decide for me I am not to blame. Well, then, let us wait for a new sign of the divine will—if so it must be;” and Philip walked on, occasionally thinking on the arguments of Father Seysen, and oftener thinking of Amine.
It was now evening, and the sun was fast descending. Philip wandered on, until at last he arrived at the very spot where he had knelt down and pronounced his solemn vow. He recognised it: he looked at the distant hills. The sun was just at the same height; the whole scene, the place, and the time were before him. Again Philip knelt down, took the relic from his bosom and kissed it. He watched the sun—he bowed himself to the earth. He waited for a sign, but the sun sank down, and the veil of night spread over the landscape. There was no sign; and Philip rose and walked home towards the cottage, more inclined than before to follow the suggestions of Father Seysen.
On his return, Philip went softly up stairs and entered the room of Amine, whom he found awake and in conversation with the priests. The curtain was closed, and he was not perceived. With a beating heart he remained near the wall at the head of the bed.
“Reason to believe that my husband has arrived!” said Amine, in a faint voice. “Oh tell me, why so?”
“His ship is arrived, we know; and one who had seen her said that all were well.”
“And why is he not here, then? Who should bring the news of his return but himself? Father Seysen, either he has not arrived or he is here—I know he must be, if he is safe and well. I know my Philip too well. Say! is he not here? Fear not, if you say yes; but if you say no, you kill me!”
“He is here, Amine,” replied Father Seysen—“here and well.”
“O God! I thank you; but where is he? If he is here, he must be in this room, or else you deceive me. Oh, this suspense is death!”
“I am here,” cried Philip, opening the curtains.
Amine rose with a shriek, held out her arms, and then fell senseless back. In a few seconds, however, she was restored, and proved the truth of the good Father’s assertion, “that joy does not kill.”
We must now pass over the few days during which Philip watched the couch of his Amine, who rapidly regained her strength. As soon as she was well enough to enter upon the subject, Philip narrated all that had passed since his departure; the confession which he had made to Father Seysen, and the result. Amine, too glad that Philip should remain with her, added her persuasions to those of the priests, and, for some little time, Philip talked no more of going to sea.