The Phantom Ship. Фредерик Марриет

silent during his repast.

      "Amine," said Philip at last, "I have had plenty of time for reflection during this night, as I watched at the door. May I speak freely?"

      "Why not?" replied Amine. "I feel assured that you will say nothing that you should not say, or should not meet a maiden's ear."

      "You do me justice, Amine. My thoughts have been upon you and your father. You cannot stay in this lone habitation."

      "I feel it is too lonely; that is, for his safety—perhaps for mine—but you know my father—the very loneliness suits him, the price paid for rent is little, and he is careful of his money."

      "The man who would be careful of his money should place it in security—here it is not secure. Now hear me, Amine. I have a cottage surrounded, as you may have heard, by many others, which mutually protect each other. That cottage I am about to leave—perhaps for ever; for I intend to sail by the first ship to the Indian seas."

      "The Indian seas! why so?—did you not last night talk of thousands of guilders?"

      "I did, and they are there; but, Amine, I must go—it is my duty. Ask me no more, but listen to what I now propose. Your father must live in my cottage; he must take care of it for me in my absence; he will do me a favour by consenting; and you must persuade him. You will there be safe. He must also take care of my money for me. I want it not at present—I cannot take it with me."

      "My father is not to be trusted with the money of other people."

      "Why does your father hoard? He cannot take his money with him when he is called away. It must be all for you—and is not then my money safe?"

      "Leave it then in my charge, and it will be safe; but why need you go and risk your life upon the water, when you have such ample means?"

      "Amine, ask not that question. It is my duty as a son, and more I cannot tell, at least at present."

      "If it is your duty, I ask no more. It was not womanish curiosity—no, no—it was a better feeling, I assure you, which prompted me to put the question."

      "And what was the better feeling, Amine?"

      "I hardly know—many good feelings perhaps mixed up together—gratitude, esteem, respect, confidence, good-will. Are not these sufficient?"

      "Yes, indeed, Amine, and much to gain upon so short an acquaintance; but still I feel them all, and more, for you. If, then, you feel so much for me, do oblige me by persuading your father to leave this lonely house this day, and take up his abode in mine."

      "And where do you intend to go yourself?"

      "If your father will not admit me as a boarder for the short time I remain here, I will seek some shelter elsewhere; but if he will, I will indemnify him well—that is, if you raise no objection to my being for a few days in the house?"

      "Why should I? Our habitation is no longer safe, and you offer us a shelter. It were, indeed, unjust and most ungrateful to turn you out from beneath your own roof."

      "Then persuade him, Amine. I will accept of nothing, but take it as a favour; for I should depart in sorrow if I saw you not in safety.—Will you promise me?"

      "I do promise to use my best endeavours—nay, I may as well say at once it shall be so; for I know my influence. Here is my hand upon it. Will that content you?"

      Philip took the small hand extended towards him. His feelings overcame his discretion; he raised it to his lips. He looked up to see if Amine was displeased, and found her dark eye fixed upon him, as once before when she admitted him, as if she would see his thoughts—but the hand was not withdrawn.

      "Indeed, Amine," said Philip, kissing her hand once more, "you may confide in me."

      "I hope—I think—nay, I am sure I may," at last replied she.

      Philip released her hand. Amine returned to the seat, and for some time remained silent and in a pensive attitude. Philip also had his own thoughts, and did not open his lips. At last Amine spoke.

      "I think I have heard my father say that your mother was very poor—a little deranged; and that there was a chamber in the house which had been shut up for years."

      "It was shut up till yesterday."

      "And there you found your money? Did your mother not know of the money?"

      "She did, for she spoke of it on her death-bed."

      "There must have been some potent reasons for not opening the chamber."

      "There were."

      "What were they, Philip?" said Amine, in a soft and low tone of voice.

      "I must not tell, at least I ought not. This must satisfy you—'twas the fear of an apparition."

      "What apparition?"

      "She said that my father had appeared to her."

      "And did he, think you, Philip?"

      "I have no doubt that he did. But I can answer no more questions, Amine. The chamber is open now, and there is no fear of his reappearance."

      "I fear not that," replied Amine, musing. "But," continued she, "is not this connected with your resolution of going to sea?"

      "So far will I answer you, that it has decided me to go to sea; but I pray you ask no more. It is painful to refuse you, and my duty forbids me to speak further."

      For some minutes they were both silent, when Amine resumed—

      "You were so anxious to possess that relic, that I cannot help thinking it has connection with the mystery. Is it not so?"

      "For the last time, Amine, I will answer your question—it has to do with it: but now no more."

      Philip's blunt and almost rude manner of finishing his speech was not lost upon Amine, who replied,

      "You are so engrossed with other thoughts, that you have not felt the compliment shown you by my taking such interest about you, sir."

      "Yes, I do—I feel and thank you too, Amine. Forgive me, if I have been rude; but recollect, the secret is not mine—at least, I feel as if it were not. God knows, I wish I never had known it, for it has blasted all my hopes in life."

      Philip was silent; and when he raised his eyes, he found that Amine's were fixed upon him.

      "Would you read my thoughts, Amine, or my secret?"

      "Your thoughts perhaps—your secret I would not; yet do I grieve that it should oppress you so heavily as evidently it does. It must, indeed, be one of awe to bear down a mind like yours, Philip."

      "Where did you learn to be so brave, Amine?" said Philip, changing the conversation.

      "Circumstances make people brave or otherwise; those who are accustomed to difficulty and danger fear them not."

      "And where have you met with them, Amine?"

      "In the country where I was born, not in this dank and muddy land."

      "Will you trust me with the story of your former life, Amine? I can be secret, if you wish."

      "That you can be secret perhaps, against my wish, you have already proved to me," replied Amine, smiling; "and you have a claim to know something of the life you have preserved. I cannot tell you much, but what I can will be sufficient. My father, when a lad on board of a trading vessel, was taken by the Moors, and sold as a slave to a Hakim, or physician, of their country. Finding him very intelligent, the Moor brought him up as an assistant, and it was under this man that he obtained a knowledge of the art. In a few years he was equal to his master; but, as a slave, he worked not for himself. You know, indeed it cannot be concealed, my father's avarice. He sighed to become as wealthy as his master, and to obtain his freedom; he became a follower of Mahomet, after which he was free, and practised for himself. He took a wife from an Arab family, the daughter of a chief