“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.