The lot of a sailor's
wife is not to be envied. Alone and solitary for so many months,
watching the long wick of the candle, and listening to the howling of
the wind--foreboding evil and accident--wreck and widowhood. He had
been gone about six months, Philip, and there was still a long dreary
year to wait before I could expect him back. One night, you, my
child, were fast asleep; you were my only solace--my comfort in my
loneliness. I had been watching over you in your slumbers; you smiled
and half pronounced the name of mother; and at last I kissed your
unconscious lips, and I knelt and prayed--prayed for God's blessing on
you, my child, and upon him too--little thinking, at the time, that he
was so horribly, so fearfully CURSED." The widow paused for breath, and then resumed. Philip could not speak. His lips were sundered, and his eyes riveted upon his mother, as he
devoured her words. "I left you and went downstairs into that room, Philip, which since
that dreadful night has never been re-opened. I sate me down and read,
for the wind was strong, and when the gale blows, a sailor's wife can
seldom sleep. It was past midnight, and the rain poured down. I felt
unusual fear,--I knew not why. I rose from the couch and dipped my
finger in the blessed water, and I crossed myself. A violent gust
of wind roared round the house, and alarmed me still more. I had a
painful, horrible foreboding; when, of a sudden, the windows and
window-shutters were all blown in, the light was extinguished, and
I was left in utter darkness. I screamed with fright; but at last I
recovered myself, and was proceeding towards the window that I
might reclose it, when whom should I behold, slowly entering at the
casement, but--your father,--Philip!--Yes, Philip,--it was your
father!" "Merciful God!" muttered Philip, in a low tone almost subdued into a
whisper. "I knew not what to think,--he was in the room; and although the
darkness was intense, his form and features were as clear and as
defined as if it were noon-day. Fear would have inclined me to recoil
from,--his loved presence to fly towards him. I remained on the spot
where I was, choked with agonising sensations. When he had entered the
room, the windows and shutters closed of themselves, and the candle
was relighted--then I thought it was his apparition, and I fainted on
the floor. "When I recovered I found myself on the couch, and perceived that
a cold (O how cold!) and dripping hand was clasped in mine. This
reassured me, and I forgot the supernatural signs which accompanied
his appearance. I imagined that he had been unfortunate, and had
returned home. I opened my eyes, and beheld my loved husband and threw
myself into his arms. His clothes were saturated with the rain: I
felt as if I had embraced ice--but nothing can check the warmth of a
woman's love, Philip. He received my caresses, but he caressed
not again: he spoke not, but looked thoughtful and unhappy. 'William--William,' cried I! 'speak, Vanderdecken, speak to your dear
Catherine.' "'I will,' replied he, solemnly, 'for my time is short.' "'No, no, you must not go to sea again: you have lost your vessel, but
you are safe. Have I not you again?' "'Alas! no--be not alarmed, but listen, for my time is short. I have
not lost my vessel, Catherine, BUT I HAVE LOST!!! Make no reply, but
listen; I am not dead, nor yet am I alive. I hover between this world
and the world of Spirits. Mark me. "'For nine weeks did I try to force my passage against the elements
round the stormy Cape, but without success; and I swore terribly. For nine weeks more did I carry sail against the adverse winds and
currents, and yet could gain no ground; and then I blasphemed,--ay,
terribly blasphemed. Yet still I persevered. The crew, worn out
with long fatigue, would have had me return to the Table Bay; but I
refused; nay, more, I became a murderer,--unintentionally, it is true,
but still a murderer. The pilot opposed me, and persuaded the men to
bind me, and in the excess of my fury, when he took me by the collar,
I struck at him; he reeled; and, with the sudden lurch of the vessel,
he fell overboard, and sank. Even this fearful death did not restrain
me; and I swore by the fragment of the Holy Cross, preserved in that
relic now hanging round your neck, that I would gain my point in
defiance of storm and seas, of lightning, of heaven, or of hell, even
if I should beat about until the Day of Judgment. "'My oath was registered in thunder, and in streams of sulphurous
fire. The hurricane burst upon the ship, the canvas flew away in
ribbons; mountains of seas swept over us, and in the centre of a deep
o'erhanging cloud, which shrouded all in utter darkness, were written
in letters of livid flame, these words--UNTIL THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. "'Listen to me, Catherine, my time is short. _One Hope_ alone remains,
and for this am I permitted to come here. Take this letter.' He put a
sealed paper on the table. 'Read it, Catherine, dear, and try if you
can assist me. Read it and now farewell--my time is come.' "Again the window and window-shutters burst open--again the light was
extinguished, and the form of my husband was, as it were, wafted in
the dark expanse. I started up and followed him with outstretched arms
and frantic screams as he sailed through the window;--my glaring eyes
beheld his form borne away like lightning on the wings of the wild
gale, till it was lost as a speck of light, and then it disappeared. Again the windows closed, the light burned, and I was left alone! "Heaven, have mercy! My brain!--my brain!--Philip!--Philip!" shrieked
the poor woman; "don't leave me--don't--don't--pray don't!" During these exclamations the frantic widow had raised herself from
the bed, and, at the last, had fallen into the arms of her son. She
remained there some minutes without motion. After a time Philip felt
alarmed at her long quiescence; he laid her gently down upon the bed,
and as he did so her head fell back--her eyes were turned--the widow
Vanderdecken was no more. Chapter II


Philip Vanderdecken, strong as he was in mental courage, was almost
paralysed by the shock when he discovered that his mother's spirit had
fled; and for some time he remained by the side of the bed with his
eyes fixed upon the corpse, and his mind in a state of vacuity. Gradually he recovered himself; he rose, smoothed down the pillow,
closed her eyelids, and then clasping his hands, the tears trickled
down his manly cheeks. He impressed a solemn kiss upon the pale white
forehead of the departed, and drew the curtains round the bed. "Poor mother!" said he, sorrowfully, as he completed his task, "at
length thou hast found rest,--but thou hast left thy son a bitter
legacy." And as Philip's thoughts reverted to what had passed, the dreadful
narrative whirled in his imagination and scathed his brain.