The discovery of the beautiful daughter of Mynheer Poots had made a
strong impression upon Philip Vanderdecken, and now he had another
excitement to combine with those which already overcharged his bosom.
He arrived at his own house, went upstairs, and threw himself on the bed
from which he had been roused by Mynheer Poots. At first, he recalled
to his mind the scene we have just described, painted in his imagination
the portrait of the fair girl, her eyes, her expression, her silver
voice, and the words which she had uttered; but her pleasing image was
soon chased away by the recollection that his mother's corpse lay in the
adjoining chamber, and that his father's secret was hidden in the room
below.
The funeral was to take place the next morning, and Philip, who, since
his meeting with the daughter of Mynheer Poots, appeared even to himself
not so anxious for immediate examination of the room, resolved that he
would not open it until after the melancholy ceremony. With this
resolution he fell asleep; and, exhausted with bodily and mental
excitement, he did not wake until the next morning, when he was summoned
by the priest to assist at the funeral rites. In an hour all was over;
the crowd dispersed, and Philip, returning to the cottage, bolted the
door that he might not be interrupted, and felt happy that he was alone.
There is a feeling in our nature which will arise when we again find
ourselves in the tenement where death has been, and all traces of it
have been removed. It is a feeling of satisfaction and relief at having
rid ourselves of the memento of mortality, the silent evidence of the
futility of our pursuits and anticipations. We know that we must one
day die, but we always wish to forget it. The continual remembrance
would be too great a check upon our mundane desires and wishes; and,
although we are told that we ever should have futurity in our thoughts,
we find that life is not to be enjoyed if we are not permitted
occasional forgetfulness. For who would plan what rarely he is
permitted to execute, if each moment of the day he thought of death? We
either hope that we may live longer than others, or we forget that we
may not.
If this buoyant feeling had not been planted in our nature, how little
would the world have been improved even from the Deluge! Philip walked
into the room where his mother had lain one short hour before, and
unwittingly felt relief. Taking down the cabinet, he now recommenced
his task; the back panel was soon removed, and a secret drawer
discovered; he drew it out, and it contained what he presumed to be the
object of his search,--a large key with a slight coat of rust upon it,
which came off upon its being handled. Under the key was a paper, the
writing on which was somewhat discoloured; it was in his mother's hand,
and ran as follows:--
"It is now two nights since a horrible event took place which has
induced me to close the lower chamber, and my brain is still bursting
with terror. Should I not, during my lifetime, reveal what occurred,
still this key will be required, as at my death the room will be opened.
When I rushed from it I hastened upstairs, and remained that night with
my child; the next morning I summoned up sufficient courage, to go down,
turn the key and bring it up into my chamber. It is now closed till I
close my eyes in death. No privation, no suffering, shall induce me to
open it, although in the iron cupboard under the buffet farthest from
the window, there is money sufficient for all my wants; that money will
remain there for my child, to whom, if I do not impart the fatal secret,
he must be satisfied that it is one which it were better should be
concealed,--one so horrible as to induce me to take the steps which I
now do. The keys of the cupboards and buffets were, I think, lying on
the table, or in my work-box, when I quitted the room. There is a
letter on the table--at least I think so. It is sealed. Let not the
seal be broken but by my son, and not by him unless he knows the secret.
Let it be burnt by the priest,--for it is cursed;--and even should my
son know all that I do, oh, let him pause,--let him reflect well before
he breaks the seal,--for 'twere better he should know NO MORE!"
"Not know more!" thought Philip, as his eyes were still fixed upon the
paper. "Yes, but I must and will know more, so forgive me dearest
mother, if I waste no time in reflection. It would be but time thrown
away, when one is resolved as I am."
Philip pressed his lips to his mother's signature, folded up the paper
and put it into his pocket; then taking the key, he proceeded
downstairs.
It was about noon when Philip descended to open the chamber; the sun
shone bright, the sky was clear, and all without was cheerful and
joyous. The front door of the cottage being closed, there was not much
light in the passage when Philip put the key into the lock of the
long-closed door, and with some difficulty turned it round. To say that
when he pushed open the door he felt no alarm would not be correct; he
did feel alarm, and his heart palpitated; but he felt more than was
requisite of determination to conquer that alarm, and to conquer more,
should more be created by what he should behold. He opened the door,
but did not immediately enter the room: he paused where he stood, for he
felt as if he was about to intrude into the retreat of a disembodied
spirit, and that that spirit might reappear. He waited a minute, for
the effort of opening the door had taken away his breath, and, as he
recovered himself, he looked within.
He could but imperfectly distinguish the objects in the chamber, but
through the joints of the shutters there were three brilliant beams of
sunshine forcing their way across the room, which at first induced him
to recoil as if from something supernatural; but a little reflection
reassured him. After about a minute's pause, Philip went into the
kitchen, lighted a candle, and, sighing deeply two or three times as if
to relieve his heart, he summoned his resolution, and walked towards the
fatal room. He first stopped at the threshold, and, by the light of the
candle, took a hasty survey. All was still: and the table on which the
letter had been left, being behind the door, was concealed by its being
opened. It must be done, thought Philip: and why not at once? continued
he, resuming his courage; and, with a firm step, he walked into the room
and went to unfasten the shutters. If his hand trembled a little when
he called to mind how supernaturally they had last been opened, it is
not surprising. We are but mortal, and we shrink from contact with
aught beyond this life. When the fastenings were removed and the
shutters unfolded, a stream of light poured into the room so vivid as to
dazzle his eyesight; strange to say, this very light of a brilliant day
overthrew the resolution of Philip more than the previous gloom and
darkness had done; and with the candle in his hand, he retreated hastily
into the kitchen to re-summon his courage, and there he remained for
some minutes with his face covered, and in deep thought.
It is singular that his reveries at last ended by reverting to the fair
daughter of Mynheer Poots, and her first appearance at the window; and
he felt as if the flood of light which had just driven him from the one,
was not more impressive and startling than her enchanting form at the
other. His mind dwelling upon this beauteous vision appeared to restore
Philip's confidence; he now rose and boldly walked into the room. We
shall not describe the objects it contained as they chanced to meet the
eyes of Philip, but attempt a more lucid arrangement.
The room was about twelve or fourteen feet square, with but one window;
opposite to the door stood the chimney and fireplace, with a high buffet
of dark wood on each side. The floor of the room was not dirty,
although about its upper parts spiders had run their cobwebs in every
direction. In the centre of the ceiling hung a quicksilver globe, a
common ornament in those days, but the major part of it had lost its
brilliancy, the spiders' webs enclosing it like a shroud. Over the
chimney-piece were hung two or three drawings, framed and glazed, but a
dusty mildew was spotted over the glass, so that little of them could be
distinguished. In the centre of the mantelpiece was an image of the
Virgin Mary, of pure silver, in a shrine of the same metal, but it was
tarnished to the colour of bronze or iron; some Indian figures stood on
each side of it. The glass doors of the buffets on each side of the
chimney-piece were also so dimmed that little of what was within could
be distinguished: the light and heat which had been poured into the
room, even for so short a time, had already gathered up the damp of many
years, and it lay as a mist, and mingled with the dust upon the panes of
glass: still here and there a glittering of silver vessels could be
discerned, for the glass doors had protected them from turning black,
although much dimmed in lustre.
On the wall facing the window were other prints, in frames equally
veiled in damp and cobwebs and also two bird-cages. The bird-cages
Philip approached, and looked into them. The occupants, of course, had
long been dead; but at the bottom of the cages was a small heap of
yellow feathers, through which the little white bones of the skeletons
were to be seen, proving that they had been brought from the Canary
Isles; and, at that period, such birds were highly valued. Philip
appeared to wish to examine everything before he sought that which he
most dreaded, yet most wished, to find. There were several chairs round
the room: on one of them was some linen; he took it up. It was some
that must have belonged to him when he was yet a child. At last, Philip
turned his eyes to the wall not yet examined (that opposite the chimney
piece), through which the door was pierced, and behind the door as it
lay open, he was to find the table, the couch, the work-box, and the
FATAL LETTER. As he turned round, his pulse, which had gradually
recovered its regular motion, beat more quickly, but he made the effort,
and it was over. At first he examined the walls, against which were
hung swords and pistols of various sorts but chiefly Asiatic bows and
arrows, and other implements of destruction. Philip's eyes gradually
descended upon the table and little couch behind it, where his mother
stated herself to have been seated when his father made his awful visit.
The work-box and all its implements were on the table, just as she had
left them. The keys she mentioned were also lying there, but Philip
looked, and looked again; there was no letter, he now advanced nearer,
examined closely--there was none that he could perceive, either on the
couch or on the table--or on the floor. He lifted up the work-box to
ascertain if it was beneath--but no. He examined among its contents,
but no letter was there. He turned over the pillows of the couch, but
still there was no letter to be found. And Philip felt as if there had
been a heavy load removed from his panting chest. "Surely, then,"
thought he, as he leant against the wall, "this must have been the
vision of a heated imagination. My poor mother must have fallen asleep,
and dreamt this horrid tale. I thought it was impossible, at least I
hoped so. It must have been as I suppose; the dream was too powerful,
too like a fearful reality,--partially unseated my poor mother's
reason." Philip reflected again, and was then satisfied that his
suppositions were correct.
"Yes, it must have been so, poor dear mother! how much thou hast
suffered; but thou art now rewarded, and with thy God."
After a few minutes (during which he surveyed the room again and again
with more coolness, and perhaps some indifference, now that he regarded
the supernatural history as not true), Philip took out of his pocket the
written paper found with the key, and read it over,--"The iron cupboard
under the buffet farthest from the window."
"'Tis well." He took the bunch of keys from off the table, and soon
fitted one to the outside wooden doors which concealed the iron safe. A
second key on the bunch opened the iron doors; and Philip found himself
in possession of a considerable sum of money, amounting, as near as he
could reckon, to ten thousand guilders, in little yellow sacks.
"My poor mother!" thought he; "and has a mere dream scared thee to
penury and want, with all this wealth in thy possession?" Philip
replaced the sacks, and locked up the cupboards, after having taken out
of one, already half emptied, a few pieces for his immediate wants. His
attention was next directed to the buffets above, which with one of the
keys, he opened; he found that they contained china, and silver flagons,
and cups of considerable value. The locks were again turned, and the
bunch of keys thrown upon the table.
The sudden possession of so much wealth added to the conviction, to
which Philip had now arrived that there had been no supernatural
appearance, as supposed, by his mother, naturally revived and composed
his spirits; and he felt a reaction which amounted almost to hilarity.
Seating himself on the couch, he was soon in a reverie, and, as before
reverted to the lovely daughter of Mynheer Poots indulging in various
castle-buildings, all ending, as usual, when we choose for ourselves, in
competence and felicity. In this pleasing occupation he remained for
more than two hours, when his thoughts again reverted to his poor mother
and her fearful death.
"Dearest, kindest mother!" apostrophised Philip aloud, as he rose from
his leaning position, "here thou wert, tired with watching over my
infant slumbers, thinking of my absent father and his dangers, working
up thy mind and anticipating evil, till thy fevered sleep conjured up
this apparition. Yes, it must have been so; for see here, lying on the
floor, is the embroidery, as it fell from thy unconscious hands, and
with that labour ceased thy happiness in this life. Dear, dear mother!"
continued he; a tear rolling down his cheek as he stooped to pick up the
piece of muslin, "how much hast thou suffered when--God of Heaven!"
exclaimed Philip, as he lifted up the embroidery, starting back with
violence, and overturning the table, "God of Heaven, and of Judgment,
there is--there _is_," and Philip clasped his hands, and bowed his head
in awe and anguish, as in a changed and fearful tone he muttered
forth--"the LETTER!"
It was but too true,--underneath the embroidery on the floor had lain
the fatal letter of Vanderdecken. Had Philip seen it on the table when
he first went into the room, and was prepared to find it, he would have
taken it up with some degree of composure: but to find it now, when he
had persuaded himself that it was all an illusion on the part of his
mother; when he had made up his mind that there had been no supernatural
agency; after he had been indulging in visions of future bliss and
repose, was a shock that transfixed him where he stood and for some time
he remained in his attitude of surprise and terror. Down at once fell
the airy fabric of happiness which he had built up during the last two
hours; and as he gradually recovered from his alarm, his heart filled
with melancholy forebodings. At last he dashed forward, seized the
letter, and burst out of the fatal room.
"I cannot, dare not, read it here," exclaimed he: "no, no, it must be
under the vault of high and offended Heaven, that the message must be
received." Philip took his hat, and went out of the house; in calm
despair he locked the door, took out the key, and walked he knew not
whither.