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 workbox, 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 hands 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 the 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 mantel-piece 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 workbox,
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 workbox 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 workbox 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 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, 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.