Chapter 2

and dead without receiving
the rites of our most holy church! Why didst thou not send for me?"

"She died, good father, suddenly, most suddenly, in these arms, about
two hours ago. I fear not for her soul, although I can but grieve you
were not at her side."

The priest gently opened the curtains, and looked upon the corpse. He
sprinkled holy water on the bed, and for a short time his lips were seen
to move in silent prayer. He then turned round to Philip.

"Why do I see thee thus employed? and why so anxious to obtain that key?
A mother's death should call forth filial tears and prayers for her
repose. Yet are thine eyes dry, and thou art employed upon an
indifferent search while yet the tenement is warm which but now held her
spirit. This is not seemly, Philip. What is the key thou seekest?"

"Father, I have no time for tears--no time to spare for grief or
lamentation. I have much to do, and more to think of than thought can
well embrace. That I loved my mother, you know well."

"But the key thou seekest, Philip?"

"Father, it is the key of a chamber which has not been unlocked for
years, which I must--will open; even if--"

"If what, my son?"

"I was about to say what I should not have said. Forgive me, Father; I
meant that I must search that chamber."

"I have long heard of that same chamber being closed: and that thy
mother would not explain wherefore, I know well for I have asked her,
and have been denied. Nay, when, as in duty bound, I pressed the
question, I found her reason was disordered by my importunity, and,
therefore, I abandoned the attempt. Some heavy weight was on thy
mother's mind, my son, yet would she never confess or trust it with me.
Tell me, before she died, hadst thou this secret from her?"

"I had, most holy father."

"Wouldst thou not feel comfort if thou didst confide to me, my son? I
might advise, assist--"

"Father, I would indeed--I could confide it to thee, and ask for thy
assistance--I know 'tis not from curious feeling thou wouldst have it,
but from a better motive. But of that which has been told it is not yet
manifest whether it is as my poor mother says, or but the phantom of a
heated brain. Should it indeed be true, fain would I share the burthen
with you--yet little you might thank me for the heavy load. But no--at
least not now--it must not, cannot be revealed. I must do my work--
enter that hated room alone."

"Fearest thou not?"

"Father, I fear nothing. I have a duty to perform--a dreadful one, I
grant; but, I pray thee, ask no more; for like my poor mother, I feel as
if the probing of the wound would half unseat my reason."

"I will not press thee further, Philip. The time may come when I may
prove of service. Farewell, my child; but I pray thee to discontinue
thy unseemly labour, for I must send in the neighbours to perform the
duties to thy departed mother, whose soul I trust is with its God."

The priest looked at Philip; he perceived that his thoughts were
elsewhere; there was a vacancy and appearance of mental stupefaction,
and as he turned away, the good man shook his head.

"He is right," thought Philip, when once more alone; and he took up the
cabinet, and placed it upon the stand. "A few hours more can make no
difference: I will lay me down, for my head is giddy."

Philip went into the adjoining room, threw himself upon his bed, and in
a few minutes was in a sleep as sound as that permitted to the wretch a
few hours previous to his execution.

During his slumbers the neighbours had come in, and had prepared
everything for the widow's interment. They had been careful not to wake
the son, for they held as sacred the sleep of those who must wake up to
sorrow. Among others, soon after the hour of noon, arrived Mynheer
Poots; he had been informed of the death of the widow, but having a
spare hour, he thought he might as well call, as it would raise his
charges by another guilder. He first went into the room where the body
lay, and from thence he proceeded to the chamber of Philip, and shook
him by the shoulder.

Philip awoke, and, sitting up, perceived the doctor standing by him.

"Well, Mynheer Vanderdecken," commenced the unfeeling little man, "so
it's all over. I knew it would be so; and recollect you owe me now
another guilder, and you promised faithfully to pay me; altogether, with
the potion, it will be three guilders and a half--that is, provided you
return my phial."

Philip, who at first waking was confused, gradually recovered his senses
during this address.

"You shall have your three guilders and a half, and your phial to boot,
Mr Poots," replied he, as he rose from off the bed.

"Yes, yes; I know you mean to pay me--if you can. But look you, Mynheer
Philip, it may be some time before you sell the cottage. You may not
find a customer. Now, I never wish to be hard upon people who have no
money, and I'll tell you what I'll do. There is a something on your
mother's neck. It is of no value--none at all, but to a good Catholic.
To help you in your strait I will take that thing, and then we shall be
quits. You will have paid me, and there will be an end of it."

Philip listened calmly: he knew to what the little miser had referred,--
the relic on his mother's neck; that very relic upon which his father
swore the fatal oath. He felt that millions of guilders would not have
induced him to part with it.

"Leave the house," answered he, abruptly. "Leave it immediately. Your
money shall be paid."

Now Mynheer Poots, in the first place, knew that the setting of the
relic, which was in a square frame of pure gold, was worth much more
than the sum due to him: he also knew that a large price had been paid
for the relic itself, and, as at that time such a relic was considered
very valuable, he had no doubt but that it would again fetch a
considerable sum. Tempted by the sight of it when he entered the
chamber of death, he had taken it from the neck of the corpse, and it
was then actually concealed in his bosom, so he replied,--"My offer is a
good one, Mynheer Philip, and you had better take it. Of what use is
such trash?"

"I tell you no," cried Philip, in a rage.

"Well, then, you will let me have it in my possession till I am paid,
Mynheer Vanderdecken--that is but fair. I must not lose my money. When
you bring me my three guilders and a half and the phial, I will return
it to you."

Philip's indignation was now without bounds. He seized Mynheer Poots by
the collar, and threw him out of the door. "Away immediately," cried
he, "or by--"

There was no occasion for Philip to finish the imprecation. The doctor
had hastened away with such alarm, that he fell down half the steps of
the staircase, and was limping away across the bridge. He almost wished
that the relic had not been in his possession; but his sudden retreat
had prevented him, even if so inclined, from replacing it on the corpse.

The result of this conversation naturally turned Philip's thoughts to
the relic, and he went into his mother's room to take possession of it.
He opened the curtains--the corpse was laid out--he put forth his hand
to untie the black ribbon. It was not there. "Gone!" exclaimed Philip.
"They hardly would have removed it--never would. It must be that
villain Poots--wretch! but I will have it, even if he has swallowed it,
though I tear him limb from limb!"

Philip darted down the stairs, rushed out of the house, cleared the moat
at one bound and, without coat or hat, flew away in the direction of the
doctor's lonely residence. The neighbours saw him as he passed them
like the wind; they wondered, and they shook their heads. Mynheer Poots
was not more than half way to his home for he had hurt his ankle.
Apprehensive of what might possibly take place, should his theft be
discovered, he occasionally looked behind him; at length, to his horror,
he beheld Philip Vanderdecken at a distance, bounding on in pursuit of
him. Frightened almost out of his senses, the wretched pilferer hardly
knew how to act; to stop and surrender up the stolen property was his
first thought, but fear of Vanderdecken's violence prevented him; so he
decided on taking to his heels, thus hoping to gain his house, and
barricade himself in, by which means he would be in a condition to keep
possession of what he had stolen, or at least to make some terms ere he
restored it.

Mynheer Poots had need to run fast, and so he did, his thin legs bearing
his shrivelled form rapidly over the ground; but Philip, who, when he
witnessed the doctor's attempt to escape, was fully convinced that he
was the culprit, redoubled his exertions, and rapidly came up with the
chase. When within a hundred yards of his own door, Mynheer Poots heard
the bounding steps of Philip gain upon him, and he sprang and leaped in
his agony. Nearer and nearer still the step, until at last he heard the
very breathing of his pursuer; and Poots shrieked in his fear, like the
hare in the jaws of the greyhound. Philip was not a yard from him; his
arm was outstretched when the miscreant dropped down paralysed with
terror; and the impetus of Vanderdecken was so great, that he passed
over his body, tripped and after trying in vain to recover his
equilibrium, he fell and rolled over and over. This saved the little
doctor; it was like the double of a hare. In a second he was again on
his legs, and before Philip could rise and again exert his speed, Poots
had entered his door and bolted it within. Philip was, however,
determined to repossess the important treasure; and as he panted, he
cast his eyes around to see if any means offered for his forcing his
entrance into the house. But as the habitation of the doctor was
lonely, every precaution had been taken by him to render it secure
against robbery; the windows below were well barricaded and secured, and
those on the upper story were too high for any one to obtain admittance
by them.

We must here observe, that although Mynheer Poots was,--from his known
abilities, in good practice, his reputation as a hard-hearted, unfeeling
miser was well established. No one was ever permitted to enter his
threshold, nor, indeed, did any one feel inclined. He was as isolated
from his fellow-creatures as was his tenement, and was only to be seen
in the chamber of disease and death. What his establishment consisted
of no one knew. When he first settled in the neighbourhood, an old
decrepit woman occasionally answered the knocks given at the door by
those who required the doctor's services; but she had been buried some
time, and ever since all calls at the door had been answered by Mynheer
Poots in person, if he were at home, and if not, there was no reply to
the most importunate summons. It was then surmised that the old man
lived entirely by himself, being too niggardly to pay for any
assistance. This Philip also imagined; and as soon as he had recovered
his breath, he began to devise some scheme by which he would be enabled
not only to recover the stolen property, but also to wreak a dire
revenge.

The door was strong and not to be forced by any means which presented
themselves to the eye of Vanderdecken. For a few minutes he paused to
consider, and as he reflected, so did his anger cool down, and he
decided that it would be sufficient to recover his relic without having
recourse to violence. So he called out in a loud voice--

"Mynheer Poots, I know that you can hear me. Give me back what you have
taken, and I will do you no hurt; but if you will not, you must take the
consequence, for your life shall pay the forfeit before I leave this
spot."

This speech was indeed very plainly heard by Mynheer Poots; but the
little miser had recovered from his fright, and, thinking himself
secure, could not make up his mind to surrender the relic without a
struggle; so the doctor answered not, hoping that the patience of Philip
would be exhausted, and that by some arrangement, such as the sacrifice
of a few guilders, no small matter to one so needy as Philip, he would
be able to secure what he was satisfied would sell at a high price.

Vanderdecken, finding that no answer was returned, indulged in strong
invective, and then decided upon measures certainly in themselves by no
means undecided.

There was part of a small stack of dry fodder standing not far from the
house, and under the wall a pile of wood for firing. With these
Vanderdecken resolved upon setting fire to the house, and thus, if he
did not gain his relic, he would at least obtain ample revenge, he
brought several armfuls of fodder and laid them at the door of the
house, and upon that he piled the faggots and logs of wood, until the
door was quite concealed by them. He then procured a light from the
steel, flint, and tinder which every Dutchman carries in his pocket, and
very soon he had fanned the pile into a flame. The smoke ascended in
columns up to the rafters of the roof, while the fire raged below. The
door was ignited, and was adding to the fury of the flames, and Philip
shouted with joy at the success of his attempt.

"Now, miserable despoiler of the dead--now, wretched thief, now you
shall feel my vengeance," cried Philip, with a loud voice. "If you
remain within, you perish in the flames; if you attempt to come out, you
shall die by my hands. Do you hear, Mynheer Poots--do you hear?"

Hardly had Philip concluded this address, when the window of the upper
floor furthest from the burning door was thrown open.

"Ay,--you come now to beg and to entreat;--but no--no," cried Philip--
who stopped as he beheld at the window what seemed to be an apparition,
for instead of the wretched little miser, he beheld one of the loveliest
forms Nature ever deigned to mould--an angelic creature, of about
sixteen or seventeen, who appeared calm and resolute in the midst of the
danger by which she was threatened. Her long black hair was braided and
twined round her beautifully-formed head; her eyes were large, intensely
dark, yet soft; her forehead high and white, her chin dimpled, her ruby
lips arched and delicately fine, her nose small and straight. A
lovelier face could not be well imagined; it reminded you of what the
best of painters have sometimes, in their more fortunate moments,
succeeded in embodying, when they would represent a beauteous saint.
And as the flames wreathed and the smoke burst out in columns and swept
past the window, so might she have reminded you in her calmness of
demeanour of some martyr at the stake.

"What wouldst thou, violent young man? Why are the inmates of this
house to suffer death by your means?" said the maiden, with composure.

For a few seconds Philip gazed, and could make no reply; then the
thought seized him that in his vengeance, he was about to sacrifice so
much loveliness. He forgot everything but her danger, and seizing one
of the large poles which he had brought to feed the flame, he threw off
and scattered in every direction the burning masses, until nothing was
left which could hurt the building but the ignited door itself; and
this, which as yet--for it was of thick oak plank--had not suffered very
material injury, he soon reduced, by beating it, with clods of earth, to
a smoking and harmless state. During these active measures on the part
of Philip, the young maiden watched him in silence.

"All is safe now, young lady," said Philip. "God forgive me that I
should have risked a life so precious. I thought but to wreak my
vengeance upon Mynheer Poots."

"And what cause can Mynheer Poots have given for such dreadful
vengeance?" replied the maiden, calmly.

"What cause, young lady? He came to my house--despoiled the dead--took
from my mother's corpse a relic beyond price."

"Despoiled the dead!--he surely cannot--you must wrong him, young sir."

"No, no. It is the fact, lady,--and that relic--forgive me--but that
relic I must have. You know not what depends upon it."

"Wait, young sir," replied the maiden; "I will soon return."

Philip waited several minutes, lost in thought and admiration: so fair a
creature in the house of Mynheer Poots! Who could she be? While thus
ruminating, he was accosted by the silver voice of the object of his
reveries, who, leaning out of the window held in her hand the black
ribbon to which was attached the article so dearly coveted.

"Here is your relic, sir," said the young female; "I regret much that my
father should have done a deed which well might justify your anger: but
here it is," continued she, dropping it down on the ground by Philip;
"and now you may depart."

"Your father, maiden! can he be _your_ father?" said Philip, forgetting
to take up the relic which lay at his feet.

She would have retired from the window without reply, but Philip spoke a
again--

"Stop, lady, stop one moment, until I beg your forgiveness for a wild,
foolish act. I swear by this sacred relic," continued he, taking it
from the ground and raising it to his lips, "that had I known that any
unoffending person had been in this house, I would not have done the
deed, and much do I rejoice that no harm hath happened. But there is
still danger, lady; the door must be unbarred, and the jambs, which
still are glowing, be extinguished, or the house may yet be burnt. Fear
not for your father, maiden; for had he done me a thousand times more
wrong, you will protect each hair upon his head. He knows me well
enough to know I keep my word. Allow me to repair the injury I have
occasioned, and then I will depart."

"No, no; don't trust him," said Mynheer Poots, from within the chamber.

"Yes, he may be trusted," replied the daughter; "and his services are
much needed for what could a poor weak girl like me, and a still weaker
father, do in this strait? Open the door, and let the house be made
secure." The maiden then addressed Philip--"He shall open the door,
sir, and I will thank you for your kind service. I trust entirely to
your promise."

"I never yet was known to break my word, maiden," replied Philip; "but
let him be quick, for the flames are bursting out again."

The door was opened by the trembling hands of Mynheer Poots, who then
made a hasty retreat upstairs. The truth of what Philip had said was
then apparent. Many were the buckets of water which he was obliged to
fetch before the fire was quite subdued; but during his exertions
neither the daughter nor the father made their appearance.

When all was safe, Philip closed the door, and again looked up at the
window. The fair girl made her appearance, and Philip, with a low
obeisance, assured her that there was then no danger.

"I thank you, sir," replied she--"I thank you much. Your conduct,
although hasty at the first, has yet been most considerate."

"Assure your father, maiden, that all animosity on my part hath ceased,
and that in a few days I will call and satisfy the demand he hath
against me."

The window closed, and Philip, more excited but with feelings altogether
different from those with which he had set out, looked at it for a
minute, and then bent his steps to his own cottage.

CHAPTER THREE.

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.