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. Chapter IV


If the reader can imagine the feelings of a man who, sentenced
to death, and having resigned himself to his fate, finds himself
unexpectedly reprieved; who, having recomposed his mind after the
agitation arising from a renewal of those hopes and expectations which
he had abandoned, once more dwells upon future prospects, and indulges
in pleasing anticipations: we say, that if the reader can imagine
this, and then what would be that man's feelings when he finds that
the reprieve is revoked, and that he is to suffer, he may then form
some idea of the state of Philip's mind when he quitted the cottage. Long did he walk, careless in which direction, with the letter in his
clenched hand, and his teeth firmly set. Gradually he became more
composed: and out of breath with the rapidity of his motion, he sat
down upon a bank, and there he long remained, with his eyes riveted
upon the dreaded paper, which he held with both his hands upon his
knees. Mechanically he turned the letter over; the seal was black. Philip
sighed.--"I cannot read it now," thought he, and he rose and continued
his devious way. For another half-hour did Philip keep in motion, and the sun was not
many degrees above the horizon. Philip stopped and looked at it till
his vision failed. "I could imagine that it was the eye of God,"
thought Philip, "and perhaps it may be. Why then, merciful Creator, am
I thus selected from so many millions to fulfil so dire a task?" Philip looked about him for some spot where he might be concealed from
observation--where he might break the seal, and read this mission from
a world of spirits. A small copse of brushwood, in advance of a grove
of trees, was not far from where he stood. He walked to it, and sat
down, so as to be concealed from any passers-by. Philip once more
looked at the descending orb of day, and by degrees he became
composed. "It is thy will," exclaimed he; "it is my fate, and both must be
accomplished." Philip put his hand to the seal,--his blood thrilled when he called
to mind that it had been delivered by no mortal hand, and that it
contained the secret of one in judgment. He remembered that that one
was his father; and that it was only in the letter that there was
hope,--hope for his poor father, whose memory he had been taught to
love, and who appealed for help. "Coward that I am, to have lost so many hours!" exclaimed Philip; "yon
sun appears as if waiting on the hill, to give me light to read." Philip mused a short time; he was once more the daring Vanderdecken. Calmly he broke the seal, which bore the initials of his father's
name, and read as follows:--

    "To CATHERINE. "One of those pitying spirits whose eyes rain tears for mortal
    crimes has been permitted to inform me by what means alone my
    dreadful doom may be averted. "Could I but receive on the deck of my own ship the holy relic
    upon which I swore the fatal oath, kiss it in all humility, and
    shed one tear of deep contrition on the sacred wood, I then might
    rest in peace. "How this may be effected, or by whom so fatal a task will be
    undertaken, I know not. O Catherine, we have a son--but, no, no,
    let him not hear of me. Pray for me, and now, farewell. "I. VANDERDECKEN." "Then it is true, most horribly true," thought Philip; "and my father
is even now IN LIVING JUDGMENT. And he points to me--to whom else
should he? Am I not his son, and is it not my duty? "Yes, father," exclaimed Philip aloud, falling on his knees, "you have
not written these lines in vain. Let me peruse them once more." Philip raised up his hand; but although it appeared to him that he had
still hold of the letter, it was not there--he grasped nothing. He
looked on the grass to see if it had fallen--but no, there was no
letter, it had disappeared. Was it a vision?--no, no, he had read
every word. "Then it must be to me, and me alone, that the mission was
intended. I accept the sign. "Hear me, dear father,--if thou art so permitted,--and deign to hear
me, gracious Heaven--hear the son who, by this sacred relic, swears
that he will avert your doom, or perish. To that will he devote his
days; and having done his duty, he will die in hope and peace.