He raised
his hands to his temples, compressed them with force, and tried to
collect his thoughts, that he might decide upon what measures he
should take. He felt that he had no time to indulge his grief. His
mother was in peace: but his father--where was he? He recalled his mother's words--"One hope alone remained." Then there
was hope. His father had laid a paper on the table--could it be there
now? Yes, it must be; his mother had not had the courage to take it
up. There was hope in that paper, and it had lain unopened for more
than seventeen years. Philip Vanderdecken resolved that he would examine the fatal
chamber--at once he would know the worst. Should he do it now, or wait
till daylight?--but the key, where was it? His eyes rested upon an old
japanned cabinet in the room: he had never seen his mother open it in
his presence: it was the only likely place of concealment that he was
aware of. Prompt in all his decisions, he took up the candle, and
proceeded to examine it. It was not locked; the doors swung open, and
drawer after drawer was examined, but Philip discovered not the object
of his search; again and again did he open the drawers, but they were
all empty. It occurred to Philip that there might be secret drawers,
and he examined for some time in vain. At last he took out all the
drawers, and laid them on the floor, and lifting the cabinet off its
stand he shook it. A rattling sound in one corner told him that in all
probability the key was there concealed. He renewed his attempts to
discover how to gain it, but in vain. Daylight now streamed through
the casements, and Philip had not desisted from his attempts: at last,
wearied out, he resolved to force the back panel of the cabinet; he
descended to the kitchen, and returned with a small chopping-knife and
hammer, and was on his knees busily employed forcing out the panel,
when a hand was placed upon his shoulder. Philip started; he had been so occupied with his search and his wild
chasing thoughts, that he had not heard the sound of an approaching
footstep. He looked up and beheld the Father Seysen, the priest of the
little parish, with his eyes sternly fixed upon him. The good man had
been informed of the dangerous state of the widow Vanderdecken, and
had risen at daylight to visit and afford her spiritual comfort. "How now, my son," said the priest: "fearest thou not to disturb thy
mother's rest? and wouldst thou pilfer and purloin even before she is
in her grave?" "I fear not to disturb my mother's rest, good father," replied Philip,
rising on his feet, "for she now rests with the blessed. Neither do I
pilfer or purloin. It is not gold I seek, although if gold there were,
that gold would now be mine. I seek but a key, long hidden, I believe,
within this secret drawer, the opening of which is a mystery beyond my
art." "Thy mother is no more, sayest thou, my son? 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.