There appeared to be some deep-seated,
irremovable, hopeless cause of anguish, never for one moment permitted
to be absent from her memory: a chronic oppression, fixed and graven
there, only to be removed by death. She was dressed in the widow's
coif of the time; but although clean and neat, her garments were faded
from long wear. She was seated upon the small couch which we have
mentioned, evidently brought down as a relief to her, in her declining
state. On the deal table in the centre of the room sat the other person, a
stout, fair-headed, florid youth of nineteen or twenty years old. His
features were handsome and bold, and his frame powerful to excess; his
eye denoted courage and determination, and as he carelessly swung his
legs, and whistled an air in an emphatic manner, it was impossible
not to form the idea that he was a daring, adventurous, and reckless
character. "Do not go to sea, Philip; oh, promise me _that_, my dear, dear
child," said the female, clasping her hands. "And why not go to sea, mother?" replied Philip; "what's the use of my
staying here to starve?--for, by Heaven! it's little better. I must do
something for myself and for you. And what else can I do? My uncle Van
Brennen has offered to take me with him, and will give me good wages. Then I shall live happily on board, and my earnings will be sufficient
for your support at home." "Philip--Philip, hear me. I shall die if you leave me. Whom have I in
the world but you? O my child, as you love me, and I know you _do_
love me, Philip, don't leave me; but if you will, at all events do not
go to sea." Philip gave no immediate reply; he whistled for a few seconds, while
his mother wept. "Is it," said he at last, "because my father was drowned at sea, that
you beg so hard, mother?" "Oh, no--no!" exclaimed the sobbing woman. "Would to God--"

"Would to God what, mother?" "Nothing--nothing. Be merciful--be merciful, O God!" replied the
mother, sliding from her seat on the couch, and kneeling by the side
of it, in which attitude she remained for some time in fervent prayer. At last she resumed her seat, and her face wore an aspect of more
composure. Philip, who, during this, had remained silent and thoughtful, again
addressed his mother. "Look ye, mother. You ask me to stay on shore with you, and
starve,--rather hard conditions:--now hear what I have to say. That
room opposite has been shut up ever since I can remember--why, you
will never tell me; but once I heard you say, when we were without
bread, and with no prospect of my uncle's return--you were then half
frantic, mother, as you know you sometimes are--"

"Well, Philip, what did you hear me say?" enquired his mother with
tremulous anxiety. "You said, mother, that there was money in that room which would save
us; and then you screamed and raved, and said that you preferred
death. Now, mother, what is there in that chamber, and why has it been
so long shut up? Either I know that, or I go to sea." At the commencement of this address of Philip, his mother appeared
to be transfixed, and motionless as a statue; gradually her lips
separated, and her eyes glared; she seemed to have lost the power of
reply; she put her hand to her right side, as if to compress it, then
both her hands, as if to relieve herself from excruciating torture: at
last she sank, with her head forward, and the blood poured out of her
mouth. Philip sprang from the table to her assistance, and prevented her from
falling on the floor. He laid her on the couch, watching with alarm
the continued effusion. "Oh! mother--mother, what is this?" cried he, at last, in great
distress. For some time his mother could make him no reply; she turned further
on her side, that she might not be suffocated by the discharge from
the ruptured vessel, and the snow-white planks of the floor were soon
crimsoned with her blood. "Speak, dearest mother, if you can," repeated Philip, in agony; "what
shall I do? what shall I give you? God Almighty! what is this?" "Death, my child, death!" at length replied the poor woman, sinking
into a state of unconsciousness. Philip, now much alarmed, flew out of the cottage, and called the
neighbours to his mother's assistance. Two or three hastened to the
call; and as soon as Philip saw them occupied in restoring his mother,
he ran as fast as he could to the house of a medical man, who lived
about a mile off--one Mynheer Poots, a little, miserable, avaricious
wretch, but known to be very skilful in his profession. Philip found
Poots at home, and insisted upon his immediate attendance. "I will come--yes, most certainly," replied Poots, who spoke the
language but imperfectly; "but Mynheer Vanderdecken, who will pay me?" "Pay you! my uncle will, directly that he comes home." "Your uncle de Skipper Van Brennen: no, he owes me four guilders, and
he has owed me for a long time. Besides, his ship may sink." "He shall pay you the four guilders, and for this attendance also,"
replied Philip, in a rage; "come directly, while you are disputing my
mother may be dead." "But, Mr Philip, I cannot come, now I recollect; I have to see the
child of the burgomaster at Terneuse," replied Mynheer Poots. "Look you, Mynheer Poots," exclaimed Philip, red with passion; "you
have but to choose,--will you go quietly, or must I take you there? You'll not trifle with me." Here Mynheer Poots was under considerable alarm, for the character of
Philip Vanderdecken was well known. "I will come by-and-bye, Mynheer Philip, if I can." "You'll come now, you wretched old miser," exclaimed Philip, seizing
hold of the little man by the collar, and pulling him out of his door. "Murder! murder!" cried Poots, as he lost his legs, and was dragged
along by the impetuous young man. Philip stopped, for he perceived that Poots was black in the face. "Must I then choke you, to make you go quietly? for, hear me, go you
shall, alive or dead." "Well, then," replied Poots, recovering himself, "I will go, but I'll
have you in prison to-night: and, as for your mother, I'll not--no,
that I will not--Mynheer Philip, depend upon it." "Mark me, Mynheer Poots," replied Philip, "as sure as there is a God
in heaven, if you do not come with me, I'll choke you now; and when
you arrive, if you do not do your best for my poor mother, I'll murder
you there. You know that I always do what I say, so now take my
advice, come along quietly, and you shall certainly be paid, and well
paid--if I sell my coat." This last observation of Philip, perhaps, had more effect than even
his threats. Poots was a miserable little atom, and like a child
in the powerful grasp of the young man. The doctor's tenement was
isolated, and he could obtain no assistance until within a hundred
yards of Vanderdecken's cottage; so Mynheer Poots decided that he
would go, first, because Philip had promised to pay him, and secondly,
because he could not help it.