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 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 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 III


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.