This point being settled, Philip and Mynheer Poots made all haste to
the cottage; and on their arrival, they found his mother still in the
arms of two of her female neighbours, who were bathing her temples
with vinegar. She was in a state of consciousness, but she could not
speak. Poots ordered her to be carried upstairs and put to bed, and
pouring some acids down her throat, hastened away with Philip to
procure the necessary remedies. "You will give your mother that directly, Mynheer Philip," said Poots,
putting a phial into his hand; "I will now go to the child of the
burgomaster, and will afterwards come back to your cottage." "Don't deceive me," said Philip, with a threatening look. "No, no, Mynheer Philip, I would not trust to your uncle Van Brennen
for payment, but you have promised, and I know that you always keep
your word. In one hour I will be with your mother; but you yourself
must now be quick." Philip hastened home. After the potion had been administered, the
bleeding was wholly stopped; and in half an hour, his mother could
express her wishes in a whisper. When the little doctor arrived, he
carefully examined his patient, and then went downstairs with her son
into the kitchen. "Mynheer Philip," said Poots, "by Allah! I have done my best, but I
must tell you that I have little hopes of your mother rising from her
bed again. She may live one day or two days, but not more. It is not
my fault, Mynheer Philip," continued Poots, in a deprecating tone. "No, no; it is the will of Heaven," replied Philip, mournfully. "And you will pay me, Mynheer Vanderdecken?" continued the doctor,
after a short pause. "Yes," replied Philip in a voice of thunder, and starting from a
reverie. After a moment's silence, the doctor recommenced. "Shall I come to-morrow, Mynheer Philip? You know that will be a
charge of another guilder: it is of no use to throw away money or time
either." "Come to-morrow, come every hour, charge what you please; you shall
certainly be paid," replied Philip, curling his lip with contempt. "Well, it is as you please. As soon as she is dead, the cottage and
the furniture will be yours, and you will sell them of course. Yes, I
will come. You will have plenty of money. Mynheer Philip, I would like
the first offer of the cottage, if it is to let." Philip raised his arm in the air as if to crush Mynheer Poots, who
retreated to the corner. "I did not mean until your mother was buried," said Poots, in a
coaxing tone. "Go, wretch, go!" said Philip, covering his face with his hands, as he
sank down upon the blood-stained couch. After a short interval, Philip Vanderdecken returned to the bedside
of his mother, whom he found much better; and the neighbours, having
their own affairs to attend to, left them alone. Exhausted with the
loss of blood, the poor woman slumbered for many hours, during which
she never let go the hand of Philip, who watched her breathing in
mournful meditation. It was about one o'clock in the morning when the widow awoke. She had
in a great degree recovered her voice, and thus she addressed her
son:--

"My dear, my impetuous boy, and have I detained you here a prisoner so
long?" "My own inclination detained me, mother. I leave you not to others
until you are up and well again." "That, Philip, I shall never be. I feel that death claims me; and, O,
my son, were it not for you, how should I quit this world rejoicing! I have long been dying, Philip,--and long, long have I prayed for
death." "And why so, mother?" replied Philip, bluntly; "I've done my best." "You have, my child, you have: and may God bless you for it. Often
have I seen you curb your fiery temper--restrain yourself when
justified in wrath--to spare a mother's feelings. 'Tis now some days
that even hunger has not persuaded you to disobey your mother. And,
Philip, you must have thought me mad or foolish to insist so long, and
yet to give no reason. I'll speak--again--directly." The widow turned her head upon the pillow, and remained quiet for some
minutes; then, as if revived, she resumed:

"I believe I have been mad at times--have I not, Philip? And God knows
I have had a secret in my heart enough to drive a wife to frenzy. It
has oppressed me day and night, worn my mind, impaired my reason, and
now, at last, thank Heaven! it has overcome this mortal frame: the
blow is struck, Philip,--I'm sure it is. I wait but to tell you
all,--and yet I would not,--'twill turn your brain as it has turned
mine, Philip." "Mother," replied Philip, earnestly, "I conjure you, let me hear this
killing secret. Be heaven or hell mixed up with it, I fear not. Heaven
will not hurt me, and Satan I defy." "I know thy bold, proud spirit, Philip,--thy strength of mind. If
anyone could bear the load of such a dreadful tale, thou couldst. My
brain, alas! was far too weak for it; and I see it is my duty to tell
it to thee." The widow paused as her thoughts reverted to that which she had to
confide; for a few minutes the tears rained down her hollow cheeks;
she then appeared to have summoned resolution, and to have regained
strength. "Philip, it is of your father I would speak. It is supposed--that he
was--drowned at sea." "And was he not, mother?" replied Philip, with surprise. "O no!" "But he has long been dead, mother?" "No,--yes,--and yet--no," said the widow, covering her eyes. Her brain wanders, thought Philip, but he spoke again:

"Then where is he, mother?" The widow raised herself, and a tremor visibly ran through her whole
frame, as she replied--

"IN LIVING JUDGMENT." The poor woman then sank down again upon the pillow, and covered her
head with the bedclothes, as if she would have hid herself from her
own memory. Philip was so much perplexed and astounded, that he could
make no reply. A silence of some minutes ensued, when, no longer able
to beat the agony of suspense, Philip faintly whispered--

"The secret, mother, the secret; quick, let me hear it." "I can now tell all, Philip," replied his mother, in a solemn tone of
voice. "Hear me, my son. Your father's disposition was but too like
your own;--O may his cruel fate be a lesson to you, my dear, dear
child! He was a bold, a daring, and, they say, a first-rate seaman. He was not born here, but in Amsterdam; but he would not live there,
because he still adhered to the Catholic religion. The Dutch, you
know, Philip, are heretics, according to our creed. It is now
seventeen years or more that he sailed for India, in his fine ship
the _Amsterdammer_, with a valuable cargo. It was his third voyage to
India, Philip, and it was to have been, if it had so pleased God,
his last, for he had purchased that good ship with only part of his
earnings, and one more voyage would have made his fortune. O! how
often did we talk over what we would do upon his return, and how these
plans for the future consoled me at the idea of his absence, for I
loved him dearly, Philip,--he was always good and kind to me; and
after he had sailed, how I hoped for his return!