“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?”