The sudden possession of so much wealth added to the conviction, to which Philip had now arrived that there had been no supernatural appearance, as supposed, by his mother, naturally revived and composed his spirits; and he felt a reaction which amounted almost to hilarity. Seating himself on the couch, he was soon in a reverie, and, as before reverted to the lovely daughter of Mynheer Poots indulging in various castle-buildings, all ending, as usual, when we choose for ourselves, in competence and felicity. In this pleasing occupation he remained for more than two hours, when his thoughts again reverted to his poor mother and her fearful death.
“Dearest, kindest mother!” apostrophised Philip aloud, as he rose from his leaning position, “here thou wert, tired with watching over my infant slumbers, thinking of my absent father and his dangers, working up thy mind and anticipating evil, till thy fevered sleep conjured up this apparition. Yes, it must have been so; for see here, lying on the floor, is the embroidery, as it fell from thy unconscious hands, and with that labour ceased thy happiness in this life. Dear, dear mother!” continued he; a tear rolling down his cheek as he stooped to pick up the piece of muslin, “how much hast thou suffered when—God of Heaven!” exclaimed Philip, as he lifted up the embroidery, starting back with violence, and overturning the table, “God of Heaven, and of Judgment, there is—there is,” and Philip clasped his hands, and bowed his head in awe and anguish, as in a changed and fearful tone he muttered forth—“the LETTER!”
It was but too true,—underneath the embroidery on the floor had lain the fatal letter of Vanderdecken. Had Philip seen it on the table when he first went into the room, and was prepared to find it, he would have taken it up with some degree of composure: but to find it now, when he had persuaded himself that it was all an illusion on the part of his mother; when he had made up his mind that there had been no supernatural agency; after he had been indulging in visions of future bliss and repose, was a shock that transfixed him where he stood and for some time he remained in his attitude of surprise and terror. Down at once fell the airy fabric of happiness which he had built up during the last two hours; and as he gradually recovered from his alarm, his heart filled with melancholy forebodings. At last he dashed forward, seized the letter, and burst out of the fatal room.
“I cannot, dare not, read it here,” exclaimed he: “no, no, it must be under the vault of high and offended Heaven, that the message must be received.” Philip took his hat, and went out of the house; in calm despair he locked the door, took out the key, and walked he knew not whither.
Chapter Four.
If the reader can imagine the feelings of a man who, sentenced to death, and having resigned himself to his fate, finds himself unexpectedly reprieved; who, having recomposed his mind after the agitation arising from a renewal of those hopes and expectations which he had abandoned, once more dwells upon future prospects, and indulges in pleasing anticipations: we say, that if the reader can imagine this, and then what would be that man’s feelings when he finds that the reprieve is revoked, and that he is to suffer, he may then form some idea of the state of Philip’s mind when he quitted the cottage.
Long did he walk, careless in which direction, with the letter in his clenched hand, and his teeth firmly set. Gradually he became more composed: and out of breath with the rapidity of his motion, he sat down upon a bank, and there he long remained, with his eyes riveted upon the dreaded paper, which he held with both his hands upon his knees.
Mechanically he turned the letter over; the seal was black. Philip sighed:— “I cannot read it now,” thought he, and he rose and continued his devious way.