“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:—