Chapter II


Philip Vanderdecken, strong as he was in mental courage, was almost
paralysed by the shock when he discovered that his mother's spirit had
fled; and for some time he remained by the side of the bed with his
eyes fixed upon the corpse, and his mind in a state of vacuity.
Gradually he recovered himself; he rose, smoothed down the pillow,
closed her eyelids, and then clasping his hands, the tears trickled
down his manly cheeks. He impressed a solemn kiss upon the pale white
forehead of the departed, and drew the curtains round the bed.

"Poor mother!" said he, sorrowfully, as he completed his task, "at
length thou hast found rest,--but thou hast left thy son a bitter
legacy."

And as Philip's thoughts reverted to what had passed, the dreadful
narrative whirled in his imagination and scathed his brain. He raised
his hands to his temples, compressed them with force, and tried to
collect his thoughts, that he might decide upon what measures he
should take. He felt that he had no time to indulge his grief. His
mother was in peace: but his father--where was he?

He recalled his mother's words--"One hope alone remained." Then there
was hope. His father had laid a paper on the table--could it be there
now? Yes, it must be; his mother had not had the courage to take it
up. There was hope in that paper, and it had lain unopened for more