“Thy mother is no more, sayest thou, my son? and dead without receiving the rites of our most holy church!  Why didst thou not send for me?”

“She died, good father, suddenly—­most suddenly, in these arms, about two hours ago.  I fear not for her soul, although I can but grieve you were not at her side.”

The priest gently opened the curtains, and looked upon the corpse.  He sprinkled holy water on the bed, and for a short time his lips were seen to move in silent prayer.  He then turned round to Philip.

“Why do I see thee thus employed? and why so anxious to obtain that key?  A mother’s death should call forth filial tears and prayers for her repose.  Yet are thine eyes dry, and thou art employed upon an indifferent search while yet the tenement is warm which but now held her spirit.  This is not seemly, Philip.  What is the key thou seekest?”

“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?”

“Father, I fear nothing.  I have a duty to perform—­a dreadful one, I grant; but I pray thee, ask no more; for, like my poor mother, I feel as if the probing of the wound would half unseat my reason.”

“I will not press thee further, Philip.  The time may come when I may prove of service.  Farewell, my child; but I pray thee to discontinue thy unseemly labour, for I must send in the neighbours to perform the duties to thy departed mother, whose soul I trust is with its God.”