University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER SECOND.
THE FACE AND THE SHADOW.

“Hah! The two pieces form one paragraph—it reads quite sensibly,
I vow!”

But the next moment he sank back, affrighted and trembling. The old
man, startled by his ejaculations, had raised his head; his face was turned
over his shoulder, and his eyes rested upon the visage of Jacopo. The
veins stood boldly out upon that forehead; the cheeks, at other times
flushed by the tints of good liquor, were now pale—almost livid. There
was mischief in the expression of the old man's lips, and a quiet ferocity
in his gaze.

“Who told you to look over my shoulder?”

The good Peter did not swear; his tone was very even and subdued,
and therefore Jacopo felt that there was danger in his eye. Confused,

afraid, without the power to frame an answer, he stood trembling before
the gaze of Peter Dorfner.

Jacopo was a coward, and now he knew that his life hung on a chance
as frail as the tie that binds the withered leaf to the bough. He changed
color, his knees shook together; he clasped his hands. Should he fall
on his knees and beg for mercy?

“Did you read—scoundrel?” was the question asked by Dorfner, in a
voice unnaturally low and calm.

There was something pitiable in the contrast—here, Dorfner, a man of
muscular frame, with his face—stamped with a sullen ferocity—his face
turned over his shoulder, thus presenting his forehead, nose and beard, in
profile to the light—there Jacopo, with his face distorted into an expression
of grotesque fear, while his slender limbs trembled under the weight
of his rotund body.

In his terror he had forgotten his pistols. It may have been that his
abject fear was caused as much by the words which he had hastily perused,
as by the determined ferocity of Dorfner's visage.

“Did you read, I say?”

Was it courage born of the consciousness of a fatal Truth, or
the frenzied energy of despair? Jacopo became suddenly calm; his
limbs trembled no longer; something like dignity was impressed upon
his face.

Gazing over Peter's shoulder, he beheld a face, through an interval of
the foliage—a face which seemed not the visage of a living thing—but an
Apparition from the Other World. At the sight of that face, whose eyes
were fixed upon him, a strange energy filled the soul of the coward;
calmly, his voice unbroken by a tremor, he uttered these words—

“I did read. And more than this, I only read what I knew before.
That you, Peter Dorfner, did, on the night of November Twenty-third,
fifty-six, in the room near yonder chesnut tree, commit a barbarous and
cowardly murder!”

As he uttered these words, he folded his arms, and stood prepared to
meet his death. The eyes were gazing upon him all the while. Through
the interval in the foliage he saw the face, and felt his coward soul filled
with a new life.

Peter Dorfner rose from his seat, his face livid with rage. He had no
weapon, but a desperate strength, the fury of a madman, fired his veins.
His chest swelling, the veins on his face standing black and protuberant
from the livid skin, he advanced a single step, while his glance announced
his deadly purpose.

Jacopo did not move; pale and motionless, he did not wish to avoid
the fury of the old man.

For a moment, Dorfner, roused into all the vigor of his early manhood
contemplated his victim.

“I will throttle you—I will crush you with one grasp—” said Peter, in
a tone whose measured emphasis indicated the relentless nature of his
vengeance, better than all the oaths, or boisterous language, that ever rose
to the lips of madness.

At this moment a shadow passed between Dorfner and the sun. As the
shadow passed, a footstep was heard.

He turned his face to the west, and sank back in his chair, like a man
who had received a bullet in his heart. His face expressed surprise—dismay—his
extended hand pointed toward the west.

Surprised beyond the power of language, Jacopo turned and gazed in
the direction indicated by the extended hand.

The garden walk, extending from the arbor to the western wicket,
stretched before him, a brown path leading among beds of foliage and
flowers.

There was a form in the path; the form of a young man dressed in
dark attire, with a black mantle floating from his shoulder. His face
could not be seen, but as he went down the path with measured steps, his
form thrown into distinct relief by the western sky, the sunbeams tinted
his dark attire, and fringed with a pale golden lustre the locks of his
black hair.

It was a muscular form, tempered by the grace and beauty of young
manhood; the step was firm and regular; though only the back of the
unknown was visible, it was evident that he was attired in a costume,
altogether different from the fashion of the day—a dark dress, which
fitted closely to his limbs, was only relieved by the graceful drapery of
the mantle, that floated from his shoulder. His locks were surmounted
by a cap, whose solitary plume rose in the sunlight, blackly defined
against the western sky.

It was this form which, passing before the arbor, had thrown a shadow
upon Peter's face, as his arm was nerved for a deadly blow; and now, as
the unknown, without once looking back, went toward the western gate,
the old man, stricken into his chair, as by a bullet, extended his hand,
while his features were blank with amazement and terror.

Jacopo could only gaze from the face of Peter to the retreating form;
the scene deprived him of the power of speech.

“It's him—I'd swear it!” gasped the old man, without moving his arm,
or changing his gaze. “I can't see his face, but I know it's him. Not in
flesh and blood—a rale livin' man, but his sperrit—”

“Who?” exclaimed Jacopo, as the memory of the unknown face, whose
eyes had nerved him for a desperate accusal, only a moment since, came
back to him with overwhelming force.

“Who? Don't ask me—” cried the old man, his features still violently
agitated, while his forehead was bathed in perspiration—“You know who
—we've all seen him afore, but since that night he has not been seen alive

on Wissahikon. It's a sperrit—I tell you—if he'd only look back—it's
him, I say; I'll swear to 't!”

With these incoherent words, old Peter still pointed towards the unknown,
his emotion growing more like madness every moment.

“It's living man,” cried Jacopo—“It is—”

“Don't speak that name,” the old man exclaimed with a shudder—“I
tell you he's no livin' man. He has not been seen on the Wissahikon
since the night when Madeline disappeared—There was a mangled body
found, some days afterwards—it was him! No! no! No livin' man, by
* * *! A sperrit—a sperrit!”

To Jacopo the violent emotion of Peter Dorfner was altogether incomprehensible.
Peter, who had grown gray under suspicion of various
crimes, who was said to fear “neither God nor Devil;” Peter Dorfner,
who, only a moment since, stood prepared for a work of murder, now a
pitiable and adject thing; stricken as by a supernatural hand—it was
all a mystery to the eyes of Jacopo.

True, he had himself beheld a face, brilliant with eyes of unutterable
power, looking upon him, through an interval of the foliage. A vague
memory came over him of having seen that face before, and a name rose
to his lips, and, as we have seen, was drowned by the ejaculation
of Dorfner.

“Look! He passes through the gate, but don't once look back! It's a
sperrit, I say! He goes down the hill-side into the meadow—hah! The
men workin' in the fields drop their scythes and look at him. Does a
livin' man start up from the ground, walk between you and the sun,
and steal away without once lookin' back? Look yonder! He is passin'
through the midst of them—he turns—no! Without lookin' back, he
hurries toward the woods—Ah, it's him, not in body, but in sperrit—it is
Paul Ardenheim!”

And this man, who believed in “neither God nor Devil,” was conquered
by the most improbable superstition. That superstition may have been
the last ember of a great religious principle, burning faintly amid the
ashes of a debased nature. With the word “Paul Ardenheim,” he fell
back insensible in the chair, his parting lips spotted with white foam.

Jacopo advanced to the table, eager to grasp the fragments of printed
paper, and read at his leisure the Revelation which was embodied in
their words. Only one fragment met his view; the other had disappeared.

“I can't make head nor tail on't,” he exclaimed, with an oath. “And
yet Hopkins must have some hint of the matter, or he would not have
directed me to search the room near the chesnut tree. `Sleep in that
room, Jacopo, and search every closet. Whatever you discover in the
way of paper or parchment, bring to me, and your fortune is made.' But
how did old Peter obtain this paragraph of a newspaper?—He must know
that he is suspected o' doin' somethin' not altogether pretty.”

While the light playing among the leaves and flowers of the arbor,
shone over the pallid face and snowy beard of the insensible man, Jacopo
anxiously perused the fragment.

After the deed was done, the child taken away.
The body was con near the
window which chesnut
tree. Do concealed
certain pa I suppose
may real name
of rred on the
king
my
ord

Jacopo examined the paper with a look of ludicrous dismay.

“If I had the other fragment, I might make something out o' this.
`After the deed was done, the child was taken away.' There was a child,
then? `The body was con'—there was a `body' also—Zounds! Where is
that fragment? Why could not Hopkins have told me all about the matter,
instead of sending me in the dark on such a fool's errand. Here I've stood
the chance of having my throat cut twice, and even now am not certain
that my lungs will not be perforated by some dirty piece of lead or other
—ah, that fragment, that oracular fragment!”

As Jacopo thus gave vent to his feelings in a crude soliloquy, he did
not cease to examine alternately, and with a searching glance, the piece
of paper which he held in one hand, and the white-bearded face, which
glowed in the sunlight at his side.

“The more I think of it, the more I am convinced that he knows something
of Madeline. And Madeline is no common peasant girl—a stray
slice cut off from the fruit-cake of aristocracy! Why should Hopkins take
such an interest in the matter? Let me think! Two years and six
months ago, Hopkins and my late master were thick as thieves. There
was some talk about a mysterious affair; in fact, the merchant and the
lord were never done muttering, whispering, and counselling with each
other.—Oh, my unpropitious stars, why did I thus incur your vengeance?”

As though some terrible memory had crossed his brain, Jacopo clasped
his hands piteously, and cast his eyes toward the top of the arbor.

“Why did I thus depart from the strict line of my duty, and betray a
sinful weakness? Yes, on the day when my lord left Philadelphia, he
sent me to Hopkins's house, to his own chamber, in fact, to get certain
important papers. I had them in my hand, and yet forgot to break the
seal! Pitiable frailty! Had I even moistened the seal with warm water,

there would be some excuse for me, but as it is, I did not even make an
effort. That seal once removed, the whole secret of the matter would have
been revealed—but as the case stands, I know dev'lish little about it, and
have no security for my throat or lungs!”

His eye rested upon the insensible man. The right hand was clenched
upon the breast; there was a fragment of paper between the finger and
thumb. Jacopo gave utterance to a cry of joy.

“Could I only get it—but he may recover—hah! He begins to breathe
again! Oh, for a stray apoplexy to touch old Peter on the neck, or even
a vagrant catalepsy to throw him into a trance!”

Advancing stealthily, he touched the hand of the insensible man, but
Peter did not move.

“I know you—you old dog! Makin' believe that you don't see or
hear; and in a minute you'll spring upon me like a she wild-cat!”

He touched the fragment; gently, very gently, but the old man's hand
was like a vice. Trembling from head to foot, Jacopo seized the hand,
and pressed the thumb and forefinger apart. The old man stirred, but
did not unclose his eyes. The paper fluttered to the ground, near
Jacopo's feet.

In a moment he had seized it; he had placed it within the other fragment;
and here is the result, which he beheld:

Jacopo shook like a withered leaf. If there was one word which he
feared above another, it was the monosyllable `Corpse.'

“I have no objection to `body,' used in a funeral sense, but—`Corpse!'
Augh! So unpleasantly suggestive! `Dorfner'—oh, ho, my dear old
boy! No wonder you start and swear, and go off in faintin' spells—no
wonder. `Poor victim'—`child'—my brains goes whirling like a cork in
an eddy!”

A black face rose slowly over the chair of the insensible Peter. Jacopo
shuddered as he saw the sightless eyeballs glowing redly in the sockets,
while the sun streamed over the dark visage. A knife gleamed over the
grey hairs of Dorfner; it was clenched in the right arm of the negro.

Jacopo left the arbor on tip-toe, passed around it, and strode with a
noiseless step toward the farm-house. He passed under the shadows of
the chesnut tree, and cast an anxious glance toward the window. Up
that fatal tree, you will remember, Gilbert climbed on the last night of
1775. Jacopo stood on the threshold stone—the farm-house door
was open.

He cast a searching glance around. All was still and desolate about
the farm-house. The sun shone gayly over the roof of the barn, and
there was a solitary bird chirping among the foliage of the chesnut tree.
To the west stretched the undulating field, with the laborers grouped
among the piles of new-mown hay. But they labored no longer; their
seythes rested upon the grass; every face was turned toward the western
woods.

Even as he stood upon the threshold stone, one foot resting upon the
sill of the door—while his hand still grasped the torn fragments of
printed paper—Jacopo turned his gaze far to the west, and gazed in the
direction indicated by the extended arms of the laborers.

A dark form was seen on the verge of the distant woods,—dimly seen,
for the shadows gathered thickly beneath the luxuriant foliage.

It was the form which, not long ago, had passed between the old man
and the sun, and with its shadow stricken him down in the very act of
murder.

“Paul Ardenheim,” cried Jacopo, as he crossed the threshold—“Or
his Ghost.” He closed the door and was lost to sight.

At the same moment, the dark figure disappeared among the shadows
of the distant woods, and a deep groan resounded from the arbor