“Jist look,” cried Betsy to Jacopo—“Run and see if he has n't sunk
in the groundt—”

Jacopo, however, being a Philosopher, calmly knelt at the widow's
feet, and examined the golden coin, piece by piece.

“Good, all good. Doubloons, every one of them. Give yourself no
anxiety, Betsy. It is not the Devil; it's a livin' human being. Had it
been the Devil, he would have given you counterfeit money or bank
notes.”

Consoled by this philosophic train of reasoning, the widow gathered
the coin in her apron, and as the separate pieces rolled together with a
musical clink, she muttered, as if by way of chorus—“Poor Adam! Andt
I should have been guilty of mahogany!”

Jacopo sat himself very near her, and in his usual felicitous manner
attempted to lead the tearful Betsy into conversation. He laid his hand
gently on her round arm, and endeavored to make her speak of the
Haunted House. Betsy frowned, and pursed her lips at the very word.
Next Jacopo spoke of Madeline. Betsy jumped from her seat, uttering
a solemn ejaculation, which sounded very much like the monosylable
“Pooh!” Then Jacopo, as if determined to be agreeable or die in the
attempt, whimpered dolefully a word or two in regard to the departed

[figure description] Page 404.[end figure description]

Adam, who had left his luxuriant Eve, to pine in grass widowhood, in the
cabin that nestled under the limbs of the oaken tree.

Betsy said “Tush!” and “Pooh!” in a breath, and then sailed grandly
into the cabin, the gold pieces clinking with rich music, as she entered
the door.

Lighting a pipe, Jacopo leaned his chair against the tree, and while the
smoke curled round his face,—like incense hovering over the visage of
some Hindoo idol—he allowed his soul to meander at pleasure, amid the
mazes of a profound philosophical meditation.

“If I ever get over the events of this day, I will forswear the world,
abandon the delights of polite society, and bury my genius and my sorrow
within the drear walls of a Monastery. Nay—I will found a new order
of monks—the holy Fraternity of “Puzzled People.” That shall be their
title; we 'll say prayers in a Puzzling garden, and the only texts for our
sermons shall be the Puzzles of this day. First, `Who was the elderly
man, who frightened Father Jacopo out of his wits, on the Wissahikon,
and converted him into an itinerant Post-office?' Puzzler number one.
Next and secondly, `Who was the old man who brought the buxom
Betsy some news of her absent Adam?' Third and lastly, `The Haunted
House, and what the deuce was in it?' There are three Puzzles, that
will occupy my Fraternity of Puzzled People for at least three hundred
years.”

Thus ran the current of the Philosopher's thoughts, while gloomily
before rose the Haunted House, scowling above the humble cabin of the
forlorn widow. Jacopo's eye traversed the monotonous extent of that
gable wall, and Jacopo's heart grew cold, as he thought of the adventure
which was before him.

“I am to enter that dismal den.—How? Deliver this letter? To whom?”

The letter was in his hand; he examined once more its blank surface,
and held its portentous seal close to the tip of his nose.

“I would like to read it, but it's dangerous to meddle with the correspondence
of his Satanic majesty. Ah!” he exclaimed, raising his eyes,
“That is a very important fact. There is but one window in the gable
of the Haunted House: or rather a round hole, without a sash. That
window may be reached from the top of the widow's cabin. And the
top of the cabin, in its turn, may be attained by climbing this tree, and
swinging from that crooked limb.”

The solitary window, the top of the cabin, and the crooked limb, gave
our Philosopher an unusual degree of satisfaction. Leaning against the
tree, with his limbs on the table, and the pipe curling its mild incense
around his nostrils, he did not move nor speak until the shades of evening
began to darken round.

Then rising, he beheld the substantial form of Betsy, enthroned in the
cabin door, her eyes twinkling brightly through the gloom.

[figure description] Page 405.[end figure description]

“Betsy, my child, I will take a walk, and be back to supper in a few
moments. I have an appointment to meet a Reverend friend, up the
street. We have a theological point to settle, my dear, whether Roman
papists have souls, and if they have, what is to be done with them. After
supper, I will pursue my way. Have supper ready in five minutes,
my love.”

“Yes, Dominie,” answered Betsy, somewhat won by the courteous
manner and profound diction of the Reverend man.

Jacopo sauntered forth, and presently arrived at the lower extremity of
Chew's Wall. The last gleam of day was playing over the verdure of
that beautiful lawn, and the evening breeze stirred with low music among
the trees.

But there—near the lower extremity of the wall—halting his horse by
the roadside, was the unknown, whose tall form was wrapped from observation
by a long gray overcoat. His hat was drawn over his eyes; he
sat very calmly in the saddle, the rein thrown loosely on his horse's neck.

“Good evening, friend,” said Jacopo, as he drew near, and attempted
by a searching glance to gain some knowledge of the horseman's face:
“You seem to enjoy the evening air?”

“You have a letter?” said the horseman, in a quick, abrupt tone.

Jacopo started back as though the horse had kicked him in the breast.

“That voice!” a thought flashed over him—“Can it be—”

“You have a letter—for me?” the Horseman said again; and Jacopo
heard a scabbard clank against his boot, as the steed, covered with dust
and foam, pawed the ground with his hoof—“The letter, I say!”

Jacopo drew it from his pocket and placed it in the stranger's hand, still
anxiously endeavoring to catch a glimpse of his face.

“Stand off,—or my horse will kick you,” and the Horseman, tearing
open the letter, read it by the fading light—“`The son of Gaspard—
Michael lives!' he murmured, and then abruptly turned his horse's head
toward the lane by which Jacopo had journeyed from Wissahikon.

“Here, fellow, is something for your trouble,” he flung a gold piece in
the dust, and sunk the spurs into the flanks of his steed. Even as Jacopo
stood confounded and motionless, the horse dashed into the Wissahikon
lane; not an instant passed ere horse and rider were lost to sight.

It was many moments before our Philosopher recovered his composure.

“It's him,” he said, picking the gold piece from the dust—“I'd know
that nose and those eyes among ten thousand!”

Absorbed in a train of novel and perplexing thoughts, Jacopo slowly
passed the Haunted House—passed the wall, overhung by the foliage of
the neglected garden, the hall door, scowling so dark and desolate upon
the village street—and re-entered the widow's home.

The supper was spread upon the table under the oak; cheese and home-made
bread, and toothsome ham, and a mug of spicy October. Betsy

[figure description] Page 406.[end figure description]

was there, in all her charms; with a loaf in one hand, a knife in the
other, she stood ready to do the honors of the table.

“Come, Dominie, here's your supper, Gott pless you—”

“Betsy, my child, your neighbor at the corner of the lane, wishes to
see you for a moment. So she told me. You can go and see her, while
I eat my supper. That's a dear woman.”

Betsy, all unconscious of a Lie from the lips of the Reverend man,
hurried through the gate, telling him in her good-humored way—“Make
yerself at home, Dominie, and tont spare te vittels.”

Jacopo listened intently for the last echo of her footsteps—glanced
cautiously around—and then, with the stealthiness of the cat, combined
with the agility of an ape, he sprang into the branches of the oaken tree.

It only required a moment to traverse the crooked limb; he stood upon
the peak of the widow's cabin, with the gloomy window of the Haunted
House within the reach of his arm.

Again Jacopo listened—his heart beat wildly—all was still and shadowy
around—no voice nor ray came from the dark aperture, by which
he was about to enter the mansion.

Jacopo hesitated; he cast a longing glance toward the crooked limb,
and then his eye rested lovingly upon the supper, spread so temptingly
beneath the leaves.

“Shall I return? I can escape to Philadelphia, and get beyond the
reach of this Demon?”

Poor Jacopo was in his saddest Puzzle! To go forward was, perchance,
to encounter the Devil in bodily form; but to go backward was—
and no perchance—to meet the Gallows!

“I'll risk the Perchance!” said Jacopo, as he felt for the mysterious
letter, in the depth of his pocket. “Now then, for the last Puzzle?”

Shivering all over as with an ague chill, he drew himself up to the
window, and with a groan plunged into the garret, and into the darkness
of the Haunted House.

Previous section

Next section