My aunt, herself, seemed to be struck with the lonely appearance of the
house. Before she went to bed, therefore, she examined well the
fastenings of the doors and windows, locked up the plate with her own
hands, and carried the keys, together with a little box of money and
jewels, to her own room; for she was a notable woman, and always saw to
all things herself. Having put the keys under her pillow, and dismissed
her maid, she sat by her toilet arranging her hair; for, being, in
spite of her grief for my uncle, rather a buxom widow, she was a little
particular about her person. She sat for a little while looking at her
face in the glass, first on one side, then on the other, as ladies are
apt to do, when they would ascertain if they have been in good looks;
for a roystering country squire of the neighborhood, with whom she had
flirted when a girl, had called that day to welcome her to the country.
All of a sudden she thought she heard something move behind her. She
Looked hastily round, but there was nothing to be seen. Nothing but the
grimly painted portrait of her poor dear man, which had been hung
against the wall. She gave a heavy sigh to his memory, as she was
accustomed to do, whenever she spoke of him in company; and went on
adjusting her nightdress. Her sigh was re-echoed; or answered by a
long-drawn breath. She looked round again, but no one was to be seen.
She ascribed these sounds to the wind, oozing through the rat holes of
the old mansion; and proceeded leisurely to put her hair in papers,
when, all at once, she thought she perceived one of the eyes of the
portrait move.
"The back of her head being towards it!" said the story-teller with the
ruined head, giving a knowing wink on the sound side of his
visage - "good!"
"Yes, sir!" replied drily the narrator, "her back being towards the
portrait, but her eye fixed on its reflection in the glass."
Well, as I was saying, she perceived one of the eyes of the portrait
move. So strange a circumstance, as you may well suppose, gave her a
sudden shock. To assure herself cautiously of the fact, she put one
hand to her forehead, as if rubbing it; peeped through her fingers, and
moved the candle with the other hand. The light of the taper gleamed on
the eye, and was reflected from it. She was sure it moved. Nay, more,
it seemed to give her a wink, as she had sometimes known her husband to
do when living! It struck a momentary chill to her heart; for she was a
lone woman, and felt herself fearfully situated.
The chill was but transient. My aunt, who was almost as resolute a
personage as your uncle, sir, (turning to the old story-teller,) became
instantly calm and collected. She went on adjusting her dress. She even
hummed a favorite air, and did not make a single false note. She
casually overturned a dressing box; took a candle and picked up the
articles leisurely, one by one, from the floor, pursued a rolling
pin-cushion that was making the best of its way under the bed; then
opened the door; looked for an instant into the corridor, as if in
doubt whether to go; and then walked quietly out.
She hastened down-stairs, ordered the servants to arm themselves with
the first weapons that came to hand, placed herself at their head, and
returned almost immediately.
Her hastily levied army presented a formidable force. The steward had a
rusty blunderbuss; the coachman a loaded whip; the footman a pair of
horse pistols; the cook a huge chopping knife, and the butler a bottle
in each hand. My aunt led the van with a red-hot poker; and, in my
opinion, she was the most formidable of the party. The waiting maid
brought up the rear, dreading to stay alone in the servants' hall,
smelling to a broken bottle of volatile salts, and expressing her
terror of the ghosteses.
"Ghosts!" said my aunt resolutely, "I'll singe their whiskers for
them!"
They entered the chamber. All was still and undisturbed as when she
left it. They approached the portrait of my uncle.
"Pull me down that picture!" cried my aunt.
A heavy groan, and a sound like the chattering of teeth, was heard from
the portrait. The servants shrunk back. The maid uttered a faint
shriek, and clung to the footman.
"Instantly!" added my aunt, with a stamp of the foot.
The picture was pulled down, and from a recess behind it, in which had
formerly stood a clock, they hauled forth a round-shouldered,
black-bearded varlet, with a knife as long as my arm, but trembling all
over like an aspen leaf.
"Well, and who was he? No ghost, I suppose!" said the inquisitive
gentleman.
"A knight of the post," replied the narrator, "who had been smitten
with the worth of the wealthy widow; or rather a marauding Tarquin, who
had stolen into her chamber to violate her purse and rifle her strong
box when all the house should be asleep. In plain terms," continued he,
"the vagabond was a loose idle fellow of the neighborhood, who had once
been a servant in the house, and had been employed to assist in
arranging it for the reception of its mistress. He confessed that he
had contrived his hiding-place for his nefarious purposes, and had
borrowed an eye from the portrait by way of a reconnoitering hole."
"And what did they do with him - did they hang him?" resumed the
questioner.
