Away into the winter prospect.There are many such upon the tree! On, by low-lying, misty grounds, through fens and fogs, up long hills, winding dark as caverns between thick plantations, almost shutting out the sparkling stars; so, out on broad heights, until we stop at last, with sudden silence, at an avenue.The gate-bell has a deep, half-awful sound in the frosty air; the gate swings open on its hinges; and, as we drive up to a great house, the glancing lights grow larger in the windows, and the opposing rows of trees seem to fall solemnly back on either side, to give us place.At intervals, all day, a frightened hare has shot across this whitened turf; or the distant clatter of a herd of deer trampling the hard frost, has, for the minute, crushed the silence too.Their watchful eyes beneath the fern may be shining now, if we could see them, like the icy dewdrops on the leaves; but they are still, and all is still.And so, the lights growing larger, and the trees falling back before us, and closing up again behind us, as if to forbid retreat, we come to the house.
There is probably a smell of roasted chestnuts and other good comfortable things all the time, for we are telling Winter Stories-- Ghost Stories, or more shame for us--round the Christmas fire; and we have never stirred, except to draw a little nearer to it.But, no matter for that.We came to the house, and it is an old house, full of great chimneys where wood is burnt on ancient dogs upon the hearth, and grim portraits (some of them with grim legends, too) lower distrustfully from the oaken panels of the walls.We are a middle-aged nobleman, and we make a generous supper with our host and hostess and their guests--it being Christmas-time, and the old house full of company--and then we go to bed.Our room is a very old room.It is hung with tapestry.We don't like the portrait of a cavalier in green, over the fireplace.There are great black beams in theceiling, and there is a great black bedstead, supported at the foot by two great black figures, who seem to have come off a couple of tombs in the old baronial church in the park, for our particular accommodation.But, we are not a superstitious nobleman, and we don't mind.Well! we dismiss our servant, lock the door, and sit before the fire in our dressing- gown, musing about a great many things.At length we go to bed.Well! we can't sleep.We toss and tumble, and can't sleep.The embers on the hearth burn fitfully and make the room look ghostly.We can't help peeping out over the counterpane, at the two black figures and the cavalier--that wicked- looking cavalier--in green.In the flickering light they seem to advance and retire: which, though we are not by any means a superstitious nobleman, is not agreeable.Well! we get nervous-- more and more nervous.We say "This is very foolish, but we can't stand this; we'll pretend to be ill, and knock up somebody." Well! we are just going to do it, when the locked door opens, and there comes in a young woman, deadly pale, and with long fair hair, who glides to the fire, and sits down in the chair we have left there, wringing her hands.Then, we notice that her clothes are wet.Our tongue cleaves to the roof of our mouth, and we can't speak; but, we observe her accurately.Her clothes are wet; her long hair is dabbled with moist mud; she is dressed in the fashion of two hundred years ago; and she has at her girdle a bunch of rusty keys.Well! there she sits, and we can't even faint, we are in such a state about it.Presently she gets up, and tries all the locks in the room with the rusty keys, which won't fit one of them; then, she fixes her eyes on the portrait of the cavalier in green, and says, in a low, terrible voice, "The stags know it!" After that, she wrings her hands again, passes the bedside, and goes out at the door.We hurry on our dressing-gown, seize our pistols (we always travel with pistols), and are following, when we find the door locked.We turn the key, look out into the dark gallery; no one there.We wander away, and try to find our servant.Can't be done.We pace the gallery till daybreak; then return to our deserted room, fall asleep, and are awakened by our servant (nothing ever haunts him) and the shining sun.Well! we make a wretched breakfast, and all the company say we look queer.After breakfast, we go over the house with our host, and then wetake him to the portrait of the cavalier in green, and then it all comes out.He was false to a young housekeeper once attached to that family, and famous for her beauty, who drowned herself in a pond, and whose body was discovered, after a long time, because the stags refused to drink of the water.Since which, it has been whispered that she traverses the house at midnight (but goes especially to that room where the cavalier in green was wont to sleep), trying the old locks with the rusty keys.Well! we tell our host of what we have seen, and a shade comes over his features, and he begs it may be hushed up; and so it is.But, it's all true; and we said so, before we died (we are dead now) to many responsible people.
