“But your story, Aunt Judith! your story,” we all cried out, and after a little more hesitation the good woman prit la parole, as Madame de Stäel so often phrases it in “Corinne.”
“When I was a grown-up girl,” said she, “I and my older sister, who had lost her husband at sea, lived with my mother, who was also a widow. We had few of this world’s goods, but health and energy enough to take care of ourselves. At one time, we moved into half a house, in a decent quarter of the town, the other part of which was occupied by an old woman called by the neighbors ‘Granny Holt.’ Coming from a street of the town at some distance, we had heard nothing that I remember about her; but the day had not gone by, before it was made fully known to us by such acquaintances as we saw, that we had taken up our abode in the same house with a person of a very crabbed disposition, whom all the neighborhood looked upon as 170 a witch. This was not very agreeable news, but we tried to make the best of it. Our house was near the river-side, and we were surrounded by the families of those who followed the sea, and we endeavored to flatter ourselves with the idea, that idle tales of marvelous things are very common among that class of population; and that the stories we heard were mere gossip, as we whispered to ourselves, for fear of being overheard through the thin partition which divided us from the other tenant. But, ‘No!’ said one of our callers in a low voice—one of the Pearse girls (a young lady, by the way, about seventy, but Aunt Judith was of a certain age); ‘I tell you it’s as true as a sermon in the meetin’-house. You’ll soon find out what she can do. Why, there’s young Stout, as fine a lad as ever walked the streets, or stood by the helm of his vessel in a gale o’ wind; and look at him now, pale and cadaverous, and walking round people’s gardens, on the edge 171 of narrow fences where nobody but a rope-dancer, with a pole in his hands, could keep his balance, and a hundred more such antics; everybody knows she bewitched him.’
“‘But what for?’ we asked.
“‘Oh, they had a quarrel, and pretty soon he began to cut these capers.’
“My sister Ann, the widow, however, who had always a brave spirit, declared that she did not care a fig for all the witches in Christendom; but I must own that I was very much alarmed. You may be sure, we none of us much liked this sort of greeting, on the first day of our entering into our new habitation, and we prepared to retire early, my mother, who was a truly pious person, trusting to the only sure defence. Upon going to my chamber, I found there was no fastening to the door; in fact the handle itself was quite out of kilter, and it could not be shut tight. I moved up to it, therefore, a chest of drawers, 172 putting some things on top, and thus brought the door close. I was just about to blow out the candle to get into bed, when I heard a scrambling in the chimney, and you may believe it or not, but it’s the solemn truth—a black cat jumped from the fire-place, ran and leaped a-top of the things I had placed against the door, put her paw upon the handle of it, gave me one sidelong glance, opened the door itself and passed out. I was too frightened for anything but to wrap myself thoroughly in the bedclothes, and trembling with terror, at last fell into a troubled sleep.”
“Are you sure, Aunt Judith,” said my uncle Richard, “that the cat did not go under the bed?”
“I tell you, as plainly as I see you now, I saw her open the door, look round at me with that malicious kind of expression, go out and shut the door behind her; and in the morning everything I had piled up against it was unmoved.” 173
“It must have been the ghost of a cat, then,” said my uncle; “but did anything else happen, afterwards?”
“Yes, in a few days we had got a baking ready and the oven heated, when the old woman came in with an armful of wood, threw it down on the hearth, and said she wanted to bake. The oven was for the use of both parts of the house; but we told her as soon as we had got through she should have it. She went off muttering, and when we thought our batch was done and went to take it out, it was burned just as black as a coal.”
“I am afraid,” said my uncle, “you let it stay in too long, or the oven was too hot.”