He kissed his wife’s cheek tenderly, and after a fitful feverish hour or two fell into a slumber.
From that slumber never awoke he more.—He was found dead in his bed in the morning.
‘Whether the force of imagination, coupled with the unexpected noise, produced such an alarm as to rob him of life, I know not,’ said my communicant; ‘but he was dead.’
The story was told me by my friend Ellis in walking from the City to Harley-street late one evening; and when we came to this part of the history we were in Bedford-square, at the dark and dreary corner of it where Caroline-street joins it.
‘And there,’ said Ellis, pointing downward, ‘is the street where the circumstance occurred.’
‘Come, come,’ said I, ‘you tell the story well, but I suppose you do not expect it to be received as gospel.’
‘Faith,’ said he, ‘I know so much of it that I was one of the twelfth-night party, and heard the noise.’
‘But you did not see the spectre?’ cried I.
‘No,’ replied Ellis, ‘I certainly did not.’
‘Nor anybody else,’ said I, ‘I’ll be sworn.’—A quick footstep was just then heard behind us.—I turned half round to let the person pass, and saw a woman enveloped in a red cloak, whose sparkling black eyes, shone upon by the dim lustre of a lamp above her head, dazzled me.—I was startled—‘Pray remember old Martha, the Gipsy,’ said the hag.