It was at length agreed, that on the following day Frederick Langdale might be permitted to visit her;—his varied fractures were reduced, and the wound on the head had assumed a favourable appearance. The carriage was ordered to convey him to the Hardings at one, and the physicians advised by all means that Maria should be apprized of and prepared for the meeting the dayprevious to its taking place. Those who are parents, and those alone, will be able to understand the tender solicitude, the wary caution with which both her father and mother proceeded in a disclosure, so important as the medical men thought to her recovery—so careful that the coming joy should be imparted gradually to their suffering child, and that all the mischiefs resulting from an abrupt announcement should be avoided.
They sat down by her—spoke of Frederick—Maria joined in the conversation—raised herself in her bed—by degrees, hope was excited that she might soon again see him—this hope was gradually improved into certainty—the period at which it might occur spoken of—that period again progressively diminished: the anxious girl caught the whole truth—she knew it—she was consciousthat she would behold him on the morrow—she burst into a flood of tears and sank down upon her pillow.
At that moment the bright sun, which was shining in all its splendour, beamed into the room, and fell strongly upon her flushed countenance.
‘Draw down the blind, my love,’ said Mrs. Harding to her husband. Harding rose and proceeded to the window.
A shriek of horror burst from him—‘She is there!’ exclaimed the agitated man.
‘Who?’ cried his astonished wife.
‘She—she—the horrid she!’
Mrs. Harding ran to the window and beheld, standing on the opposite side of the street, with her eyes fixed attentively on the house—Martha,the Gipsy.
‘Draw down the blind, my love, and come away; pray come away,’ said Mrs. Harding.
Harding drew down the blind.
‘What evil is at hand? What misery is impending?’ sobbed Harding.
A loud scream from his wife, who had returned to the bedside, was the horrid answer to his painful question.
Maria was dead!
Twice of the thrice he had seen this dreadful fiend in human shape; each visitation was (as she had foretold) to surpass the preceding ones in its importance of horror.—What could surpass this?
There, before the afflicted parents, lay their innocent child stretched in the still sleep of death; neither of them believed it true—it seemed like a dreadful dream. Harding was bewildered, andturned from the corpse of his beloved to the window he had just left.—Martha was gone—and he heard her singing a wild and joyous air at the other end of the street.
The servants were summoned—medical aid was called in—but it was all too late! and the wretched parents were doomed to mourn their loved, their lost Maria! George, her fond and affectionate brother, who was at Oxford, hastened from all the academic honours which were awaiting him, to follow to the grave his beloved sister.
The effect upon Frederick Langdale was most dreadful: it was supposed he would never recover from a shock so great, and at the moment so unexpected; for, although the delicacy of her constitution was a perpetual source of uneasiness and solicitude, still theimmediate symptoms had taken rather a favourable turn during the last few days of her life, and had re-invigorated the hopes which those who so dearly loved her entertained of her eventual recovery. Of this distressed young man I never indeed heard anything, till about three years after, when I saw it announced in the papers that he was just married to the only daughter of a rich west-country baronet, which event, if wanted to work another proverb here, would afford me a most admirable opportunity of doing so.
The death of poor Maria, and the dread which her father entertained of the third visitation of Martha, made a complete change in the affairs of the family. By the exertion of powerful interest, he obtained an appointment for his son to act as his deputy in the officewhich he held, and having achieved this desired object, resolved on leaving England for a time, and quitting a neighbourhood in which he must be perpetually exposed to the danger which he was now perfectly convinced was inseparable from his next interview with the weird woman.
George, of course, thus checked in his classical pursuits, left Oxford, and at the early age of nineteen commenced active official life, not certainly in the particular department which his mother had selected for hisdebût; and it was somewhat observable, that the Langdales, after the death of Maria, not only abstained from frequent intercourse with the Hardings during their stay in England, but that the mighty professions of the purse-proud citizen dwindled by degrees into an absolute forgetfulness ofany promise, even conditional, to exert an interest for their son.
Seeing this, Mr. Harding felt that he should act prudentially, by endeavouring to place his son where in the course of time, he might perhaps attain to that situation, from whose honourable revenue he could live like a gentleman, and ‘settle comfortably.’
All the arrangements which the kind father had proposed, being made, the mourning couple proceeded on a lengthened tour of the continent; and it was evident that his spirits mended rapidly, when he felt conscious that his liability to encounter Martha had decreased. The sorrow of mourning was soothed and softened in the common course of nature, and the quiet domesticated couple sat themselves down at Lausanne, ‘the world forgetting, by the world forgot,’except by their excellent and exemplary son, whose good qualities, it seems, had captivated a remarkable pretty girl, a neighbour of his, whose mother seemed to be equally charmed with the goodness of his income.
There appeared, strange to say, in this love affair, no difficulties to be surmounted, no obstacles to be overcome; and the consent of the Hardings (requested in a letter, which also begged them to be present at the ceremony, if they were willing it should take place,) was presently obtained by George; and at the close of the second year, which had passed since their departure, the parents and son were again assembled in that house, the sight of which recalled to their recollection their unhappy daughter, and her melancholy fate, and which was still associated mostpainfully in the mind of Mr. Harding with the hated Gipsy.
The charm, however, had, no doubt, been broken. In the two past years, Martha was probably either dead or gone from the neighbourhood. Gypsies were a wandering tribe—and why should she be an exception to a general rule?—and thus Mrs. Harding checked the rising apprehensions and renewed uneasiness of her husband; and so well did she succeed, that when the wedding-day came, and the bells rang, and the favours fluttered in the air, his countenance was lighted up with smiles, and he kissed the glowing cheek of his new daughter-in-law with warmth, and something like happiness.
The wedding took place at that season of the year when friends and families meet jovially and harmoniously,when all little bickerings are forgotten, and when, by a general feeling founded upon religion, and perpetuated by the memory of the blessings granted to the world by the Almighty, an universal amnesty is proclaimed; when the cheerful fire, and teeming board, announce that Christmas is come, and mirth and gratulation are the order of the day.
It unfortunately happened, however, that to the account of Miss Wilkinson’s marriage with George Harding, I am not permitted, in truth, to add, that they left town in a travelling carriage and four, to spend the honeymoon. Three or four days permitted absence from his office, alone, were devoted to the celebration of the nuptials, and it was agreed that the whole party, together with the younger branches of the Wilkinson’s, their cousins and secondcousins, etc., should meet on twelfth-night to celebrate, in a juvenile party, the return of the bride and bridegroom to their home.
When the night came, it was delightful to see the happy faces of the smiling youngsters: it was a pleasure to behold them pleased—a participation in which, since the highest amongst us, and the most accomplished prince in Europe, annually evinces the gratification he feels in such sights, I am by no means disposed to disclaim. And merry was the jest, and gaily did the evening pass; and Mr. Harding, surrounded by his youthful guests, smiled, and for a season forgot his care; yet, as he glanced around the room, he could not suppress a sigh, when he recollected, that in that very room his darling Maria hadentertained her little parties on the anniversary of the same day in former years.
Supper was announced early, and the gay throng bounded down stairs to the parlour, where an abundance of the luxuries of middle life crowded the board. In the centre appeared the great object of the feast—a huge twelfth-cake; and gilded kings and queens stood lingering over circles of scarlet sweet-meats, and hearts of sugar lay enshrined with warlike trophies of the same material.
Many and deep were the wounds the mighty heap received, and every guest watched with a deep anxiety the coming portion, relatively to the glittering splendour with which its frosted surface was adorned. Character cards, illustrated with pithy mottoes, and smart sayings, were distributed; and by one of those little frauds which, in suchsocieties, are always tolerated, Mr. Harding was announced as king, and the new bride as queen; and there was such charming joking, and such harmless merriment abounding, that he looked to his wife with an expression of content, which she had often, but vainly, sought to find upon his countenance, since the death of his dear child.
Supper concluded, the clock struck twelve, and the elders looked as if it were time for the young ones to depart. One half-hour’s grace was begged for by the ‘King,’ and granted; and Mrs. George Harding on this night was to sing them a song about ‘poor old maidens’—an ancient quaintness, which, by custom and usage ever since she was a little child, she had annually ‘performed’ upon this anniversary; and, accordingly, the promise being claimed, silencewas obtained, and she, with all that show of tucker-heaving diffidence which is so becoming in a pretty plump downy-cheeked girl, prepared to commence the venerable chaunt, when a noise resembling that produceable by the falling of an eight-and-forty pound shot, echoed through the house. It appeared to descend from the very top of the building, down each flight of stairs rapidly and violently. It passed the room in which they were sitting, and rolled its impetuous course downwards to the basement. As it seemed to leave the hall, the parlour door was forced open, as if by a rude gust of wind, and stood ajar.
All the children were in a moment on their feet, huddled close to their respective mothers in groups. Mrs. Harding rose and rang the bell to inquire the meaning of the uproar. Herdaughter-in-law, pale as ashes, looked at George; but there was one of the party who moved not, who stirred not; it was the elder Harding, whose eyes first fixed steadfastly on the half-opened door, slowly followed the course of the wall of the apartment to the fire-place;—there they rested.
When the servants came, they said they had heard the noise, but thought it proceeded from above. Harding looked at his wife; and then turning to the servant, observed carelessly, that it must have been some noise in the street, and desiring him to withdraw, entreated the bride to pursue her song. She did; but the children had been too much alarmed to enjoy it, and the noise had in its character something so strange and so unearthly, that even the elders of the party, although bound not to admitanything like apprehension before their offspring, felt extremely well pleased when they found themselves at home.
When the guests were gone, and George’s wife lighted her candle to retire to rest, her father-in-law kissed her affectionately, and prayed God to bless her. He then took a kind leave of his son, and putting up a fervent prayer for his happiness, pressed him to his heart, and bade him adieu with an earnestness which, under the common-place circumstance of a temporary separation, was inexplicable to the young man.
When Harding reached his bed-room, he spoke to his wife, and entreated her to prepare her mind for some great calamity.
‘What it is to be,’ said Harding, ‘where the blow is to fall I know not; but it is over us this night!’
‘My life!’ exclaimed Mrs. Harding, ‘what new fancy is this?’
‘Eliza, love!’ answered her husband, in a tone of unspeakable agony, ‘I have seen her for the third and last time.’
‘Who?’
‘Martha,the Gipsy.’
‘Impossible,’ said Mrs. Harding, ‘you have not left the house to-day.’
‘True, my beloved,’ replied the husband; ‘but I have seen her. When that tremendous noise was heard at supper, as the door was supernaturally opened, I saw her. She fixed those dreadful eyes of her’s upon me; she proceeded to the fire-place, and stood in the midst of the children, and there she remained till the servant came in.’
‘My dearest husband,’ said Mrs. Harding, ‘this is but a disorder of the imagination!’
‘Be it what it may,’ said he, ‘I have seen her. Human or superhuman—natural or supernatural—there she was. I shall not strive to argue upon a point where I am likely to meet with little credit: all I ask is, pray fervently, have faith, and we will hope the misfortune, whatever it is, may be averted.’
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 toHarley-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 roundto 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 oldMartha,the Gipsy,’ said the hag.
It was like a thunder-stroke.—I instantly slipped my hand into my pocket, and hastily gave her three from a five-shilling piece.
‘Thanks, my bonny one,’ said the woman, and setting up a shout of contemptuous laughter she bounded down Caroline-street towards Russell-street, singing, or rather yelling a wild air.
Ellis did not speak during this scene—he pressed my arm tightly, and we quickened our pace. We said nothing to each other till we turned into Bedford-street, and the lights andpassengers of Tottenham-court-road re-assured us.
‘What do you think ofthat?’ said Ellis to me.
‘Seeing is believing,’ was my reply.
I have never passed that dark corner of Bedford-square in the evening since.
A certain German author relates the following:
In my younger days, there was a dinner given in theFlorenburg Westphalen, where I was born, on the occasion of a baptism to which a clergyman was invited. During dinner, the conversation turned upon the gravedigger of the place, who was well known on account of his second-sight; for, as often as he saw a corpse, he was always telling that there would be a funeral from such and such a house. Now, as the event invariably took place, the inhabitants of the house he indicated were placed by the man’s tale in the greatest anxiety.
This man’s prophecying was an abomination to the clergyman. He therefore forbade him, but all to no purpose; for the poor dolt, although he was a drunkard, and a man of low and vulgar sentiments, believed firmly that it was a prophetic gift of God, and that he must make it known, in order that the people might still repent. At length the clergyman gave him notice that, if he announced one funeral more, he should be deprived of his place, and expelled from the village. This availed—the gravedigger was silent from that time forward. Half a year afterward, in the autumn of 1745, the gravedigger came to the clergyman, and said to him: ‘Sir, you have forbidden me to announce any more funerals, and I have not done so since, nor will I do it any more; but I must tell you something that is particularlyremarkable, that you may see that my second sight is really true. In a few weeks a corpse will be brought up the meadow, which will be drawn on a sledge by an ox.’ The clergyman seemingly paid no attention to this, but listened to it with indifference, and replied: ‘Only go about your business, and leave off such superstitious follies. It is sinful to have anything to do with them.’
Some weeks after a strong body of Austrian troops passed through the village on their way to the Netherlands. While resting there a day, the snow fell nearly three feet deep. At the same time, a woman died in another village of the same parish. The military took away all the horses out of the country to drag the waggons. Meanwhile the corpse lay there, no horses came back;the body began to putrify; they were, therefore, compelled to make a virtue of necessity—to place the corpse upon a sledge, and harness an ox to it.
In the meantime the clergyman, and the teacher with his scholars, proceeded to the village to meet the corpse; and, as the funeral came along the meadow in this array, the gravedigger came up to the clergyman, pulled him by the gown, pointed with his finger toward the sledge, and said not a word.
Such was the tale as related by the clergyman. I was well acquainted with the good man, and he was incapable of telling an untruth, much less in a matter which contradicted all his principles.
Inthe ‘Museum of Wonders,’ Vol. II., page 153, there is a striking presentiment related, which Madame de Beaumont received from the lips of a credible person. This individual had a friend in the country, who, being unmarried, committed his domestic concerns to the care of an housekeeper who had been with him for many years. When his birthday arrived, he made many preparations for celebrating it, and told his housekeeper in the morning to clean out a certain arbour in the garden, which he named, because, as the weather was fine, he intended to pass the day in it with his guests. She seeming quite amazed at this, told and entreated him to receive his guests in a room, for shehad last night in her dream a presentiment that the arbour would that day be struck by lightning. He laughed at the assertion, as there was no appearance of a storm coming on that day, and he told her not to mind her foolish dream, and to prepare the arbour for the reception of his guests. She did as she was ordered, the guests arrived, and as the day was fine, made themselves merry. But in the meantime clouds gathered in the distant horizon and were at last powerfully driven to that place by the wind. The company were so intent on their entertainment that they did not in the least observe it: but scarcely was the housekeeper aware that the storm was approaching, than she begged her master to leave the arbour with his company, for she could not divest herself at all of the idea of the lightning striking it. Atfirst they would not listen, but at last, when she continued her entreaties and the thunder commenced to approach with great violence, they suffered themselves to be induced to leave the arbour. Hardly had they reached the room when they heard a heavy crash of thunder, and the quick following lightning struck the arbour and dashed everything that had been left in it to pieces.
Madame Beaumont relates the following:
My whole family still remember an accident from which my father was preserved by a presentiment of danger. On one occasion, he agreed with a party to sail to Port St. Osmer. When it was time to go on board, an aunt of my father’s, who was deaf and dumb, uttered a kind of howl, placed herself at the door,blocked up the way with her arms, struck her hands together, and gave him, by signs, to understand that she conjured him to stay at home. My father, who had promised himself much pleasure from this excursion, only laughed at her entreaties; but the lady fell at his feet, and manifested such signs of poignant grief, that he at length determined to yield to her entreaties, and postponed his excursion to Port St. Osmer until some other day.
He therefore endeavoured to detain the rest also; but they laughed at him for being so easily persuaded, and set sail. Scarcely had the vessel proceeded half the distance, before those on board of it had the greatest reason to repent that they had not followed his advice. Some serious accidents happened to the vessel, so that it broke to pieces; several lost their lives, and those who savedthemselves by swimming were so much terrified at their narrow escape, that they, with difficulty, got the better of it.
By some written statements the dumb afterwards made, it was shown that, in the night preceding, she had an awful and life-like dream, in which it seemed that the excursion-boat, which would set sail on the following day for Port St. Osmer, would be wrecked; and that most of the persons on board would either get drowned or barely escape. The warning angel found that he could influence no one more effectually than the deaf and dumb aunt; he therefore selected her for the execution of his commission. My father, all his life, was profoundly thankful, both to her and the guardian angel, for this providential warning and foreboding.
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[7]Or acknowledgment, which, by the tenure of some estates, is given to every new lord of a manor.
[10]The term used in this country for a lane.
[16]A few years ago, (since the above was written) Mr. E of O—, was killed by a fall from his horse, at his own gate, as he was returning from hunting.
[32a]The Duke of Buckingham (favourite of James and Charles I. who was beheaded) assassinated by J. Felton.
[32b]The Scots, who sold their King, Charles I. for a large sum of money, to the English rebels.
[32c]Supposed to have been the Marquis of Montrose.
[33a]Supposed to have been Oliver Cromwell, at whose death the greatest storm of wind happened that had been known in England.
[33b]The plague and fire of London were here plainly foretold.
[33c]The Great Yellow Fruit, supposed to have been the Prince of Orange, King William III.
[34]This was said in the book whence thePredictionswere extracted, to mean oppression of the poor.
[43]It is reported that there is a room in this house the door and windows of which are kept closely fastened, and no one is ever permitted to enter the same except the next heir, when he attains his twenty-first year, at which time he goes in alone and when he returns it is shut up as before.
[51]The original prophecy says, “Richard the son of Richard.”
[184]Sir Walter Raleigh.
[185a]Tobacco.
[185b]The Potatoe.