I shudder from head to foot, partly at
the bare idea of such a thing, partly from the naked fact of my
exceedingly unclothed condition. They do say that in the very passage
which I have now to cross in order to get to Mrs. B. again, my
great-grandfather "walks"; in compensation, I suppose, for having
been prevented by gout from taking that species of exercise while he
was alive. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt
of in your philosophy, I think, as I approach this spot; but I do not
say so, for I am well-nigh speechless with the cold: yes, the cold.
It is only my teeth that chatter. What a scream that was! There it
comes again, and there is no doubt this time as to who is the owner
of that terrified voice. Mrs. B.'s alarms have evidently taken some
other direction. "Henry, Henry!" she cries, in tones of a very
tolerable pitch. A lady being in the case, I fly upon the wings of
domestic love along the precincts sacred to the perambulations of
my great-grandfather. I arrive at my wife's chamber; the screams
continue, but the door is locked.
"Open, open!" shout I. "What on earth is the matter?"
There is silence; then a man's voice--that is to say, my wife's voice
in imitation of a man's--replies in tones of indignant ferocity, to
convey the idea of a life-preserver being under the pillow of the
speaker, and ready to his hand: "Who are you--what do you want?"
"You very silly woman," I answered; not from unpoliteness, but
because I find that that sort of language recovers and assures her of
my identity better than any other--"why, it's I.
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