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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
187
Years
after
that,
I
recall
another
black
morning.
As
usual
at
such
times,
I
was
suffering
from
a
bad
cold.
After
a
sleepless
night,
I
fell
into
a
torpor,
which
held
me
unconscious
for
an
hour
or
two.
Hideous
cries
aroused
me;
sitting
up
in
the
dark,
I
heard
men
going
along
the
street,
roaring
news
of
a
hanging
that
had
just
taken
place.
"Execution
of
Mrs."--I
forget
the
name
of
the
murderess.
"Scene
on
the
scaffold!"
It
was
a
little
after
nine
o'clock;
the
enterprising
paper
had
promptly
got
out
its
gibbet
edition.
A
morning
of
midwinter,
roofs
and
ways
covered
with
soot-grimed
snow
under
the
ghastly
fog-pall;
and,
whilst
I
lay
there
in
my
bed,
that
woman
had
been
led
out
and
hanged--hanged.
I
thought
with
horror
of
the
possibility
that
I
might
sicken
and
die
in
that
wilderness
of
houses,
nothing
above
me
but
"a
foul
and
pestilent
congregation
of
vapours."
Overcome
with
dread,
I
rose
and
bestirred
myself.
Blinds
drawn,
lamp
lit,
and
by
a
blazing
fire,
I
tried
to
make
believe
that
it
was
kindly
night.
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