trout streams, pretty meadows, crowds of honeysuckle and that sort of thing, and, to crown all else, Pines!!! Now, if there is one scent for which I have a special weakness, it is that of the pine. I could sit out of doors ad infinitum sniffing pines. It intoxicates me; hence I grew very fond of Hampshire.
“Let me return to the clock. It came from Dublin to Bristol viâ the good old Argo (what Bristolian is there, I should like to know, who doesn’t love the Argo!) and thence by rail to Basingstoke, arriving at my house after dusk. You see, I am talking of it almost as if it were some live person! But then, you see, it was a bog-oak grandfather’s clock—no common grinder I can assure you; and I was prepared to pay it every homage the moment it was landed in the hall.
“The carter, however, was by no means so enamoured of it; he was a rough, churlish fellow (what British workmen is not?). ‘If you take my advice, mister!’ he growled, ‘you’ll pitch the himpish thing in some one helse’s garden rightaway.’ (How characteristic of the charitable Briton.)
“I gently rebuked the irate man. Of course, he could afford to be more prodigal with his belongings than I. With evident haste, and still muttering angrily, he went—and I—I called to my housekeeper (Mrs. Partridge), and we examined the heirloom together.
“It certainly was a most imposing piece of furniture. Standing at least eight feet high, with a face large in proportion, it towered above me like a giant negro—black—I can’t describe to you how black—black as ebony and shining.
“I asked Mrs. Partridge how she liked it; for, to tell you the truth, there was something so indefinably queer about it that I began to wonder if the carter had spoken the truth.
“ ‘It is truly magnificent!’ she said, running her hand over its polished surface, ‘I have never seen so fine a piece of workmanship! It will be the making of this hall—but—it reminds me of a hearse!!!’
“We laughed—the analogy was simply ludicrous. A grandfather’s clock and a hearse! But then—it told the Time! and Time is sometimes represented in the guise of Death! Father Death with the sickle!
“My laughter left me and I shivered.
“We placed the clock in the right-hand corner of the hall, opposite the front door, so that every one coming to the house could see it; and, as we anticipated, it was much admired—so much admired, in fact, that I became quite jealous—jealous, and of a clock! How very singular. But then I recollected I was ‘engaged,’ and, of course, I resented my fiancée taking notice of any one or anything save myself.
“Like all the other visitors, however, she never passed by the clock without pausing to look at it.
“ ‘I can’t help it,’ she whispered. ‘It’s its size! it’s stupendous! It quite fills the house! there is hardly any room to breathe! It’s a monstrous clock! It fascinates me! It’s more than a clock. You must GET RID of it.’
“Avice was whimsical. What, get rid of the Ebony Clock! Impossible—the idea tickled me. I laughed.
“I laughed then—but not later, when she had gone and all was quiet.
“From the hall below I heard it strike one, two, three—twelve!
“Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull and ponderous clang, and the sound that came from its brazen lungs, though loud and deep and musical, was far too thrilling.
“Against my will, it made me think, and my thoughts were none too pleasant.
“Hardly had its vibrations ceased before I sat up in bed and listened! At first I attributed the noise I had heard to the pulsations of my heart—bump! bump! bump!—but as I crouched there, waiting, I was soon undeceived; the sounds not only increased in intensity, but drew nearer—bump! bump! bump!—just as if something huge and massive was moving across the hall floor and ascending the stairs!
“An icy fear stole all over me! What!—what in Heaven’s name could it be?
“I glanced in terror at the door—it was locked—locked and BOLTED—the village was much frequented by tramps, and I always went to bed prepared.
“But this noise—this series of heavy, mechanical booms—THIS could never be attributed to any burglar!
“It reached the top of the staircase, it pounded down the passage leading to my room; and then, with the most terrific crash, it FELL against my door!
“I was spellbound—petrified. I dared not—I COULD NOT move.
“It was the clock! the gigantic, monstrous clock!—the funereal, hideous clock! I heard it ticking! The suspicions that I entertained all along with regard to it were now confirmed—it lived!!! That was no ordinary striking—THIS was no ordinary ticking. The thing breathed, it spoke, it laughed—laughed in some diabolically ghoulish manner.
“I would have sacrificed my house and fortune to have been able to reach the bell. I could not. I could do nothing but sit there listening—listening to its mocking voice. The minutes passed by slowly—never had I had the leisure to count them with such painful accuracy; for the tickings, though of equal duration, varied most alarmingly in intonation.
“This horrible farce lasted without cessation till one, when, apparently convinced of its inability to gain admittance, it gave an extra loud and emphatic clang and took its departure.
“In the morning it was standing as usual in its corner in the hall, nor could I detect the slightest evidences of animation, neither in its glassy face nor in its sepulchral tone.
“Happening to pass by at that instant, Mrs. Partridge surprised me in my act of examination, and from her ashy cheeks and frightened glances I concluded she, too, had heard the noises and had rightly guessed their origin. Nor was I mistaken, for, on putting a few leading questions to her, she reluctantly admitted she had heard everything. ‘But,’ she whispered, ‘I have kept it from the maids, for if once they get hold of the idea the house is haunted they will leave to-morrow.’
“Unfortunately, her circumspection proved of no avail; night after night the clock repeated its vagaries, bumping on the staircases and passages to such a degree that the noise not only awakened the entire household, but aroused general suspicion.
“Nor were its attentions any longer restricted to me; it gradually extended the length of its wanderings till every part of the house had been explored and every door visited.
“The maids now complained to me. ‘They could not do their work,’ they argued, ‘if they were deprived of sleep, and sleep was out of the question whilst the disturbances continued. I must get rid of the clock.’
“To this proposition, however, I was by no means agreeable. I certainly had no reason to like the clock—indeed I loathed and hated it—but in some indefinable manner it fascinated me. I could not, I dare not part with it. ‘I have no doubt,’ I protested, ‘the annoyances will cease as soon as the clock has become at home with its surroundings. Have patience and all will be well.’
“They agreed to wait a little longer before giving me notice, and I fully hoped that my prophecy would be fulfilled. But the clock was far more persistent than I had anticipated. Adopting fresh tactics, it began a series of persecutions that speedily brought matters to a crisis.
“Christina, the cook, was the first victim.
“Not being a very fluent scribe, her letters caused her endless labour, and she often sat up writing long after the other servants had gone to bed.
“On the night in question she was plodding on wearily when the intense stillness of the house made her suddenly think of the time; it must be very late! Dare she venture in the hall?
“Christina was not a nervous woman; she had hitherto discredited all ghost-stories, and was quite the last person in the house to accept the theory that the present disturbances were due to any superphysical agency. She now, however, recollected all that had been said on the subject, and the close proximity of the clock filled her with dread; her