The Clock and the Key

by A. H. Vesey

She wished me to call at once. We would discuss the book together. And she had invited St. Hilary and myself to dinner that evening. After I had left them yesterday he had hinted at a wonderful story about the old clock. She would make him talk. I should have copy for one of my legends at least.

But I could not hesitate as to my destination. For, in assisting her brother, I would be doing Jacqueline a favor. Unfortunately, I could not tell her why I had to leave Venice so peremptorily. Neither she nor her aunt must know that the youngster had made an ass of himself. I wrote her merely that an affair of importance had called me to Rome. I caught the first train south.

Ten days passed before I sniffed once more the pungent odor of the lagoons. There had been complications and delays; and in his remorse the boy had had a touch of Roman fever. I could not leave him like that.

A letter from Jacqueline awaited me. It had arrived only a day or two before. Her annoyance at my sudden flight from Venice was obvious.

She regretted my absence at her dinner, but I had not missed much. St. Hilary had refused to talk. Perhaps there was really no legend, after all. And, indeed, when one came to think over the matter calmly, was it worth while attempting to discover one? And was I really interested in writing the book–that is, for its own sake? I ought to be well assured of that. She was afraid she would not see me again for the present. They were to leave almost immediately for Bellagio.

I walked over to my window. I was bitterly hurt and disappointed.

Venice was storm-swept. The Giudecca, deserted, was lashed by wind and rain. The ships, moored near the Salute, tossed and swayed at their anchors. The goddess over the customs-house spun about on her golden ball and vainly tried to shield herself behind her flimsy veil.

The brightness and glory of Venice had vanished as in a dream. The palaces, ivory and gold in the sunlight, looked sodden and decayed in the gloom, like an old woman deprived of her rouge-pot and powder. Venice, in short, was a painting, a masterpiece, if you wish, which the mischievous fist of some mawkish infant had smeared and smudged. The pigeons, the cafés, the gondolas–they are the creatures of the sun. To-day the pigeons were huddled under the Dome of the Salute; the cafés deserted; the gondolas covered with tarpaulin.

But as I looked, a gondola, rowed by two oarsmen, emerged from the rain and fog. It was headed directly for the landing outside my windows. It touched the steps. The old gransieri, shivering in an archway, pattered across the quay with his hook. The passenger leaped ashore. It was St. Hilary. And in this weather!

I drew the portière. I walked over to the mantel and felt for a match to light the gas, for it was growing late. As I struck it, half a dozen visiting-cards caught my eye–eight, to be quite precise. One of the eight was that of the Duke da Sestos. What humble attraction had I for the noble gentleman? The seven others bore the name of St. Hilary. Seven calls in ten days! I looked at them thoughtfully. And then–why, I have no idea–I thought of the mysterious clock that Mrs. Gordon had entrusted to my care, and that I had left with a jeweler on the Piazza to see if it was quite beyond repair. It would be just as well to say nothing of that to the dealer. I was curious to know precisely the fascination that the old timepiece had for him.