A STRIKING ADVENTURE.
BY LAMAN BLANCHARD.
How I came to find myself, at midnight and in the dark, stretched on a sofa in a strange house, is of no consequence to my story; yet for the prevention of all uncharitable surmises it may be as well to mention, that the young friend whom I had deemed it prudent to see safe home from Greenwich to Lewisham, had participated more freely than I had in the revelries that sometimes succeed to whitebait; and that, tired and sleepy, I had not irrationally preferred the scanty accommodation of a sofa, proffered by the old servant, the family being in bed, to a return to town on a wet and dreary night.
"This will do very well," I said, drowsily glancing at the length of a sofa in a large room on the ground-floor; and released from my boots only, I declined the offer of bed-clothes, and declared that I should sleep without rocking. "No, no, pray don't leave the light," cried I, as the venerable domestic set down in the fire-place a huge old-fashioned candle-shade, through the numerous round holes of which a rushlight gloomily flickered.—"I hate that abominable invention; it's the only thing that could keep me awake for two minutes. That'll do—shut the door—good night."
"Got away sober after all!" I whispered approvingly to myself when thus left alone. "And what's better, I've got this wild, racketty young scapegrace safe home too;—early moreover, though he thinks it's so late;—I should never have dragged him away if I hadn't vowed by the beard of old Time that the church-clock had struck twelve three hours ago—but it's hardly twelve yet, I think—pledged my honour it was past two! Ah, well! Yaw-au!—ah!" And here my thoughts were silently settling upon another subject, previously to the last seal of sleep being fixed upon my lids, when my drowsy senses were disturbed by a dull, dead sound in the air—at no great distance from the house—it was the church-clock striking twelve. I counted the strokes. Midnight sure enough! And somehow at that moment it occurred to my mind that I had taken Time's name in vain rather too roundly, and had vowed by his sacred beard rather irreverently to say the least, when I protested three times over, that no soul living would hear the clock strike twelve again that night!
No matter—it was a fib told to serve a good purpose—a little bit of evil done quite innocently—the end sanctifies the means! And in the space of three seconds I was again more than half asleep, when another clock struck—another, nearer and clearer than the last. It was a large full-toned house-clock, fixed probably on the staircase or the hall, though I had not observed it on entering. Its sounds were prolonged and solemn. Again I counted the strokes—twelve; which I had no sooner done, than a third clock struck—nearer to me still, for it was evidently in the room, at the further end; and so sharp and quick in succession were the strokes, that to count them would have been difficult, even had I been less startled by them than I was.
What a very curious clock! thought I; and during the second that was occupied by its striking, I raised my head and looked in the direction of the sound; the apartment might be miles or feet long, for aught that I could see. The curtains and shutters were closed—no scrap of the window was to be seen—no glimpse even of the dull damp night without was to be had. All was Darkness——
But not Silence; for before I could again shut my eyes, a clock began to strike, slowly, softly, in tones "most musical, most melancholy," right over my head, as though it were fixed to the wall only a few feet above me. Every sound was like the moan of a dying bird. I counted them—twelve as before. Yes, it was a clock that struck; it must be a clock; and it was right almost to a minute, by the church. What was there wonderful in that? Nothing—only—
Hark! the chimes too at midnight! On a table almost within my reach, some merry Sprite seemed, to the ear of my imagination, performing a serenade to the lingering hour of Twelve. He struck up the chimes with such a lively grace, and echoed them with such a ringing laugh, that the twelve sounds which announced the hour when he ceased, lost all the usual monotony of tone, and said, not merely in melody, but almost as distinctly as words could have said it, "Twelve o'clock"—four times over. I jumped up—and sat for an instant, my drowsiness all gone and my eyes unusually wide open, looking into the darkness around me. I knew that there was a table close by, but neither table nor clock was visible in that utter gloom; not a trace of any form or figure could my straining sight discover.
To grope my way six feet forward, and feel upon the surface of the table whether, among the ornaments which there, as in other parts of the room, I had carelessly noted when first shown in, a clock was to be numbered, seemed easy enough; but scarcely had I stretched out, in fear and gentleness, one trembling hand upon that venturous errand, when I dropped back again upon the sofa, startled half out of my wits by the sudden striking of two more clocks, two at once—one loud, one low—apparently at opposite sides of the room; and before they had finished twelve strokes each, another, as though from a station in the centre of the chimney-piece, struck up "Meet me by moonlight," in notes the sweetest and silveriest imaginable, and the dozen strokes that followed were like the long plaintive tones of an Eolian harp. Before they were quite over, a peal of tiny bells began tinkling. Fairies tripping with bells at their feet could hardly have made lighter or quicker music. I began to think that a troop of that fabulous fraternity were actually in the apartment—that a host of little elves were capering about, not only with bells to their feet, but clocks to their stockings!