It grew in precision and audibleness. I retreated from the wainscot. It seemed advancing to meet me.
I looked round and round, but saw nothing, only one cloven foot of the little apple-tree table.
Bless me, said I to myself, with a sudden revulsion, it must be very late; ain’t that my wife calling me? Yes, yes; I must to bed. I suppose all is locked up. No need to go the rounds.
The fascination had departed, though the fear had increased. With trembling hands, putting Cotton Mather out of sight, I soon found myself, candlestick in hand, in my chamber, with a peculiar rearward feeling, such as some truant dog may feel. In my eagerness to get well into the chamber, I stumbled against a chair.
“Do try and make less noise, my dear,” said my wife from the bed.
“You have been taking too much of that punch, I fear. That sad habit grows on you. Ah, that I should ever see you thus staggering at night into your chamber.”
“Wife,” hoarsely whispered I, “there is—is something tick-ticking in the cedar-parlor.”
“Poor old man—quite out of his mind—I knew it would be so. Come to bed; come and sleep it off.”
“Wife, wife!”
“Do, do come to bed. I forgive you. I won’t remind you of it to-morrow. But you must give up the punch-drinking, my dear. It quite gets the better of you.”