“And what may that be?”
“Immediate change of scene—a change total and complete. Go abroad. Go to Italy; go to Egypt; go to Africa;—in short to any place where the change is a radical one. But I hope that in your case, such a necessity will never arise.”
“All this is most deeply interesting to me, Mr. Bristow, but at the same time it makes me very nervous. The very thought of being haunted in the way you mention is enough to keep me from sleeping for a week.”
At this moment Jane came into the room, and a few minutes later the Squire awoke. Tom had said all that he wanted to say, and he gave Mrs. McDermott no further opportunity for private conversation with him.
Next day, too, Tom carefully avoided the widow. His object was to afford her ample time to think over what he had said. That day the vicar and his wife dined at Pincote, and Tom became immersed in local politics with the Squire and the Parson. Mrs. McDermott was anxious and uneasy. That evening she talked less than she had ever been known to do before.
The rule at Pincote was to keep early hours. It was not much past ten o’clock when Mrs. McDermott left the drawing-room, and having obtained her bed candle, set out on her journey to her own room. Half way up the staircase stood Mr. Bristow. The night being warm and balmy for the time of year, the staircase window was still half open, and Tom stood there, gazing out into the moonlit garden. Mrs. McDermott stopped, and said a few gracious words to him. She would have liked to resume the conversation of the previous evening, but that was evidently neither the time nor the place to do so; so she said good-night, shook hands, and went on her way, leaving Tom still standing by the window. Higher up, close to the head of the stairs, stood a very large, old-fashioned case clock. As she was passing it Mrs. McDermott held up her candle to see the time. It was nearly twenty minutes past ten. But at the very moment of her noting this fact, there came three distinct taps from the inside of the case, and next instant from the same place came the sound of a hollow, ghost-like voice. “Fanny—Fanny—list! I want to speak to you,” said the voice, in slow, solemn tones. But Mrs. McDermott did not wait to hear more. She screamed, dropped her candle, and staggered back against the opposite wall. Tom was by her side in a moment.
“My dear Mrs. McDermott, whatever is the matter?” he said.
“The voice! did you not hear the voice!” she gasped.
“What voice? whose voice?” said Tom, with an arm round her waist.
“A voice which spoke to me out of the clock!” she said, with a shiver.