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  THE CLOCK THAT STRUCK THIRTEEN.

  "You misunderstand me wilfully, Helen. I neither said nor inferredanything of the kind."

  "What did you mean then, for if words to you bear a differentinterpretation from what they do to me, I must trouble you to speak in_my_ language when addressing me," angrily retorted a young girl, withwhat nature had intended to be a very pretty face with a charmingexpression, but which at the present moment was far from deserving thelatter part of the description. Eyes flashing, cheeks burning and handsclenched in the excess of her indignation, stood Helen Beaumont by thewindow of her pretty little sitting-room, or "studio" as she loved tocall it, presenting a striking contrast to the peaceful scene without;where a carefully tended garden still looked bright with the remainingflowers of late September. Her companion, standing in the attitudeinvariably assumed now-a-days by novelists' heroes, namely, leaningagainst the mantelpiece, was a young man of equally prepossessingappearance with her own. At first glance no one would have suspected himof sharing any of the young lady's excitement, for his expression was socalm as almost to merit the description of sleepy. Looking more closely,however, the signs of some unusual disturbance or annoyance were to bedescried, for his face was slightly flushed and his blue eyes had lostthe look of sweet temper evidently their ordinary expression.

  "What I meant to say, Helen, was not, as you choose to misinterpret it,that I blame you for proper womanly courage and spirit, than which, Iconsider few things more admirable, nor as you are well aware do Iadmire the sweetly silly and affectedly timid order of young ladies. Butthis I do mean and repeat, that I think your persistence in this foolishscheme a piece of sheer bravado and foolhardiness, totally unworthy ofany sensible person's approval, and what is more----"

  "Thank you, Malcolm, or rather Mr. Willoughby, I have heard quiteenough,"--and as she spoke, Helen turned from the window out of whichshe had been gazing while Malcolm spoke, with, it must be confessed,very little interest in the varied tints of the dahlias blooming in alltheir rich brilliance on the terrace,--"I have heard quite enough, andthink myself exceedingly fortunate in having heard it now before itis too late. You may imagine," she continued, "that I am speaking intemper, but it is not so. I have for some time suspected, and now feelconvinced, that we are not suited to each other. Your own words bearwitness to your opinion of me, 'self-willed, foolhardy, unwomanly,' andI know not what other pretty expressions you have applied to me, and formy part I tell you simply that I cannot and will not marry a man whoseopinion of what a woman should be is like yours; and who insults meconstantly as you do, by telling me how far short I fall of his ideal.Marry your ideal, Malcolm Willoughby, and I shall wish you joy of her.Some silly little fool who dares not move a step alone in her bewitchinghelplessness. But do not think to convert _me_ into such a piece ofcontemptible inanity," and so saying she turned towards the door.

  "Helen," said Malcolm quietly, so quietly that Helen was arrested inspite of herself, "you are unjust, unreasonable and ungenerous. You knowthat I never cared for any woman but you, you know that nothing pleasesme more than to witness your superiority in numberless particulars tothe general run of girls, and you know too the pride and pleasure I takein your skill as an artist; but blinded by self-will you will not seethe perfect reasonableness of my request that you will abandon thisabsurd expedition. If not for your own sake, at least do so for Edith's,who is as you know left in your special charge by Leonard."

  The first part of this speech seemed, to judge by Helen's transparentcountenance, likely to soften and move her, but the unlucky word"absurd" and the tone in which Malcolm spoke, as if it was necessary toremind her of her duty, effectually did away with any good result thathis remonstrance might have worked. She turned, with her hand on thedoor, and saying, "I have told you my decision, Mr. Willoughby, and Iwish you good-evening," left the room. Malcolm remained behind, lostin thought of no pleasurable nature. At last he too left the littlesitting-room, after first ringing the bell and ordering his horse to bebrought round. Making his way to the front entrance he there "mountedand rode away," his spirits, poor fellow, by no means the better forhis visit.

  It is time, I think, to explain the cause of the lovers' quarrelabove described. Helen and Edith Beaumont were orphans, left to theguardianship of their brother Leonard, in whose house we have seen theformer. Delicacy, induced by a severe illness some months previously,had obliged Mr. Beaumont, accompanied by his wife, to go for the autumnand winter months to the south of France, leaving his sisters at homeunder the nominal chaperonage of an elderly aunt, who performed her dutyto the perfect satisfaction of her nieces by letting them do exactly asthey liked. More correctly speaking, perhaps, exactly as Helen liked,for the younger of the two, Edith, a girl of seventeen and four yearsher sister's junior, could hardly be said to have likes or dislikesdistinct from those of Helen. Possibly Mr. Beaumont might not have leftthe two to their own devices with so easy a mind, had he not quittedhome happy in the knowledge of Helen's engagement to his friend andneighbour Malcolm Willoughby. The gentleman in question lived within afew miles of our heroine's home, having succeeded some years before tohis father's property. His only sister, Mrs. Lindsay, was at this timeliving with him for a few months while awaiting her husband's returnfrom India, and though some years older, was, next to her sister,Helen's most valued friend and companion. Malcolm Willoughby was a manof high character, peculiarly fitted, by his unusual amount of sterlinggood sense, to be the guide of an impulsive, enthusiastic girl likepretty Helen Beaumont, whom to know was to love, and who would have beenaltogether charming but for her inordinate amount of self-will andinveterate dislike to being, as she expressed it, "ordered" to do or notto do whatever came into her head. She and her sister had real talent asartists, and their spirited and well-executed landscapes bore but littleresemblance to the insipid productions of most young lady painters. Toimproving herself in this direction Helen had devoted much time andlabour. Unfortunately, it had so absorbed her thoughts and desires thatin its pursuance she was inclined sometimes to forget what were forher more important avocations. Helen's fortunate engagement to Mr.Willoughby had for some time past corrected these only objectionabletendencies in her character, and all had gone smoothly and happily tillthe date at which our story commences, when, unluckily, some artistfriends had filled her head with their descriptions of the exquisiteautumn scenery, "effects of foliage," etc., to be seen in a mountainousand hitherto little explored part of Wales. Her imagination, and throughher that of her sister Edith, ran wild on the subject, and now nothingwould satisfy her but a journey to the spot in question, by themselves,in order that they might enjoy their freedom to the utmost, and revel inthe delight of painting some of the wonderful Welsh scenery described tothem. The idea had at first been mooted half in joke, but an impoliticexpression of strong disapprobation on the part of Mr. Willoughby haddone more to determine Helen on carrying it out than all the anticipatedartistic enjoyment.

  "It will be just the opportunity I wanted," thought the foolish girl,"of showing him that I do not intend to be a silly nonentity of a wifewith no opinion of my own, and hedged in by all the absurd old-fashionedconventionalities which will not allow a woman to have an existence ofher own or give her opportunity to cultivate what talents she maypossess."

  And once determined, Miss Helen remained inflexible. In vain Mr.Willoughby remonstrated, in vain even their indulgent old aunt expressedher horror at the idea of "two young girls scouring the country bythemselves," her own feebleness rendering her accompanying them out ofthe question. Go to Wales Helen and Edith must, and go they would, tillat last the discussion with her _fiance_ terminated in the disastrousmanner above recorded.

  I will not undertake to describe Helen's feelings, when, in the solitudeof her own room, she thought over what she had done. Had she herselfbeen obliged to put them into words, I believe she would have repeatedthat she had not acted in temper and that the stand she had made for herwomanly freedom, as she would have expressed it, ha
d been an act ofsupreme heroism and devotion to the cause of right. She said all thisto herself and tried hard, very hard to believe it; and to stifle thelittle voice at the very bottom of her heart which whispered thatshe had behaved like a silly, self-willed, petted child, and shownherself undeserving of so good a gift as the love of a man likeMalcolm Willoughby. The little voice was smothered for the time byexaggerated anticipations of the delights of their tour and attemptedself-congratulations at her newly regained liberty to do as she chose;for Malcolm did not come near her again, and it took all her pride tohide from herself and others the shock she felt through all her beingwhen, in the course of a few days, she heard accidentally that Mr.Willoughby was leaving home for an uncertain length of time.

  "He has taken me at my word," thought she, "but of course I meant him todo so," and she hurried on the preparations for their journey which theywere now on the eve of.

  "You will at least take Maxwell," said Aunt Fanny timidly.

  "Maxwell, aunt! No, thank you," said Helen ironically; "she would becrying for her spring mattress the first night and thinking she wasgoing to die if she heard the wind howl. No, thank you, I mean to beindependent for once in my life, and so does Edith."

  Other twenty-four hours saw our two young ladies on their way.Unaccustomed as they were to travelling alone they got on very well forthe greater part of their journey, till they arrived at a certainrailway station in Wales, of name unpronounceable by civilised tongue,but which sounded to them like that of the place where they were toleave the railway. Never doubting but what they were right in so doingHelen and Edith calmly descended from their carriage, watched the traindisappear in the tunnel hard by, and then began to make inquiries for aconveyance to transport themselves and their luggage, white umbrellas,easels and all, the five or six miles which they imagined were all thatdivided them from their destination. A colloquy ensued with the mostintelligible of two or three fly-drivers, carmen, or whatever thesepersonages are called in Wales; but what was Helen's consternation onlearning that fifteen miles at least remained to be traversed; theyhaving left the railway at Llanfar, two stations too soon, instead ofremaining in it till they reached Llanfair, the point nearest to thefarm-house where lodgings had been taken for them. No chance of a trainto Llanfair till to-morrow morning, for the line was a new one, and thetraffic as yet but small. No prospect of a night's accommodation wherethey were. Nothing for it but to trust to the driver's assurance that heand his unpromising-looking horse could easily convey them to thefarm-house, with the inevitably unpronounceable name. With someunconfessed misgivings Helen and Edith mounted the vehicle awaitingthem, and drove off along a muddy, jolting lane into the quicklygathering gloom.

  Shivering on her uncomfortable seat, did Helen wish herself at homeagain in her own little sitting-room, with Aunt Fanny peacefullyknitting, Edith kneeling on the hearth-rug, and Malcolm's face brightwith the reflection of the ruddy log fire so welcome in autumn evenings;all together as was their wont, enjoying "blind man's holiday"?

  I think we had better not press the question too closely. However, "it'sa long lane that has no ending," and even this dreary journey graduallydrew to a close. They passed but few houses of any kind, one or twostraggling hamlets were left behind, and for some two or three miles theroad had been perfectly solitary, when they suddenly heard wheelsadvancing to meet them, and in a few minutes a car like their own drovetowards them, and being hailed by their driver, drew up at their side. Ajabbering ensued of directions asked and given, and they again drove on.

  "Are you sure you know the way?" said Helen timidly.

  "Oh yes, miss," the driver answered confidently, and further informedthem that the car they had met, had just returned from their owndestination (being translated), the Black Nest Farm, having theredeposited a traveller who had taken the middle course of leaving therailway at the intermediate stoppage between Llanfar and Llanfair. Otherthree-quarters of an hour and they pulled up at last before a housewhich the darkness prevented their seeing more of than that it was longand low. They stumbled up the rough garden path, and in answer to theirknock, the door was opened by a tidy, clean-looking old woman, with aflickering candle in her hand, evidently surprised at their appearance.She had, she said, quite given up thoughts of their coming that night,and feared the fire in the sitting-room was out. Thankful to havereached the Black Nest at last, a chilly room seemed a smaller evil thanthe two girls would have considered it at home; and after all, thingswere not so bad, for the fire in the little farmhouse parlour, to whichtheir landlady conducted them, was not quite out, and a little judiciouscoaxing soon brought it round.

  Their hostess's and their own first idea was of course _tea_. What ablessing, by the way, it is that British womankind in general, high andlow, rich and poor, old and young, have this _one_ taste in common!Refreshed by the homely meal speedily set before them, Helen and Edithproceeded, under the guidance of the old woman (apparently the onlyinhabitant of the house), and the flickering candle, to inspect theirsleeping apartment. The result was not eminently satisfactory, for itstruck them as gloomy, ill-ventilated, and a long way from theirparlour, though but few rooms appeared to intervene between the two.This puzzled them at the time, but was afterwards explained by the factthat Black Nest Farm-house had originally consisted of two one-storeyedcottages standing at some yards distance from each other, and which, onbecoming the property of one owner, had been united by a long passage;which arrangement was looked upon in the neighbourhood as a triumph ofarchitectural ingenuity. On returning to their sitting-room Helen's eyefell on a door beside their own which she had not before noticed, andshe inquired if that was a bedroom. To which the old woman replied inthe affirmative, but added that they could not have it, as it and asmall sitting-room opening out of it were engaged by a "strangegentleman". And besides this, she added, the bedroom was not sodesirable for ladies, having a second, or rather third door to theoutside of the house. The only other room they could have was so smallthat she did not think they would like it, but they should see forthemselves, and so saying she turned towards a recess in the passage.Helen followed her, but the flickering candle suddenly throwing light ina new direction, she gave a little exclamation of alarm at what appearedat the first moment to be a very ugly grinning portrait high up on thewall.

  "It's only the clock, miss," said the old woman. "Though, to be sure, itis quare," and as she spoke she threw the light more fully upon theobject that had startled Helen, which she now perceived to be a veryantique clock, standing high in a dark wooden case, and with the faceshe had seen, peeping at you as it were from behind the dial-plate. Anugly, coarsely painted face, with a disagreeably mocking expression itseemed to Helen; nor was it the only repulsive feature in this veryremarkable clock, for the artist appeared to have outdone himself in thegrotesquely hideous devices at the bottom of the dial. Death's heads,cross-bones, and other equally unpleasant objects of various kinds,curiously intermingled with a condensed solar system, in which sun, moonand stars appeared jumbled together haphazard. The general object of thewhole evidently being to bring before the spectator the ghastly side ofhis future, and to read him a wholesome, but certainly not attractive,homily on the shortness of life, and the speed with which time wasticking away. Helen felt half fascinated by its hideousness.

  "Dear me, what a very curious clock!" she ejaculated, and the old womanrepeated, with a little inward chuckle at what she evidently consideredthe admiration drawn forth by her heirloom:--

  "Yes, sure it _is_ quare."

  An uncanny object it certainly was, and Helen felt relieved that theroom in its immediate vicinity was so small as to be out of the questionfor the accommodation of her sister and herself. Re-entering thesitting-room she found poor Edith looking so utterly worn-out that sheproposed that they should at once go to bed; which they accordingly did,followed by the old woman with offers of assistance. Passing the door of"the strange gentleman's" room, they heard sounds of some one movinginside, and Edith sleepily remarked that she
wondered what could havebrought a gentleman to an outlandish place like the Black Nest, unless,like themselves, he came to take views in the neighbourhood. Helenpricked up her ears at this and inquired of Mrs. Jones if theirfellow-lodger was an artist. Mrs. Jones thought not, but seemedunwilling to pursue the topic of the strange gentleman further. Inrather a forced manner she changed the subject by inquiring if the youngladies would like to hire her pony while there, as it was rough walking,and her grandson Griffith, the only other inhabitant of the cottage, alittle lad of twelve, could lead it for them, and show them the waywhenever they chose. Helen gladly closed with the offer.

  "Dear me, Mrs. Jones," she exclaimed "how very lonely you must be livinghere with no one but a little boy. Have you no near neighbours?"

  "None nearer than three miles ma'am, for the farm-men live at adistance, save old Thomas in the last cottage you passed, but he isbed-ridden. My widow daughter, Griffith's mother, was with me till shetook ill, two winters ago, and died before the doctor could get to her.Yes, it is lonesome like in winter to be sure. It's not often thatgentry like you, miss, care to be in these parts so late in the year."

  Further inquiries elicited that the nearest church was a good five milesoff, that there was no doctor nearer than Llanfar, that the butcher onlycame in the winter once a fortnight and that irregularly; in consequenceof which the Black Nesters had often to depend upon their own scantyresources, the roads being almost impassable in stormy weather.

  "Don't you think it feels rather dreary, Helen?" said Edith, as she wasfalling asleep.

  "_Eerie_, rather, I should say," replied her sister, "but that, youknow, is the beauty of it. In the morning, I daresay, it will lookbright enough, but I confess I do not like that clock. Listen, can'tyou hear its ticking, faintly, even here, at the end of that longpassage?"

  "What clock do you mean? I saw no clock," said Edith, but almost beforeHelen could answer, her soft regular breathing told that she was asleep.Helen however, could not so quickly compose herself. She felt excitedand vaguely uneasy; and when she at last fell asleep, it was only tohave her discomfort increased, by absurd, yet alarming dreams. Withthem all the ugly clock was grotesquely intermingled. Sometimes it washerself, sometimes Edith, and once Malcolm, whom she fancied in someposition of terrible peril, always associated with the clock, and atlast she awoke with a half-smothered scream of horror at the mostfrightful dream of all; in which the "strange gentleman," theirfellow-lodger, was pursuing her with a veil over his face, which just ashe caught her fell off, and disclosed, horrible to relate, the face onthe clock.

  Edith started up as Helen convulsively clutched her, and exclaiming,"What in the world is the matter?" really thought Helen was going out ofher mind when she replied, "That horrible clock;" and as she spoke, asif invoked, the clock began to strike: "One, two, three, four," and soon. "Is it never going to stop?" said Helen. Poor Edith, half asleepstill, listened with her.

  "Edith, I am almost certain that clock struck _thirteen_," said Helen inan awe-struck voice; and then they heard a door shut at the end of thepassage.

  "Helen, you have been dreaming, and you are only half awake now," saidEdith. "It is not like you to waken me in this frightening way, pleaselet me go to sleep."

  "I am very sorry," said Helen penitently, and she too closed her eyesand tried hard to go to sleep, which of course she did, as soon as sheleft off trying, and had made up her mind to lie awake till daylight.

  The morning broke clear and fresh; and, as Helen had said, things ingeneral bore a very different aspect to that of the night before.Indoors, the quaint old house now looked simply picturesque, and Mrs.Jones the _beau ideal_ of a cheery old hostess. Even the face of theclock, when Helen pointed it out to Edith, seemed to have lost itsmocking grin, and to be merely bidding them good-morning, with a comicalsmile at the consternation it had awakened the night before.

  Out-of-doors they soon turned their steps. There was no view from thehouse, but a short voyage of discovery quickly explained to them theirlocality. Black Nest Farm stood at the foot of a hill close on to thehigh road, or what passed for such in that hitherto little frequentedneighbourhood. On the opposite side of the road but little was to beseen, as the meadows were soon lost in a thick belt of wood; butimmediately behind the house was a tempting prospect, for there a littlewinding path led up the hill to one of the spots Helen and Edith mostardently desired to paint, and of which their friends had given them aglowing description. It was rather a long walk to the Black Lake, Mrs.Jones informed them, but their enthusiasm knew no bounds, and hardlypermitted them to do justice to their breakfast of ham and eggs,home-made bread and home-churned butter. See them then starting on theirexpedition,--their painting materials, and some creature comforts in theshape of sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs, safely packed on the pony'sback, Griffith leading him and acting as guide. A pretty stiff pull itwas, enthusiasm notwithstanding, and rather hard work for the littlefeet, sensibly shod in good strong boots it is true, but unaccustomednevertheless to mountain scrambling. But at last their circuitous pathbrought them to the summit, and there a curious prospect broke uponthem. They stood at the edge of the great Welsh tableland. There itstretched away before them, miles and miles beyond their view; a vastexpanse of wild, brown moor, unrelieved by tree or shrub, but here andthere dotted by great patches of what Edith at first sight took to be"lovely emerald moss". Treacherous loveliness, for it told, as theylearnt from Griffith, of fearful bog-pits, down whose slimy sides onceslipped no man or beast could ever regain firm ground.

  "What a horrible death that would be," said Helen, shuddering, "farworse than regular drowning in clean water. It would be slow suffocationin nasty, dirty mud."

  A few minutes' careful walking brought them in sight of the Black Lake,the special object of their excursion. And it certainly was well worthcoming to see, if not to paint; probably too, better seen in thegreyness of a late autumn day than in the summer sun, whose bright raysreflected on its surface would have little harmonised with its characterof gloom and loneliness. The lake was equal to several acres in extent,but from where they stood could not all be seen, as its farther endwas hidden by the undulations of the land. In colour it was a dull,leaden grey, and looking at it, one's mind spontaneously reverted totravellers' descriptions of the Dead Sea, for _dead_ was essentially theword by which to describe it. There were no fish to be caught in itGriffith told them, and as for its depth he had never heard tell of anyone's sounding it. The effect of the whole scene was very peculiar, andso Helen and Edith felt it to be, as they stood gazing at the leadenwater and the great, apparently boundless moorland. It was difficult torealise that they were so far above the ordinary haunts of men, forthere was nothing in that great plain to remind them of the existenceeven of hills and mountains, except a steady-blowing breeze of thatpeculiar freshness pertaining only to sea or mountain air. Pleasantlyinvigorating at first, but soon becoming too chilly to make one care tostand about, or, worse still, to _sit_, as our young ladies nowprepared to do.

  "We are very lucky in the weather," remarked Helen, as they prepared fortheir sketching. "I should fancy it is just the day to see the lake tothe best advantage."

  "Or disadvantage," said Edith, "for I do think it is the most horribleplace I ever saw. I don't know," added she dreamily, "but what it wouldseem even more desolate on a bright, sunny day. I don't know why."

  "I understand how you mean," replied her sister, "the contrast would beso strange. Like a skeleton dressed in a golden robe. Dear me, I ambecoming quite poetical. But look, Edith, how do you like this?" And aconsultation on their work ensued.

  Very cold work it became, as it grew to afternoon, notwithstanding thepleasurable excitement of their occupation, and Edith, for one, was notsorry when Helen at last thought it time to pack up their paintingmaterials and turn homewards. A drizzling rain began to fall as theyneared the foot of the hill, and they both felt thankful to reach thefarm-house,--tired, muddy and damp, and in not _quite_ such highspirits as when they
set off on their expedition. A savoury odourmeeting them on their entrance, Helen suddenly bethought herself thatshe had utterly forgotten to order anything for their "high tea," orwhatever one likes to call the said incongruous meal. It was thereforean agreeable surprise to her after remembering her neglect to see onentering their little sitting-room the brightest of fires, and the tabledaintily set out with evident preparation for a tempting repast; part ofwhich, in the shape of a delicious-looking ham, "a new-made pat ofbutter and a wheaten loaf so fine," had already made its appearance.Damp clothes and muddy boots discarded, they sat down with an excellentappetite to their meal, and the savoury odour which had greeted them wassoon explained by the appearance of Mrs. Jones bearing a chicken stewedin mushrooms.

  "Mushrooms!" exclaimed Helen, "the thing of all others I like. Howclever you are, Mrs. Jones, to get us all these good things! I shallleave our food to your providing, I think, in future."

  Mrs. Jones laughed and said a friend had sent some things from Llanfar,and a friend also had gathered the mushrooms, the last of their season,thinking the young ladies might like them.

  "Your friends are as good as yourself then, Mrs. Jones," said Helen; butas she spoke she was startled by what sounded like a half-smotheredlaugh or exclamation of some kind just outside the door. Almost at thesame moment her friend the clock began to strike, and she thereforefancied the sound she had heard must have come from it. "Its internalarrangements are, I daresay, as peculiar as its outside," thought she toherself, and refrained therefore from mentioning to Edith what shethought she had heard. All the rest of the evening, however, though shewould hardly have owned it to herself, she felt a little nervous anduneasy, particularly when she heard the clock strike.

  "I wonder what our fellow-lodger does with himself all day," said Ediththat evening.

  "I am sure I don't know, or care either," said Helen, "indeed, I hardlybelieve there is such a being at all."

  They went early to bed, and fell quickly asleep. After having slept, itseemed to her for several hours, Helen woke suddenly with the feelingthat something had wakened her, and found that the clock was busystriking, and to her confused fancy had been striking for ever so longbefore she woke. Its strokes ceased before she was sufficiently awake tocount them, but a moment or two afterwards she heard a door shut as ithad done the night before.

  "It is very annoying that I can't get a good night's rest here," thoughtshe. A whispered "Helen," told her that Edith too was awake.

  "The clock _did_ strike thirteen," said Edith, "and there _must_ besomebody in that room, for I heard the door shut again."

  "And so did I," said Helen, whereupon they lay still in awe-strucksilence, till they both fell fast asleep again.

  The next day was Saturday, and though somewhat stiff and tired withtheir exertions, Friday's programme was repeated. The sketches proceededsatisfactorily, but our heroines were less fortunate in other respects,for just as they were about to leave the Black Lake in the afternoon,the rain came on in torrents. Long before they got back to thefarm-house the poor girls were thoroughly drenched. Edith escaped withno ill results, but Helen sat shivering over the fire all the evening,passed an uneasy night in which it seemed to her that the clock neverleft off striking at all, and woke on Sunday morning with every symptomof a delightfully bad cold. The prospect outside was not cheering. Rain,rain, rain. Down it came in torrents. No chance of making their way tothe five miles' off church, no chance even of a quiet stroll along thelanes; and, worst of all, no books to read, for such a possibility as awhole day in the house had never presented itself to their inexperiencedimaginations! It was very dull. Helen was almost cross with Edith forbeing so exceedingly sympathetic. It was kind of course, but provokingnevertheless, as to Helen's sensitiveness it seemed to convey a tacitreproach. She would not allow to herself that they were at all to bepitied. All the same she was not sorry when the time came at last forthem to go to bed.

  "I wish we had brought some sherry with us," said Edith. "A little whitewine whey would have been the very thing for your cold."

  "What's the good of wishing," replied her sister rather snappishly, "youhad better call Mrs. Jones and ask her to make me some gruel." But onMrs. Jones's appearance, and when the request had been made, both thegirls felt rather surprised at her volunteering the very thing they hadbeen wishing for.

  She had, she said, "some very nice sherry wine, given her by a friend,"and many years ago, when she was in service in Chester, she had learntto make white wine whey. Sure enough a tempting-looking basinful shortlyafter made its appearance.

  Thanks to its soporific influence Helen soon fell asleep, but woke (asshe had got strangely into the habit of doing) just at midnight, oras Edith had taken to calling it, "thirteen o'clock". The clock washalf-way through its striking when she woke, and a sudden impulse seizedher to jump up, and, opening the door slightly, to peep out and eithersee who it was that always shut a door after the clock struck, or, byseeing nothing, satisfy herself that the sound had all along been merelythe creation of her own and Edith's imagination.

  She opened the door very cautiously, and instantly perceived that therewas a light at the end of the passage in the recess where stood theclock. Helen's heart beat more loudly, and she wished devoutly that shehad allowed her curiosity to remain unsatisfied, when to her horror thelight moved out of the recess, and she saw that it was held by a talldark figure with its back turned towards her. The passage was so longand the light flickered so much that it was impossible for her todistinguish anything but the general outline of the person who held it.Not Mrs. Jones or Griffith, assuredly, but poor Helen was too frightenedto do more than lock the door with her trembling fingers and leap backinto bed, thereby awakening Edith, who on hearing Helen's story calmlyassured her that she had either been dreaming, or had seen the strangegentleman their fellow-lodger whose existence Helen had rashly dared toquestion. Oddly enough she had forgotten all about him, and feltsomewhat relieved by Edith's matter-of-fact solution.

  "Only what should he be doing at the clock at this time of night? I hopehe is not out of his mind;"--to which Edith replied:--

  "I do believe he gets up to make it strike thirteen on purpose to teaseus."

  Monday morning wore a more promising aspect than Sunday, for such cloudsas there were, bespoke nothing worse than showers, and our young ladiessucceeded in obtaining an hour or two's sketching at the lake. Helen,however, felt still considerably the worse of her terrible wetting,and was actually the first to propose that they should return to thefarm-house. Somewhat weakened by her cold, and tired too, she mountedthe little pony at Edith's suggestion, and they were proceeding cheerilyenough on their way--Griffith, loaded with their painting materials,some little distance behind--when a stumble on the pony's part broughthim suddenly to the ground. Helen had been paying little attention toher steed, and, unprepared for the shock, fell on her side with somelittle force. A most undignified procedure had there been any one towitness it, but which would have drawn forth nothing but a laugh had itnot been that in the fall her foot caught in the stirrup. Her sharp cryof pain terrified Edith, who, however, soon succeeded in disentanglingher, as the poor little pony remained perfectly quiet, but a moment'sexamination, and a vain attempt to stand, showed them that the ankle wasbadly sprained. All that could be done was to mount Helen again as wellas Edith and Griffith could manage, and to make the best of their wayhome. Arrived there, hot applications soon reduced the pain, but it waseasy to be seen, even by their inexperienced eyes, that Helen must notattempt to move for several days to come.

  Here was a charming ending to their expedition! Helen, even, feltwoefully disconcerted, and poor Edith fairly began to cry.

  "If it were not that you would not like it, I would write to Mrs.Lindsay to come and nurse you," said Edith, "she is so good and kind,and I know she would come in a minute, for she has nothing to preventher."

  "Mrs. Lindsay! Edith," exclaimed Helen indignantly, "the very lastperson I would apply to, however good
and kind she may be. Do you reallythink that. I would put myself under such an obligation to the sister ofthe man I have----" "Quarrelled with for nothing at all," said thelittle voice at the bottom of her heart. Edith said nothing, but for thefirst time in her life took an independent resolution and acted upon it.Her love for Helen conquered her fear of displeasing her. What thisresolution was we shall not disclose, nor shall we tell whose handaddressed a letter to Mrs. Lindsay carried that evening by the post-boyto Llanfar. The strangest coincidence was that _two_ letters bearing thesame direction left the Black Nest Farm that evening.

  Tired out with the pain of her ankle, Helen, for the first time sincetheir arrival, slept past midnight and only woke to hear the clockstrike five. All too soon for her comfort, for her thoughts were noneof the brightest, as she lay waiting for the daylight. Her folly, herheadstrong determination, right or wrong, to carry out her own way,began to show themselves to her more clearly; or rather, she began toallow herself to see them in their true light. And when at last themorning came, and she was established for the day on the hard littlehorse-hair sofa in their sitting-room, her spirits were not improved bythe perusal of a letter from her Aunt Fanny. The good old lady, afterdeploring their absence and pathetically describing her anxiety on theirbehalf, made mention of a visit from Mrs. Lindsay, who had come to tellher how unhappy she was about her brother. "He left home," wrote AuntFanny, "two days after that unfortunate conversation with you withouttelling his sister what was the matter. At least she only gathered thatsomething unpleasant had happened from his saying that you were leavinghome, and that he did not expect to see you before you went. He left nodirection beyond telling her to write to his club, which she has donetwo or three times, but got no answer. She says he looked so unlikehimself that she fears he has fallen ill somewhere and cannot write totell her. Oh, Helen, I do wish you had never thought of thisexpedition."

  "How very silly Mrs. Lindsay is to be so fanciful," said Helen, in whichview of the case tender-hearted little Edith did not at all agree,though she hardly dared to say so. They spent a dull day, for Edithwould not consent to leave her sister, and their paintings were at astandstill for want of another day's sketching from the original.

  "To-morrow, Edith," said Helen, "you might go to the lake for an hour orso without me and finish your sketch, and I might go on with mine fromyours," to which Edith made no objection.

  By night Helen's feverish uneasiness had increased, and Edith secretlycongratulated herself on her resolute step of the day before. And awretched night followed. In reality Helen was very anxious and unhappyabout Malcolm Willoughby, and her dreams were full of terrors thatsomething had befallen him. Through all, the disagreeable clock againthrust forward its ugly face, and she woke in an indescribable state ofhorror, fancying that the clock was standing by her bedside, strikingloudly in her ears to a kind of "refrain" of the words: "I told you so.I told you so." Of course the clock _was_ striking, and had evidentlyawakened her by so doing.

  "Thirteen again," whispered Edith, "it is really very disagreeable."

  "It sounds to _me_ like the voice of my conscience," said Helen,"warning me that some terrible punishment is coming upon me for mywicked folly. Yes, Edith, I see it all now, and as soon as ever I canmove we shall go home, and I shall ask poor Aunt Fanny to forgive me. Iwish every other consequence of my wrong-doing could be done away withas easily as her displeasure." And all her pride broken down, poor Helenburst into tears, and Edith's affectionate words of soothing were of noavail to stop her sobs. She felt rather better in the morning however,partly, perhaps, because the day was bright and sunny. About mid-dayshe fell into a doze on her sofa, and waking after an hour's sleep wassurprised to miss Edith. A note in pencil pinned to the table-covercaught her attention. It bore these words: "You are so nicely asleep Idon't like to waken you. I shall come back as early as I can, but don'tbe alarmed if I am a little later than you expect."

  "She has gone to finish the sketch," thought Helen uneasily. "I wish Ihad not asked her to do so, it looks dull and overcast."

  She rang the hand-bell for Mrs. Jones, who appeared with a basin ofsoup, and told her that the young lady had set off a quarter of an hourbefore.

  "It can't be helped now," said Helen, "but I wish I had not proposedit."

  The afternoon seemed long and dull, and yet Helen felt sorry when itbegan to close in, for no Edith had yet appeared. Still it was not laterthan they had been out together more than once. Helen tried to think itwas not yet dusk outside, but felt this comfort fail her when itgradually grew so indisputably dark that Mrs. Jones brought in candleswithout her asking for them.

  "Are you not uneasy about my sister and Griffith, Mrs. Jones?" saidHelen; but her anxiety was tenfold increased when Mrs. Jones repliedcalmly:--

  "Griffith is not with the young lady to-day. I had to send him a messageto Llanfair, and as like as not he will stay at his uncle's till themorning. The young lady said it did not matter, and I saddled the ponyfor her myself."

  "Griffith not with her!" exclaimed Helen. "Oh, Mrs. Jones, what willbecome of her?"

  "Don't be alarmed, miss," said the old woman, "the pony is very steady,and the darkness comes on so sudden-like, it seems later than it is."

  And with this scanty consolation Helen was obliged to remain satisfied.Mrs. Jones stirred up the fire and set the tea all ready, but Helen grewsick at heart as the time went on, and still no Edith. Six, struck theclock, and ticked on again to seven. Helen could bear it no longer.

  "Mrs. Jones," cried she, "can you not get any one to go to look for mysister? She may be on her way down the hill, and have got into somedifficulty with the pony."

  "Indeed, miss, I don't know what I can do. There's no one nearer thanold Thomas and he can't move."

  "The strange gentleman!" said Helen suddenly; "your other lodger. Wouldhe not help me?"

  "He has been out since early this morning," replied Mrs. Jones, "and hetold me he was not sure of being back to-night. He has gone to meet afriend."

  Helen felt more in despair than before. It seemed an aggravation of heranxiety to have to lie still on the sofa doing nothing. Indeed had shebeen able to do so, nothing would have prevented her making her way tothe Black Lake, and too probably losing her own life in the endeavour tosave her sister's. As it was, she managed at last to drag herself to thedoor in hopes of hearing footsteps up the path, but nothing broke thesilence save the tick, tick of the clock. It wore on to nine, despiteher wretchedness and indescribable anxiety. She pictured to herself hersister, her dear little Edith, left so specially in her charge, coweringon the moor, alone in that dreary darkness, sobbing in despair of everfinding her way out of that frightful desert. Or, worse still, lyingcold and dead in one of those fearful pits under the mockingly beautifulmoss; whence, in all probability, her poor body even would never berecovered. It was too frightful. Helen almost shrieked aloud: "Oh, mydarling, my little sister, come back, do come back. Oh, Malcolm, ifonly you were here. How terribly I am punished for my self-will!" Andterribly punished she was, for the memory of that night's suffering wastoo painful to recall in after years without a shudder. Mrs. Jones wasin helpless distress, though in hopes of every moment hearing the ponyand the young lady at the gate, and she returned to her own domainssaying she had better have hot water ready as Miss Edith would befainting for her tea. Helen remained alone at the window of thesitting-room.

  The night was fine but very dark. Darker than she had ever seen a nightbefore, it seemed to Helen. She was almost in a stupor of despair. Shesank down half-unconsciously before the fire and never knew how long shehad lain there when she was roused by the clock striking. "One, two,three, four,"--she counted aloud as if bewitched, till when it got tothe fatal _thirteen_, her over-strained nerves gave way, and with ascream she ran or stumbled, she knew not how, along the passage to seekfor Mrs. Jones. As she passed the front-door she was arrested by thesharp sounds of steps coming quickly up the garden path. The door waspushed open. The only light was what came th
rough the open door of theroom she had just left, and she could distinguish nothing but a talldark figure hurrying towards her. She screamed with terror but stood,unable to move, when to her intense relief a voice from behind theperson she saw, exclaimed eagerly: "Helen, dearest Helen, don't befrightened. I am quite safe," and some one rushed past the tall person,now close to her, and kissing her passionately, Helen felt, rather thansaw, that it was Edith.

  "Malcolm! Malcolm! she is fainting!" called Edith, and the tall personpressed forward, caught her up in his arms like a baby, and, unconsciousnow of everything, Helen was carried back into the sitting-room, laid onthe hard little sofa, and there held tenderly by the strong yet gentlearms whose protecting care she, poor foolish child, had fancied shecould so well dispense with.

  It was the first time in her life that Helen Beaumont had ever fainted,and it was not long before she began to recover.

  "Malcolm! oh, Malcolm!" were her first words on returning consciousness(and it seemed to her afterwards as if some one else had spoken them forher, her good angel perhaps!), "can you ever forgive me?"

  "My darling," was the whispered answer, "you know you need not ask it."And then Helen felt as if she were just going to die, but was too happyto care, and too languid to ask even how all this had come about. Butnow a third person came forward saying:--

  "Malcolm, let me stay beside her," and, wonderful to tell, the sweetvoice and kind face were Mrs. Lindsay's. Helen thought she must bedreaming, but lay still as she was told, and then drank something orother Mrs. Lindsay brought her; so before long she was able to sit upand begin to wonder what was the meaning of it all.

  "Are you not amazed, Helen?" said Edith; "but first of all you mustforgive me for frightening you so, for indeed I have been nearly aswretched as you, thinking of what you must have been feeling." Andbefore Helen could reply the eager girl ran on with her explanations."Who do you think has been our fellow-lodger all this time, Helen? Whodo you think is the 'strange gentleman'? Only fancy Malcolm's havingbeen here ever since we came! It was he that travelled by the sametrain, and seeing as it moved off at Llanfar that we had got out, he didso at the next station, and arrived here before us. He had inquiredabout Mrs. Jones, and heard what a good creature she was; and he hadtime to have a talk with her, and to take her to some extent into hisconfidence."

  Helen looked at first, as this recital went on, as if she were waveringbetween a return to her old dislike to being interfered with, andgratitude to Malcolm for his undeserved devotion. The good angeltriumphed, as Malcolm, who was watching her anxiously, quicklyperceived.

  "I did not interfere with you, Helen," he said in a low voice, "but itwas the greatest comfort to me to be able to protect and care for you,even though you did not know it."

  The tears started to Helen's eyes.

  "Oh, Malcolm, I know how good you are, but----"

  "Never mind any 'buts,'" said Mrs. Lindsay brightly, catching the lastword. "'All's well, that ends well.'"

  "I know now who foraged for us so successfully," said Edith. "Who wasthe mysterious friend that gave Mrs. Jones the mushrooms!"

  "And nearly betrayed myself by laughing at the door, when passing Iheard Helen's enthusiastic thanks to Mrs. Jones," said Malcolm.

  "Yes, and frightened me horribly by so doing," added Helen, "as I reallybegan to think that clock was bewitched, and had a special ill-willagainst me. In fact it took the place of my conscience for the timebeing."

  "I have the very greatest regard for the clock," said Malcolm demurely,"and I intend to make Mrs. Jones an offer for it forthwith."

  "Please don't," said Helen piteously. "I daresay it is very silly, but Ireally don't quite like that clock, though, after all, its warning ofill-luck has brought the very reverse to me. But I have not heard yetwhat kept Edith out so late, or how in the world you and Mrs. Lindsaymet her at the Black Lake."

  "The Black Lake?" said Mrs. Lindsay, "what do you mean?"

  Whereupon Edith hastened on with that part of her story relating to herown adventures. She, it appeared, feeling confident in Mrs. Lindsay'sready kindness, and never doubting but what she would at once respond toher appeal by coming to nurse Helen, instead of going to the Black Laketo sketch, as Helen imagined, set off on the pony to meet her friendat the station, having proposed to her to come by a certain train.Overtaking Griffith on the road to Llanfair, as she expected from Mrs.Jones's account, he accompanied her to the village, where she gave overthe pony to his care. As she entered the station she saw a return trainabout to start for the Junction about half an hour's journey from whereshe was. Finding by her watch that she was in ample time, it struck herthat she might as well go so far to meet her friend, but on arriving atthe Junction she was startled to find that with the new month a changehad taken place in the trains, and that consequently Mrs. Lindsay couldnot arrive till late in the evening. Worse still she herself could notnow get back to Helen till she was frightened to think what hour, theevening train in question not going farther than Llanfar, the stationnear the Junction at which she and her sister had by mistake got out ontheir arrival, and which was fifteen miles from the Black Nest. It isneedless to describe her distress of mind all the long hours she had tosit in the little waiting-room at the Junction; or her correspondingdelight when, on the train coming up, she descried looking out of awindow the familiar face of Malcolm Willoughby, and found that he wasaccompanied by his sister whom he had gone to meet half-way on herjourney.

  Helen woke at noon the next day feeling indescribably happy, she couldnot tell why till the sight of Mrs. Lindsay's sweet face recalled to hermind all her misery of the night before and the relief and happinesswith which it had ended.

  "How little I deserve it!" thought she humbly and gratefully, "and howcan I ever repay Malcolm for his goodness?"

  Their dull little parlour looked very different now that it wasenlivened by the presence of the two newcomers; and Helen could scarcelybelieve it to be the same room in which, but yesterday, she had passedhours of such agonising suspense. So thoroughly penitent and softeneddid she feel that she offered no opposition to anything proposed, and itwas therefore arranged that as soon as Helen was well enough to travelthey should all return home together to relieve poor Aunt Fanny'sanxiety.

  "I wonder," said Helen, with a little sigh, a few days afterwards, whenthey were packing up their painting materials, "I wonder if I shall everfinish my sketch of the Black Lake."

  "I don't like to make rash promises," said Malcolm, "but if somebody Iknow is _very_ good perhaps next summer she may see the Black Lakeagain, provided she will neither catch cold nor tumble off her pony."

  Edith laughed and Helen blushed.

  "But there's one thing still," said Edith, "which I don't understand.Why, Malcolm, did you always shut your door as the clock struckthirteen?"

  "Very simply explained," replied he. "The first night I was here I wassitting up reading till midnight and thought I heard it strike thirteen.I thought it very odd, and for a night or two I listened till it beganto strike and then opened my door to make sure I was not mistaken. Andone night I went out with my candle to examine the clock, trying to makeout the cause of it, and to see if I could put it right. No man, theysay, can resist meddling with a clock even though he is no mechanicalgenius."

  "All the same," said Edith triumphantly, "notwithstanding yourexaminations, you and no one else can tell the reason why that clockdoes strike thirteen."

  THE END.

  ABERDEEN UNIVERSITY PRESS

  TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE

  Hyphenation is inconsistent; in a small number of instances, missingpunctuation has been added.

  A duplicated word "than" was removed from the sentence "...of a "home"than she had ever had before."

  Several obvious misspellings have been corrected. The followingadditional change was made to punctuation in keeping with the logic ofthe plot (original is followed by corrected version):

  The more I thought it over the more striking grew the coincidences
at Finster. It had been on one of the closed doors that the shadow seemed to settle, as again here in our own hall.

  The more I thought it over the more striking grew the coincidences. At Finster it had been on one of the closed doors that the shadow seemed to settle, as again here in our own hall.