“Don’t exasperate me,” I cried now, truly beside myself; “I will quit the house!”
“No, no! not in that state. Come to bed, my dear. I won’t say another word.”
The next morning, upon waking, my wife said nothing about the past night’s affair, and, feeling no little embarrassment myself, especially at having been thrown into such a panic, I also was silent. Consequently, my wife must still have ascribed my singular conduct to a mind disordered, not by ghosts, but by punch. For my own part, as I lay in bed watching the sun in the panes, I began to think that much midnight reading of Cotton Mather was not good for man; that it had a morbid influence upon the nerves, and gave rise to hallucinations. I resolved to put Cotton Mather permanently aside. That done, I had no fear of any return of the ticking. Indeed, I began to think that what seemed the ticking in the room, was nothing but a sort of buzzing in my ear.
As is her wont, my wife having preceded me in rising, I made a deliberate and agreeable toilet. Aware that most disorders of the mind have their origin in the state of the body, I made vigorous use of the flesh-brush, and bathed my head with New England rum, a specific once recommended to me as good for buzzing in the ear. Wrapped in my dressing gown, with cravat nicely adjusted, and fingernails neatly trimmed, I complacently descended to the little cedar-parlor to breakfast.
What was my amazement to find my wife on her knees, rummaging about the carpet nigh the little apple-tree table, on which the morning meal was laid, while my daughters, Julia and Anna, were running about the apartment distracted.
“Oh, papa, papa!” cried Julia, hurrying up to me, “I knew it would be so. The table, the table!”
“Spirits! spirits!” cried Anna, standing far away from it, with pointed finger.
“Silence!” cried my wife. “How can I hear it, if you make such a noise? Be still. Come here, husband; was this the ticking you spoke of? Why don’t you move? Was this it? Here, kneel down and listen to it. Tick, tick, tick!—don’t you hear it now?”
“I do, I do,” cried I, while my daughters besought us both to come away from the spot.
Tick, tick, tick!
Right from under the snowy cloth, and the cheerful urn, and the smoking milk-toast, the unaccountable ticking was heard.
“Ain’t there a fire in the next room, Julia,” said I, “let us breakfast there, my dear,” turning to my wife—“let us go—leave the table—tell Biddy to remove the things.”
And so saying I was moving towards the door in high self-possession, when my wife interrupted me.
“Before I quit this room, I will see into this ticking,” she said with energy.
“It is something that can be found out, depend upon it. I don’t believe in spirits, especially at breakfast-time. Biddy! Biddy! Here, carry these things back to the kitchen,” handing the urn. Then, sweeping off the cloth, the little table lay bare to the eye.
“It’s the table, the table!” cried Julia.
“Nonsense,” said my wife, “Who ever heard of a ticking table? It’s on the floor. Biddy! Julia! Anna! move everything out of the room—table and all. Where are the tack-hammers?”
“Heavens, mamma—you are not going to take up the carpet?” screamed Julia.
“Here’s the hammers, marm,” said Biddy, advancing tremblingly.
“Hand them to me, then,” cried my wife; for poor Biddy was, at long gun-distance, holding them out as if her mistress had the plague.
“Now, husband, do you take up that side of the carpet, and I will this.” Down on her knees she then dropped, while I followed suit.
The carpet being removed, and the ear applied to the naked floor, not the slightest ticking could be heard.
“The table—after all, it is the table,” cried my wife. “Biddy, bring it back.”
“Oh no, marm, not I, please, marm,” sobbed Biddy.
“Foolish creature!—Husband, do you bring it.”
“My dear,” said I, “we have plenty of other tables; why be so particular?”
“Where is that table?” cried my wife, contemptuously, regardless of my gentle remonstrance.
“In the wood-house, marm. I put it away as far as ever I could, marm,” sobbed Biddy.
“Shall I go to the wood-house for it, or will you?” said my wife, addressing me in a frightful, businesslike manner.
Immediately I darted out of the door, and found the little apple-tree table, upside down, in one of my chip-bins. I hurriedly returned with it, and once more my wife examined it attentively. Tick, tick, tick! Yes, it was the table.
“Please, marm,” said Biddy, now entering the room, with hat and shawl—“please, marm, will you pay me my wages?”
“Take your hat and shawl off directly,” said my wife; “set this table again.”
“Set it,” roared I, in a passion, “set it, or I’ll go for the police.”
“Heavens! heavens!” cried my daughters, in one breath. “What will become of us!—Spirits! spirits!”
“Will you set the table?” cried I, advancing upon Biddy.
“I will, I will—yes, marm—yes, master—I will, I will. Spirits!—Holy Vargin!”
“Now, husband,” said my wife, “I am convinced that, whatever it is that causes this ticking, neither the ticking nor the table can hurt us; for we are all good Christians, I hope. I am determined to find out the cause of it, too, which time and patience will bring to light. I shall breakfast on no other table but this, so long as we live in this house. So, sit down, now that all things are ready again, and let us quietly breakfast. My dears,” turning to Julia and Anna, “go to your room, and return composed. Let me have no more of this childishness.”
Upon occasion my wife was mistress in her house.
During the meal, in vain was conversation started again and again; in vain my wife said something brisk to infuse into others an animation akin to her own. Julia
