He is a long time absent. To me it seems ages. We three women stand waiting in breathless suspense. Bebe titters nervously.
"He is without doubt making a thorough examination," says Sir James, gravely.
We strain our eyes into the night, and even as we do so, something supernaturally tall—black, gaunt, with a white plume waving from its haughty head—advances slowly towards us, from out the gloom. I feel paralyzed with fright, although instinct tells me it is not the thing.
"Who are ye, that come to disturb my nightly revel?" says the plumed figure; and then we all know we are gazing at Mr. Thornton, lengthened by a sweeping-brush covered with a black garment, which he holds high above his head.
"Thornton, I protest you are incorrigible," exclaims Marmaduke, when at length he can command his voice; "and I thought better of you, James, than to aid and abet him."
I am on the very verge of hysterics; a pinch, administered by Bebe, alone restrains me: as it is, the tears of alarm are mingling with the laughter I cannot suppress.
"My new black Cashmere wrap, I protest!" cries Harriot, pouncing upon Chips and his sweeping-brush. "Well, Really, Chippendale—- And the feather out of my best bonnet. Oh, this comes of having one's room off a balcony. Why, you wicked boy, you have been upsetting all my goods and chattels. Who gave you permission, sir, to enter my bedroom?"
"Sir James," replies Chips, demurely, who has emerged, from his disguise, and is vainly trying to reduce his dishevelled locks to order. "It was so convenient."
"Oh, James!" says his wife, with a lively reproach, "have I lived to see you perpetrate a joke?"
"But where is the spectre?" I venture to remark.