Then the nurse awoke, peeped two angry eyes over her counterpane, and gave me some plainly-worded advice.
“Shame on you, ghost! Ain’t you got nothing better to do than scare childer and wake decent women-folks? Be off with you, you fat old blackguard, or it’s a bell, book and candle I’ll fetch.”
I only wished she would fetch a bell—and ring it.
“Dood night, dear doast!” cried my small friend, as I sank through the floor into the footman’s chamber. Here further failure awaited me. I could not so much as wake the man. His was no natural sleep, but some species of loathsome hibernation peculiar to male menials and entirely beyond my power to conquer or dispel.
And downstairs the inexpressible Warren was filling a sack with choice spoil and drinking dry sherry from the decanter.
I dashed out of doors to see if anything could be done with the watch-dog, a massive brute, judged without sufficient reason to be ferocious. He was asleep, of course, but came forth from his kennel when I touched his nose, recognised me instantly, wagged his idiotic tail, and showed an evident desire to be patted. I couldn’t pat him, but I should like to have kicked him, and I’m not ashamed to say so. I tried to rouse the dog’s spirit; I threw imaginary stones, and frisked about and pretended to steal its supper; but the lumbering brute regarded me with that good-tempered glance bred from conscious superiority, and then went back into its kennel.
If ever a spirit was more utterly crushed, sat upon, scorned and smothered by the flesh than I that night, I should like to learn the particulars.
Warren had now taken his sack into the dining-room, had cut two window-panes out with a diamond (why, I could not at the time understand), and then, opening the window widely, lowered his booty into the garden. I fled out again to strike terror, if possible, into the hearts of his vile accomplices, but found, to my surprise, that there were none. Single-handed he was effecting this dark deed.
Then a final desperate resolution came to my mind; I would rouse Miss Ethel Smithson herself, and show her the man she loved in his true colours.
Even then my natural kindness of disposition caused me to hesitate. But if you see, as I did then, love’s young dream drifting into a nightmare, you are justified in shattering it. No burglar could bring true and lasting happiness into a gentlewoman’s life. That, at least, is my view.