She knew nothing about "Pompey's" ghostly visits; we had been careful not to mention them.
When she came downstairs the next morning she told us what a disturbed night she had passed through. She was awakened soon after midnight by the restless movements of a bulldog round her bed. She did not doubt it was her own dog, that owing to the forgetfulness of her maid had been left asleep under her bed. She called it, and at the same time switched on the light, but could see no signs of any dog at all. Rather puzzled, but concluding that she must have been mistaken, she composed herself to sleep once more.
Before very long the noise began again. A bulldog with its heavy, slouching tread was moving about round her bed.
This time the Duchess got up, and made a thorough search of her room, but could see nothing in the shape of any animal. Yet so convinced was she that a dog had been in the room, that she determined to look into her maid's room to see if her own dog was there.
She opened her maid's door, which was shut, and went into the room. The woman was asleep, and on the bed at her feet slept the French bulldog.
There was nothing to be done but to go back to her own bed once more, and try to sleep in spite of the disturbances.
This was the story the Duchess told us, and added to me, "If he comes again to-night I shall come along to your room and rouse you."
It did not come again. The peculiarity of "Pompey's" visits was that they only occurred once to each stranger, though he came several times to me, as was but natural.
We honored his memory by raising to him a large granite headstone, on which was inscribed—
"Soft lies the turf on one who finds his rest,
Here, on our common Mother's ample breast,
Unstained by meanness, avarice and pride,
He never flattered and he never lied.
No gluttonous excess his slumbers broke,
No burning alcohol, no stifling smoke.
He ne'er intrigued a rival to displace,
He ran, but never betted on a race.
Content with harmless sports and moderate food,
Boundless in love, and faith and gratitude.
Happy the man, if there be any such,
Of whom his epitaph can say as much.