“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.
“Why, ghost,” said Ethel, rubbing her eyes after I had waked her, “I
don’t think it was kind of you to spoil a beautiful dream I was having
about--but never mind, it won’t interest you.” I beckoned mystically,
and she showed a little interest. I retreated, inch by inch, to the
door, waving her after me. Hamlet’s father’s spirit never did anything
better or more solemn and impressive. By all the curiosity of young
ladies, she rose! She put on a dressing-gown and slippers! She said,
“Whatever is it? I do hope there’s nothing happened to Talbot.” My
heart bled for her, but I was firm, and she followed me out on to the
dark landing.
A dim light flickered from a doorway far below. This Miss Smithson
instantly observed, and deducing a theory therefrom with marvellous
celerity, had the good sense to cry “Thieves!” as loud as she possibly
could do so. Then she bolted into her father’s room, made the same
remark, and finally retired to her own apartment, locking the door
behind her.
Disorder was thereupon the order of the night, while the behaviour of
the outrageous Warren passed belief. At the first sound of the tumult
he deliberately fired off his pistol through the top of his hat, and
discharged the other barrel into a rather valuable hunting picture
which hung above the sideboard. He then leapt through the open window
into the garden, rolled himself in the mud, rose and galloped off into
the darkness, shouting “This way! Follow me: I’ve got the scoundrels!
Help here, help!”
I need not point out that these expressions were calculated to give an
utterly false impression of the situation and circumstances. I had been
grossly deceived, as the rest of the family were now about to be.
Squire Smithson came down the front stairs with a life-preserver, and
my hibernating footman rushed down the back stairs with another. The
Squire kicked an umbrella-stand with his naked foot, and stopped a
moment to talk to himself. This gave the hireling some advantage of
ground, and when the head of the house reached his dining-room window,
he found a man half-way out of it. It was too dark to distinguish
friend or foe, and Squire Smithson, making a dash at the figure,
brought down his life-preserver with considerable brute force. I cannot
pretend to say I was sorry for this. The injured domestic screamed,
and was about to beg for mercy, when a mutual recognition occurred,
and he contented himself with giving warning. Then they tumbled out of
the window together, and hastened to where great shouting arose from a
distant shrubbery. A tramp, hearing the riot, got over the wall of the
kitchen garden at the back of the house to help, and fell through the
roof of a vinery. There he was ultimately discovered, cut to ribbons,
and it took him all his time for an hour to explain his intentions.
The dog, of course, began barking now as if he had known all from the
first, and only waited the right moment; the maids were screaming in
pairs from the different windows, and some fool in the house (the
page-boy, I imagine) was beating the dinner-gong--doubtless to conceal
his own cowardly emotions. For my own part, I was in twenty places at
once, whirling through the dark air, issuing directions, explaining
everything in dumb show, and making the entire concern as clear as
daylight.
But nobody paid the very slightest attention to me.
Warren at length returned, breathless and bedraggled. He recovered with
great apparent effort, gave utterance to a succession of dastardly
falsehoods, and became the hero of the hour.
The scamp related how a noise had awakened him; how, seeing a light
in the hall, he had crept downstairs, to find two ruffians with black
masks lowering a sack of valuables out of the dining-room window; how
he had hurled himself upon them with the courage of an army; how they
had twice fired point-blank at him, and then fled; how he had followed
them, seized one, and struggled with him; how, finally, uniting their
efforts, they had succeeded in escaping from him.
And there was an end of the matter; for of course it appeared
impossible to question the truth of the story, or raise any further
doubt about the moral and physical pluck of a young man who could do
these things.
Next morning the pistol was discovered in the garden; detectives
wandered about, lunched at the Squire’s expense, found clues, and took
the address of the tramp who had fallen into the greenhouse. This man
had departed a physical wreck, swearing that he would never put himself
out of the way again for anybody as long as he lived. I confess my
ghostly heart went out to him. The local paper published two columns of
sickening adulation upon the subject of Talbot Warren; Ethel’s father
consented to her engagement, and--bitterest blow of all--thought it
proper and decent to censure me at breakfast, before the servants, for
the part that I had played.
“What’s the use of a paltry shade that cannot even scare burglars away
from a family mansion?” he asked.
“The poor little chap tried his best,” said Ethel.
“Yes, after it was all over and the mischief nearly done. If he’d had
the pluck of a mouse, he would have gone down to help Warren, instead
of fluttering about making faces and doing nothing, and getting in the
way. Why didn’t he speak up like a man?”
The brute Warren said he thought that most spectres were cowards at
heart, and the butler ventured to agree with him.
I am leaving Capon Hall. These incidents have knocked all the spirit
out of me. I wish to say no bitter word of anybody; it is more in
sorrow than anger that I write; but misunderstanding so humiliating,
coupled with loss of self-respect so complete, can neither be lightly
forgiven nor forgotten.
Change, repose, lapse of ages are all necessary to the renewal of my
shattered moral tone and vital principle. It may be many centuries
before I revisit “the glimpses of the moon.” If I had my way I
should never haunt again. In my case the game is not worth the
phosphorescence. There obtains an idiotic belief among men that “all
appearances are deceitful”; but that such a rule has many exceptions I
can only trust this narrative will sufficiently attest.