Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 24

During Sylvester's residence with Mr. Scholefield, his career as a somnambulist was checked, and as his history as a somnambulist is all that we have to contemplate, it will be necessary to leap over a space of five years, with a brief explanation of the means which induced the de​velopment of his somnambalism to cease, and a description, somewhat less brief, of an incident for which, perhaps, many will be quite unprepared.

And first with respect to the means by which his career as a somnambulist was checked. It has been seen that Mr. Scholefield was an abstemious man: it has been stated that when he dined at the doctor's, he neither ate nor drank anything calculated to heat the blood or to produce any unnatural excitement; it will, therefore, be sufficient to add simply, that his arguments in favour of that practice were so strong and so convincing, that Sylvester adopted it at once; and having done so, he felt throughout the day so much lighter and more lively, that he adhered to it during the whole of the time he resided in Mr. Scholefield's house. It will, however, here be correct to observe that his adherence to this system must not be ascribed to any consciousness on his part of the cause of his having previously felt so languid—he had not even the most remote idea of the fact of his physical energies having been during the night exhausted: he attributed his gaiety and lightness of heart solely to the regimen he had adopted, and hence he continued to adhere to it firmly.

Now it happened that when Sylvester had been articled about twelve months, Mr. Scholefield was summoned to attend a female who was reported to be in the very last stage of consumption. He accordingly went, and was shown into a plain but clean and neatly-furnished room, in which he found a poor wasted, yet beautiful girl on a bed, near which her broken-hearted mother sat weeping.

The old lady rose as he entered, and tried to conceal her tears, but as the effort deprived her of the power to speak, he pressed her hand in silence, and went to the bedside.

"My poor girl," said he, with a benevolent smile, on taking her hands, which were like gloved bones, "why, your eyes are bright!—and sparkling!—you must not be in this state long."

"I feel," she observed faintly—"I feel that I should be well, if I were not so weak. I have no pain—no absolute physical pain—and yet I am prostrated thus!"

"Well, well," said he, soothingly, as a deep sigh escaped her, "you must not be sad. We must hope for the best, and see what can be done. I will send you that which will raise your spirits; but your mind must be tranquil: you must be quite calm. In the morning I'll see you again."

He then gently pressed her thin, weak, fleshless hand, and, as she fervently breathed forth her thanks, he left her.

On leaving the room, he was followed by her heart-stricken mother, who exclaimed, with an expression of anxiety which denoted the existence of those feelings which mothers only can experience—

"Pray, sir, tell me: are there any grounds for hope?—or will my poor dear child be lost to me for ever?"

"My, dear lady," replied Mr. Scholefield, who, although he perceived clearly that the case was hopeless, felt perfectly justified in concealing the fact then, "when I call in the morning, I shall be able to express a ​more decided opinion. For the present, be assured that there is no immediate danger."

The poor lady cherished the hope thus inspired, and, clasping her hands with deep fervour, thanked God.

"But," he added, "how long has your daughter been ill?"

"She has been sinking, sir, gradually, for nearly twelvemonths."

"Has anything of very great importance ever occurred to her? Do you know of any circumstance at all calculated to prey upon her mind?"

"Alas! yes. I ascribe it all to that. She became, sir, about twelve months since, enamoured, deeply enamoured, of a gentleman—a medical student—who—"

"I perceive, my dear lady. I do not wish to pry into any private matter: that medical student, I perceive, was a villain."

"No, thank heaven! She is virtuous, sir—pure as an angel! And he, I believe, was virtuous, too. But having—I do not say intentionally—I do not believe that the slightest blame can attach to him—but having fascinated my dear child, she saw him no more."

"Was he aware of the fact of his having made this impression?"

"I think not: and even assuming that he was, he, perhaps, acted wisely in the view of the world, for he was young—very young; while my child was then in a position far, very far, below the sphere in which she had been accustomed to move."

"Did she write to him at all?"

"She, unfortunately, knew not where to write. She made every possible effort to ascertain—not with the view of being importunate, but merely in order to see him once more—but, alas! she could gain no intelligence of him. There was one student at the hospital who knew him; but, although she applied to him frequently, all that she could learn from him was, that he had left. She then began to fade and pine, and has been pining ever since. She remained in the situation she occupied then, until she became too weak to perform its duties, and now, sir, although once a lovely girl, she is as you have seen her."

"Did he leave her unkindly?"

"Unhappily, no, sir. Had he been unkind, her pride would have sustained her. But he was, on the contrary, most kind and courteous. You probably perceived that she wore bracelets. Those bracelets were his gift. She wears them constantly: she would not part with them for worlds!"

"I wish that I knew where to find him. You, of course, know his name?"

"His name we could never learn: my child never heard more than his christian name mentioned."

"That's very unfortunate: very."

"I do believe, sir, that if she could but see him once again, her recovery even now would be almost immediate."

"Well, then, let us hope that she will again see him."

"I fear that that is hopeless."

"Things apparently more impossible have occurred."

"Very true, sir: very true."

​"Well, then, do not despair. Hope still, and conceal your distress as much as possible from her."

"I will do so," the poor lady exclaimed, as fresh tears gushed from her eyes; "as much as possible, I will."

Mr. Scholefield then promised to send to her immediately on his return, and to see her again in the morning, and having reassured her that there was no immediate danger, he left her reinspired with hope.

During dinner that day, Mr. Scholefield alluded to this distressing case; merely stating, however, that the poor girl had formed a romantic attachment to a young man, whom she had since never seen, and that she was then in consequence pining away in a hopeless state of consumption. This statement, brief as it was, interested Sylvester deeply, and as he had never witnessed a case of the kind—as he had never seen the hectic flush, and the various other symptoms of approaching death, which are, in such cases, commonly developed—it was suggested by Mr. Scholefield—who was, at all times, anxious to advance Sylvester's professional knowledge—that, in the morning, they should visit the poor girl together.

In the morning they accordingly went, and, on entering the room, found the old lady much more tranquil; but the very instant Sylvester approached the bed, the poor girl started as if from a dream.

"Mother! mother!" she exclaimed; "look! there! Have I my senses still, or have I lost them? Is this a vision?—Sylvester!" she added, as he extended his hand, for, in an instant, he recognised Julia. "Oh, this is joy beyond expression," and, seizing his hand with all the energy at her command, she passionately kissed it, and wept.

"My poor girl," said Sylvester, tenderly; and, while his eyes were filled with tears, her mother stood struck with amazement. "How is it with you?"

"Oh! I am happy now—quite—quite happy—Sylvester! Oh! how I have prayed to behold you once again. Blessed be God!" she added, devoutly; "my prayers have been heard."

"And now," said Mr. Scholefield, having somewhat recovered from the state of surprise into which this unexpected scene had thrown him; "you and I must come at once to an understanding. I have," he added, with a smile which caused her to bless him; "I have brought him, whom I perceive you were rather anxious to see, with me; but, understand, I must bring him no more, unless you promise me faithfully that you will be henceforward calm."

"I do promise faithfully: I will be calm."

"I must not allow him to come here and throw you into this state of excitement, when my object is to keep you as tranquil as possible."

"I will be tranquil: indeed, I will. I am not excited now! I am only happy."

"Very well: then he shall again come to see you."

"Heaven will bless you for this!" exclaimed Julia; and Mr. Scholefield and her mother retired to the window. "Sylvester!" she added, with a look of unspeakable fondness; "can you forgive me?"

"Forgive you, my poor girl, what have I to forgive?"

​
Sylvester's visit to Julia.

​"My boldness; my forwardness."

"How can I forgive that of which I am unconscious?"

"You are kind!" she replied. "But tell me: have you been well?—and happy?"

"I have: and sorry indeed am I, to find that you have not."

"I have not been; but I am happy now, and hope to be soon again well. But you will not despise me? I cannot conceal from you that which I know that I ought to conceal. But, oh! how I have longed to see you! Do you remember that happy evening?—the evening on which you gave me these?"

Sylvester, who then, for the first time, noticed the bracelets, replied that he did.

"You were smiling then," she continued; "why do you not now smile?"

Sylvester burst into tears.

"Do you weep for me?" she faintly inquired. "God bless you! Do you not think then that I shall recover?"

"Well," said Mr. Scholefield, coming forward, "we must now for the present leave you: but, remember, you must be quite calm!"

"I will be calm—quite calm," replied Julia, who still held Sylvester's hand in hers; and when Mr. Scholefield was leaving the room, Sylvester said "I will see you this evening."

"You will!" she exclaimed, with an expression of ecstacy.

"I will."

She kissed his hand, and he left her happy.

On leaving the house, Sylvester explained to Mr. Scholefield the circumstances under which he had previously known her, and having related the history of the bracelets, and all that had been said of her by Tom, he earnestly inquired if her recovery were hopeless.

Mr. Scholefield replied that it was—quite hopeless. "She may," he added, "live four or five days longer; but your interview with her has, in all probability, exhausted nearly the whole of her remaining strength. Poor girl! I am, indeed, very sorry for her. She has been, it appears, the sole support of her mother: her death will break the old lady's heart."

"Do you think," inquired Sylvester, cautiously, "do you think that they are in poverty now?"

"I should say, not in absolute poverty: that is to say, not in a state of actual destitution; but that they are poor, very poor, I've no doubt."

Sylvester was silent and thoughtful. He had in his desk a ten-pound note, and as he felt quite sure of being able to borrow another of Tom, he resolved on sending them twenty pounds, anonymously, in the course of the morning.

In pursuance of this resolution he, on leaving Mr. Scholefield, called upon Tom, who was at that period preparing to pass the college.

"Tom," said he, "I want ten pounds. I wish you'd let me have it, till I can hear from my aunt?"

"Ted what!" cried Tom.

"Ten pounds."

​"Is there such a sub id the world?"

"Why it isn't a very enormous sum!"

"I dod't thidk there is such a sub; I dever had such a sub id by possessiod! I should like to see the bad who has got ted poudds. There was a swell, add his nabe was Crœsus, who bight have had ted poudds by hib; but I dever yet heard of a Crœsus secuddus."

"Nay, but joking apart, Tom; will you let me have ten pounds for a few days?"

"By dear fellow, ask be for ted drops of blood, add I'll give eb to you freely; but what state of bide do you ibagide the old people would be id if they fadcied I had the sub of ted poudds by be? They have dever yet let be have such ad aboudt of buddy. Ted poudds! Wouldd't I have a flare-up with ted poudds!"

"Well," said Sylvester, "it's a matter of slight importance. I did want twenty, but as I've only ten, I must make ten do for to-day."

"Stop!" cried Tom; "a thought strikes be. Did you ever go to by udcles?"

"No; I never knew that you had one."

"Greed, Syl! still extrebely greed. I dever saw hib; but all our fellows have: he is, I believe, dearly related to the lot. Dow, I'll tell you what it is, Syl, I haved't ted poudds, but I've a watch which did, I believe, origidally belodg to by graddbother's graddfather's secodd wife's bother, add which I udderstadd is worth thirty. If, therefore, you thidk that we cad buster up courage edough to take this to the pawdbroker's, I've doe doubt he'll ledd us the sub of ted poudds upod it."

"Oh, I've a watch, too! But I don't know how to manage it."

"Oh, we'll badage it sobehow. Let's take theb both, add if bide isd't valuable edough, you kdow, he cad hold yours as well."

"Mine's worth more than twenty pounds."

"Well, but there's dothidg at all like beidg sure. Cobe alodg, add let's try our luck. I should like to see what sort of a swell this udiversal relatiod of madkide is."

They accordingly went to a pawnbroker's shop, and looked artfully in at the window for a time, and then walked on a little, and turned and returned, and examined the goods in the window again; and then anxiously looked up the street and then down, with the view of ascertaining if any one were watching them.

"Well," said Tom, at length, "shall we go id?"

"Why," returned Sylvester, "I don't at all like the idea. Suppose any one were to see us?"

"That would be awkward, certaidly. But bight they dot thidk that we wedt id to buy sobething?"

"Well, it is true they might think so. But really I don't at all fancy the thing."

"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do," said Tom. "Perhaps it doesd't look well for two fellows like us to go id together; I'll toss you for the chadce—such a chadce as it is: heads, I go id: tails, you go.

"Agreed," said Sylvester; and when they had removed from the window Tom tossed, and the result was a head.

​
Tom returns from the window of his Uncle.

​"By usual luck!" he exclaimed. "But dever bide: I'll go."

And he did go, boldly—up to the window; and stopped, and examined the little articles exhibited therein, and then went back to Sylvester fraught with an idea.

"Syl," said he, with a doubtful expression. "I say! will it look well, do you thidk, for wud fellow to go id with two watches?"

"Perhaps not," returned Sylvester; who began to wish that he hadn't embarked at all in this expedition.

"Who kdows," resumed Tom, "they bay thidk that I stole theb. I'll tell you what, Syl; let's go idto this public-house, add talk over the batter calbly."

Into the public-house they accordingly went; and when Sylvester had ordered a bottle of soda-water for himself, and Tom had called, of course, for a pot of porter, they sat down with the view of having a calm discussion on the intricate ramifications of the case.

"Dow," said Tom, "the questiod is, what's best to be dode? Add id the first place, what do you suggest?"

"Why, I think that we had better give it up!" replied Sylvester.

"Give it up! Dever! We'll have the buddy. Stop a bidite," said he, as the waiter entered; "there, that'll do: we'll oped that. Dow," he added, having pulled out two-thirds of the porter, "I'b ready for adythidg id life. I'll tell you what I'll do; I'll go over with wud, add thed they cad have doe suspiciod."

"Well then, take mine," said Sylvester.

"Doe: that wod't do. Suppose they ask if the watch is by owd? Dod't you see? I cad't say yes. Add if I were, add it should cobe to a search, add the officer were to fide adother watch id by pocket—but that I could leave here: yes, I bight do that: still I'd better take by owd. I wudder what sort of questiods they usually ask. I'll bet ted to wud I'b bowled out."

"Then don't go."

"Dot go! What are you talkidg about? What have I to fear? 'I wadt you to ledd be ted poudds upod this.' That's all I have to say; add a child could say that. I have seed childred frequedtly go id alode. If they should have ady doubt about the batter, I'll bridg theb over here. But thed it bight cobe to a pair of haddcuffs; we bight thed be barched off together od suspiciod."

"We had better give it up," said Sylvester. "You had better not go."

"Go! I'll go!" cried Tom, valiantly; and having finished his porter, he left the room with the air of a man who fully expected to meet an enraged rhinoceros.

During his absence, Sylvester was filled with apprehension. He conceived that Tom might be suspected of dishonesty—that he might be detained—that he might be given into the custody of a policeman, and that the result would be a humiliating exposure. He tried to subdue the fears thus inspired, but as Tom was absent a very long time, they every moment acquired fresh strength.

At length, however, Tom returned, and on entering the room he dashed his hat upon the table, and exclaimed—

​"It's of doe use, Syl: I cad't do it! I did just dow work byself up idto a fit of desperatiod, but just as I was bakidg a rush id, a fellow cabe to the door with a ped behide his ear, add looked at be exactly as if he suspected that I was goidg to cut a pade of glass out of his widdow. Dow I'll tell you what we'll do. I kdow a fellow who's up to every thidg of the sort. We'll go to his lodgidgs—he'll do it id a bobedt. Cobe alodg!"

"No," said Sylvester, "I shouldn't like that. Don't you think that the doctor would lend me ten pounds?"

"Id ad idstadt! I dever thought of that!—of course he would."

"I do not like to have it of Mr. Scholefield, because he would know at once what I wanted it for."

"Thed have it of the goverdor! Shall I ask hib for you?"

"No: I think it would look better for me to ask him myself."

"Very well; thed cobe alodg; we shall just about catch hib at hobe. I'd ask hib to ledd it to be, but that would be doe go at all."

They then left the house, and, as they returned to the doctor's residence, Sylvester said—"Have you seen Julia lately?"

"Doe," replied Tom; "I've dot beed to the house for a lodg tibe. But I believe she has left. Ill health, I believe, was the cause of her leavidg. The last tibe I saw her—that was sobe bodths ago—she wadted to kdow where you lived, but, of course, I didd't feel at all justified id gividg her your address."

Sylvester was silent; and as the subject was not pursued by Tom, they returned in silence to the residence of the doctor, who was then in the library alone.

"You had better go id at wudce," said Tom. "I shall be id by study. Dod't leave, you kdow, without cobidg up."

Sylvester promised that he would not; and on going into the library was received by the doctor, as usual, with the utmost cordiality and kindness.

"Doctor," said he, "I have to ask you a favour. It happens that I want ten pounds until I receive a remittance from my aunt, which will be the day after to-morrow."

"Very good."

"Will you do me the favour to let me have it?"

"Of course! I am quite sure that the purpose for which you want it is a good one."

"It is. I do not like to ask Mr. Scholefield—"

"My good fellow, not another word. Here is a cheque for fifteen."

"Ten will be quite sufficient."

"I have written it now; and whenever you happen to want money, come at once to me."

He then inquired after Mr. Scholefield, and when he had made a few remarks having reference to professional matters, Sylvester withdrew, and went up stairs to Tom.

"Well," said Tom, "he let you have the buddy, of course?"

"In a moment," replied Sylvester. "I asked him for ten, and he gave me a cheque for fifteen."

​"What ad out-add-out systeb, that cheque systeb is. It saves a bad the trouble of puttidg his hadd idto his pocket, which is very addoyidg whed there's doe buddy there. I dever wrote wud id by life. I should like to write a few. I'b sure it must be a cobfort."

"When you know that they will be cashed."

"That's of course what I bead. If ady badker id dature would cash by cheques, I'd give hib add all his clerks twelvebodths hard labour."

"But you are not short of money, are you?"

"Dot a bit of it! I dod't wad't buch; but I'b dever without a sov. Whed I cobe dowd to wud, that's the sigdal for actiod: I dever let eb rest till they bake it up five. Five's the baxibud: wud's the bidibub; but the goverdor owes be two, which I cad't get."

"He owes you two!"

"Of course. About twelvebodths ago, a swell swiddled hib out of two --which two he said I bight get if I could; but I cad't fide the fellow—add as I therefore cad't get the buddy of hib, the goverdor owes it of course!"

"Well, if you can convince him that he owes it by such a line of logic as that, I have not the slightest doubt that he'll pay you."

"I expect he'll give it be wud of these days id a state of disgust, to get rid of the addoyadce. But I say, you'll stop add have a bit of ludch with be?"

"No; not this morning."

"I've got sobe pribe stout, add the bortal rebaids of a capital pie! Have a look at it."

"No, I must be off."

"Well, if you bust, why, you bust! But whedever you wadt to go to by udcles, you cad't do better thad take be with you. That's a dodge I shad't forget."

Sylvester smiled, and left him; and when he had got the cheque cashed, he enclosed the whole of the twenty-five pounds, with a delicate note, signed simply "A Friend," and privately sent it to Julia's mother.

In the evening—having previously intimated to Mr. Scholefield that he had promised to call upon Julia—he performed that promise, and the moment he entered the room, the old lady—who felt sure that the money had been sent by him—fell upon his neck, blessed him, and sobbed like a child.

On reaching the bed, he found Julia much weaker. Her eyes, indeed, flashed as she beheld him, and the blood rushed at once to her cheeks; but her glance soon changed to an inexpressive glare, and her cheeks became deadly pale.

"My dear girl," said Sylvester, perceiving at once that Mr. Scholefield's conjecture was correct; "I fear that you are not quite so well this evening?"

Julia had not the power to speak above a whisper, and that was too faint to be heard.

"But, come," resumed Sylvester, tenderly; "you must not be sad. All may yet be well. Julia, I have come to sit with you to converse with you, Julia."

​Julia sighed, and slightly smiled, as she pressed his hand to her pallid lips.

"Julia," said Sylvester, after a pause, during which her eyes continued to be fixed upon him; "will you for a moment excuse me?"

Her lips moved, and Sylvester, on bending his ear to them, heard, faintly, the words, "You will not leave me long?"

"I will not be one moment," he replied, and, on leaving the room, he sent a man off to Mr. Scholefield, to request his immediate attendance. On his return, he resumed his seat, in silence, by her side, and again took her weak hand, and met her fond gaze; and thus he continued to sit in silence until Mr. Scholefield arrived.

Mr. Scholefield, who, in a moment, saw how the case stood, gave Julia a few drops of wine, which, in some degree, revived her; and, having instructed Sylvester what to do in an event which he clearly perceived to be inevitable, he sat for some time with the poor old lady—who was overwhelmed with grief, and whose heart was then ready to break—and when he had affectionately taken leave of Julia—as he felt, for the last time—he left them, with Sylvester's hand still clasped in hers.

It was then eight o'clock, and for nearly an hour Sylvester sat watching her, almost in silence, without perceiving the slightest change. About nine o'clock, however, she intimated a wish to have a little more wine, and—as Mr. Scholefield had privately told him that whatever she wished for then she might have—Sylvester tenderly raised her head and gave her a few drops more.

Again she revived and was able to speak, although but in a whisper; and that so faint, that it could scarcely be said to have violated silence: still, finding that she had this power restored, she moved her lips slightly, and Sylvester listened.

"Sylvester," he heard her say, "I soon shall be no more. I feel that every hope of my recovery has fled: the only hope I cherish still, is that we may meet in heaven! God for ever bless you! I die happy, Sylvester!—quite happy now that you are near me! Pray for me, Sylvester—pray with me. Angels of light are waiting now to bear our prayers to heaven!"

Sylvester, who was deeply affected, knelt and prayed with fervour: her mother also knelt and prayed—and Julia ceased to breathe!

They were, however, for some time unconscious of this, for her eyes continued bright, and her features were unchanged, while she still pressed Sylvester's hand; but, when they at length found that her spirit had fled, her poor devoted, broken-hearted, mother gave one convulsive shriek, and instantly fell upon the bed a corpse!

For some time Sylvester stood by the bed motionless. His faculties were paralysed. He seemed struck with horror! Eventually, however, he recovered himself, and summoned assistance from below.

The person who kept the house—a kind, honest, motherly creature—no sooner ascertained what had occurred, than she begged of him, as a favour, to remain—for she had heard from Julia's mother how kind he had been—until he had seen what property had been left.

To this Sylvester consented; and, at the earnest request of this poor ​but honest woman, took charge of all the papers, money, and jewellery, found.

"I feel that you will do all that is necessary," said Sylvester; "and be assured that you will not go unrewarded."

"I do not think of reward, sir," replied the good woman. "I will, sir, do all that is necessary: for I loved the young lady as if she had been my own child, and her mother I regarded as a sister."

"Those bracelets—" said Sylvester.

"I have heard of them, sir: you wish them to remain on?"

"I do."

"They shall not be removed. Be assured that I will pay every possible attention.

"I feel assured that you will," said Sylvester, who left the house with a heavy heart, to explain at home all that had occurred.

Mr. Scholefield was not much surprised: he knew when he left the house that poor Julia could not live more than a few hours; and although he imagined that her mother might linger some days, he felt sure that her daughter's death would break her heart; but Mrs. Scholefield—who of course did not view it as he did, professionally—took the deepest possible interest in the case, and went with Sylvester in the morning to superintend the arrangements; and that day week poor Julia and her mother were—followed by Sylvester—borne to the grave.