Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 34

There are men whom nothing can apparently astonish—who take everything so coolly—hear everything so calmly—see everything wonderful with such seeming apathy—that the most perfect insensibility appears to form one of their chief characteristics. On the heads of these men no phrenologist can find either the organ of marvellousness or that of veneration—activity being essential to the development of both. Nothing appears to be new to them; nothing seems to strike them as being extraordinary; nothing on earth can induce them to manifest wonder. It is true that this stoicism may be very admirable—doubtless, were it not merely apparent it would be an invaluable blessing!—but the question is, do not these "stoics" feel and reflect more deeply than those men whose feelings and thoughts are on the surface ready for immediate expression?

This, however, is a question which need not be learnedly answered here. We can get on with this history very well without it. The object is simply to show that Mr. Wilks—Sylvester's solicitor—was one of these men, and that when Tom—who kept his appointment punctually at ten—had explained to him the substance of all that had occurred, he didn't appear to be in the slightest degree astonished. He viewed it all as a matter of business. He thought it would strengthen the defence. The perilous position, the miraculous escape, and the feelings of horror which Tom had inspired were all set aside. He wanted Tom's evidence: that was the point. He looked at the facts: they were the things. And would Tom swear to them?—that was the question.

"Of course," said he, "you have no objection to appear as a witness?"

"Dode whatever," replied Tom. "I cad have doe objectiod."

"Well, then, we'll take the facts down."

​"Dod't you thidk that the evidedce of by bad Jib will be of sobe service?"

"Can he prove anything?"

"Why Soudd, just before he left Loddod, broke by pier-glass, id a state of sobdabbulisb?"

"Did your servant see him do it?"

"He saw hib go idto the roob at dight, add I foudd it sbashed id the bordidg."

"He saw him go into the room, you say?"

"Yes: with dothidg od but his shirt. He moreover saw id his hadd a pistol, of which he subsequedtly heard the report, add I foudd the ball id the wall this bordidg, just where the pier-glass stood."

"That'll do," said Wilks. "That'll do. There's nothing like a little collateral evidence. When can I see your servant?"

"Oh, I'll sedd hib to you id the course of the bordidg."

"Thank you. Very good. Now, then, I'll take down your evidence."

The facts were then reduced to writing, and appeared to be alone a sufficient defence; and when Tom had again promised to send James on his return, he left the office, fully convinced that Sylvester must have a verdict.

While Tom was thus engaged with the solicitor, Sylvester wrote to his aunt, requesting her to come to town immediatedly; and informing her of the fact of his being a somnambulist.

This may appear to have been indiscreet, and indeed to a certain extent it was so, for when the information reached Cotherstone Grange, Aunt Eleanor nearly fainted.

Sylvester's object was simply to prepare her for the reception of that intelligence which he had to communicate, and at which he conceived she might otherwise be shocked; but no sooner did the bare fact of his being a somnambulist reach her, than her anxious thoughts reverted to her brother, and she felt wretched.

Her reverend friend was with her when the letter arrived, and on perceiving her emotion, his anxiety was intense.

"Dear Eleanor!" he exclaimed, "what is it? What—what can have occurred?"

Aunt Eleanor gave him the letter to read, and he read it—hastily, being apprehensive of meeting with something dreadful; but finding nothing to realise his lively apprehensions, he read it again with more care.

"A somnambulist:" said he, at length, thoughtfully; "a somnambulist. A somnambulist is a person who walks in his sleep: a sleep walker: one who walks while asleep, and imagines he's awake. I have read many strange accounts of these somnambulists. But what, my dear Eleanor, induced your distress?"

"The fact of his being a somnambulist," she replied. "My poor brother was one. It was that which brought him to a premature grave."

"Well, that was very lamentable—very. But Sylvester is young! He is in fact quite a youth! and I hold it to be extremely fortunate that the ​thing has been found out so soon! He must be cured of this propensity. I have not the smallest doubt that a cure may be effected. I am not, it is true, conversant with that which is termed the physiology of somnambulism; but, doubtless, when we look at the wonderful progress which the science of medicine has made within the last century, means of effecting a cure have been found."

"But what perils—what dreadful dangers—are encountered by those who are thus afflicted!"

"True; and these it will now be our care to prevent. I submit that, instead of uselessly lamenting the fact, we ought to congratulate ourselves on the discovery. Understand, my dear Eleanor, I do not mean to say that the fact itself is one which ought not to be lamented: my object is merely to convey to you my impression that we ought to be thankful that the discovery has been made before anything of a very serious character occurred.

"I understand; and I am thankful—oh! most thankful."

"And now, if I do not mistake—I know it is presumptuous to form an opinion without having the necessary data—still, if I do not mistake, I can see distinctly the cause of his being accused of that offence of which we both firmly believe him to be innocent. Sir Charles was quite right—I cannot conceive the possibility of a person in his station declaring that to be true which he knew to be false—he was doubtless quite right: he did see Sylvester leaving the house as described, and Sylvester, I will venture to say, was in a state of somnambulism then."

"Very likely!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, suddenly. "That's it! Yes! It must be so."

"I think it abundantly clear that it is so. I moreover think that there can be no doubt that the judge and jury will see it. Really, my impression is, that just at this time nothing could have been more fortunate than this discovery. A man in a state of somnambulism cannot be said to be a responsible agent, and if he be not a responsible agent, he cannot with justice, be punished. I here assume, my dear Eleanor, the case of a man who, while in a state of somnambulism, commits an offence which is ordinarily punishable by law—such an offence, for example, as a sacrilege. We could not, with justice, punish any individual for committing such an offence while in a state of somnambulism. Hence it is that I feel quite certain that, when the fact of Sylvester being seen to leave the residence of this gentleman is viewed in connexion with the circumstance of his being a somnambulist, the jury will, without hesitation, return a verdict in his favour. But have you never seen, my dear Eleanor, anything indicative of the existence of this extraordinary—what shall I call it—during his residence here?"

"Why really—although I never noticed the slightest indication of anything of the kind—I am now disposed to view him as the author of all those little mysteries by which we have been so perplexed. About five years ago, you recollect we were terribly pestered."

"I see!" exclaimed the reverend gentleman. "He was down here at that time. I see it all now. It was he whom I then caught at my peaches! Jones is right—quite right—he's perfectly right. I must ​apologise to Jones at a fitting opportunity, for, albeit he declares to this day that it was Sylvester, I have persisted in repudiating the idea as being monstrous. And then the ghost—why, let me see—the ghost! Why the ghost never appears here when Sylvester is absent. He is the ghost: he must be the ghost. The thing is all explained. When he is in town no ghost appears: it is always seen when he is here! Nothing can be clearer. Bless my life and soul, now I wonder this never occurred to me before. He is the ghost. There cannot be a doubt about it. And this reminds me that I have been unwittingly guilty of an act of injustice. You remember that that man, Obadiah Drant, declared the other day that Sylvester was drinking one night at the Crumpet and Crown? Sylvester denied it positively—solemnly, and I, in consequence, told Drant plainly, and in no measured terms, that it was false. I now, however, firmly believe it to be true: I believe that Sylvester, while in a state of somnambulism, was there. I must apologise to that unhappy man: it is but just that I should do so. Why, my dear Eleanor, this is the key to all. This affords a ready and a rational explanation of everything that has occurred!"

"But is it not strange that we should never have discovered it?"

"It is—very strange. That, however, which strikes me as being most strange, is the fact of his having deceived me that night when he entered the parlour. I really believed him to be a spirit: I did indeed. That, my dear Eleanor, is the strangest thing of all. But we must see him: we must see him without delay. When shall we go, my dear—when shall we go? Shall we start off at once?"

"Why, I don't see how we can go to-day. I have nothing prepared!"

"There is a coach, my dear, at twelve. Can you not, by the exercise of your ingenuity, manage to get ready by that time? I would not press the point, but I really feel so anxious to see him."

"So do I! But—well, I will get ready: we will go to-day. The coach starts from the inn at twelve?"

"Yes, and if we start from here at the same time, we shall meet it."

"Then let it be so. You will have to go home: by the time you return, I'll be ready."

The reverend gentleman then left the cottage—prepared for the journey—returned at eleven—sat down to lunch—ate heartily—and at twelve o'clock they started.

As they left the village the carriages of Mr. Howard and the lady whose assumed name was Greville met at the door of the inn. It will doubtless be remembered that they, with Henriette, were introduced in the fifth chapter of this history. It will be also recollected that they had been in the habit of meeting at that place periodically; that Mr. Howard would never see Mrs. Greville; and that Henriette—who was allowed to remain in the room one hour—had been kept in perfect ignorance as to who she really was.

Henriette had a thousand times entreated her father to explain this mystery: a thousand times had she begged of him to tell her why they met there, and why Mrs. Greville—whom he felt she loved dearly—should be always so deeply affected when they met. His answer inva​
Henriette's interview with Mrs. Greville.

​riably was "She knew you in infancy—you remind her of her own dear child. I would not wound her feelings by neglecting to take you there on these occasions for the world. I promised long ago that she should see you twice a-year."

Nor could Henriette obtain an explanation from Mrs. Greville.

"Why," she inquired, on one occasion, "why does not my dear father see you?"

"He will not see me," replied Mrs. Greville. "I remind him of your mamma."

"You knew her, then?"

"Oh, yes: well."

"You have been married?"

"I have."

"You have had children?"

"One—one dear—dear girl."

"Alas—to me."

"Your husband—is he dead?"

"Your daughter, too?"

"To me—to me: yes, both are dead to me! But do not urge me: pray do not. You'll break my heart. I cannot bear it. Promise me—do promise me—that you'll never revert to this subject again."

Henriette, seeing her distress, did promise, and from that hour the subject, in her presence, was never named.

On this occasion, however, as the carriages met, Howard and Mrs. Greville caught each other's glance, and while his altered appearance so shocked her, that she was almost unable to alight, he suddenly sank back in his carriage and wept.

Having been with some difficulty assisted into the room which she usually occupied, she sank into a chair and sobbed aloud, and when Henriette who had marvelled at her father's sudden emotion—had joined her, she fell upon her neck, and kissed and blessed her more passionately than ever.

"My dear Mrs. Greville," said Henriette, "what can be the meaning of this? I left my father weeping, and now—"

"You left him weeping? Oh, did he weep when he saw me?"

"I know not that he saw you, but he wept."

"Thank heaven! I am not then despised."

"Despised! Surely you never imagined that you were?"

"I have thought so, my dearest love—I have thought so! But he is not well! He cannot be well!"

"He is as well as usual! or was when we left home this morning."

"Then what a change has been effected! Oh, my love, there was a time—but that time's past. Dear Henriette!—you know not how I love you!"

"You love me. You love me, and yet you keep me in ignorance of that which I have been for years panting to know. Why are you now thus afflicted? Why did my dear father weep? If you love me, let me know all. I said if!—Forgive me. I feel, I know you love me fondly; but pray, pray keep me in ignorance no longer."

​"My dear, dear girl," said Mrs. Greville, who continued to weep bittterly, "indeed you must not urge me. My lips on this subject are sealed. That seal must not by me be broken."

A pause ensued: during which Mrs. Greville sat gazing at Henriette through her tears, which she would have concealed but could not.

"Henriette," she said at length, having struggled with her feelings until she appeared to have almost subdued them. "Henriette, will you do me a favour?"

"My dear Mrs. Greville," replied Henriette, "why ask me? You know not what pleasure it will give me to do anything for you, of which I am capable."

"I believe your dear father is still in the carriage."

"He is."

"Will you go to him, my dear girl, and tell him that I am anxious—most anxious—to see him for a few short moments?"

"It will give me great happiness to do so."

"Dear Henriette, tell him—pray tell him—that if he will but grant me this one request, I pledge my honour—aye, my honour—that it shall be my last."

Henriette kissed her, and flew from the room, and when the door of the carriage had been opened, she said, "Dear father, mamma—I feel, I know that it is mamma—"

"Henriette!" said Howard sternly, as he alighted.

He said no more, but handed her into the carriage, followed her, gave the word "Home!" and they were off.