Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 36

It is extremely questionable whether a trial ever yet gave unmixed satisfaction to either of the parties concerned. In civil cases, especially, there is sure to be, in the judgment of either the plaintiff or the defendant—and almost invariably in the view of both—something left undone which ought to have been done, or something done which ought not to have been done. Sometimes the attornies are censured, sometimes the counsel, sometimes the witnesses, sometimes the jury, and sometimes the judge; but, most certainly, a case in which they all escaped censure, is not be found on record.

It will not, therefore, be held to be extraordinary, that neither the plaintiff nor the defendant in this action was satisfied with the result. Sylvester could not have been expected to be; but, as it may have been expected that Sir Charles would be satisfied, it will be quite correct here to state that he was not. In his view, his own counsel made him appear to be most sordid. Money was not his object. His object was to establish legally the assumed guilt of Lady Julian with a view to a divorce. He was, therefore, not satisfied at all with his own counsel: nor was he satisfied with the counsel for the defendant: the remarks of both, in his judgment, tended to place him in a ridiculous and contemptible light; and he, consequently, after the trial, felt wretched.

Sylvester, however, had not the wretched feelings of Sir Charles. He saw, of course, the importance of the verdict: he feared that it might, in a professional sense, effect his ruin: still, being perfectly conscious of his innocence, and having the sympathy of all around him, it cannot—although he was dreadfully annoyed—it cannot be said that he felt wretched. Aunt Eleanor was far more deeply affected; and, as to the reverend gentleman, he absolutely swelled with indignation! He was indignant with the attorney, indignant with the counsel, indignant with the jury, indignant with the judge. They were all, in his view, lost to every sense of justice. And yet he felt strongly that, if he had been allowed to give his evidence in his own way, the jury would not have dared to return a verdict for the plaintiff.

"What!" he exclaimed. "Is it—can it be possible—that in a country like this—a Christian country—a country in which the principles of Christianity are professed and entertained more extensively, perhaps, than in any other country upon earth—is it possible that twelve men—twelve Christian men—can deliberately take a solemn oath to give a verdict according to the evidence, and then, having heard that evidence adduced, return such a verdict as this! Why, it really is ​fearful to contemplate! Those men must be guilty of perjury; and perjury is one of the most dreadful crimes that a man can possibly lay upon his soul! I should much like to talk to those men—to explain to them the peril in which they have placed themselves, not only in this world, but in the world to come! If I do not mistake, a perjurer, even here, is liable to be punished with very great severity. Surely, they cannot be cognisant of this!—leaving entirely out of the question the awful fact of their rendering themselves amenable to a much greater punishment hereafter! They really ought to be seen and talked to, and lectured, and expostulated with! the crime of which they have been guilty, is in its nature dreadful!"

"I do not think," observed Mr. Delolme, "that we are justified in accusing them of having committed perjury."

"But, my dear sir; just look at the nature of the evidence! Did not Mr. Thomas swear positively that poor Sylvester was a somnambulist? And did not I swear as positively and as solemnly, that I had not the slightest doubt of the fact? Ought not that to have been sufficient? And were they not bound to return a verdict accordingly?"

"Certainly, they were bound to return a verdict according to the evidence, but not according to your evidence alone: they were bound to look at the evidence opposed to yours, and to weigh it with yours, and thus to decide."

"Then it follows that they treated my evidence and that of Mr. Thomas with contempt!"

"Not necessarily. They might have felt that you both swore to the best of your belief, and yet conceived that your evidence was insufficient to establish the fact of Sylvester being a somnambulist."

"I only wish that I had been one of the jury."

"If you had been, a very different verdict would doubtless have been returned; but we must remember that those gentlemen were perfect strangers to Sylvester. They knew nothing either of him, or of the circumstances, previously to their coming into court; and, while they manifestly conceived your evidence and that of Tom to be insufficient, they were strongly impressed by the counsel with the danger of allowing such a plea as that of somnambulism to obtain."

"I am aware of its being a plea which might easily be in all cases urged; and I hold the necessity for proving it to be absolute: all I contend for is, that in this particular case, it was sufficiently proved! And then, that man, the counsel—that barrister—that Mr. Charles Phillpots—what right had he to apply such abominable epithets to a person of whom he knew nothing. He ought to be talked to severely! He ought to be told that the character of Sylvester is the reverse of that which he represented it to be. I have really no patience with a man who will thus traduce the character of another without grounds. I only wish that I had been Sylvester's counsel: I should have told that person, without the slightest hesitation, that the course he was pursuing was most unwarrantable! I should have told him so publicly—before the whole court. And then the judge: we really might as well have had no judge at all! he did not conduct himself at all like a judge! he ​gave no judgment whatever upon the matter! I only wish that I had been the judge! But is there no appeal from this verdict? Would not a well-drawn-up protest have a very great effect?"

"We might move for a new trial, certainly."

"Then let us have a new trial: by all means let us have a new trial. That will be the very thing!"

"I fear that unless we have much stronger evidence to produce, a new trial—if we obtained it—would be worse than useless."

"But we have stronger evidence! My evidence might be stronger—much stronger—I am sure of it!"

The doctor shook his head, and having observed that that point had better be left to the lawyers, retired.

How often men know what they ought to have said when the occasion for saying it is passed! How forcible—how eloquent in public, reflec- tion proves that they might have been! The reverend gentleman had much afterwit. He saw, on reflection, invariably—for reflection invari- ably came when he had spoken—that he had omitted to say much that he ought to have said, and that that which he did say, he might have said better. He was very seldom called upon to make a speech in public—his sermons required no subsequent reflection—but whenever he did make a public speech, the whole of the next day was devoted to its improvement. He would repeat it privately again and again, and polish every point he found in it, and if—as was sometimes the case—no point could be found, he would make one, and then polish that. He did on one occasion try a speech which he had written and learned by rote, but as he broke the thread in the middle and couldn't find the piece that came off, he abandoned that system—which is at best but a deceit—and stuck to the extemporaneous. Still, as he never made a speech which he did not subsequently very much improve, he never saw a speech of his in type which gave him the slightest satisfaction. There was always something said which ought to have been omitted, or something omitted which ought to have been said; and as his speeches, when in type, were never, in his judgment, what they ought to have been, the fact, that his evidence, when in type, gave him no sort of pleasure, cannot create much surprise. He was, indeed, exceedingly dissatisfied with it. He really felt ashamed of its appearance in print, and hence, being conscious—perfectly conscious—of his ability to give better evidence than that, he strongly urged the expediency of having a new trial.

By the advice of Mr. Scholefield, however, the idea of moving for a new trial was abandoned, and the reverend gentleman no sooner became cognisant of this than he went to work and conceived a scheme, of which the object was to settle the matter at once. He had a little money in the funds: he had, in fact, four thousand pounds in the three-and-a-half per cents; he therefore resolved on selling out to the extent required, and taking the two thousand pounds himself to Sir Charles Julian, unknown to any other living soul.

In this scheme "costs" were not contemplated: the idea of costs never occurred to him: he fondly imagined that Sir Charles would take the ​two thousand pounds and give him a receipt in full, and that there, as far as Sylvester was concerned, the whole matter would end.

He accordingly went to a broker whom he knew near the Exchange, and the sale of two thousand pounds stock was effected; but as he wished to expostulate with Sir Charles when he had paid him, and felt that such an expostulation as that which he contemplated required some previous thought, he returned to the residence of Dr. Delolme, with the view of rehearsing the most important points.

On his return, however, he found Mr. Scholefield there, engaged in advising both Sylvester and his aunt to return at once to Cotherstone—to leave the whole management of the matter to him, and to feel assured that all would yet be well—which advice was no sooner communicated to the reverend gentleman, than he intimated to Mr. Scholefield that he wished to speak with him in private, and they accordingly withdrew to another room.

"My dear sir," said he, "I know and appreciate your worth; I know that you are a dear friend of Sylvester: I have the highest opinion of your judgment, and therefore deem it prudent to follow your advice: but will you—pardon me—will you, for my own satisfaction, explain to me your reasons for believing that all will yet be well?"

"Certainly," replied Mr. Scholefield, "with pleasure. I have just left Sir Charles, who is not at all satisfied now. The verdict of the jury has failed to convince him of his wife's infidelity. I find that, on the contrary, he is open to the conviction of her innocence; and I know him so well, that I feel that I shall eventually be able to satisfy him that Sylvester is a somnambulist, and thereby to prove to him, beyond all doubt, that Lady Julian herself is still virtuous—still pure."

"Why," exclaimed the reverend gentleman, "that is exactly my idea! my view of the matter precisely! I will now impart to you a most pro- found secret—a secret which I did not intend to reveal, but which I know will be faithfully kept by you. I have been this morning into the City to sell out two thousand pounds stock. I have the money here," he added, producing his pocket-book, "and what I intended to do with it was this: I intended to take it at once to Sir Charles, and, having paid him, to adduce such a body of evidence as could not, I apprehend, fail to convince him that he had been perfectly uninjured. I intended to say to him solemnly, 'Sir Charles—'"

"I see," interposed Mr. Scholefield: "I see; and, believe me, I highly appreciate your motive: but I hope that there will be now no necessity for this."

"But don't think that if I were to call and offer him the money—"

"Why, my dear sir, if even he felt inclined to demand it, he would not receive it himself!"

"He would not?"

"Oh, dear me, no; he'd refer you at once to his attorney, whom the two thousand pounds wouldn't satisfy, believe me!"

"What, would he want more?"

"He would present you with a document called a bill of costs, which might in some slight degree astonish you."

​"Well, but do you not think that if I were to call upon Sir Charles and offer him the money, and tell him that his attorney's bill, whatever it might be, would be paid when presented, it would afford me an excellent opportunity for explaining to him the whole of my views on the subject, and laying before him that body of evidence which, I should say, must of necessity convince him that Sylvester is innocent?"

"It is possible that it might afford you this opportunity: I very much doubt that it would; but if it did, in my opinion, the pursuit of such a course would be imprudent. The very fact of your offering him the money would incense him, and the chances are that the interview would be instantly at an end. He is not a common man: he is not a man to be taken by storm. 'Let us,' said he to me, this morning, 'let us, if possible, get at the truth—let us conduct this investigation calmly—let us proceed quietly and privately—it is not, of course, proper that the existence of any doubt on my mind should be known.' I tell you this in confidence, and I am sure that you will perceive that the adoption of the course which you proposed, although laudable—highly laudable—in itself, would be, under existing circumstances, imprudent."

"Well, then, what would you advise me to do?"

"I should advise you in the first place to re-fund the money; in the second, to return to Cotherstone with Sylvester and his aunt; and, in the third, to write out a statement of facts, which, as collateral evidence, I may place before Sir Charles."

"Very good: very good. This shall be done. But mind! you must promise that unknown to any living creature—you will send to me, and to me alone, in the event of this money being required."

"I pledge you my honour that I will do so."

"Very good. We can keep it to ourselves, you know; if it should be required, we can keep it to ourselves. If she were to know it, she would insist upon repaying me; and I would not have her income limited for the world. Mr. Scholefield," he added, pressing his hand warmly, "God will bless you for the interest you have taken in this matter. You are a good man: a good man: you'll have your reward. Now I'll go and urge them to start to-morrow morning. I'll in every particular follow your advice: I'll return to the City and refund this money, and send the statement up as soon as possible."

Mr. Scholefield then left him with many warm expressions of esteem, and he at once returned to Sylvester and his aunt, with the view of urging them to leave on the following morning.

"You have heard," said he, "what Mr. Scholefield has said, and Mr. Scholefield is a most sincere friend. We haven't a friend more sincere—we haven't a friend more valuable than Mr. Scholefield: you will know how valuable a friend he is anon. Now his advice is, that we return to the Grange immediately. What say you? When shall we start? I have to send up to him in the course of a few days a most important communication, and in order that I may do so, it will be necessary for me to start to-morrow. What do you think? Shall we all go together in the morning?"

"I have no objection," said Sylvester. "Have you, aunt?"

​"No, my love; I have none whatever."

"Well, then," resumed the reverend gentleman, "suppose we make up our minds to go?"

"I am quite willing," replied Aunt Eleanor.

"Then we'll go," said the reverend gentleman—"we'll go. I have much to tell you on the road; and much more to tell you both when we get home. I feel assured that all will be right. At present I must say no more. I have to go into the City on a little matter of business, but I shall very soon be back. Good bye. God bless you both. Keep up your spirits. We shall very soon get over this: very soon: I'm sure of it. I'll be back—let me see—in an hour and a half."

Their departure in the morning having thus been decided upon, Sylvester and his aunt, whom the important communication of Mr. Scholefield had greatly relieved, went to make a few farewell calls, and returned to the doctor's to dinner. Mr. Scholefield joined them, and so did Tom—who was in the highest possible spirits—and everything passed off cheerfully. Even Mrs. Delolme was seen to smile, for she now for the first time thought it possible that Sylvester was innocent!—which was charitable—very!—and hence couldn't fail to be appreciated.

Having spent an agreeable evening, Tom, as usual, claimed his "prisoder;" and when he had promised to deliver him and his chains into the hands of the reverend gentleman in the morning, he retired, and took Sylvester home with him, and gave him a most recherche supper.

"Add dow, by boy," said he, having explained to Sylvester that he was going with Scholefield to have an interview with Sir Charles, "how do you bead to badage batters whed you get hobe?"

"Manage matters?"

"Aye. How do you bead to secure yourself at dight?"

"Oh! I understand. Why, I scarcely know how I'm to manage down there."

"You dodt thidk of sleepidg with the reveredd swell, I suppose?"

"Not exactly."

"Doe: I should say that's he's ad out add out sdorer!"

"I don't know about that, but I thought of being secured every night to the bed-post."

"You had better have sobe wud id the roob. What do you thidk of wud of the baids?"

"I'd better have them both!" returned Sylvester, smiling. "But I don't see the necessity for having any one at all."

"If you have dot you are perfectly sure to get away. Sobdabbulists are the bost idgedious fellows alive. If left by thebselves they cad dever be safe. You, for exabple, bight ibagide that you were id prisod, add if you at the sabe tibe felt boudd to break out of it, I dodt thidk that you have ady roob id your cottage sufficiedtly strodg to prevedt you."

"Well, then, I'd better have Judkins in the room."

"Who's Judkids?"

"The gardener."

"Have Judkids thed. But as doe cobbod scrubbidg ever got a gar​deder clead, I would suggest that you had better have hib boiled every dight."

"Oh! I don't intend to let him sleep with me. We can make up a bed by the side of mine."

"Add secure yourself to hib?"

"Exactly."

"You haved't chaid edough! That, however, cad sood be badaged. We cad get ad additiodal ledgth id the bordidg."

This point having been settled, they reverted to the fact of Sir Charles being "open to conviction;" and having discussed it till half-past twelve, they made up their minds to retire. But Tom had a very poor night of it. Between one and four his rest was constantly broken, for the supper and the wine of which Sylvester had partaken, caused him to have a variety of dreams, which prompted him unconsciously several times to pull Tom nearly out of bed. He was, however, after four, suffered to sleep, which, as far as it went, was a blessing; but when he rose about half-past six, he didn't look fresh at all. He was, notwithstanding, in very fair spirits, and rallied his prisoner gaily, and then went with him to get a longer chain, which they had no sooner bought, than they entered a cab, and proceeded at once to the doctor's.

On their arrival, they found the doctor and Mrs. Delolme, Aunt Eleanor, and the reverend gentleman at breakfast, and when Tom had formally delivered up his prisoner, they joined them, and made a very fair meal—considering!

At the suggestion of the reverend gentleman—who always appeared anxious to be at the office at least twenty minutes before the coach started—the ladies soon after this retired, and when they returned dressed—for Mrs. Delolme had most graciously insisted upon seeing Aunt Eleanor safely to the coach—the reverend gentleman and Tom entered the doctor's carriage with the ladies, while Sylvester mounted the box.

On their arrival at Charing-cross, it was found that they were just half an hour too soon, which the reverend gentleman pointedly submitted was better than being half an hour too late. The propriety and truth of this original observation were indisputable of course, and Tom had him out of the carriage in consequence, and walked with him and Sylvester up and down the Strand until the horses were in, when he and Aunt Eleanor entered the coach, and Sylvester, who did not like riding inside, took his favourite seat on the box.

"Well, adieu!" said Tom, taking the hand of Aunt Eleanor, and pressing it with somewhat unusual warmth. "Good bye!—good bye! I shall rud dowd to Cotherstode wud of these days, add whed I do cobe, if you should be sidgle, the codsequedce bust be a batch."

Aunt Eleanor smiled as she bade him adieu, and so did her reverend friend, who, moreover, declared that he should be happy to see him, and wished him to name the time; but before he could answer, the coachman cried "All right!—chit, chit!" and they were off.

Now it is in reality a singular thing—Aunt Eleanor couldn't pretend to account for it—but the journey always did appear to her to be ​short when her reverend friend travelled with her. It is, moreover, strange—remarkably strange—that she never felt fatigued when he was with her. She really did think that she could travel a thousand miles with him, without feeling anything like so tired as she always had felt after travelling fifty miles without him. Now this is, of course, an extraordinary fact—a fact which is worthy of being placed upon record. Whenever she had travelled by herself, or with strangers, or even in company with any other friend, she had always felt tired after the first twenty miles; but with him!—there, she positively thought that she could travel with him every day for a week, without feeling, in the slightest degree, fatigued. As to the journey from London to Cotherstone, why, it appeared to be nothing. They started from Charing-cross, chatted all the way, arrived within a mile and a half of the Grange, and there they were. It was so in this instance. They had a most agreeable journey; and Sylvester rendered it still more agreeable by coming down to speak to them whenever they changed horses. It was, indeed, essentially a journey of pleasure. Aunt Eleanor never enjoyed herself more: they appeared to have been but a very short time on the road, when the reverend gentleman exclaimed, "Here we are!"

The coach stopped; and instantly Jones with the phaeton, and Judkins with the pony, stood before them; and, as they had decided upon sending the luggage on, in less than ten minutes they were home.

Sylvester's first object now was to communicate to Judkins all that had reference to his bedroom plans, and, therefore, having partaken freely of the elegant little dinner prepared for them, he went out, and found him in the tool-house.

"Judkins," said he; "do you know what a somnambulist is?"

"A somnambulist, sir? I think it's a species of convolvolus; but there is such a mob of names now, that I don't exactly know."

"Then I'll tell you. A somnambulist, Judkins, is a sleep-walker—a person—"

"Oh, ay, yes, just so, exactly! I thought you meant something in my way! I see! A somnambulist! Oh, yes, I've heered on 'em; I know what they are."

"Well, then," said Sylvester, "I am a somnambulist."

"Lor, you don't say so! You one!"

"Unhappily, I am."

"Lor, I shouldn't have thought it. As true as I'm alive, sir, I couldn't have believed it. Well, but—Lor bless me, you don't mean to say that you get up o' nights and walk about, and all that?"

"Yes, Judkins, I have long been in the habit of doing all that."

"Why, then—why, look here—you can't be safe to be trusted. You ought to have somebody always to sit up with you."

"I have rendered that unnecessary. I'll explain to you how. Since I made the discovery I have slept with a gentleman, to whom I have been secured—that is to say, fastened by means of a small chain, reaching from his wrist to mine, so that—"

"Exactly!" interposed Judkins; "I see, sir! Capital; you couldn't get away from him no how, then?"

​"No, that was impossible; and as this entirely supersedes the necessity for any one sitting up with me. I want you to sleep in my room for the present, in order that I may be still secure."

"Just so: I see, sir: a capital plan."

"You have, I presume, no objection?"

"Objection, sir! No, not the leasest in life. I can have no objection."

"Well, then, you can bring your bed and bedstead, and place it by the side of mine, and—"

"I'll manage that, sir."

"There's plenty of room, I believe?"

"Oceans! But how long, sir, have you been going on so?"

"I have reason to believe that I have been a somnambulist for years."

"Indeed!"

"You remember that, five years ago, a variety of pranks were played here?"

"To be sure I do."

"Those pranks, I have not the slightest doubt, were played by me. The horse was taken out of the stable, you know, frequently, and galloped round the country during the night, and brought home again in a state of exhaustion."

"Well, but you don't mean to say you did that?"

"I have no more doubt of it, than I have of my own existence."

"Well, sir; but—send I may live—could you go to the stable, and mount the horse, and gallop like that, all the while you were asleep?"

"I have done very many more extraordinary things than that."

"I wonder you didn't pitch off and break your neck. I couldn't have believed it, if you hadn't told me; and I can't understand it, I can't brain it now."

"And then the ghost: why, I was the ghost!"

"You was! Oh, what a kick up there's been about that ghost."

"What, since I left?"

"The other day, sir. You know Drant, sir—Obadiah Drant—the man you was speaking to me about, you know, sir? Well, as he always knows everything nobody else knows, he set it about that he knew who the ghost was. He knew: he knew the man: and, on being pressed to tell who it was, he said that he knew that Bob Potts was the ghost. Well, this very soon got to Bob Potts's ears, and as soon as it did, Bob Potts hunted him up, and said to him quietly, 'A gentleman wants just to see you on the common.' 'Who is it,' said Drant. 'Oh, you'll see,' said Bob; 'he wants to give you something: you'd better bring Mr. Pokey with you.' Well, innocent enough, he went, and took Pokey with him; and when he got there, in course he asked where the gentleman was. 'I am the gentleman,' said Bob, 'as wants to see you: I am the gentleman as wants to give you something. I'm the ghost, aint I? You know I'm the ghost? Now, you must give me a sound out-and-out throshing, or I shall give you one: so pull off your coat.' 'Just look you here,' said Drant, 'if you lay a finger upon me, I'll take the law on you.' 'Never mind the law,' said Bob; 'one on us must have ​a throshing: so strip.' 'I sha'n't bemean myself,' said Drant. 'Then take that,' said Bob, 'to begin with.' And he hit him a wonder just over the eyes. Well, this made Drant naturally wild, and as he then saw that he must fight, he pulled off his coat, and went at it. But, Lor! he couldn't stand against Bob a minute and a half. In less time than that, Bob kept his promise, and gave him such a throshing as he never had before. Drant then went off to a lawyer, and the lawyer recommended him as a friend not by no means to take out a warrant; no, but to bring what he calls a action: so Bob has been served with a little slip of paper, and it's going to be settled at the 'sizes. But nobody pities Obadiah: he's always a gabbling: he's always making mischief: he's always setting people together by the ears. But it is about the rummest start in life, though, that you should be the ghost after all! But didn't you never remember nothing about it in the morning?"

"Nothing: all was to me a perfect blank."

"Well that is stunning, sir. I call it stunning. However, you'll be safe enough here. I'll not let you go out, sir, I'll warrant. Another thing is, sir, you may depend upon me: for in course you wish me to keep it a secret?"

"I wish you to answer no impertinent questions; but as for secrecy, that is now impossible, seeing that the fact has been published in all the papers."

"Indeed, sir! Has it though, really?"

"I have lately been concerned in a trial, and as the report of it will be, of course, interesting to you, I'll lend you the paper to read."

"I'm obleedged to you, sir. I should like to read it above all things in the world."

"You need not go and talk about it all over the village, although the affair is quite sure to be known. There is, however, one thing which need not be known, and that is the plan which we are about to adopt here. Cook and Mary will know, of course, that you sleep in my room, but even they need know nothing beyond that fact."

"They shall not know from me, sir: depend upon that. I'll not open my lips to a single soul."

"Very well. Then you had better go now and remove your bed. Do you want any assistance?"

"Not the leasest in life, sir. I shall be able to manage it alone. But Lor!—the ideor! Who could have thought it! But the paper, sir, please: I hope you'll not forget the paper?"

"You shall have it the moment you have finished your job."

"Thank you, sir; I'll bring it here to read. Not a soul shall set eyes on it, I'll take care of that. But of all the stunning things as I ever heered tell on, that of a man riding full gallop over the country fit to break his blessed neck, fast sleep, bangs Moses! It's a mercy you wasn't killed dead upon the spot. However, there'll be no more of that while you're here; so I'll go at once, and get the bed ready."

He did so; and being most anxious to look at the paper, he resolved on being the very shortest possible time about it. He hadn't worked ​hard for a considerable period: nor had he for many months perspired so freely as he did while taking down his bedstead.

"Judkins!" exclaimed cook, who heard him at work: "what on earth are you after? Are you going to knock the house down?"

"Good luck to you," returned Judkins, "bring us a drop of beer."

"But what are you about?"

"Bring the beer up, old girl, and I'll tell you."

Prompted by a natural feeling of curiosity, cook drew him some beer, and went up with it at once.

"Why, what, in the name of goodness," she cried, "are you doing?"

"Taking down my bedstead, that's all."

"I'm sure there was no call for that: there's no bugs!"

"Bugs! No, there's no bugs, I believe."

"Then, what on earth do you want to take it down for?"

"Because Mr. Sylvester wished me to do so."

"What for?"

"Because he wants me to sleep in his room."

"In his room! Well, that is a fancy."

"Yes," replied Judkins, "it certainly is a fancy."

"A fancy! I never heard of such a thing in the whole course of my life. In his room! Why, what in the name of goodness does he want you to sleep in his room for?"

"You'll know by-and-bye."

"Is he afraid to sleep in a room by himself?"

"Yes."

"Then he's been up to no good. Depend upon it, he's been up to no good."

"Don't be quite so fast."

"Fast! Why if it isn't that, what does he want you to sleep in his room for?"

"Don't heat yourself, and I'll tell you. He is what they call a somnambulist."

"I thought so!" exclaimed cook. "As true as I stand here, I thought so."

"You did! Do you know what a somnambulist is?"

"Do I know what it is! Why, you don't suppose I'm so ignorant as all that comes to, do you?"

"Well, come now, what is a somnambulist?"

"Why, a man that marries other men's wives, to be sure."

"Pooh! you mean a bigamist; that's what you mean."

"Well, it's all the same, isn't it?"

"No, quite different. A somnambulist is a man who walks in his sleep."

"Why, to be sure it is. How stupid! I know now. But—what—why—you don't mean to say that Mr. Sylvester does it."

"He has done it for years, and does it now; and that's the reason why I'm to sleep in his room."

" But my goodness me though!—why—"

"I haven't time to say nothing more about it now. Just lend us ​a hand here. I want this job done; I have to go to him directly it is."

Cook did lend a hand, albeit she was at the time filled with wonder: she rendered him every possible assistance, and indulged in the most startling exclamations of surprise; while Judkins, who took no apparent notice of these exclamations, was silently working away like a slave, in order to get at the paper.

In less than an hour the job was complete: and when Judkins had made himself tidy, he went out and flitted before the parlour window, that Sylvester might know that it was done. And this certainly was an admirable scheme as far as it went, but he had to flit about there for some time, in consequence of Sylvester having his back towards the window. This, however, Judkins no sooner perceived, than he got a hammer and a couple of nails, and by virtue of pretending to nail up a branch, effected the object proposed.

"Well, Judkins," said Sylvester, on going to the door, "have you finished your job?"

"Yes, sir."

"You found plenty of room, I suppose?"

"Oh, lots, sir. And the room looks better with two beds than one. It looks fuller."

"No doubt. I'll go up and have a look at it presently."

"Beg pardon, sir," observed Judkins; "but I think, sir, you said you'd be kind enough to lend me a paper."

"Oh yes: I'll get it for you."

"Thank you, sir: thank you."

"Now," said Sylvester, on bringing the paper out, "although you will find that the verdict is against me, you must not suppose that I am guilty of the offence."

"Not for the world, sir: I shouldn't even think of such a thing."

"Well, this is the case," said Sylvester, pointing it out to him.

"Thank you, sir: thank you. I shall be in the tool-house if I should be wanted."

"Very well."

Judkins then left him with his eyes eagerly fixed upon the paper; but he hadn't got half a dozen yards when he stopped, and turning round, said—"Beg pardon, sir; I'm not much of a scholar; will you be so kind as to tell me what crim. con. means?" - "Criminal conversation."

"And this here other word here, sir, versus ?"

"Against."

"Thank you, sir; I like to understand all I read, sir; and now I shall be able to get along."

He then went to the tool-house and shut himself in, and then gave a look at the length of the report. It was a long one: certainly, for him, a very long one: for Judkins was anything but a quick reader. He, notwithstanding this fact, settled himself down, and very soon became so deeply interested in the case, that he never gave the length another thought.

​Having got through the speech of Mr. Phillpots, it became so dark that he could see to read no more. He therefore rushed round to the kitchen for a lantern with all the velocity at his command.

"Where on earth have you been?" exclaimed cook, as he entered.

"Busy, busy," said Judkins, as he lighted his candle.

"Are you going out again?"

"Yes, yes; don't bother me now."

"Well, but I want to speak to you."

"Can't stop; can't stop a second," he replied, and rushed from the kitchen as hastily as he had entered.

On his return to the tool-house, he adjusted his lantern, and then, with an expression of the most earnest anxiety, resumed.

He liked Thompson's evidence. He thought it very good—very good—very good indeed: but when he came to the speech of Mr. Slashinger, it threw him into an absolute state of ecstacy.

"By Job!" he exclaimed, striking his hand upon the nail-box, "that's stunning—stunning! Now then, let 'em get over that if they can."

He then proceeded; and as he read Tom's evidence—having reference to the parapet—his countenance assumed an expression of horror, and his breathing became thick and difficult. At length he exclaimed, with a start, "He's saved!" and wiped the perspiration off his brow with his sleeve, and then stared at the candle, and sat and thought of the dreadful position described.

"He's a fine fellow, though," he eventually added; "a very fine fellow, that Mr. Delolme. He's a good 'un, every inch of him. Well! Now let's see what comes next. Very good," he continued, at intervals. "He couldn't get away no how so. A thousand a year—what an enormity of money! But he deserves every penny of it, he does; I wish he had ten times as much. Very good. Now, who's next? The reverend Edward Rouse. What, our parson! Was he in it? Oh, don't I wish I'd been there? His garden wall—that was five year ago when he lost the peaches. Jones then was right after all. The ghost: yes, that's quite right. No more it never is seen except when he's here. What do you mean by that, stupid? Ain't it as clear as the nose on your face?"

This last observation referred to the cross-examination of the reverend gentleman by Mr. Phillpots, for whom Judkins had a most thorough contempt, and whom he held to be the most incredulous fool alive.

"You won't believe it now, I suppose!" he continued. "Did mortal flesh ever set eyes on such a donkey? I thought not. I knew you wouldn't believe it. I should like to have the kicking of you, you old ass."

Judkins then read the reply of Mr. Phillpots; and as he did so, his contempt for the man turned to indignation. He struck and kicked at appropriate intervals, with just as much energy as he felt that he could have done if Phillpots had been there before him; and thus he proceeded with a groaning accompaniment until he had reached the last line of the report, when he loudly exclaimed, "Two thousand pounds!" and let the paper fall.

​The verdict seemed to have deprived him, for a time, of all his moral and physical faculties. There he sat perfectly bewildered, and there he continued to sit till the candle had burned to the socket. This roused him from his reverie: he rose from his seat and folded the paper, and returned to the kitchen; but with his intellects still confused.

"Why, what in the world have you been after?" cried cook, as he entered the kitchen with thought on his brow.

"Dont talk," replied Judkins. "Don't talk. My head's full."

"But here's a time you've been. I thought you never was coming. What have you been about?"

"My head's full, I tell you. Don't bother—I'm stunned."

"Well, but what on earth is the matter. I suppose there's no occasion to keep it all to yourself."

"If I could, I'd give a pound out of my own blessed pocket."

"Well, come take some beer," said cook, passing the mug, in the fond expectation of melting him thus. "You don't look at all the thing. What will you have for supper?"

"Two thousand pounds," muttered Judkins, indignantly.

"What say?"

"Nothing: I was talking to myself."

"But I want you to talk to me! Wouldn't you like now something nice for supper?"

"No; nothing—nothing: I don't want nothing."

"Oh, but you shall have something," said cook, who went to the pantry, and soon returned with the remains of a couple of chickens and some ham. "Judkins," she added, having duly placed these delicacies before him, "I know you have something on your mind;—what is it? You don't ought now to keep anything from me; for, although we're not married, we very soon shall be, and your cares now is my cares, Judkins, just as much as they will be then."

"Old girl," replied Judkins, whom this appeal softened, and who had engaged to marry cook as soon as a very old man, who kept a public-house in a neighbouring village, died, "don't make yourself by no means oneasy about me. My cares is not on my own account; but on account of one who's been very ill used."

"What, Mr. Sylvester?"

"Yes."

"Has he been ill used?"

"Dreadful."

"The wretches. Who are they?"

"I know who they are, and so does he."

"Highway robbers, I suppose."

"A million times worse than highway robbers."

"Well, but did they hurt him much?"

"Not in person, but in pocket. They robbed him of two thousand pounds."

"Two thousand! You astonish me. Two thousand pounds! How came he to be so foolish as to carry so much money as that about with him?"

​"Carry it about with him!"

"I always have said, and I always will say, that it's foolish of any man to do it. I do hope to goodness that you'll never do so."

"You don't understand. He wasn't robbed on the road, but in a court of law."

"Oh, in a court of law. That's a different thing altogether. But how was it? Tell me; do tell me."

"I can't do so to-night, old girl; but if you'll now let me have my thoughts to myself, I'll promise to tell you all about in the morning."

"Well, I'm not all curious—but I should dearly like to know. I only hope that while walking in his sleep, the poor young gentleman won't do none of us no mischief."

"Mischief! Leave that to me. I'll take care of that. What am I to sleep in his room for?"

"Well, I only hope he won't. But come, come—eat some supper. I saved it for you."

Judkins turned round, and although deep in thought, tried, and did eat a little, and just as he had finished, Mary came into the kitchen, and said—

"Missus is in bed and the parson's gone, and Mr. Sylvester wants you, Judkins, in the parlour."

Judkins rose on the instant, and attended the summons; and, on entering the parlour, was greeted with a smile.

"Well, Judkins," said Sylvester; "ready for bed?"

"When you please, sir: I'm quite at your service."

"Well, then, mix yourself some brandy-and-water, and then we'll be off."

"Thank you, sir; perhaps you'll be so kind as to mix a little for me."

"Very well. Take a seat, Judkins."

Judkins bowed, and closed the door, and then seated himself upon the edge of the chair near it.

"Draw up to the table, man; don't sit out there!"

Judkins did so; but didn't feel himself at all at home.

"Now, then," said Sylvester; "just try that."

"Thank you, sir. Your health, sir."

"Is it as you like it?"

"Quite, sir: capital: particular good, sir: very."

"Health to you, Judkins. I hope we shall both have a good night's rest."

"I hope so, too," returned Judkins, who then began to feel a little better. "Here's the paper, sir," he added; drawing it carefully from his breast. "I'm much obleeged to you, sir, very."

"Have you read it?"

"Right through, sir. It's stunning! I know it has stunned me wholly! Why, that man, sir—that Mr.—What's his name—Phillpots—must be a regelar nateral born fool! He ought to have seen how it ⟨looked⟩ with half an eye!"

⟨"⟩He doubtless did see how it was."

​"Then he ought to be ashamed of himself for sticking out so."

"These men are paid, you know, to take a certain side; and they feel themselves bound—be it right or wrong, just or unjust—to do the best they can for those who employ them."

"Well, it mayn't become me, sir, to speak in this way before you, but I'd rather get my twenty pound a-year in an honest way, than I'd get twenty thousand in a way like that there."

"So would I; so would I; and should feel myself a happier, because a more honourable man. It matters not to them whom they injure: it matters not to them what misery they may cause. If I were a wealthy villain, and required their assistance in oppressing the fatherless and the widow, or involving any honest man in ruin, hundreds of them would jump at the job."

"Then they ain't fit to live on a civilised scale, sir; and that's my sentiments. Poor as I am, sir, I'll never sell myself in that there way. I knowed before that some on 'em wasn't over nice. There was that Jerry Smith which was sent out of the country last 'sizes: they employed one of these here counsel for him, and he knew that he was guilty—Jerry told him so himself before the trial—and yet how he tried to knock it into the heads of the jury that he was innocent! how he tried to get him off, to be sure!"

"Aye! To prey upon society again."

"But lor, sir! What an escape you had on the top of the house there: I shuddered when I read it."

"Yes, it was a dangerous position for a man to be in."

"Dangerous, sir! It made my very blood run cold. But it shan't occur again, sir—leastways, not while you're here. I'll take care of that, sir, I'll warrant!"

"Well, then, finish your glass, and I'll show you how it is to be prevented."

Judkins did as he was desired, and wasn't long about it; and then followed Sylvester up to his chamber and closed the door, and waited for further instructions, while Sylvester opened and searched a trunk.

"Now then," said Sylvester, having produced the chain with the handcuffs attached, "we'll turn in." And, as Judkins began to strip immediately, it was not long before he was safely in bed. Sylvester's movements were not quite so rapid; but he didn't linger long: he got into bed very soon after Judkins, and then at once drew his attention to the chain.

"Now," said he, "this chain, you perceive, is quite long enough to reach from me to you; and that round affair at the end is for your wrist, while this is for mine."

"Very good, sir," said Judkins; "but I can't get it on."

"No; it must be opened first. And that is what I wish to explain. These things will close by mere pressure; but they cannot be opened without a key. Yours is somewhat larger than mine; but the same key will open them both—thus. Now try it. There; it fits you, does it not?"

"Exact, sir."

​
Sylvester and his Protector.

​"It is not too tight for you?"

"Oh! Not a bit."

"Very well. Now take this key and hide it somewhere. Don't let me know where it is."

"I'll take care of that, sir."

"And if I should attempt to get out of bed, all you will have to do is to wake me gently. And now, good night."

"I wish you good night, sir."

"Good night," repeated Sylvester; who put out the light, laid his head upon the pillow, and was very soon asleep.

Not so, however, Judkins. He began to reflect deeply. He had previously thought but little of the fact of sleeping in the same chamber; but then, in silence and in gloom, his apprehensions became prolific. Cook's expression of the hope that he might do them no mischief recurred to him, and he hoped so too; but, at the same time conceived it to be possible, quite possible, that he might. "Who knows?" thought he. "He may get up and cut my throat! And if he should, where's the remedy? I wonder whether he's opstropolus. I dare say he is. He can't, in course, know what he's about. If he does, I don't think he'd hurt a hair of my head; but if he don't, why there's no knowing what he may do. And yet Mr. Delolme slept with him—that appeared on the trial—and he never hurt him. But then he might have done! And yet, is it likely a gentleman like him would do me any mischief; and, as to cutting my throat, how is he to get the razor? He can't do it without pulling me out of bed, and I'm just about as strong as him, I fancy! But, then, how do I know he hasn't a knife in his pocket? He can reach that without waking me! and may do so! who knows? And yet I don't think he'd attempt to hurt me! But, then, if he doesn't know what he's about, he doesn't! That's the point! At all events, I'll keep awake this blessed night if I live, to see what sort of games he is likely to be up to."

And he did keep awake. He kept awake an hour; and then most unconsciously dropped off to sleep. He had, however, been asleep scarcely ten minutes, when Sylvester awoke him; and, having done so, said calmly,—

"Judkins! Give me the key."

"The key, sir? Yes, sir," said Judkins, who had not even the most remote idea of his being asleep at the time. "Here it is, sir."

"That will do," observed Sylvester; who, on the instant freed himself, and then very quietly proceeded to dress. He was not, however, long about this: he very soon slipped on his things; and when he had done so, he left the room, and—conceiving that he was then going out for a morning walk—took his hat, and deliberately quitted the house.

Judkins heard him open the front door, and it certainly did strike him at the moment as being possible that Sylvester was in a state of somnambulism then. And yet he asked for the key in a calm, collected manner, and dressed himself, and went out as if he had been awake. In Judkins's judgment, he must have been. He tried to repudiate the notion of his being asleep. But then what could he want to open the ​front door for? That was the question; and this question no sooner suggested itself to Judkins than he slipped out of bed, and commenced dressing. The chain, however, somewhat retarded his progress, for the key of the handcuff was not to be found; but he soon got over that: he slipped on his small clothes, his jacket, and shoes, and went down, of course with the chain.

The front door was open. That was what he expected, but which way had Sylvester gone? He thought he'd just look round the premises first, and he did so, but Sylvester could not be found. He then became in reality alarmed, and, having just latched the door, that he might let himself in again, went at once into the road. But which way should he go? It was clearly of no use his running to the right, if Sylvester had gone to the left. He heard footsteps in the distance, and on the instant started off in that direction, but found that they were those of a labouring man.

"Have you met a gentleman?" cried Judkins, in haste.

"Whoy—ees," replied the man, with provoking deliberation; "ah seed un aboot hafe a moile off."

"Which way was he going?"

"Whoy, ah didn't ax, boot a seemed to be goin to Holler Bell."

Away started Judkins on the Holworth road, as the man shouted out "He's goin moortal faist;" but, albeit he ran with all possible speed, Sylvester could not be seen. Still Judkins kept on, panting painfully, and, although he had, occasionally, a "stitch" in his side, he would not give up until he reached the Bell at Holworth, a mile and a half from the Grange. Here he stopped; and, as the house was still open, he went in at once, and inquired of the landlord if a gentleman had been there.

"I don't know," replied the landlord; "you'll find two or three in the parlour: you'd better look in."

Judkins looked in, but Sylvester was not there: still, feeling com- pletely exhausted, he called for a small glass of brandy and water, and sank upon a chair.

Every eye was upon him, of course, and more especially the eye of one man, who, as soon as the brandy and water had been brought, rose and said, "Ah, old fellow, how are you?"

"Pretty well," replied Judkins; "only I've been running. But, really, you have the advantage of me."

"Not at all," cried the stranger; "come, give us your hand; you'll shake hands with me, wont you?"

"Oh, I've no objection," said Judkins, who gave him his hand—the only hand he had disengaged, the other having been thrust into his pocket with the chain.

"What!" exclaimed the stranger; "the left hand! Is that the way you treat an old friend?"

"You're no old friend of mine," said Judkins, who began to feel very much embarrassed.

"Oh, yes I am," returned the stranger; "come, give us your right hand, man."

​
The escaped Convict.

​"I shan't do nothing of the sort. I don't know you."

"You don't! I'll tell you who I am, if you'll give me your hand."

"I don't want to know who you are."

"Come, give us your hand, man."

"What do you mean? Can't I come into the house without being interrupted?"

"Not into this house while I am here. I'm the constable of Holler, and always on the look out for fellows like you."

"I don't care if you're the constable of fifty Hollers, I've nothing to be either ashamed or afeared on."

"I dare say not; but it's no use you know! I saw it: I know I saw it! Will you let me see your right hand?"

"No."

"But I will see it!"

"Will you?" said Judkins, whose blood began to boil.

"Will I? Yes!—now then?" he added, seizing the right arm of Judkins, who on the instant knocked him down, and would have escaped, but that the landlord, who was coming into the room at the time, stopped him.

"What's the meaning of all this?" inquired the landlord.

"He's my prisoner!" cried the constable, rising; "I'll run all risks; he's my prisoner!"

"What for?" demanded the landlord.

"Why look at his right hand! Just look at it!"

"What do you mean? You are always kicking up some row—what do you mean?"

"Only look at that man's right hand: that's all?"

"Let me look at it?" said the landlord, addressing Judkins calmly. "You shall not be ill treated here."

Judkins drew his hand from his pocket, and with it a portion of the chain, of course.

"There it is!" cried the constable in triumph. "There you are! I knew I saw it! and here's the other ruffle. Why, you're an escaped convict!—that's what you are."

"I'm nothing of the sort!" exclaimed Judkins, indignantly.

"It's no use, you know. Not a bit of it. Don't put yourself in a passion. Come along."

"But where—where!" exclaimed Judkins, in a dreadful state of excitement.

"Oh, I'll find a lodging for you. Now then. Here, Johnson!—here, Smith!—come and assist me, will you?"

Both Johnson and Smith at once went to his assistance, and, in spite of the expostulations of Judkins—in spite of his strong declarations of innocence—in spite of his struggles, entreaties, and threats, they hurried him off to the cage.