Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 37

When the ghost of Banquo appeared at the banquet, it terribly startled Macbeth, but neither Macbeth nor any other individual was ever more startled than Mary was, when on entering the parlour alone the next morning, she saw a man lying asleep on the couch.

Of course she didn't stop in the room long. On the contrary, she very soon rushed out of it; and, although she neither screamed, nor fell, nor fainted, on reaching the kitchen, she felt "fit to drop."

"Oh! cook," she sighed, as she sank on a chair: "there's a man!—there's a man!"

"There's a man! Where's a man?" demanded cook.

"In the parlour."

"A man in the parlour. Why, what's he after there?"

"He's asleep—fast asleep. I know he's asleep; but the moment I saw him my heart was in my mouth."

"But what sort of a man does he look like?"

"I don't know. I couldn't stop to look; I only know he's a man."

"And asleep you say? You're quite sure he's asleep?"

"Oh! quite."

"Then I'll go and have a look at him. Come, come along."

"Oh! I durs'n't."

"Fiddlesticks. You're not afraid of a man when he's fast asleep, are you? Come along, do! and don't be silly."

Mary reluctantly rose from her chair and followed cook, softly and slowly; and when cook had reached the parlour door, she peeped, and beheld—the man!

"Why, it's only Mr. Sylvester, girl!" she exclaimed. "How stupid you are to be sure!"

"Mr. Sylvester!" said Mary, whose courage returned, and she looked in, and then found that he was the man.

"I wonder where Judkins is!" said cook, who had an idea that something was wrong. "He certainly ought to have been down by this time. Shall we go up and knock at the door?"

"If you like," replied Mary, who didn't at all understand cook's feelings, and therefore couldn't appreciate them: still she went up with her, and found the door open, and further, that Judkins was not in the room.

"Why, where on earth is he!" cried cook, who began to feel very much alarmed. "He's not in the garden?" she added, looking out. "No. Why, where in the world can he be?"

"In the tool-house, perhaps," suggested Mary, and cook at once ran down and went to the tool-house: but no!—he was not there. She ​called to him: no! Why, what could be the meaning of all this! Had Sylvester murdered and buried him? She really thought this extremely possible, and shuddered, and ran back to Mary, and told her to go to her mistress immediately, and let her know that Sylvester was in the parlour, while Judkins could no where be found.

Mary accordingly went, and told her mistress, who feeling quite certain that all was not right, slipped on her morning gown hastily, and with great trepidation descended.

Sylvester was still on the couch, and she approached him, and sat by his side, and found that he was in a deep sleep.

"Sylvester, my love!" she cried. "Sylvester!—Sylvester!—My dear!"

Sylvester opened his eyes, and started. "Why," he exclaimed, looking round, "how is this? In the parlour!"

"How long," said Aunt Eleanor, affectionately: "how long have you been sleeping here?"

"Oh! aunt, I'm sorry—very sorry for this. It's galling in the extreme." He added, angrily, "Judkins ought to have known better. It's monstrous, that a man like that is not to be trusted."

"Do not vex yourself, my love," said Aunt Eleanor, "pray do not vex yourself. Let us thank God that you are safe. Where is Judkins?"

"I know not, aunt: nor do I know how I came here. I know only this, that we went up to bed about ten; that I was well secured to him, and that here I am now."

"But is it not strange? He is no where to be found."

"It 'll be no great loss if he never be found. I might have I might have gone and broken my neck; what did he care? I thought him a different man."

"Nay, my dear, do not thus censure him yet. First ascertain the cause of his letting you free. I have always found him faithful and obedient."

"Why, I thought that I might have trusted my life in his hands; and yet, although I enjoined him not to suffer me to leave the room, here I am, while he is gone no one knows where, and no one cares."

"I hope, sir," observed cook, with tears in her eyes, "that you haven't been doing nothing with him: I hope, sir, you haven't been doing him no mischief!"

"Mischief!" cried Sylvester. "What do you mean?"

"No, cook: certainly not," said Aunt Eleanor. "He will, I have no doubt, return by-and-bye, and when he does return, I shall expect him to give a good account of his conduct. Now go and get the breakfast ready. Mary, come with me. Do not be angry, my dear," she added, addressing Sylvester, and kissing him with the deepest affection. "Let us thank heaven that nothing dreadful has occurred."

She then went up to dress, and so did Sylvester, who found the key on the bed, but, of course, not the chain: and while he was indignantly shaving himself, cook was utterly lost in conjecture. What a number of dreadful deaths she conceived that Judkins might have died while she was getting the breakfast ready! What stabbing, drowning, poisoning, strangulation, and burying alive, rose before her vivid imagination ​then! She was wild!—quite wild! She put the eggs upon the gridiron instead of the ham, and the ham in the saucepan instead of the eggs, and felt strongly that the landlady of the "Cock and Constitution"—the house which Judkins had been after—she never should be. This thought alone was maddening; but when in addition to this she reflected upon the assumed dreadful fact, of a man like Judkins being thus cut off in his very prime, without having left anything like a will: it was too much: she couldn't endure it; and as she found she couldn't, she let the ham and eggs go on just as they pleased, sank into a chair, and wept.

And thus she remained until Mary came down, when she most unreservedly opened her heart. And Mary sympathised with her, and boiled her eggs for her, and cooked two slices of ham, and begged of her earnestly not to "take on" so, and then took the breakfast in.

"Has Judkins returned yet?" inquired Aunt Eleanor.

"No, ma'am: he's not come back yet."

"Dear me, it's very strange; I cannot at all account for it. Have you no idea where he is?"

"Not the leasest in life, ma'am, I'm sure."

"Well! we must of course have patience; but at present his conduct appears to be extraordinary. That will do, Mary; I'll ring when I want you."

Mary withdrew, and returned to cook, whose affliction was most intense: she sighed and sobbed vehemently, and would not be consoled. Her Judkins—oh! her Judkins—lived, she feared, in her memory only. His absence—his deeply mysterious absence—tugged at her heart-strings, and withered her hopes. Oh! that she knew where he was to be found!—she would have him—dead or alive she would have him! In vain did Mary appeal to her philosophy: in vain she preached patience, and talked about hope: cook suspected strongly that Judkins had been murdered, and felt at length that she knew it.

"Oh! what is this life?" she in agony exclaimed—"what is this life but a tub full of eels! The moment you think you have got the one you want, it slips through your fingers, and there you are!"

She got the cards, and Mary shuffled them, and gave them to cook to cut. The first she cut was the nine of spades: "Trouble, trouble, trouble!" she cried, and proceeded to cut again. The next she cut was the ace of spades. "Death!" she exclaimed, and sank back in her chair.

The bell rang. Mary was summoned to the gate. The reverend gentleman was there. He seemed excited—dreadfully excited—and Mary had no sooner let him in, than she ran to tell cook that he was so.

Sylvester met him at the door, and the moment the reverend gentleman saw him, he grasped his hand, and with fervour, exclaimed—

"I am happy to see you—most happy. I feared," he added, as he entered the room, "that some new calamity had befallen us, for Judkins—"

"Have you seen him?"

​"He is now at my house, in the custody of a constable, with irons, not only on his hands but on his legs."

"Is it possible!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor: "why what in the world has he been doing?"

"The constable will have it that he's an escaped convict."

"A what!" cried Sylvester, bursting into a loud roar of laughter, in which Aunt Eleanor could not help joining.

"He will have it," repeated the reverend gentleman, gravely, "that he's an escaped convict; but I don't at present know the particulars, because the moment I ascertained that he had missed you in the night, I ran over to see if you were safe."

"Missed me, indeed!" exclaimed Sylvester, "I've no patience with the man!"

"But he may not be in fault after all, my dear," suggested Aunt Eleanor: "you had better go and see."

"Aye, come with me; come," said the reverend gentleman, "let's go and hear the particulars at once."

"I may not accompany you—may I?" inquired Aunt Eleanor.

"Yes," replied the reverend gentleman: "do, by all means."

Aunt Eleanor ran for her bonnet and shawl, and they left the cottage together.

On reaching the parsonage-house—at the door of which stood the chaise-cart in which the "escaped convict" had been brought—they proceeded to the library, and there found Judkins feeling much degraded and looking very ill.

"Well, Judkins," said Sylvester, sternly, "what have you been doing?"

"I an't been doing o' nothing, sir, but running after you."

"You ought not to have allowed me to leave you at all, sir."

"I can explain all that, sir—I know I can; if you will but satisfy this here person that I'm not what he takes me for."

"Why have you this man in custody?" demanded Sylvester of the constable.

"Why, sir, it's as this," replied the constable; "last night, when I was at Holler Bell, the prisoner came running into the house to ask if some gentleman had been there, and when he came into the room where I was, to look round, I saw that he had a handcuff on, and therefore, as he was a stranger to the place, I felt it my duty, as a constable, to take him into custody."

"What time was that?"

"About half-past eleven."

"Could you not have returned with him at once, or sent to inquire about him?"

"That's what I wanted him to do," exclaimed Judkins.

"And that's what I dare say I should have done—although not bound to do so—if you hadn't been so violent. In the first place, he tried to conceal the handcuff—that looked suspicious: in the second place, when I asked him to shake hands with me he wouldn't: in the third place, when I tried to raise his arm, he knocked me down: and in the fourth place, it required three powerful men to carry him off to the cage."

​"Why were you so violent, Judkins?" said Sylvester. "Why did you not at once explain who you were?"

"I didn't suppose it to be necessary at first, and when I would have done so they wouldn't let me."

"There was, I dare say, unnecessary violence on both sides; but when you found that appearances were against you, you ought to have been calm."

"I couldn't, sir, after he'd called me a convict."

"He certainly was justified in supposing that you had escaped from custody."

"To be sure I was, sir," exclaimed the constable; "and, as such, it was my bounden duty to take him."

"I don't dispute that; but I think that you might have come with him to the Grange, instead of thrusting him into a place of confinement. He is our servant: and I have an affliction which renders it necessary for him to sleep in my room. I am, unfortunately, in the habit of walking in my sleep, and in order to prevent this, I am secured to him by these manacles. Last night, it appears, I, by some means, managed to get away from him, and when he missed me—"

"I heard that you'd gone on to Holler," said Judkins.

"He heard that I had gone on towards Holworth—ran after me—rushed into the Bell to ascertain if I was there—and there you saw him. I presume that you are now quite satisfied."

"Can you unlock them there handcuffs, sir?"

"Yes," replied Sylvester: "here is the key. You will find that that will unlock them both."

"Well," said the constable, having found this to be correct, "as I've had him in custody, I ought, sir, by good rights, to take him before a magistrate."

"There cannot, surely, be the slightest necessity for that."

"I don't know, sir, whether I am justified in letting him go without."

"Nonsense," said the reverend gentleman, "nonsense: I'll be responsible for him, and that's sufficient."

"Well, sir, so long as I'm held harmless, sir, that's all I want. I'm satisfied myself."

"Very well then," said Sylvester, "take those things off."

The constable did so at once, and when Sylvester had privately placed in his hand a sovereign, he bowed and left the house.

"Now Judkins," said Sylvester, "how came you to let me leave the room last night?"

"I'll tell, sir: I'll tell you exact how it was. I hid the key up as you told me. Well, a little after eleven you woke me up, and said to me, 'Judkins, just give me the key.' You spoke just as you speak now, and I thought, in course, that you was awake. I didn't dream of your being asleep. Well, sir, you got up and dressed yourself, and went out of the room, and it wasn't until I heard you open the front door, that the idea struck me. I then became alarmed, and got up and whipped on my things, and went out, and as I heard, when I got in the road, that you, ​or some gentleman, had gone on to Holler, I ran fit to split myself right to Holler Bell, and there, in course, the constable saw me."

"I see how it is now exactly. You fancied, of course, that I was awake."

"I did indeed, sir. Oh, if I hadn't, I wouldn't have suffered you to have left the room for the world."

"Another time, Judkins, let me on no account have the key: give it to me under no pretence, whatever."

I'll take care of that, sir. I've had a lesson. You won't catch me doing it again, sir, I'll warrant."

"I hope not. Now run home and get some refreshment. What sort of a place were you in?"

"Oh, horrid, sir. Worse than a pigsty, and so cold—oh!"

"Then you didn't sleep much?"

"Never got a wink, sir, all the blessed night."

"Then if you feel disposed to go to bed, do so. There, run away, and make yourself as comfortable as you can."

"Stop," said the reverend gentleman. "Drink that. It's brandy."

Judkins knew it. He didn't require to be told. He took the glass and emptied it, and then ran home to comfort cook.

The reverend gentleman now began to descant at full length on the conduct of the constable, and while he was thus occupied, a servant entered, and presented him with a card. He looked at it; and after a pause, slightly started. "Mr. George Augustus Howard!" thought he; "why that is the name of the gentleman whom Sylvester's father was supposed to have injured;—surely this is the same man!"

"Have you shown this gentleman into the parlour?" he inquired.

"No, sir," replied the servant; "he is in his carriage at the door."

"Ask him to walk in; I'll be with him immediately. You will excuse me for a short time," he added, addressing Aunt Eleanor.

"Oh, Sylvester and I will return now. We will only take a walk round the garden."

"Well," said the reverend gentleman, who felt somewhat tremulous, "I expect that I shall have, in the course of an hour, something of importance to communicate."

"Indeed! Well, we shall be happy to see you. Do not let us detain you now."

Sylvester and his aunt then went into the garden, and when the reverend gentleman had nerved himself sufficiently, he joined Mr. Howard in the parlour.

"Mr. Rouse, I believe I have the honour to address," observed Mr. Howard, calmly.

"My name is Rouse," returned the reverend gentleman. "I beg that you will be seated."

"Sir," said Mr. Howard, "I ought to apologise for introducing myself thus; but I think that, when I have explained to you my object, you will pardon me. I saw in a paper, last evening, the report of a trial, in which you were in some degree interested."

"Julian versus Sound?"

​"The same."

"I was indeed, and am still interested deeply."

"And so am I—so deeply, that every hope I have of happiness in this life depends upon my conviction of the truth of that plea upon which the defence rested. You know Mr. Sound, of course?"

"Intimately. He was here just this moment. There he is with his aunt, now leaving the garden gate."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Howard, looking round eagerly: "I should much like to know and converse with him."

"Shall I call him back?"

"I thank you I—thank you: not now—not now. Did you know his father?"

"No; I never did. I saw him once, I believe; but only once."

"Do you know what his christian name was?"

"Let me see; Dr. Sound-Dr.—dear me—Horatio! yes, that was it; I recollect now, it was Horatio."

"I was right in my conjecture then: that was the man. And now I'll explain to you why I came here. You stated, I believe, in your evidence on the trial, that you had not the slightest doubt of the fact of Mr. Sound being a somnambulist."

"I did so. Nor had I the slightest doubt on the subject: nor have I now. Nay, I had an additional proof of the fact this very morning!"

"Can it, think you, be proved, sir, to my satisfaction?"

"Most certainly! I'll undertake to prove it to the satisfaction of any man alive."

"I will tell you why I am anxious to be satisfied. Some years since, this young man's father and I were bosom friends. We had known each other for many years, and fancied that we knew each other's hearts. We visited each other constantly, and continued thus to visit, until one fatal night, when he was absolutely found in my wife's chamber, sitting by the side of her bed!"

"Exactly—yes—well?" cried the reverend gentleman.

"Well, he being not only a friend, but the medical adviser of my wife, I, on hearing of the circumstance, thought but little of it; conceiving that, of course, he had been to attend her professionally; but when my wife denied strongly all knowledge of the circumstance, my suspicions were aroused; and these suspicions were confirmed by Sound himself in the morning, for he declared, most solemnly declared, that on that particular night he never entered the house at all! This I thought conclusive. Had not the fact been denied, the thing would have passed off, of course; but, being thus induced to believe that they had conspired to deceive me, I felt most abundantly convinced of her guilt. I did not, however, proceed, as Sir Charles Julian has proceeded. I had too much regard for my own feelings, and the feelings of those around me. I—as I then conceived, justly—cast her off with a sufficient allowance to secure to her all personal comforts; and there, sir—there was an end."

"Poor lady! And did she live long after that?"

"She is living—still."

​"And does she still declare her innocence?"

"She does, most solemnly."

"Then, be sure that she is innocent. Oh! be sure of it."

"I would to God that I could be sure."

"You have seen her since?"

"But once: but once: and that was recently. My daughter sees her twice a-year. That request I could not deny her. They meet here, in this very village."

"Why!" exclaimed the reverend gentleman, "I have seen two carriages at the door of the inn frequently, and always on particular days; and now I come to look at it, yours is one of them! Bless my life and soul, how extraordinary that is! How often have I wondered why they met there!"

"They have met for that purpose; but my daughter, until a short time since, never knew that she had a mother living."

"I now," said the reverend gentleman, "understand and appreciate your anxiety to be satisfied on this important point; and that satisfaction, be assured, as far as Sylvester is concerned, I will give you."

"If I can be satisfied with reference to him, I shall be satisfied completely: for his father just before his death wrote to me, and stated that if he were there the night in question, he was there in a state of somnambulism; the idea of which I then utterly rejected, but feel disposed to entertain it now. If, therefore, I can be satisfied with reference to the son, I shall be satisfied with reference to the father. It is true I never heard of somnambulism being hereditary; but that will sufficiently satisfy me."

"Then that satisfaction you shall have. I pledge myself to satisfy you. I undertake to bring before you proofs which you yourself shall hold to be irrefragable. I am now preparing a statement of facts to be laid before Sir Charles—who, although he has a verdict, is not at all convinced of its justice—and a copy of that statement you shall have. I will bring before you witnesses here, to prove all that has occurred in this place; and I'll take you up to town and introduce you to Dr. Delolme and his son, whose evidence I am certain you will hold to be conclusive."

"Is the Mr. Delolme who appeared on the trial, the son of Dr. Delome?"

"Yes."

"I knew him well. He was one of the most intimate friends of Dr. Sound."

"He was so."

"Oh! I knew him perfectly well; but I have not seen him for many, many years. Since that unhappy affair, I have kept myself entirely aloof from the world."

"Then let us go to London together and see him, and Thomas, his son."

"I would go, sir, to the end of the world, to be satisfied."

"That is sufficient. You shall first have this statement—the truth ​of every word of which I undertake to prove—and then we'll go up to town together."

"I need not explain to you how highly I appreciate your kindness; but believe me—"

"Not a word on that subject! I am more deeply interested in the vindication of Dr. Sound's character, than you imagine. Where can I communicate with you? Do you live a very great distance from this place."

"Scarcely four miles off! Borton Hall is my residence."

"Borton Hall! How very strange that I should never have heard of your living there!"

"I have, as I before observed, kept myself completely secluded."

"Well; that accounts for it, of course. But yours must have been a weary life."

"It has been, indeed. But, then, what pleasure could society impart to me? It could but inflict additional pain. I have not, my dear sir, for years and years, spoken so freely to any man as I have now spoken to you; but I feel as if you had lifted a weight from my heart, and as I now begin to doubt, I now begin to hope. I feel already a different man; and hence you may be sure that my mind is prepared for conviction. Nay," he added, as tears chased each other down his cheeks, "so much lighter do I feel, that I am about to solicit you company today. Come and dine with me? It is a long, long time since I entertained a friend; but say that you will come?"

"My dear sir, I will."

"Could you bring Mr. Sound with you?"

"Certainly! I will do so. Nay, I shall be most happy to do so. He need not know your object exactly. It would not be wise, perhaps, to tell that to him yet. You are a friend of mine: that will be sufficient. The subject of Somnambulism can be easily introduced, and you will then hear his views on that subject explained."

"My dear friend, I feel extremely grateful to you: you know not how grateful I feel! However, I may, of course, expect you at four?"

"I will most assuredly be there."

Mr. Howard took his hand and pressed it warmly, and, having received such additional assurances as could not fail to strengthen his hopes, returned to his carriage, and gave the word "home."

The reverend gentleman was now in a state of rapture. All, in his judgment, was perfectly clear. He had but to prove this to Howard's satisfaction—which he felt, of course, sure that he could do—and poor Mrs. Howard would be restored to her husband, who would, of course, in consequence, be once more happy—his own dear Eleanor would be delighted with the fact of her brother's character being vindicated—Sylvester's innocence would be proved to the world, and Lady Julian would return to Sir Charles, who would be in a state of felicity again. If there be a pure pleasure on earth, it is assuredly that of imparting pleasure to others, and the reverend gentleman—who imagined that he saw all this with the most perfect distinctness—experienced this pleasure in an eminent degree. Of what an immense amount of happiness did he then ​possess the germs. In his view, no man was ever placed in a more fortunate position. But he would not keep the knowledge of his position to himself. No; he'd go and begin to spread this happiness without delay. His Eleanor should be informed of all that had transpired; and, as she was the first to be made happy, he went to the cottage at once.

"Sylvester," said he, as he entered, "I am going to dine with a friend to day at four: will you go with me?"

"I shall be most happy to do so."

"We shall be by ourselves: everything quite quiet! I offer no apology at present to you," he added, turning to Aunt Eleanor, "for thus depriving you of his society. But, come, let us take a little turn in the garden."

Aunt Eleanor, who inferred from this that he wished to say something to her in private, smiled, and left her work, and went into the garden with him.

"Now," said he; "I told you that I thought—and it did at the time strike me—that I should have, in the course of the morning, something important to communicate."

"And have you?"

"I have, my dear Eleanor: I have."

He then led her into the arbour, and there, to her utter amazement, told her all that had occurred. At first, on hearing him mention the name of Howard, she nearly fainted; but, recovering her self-possession, she subsequently listened with almost breathless anxiety. He remembered nearly every word that had passed, and every word that he remembered he communicated to her, embellished only with a description of the feelings inspired.

"And now," said he, at the conclusion of this intelligence; "ought we not to be most thankful? Out of evil cometh good. The very thing which we held to be a great calamity, may prove to be a blessing indeed. Thus we, in our blindness, complain: events occur, of the tendency of which we have no knowledge, no conception; and, because we are too short-sighted to see their tendency, we presumptuously pronounce them to be evils, and, instead of being grateful, complain. How wonderfully is everything ordered! And what poor, weak, dependent, helpless creatures we are! We are but instruments in the hands of Him who employs us to work out His great design. But, come, dear Eleanor, why so sad?"

"I am not sad," she replied; "believe me. You have said that we ought to be thankful: I am, indeed, thankful: most thankful. But—should Mr. Howard, after all, not be satisfied—"

"That, my dear Eleanor, I hold to be impossible. Why, Sylvester, I have not the slightest doubt, will this very day satisfy him."

"But did I not understand you that Sylvester was to have no knowledge of his object?"

"Exactly! But, when I have introduced the subject, Sylvester will join in the conversation, of course."

"I perceive. Well, I hope to heaven that you may be successful!"

"Be sure that we shall be. I feel certain of it. I never felt more ​certain of anything yet. And now let us go in again. Sylvester may suspect that there is something which we are anxious to conceal from him, and I wish him to go there free from all suspicion."

They then returned to the parlour, in which Sylvester was reading, and, as they entered, the reverend gentleman said, "Well, my dear boy, now what time will you be ready?"

"Oh, at what time you please!" replied Sylvester. "How far have we to go?"

"About four miles; it can't be more than that."

"Then I suppose we ought to start about half-past three? Shall I drive you over in our machine, or will you go in yours?"

"Oh, we may as well go in mine."

"Very well. Then, in the meantime, aunt, you and I will go for a drive somewhere: shall we?"

"I should like it, my dear, much."

The reverend gentleman then left the cottage, and Sylvester went to look after the chaise, while Aunt Eleanor—to whom Borton Hall had become an object of the most intense interest—decided on getting Sylvester to drive round Borton, in order that she might just look at the Hall.

Accordingly, on getting into the chaise, she intimated to him the road she wished to go—of course without explaining her object—and they went that road and passed the Hall, of which she could get but the slightest glimpse, so perfectly was it surrounded by trees.

"How should you like to live there?" inquired Sylvester, perceiving the eyes of his aunt fixed upon it.

"I think not at all, my love;—should you?"

"I might if I wished to be buried alive. What place is that?" he inquired of a man who was passing at the time."

"Borton Hall, sir," replied the man.

"Who lives there!"

"Don't know, sir. Nobody knows. Nobody never did know."

"Nobody, I suppose then particularly wants to know. Of course it's inhabited?"

"Sir?"

"Some one lives there, of course."

"Oh, yes, sir, two or three lives there, if they call that livin'. They're rollin' in riches, too, if that's any good to 'em."

"Is the master of the house then a miser?"

"A miser, sir! no, sir: he's one of the most liberalest men as is—only he won't let nobody know him. He don't care what he gives away nor what he pays for what he has."

"Is he never to be seen?"

"Oh, yes, sir—sometimes. I've seen him often, and he looks, for all the world, sir, as if he'd been committing a million o' murders."

"Well, he's an extraordinary fellow, certainly," said Sylvester, who threw the man sixpence and then drove on.

That this colloquy, short as it was, deeply interested Aunt Eleanor, a fact which may well be conceived. She knew the cause of Howard's ​seclusion and dejection; but as Sylvester did not, he thought no more about the matter.

"There's a lovely girl!" he exclaimed, as a carriage passed them about half a mile from the Hall. "Did you see her?"

"I took no particular notice, my dear, I was looking at the carriage."

"Oh, you should have seen her one of the most beautiful creatures ever beheld!"

"Young, my dear—very young?"

"She seemed to be very young. An older person—her mother, I imagine—was in the carriage with her."

This at once banished the thought she had conceived of its being Howard's daughter. She had no mother to ride by her side: of every comfort—of every joy which a mother could impart she had been most unhappily deprived.

"I wonder," said Sylvester, "whom she can be. Do you know the carriage?"

"I thought as it passed that I'd seen it before. But it cannot be the one I imagined.

"I should much like to know who she is."

"Why, my love—why?"

"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps because she is the most charming girl I ever saw."

The subject then dropped, and as Sylvester's thoughts were fixed on her, while those of his aunt were engaged with Howard, they returned, almost in silence, to the Grange.

At ten minutes past three precisely—the usual twenty minutes before the appointed time—the reverend gentleman drove up to the gate; and, having alighted, felt anxious to be off; but Sylvester, knowing this propensity of his, had him in and expostulated with him, and pointed out to him the monstrous absurdity of supposing that his horse couldn't do more than four miles an hour.

"Did you ever see a carriage," he inquired at length; "an olive carriage, picked out with white?"

"I have seen such a carriage," replied the reverend gentleman, colouring up on the instant; "I certainly have seen such a carriage!"

"And so have I! and of all the lovely creatures I ever beheld, she, who was in that carriage this morning, was incomparably the most lovely!"

"What!" exclaimed the reverend gentleman, who didn't on this point wish to be urged. "What!" he reiterated, pointing to a portrait for which Aunt Eleanor had sat twenty years before. "Have you ever seen that portrait?"

"Of course I have; and see it now."

"Did you ever see the original?"

Aunt Eleanor smiled, and playfully patted the cheek of the reverend gentleman and blushed, and said that she thought it was much too bad.

"Well, but do you know to whom that carriage belongs?" inquired Sylvester.

​"No; her mother was with her."

"Then I don't know at all. But come; let's be off. We shall keep them waiting; I know we shall!"

"Oh! we have plenty of time. Shall I drive?"

"If you please! Yes, do."

"Very well. Is there any exhibition about ten miles off?"

"Not that I'm aware of! Why?"

"If there had been, we might as well have seen that first!"

"But really we have no time to spare! we haven't indeed."

"Well! then we'll be off."

They then took leave of Aunt Eleanor—who made them promise to be home by ten—and while she prayed for their success, they started.

On reaching the avenue which led to the Hall, Sylvester suddenly stopped, and exclaimed—

"Why! we passed this wilderness this morning! Are you going in here?"

"Oh yes! Go on!"

"Are you sure that you can find your way out again?"

"I have not the smallest fear of that."

"Oh! Well, then we'll explore! Are we going to dine with the proprietor of this den?"

"We shall dine with the gentleman who lives at the Hall!"

"He's a natural curiosity, is he not?"

"A natural curiosity!"

"Yes; the man of whom I inquired this morning in the road said that he didn't know him, that nobody knew him, and that he never was known!"

"He certainly leads a life of seclusion, but you will find him a most perfect gentleman, notwithstanding."

They now reached the circular lawn before the house, and as they drove round two servants appeared at the door, and immediately afterwards Howard came forth, and proceeded to welcome them warmly.

This ceremony ended, he led them into a spacious and most elegantly furnished room, and at once introduced them to Henriette.

Sylvester recognised her in an instant. It was the sweet girl whom he had that morning seen. And there was the lady whom he had conceived to be her mother, but who was introduced to him as Miss Duprez.

Having been presented, Henriette retired to one of the windows—gracefully, but with a timidity which proved that she had not been much accustomed to society—and, while Howard was conversing with the reverend gentleman, and glancing at Sylvester—who was an object of peculiar interest to him—Sylvester and Henriette were glancing at each other, for he was equally, although with far different feelings, an object of interest to her. And thus they were engaged until dinner was announced, when Howard gave Henriette to the reverend gentleman, and—as Miss Duprez had left the room—took Sylvester's arm himself.

Miss Duprez, however, joined them in the dining-room, and they sat down to a most delicious dinner—a dinner which the reverend gentle​man highly enjoyed—but of which neither Sylvester nor Henriette—who was exceedingly tremulous the whole of the time—partook freely.

It will not appear amazing that Henriette—who had never before dined with strangers—should feel, on this occasion, nervous; but it is very questionable whether she would have felt half so nervous, had there been but one guest, and that guest had been the reverend gentleman. It will be extremely rational to believe that she would not: for her eyes and those of Sylvester constantly met—so constantly, indeed, that it really appeared as if they had not the power to keep them off.

Very soon after dinner the ladies withdrew, and then Sylvester felt more at ease, and, as Howard—who was highly pleased with him—paid him every attention, he joined in the conversation freely and gaily, until the subject of somnambulism was introduced, when he became at once thoughtful and silent.

Conceiving, however, that, being a friend of the reverend gentleman, Howard knew, of course, all about the recent trial, he eventually shook off all unpleasant thoughts, and, on being appealed to, entered into the subject fully. He related all those circumstances connected with the case which did not transpire on the trial—how Sir Charles had attacked him; how the duel was prevented; how the pier-glass was broken, and so on—and then described the scenes which he unconsciously produced while residing with Dr. Delolme.

This description not only amazed Howard, but amused him; and, as the reverend gentleman after this related, with his characteristic gravity, all that had occurred at the Grange—commencing with the peaches, and ending with the fact of poor Judkins being caged as an escaped convict—he appeared for a time to have forgotten all his cares.

"But," said he at length, addressing Sylvester; "you seem to have passed over five years! What occurred while you were living with Mr. Scholefield?"

"Nothing that ever came to my knowledge; and that I have often thought of as being most strange."

"It is strange, certainly. Now, had you any supper last night?"

"Oh, yes; I always take supper: it is, in fact, the meal I most enjoy."

"What are the habits of Mr. Scholefield? Is he a free liver?"

"Quite the reverse. He is a particularly abstemious man."

"And were you abstemious while you were living with him?"

"I was: I lived very nearly as he lived."

"And never ate suppers?"

"Why!" exclaimed Sylvester, as the thought on the instant struck him; "how strange that that never occurred to me! That must have been the cause!"

"A friend once wrote to me," said Howard, with emotion, and the reverend gentleman knew whom he meant; "stating that he had been a somnambulist, and that abstemious living had, in his case, effected a cure!"

"And will do so in my case, I have not the slightest doubt of it!"

"I should strongly recommend you to try it."

​"Try it, sir! What would I not do to cure myself of this awfully perilous practice? Nothing of the kind ever occurred, to my knowledge, while I lived with Mr. Scholefield: I am, therefore, bound to believe that nothing ever did occur, and that, as I lived, while there, abstemiously, the fact is ascribable solely to that. I thank you for the suggestion. I feel grateful to you beyond all expression. I shall adopt it, most assuredly, at once."

"And I hope, most sincerely," added Howard, "that it will prove to be in your case effectual."

They then rejoined the ladies, and had coffee; and Sylvester chatted with Henriette—whom he found to be a highly intellectual, as well as a most lovely, girl—while the reverend gentleman and Howard were conversing most earnestly in private. The result of this conversation was, that they resolved on posting to town on the morrow, and, soon after this resolution had been fixed, the guests took leave of Howard and Henriette, and left the Hall—the reverend gentleman with such news for Eleanor, and Sylvester with feelings of gratitude and love!