Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 38

In the morning, about half-past five o'clock, Sylvester—who not only went to bed the previous night supperless, but, in order to counteract the effects of the wine, had taken a cooling draught—awoke; and, feeling anxious to get up, for his stomach, being empty, was very rebellious, he at length pulled the chain, and awoke his protector.

Judkins, in an instant, sat upright in bed, and looked at him very mysteriously, and then shook his head with peculiar significance, and then said, "No: it won't do; not a bit of it: nothing at all of the sort: I won't have it. You want to cut away again, don't you?"

"I want to get up," replied Sylvester.

"Then I'd rayther you'd remain where you are, for I don't want to get into any more cages."

"I am not now asleep!"

"No, I dessay you're not: no doubt you're wide awake in a state of somnambulisation!"

"No, indeed I am not: look at me?"

"That's of no use! I can't tell by looking. What do you want to get up for, here, a little arter five?"

"In the first place, I feel very hungry; and in the next, as I can't sleep, I may as well get up as not."

​"But don't you recollect you told me not to let you get up before the usual time, on no account whatsomdever? Now, this here's a very onrational time, you know, for you to get up, so you'd better lay down ag'in, and make your life happy."

"Nonsense!" cried Sylvester, who couldn't avoid laughing; "I tell you distinctly that I'm now quite awake! Where's the key?"

"Well, but are you awake now? Upon your soul, are you awake?"

"I am."

"Well, I don't know; you know, sir, whether you are or not: I'll defy all flesh to tell that: you look as if you was, and if you will have the key, why you must have the key, and I'll go with you wheresomdever you please, but may I be burnt if you gets away from me, or even so much as quits my sight."

"It's all right, Judkins. Come, the key."

Judkins gave him the key, and, not being satisfied, got up at once, and dressed himself, and stood by the door, and watched him closely, until he was ready to leave the room, when he took his arm and shook him well, and bawled in his ear, "I say, sir! Mr. Sylvester! are you awake?"

"Yes!" replied Sylvester, who, although convulsed with laughter, bawled in the ear of Judkins as loudly as Judkins had bawled in his; "Yes! I am!"

Judkins was now pretty nearly convinced: still he followed him, and kept his eye upon him, and would not allow him to go out of his sight, until Aunt Eleanor came down to breakfast, when he saw him safely into the parlour, and felt that he had thus done his duty.

"Well, my dear," exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, who was in high spirits that morning; "what sort of a night have you had?"

"I slept well," replied Sylvester, "till half-past five, when I felt so desperately hungry, that I was really compelled to get up."

"Then you did not, before that time, disturb Judkins?"

"I don't believe that, until I awoke, I even moved."

"Thank heaven! That is the remedy, my love!"

"I feel sure of it!"

"You need not, during the day, be particularly abstemious. All I apprehend you have to do, is to abtain from eating suppers. But you, of course, know how to act now, much better than I can tell you."

They then reverted to the Howards, and, while Sylvester was giving a glowing description of the beautiful Henriette, the reverend gentleman passed through the gate, and Sylvester rose to meet him.

"Well," he exclaimed, as he entered the parlour; "how are you both this morning? I presume, of course, that nothing has occurred."

"Nothing!" returned Sylvester.

"Then my friend is right?"

"I believe him to be quite right."

"That's a blessing. Well, you know I have to be with him at eleven."

"And I go with you, of course?"

"Oh, dear me, no; I'll not trouble you. I'll take Jones, you know. He can bring the phaeton back."

​"But, of course, having dined there, I must make a call, as a matter of mere etiquette!"

"Oh, well, if that's it: ah, I didn't think of that. Then we'll both go together: we'll both go together. Now, just let me see. I have to send to my friend, Mr. Dixon, to beg of him to officiate for me to-morrow."

"Are you sure that he is not engaged?"

"A good thought: a very good thought, that. He may be."

"Shall I ride over now, and ascertain? I shall not be gone more than an hour."

"Well, now; really—now that's very kind of you. If you would, I should, indeed, esteem it a favour."

"Oh, I'll go at once!" returned Sylvester, who immediately had the horse saddled, and was off, much to the gratification of the reverend gentleman, not only because he should know whether his friend, Mr. Dixon, was or was not engaged, but because it enabled him to have an hour's private conversation with his Eleanor before he started.

Of this hour, he, of course, made the most, and, when Sylvester returned with the information that Mr. Dixon would officiate for him with pleasure, he sent for his phaeton, and, having reiterated "Good bye! God bless you!" at least twenty times, they left the cottage and drove to the Hall.

On their arrival, Howard received them with the utmost cordiality, and they sat down to lunch. Henriette—who, in Sylvester's view, looked even more lovely than she did the previous evening—presided; and at half-past eleven, Howard—having taken leave of Henriette most affectionately—entered the carriage with his friend, and they were off.

Sylvester now scarcely knew what to do. Love prompted him to linger, but propriety urged him to leave. While, however, the influences of love and propriety were struggling for the mastery, Miss Duprez gracefully expressed her belief that he had not seen the garden!

He could have blessed her—and so could Henriette—who endeavoured to conceal the tears which the departure of her father had occasioned—and, when Sylvester had acknowledged the politeness of Miss Duprez, he elegantly drew the arm of Henriette in his, while her governess opened the garden gate.

This was indeed delightful. But Sylvester was not eloquent at all! nor was Henriette eloquent! Miss Duprez ran about gaily, and gathered an infinite variety of flowers, and went into the arbour, and made a bouquet; but Sylvester and Henriette were almost silent although in a state of rapture.

"Now," said Miss Duprez, archly, having completed her task, "this is for you to take home: and, after all the pains that I have taken, I really must beg of you not to spoil it."

Sylvester smiled, and received the bouquet: and turning to Henriette, said, "This is kind; but will you not add one flower?"

The face and neck of Henriette were, in an instant, crimson!—but as Miss Duprez ran to the arbour again—she added one flower—one little flower—it was the Forget-me-not.

That Sylvester prized this above all the rest, is a fact which need not ​
The Bouquet.

​be explained. She again took his arm, and he pressed her hand, and when Miss Duprez had led them to the gate at which they had entered, he warmly and gracefully bade them adieu, and, with feelings of ecstacy, left them.

Nothing now worth recording occurred until nine the following morning. It is true that Sylvester had, in the night, attempted to get out of bed; but as he did not expect to be, by any means, immediately cured, this neither distressed nor amazed him. But there was, at the hour named, one man near him struck—absolutely struck with amazement; and that man was Obadiah Drant.

He had gone as usual to the Crumpet and Crown to have the first look at the Sunday paper, and when his eye rested on the case of Crim. Con., and he found that Sylvester was the defendant, he called out to Legge—"Hallo! Here you are! Here's a go! Send I may live! Look here!"

"What is it?" inquired Legge. "Anything fresh?"

"Fresh! I fancy it is fresh. You recollect that young scamp that wanted to fructify me into the belief that he wasn't here at all that night, don't you?"

"What young Mr. Sound? What of him?"

"I wish I may die if he ain't been crim-conning it."

"What?"

"Crim-conning it with one of the aristocracy. Didn't I always say they were a foul, lascivious lot! There isn't one virtuous woman amongst them."

"Psha!" exclaimed Legge.

"Well, but doesn't this prove it?"

"Let me have a look at it."

"Shall I read to you?"

"Yes, if you'll read right on, and let us have none of your comments."

Obadiah undertook to do this: and, having readjusted his spectacles, commenced, and read the opening speech with peculiar gusto.

"What do you think of that, my boy!—what do you think of that!" he exclaimed.

"Go on," said Legge; "go on."

"Well, but what do you think of it? That's a tidy juxtaposition to be placed in."

"Go on—go on; or give me the paper."

Obadiah proceeded; and when he had got through Slashinger's speech, Legge, rubbing his hands, inquired what he thought of it.

"We shall see, my boy—we shall see!" replied Obadiah. "I don't care for that."

"Have you seen what the verdict is?"

"No."

"Then I'll bet you what you like he gets off."

"Done! I'll bet you he don't."

"A glass of grog!"

"Done!"

​Obadiah resumed.

"Hallo!" he exclaimed. "What—Ted!"

"What our parson?"

"The reverend Edward Rouse! Parsons are sure to put their noses in. Nothing can go along now without a parson. Now then, what's he got to say about the matter? The ghost!" he added, on reading the evidence: "what—is that a fact?"

"What do you think of your glass of grog now?" cried Legge.

Why, I think I've lost it," replied Obadiah: "but stop a bit mind you; it ain't over yet!"

He then read the reply, and exclaimed, triumphantly—

"What do you think now of your glass of grog?"

"What's the verdict," cried Legge; "what's the verdict?"

"The verdict is for the plaintiff, my Briton. Damages two thousand pounds! What do you think of that! Two thousand pounds, my boy! Eh!—what do you think of that?"

"Why I think," replied Legge, "that every man on that jury ought to have two thousand lashes."

"Not a bit of it. What! don't you see!"

Yes, I see all about it. But give me the paper: I'll read it myself."

Panting to spread this "glorious" news, Obadiah at once went to call upon Pokey, for this was an extensive foundation indeed for him to build upon. Nothing but a "rattling revolution" could have given him greater scope.

"Here's your works!" he exclaimed, as he entered. "You know young Sound, don't you?"

"Young Sound," said Pokey; "oh, yes! What of him?"

"Do you know what he's been up to?"

"No: what?"

"What! Why he's been up to crim-conicalisation!"

"Crim how much?"

"Crim-conicalisation! He's been seducing one of the wives of the aristocracy."

"You don't say so!"

"Oh, it's in the papers. There it is in black and white! You'll see it at the Crumpet. Damages two thousand pounds, my boy; what do you think of that! But she's as bad as him—nay, she's twenty times worse! Haven't I always told you what they were? Haven't I always said that the pauper aristocracy were steeped to the very eyes in amalgamating vice? Look at 'em. What are they—why there isn't a woman amongst 'em fit to be trusted, nor has there been since the time of Peter the Great; and yet these are the wretches—I call 'em wretches—who wring a hundred millions a-year out of the vitals of the poverty-stricken people. Isn't it monstrous—isn't it disgusting for any civilized mind to amalgamate upon? Why, before I'd stand it, if I was John Bull, I'd kick 'em all over to Botany Bay. I wouldn't have it!"

"Well, but who is this woman? Who is she?"

"Why, a lady of title, to be sure! a Lady Julian—Lady Matilda ​Maria Julian. Why, her very name shows you what she is! And do you think that I'd support my Lady this, and my Lady that, and my Lady the t'other, to kick up such boney fide pranks as these! I'd amalgamate 'em all! I wouldn't have 'em! I'd place 'em in the juxtaposition of the French, when Boney went to Bunker's-hill: I'd place 'em horse de combat, and make 'em fight their way through the world for a living. That's how I'd serve 'em. I wouldn't have the locusts! If paupers are paupers, they ought to be treated as paupers."

"But is she a pauper?"

"A pauper! Don't I tell you she's a lady of title? and ain't they all paupers? I say it's a most disgusting shame that these titled drones—these imps of the universe, should be allowed to plunder the people in this way."

"Well, but two thousand pounds—I say that 'll be a bit of a pull, won't it?"

"Oh, they must sell off, you know: safe to be a sale: they can't pay two thousand down without! There'll be an execution in the house, I expect, to-morrow. But when you come to look at it, isn't it disgusting that such a lot of wretches are suffered to breathe!"

"Who gets this money—this two thousand pounds?"

"Why, the husband, of course! Don't your ideas fructify? Can't you perceive that it's all a planned thing? 'I want money,' says he to her, 'and you know this young fellow. Get him to come some night to the house, and I shall gain two thousand pounds.' Don't you see? Ain't it as plain as the nose on your face? This is your aristocracy—your pauper aristocracy! If I'd my will, I'd hang the lot! bishops and parsons and all. They're all alike! and, mark my words, nothing but a flaming revolution will ever do justice to the eternal principles of the people."

He then left Pokey and called upon Bobber, and told the news to all whom he met; and then called upon Snorkins, and then upon Quocks, and thus he went round with this "glorious" news—building as he went, and coining new words to express his contempt for the "pauper aristocracy"—and, as this gave him unspeakable pleasure, he spent a "glorious" day, indeed!

That day Howard dined with Dr. Delolme, and met Scholefield and Tom—with whom he had an interview in the morning—and when the doctor had explained to him a variety of circumstances which tended to prove that not only Sylvester, but Dr. Sound himself, was a somnambulist; he became so perfectly satisfied of the fact, that in the full conviction of the innocence of his wife, he resolved on returning to Borton on the morrow.

The reverend gentleman was of course delighted! He had hoped that Howard, before he left town, would have an interview, through Scholefield, with Sir Charles; but, under existing circumstances, he would not have hinted a wish to detain him for the world.

They remained at the doctor's till eleven, and then returned to the hotel; and, as they left town as early as six the next morning, they arrived at the Hall before twelve.

​On the road, the chief question discussed was, How Mrs. Howard should be informed of the fact of her being believed to be guiltless; and it was at length decided that the reverend gentleman should go and have an interview with her, with power to act precisely as circumtances might prompt.

He, accordingly—having partaken of some refreshment—entered the carriage; and proceeded to the residence of Mrs. Howard, which was nearly nine miles from the Hall, while Howard himself, to the amazement as well as the delight of Henriette, explained to her all that had occurred.

On his arrival, the reverend gentleman inquired for "Mrs. Greville;" and, having sent in his card, was shown into the parlour, in which a portrait of Howard hung conspicuously. This struck him as he entered; but his thoughts soon reverted to the task he had undertaken, and just as he had seated himself near the window, a tall, commanding figure firmly entered the room.

"Mrs. Howard," said the reverend gentleman, "I believe I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"Mrs. Howard!" she echoed, with a look of surprise. "My name—she added, in deep tones of sadness. My name is Greville, sir—Greville, now."

"My dear lady: pardon me," said the reverend gentleman; "I addressed you as Mrs. Howard. I did so, because I now come as a mediator."

"A mediator!" she exclaimed. "A mediator! From whom?"

"From one whose affection for you is unbounded, and from whose heart of hearts you have never been estranged."

"Why, what am I to understand by this?"

"My dear, dear madam, I am cognisant of the whole of the circumstances connected with your unhappy case. Your husband did believe you to be faithless."

"He did!" she exclaimed; "he did. But," she added, clasping her hands fervently, "I am—before God, I here declare that I am—innocent!"

"I believe it: I believe it: I firmly believe it."

"You said that he—my husband—did believe that I was faithless. Of course he believes it still!"

"No—no!"

"He does not!"

"He does not."

"Thank heaven!" she cried. "Thank heaven! Oh! most fervently do I thank heaven for that! A mediator!" she added, thoughtfully, "a mediator! Tell me—pray tell me at once what you mean."

"My dear madam, your husband now believes you to be guiltless. Your innocence has been severely tested and proved."

"Proved! How proved?"

"It has been, through my humble instrumentality, proved that Dr. Sound was a somnambulist! And now I am come to communicate to ​you the fact of there being open arms and warm hearts to receive you at Borton Hall."

"Sir," said Mrs. Howard, who appeared to be bewildered, while her woman's pride was struggling to gain the ascendancy—"I thank you. I appreciate your kindness—believe me, I appreciate it highly; but Borton Hall is no place for me."

"My dear madam. Now, you will distress me. If you assume this tone, you will very much distress me."

"Look!" she exclaimed, as she bitterly wept. "Look at the indignities that have been heaped upon me! Oh! it was cruel—cruel!"

"I said that I came as a mediator. I also came to offer my advice. You saw the carriage in which I came?"

"I have not yet seen it."

"Look: it is there. It was yours, I believe?"

"It was."

"And is still. Now my advice is, that you enter that carriage, and go at once with me to the Hall."

"Sir, I cannot do it."

"Not to be restored to him, whom I well know you love fondly, and who will receive you with open arms? You made a request, I believe, some time since—a request which you said should be your last."

"Yes, and he cruelly, contemptuously spurned me."

"He feels that it was, on his part, cruel; but he then imagined that that pledge had been violated—"

"It never was violated by me."

"He believes, he knows, that it never was. But you then, I believe, wished to see him?"

"I did."

"And do you not wish to see him now?"

She made no reply: her heart was too full. She covered her face, and wept aloud.

"My dear madam," he resumed, "be comforted. I know that you have had to endure much: I know that your sufferings have been great—"

"They have indeed."

"I know it: but now that you have a bright prospect of happiness—"

"No: I shall never be happy again."

"Now, my dear madam;—really you must not say so."

"If even I were to return, I should always be the victim of some foul suspicion."

"You wrong him: indeed you wrong him. It is true that he for a long time entertained suspicion; but look with me—look, my dear madam—at the extraordinary circumstances under which that suspicion was created."

"Nothing could justify it—nothing."

"Suppose that you had been Howard, and that he had been you, would not you have felt justified under such circumstances—"

​"If I had—even if I had—I should never have treated him so cruelly."

"This answer I ascribe to that amiable characteristic of your sex, which prompts you always—with, or without justice—to sympathise and to forgive. But come—now let me—pray let me prevail upon you to accompany me to the Hall."

"I cannot, sir—I cannot go."

"You cannot go to make him happy, who has long been a stranger to happiness: you cannot go to fill the heart of Henriette with joy?"

"My poor child!" she exclaimed, convulsively, as a fresh flood of tears gushed forth. "My poor child!—stay, sir!" she added, as the reverend gentleman rose and turned to the window, with the view of concealing the tears which sprang into his eyes; "stay, sir: one moment."

"I was not about to leave, my dear madam: I was not about to leave," replied the reverend gentleman. "I am in no haste—no haste, whatever! Reflect—nay, I would suggest the expediency of your retiring to reflect: still I must say that, if you consult your own happiness and the happiness of those who are dear to you still, the result of that reflection will be your consent to accompany me to the Hall. I have much to say to you—much to explain—much that will interest you deeply—but this I'll reserve until we enter the carriage. Consider yourself: consider him to whom you are still most dear: consider your sweet child—your own Henriette—who is anxiously waiting to clasp you to her heart. Go with me—abandon all ideas of humiliation—conscious of your innocence, go with me firmly—and if, after your reception, you wish to return—. But that I hold to be impossible. You make no sacrifice!-yours is essentially a triumph! Now go, and prepare. In the pride of innocence meet the man whom you have never injured."

"I will," she replied, with an expression of intensity. "My mind's made up. I will."

Elated with success, the reverend gentleman—immediately after Mrs. Howard had retired—left the room, which appeared to be much too small for the comprehensive character of his thoughts, and went into the garden, contemplating deeply the happiness which would of necessity spring from this reconciliation. He pictured to himself the meeting at the Hall—the delight of Howard—the joy of Henriette!—nor did he forget to portray the rapture with which his own Eleanor would be inspired when he carried the news to the Grange.

While he was thus contemplating, Mrs. Howard's pride was struggling with her purer feelings. Still her resolution remained unshaken. She would go. And when she had prepared to accompany the reverend gentleman, the fact was immediately announced, and with many kind and delicate expressions of sympathy he handed her into the carriage.

On the way, he explained to her how the conviction of her innocence had been induced: he related to her the whole of the circumstances connected with the trial: Howard's journey to town, and his anxious return; but she was still extremely tremulous—still thoughtful—still ​sad; and when they reached the Hall, he had the utmost difficulty in prevailing upon her to leave the carriage.

Howard did intend to receive her at the door, but when he saw the carriage approaching, his feelings overcame him, and he sank upon a couch. The reverend gentleman therefore alone supported her—for Henriette and Miss Duprez were then unconscious of their arrival-and when he had conducted her into the room, Howard on the instant rose and approached with extended arms, into which she at once fell and fainted. The reverend gentleman immediately withdrew, and met Henriette, who had that moment heard of the fact of their having arrived, and when he had communicated his intention to Miss Duprez, he re-entered the carriage and returned to the Grange.