Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 12
CHAPTER XII.
THE FEARFUL CONJECTURE.
When Judkins went into the stable that morning, he found Snorter steaming and bleeding at the mouth; and feeling indignant at the idea of his being thus treated, he declared he'd give a crown if the horse could but speak.
'What devil's tricks have they been up to now?" he enquired of the animal. " What have they been doing with you? What have they been after? What do they want to spit their spite upon you for? Come out, old boy—come, and let's have a look at you. They've guv you a benefit this time, that's certain!" he added, on finding the horse in a worse plight than before. "Poor fellow!—poor old fellow!—have they been ill-using on you? Poor old boy! But I'll catch 'em! Blarm their bodies on 'em, I'll find 'em out. But a'n't you a fool?" he continued, indignantly, "What do you mean? Why didn't you kick 'em clean off? What did you want to let 'em sarve you out in this here way for? Do you think I'd ha' stood it? Why didn't you strike out fierce, when you saw 'em come into the stable? You might ha' knowed what they wanted—it wasn't the first time. What did you want to let 'em take advantage of your ignorance for? You know them as treats you well, don't you? Very well, then, why don't you know them as treats you ill? Poor old boy! come and let's wash your mouth out. Poor old fellow! There—you'll soon be all right again. You a'n't lame, are you? No, you a'n't lame. Come along in again, and make your life happy. I'll soon come and attend to you. There, old boy!—but you ought to have struck out at ’em.”
Having thus by turns caressed and expostulated with the animal, he repaired to the kitchen, and having explained all to cook, asked her pointedly, what she really thought of it.
"What do I think of it!” she exclaimed. “What can any one think of it? But how did they get the key? Did you leave it in the door last night?”
“No, I bronght it in and hung it upon that blessed hook, where it has always hung of a night since the last go, and where I found it hanging this morning.”
“Well, the fact of it is I can’t live in the house, and so I shall tell missis directly she comes down. The whole place is bewitched. It’s haunted. I’m'sure of it. It isn’t fit for flesh and blood to live in.”
Mary was then informed of the circumstance, and when she had dwelt sufficiently long on the really mysterious character of the pro- ceeding, she went up to inform her mistress, who received the intelli- gence with a degree of composure, at which Mary was perfectly amazed.
It must not, however, be supposed, that Aunt Eleanor failed to feel it. She did feel it deeply, but the expression of her feelings was calm.
“We shall find it all out, by-and-by,” she observed ; “these practices cannot be carried on long. Time discovers all things. We must have patience.”
“But isn’t it horrid, ma’am—isn’t it frightful—that these things should go on, ma’am, night after night, without having a stopper put upon 'em.
“It is very annoying, Mary—very! But we shall discover it all be- fore long. I have no doubt of that.”
“I hope to goodness we shall,” returned Mary, “I’m sure, ma’am, it’s shocking to live so. It’s enough to frighten all of us out of our wits.”
“Very true,” said Aunt Eleanor, calmly, “very true;” and while dressing and listening to Mary’s expression of fear, she at intervals re- peated “very true.”
Having finished her toilet, she descended to the breakfast-room, where Sylvester—who had as usual been called by Mary—soon joined her; and when she had explained to him the fact of the horse having been again taken out of the stable and treated with severity, he could not refrain from shedding tears; for as Snorter had been his dear father’s favourite horse, and had been given to his aunt in the full con- viction that it would be most kindly treated, a variety of fond associa- tions were recalled, as he exclaimed, in touching accents of filial affec- tion, “I would not have him injured for the world.”
“He has not been injured, my love,” said Aunt Eleanor, privately reproaching herself for having said so much. “He has not been, even in the slightest degree, injured. On the contrary, they appear to have taken great care of him; still it was wrong of them to ride him so hard; indeed it was wrong of them to take him out at all; but believe me, my love, he's not injured. We'll go and see him after breakfast, shall we? Have you kissed me this morning? I think you did," she added, as he kissed her again. "God bless you!"
They then commenced breakfast, and freely conversed on the subject which had set even conjecture at defiance; but before they had finished, their reverend friend called, impatient to communicate all he had heard and seen.
"I have, my dear madam, a tale of horror to tell," said he; but on the instant Aunt Eleanor raised her hand to enjoin silence, fearing that Sylvester, whom she fondly loved, would by any such tale be distressed.
"Have the people in the village then seen the ghost again?" she enquired.
"They have," replied the reverend gentleman.
"Then, for goodness sake, do not tell us any more about it—Sylvester, my dear, you will have another egg?"
"Not any more; I have had quite sufficient?"
"Then go, my love, and look at the horse. I know that you'll find him uninjured. And, Sylvester, dear, will you do me the favour to take the pony, and leave an order for me at the grocer's?"
"Certainly, aunt."
"There's a dear."
She then wrote an order, and Sylvester withdrew; and the moment he had done so, she became extremely anxious to hear her reverend friend's "tale of horror."
"My dear madam," said he, on being urged to proceed, "I scarcely know how to explain to you what has occurred; but let me, in the first place inform you, that a spectre on horseback was seen by the people of the village last night."
"A spectre on horseback! The horse was mine. It was, therefore, at least a real horse, and I should infer, from the way in which the animal has been goaded, that the rider was a real man."
"No, my dear madam, I am constrained to believe that the spectre which appeared on that horse was the same as that which I saw about three o'clock in your parlour."
"That which you saw! Good heavens! you amaze me! If you have seen a spectre, there is something in it, indeed! But explain, my dear sir, pray explain."
"About three o'clock this morning," resumed the reverend gentleman, with an expression of intensity, "as Jones and I were sitting near the fire, I heard the gate close, and immediately afterwards footsteps coming slowly up the path. Well, thinking it advisable to wait until some attempt were made to force the outer door, we kept our seats, but in an instant we saw the handle of the parlour door turn, and a tall figure clad in white entered the room."
"Good heavens!" energetically exclaimed Aunt Eleanor.
"I do not mean to say," pursued the reverend gentleman, "that I was not awed by the presence of this spirit: I do not mean to say that I did not experience an unusual tremor when it appeared; but I kept my eyes firmly fixed upon it—saw it walk with great solemnity of step across the room, shake its head, as if to indicate some disappointment, and then retire with corresponding solemnity to the door, past which it slowly vanished."
"Gracious goodness!—you inspire me with terror."
"Well," continued the reverend gentleman, "having in some degree recovered my self-possession, I rose, and went to the door, and there, to my utter amazement, discovered the outer door open! How it became open, heaven only knows. I heard no sound—no lock unfastened—no chain removed—no bar unlatched—no bolt withdrawn. Indeed there was not time for any mortal to have accomplished even one of these things. Still all had been accomplished at once, and in silence—all had been done by magic! Well, I closed the door, and having done so, I heard the faint sound of footsteps behind me! I turned on the instant, and then beheld the same spirit slowly ascending the stairs!"
"Gracious powers!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, "what can be the meaning of this dreadful visitation?"
"I gave no alarm," resumed the reverend gentleman; "I thought it would be useless—probably presumptuous. I therefore returned to the parlour and listened, and there we remained till the morning dawned, when, as all was still, we departed."
"What on earth can have induced this? What can it mean?"
"I have hitherto, my dear madam, been to a certain extent a disbeliever in these supernatural appearances: I have hitherto held them to be either the coinage of a diseased imagination, or phantoms set up by designing men to draw the ignorant into superstition. But, although I still believe that the majority of those cases of which we have heard are ascribable to either knavery or enthusiasm, I now know beyond all doubt that spirits appear upon earth."
"But, my dear sir, tell me," said Aunt Eleanor anxiously, "tell me, to what do you ascribe—to what can you ascribe the awful appearance of this spirit here?"
"I know not, my dear madam, what to ascribe it to. I know not from what it may spring, nor to what it may tend. These things are far above human comprehension. But do you remember—believe me I do not ask for the gratification of any idle curiosity——but do you recollect any circumstance connected with any deceased friend, or any member of your family, at all calculated to warrant the belief that that friend or relative did not depart this life in peace?"
Aunt Eleanor started, and turned deadly pale! "A thought strikes me!" she exclaimed—a dreadful thought! But no—no—no—it cannot be! And yet, that horse was his! Great heaven! if it should be the spirit of him!"
"My dear madam," said her reverend friend soothingly, as clasping her temples she burst into tears. "Compose yourself: be calm. As there is One above who protects the innocent, be assured that He will still protect you. Whatever may have befallen, I feel that you are guileless."
"And he was guileless too."
"Then let the blessed consciousness of that fact console you."
"And yet—if he should not have been!—if he should have died with a falsehood on his lips! But oh!" she added, weeping with bitterness, "I cannot believe it."
" Pardon me," said her reverend friend, " you will, I know, appreciate the only motive I have in putting this question:—To whom do you allude?"
"To my brother. My dear—my only brother."
"Did not he die in peace?"
"Yes! I must still believe it—although broken-hearted, he died in peace."
"Then of what are you apprehensive?"
"The possibility—the bare possibility—of his having, with his last, his dying breath, solemnly declared himself innocent of that of which he knew that he was guilty."
"Had you any reason to suppose that he was guilty?"
"The strongest proofs were adduced, but his word—which I had never known him to violate—in my judgment, weighed them down. It was almost impossible for any one but me to doubt the evidence of his guilt; but, placing implicit confidence in his honour, I doubted it; and when on his death-bed he calmly and solemnly repeated his declaration of innocence, every doubt on my mind was removed."
"Was the offence with which he was charged of a heinous character?"
"I will explain, in order that you may the better judge whether he— which heaven forbid!—can be associated with this fearful visitation."
"Do, my dear madam, and confide in my honour."
She then made an effort to be calm, and having dried her eyes, slowly commenced:—
"My brother was a physician. His practice was extensive. He was mild, gentle, sensitive, highly intellectual, and amiable in all the relations of life. He was a dear brother to me. But to all he was kind—most kind. His heart was full of sympathy and benevolence: he was a philanthropist indeed. I need not tell you how he was beloved! To the poor he was a guardian—to the orphan a father—to the widow a friend. His unassumed virtues were conspicuous to all, and by all within the sphere of his influence he was honoured. For years he retained this position, and not a syllable against his fair fame was ever breathed; but one night—one most unhappy night—the servants of a lady whom he frequently attended, and whose reputation had been, up to that period, spotless—joined in this declaration: that long after their mistress had retired, they saw him distinctly leave her chamber; that he walked down stairs stealthily, and quitted the house; and that as neither of them had opened the door to him, their mistress must have let him in herself! Nor was this all. When their master, who had attended an agricultural dinner that evening, had been informed of this on his return, other circumstances, which afforded strong collateral evidence, at once occurred to him. He had seen my brother at that very dinner; he had taken wine with him, and recollected that he had left unusually early; he, moreover, saw him as he walked home, and spoke to him, and fancied—as my brother took no notice of him—that he wished to avoid him. These circumstances tended at least to justify the suspicious with which he had been inspired; and when, on going to his wife, whom he found fast asleep, she declared that my brother had not been there—although his stick was then standing near the pillow—those suspicions were confirmed. I need not describe the fearful scene which ensued. It will be quite sufficient to say that he was frantic, and that having nearly broken the heart of his wife—whom he had theretofore tenderly loved—by his fierce denunciations, he rushed to the house of my brother, with the view of taking summary vengeance upon him. Here, however, he found that the whole establishment had retired, and when the servant, who answered the bell from the window, perceiving the excitement under which he was labouring, refused to let him in, he loaded my brother with the direst imprecations, and threatened to take away his life. In the morning my brother received a challenge; and although he most solemnly declared, and called his servants to prove it, that at the specified time he was in bed and asleep, he was compelled, by those laws of honour which, although prescribed by barbarism, civilization sanctions, to accept that challenge, and they met. He who felt himself thus deeply wronged fired first, and my brother fired into the air; again he fired at him, and my brother fired into the air again; when the seconds—perceiving that my brother was resolved not to fire at his adversary—withdrew them from the ground. Well—"
"But what became of the lady?"
"Her husband cast her off. He was advised to bring an action against my brother, but he loved her too fondly even then to expose her thus. He has since, I have heard, been most kind to her, although she has never been restored. But from that time, my brother became an altered man. He at once lost the whole of his practice; but, having some little private property, that did not distress him much; it was the knowledge that almost every one believed him to be guilty of the crime, of which he constantly declared that he was innocent, which weighed his spirits down, and eventually broke his heart. As you are aware, I was present at his death, and during his last moments he and I were alone; he was calm—quite calm and collected—and as the last words he uttered were these:—'Dear sister, I die happy in the consciousness of never having broken the seventh commandment;' every doubt vanished: I felt quite sure that he was innocent, and I cannot but think so still: it is this dreadful vision that has suggested the possibility of his having at that solemn moment perverted the truth."
"He would not have done that, be assured," said the reverend gentleman fervently; "such a man as that whom you have described, would not, at such a time, have done that. 1 do not mean to say that there is no probability of this being his spirit—albeit, I am at a loss to understand why it should be thus perturbed—it may be the spirit of your brother: it is possible—it may even be said to be probable—but I do not believe that you have anything to fear."
"I will myself sit up to-night: I will watch in my chamber: I will pray for his spirit to come; and if it should, I will speak to it, and fervently entreat it to remove that weight which now presses so heavily upon my heart. I feel assured that it will not harm me," she added, bursting again into tears. "In life he loved me too fondly, too tenderly—"
"Dear aunt," cried Sylvester, who at this moment entered the room, "Why—why are you thus distressed? What has happened? Tell me."
These mysterious proceedings," said the reverend gentleman, "are so annoying."
"They are annoying—very annoying," returned Sylvester. "But," he added, turning again to his aunt, "you were in excellent spirits when I left you."
"I am better now, my love," she observed, making an effort to compose herself, "much better now."
"And yet you are still in tears! I cannot bear to see you weep, dear aunt. Come dry your eyes. You will not let me fret, and I don't see why I should let you. I came to ask you to go for a drive this morning. It is beautiful out. It will raise your spirits. The air is so soft, so mild, and so clear."
Aunt Eleanor kissed him, and the subject was dropped, and as the reverend gentleman soon after left, Sylvester took his aunt out for a drive.