Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II.
INTRODUCES AUNT ELEANOR, THE PASTOR, AND HIS PEACHES.
Having—it is to be hoped satisfactorily—explained who Sylvester was, it will now ho quite right to proceed.
And it will, in the first place, be necessary to state that Sylvester, at the period of the death of Dr. Sound, was in the seventeenth year of his age.
He was tall and slightly made, and while his features were finely formed, his jet black hair, which hung in ringlets over his shoulders, contrasted strongly with his countenance which was pale in the extreme, and of which the expression was that of repose. There was, indeed, the spirit of mischief lurking in his eye, but while he was awake that spirit was asleep: it developed itself only in his dreams. It was then that it prompted him to perpetrate all sorts of wild and extraordinary tricks: it was then that it converted him from a calm, graceful, amiable youth, into a perfect little devil.
This, to a certain extent, was known to the doctor: hence it was that he was kept so constantly at home; but it was not known to any other creature in existence: it was not known even to Sylvester himself; he was perfectly unconscious of being a somnambulist: he had not even the most remote suspicion of the fact; nor had he, when awake, the slightest recollection of the dreams upon which he had acted. During sleep, indeed, his recollection of their nature was most perfect—he would, for example, frequently commence a letter one night and finish the next—but when awake, his memory, as far as those dreams were concerned, was in oblivion.
Anxiously had the doctor watched him night after night. He had even allowed him to go from his chamber, but although he closely followed, he never checked him. He felt perfectly sure that the means which he had adopted in his own case—he having been himself a somnambulist—would eventually cure his son; and certainly, in the ease of Sylvester, a cure might by those means have been effected, but just as a change became perceptible, the doctor unhappily died.
During the week which elapsed between the death of Dr. Sound and his funeral, Sylvester remained in the house; but the day following that on which the ceremony was performed, his Aunt Eleanor—a maiden lady of exemplary character—took him to her cottage at Cotherstone Grange—about fifteen miles from the residence of her late brother conceiving that an immediate change of scene might be highly beneficial to hi- health, as he was then more than usually languid.
On their way to the (Grange, Sylvester was silent, and as of course Aunt Eleanor ascribed this silence to the grief which sprang from the loss they had sustained, she felt it to be her duty as a Christian to offer him all the consolation at her command. And she did so; but without much apparent effect. She, moreover, with the view of diverting his thoughts, pointed out, as they proceeded, every object which she held to be in the slightest degree remarkable, but nothing could cheer him—nothing could rouse him from the reverie in which he indulged, until they approached the Parsonage-house, which stood within three hundred yards of the Cottage. Of this place Sylvester took especial notice; and it was an exceedingly beautiful little place, in the centre of a most delightful garden, and surrounded by a wall, which appeared to be studded with nectarines and peaches. He even—albeit languidly—expressed his admiration of the fine appearance of this delicious fruit; but it was soon lost to view, and he was silent again.
Now, much has been written and said of old maids. They have been spoken of in terms of the deepest contempt; painters have represented them with crabbed aspects, scraggy necks, yellow complexions, busts particularly bony, and fingers long, fleshless, and cold; while writers have described them as being skinny, toothless, arrogant, malicious, and wretched; but if the libellous painters and writers in question mean to contend that these are the prevailing characteristics of old maids in the aggregate, it will be at once perfectly clear that they never have studied the real flesh and blood. Their's are merely conventional old maids! Henceforth let these libelers paint and write from Nature! Let them do justice to those who compose that honourable—albeit, peculiar—species of humanity, who have studied the respective characters of their suitors too deeply to be ensnared—who have met with none but those whose views were selfish, and whose affections were impure—who have not allowed their judgment to be blinded by passion—who have imagined man's love to be ethereal but have not found it so—who have never had the wish to make, in a worldly sense, a good match, and who have had sufficient sense to escape the miseries of a bad one! It is, of course, admitted that a few of these honourable old maids—for even their contemptuous sobriquet is associated with honour!—may be bony, and not very mild; but the idea of making unamiable skeletons of them all is monstrous!—sufficiently monstrous to inspire indignation. Aunt Eleanor was an old maid, and she was no skeleton: nor was she malicious, nor toothless, nor wretched. On the contrary, her figure approached en bon point; her teeth were white and sound, and her skin was soft and clear: she had, perhaps, a finer—a more animated—bust than any other lady in the county!—she was, moreover, just, benevolent, amiable, and pure, while her heart was full of tranquil joy, for she was in spirit wedded to her God.
Nor was there in this lovely cottage of hers the slightest thing indicative of the residence of an old maid. Everything indeed was neat and elegant; everything was arranged with the most exquisite taste; but there was no minute primness perceptible: nor must it be imagined for a moment that if the whole of her highly-prized china and had been swept from the sideboard and broken to atoms, she would have shed a single tear. No: nothing but love and sympathy could wring a tear from her.
For twenty years she had lived in that cottage, and although her pecuniary means were comparatively large, her establishment was small, inasmuch as it consisted only of a cook, a housemaid, and a gardener, who officiated also as groom. By her uniform kindness she had completely won the hearts of these domestics: they were strongly, deeply attached to her, and hence, when they flew to the gate as the chaise drew up, they welcomed her home indeed.
Knowing the time exactly at which her mistress would return, the cook had prepared a delicious dinner, which, as soon as Aunt Eleanor had changed her dress, was served up with characteristic elegance.
And Sylvester—albeit calm and silent—did justice to the viands prepared; and Aunt Eleanor, in, order to cheer him, insisted upon his taking two glasses of wine!—but finding after dinner that he still felt languid, she—conceiving that the excitement of the preceding day, and the journey that morning, had exhausted his spirits—prevailed upon him to retire to his chamber, and enjoined the servants not to disturb him.
To his chamber Sylvester accordingly repaired, and having partially undressed himself, reposed on the bed and went to sleep. He had not, however, slept ten minutes, when he began to dream of the nectarines and peaches he had seen on the wall of the parsonage garden, and being inspired to action by the dinner he had eaten, and the wine—the two glasses of wine—he had drank, he re-dressed himself, and left the cottage unperceived.
As he quietly walked towards the garden of the parsonage, none could have supposed that he was then fast asleep!—his eyes were open, and he looked—not vacantly, nor with an intense stare, but precisely as if he had been awake—at every object he passed. And thus he reached the garden wall, which he mounted with alacrity and ease, and having cleared from a very convenient spot the broken bottles, which the reverend gentleman had most humanely caused to be stuck upon the wall—in reality with the view of phlebotomizing trespassers, but nominally in order to keep off the cats—he sat down and freely partook of the peaches, which really were very fine indeed. And he enjoyed them much, and ate no inconsiderable quantity of them, for they were in his judgment delicious; but just as he had eaten to satiety, the reverend gentleman, to whom the fruit legally belonged, espied him, and, having recovered from the shock, which this proceeding—which he held to be one of the most barefaced audacity—induced, rushed into the garden with all the velocity his shortness of breath, and portliness of person would permit, exclaiming, "Jones! Jones!" in tones of indignation—for he really was very indignant at the time—and in an instant Jones, the gardener, appeared.
"Jones," he continued, pointing fiercely to Sylvester; "that's how the peaches go!—that's the way!"
Jones looked at Sylvester utterly astounded. Was it—could it be—possible? And that, too, before his very eyes! He was about to spring upon him with all the ferocity of a tiger; but Sylvester, having eaten all the peaches he could eat, at that moment dropped from the wall, and disappeared.
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The Pastor and his Peaches.
"He's off!" cried the pastor. "Follow him, Jones! but don't say a word: he is clearly respectable. See where he goes, Jones, and then let me know."
Jones rushed to the gate and followed Sylvester's footsteps; and when he saw him actually enter the cottage, he returned to the pastor and made the fact known.
But then—what was to be done? Aunt Eleanor was a lady for whom the reverend gentleman entertained the highest respect! The question with him therefore was, whether he ought to wound her feelings by complaining of that which had occurred, or to take no farther notice of the matter. He was soon, however, prompted to answer this question by the thought of his peaches. He could not in silence endure the loss of them. They were the finest in the county!—nay, in his judgment, Europe could not produce peaches at all comparable with them. He therefore resolved to proceed to the cottage, and to the cottage he did proceed, followed by the gentle Jones, who absolutely swelled with indignation,
As they passed through the gate, Aunt Eleanor, who saw them, and who held the reverend gentleman in very high esteem, rang the bell for the servant to open the door, and then received him with all her characteristic cordiality and grace, while the highly indignant Jones remained swelling at the door.
"My dear madam," said the pastor, as soon as he had recovered the power to speak, for the occurrence had induced a dreadful state of excitement, which his sharp walk to the cottage had by no means subdued, "My dear madam, I regret—I exceedingly regret—that I should have to call on business of a nature so unpleasant; but you have, I believe, a young gentleman here?"
"My nephew!" replied Aunt Eleanor. "I brought him with me this morning, and a sweet little fellow he is!"
"T am sorry," returned the reverend gentleman, "I am indeed very sorry to be compelled to say that he is unhappily addicted to practices which I will not exactly designate audacious—"
"Sir!"
"But which are, in my judgment, highly improper."
"You amaze me!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor; and really the amazement she expressed was very striking. "My nephew addicted to practices which you deem highly improper! Why, he is one of the mildest and most inoffensive little fellows that ever breathed! He would not hurt a worm!"
"It may be true that he would not hurt a worm; but I know him to be very fond of peaches."
"That is very possible! and I submit very natural. But may I be permitted to know what you mean?"
"Why it is, my dear madam, with the greatest reluctance that I make a complaint of this nature to you; but I think that it may, be highly beneficial to him, for we know that if our vices in youth be unchecked they grow with our growth and strengthen with our strength."
"Dear me!" cried Aunt Eleanor, "why—what on earth can have occured?"
"Sitting in my study, ten minutes ago, I perceived through the window a youth upon the wall, freely helping himself to my peaches. Well! as I, of course, disapproved of this proceeding—for, had he asked me for the peaches he should have had them with pleasure—I went out, and calling Jones, my gardener, desired him to expostulate with the youth; but the moment he appeared the youth dropped from the wall, and Jones, who followed him, informs me that he saw him enter here."
"Impossible!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor. "My nephew is the only youth I have about the premises!"
"What is the age of your nephew, may I ask?"
"About seventeen."
"Has he black hair, flowing freely over his shoulders?"
"He has."
"I am sorry then to say, my dear madam, that he is the youth who purloined my peaches."
"But really!—my dear sir!—Oh! it cannot be! The dear boy has been in bed and asleep for the last hour."
"Is he asleep now?" inquired the reverend gentleman.
Aunt Eleanor rang the bell, and when the servant appeared, she desired her to go into Sylvester's room, and to ascertain whether he really was asleep or not.
"This is strange," said Aunt Eleanor; "very strange, indeed!" And the pastor echoed this observation, by saying that it was strange, very strange, indeed.
"Well, Mary?" said Aunt Eleanor, when the servant re-appeared.
"Master Sylvester sleeps like a top, ma'am," promptly replied Mary.
"I thought so!" observed Aunt Eleanor. "I knew that he would. The poor dear boy was exhausted."
"Well; this is very extraordinary!" said the reverend gentleman, who couldn't tell at all what to make of it. "Really, I should very much, indeed, like to see him."
"For your satisfaction, he shall be at once awakened."
"Oh dear me, no! There is not the least necessity for that."
"Then will you do me the favour to walk up and see him?"
"Why, if you particularly wish me to do so," replied the reverend gentleman, "I will!" And he rose from his seat, and Aunt Eleanor rose too; and Mary, who couldn't conceive what it meant, led the way up to Sylvester's room.
"Poor boy!" said Aunt Eleanor. 'There he is, and there he has been for the last hour."
That he was there, then, appeared to the reverend gentleman to be abundantly clear; but that there he had been for the last hour, was in his calm judgment, apocryphal—very. He could not believe it. Why—it was the very face—the very hair! It was moreover plain, that he was then sleeping soundly: the pastor had no doubt at all about that; but, as he wished very much indeed to see him awake, he dropped his stick —very accidentally, of course,—and thus produced a noise which had the effect desired.
"My dearest boy!" said Aunt Eleanor. "Oh, I am sorry that we've disturbed you."
Sylvester sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes, and then looked at the reverend gentleman, precisely as if lie wished to know who he was and what he wanted.
"Lie down, dear, again," said Aunt Eleanor, soothingly. "You must be fatigued, dear: you look very weary still."
The reverend gentleman shook his head, and that, too, with so much significance, that any close observer might at once have perceived that Sylvester was, in his view, very artful. Aunt Eleanor, however, did not observe this; she felt that the "mistake" had been sufficiently seen, and, therefore, left the chamber, followed by her reverend friend.
"Well!" said that gentleman, on his return to the parlour, "Really! Upon my word, he bears a very striking resemblance to the youth whom I saw upon my garden wall!"
"Indeed! Well, that is strange," returned Aunt Eleanor, "I know of no youth at all like him."
"There must be one in the vicinity whom he very much resembles!"
"How very extraordinary! Why, whom can it be!"
"Indeed, 1 know not," returned the reverend gentleman, "there appears to be some little mystery about it, which probably time will solve. I have only to say that I am sorry the affair happened, and beg to apologise for the trouble I have given."
At this moment Sylvester entered the room in the same dress as that in which he appeared upon the wall, and no sooner had he entered, than the pastor—who now, of course, felt quite convinced of his being the delinquent—said, "Well, young gentleman, did you enjoy those peaches?"
Sylvester looked at him earnestly for a moment, and then observed, calmly, "What peaches do you allude to? I do not know that I have tasted a peach this season!"
The reverend gentleman hereupon regarded him with an expression of horror! He felt it to be awful in the extreme! and shuddered at the thought that a falsehood so flagrant should proceed from the lips of a sinner so young! Recovering himself, however, from the shock thus produced, he, with an aspect of severity, said, "Pray, sir, have you ever heard or read of Ananias?"
"I have, sir. But why put that question to me?"
"Because you have said distinctly that you have not, to your knowledge, tasted a peach this season; whereas, within the last half hour I saw you upon my garden-wall, eating my peaches to absolute satiety!"
"Let me assure you, sir," returned Sylvester, firmly, "that you are mistaken. I feel that I am utterly incapable of such bad conduct."
The calmness, the firmness, the apparent truthfulness with which this assurance was given, had a manifest tendency to shake the reverend gentleman's conviction. And yet—was it possible that he could be mistaken? There stood the very youth! or if he were not the very youth, how strong was the resemblance! He had preached the fallibility of the flesh: he felt that he himself was not, in a general sense, infallible: but then, in this particular,—and yet the very presence—the very look—the very tones of the youth who stood before him, were indicative of innocence. He had never before felt so perfectly puzzled; still he did say eventually, "Well, my dear madam, I suppose that I must be mistaken—but really!—perhaps, however, you will allow me to call in my gardener?"
"Oh, my dear sir," said Aunt Eleanor, "do so at once, by all means!" And Jones was accordingly summoned.
"Do you know this young gentleman, Jones?" said the pastor.
"Know him, sir!" replied Jones, utterly astonished at the question being asked; "I should know him from a million!"
"But are you sure, Jones, that this is the identical youth whom we saw on the wall just now?"
"Sure!"—echoed Jones, who really felt the idea of his not being sure to be perfectly ridiculous—"Of course, sir, I'm sure."
"Man!" said Aunt Eleanor, "adhere to the truth."
"Oh! that's true enough, ma'am. I'd swear it."
"Swear it!"
"I know him by the cut of his clothes."
"Although, Jones, that is strong collateral evidence," observed the reverend gentleman, profoundly, "I do not hold it to be conclusive. There may be other garments of the same description.—I look at the countenance. Man may copy the works of man, but Nature never copies herself. Among the myriads of human beings in existence there are not even two individuals to be found with features precisely alike, albeit, there may be, as in this case, a striking resemblance. Nor is this amazing peculiarity confined exclusively to the human species. The flocks that range the verdant fields, the beasts which prowl in the frightful jungle, the fish that inhabit the boundless sea, and the birds which float in the balmy air nay, even the very vermin which tunnel the earth have all the same wonderful individuality. Still, as one sheep may be mistaken for another, by those who know not the peculiar expression of that sheep, so may one youth be mistaken for another, as we have, in this case, perhaps, sufficiently proved."
All that Jones understood of this he appreciated, but half of that which reached his understanding was not much. He had no notion at all, however, of giving the thing up in this way, and therefore he said, with much point—"But does the young genelman himself mean to say it aint him?"
"I mean to say," returned Sylvester, calmly, "that I have been fast asleep for the last hour."
"Well, send I may live!" exclaimed Jones.
"Hush! hush!" cried the reverend gentleman.
"Well, but in all my creepings up!" resumed Jones—"Here! take me afore a justice. I'll oath it it's him, afore any judge or jury in nature. But," he added, turning to Sylvester, "do you mean to look me in the face, and tell me that it warnt you as was upon our wall a pegging away at them peaches there? -only say?"
"I hope, my dear aunt," observed Sylester, with unaffected mildness, "that you do not believe I could have been guilty of such an act?"
"No, my dear; certainly not,"
"Sir," added Sylvester, addressing the reverend gentleman, "I should be utterly ashamed of myself if even I felt that I could."
The pastor, notwithstanding the resemblance was still in his judgment amazing, was now inspired by Sylvester's tranquil bearing, with the conviction that he must be mistaken, and tried to innoculate Jones with the same conviction; but Jones would not have it. He knew what he knew!—he knew that the youth who stood before him, and the youth who was on the wall, were one and the same youth! and said so! and stuck to it firmly!—indeed so firmly, that the reverend gentleman at length desired him to leave the room.
Now it happened that Judkins, Aunt Eleanor's gardener—who, conceiving that Jones had come there with a view to supplant him, had kept an exceedingly sharp look out—was at hand; and it also happened that Judkins had a great contempt for Jones, seeing that Jones, at the last horticultural meeting of the county, had gained the first prize for carrots: while Jones had as great a contempt for Judkins, seeing that Judkins had gained the first prize for onions, whereas Jones knew that his onions were superior to those which Judkins had produced, while, in Judkins's judgment, his carrots were finer than any which Jones had the nous to raise. Their hatred of each other was therefore rooted; and, as Judkins had heard the substance of all that had been said about the peaches, he taunted Jones severely on his being desired to leave the room; and as Jones most vehemently retorted and maintained still that Sylvester was the youth by whom his master's peaches had been stolen, Judkins said something very severe about Jones's carrots, and invited him to the meadow, with the view of deciding whether Sylvester was the youth in question or not. At this Jones was nothing daunted: he accepted the challenge; and when Judkins had called a mutual friend from the road, for the purpose of seeing fair-play, they repaired to the meadow with bosoms fraught with disgust.
There have always been, even from the most remote period of which history takes cognizance, advocates for that grand social scheme which comprehends trial by battle. Some have chosen clubs for these trials, some axes, some daggers, some spears, while others have preferred rifles, pistols, and swords; but a far more civilised mode of deciding thus the merits of a case in dispute is, unquestionably, that which was in this particular instance adopted by Judkins and Jones.
Certainly, the practice of doing battle with the fists was the first step to civilisation. When men began to substitute the weapons with which Nature had provided them for battle-axes, tomahawks, and knives, society made a most important stride towards perfection. As civilisation progresses, men will substitute the use of the tongue for that of the fist: when that has been sufficiently practised, the use of the brow will supersede that of the tongue; and when we shall have reached the perfection of civilisation, men will merely treat with contempt those whom they know to be unworthy of respect. At the period of Judkins's and Jones's battle, civilisation had made but that one important stride; and as they were not behind the age in which they lived, they—repudiating pistols, knives, and swords—repaired to the meadow and stripped.
It was a lovely day! [It is of course highly essential to the progress of this history that these most remarkable observations should be made.] The sun shone—as the sun will sometimes shine—brilliantly, and while it shone, all nature, with the exception of Jones and Judkins, looked gay. The sheep in the distance were nibbling the turnips; the stubble was studded with crows; the leaves on the trees around looked green;; and the larks were merrily singing in the air! This was precisely the extraordinary state of things when Judkins and Jones assumed the attitude of defiance, and looked at each other with a species of ferocity perhaps altogether unexampled. As pugilists, however, they were not scientific. They were, moreover, bulky and very short-winded, and therefore execeedingly slow; nor was there any particular time kept. No: at the end of each round, that is to say, when they retreated from each other with the view of "taking breath," they sat upon the grass, sometimes for three minutes, sometimes for five. Time to them was a matter of no importance—they had not been in the habit of hurrying themselves, and they had not the least intention to hurry themselves then. Nor was their friend in any sort of haste; he was remarkably patient and remarkably impartial: indeed, so impartial, that when, at the expiration of twenty minutes, Judkins, who had neither received nor given any blow of importance, wanted some beer, he declared that he wouldn't fetch it unless he had a like commission from Jones. For this commission, however, he had not to wait long, and when he started for the beer, it was with this understanding, that there was to be an absolute cessation of hostilities until he returned. The truce thus established, neither of the combatants had the least desire to violate; it was, therefore, on both sides, honourably observed: but during the absence of their mutual friend reflection came, and their indignation cooled, and hence, on the return of that friend, Judkins said to Jones, "Now you know I'm not afraid of you!—quite the contrary—but as I shouldn't like to have a black eye, and as the parson, I know, wouldn't like to see you with your front teeth knocked out (Judkins thought that this was about the strongest way to put it); if you like, we'll establish no hitting in the face."
"Where are we to hit, then?" said Jones, who was tired of it—quite!—it was very hard work! "If we are not to hit in the face, where are we to hit?"
"I'll tell you," interposed their mutual friend, "hit each other in the hand, and then drink, and make it up. If you don't do this, I'll spill the beer."
This settled the matter at once. Judkins thought of Jones's carrots, and Jones thought of Judkins's onion prize; but as it was perfectly clear to them both that they couldn't get on without beer, they, with a laudable show of reluctance, allowed their friend to join their hands, and thus preserved their honour intact, inasmuch as their bright reputation for courage remained untarnished, albeit the real point at issue was undecided still.
During the progress of this memorable battle, Aunt Eleanor prevailed upon the reverend gentleman to remain and take tea, and, as Sylvester soon became a favourite with the pastor, he, in the course of the _-_0037.png)
The Trial by Battle.
evening, proposed a ride round the adjoining park. Sylvester of course consented at once, and when the pastor's horse had been sent for, and Aunt Eleanor's pony had been saddled, they started, and after riding until the moon rose, the reverend gentleman saw him safely home, and bade him adieu for the night.