Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 3
CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH THE FIRST ALARM IS CREATED.
How soft and serene is the harvest moon!—how calm, how beautiful, how bright! When all around is tranquil and clear, and the nightingale sings in her sweetest strain, how touching the tones of endearment sound! who would not kiss? who could not love? Then Night discards her sombre veil, and—mounting her white one studded with brilliants—celebrates that lovely morn when she became the bride of Day.
Now these few important remarks have been suggested by two most extraordinary facts, namely that on the first night that Sylvester slept at the cottage, the harvest moon was at the full, and that about twelve o'clock that very night, Aunt Eleanor's cook heard a noise. She and Mary—they slept together—had been in bed nearly two hours; but cook was twenty years Mary's senior, and, being afflicted with pains in the joints, was far more wakeful than Mary, who invariably buried herself in the clothes, and slept away profoundly.
And the difference between the various species of sheep is amazing: some will sleep quietly, others very noisily—some very lightly, others very heavily—some very sweetly, others very wildly—some very languidly, others very soundly—but without going into any deeply philosophical treatise on sleep, it will be, perhaps, sufficient here to state that a bedfellow's snore is a most unique nuisance, and that anything equal to Mary's snore in the annals of snoring could never be found.
"Mary!" whispered cook, when she first heard the noise, "Mary!—Did you hear that?—Mary!—Are you dead?"
That the question—"Are you dead?" was supererogatory, is a fact which must, it is submitted, be to every highly intellectual person apparent: inasmuch as in the first place a question implies the expectation of an answer, and in the next it is perfectly well known to the intelligent that dead individuals never snore. This affords another sad and unequivocal proof of the lamentable want of education. Had this cook been conversant with the classics, she never could have asked such a question; but as she knew nothing at all about them—and moreover didn't want to know—she not only put this question to Mary, but announced it as being her unbought opinion that the girl really was dead!—she slept so soundly and snored so well.
"Mary!" continued cook, as the noise increased, "Mary!"—here she shook and pinched her angrily—"the girl must be dead. Mary!—Mary!"
"It isn't six yet!" yawned Mary.
"Six!—listen!—hush!—do you hear?"
"What's the matter?" said Mary.
"Hark!"
"Oh, it's the cat."
"It's no cat, Mary! Hark! There it is again!"
At this awful moment, they both heard footsteps—they heard them distinctly!—and every step seemed to press upon their hearts.
"Oh!" exclaimed Mary, "What is to become of us!"
"Hush!" cried cook; "Hush! hush!"
The footsteps approached! they came gradually nearer, and still more near! and cook and Mary hugged each other closely, with a view to mutual protection. At length the footsteps reached the door, and cook's heart sank within her.
"D-d-d-on't be frightened, Mary!" she exclaimed; "D-d-d-on't be frightened! Oh! if we should both be ruined!"
"Shall we scream?" said Mary.
"Hark!" cried cook, as the footsteps receded; "Hark, they are going down stairs—do you hear them?"
"I d-d-d-do," replied Mary. "Oh, how d-d-dreadful!"
The sound of the footsteps grew more and more faint, until they were heard in the passage below, when the noise increased!—the very chairs seemed to move! then bolts were withdrawn, and at length a door closed, when all was still as death again.
"They're gone!" said cook, who, while intensely listening to these dreadful sounds, had perspired with so much freedom, that the sheets were quite wet. "Thank heaven! they are gone."
"Are you sure of it?" cried Mary, trembling frightfully—"quite sure!"
"Quite," replied cook, "I heard the door close."
No sooner had Mary been assured of this fact, than she uttered a series of the most fearful screams that ever proceeded from a human throat—"Murder!" she continued, in tones the most piercing—"Murder!—thieves!—fire! mur-der!"
Mary—Mary!" exclaimed cook; "hark!"
The bell rang with violence. Their mistress had been alarmed. But then what was to be done?
"Answer the bell, Mary," said cook; "go, and answer the bell."
"Me answer the bell!" cried Mary. "Me! I couldn't do it—no, not if you'd give me the world! Why they may be in missis's room—who knows! they may be a-murdering of her now! Oh, isn't it horrid?"
The bell still violently rang, but neither cook nor Mary could stir. To protect their mistress they would at any other time have done much, but then—with their imagination teeming with murder—they could not answer that bell.
They now heard footsteps again in the passage; and as the very next moment, to their utter horror, they heard a loud knocking at their door, they would, if they could, have sunk into the earth. They were speechless with terror-they ceased to breathe, and felt that all was lost.
From this frightful state, of suspense they were, however, soon relieved, for their mistress, having opened her chamber door to ascertain what had caused those dreadful screams, was immediately answered by Judkins. They knew his voice, and could have blessed him. Harsh as it was—for Judkins had not a soft voice—celestial music could not then, in their ears, have sounded more sweetly.
"Why, what on earth can be the matter?" enquired Aunt Eleanor. "What can it be?"
"I don't know, ma'am, I'm sure," replied Judkins, "there's suffin wrong, somewhere: somebody shruck dreadful."
"The shrieking was dreadful indeed;—it must have been Mary."
"I've knocked at the door, but they seem dead asleep."
"Oh, Judkins!" cried cook. "Oh, wait but a moment—Oh, we're not asleep!" and she put on her petticoat hastily, while Mary threw her's round her shoulders, and then struck a light. "Oh! ma'am," continued cook, as she opened the door, "there's been thieves in the house—a whole gang of 'em! Oh, we're so frightened! 1 really thought that murdered we all should have been."
"You've been dreaming," said Judkins: "that's my notion. There's been no thieves here. Was that you that shruck?"
"Oh, no, that was Mary. She knows as well as me, there was five or six of 'em at least!"
"That there was," said Mary; "and murdered we must have been, if I hadn't screamed."
"It's my belief you dreamt it," said Judkins; "I didn't hear any noise.
"Nor did I," interposed Aunt Eleanor. "But let us go down, and see if the things are disturbed."
Down stairs they accordingly went:—Judkins boldly leading the way with a candle and a poker; but it was at a glance plain that no thieves had been there. The rooms were precisely as they had left them: there was not a thing out of its place. The china was safe; the plate was secure: the front door was fast—in short, everything appeared so exactly as it should be, that Aunt Eleanor freely subscribed to the opinion that the whole affair had originated in a dream.
"There, go to bed again, you silly people," she observed; "go to bed, and don't sleep on your backs. 1 am glad that that dear boy has not been disturbed. There, go to bed both of you, and, for heaven's, let us have no more screaming."
"Well, but I'm sure, ma'am," said Mary, "oh! if I didn't———"
"There, don't say another word about it.—Good night."
As they separated, cook looked at Judkins—with great significance, and Judkins—who didn't at all approve of having his rest broken thus—looked with equal significance at her; but he passed her in silence: nor did she even bid him good night. On returning to her room, however, she said, in strict confidence to Mary, "Now I'll tell you what it is: you know, it's all perfect nonsense about our dreaming—that's of course stuff: I know I heard footsteps, and so did you, and so there can be no mistake about that. Now, I'll tell you what, Mary, between you and me, it's my belief, that the footsteps we heard were those of no other man in the world than Judkins! I'm sure of it, Mary: and I'm not often wrong. Now, what right had he there, I ask? What was he doing? Depend upon it, Mary, he was after no good!"
Certainly Judkins, who slept over the kitchen, and who had a private staircase to his room, had no right, unless summoned, to be in any other part of the premises at midnight; and, as he was the very person who had suggested that they had been dreaming, it unquestionably did in Cook's judgment seem strange; but just as she was about to take a somewhat more comprehensive view of the private character of Judkins, she went to the window, and through it beheld a white figure mounted upon a white horse, leaping the hedges, and dashing through the meadows as if he had been folllowing the hounds in full cry.
"Mary! Heaven preserve us!" she exclaimed. "What is this?"
Mary rushed to the window, and in an instant cried—"Oh! it's a ghost!"
"Nonsense!—ghosts don't ride on horseback!"
"Oh! but they do though, sometimes."
"It's no ghost, I tell you;—that there is a thief, and that thief is your sweetheart, the miller."
"I tell you it's not then!" cried Mary, indignantly. "He a thief, indeed! Well, I'm sure."
"I know him by the way in which he rides, and I never did think he was better than he should be. Depend upon it, Mary, he's been in the house, and when we frightened him away, he stole the horse out of the stable, for I'll take my oath that's Snorter—look!"
Away the white figure flew over the fields, and then made a circuit, and then crossed the road, when, as the moon shone full upon him, and he could with the utmost distinctness be seen, they made up their minds at once to point him out to Judkins, and with that view went to his door and knocked.
"Who's there?" cried Judkins, somewhat startled, for he had just got into his second sleep.
"Me!" replied cook; "its only me, Judkins!"
"Well, what do you want?"
"I was right after all. Do come to the door."
"Not a bit of it!—not if I know it. Go to bed, and don't bother,"
"I tell you there's a thief about the premises."
"1 know there's a fool about the premises."
"I've seen him!" returned cook. "He's just stolen Snorter!"
"I wish you were a Snorter with all my soul!" said Judkins, on getting out of bed. "Well," he continued, while putting on his smalls, "this is a very pretty game, I think! There's certainly nothing like a change! and such a change as this is, I must say, a treat!—Now then," he added, on opening the door, "what fresh maggot's this you've got into your head?"
"It's no maggot, Judkins," said cook; "it's a fact, Look through the window, and there you'll see Snorter a galloping off with a man on his back."
Judkins went to the window and looked, but as he could see nothing at all of the kind, he said pointedly—"What do you mean? Are you taken so often?"
"I don't care," said cook, when, on looking herself, she found that the figure had vanished. "I know there was some man on Snorter. Am I not to believe my own eyes? Mary saw it as well."
"Oh, you saw it, too!" said Judkins, "did you?" Well, what was it like?"
"It was for all the world like a ghost!" replied Mary.
"It was a ghost," said Judkins, ironically; "and nothing but a ghost. What sort of a swell was he, Mary?"
"He was dressed all in white!" replied Mary. "There was not a bit cf black at all about him."
"Then of course he was a ghost. He must have been a ghost. And didn't he spit fire, Mary?—and didn't his horse breathe blue flame?—and didn't his eye-balls roll about?—and wasn't he in a white cloud?"
"I'll tell you what it is," said cook, "I don't care a bit about what you say; I know what I know; and I tell you again, I saw a man riding away upon Snorter. Do you go down to the stable, and look: if you find Snorter there, then I've done. Just put on your coat, and go down."
"Why, what do you take me for?" said Judkins. "Who do you think you're a playing upon? You call this a frolic, I s'pose? You've begun a nice game, I know; but you don't play it out upon me. Go to bed; and let's have no more of your nonsense. If you come here again, I'll call missis; she'll very soon put you to rights. You take me, i s'pose, for a fool, don't you? Be off!"
Cook, perceiving that Judkins was highly indignant, muttered something severe, and retired; and when she had had a few warm words with Mary, who felt extremely wroth at its being supposed that the miller was not all her fancy had painted, they both went to sleep, and slept well.
But Judkins for a long time could not go to sleep: his indignation at the thought of being considered a fool, was so excessive. And, of all ideas of an unpleasing character, there is probably not one so galling to a man as that of his being considered to be a fool. He may think like a fool, he may speak like a fool, he may be conscious of having acted in a very foolish manner, he may even, confidentially, call himself a fool; but no man thinks that he is a fool in the abstract, nor can any man bear to be thought a fool. And this is a wise provision of Nature.—A wise provision of Nature?—Well, it is an absurd conventional term; inasmuch, as all Nature's provisions are wise; and, therefore, perhaps, it had better be put thus: It is one of the provisions of Nature, and its admirable character is manifest in this; that if fools knew they were fools, their value in their own estimation would be small, and all fools would be consequently wretched; while the fact of its coming to their knowledge that they are by others supposed to be fools, prompts them to endeavour, at least, to act thenceforth wisely.
This, prima facie, may appear to be very severe upon Judkins; but it is in reality not so, seeing that he was no fool, and that no one ever supposed him to be anything like a fool. He was kept awake so long by the idea of its being imagined that he was a fool. But when he had sufficiently reflected upon the matter, that is, when he had proved himself to himself, beyond all dispute on the part of himself, to be no fool, he went to sleep, and slept until six in the morning.
Being, however, anxious to prove to cook, that he would have been a fool had he allowed himself to act on her suggestion, he no sooner rose than he went to the stable, which he found, to all appearance, externally, just as he had left it. The door was locked; the key was still in the secret place above the door, and the way in which it turned when applied to the lock, convinced him fully that the lock had not been forced. But the moment he entered, he saw at a single glance, that something was wrong. There stood the pony, and there stood Snorter; but Snorter was saddled, and not only saddled, but literally covered with steaming foam!
Judkins stood for a moment, looking at the animal with an expression of amazement the most intense, and having thus viewed him from head to tail, he asked himself the following questions:—First: Where could the horse, have been? Secondly: Who could have taken him out? Thirdly: What, under the circumstances, was he to do? The two first questions he couldn't at all answer; he knew only this: that the horse had been out, and that he who had taken him out was no stranger: he therefore passed them to be considered anon, conceiving that the question which demanded his immediate consideration was the third: What, under the circumstances, was he to do?
Should he go in and explain how matters stood in the stable? Would it be wise to do so? He thought not. When he had dwelt upon the triumphant position in which cook would be thereby placed, he could not think that the pursuit of such a course would be at all indicative of wisdom. Well then; should he set to work and clean the horse at once, and say nothing whatever about it? This question was the germ of deep thought. It was, however, perfectly clear, that Snorter in any case must be rubbed down; and, as Judkins felt that while rubbing him down he should have sufficient time to arrive at some decision, he pulled off his jacket, and went to work at once.
Now while he was thus intently engaged, and hissing away like an angry serpent, cook glided past the stable door. She had come out expressly with the view of breaking loose in the event of Snorter having been stolen: it was her immovably-fixed determination to open in that event her whole mind to Judkins, and, therefore, it is not irrational to suppose that, had matters stood as she expected they would stand, and as indeed she really wished them to stand, she would have walked into him warmly; but as she saw the horse in reality there, and therefore felt that she must have been mistaken, in so far as the identity of the animal was concerned, she deemed it prudent to hold her peace, and silently worked her way back.
During the performance of this extraordinary feat, Mary, while assisting her mistress to dress, explained minutely to her all that had occurred—enlarging of course upon every point, and swelling each into all possible importance.
At first, Aunt Eleanor appeared to regard the whole affair as an excellent jest, and she really did enjoy the relation of the circumstances highly; but when Mary, with great force and natural feeling, stated that the miller was suspected of having taken the horse from the stable, her mistress—knowing the attachment which existed between him and Mary—felt herself bound to enquire into the matter, with the view of either clearing his character if innocent, or, in the event of his being guilty, of breaking off the match.
She, accordingly, on descending to the breakfast-room, at once summoned Judkins and cook, and as cook was the first to attend that summons, she at once told her tale, and made one deep mystery of it. Judkins, however, was not long after her, and as he had decided upon sacrificing all private feeling upon the altar of duty, he came prepared to state the whole case.
"Judkins," said Aunt Eleanor, as he entered, "how does the horse look this morning?"
"Why, he's pretty well, considering, ma'am," replied Judkins.
"Pretty well, considering—Considering what?"
"Why, ma'am, considering that in all his born days he never had such a sweating as, somehow or other, he has had since I locked him up last night.
"Oh, then," said cook, who felt greatly relieved, and who turned upon Judkins—and he fully expected it—as if she had made up her mind to have at him, "it wasn't Snorter—it couldn't be Snorter—I was having a game with you, was I—it was one of my maggots—you'll call missis, won't you—it was only a frolic of mine—you are right and I'm wrong, of course! Now I'll tell you what it is—"
"Presently, cook," interposed Aunt Eleanor, "have patience. We will hear you presently. What do you mean by the sweating, Judkins?"
"Why, ma'am, when I went into the stable this morning, I found the horse saddled, and in a muck of sweat. Whoever could have got him out, I can't think! It must have been some one who knows the premises, for the door was locked, and the key was in its right place, over the door."
"Of course," exclaimed cook, "and the miller knew well where to find it."
"Cook," said Aunt Eleanor, "how do you know that?"
"Why, ma'am, he's always after Mary, and of course she tells him all she knows."
"I know, cook, that you are jealous," said Aunt Eleanor, "but in order that the young man may have an opportunity of vindicating his character, I will send for him at once. You know him, Judkins?—go, and without mentioning a syllable to him on the subject, tell him that I shall be glad to speak to him for a moment."
Judkins, casting a look of contempt at cook, then left the room, and, as Sylvester immediately afterwards came in to breakfast, the whole affair was fully explained to him by his aunt, who expressed herself highly delighted at the fact of his not having been disturbed.
And Sylvester—who looked very languid and felt very sore—expressed his amazement at the circumstances related, and the interest which that relation excited was, in reality, deep in the extreme.
"What could have been the man's object?" said he; "he had clearly no intention to steal the horse, seeing that he brought him back, and locked the stable door. It appears to me to be so unaccountable!—I can't understand it at all!"
"It is strange—very strange," said Aunt Eleanor. "But come, my dear, let us have breakfast. Cook," she added, "send in that tongue."
Cook left the room, and repaired to the pantry; but the state of things there was so startling, that she almost immediately returned, exclaiming, "Now, ma'am, I know there's been thieves in the house! No tongue, no pastry, no sausage-rolls: not a single bit of any blessed thing can I find! Everything's gone! There must have been half-a-dozen of them at least!"
"Well, this," said Aunt Eleanor, "is indeed extraordinary!"
"And what gormandizers, too, they must have been!" resumed cook, "there was half a tongue, four sausage-rolls, six apple-puffs, three or four tarts—three jam-tarts, you know, ma'am—I know there were three—in short, they've eaten every individual thing!"
"This is very mysterious!" observed Aunt Eleanor, calmly, "we shall probably understand it better by-and-bye. You must now do the best you can, my dear, with ham and eggs."
"Do not have anything cooked for me," said Sylvester, "indeed, I've no appetite at all!"
Nor had he! The ham and eggs were ordered by his aunt, notwithstanding; but, when they were brought, he could not touch either. Nor could he in any way account for this. He usually ate a good breakfast!—but he really then felt himself full to repletion. Aunt Eleanor herself became very much alarmed! What on earth could be the cause of it? She couldn't imagine. She felt quite sure that he was sickening for something, and was just turning over in her mind the expediency of sending at once for her physician, when Judkins returned from the mill.
On entering the room, he was eagerly followed by Mary and cook, who were both extremely anxious to hear the result; and, when it was announced that the miller had started the preceding day to attend a distant market, and would not return until the morrow, Mary's expression of joy contrasted strongly with that of disappointment, which instantly marked the fat features of cook, who sufficiently proved that there are feelings of jealousy which do not spring from pure love. For example: she didn't love the miller: still she thought that, instead of proposing to Mary, he should have proposed to her. She, with characteristic candour, admitted it to be true that she was a trifle older—say twenty years or so—but then she was, in her judgment, a much finer woman!—a far more experienced—a larger-boned person! She could not imagine how any man, having his eyes about him, could prefer such a skit of a thing as Mary to her. But so it was. Cook felt it to be so acutely, and hence she did hope that it would have been proved that the miller had taken Snorter out of the stable; but as it was then to all abundantly clear, that he could not by any possibility have been the man, the question which naturally suggested itself, was—"Whom could it have been?" That was the question! And an interesting question it was.