# Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 11

CHAPTER XI.
THE "SPIRIT" APPEARS TO THE PASTOR AND JONES.
There are few things more galling to a sensitive man than the fact of his having been found in a ridiculous position; but while no one could have felt more acutely than Aunt Eleanor's reverend friend that the position in which he had that morning been found was ridiculous, none could have endeavoured more earnestly than Aunt Eleanor herself to induce him to repudiate that feeling, as one which ought not to be entertained.
"Now say no more about it," she at length observed, after having heard impatiently a vast deal of eloquence, for the reverend gentleman; ​on this point, became extremely eloquent, as soon as he had ceased to shiver—"the whole affair resolves itself to this: Feeling fatigued you went to sleep; and who can wonder at it? while Jones, poor fellow, followed your example: no one can marvel at that!"
"But he solemnly promised that he would not go to sleep. 'Jones,' said I, 'can I, till one o'clock, trust you?' 'Sir,' he replied, I remember his words—'I'll not go to sleep if it isn't one o'clock for a month. I'll keep awake if I live!'"
"And he intended to do so, no doubt, poor man. You must therefore forgive him. But, now, is it not strange—is it not mysterious—that that door of mine should thus be opened, night after night, as it is, and for no other purpose than that of annoying me?"
"It is indeed mysterious," replied the reverend gentleman. "But I'll solve the mystery—I'll find it out. Having entered into the matter so far, I'll go on with it. Practices of this character, my dear madam, must and shall be put a stop to! They are perfectly monstrous. They must not—in a civilized country like ours—they must not be suffered to continue; and so firmly resolved am I to get to the bottom of this mystery, that if you will not allow me to occupy your parlour this night, I'll conceal myself in the shrubbery, and watch there!"
"My dear sir," cried Aunt Eleanor, "oh! for heaven's sake, do not dream of it for a moment!"
"Nothing can alter my firm determination in this matter. I'm resolved to find it out, and I will find it out; and unless you afford me an asylum in your parlour, into the shrubbery this very night I go."
"Oh, but I cannot think of consenting to your sacrificing your rest for me in this way."
"Well, my dear madam, you know my determination: I watch this night in the shrubbery. If you close the gates against me, I'll get over the wall."
"Close the gates against you! My dear sir, neither the gates nor the doors shall be closed against you. But let me prevail upon you to abandon this project—or at least to defer it for a time!"
"And in the interim suffer you to be constantly annoyed. No; my dear madam, it must be done at once. I feel that I am now bound to make this discovery. I'll find them out. I am not a man to be easily thwarted: I am not a man to be turned from my purpose by any trifling failure. I ought to be, and I am, ashamed of having failed to make the discovery last night; but this night shall settle it."
"Well, if you are determined, I cannot do less than express my gratitude; but I do still think that it had better be deferred. Consider to-night you will require much rest."
"Not at all! I'll manage that: I'll go to bed to-day, and thus prepare myself for night. But no supper!—do not prepare any supper—it is to that I ascribe our failure last night. Had it not been for the supper, Jones would not have gone to sleep; these fellows, you know, while there's anything to eat, will gormandize, and gormandize, until they have no more animation about them than prize pigs. Therefore prepare no supper, I'll bring something with me to keep us awake."
​"Then you mean to allow Jones to sit up with you again?"
"Why, I think that it will be, under the circumstances, as well."
"Much better. But, poor fellow, you'll let him have some rest?"
"I'll send him to bed the moment I get home. I'll manage it; and we shall catch them. My dear madam, be assured of this—we shall catch them."
Sylvester now entered the room, and when he had heard the substance of all that had occurred, he begged to be allowed to sit up that night with the reverend gentleman and Jones. This, however, was strongly objected to, both by his aunt and her reverend friend, on the ground of his apparent physical indisposition, and when they had all made a hearty breakfast, it was finally arranged that the reverend gentleman was to come again that night at ten; that Jones was to accompany him, and that nothing in the shape of supper was to be on this occasion prepared.
This having been decided to the entire satisfaction of all concerned, the reverend gentleman left; and Aunt Eleanor conceiving that the feelings of Judkins might be wounded in consequence of Jones having been elected to sit up the previous night with her reverend friend instead of him, rang the bell and desired his attendance.
"Judkins," she observed, as he entered the room, "although perhaps I ought not to suppose that you are simple enough to imagine that, as Jones sat up with his master last night, I had not sufficient confidence in you;—I wish you to understand that that arrangement was made in consequence of Mr. Rouse having preferred, and very naturally, the attendance of his own servant to that of mine."
"Yes, ma'am, I understand: oh! yes," said Judkins, "but if he'd had me with him, things 'ud ha' been different."
"Very likely."
"Why, I've seen that Jones, ma'am—it isn't my place p'raps to speak not of no man—but I've seen him go to sleep with the bread in his mouth—I've seen him drop off in the middle of the day!—he's the sleepiest fellow as is. He sit up with a gentleman all night! The idear is rotten! He couldn't keep awake by any accident. I'd catch you, ma'am, a dormouse in the winter that would beat him."
"My object," said Aunt Eleanor, "is neither to canvass the character of Jones, nor to dwell upon his eccentricities, but merely to explain to you that want of confidence, on my part, was not the cause of your not being chosen to sit up, and to impress upon you the necessity for keeping whatever arrangements we either have made or may make, with a view to the discovery of these persons, a secret."
"I understand, ma'am. Depend upon me, I shall not say a word to a soul."
"Very good. That is all I require."
Judkins then withdrew, and Aunt Eleanor conceived that she had done all that was necessary to secure silence on the subject, but in this she was mistaken.
Villages appear to contain no secrets. If any be suffered to exist at all, they must find it a difficult matter to live. They must not even breathe but in silence: if they do they must instantly die. Every​body knows everybody; everybody talks about everybody; everybody's business is everybody's business, and every one is fair u;mic for the whole. And herein lie the humanities of a village. They must know something—hence they seek to know each other: they must talk about something—hence they talk about each other: they must laugh at something—hence they laugh at each other: they must denounce something, and they hence denounce each other. This may be called "petty;" but then a village is a petty world, containing petty people, whose general intelligence is therein confined.
It might have been thought that Aunt Eleanor had, as she imagined, done sufficient to ensure secresy in this matter; but although Legge was silent, and Judkins was silent, and Jones and the reverend gentleman were silent, Mrs. Legge, when she found that she was able to get nothing having reference to it out of Legge himself, sent for Mary, who at once told her all.
Having thus obtained the important information sought, Mrs. Legge told Obadiah Drant, and the moment he heard of it, of course the secret died. It was then indeed no longer a secret: for glorying as he always did in everything bearing even the semblance of an opportunity of having, what he termed, "a regular fructifying cut" at those above him, he went round the village, called on all his associates, and developed his fine inventive faculties strongly. He had received that morning a large order for a quarter of a hundred of bricks, but that of course he could not attend to.
"I say," said he, on reaching Pokey's residence, "I say, my boy! have you heard the news?"
"No!" replied Pokey. "What news?"
"What! haven't you heard about old Teddy Rouse?"
"No! what about him?"
"Such a game, my boy! such a glorious game! Pinned like a cockchafer! regularly pinned! I'll be bound to say there hasn't been a man so pinned since the time of the French revolution."
"But how," cried Pokey, "how was he pinned? What was it all about?"
"Why, you know Mrs. Sound has been much annoyed lately by ghosts, you know, and all sorts of things. Well, this blessed morning, you know, when she came down, who should she find in her parlour but old Teddy Rouse in his shirt!"
"What! the parson?"
"The parson! Well, in she went, and flew at him, and out she pulled him, and pommelled and scratched him, and shook him, and worried him, until Ted called out for mercy so loud you might have heard him all over the village."
"What! do you mean to say—"
"Yes!—Well! when she had him down flat on his back, with her fingers on his throat, and her knees upon his chest, she sent her maid over for Legge, and when Legge came, she offered to stand a pound if he'd give Ted an out-and-out welting. Legge was a fool not to do it."
"But do you mean to say—"
​"Do you think I wouldn't have done it? If I had had half a chance, do you think I wouldn't have welted him?"
"Well, but do you mean to say now this was the parson?"
"Teddy Rouse, I tell you!—old Teddy Rouse! Did you ever hear of such a game?"
"And do you mean to say, then, that he was the ghost after all?"
"Why, to be sure he was."
"The animal!"
"Wouldn't we have served him out that night if we had known it! I'll just tell you what I'd have done: I'd have caught him by the scruff of his blessed neck, and when you and Snorkings had fixed his legs, I'd have dragged him to the horse-pond and given him a cooler."
"Well, but I say, what did they do with him?"
"Do with him! Why, like a parcel of fools, they let him go! I only wish I had been there! He wouldn't have been let off so easy, I'll warrant. But isn't it sickening now, when you come to look at it? Isn't it disgusting that we should be compelled to support these vampires? These are the locusts that prey upon our vitals!—these are the vultures that finger elevenpence-halfpenny out of every shilling the poor man earns!—The fact is, Pokey, between you and me, we must have a rattling revolution. It must be a rattler, come when it may. Bobby Peel ought to blush for upholding this downright system of dead robbery. As Johnny Russell told him to his teeth the other night, 'I'll tell you what it is,' said Johnny, 'if you don't knock this fructifying swindle in the head, you may look out for pepper!' And he'll have it! It was just the case in Constantinople, under Peter the Great; it was just the case in China, when the Turkish ambassadors signed the Magna Charta; it was just the case during the Peninsular war, when William the Conqueror upset the lot, and sent Russia off with a flea in her ear; it has been the case, mind you, all over the world, and, mark my words, it will be the case here. Are we to be plundered of our substance, to support a mob of locusts like old Teddy Rouse? Are we to be ground to the earth, and taxed to the tune here of eighteen hundred millions a-year, that such men as Ted Rouse may grow fat? Not a bit of it! No, my boy, we shall have a rattler! But I must be off. It's quite clear that Ted has put his foot in it this time. I thought it wouldn't be long before he was caught on the hip. Well, God bless you—I'll work him! I'll stick to him, my boy! But I say, only think though of Ted in his shirt! Ha!ha!ha! It's the capitalest go that ever occurred! Ha! ha! ha! Well! ta-ta! Ha! ha! I shall see you to-night. Poor Teddy Rouse! Ha! ha! ha!
Thus he left Pokey, and thus he went round, fructifying as he proceeded so freely, that the thing assumed a shape of vast local importance; and although Obadiah was pretty well known, he established his falsehoods on the basis of truth with so much ingenuity, that all his associates felt quite convinced that "Ted" had been actually playing the ghost.
Of this the reverend gentleman was, however, unconscious. He went to bed at twelve, and Jones went to bed too, and when they rose about ​nine in the evening, they had a slight repast, and at ten o'clock precisely repaired to the cottage.
Here Aunt Eleanor received them as before, and when she had indulged in many expressions of gratitude, and Sylvester had reiterated his wish to be allowed to sit up with them, in vain, the reverend gentleman gave them his blessing, and he and his companion were left for the night.
But that friendship which existed the night before had vanished, They were no longer friends. Jones stood near the door with a basket in his hand, while the reverend gentleman sat by the fire.
To say that Jones much admired this arrangement, were to say that which is not exactly correct, lie did not much admire it. Nor could he conceive how long he should have to stand there. There was, moreover, no show of anything to eat that in his view looked ominous: still he did fondly imagine that the basket which he held in his hand contained something substantial and nice, of which he might by-and-by perhaps come in for a share. This, therefore, did not distress him much. But when he looked at his position as a servant, standing as he was in the presence of a master who, being indignant, might not, perhaps, even permit him to sit, he did not presuming to take a seat without permission think his case hard. It was, however, in his view, perfectly clear that he couldn't continue to stand there all night. He knew that he must drop some time or other, and that was, as far as it went, a comfort. He had not been accustomed to stand long in one position: still being resolved to keep up as long as possible, he had recourse to a variety of manoeuvres. Sometimes his whole weight was on his right leg, and sometimes it rested on his left: sometimes he planted one shoulder against the wall, and sometimes he planted the other; and thus, by virtue of moving about, twisting his hips, and vexing his spine, he managed to stand there for more than an hour.
At length, when he fancied that "drop he must," the reverend gentleman turned round, and said, "Now, sir, bring me that basket."
This was a great relief to Jones: as he took the basket forward, in the full conviction of there being something therein delicious, he felt reinspired with hope, but when the reverend gentleman on receiving it said, coldly, "That will do!" he returned to his corner, to contemplate the scene in a state of mind bordering on despair.
But even under these adverse circumstances, Jones could not curb his imagination. It dived into the basket, and there conceived a couple of ducks, a pigeon-pie, some bread and cheese, and the materials for punch. This he thought was not bad. Nor as a vision was it. It sustained him for a time, and when at length the reverend gentleman drew forth a bottle, he felt that that vision was about to be realised. One bottle only, however, was produced, and that was a peculiarly-shaped bottle. Jones had never seen such a bottle before. It wouldn't stand. But that it contained something nice, he felt fully convinced.
"Now, sir, hand me one of those tumblers," said the reverend gentleman. "The largest."
Jones with alacrity obeyed, and when the reverend gentleman had ​twisted off the wire, and cut the string which secured the cork, that cork flew out with a report so loud, that it caused Jones to stagger, as if he had been shot.
"Hark!" cried the reverend gentleman, who at that moment fancied he heard a noise: but, after having listened and found all still, he turned and drank that which to Jones appeared to be boiling gin-and-water.
"Now, sir," he continued, feeling sure that the noise which he had heard was made by Jones on being startled, "what have you to say in explanation of your conduct last night?"
Jones had nothing to say in explanation. He couldn't see what explanation was required. The case appeared to him to be clear as it stood—he went to sleep. That was all he knew about it, and all he could explain, and as he felt that that explanation was unnecessary, he was silent.
"Do you not think, sir," resumed the reverend gentleman, "that such conduct, after all my kindness, was disgraceful?"
"I'm very sorry for it, sir," replied Jones, humbly. "It sha'n't occur again, it sha'n't indeed, sir: I hope you'll look over it."
"I gave you notice, sir, this morning, to quit my service in a month. Now, whether that notice be ratified or withdrawn, depends upon your conduct this night."
Jones bowed, and was about to return to his corner, when the reverend gentleman said, "Bring another glass,"—and when the glass had been brought, and he had drawn another bottle from the basket, he added, taking the wire off and cutting the string—"Now, sir, hold the tumbler, and then drink this off." Bang went the cork from the bottle to the ceiling, and out rushed the beverage, which Jones thought hot; so hot indeed, that he blew it with great caution before he put it to his lips; while it hissed and boiled, and flew into his eyes, as if every bubble had some spite to spit. He soon, however, found that it was cold, and drank it off, and then gasped for breath and shuddered. He didn't at all like it. It wasn't at all nice. There was nothing in the flavour to recommend it. It was hard and sour, and cold—very cold.
"Did you never take soda-water before?" enquired the reverend gentleman, who saw him shuddering convulsively.
"Never, sir."
"Do you not like it?"
"Why, sir—des say it's very good."
"It will keep you awake, Jones."
"Shouldn't be surprised, sir."
The reverend gentleman then emptied the basket, and Jones, to his horror, perceived—instead of a couple of ducks and the pigeon-pie—nothing but twelve of these bottles.
"Well," thought he, "here's a pretty basin o' soup. But he can't mean to say we're agoing for to live upon this here swill all the blessed night."
'You can sit down, Jones," said the reverend gentleman.
Sit down! Yes!—that of course was all very well; but Jones was not thinking of that point then: he was turning over, opening, and fairly ​spreading out the idea of two men keeping up all night with nothing to sustain them but this cold stuff.
"What gets over me," said he privately to himself, "is that master perfers this to punch. Des say it's dear: bound it's dear, although I wouldn't give so much as a penny for a pond-full on it, but that a gentleman like him, as can have punch whenever he likes, should perfer this here to it, is rum. But gentlemen certainly is queer swells. Wonder if they ever gets tipsy upon it! Des say they do though, or else they wouldn't drink it."
There was, however, one point upon which Jones reflected very deeply, and that point was this: How could cold water boil? He had seen the soda-water effervesce: he had tasted it during its effervescence, and found it cold! the question with him therefore was, "How as that water was cold could it boil?"
That was, indeed, a puzzler for Jones. But he stuck to it!—oh! he stuck to it: and brought to bear upon it, too, all the knowledge he had. He could make nothing of it, but he wouldn't give it up! The question still was, How could cold water boil?
Now, while he was thus most intently engaged, and the reverend gentleman was reading a romance called "The Bravo of Blood, or the Sanguinary Smile," there was a scene of excitement at the Crumpet and Crown, which was never, perhaps, in that or any other village, equalled.
Mrs. Legge had fainted. She was not a weak woman, but she had fainted. She had been standing at the door, and as the clock struck twelve she rushed into the parlour and fainted. Vinegar was of course at hand, and vinegar was applied; and when she had been restored to something bearing the semblance of consciousness, she called for the Bible.
"The Bible!" she exclaimed. "My dear! get the Bible."
Legge shifted her head from his arm to that of Pokey, and hastened up stairs for the Bible, and on his return Mrs. Legge cried anxiously, "Turn to Revelations, my dear—Revelations."
Legge did turn to Revelations, and then said "Phœbe! What do you mean?"
"Here," she replied, as he gave her the Bible, and turning at once to the sixth chapter, read,—"And I looked and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death."—"Death!" she exclaimed. "I have seen him. He passed on a pale horse just now."
"What! another of Teddy Rouse's tricks!" cried Obadiah.
"You are a fool," said Legge; and then turning to his wife, added, "Which way, my girl?—which way did it go?"
"Towards the church," she replied. "But oh! do not leave me!"
"But for a moment: I'll not be gone long, my girl."
"No!" she exclaimed, clinging to him. "You must not go—you shall not go. If we are to die to-night, let us die together."
"I'll have a go in," exclaimed Obadiah. "Come along, Pokey, come along, Quocks, come along, Bobber, my boy, we'll see what he's made of!" And Obadiah, followed by Pokey, Quocks, and Bobber, rushed valiantly out of the Crumpet and Crown.
​ Death on the Pale Horse.
​But the horse and his rider were gone. Obadiah looked anxiously up and down the road, but could see nothing of them. Feeling, however, that a display of valour then was essential to the maintenance of his reputation, he boldly cried out, "Now let's go up the road, my boys! Death and his pale horse be bothered!"
"Bravo!" cried Pokey. "Aye, let's go up the road!" And they went up the road seeing nothing to fear.
Having passed the church, however, Pokey suddenly cried "Hark!" and the blood of Obadiah Drant chilled on the instant. "Listen!" he added. "It's coming this way!" They did listen, and heard distinctly something approaching. There were three roads before them; but down which of the three it was coming they couldn't tell. Presently, however—having strained their eyes in those three directions—they saw what at first appeared to them to be a tall white pillar gliding slowly down the hill to their left.
"Here it comes," cried Obadiah, clinging closely to Quocks. "What—what can it be?"
"Don't be frightened," said Quocks, "do-o-on't be alarmed!"
It now came sufficiently near for them to distinguish the outline of a horse bearing a figure which looked like that of a giant!
Terror seized them on the instant. They could not move! The figure came nearer and still more near, and, with uplifted hands and eyes darting from their sockets, they saw it slowly and solemnly pass.
Both the horse and his rider were white—quite white—and both seemed enveloped in a cloud. White smoke appeared to issue from the nostrils of the horse, while the rider wore a long flowing robe, which to them looked like a vast winding-sheet. They thought of the passage in Revelations and trembled. It must be—it could but be—Death! Te had, in their view, come to swallow up all, seeing that all whom he Visits are doomed.
As the figure disappeared each resumed his former attitude,and when it was completely lost to view they breathed again, but were still filled with horror.
"Let us go," said Obadiah. "Come—let us return. Such sights as this are dreadful. We are but men, and as man is but man, these scenes are too horrid for man to bear. Let us go; come, now let us go."
They had not, however, proceeded far—locked in each other's arms, with a view to mutual security—when they again beheld "Death," rushing furiously towards them.
"Preserve us!" cried Obadiah, darting into the hedge, closely followed by his companions. "Preserve us, or we are lost!"
But before "Death" had reached them he urged his fiery steed to the right and sprang over the hedge, and then flew across the fields, over bank, ditch, and hurdle, until he was lost to view again.
They then returned quickly to the Crumpet and Crown; but before they could speak of the horrors they had seen they each had a large glass of brandy.
But even then they were not so communicative as might have been expected, They were thoughtful—very thoughtful. They looked at ​each other and shook their head with great significance; but when they had explained briefly that they had seen that which Mrs. Legge saw, namely, "Death on a pale horse," they were silent; and thus they remained until half-past one, when Pokey, who had his reasons for making a move, suggested the propriety of parting—a suggestion upon which they almost immediately acted, and thoughtfully repaired to their respective homes.
During the progress of these extraordinary proceedings, Jones, who felt that he was victimized, had swallowed on compulsion four bottles of that beverage which he abhorred, and sat dwelling on the problem he had proposed having reference to cold boiling water, while the reverend gentleman was reading the romance.
Up to half-past two they had not been disturbed. They had heard no noise—with the exception of that which reached the reverend gentleman's ears while opening the first bottle of soda-water—and as all around them then continued silent as the grave, they began to think that nothing at all calculated to call forth the courage they had in them would occur.
About three o'clock, however, while the reverend gentleman was absorbed in a soul-stirring chapter of the romance, he imagined that he heard the outer gate close, and started.
"What's that?" exclaimed Jones.
"Hush! hush!" cried the reverend gentleman. "Listen!"
They did listen, and distinctly heard footsteps on the path.
"Shall I go to the window?" said Jones.
"No! no!" cried the reverend gentleman. "Let us hear how they attempt to get in. Keep your seat and be silent. Now, hark!"
At that moment they saw the handle of the door move.
"Who's there?" cried the reverend gentleman in a whisper, which startled both Jones and himself.
No answer was returned, but again the handle moved, and then the door opened gradually, and then a tall figure, enveloped in a sheet, slowly entered the room.
"Angels of light protect us!" exclaimed the reverend gentleman, while Jones, who appeared to be at once deprived of life, dropped in an instant upon the rug and hid his face.
Of these proceedings, the figure took no notice. It walked slowly to the sideboard, and having looked for a moment, shook its head, as if to indicate that there was nothing at all there that it wanted, and then turned and left the room as slowly as it had entered.
The feelings experienced by the reverend gentleman then were awful. He sank back in his chair, and for the first time felt that no one knows what he would do until placed in the position to do that which he conceives he should do. His heart had never before quailed, but it then sank within him. He seemed fixed to the spot—completely spell-bound. Nor was it until some time after the figure, which he conceived to be a spirit, had disappeared, that he summoned sufficient courage to speak to Jones, who had given himself altogether up for lost.
"Jones," said he, at length, in a scarcely audible whisper, which made ​ The Spirit of the Pastor.
​the poor fellow start convulsively, conceiving that the spirit itself had called him, "Jones: rise and put your trust in Him who can and will protect us."
Jones, with an aspect of horror, looked up, and in trembling accents cried, "O-o-o-o-o! is it you?"
"It is," replied the reverend gentleman. "Arise."
Jones did arise, and having rolled his eyes fearfully round the room, with the view of being sure that it was gone, sank into his chair exhausted.
Horror had chilled them both, and having nothing but soda-water within them, they were both still cold, and continued to tremble.
"Jones," said the reverend gentleman, after a pause, "reach the brandy; it is there, on the sideboard."
"Oh, sir!" replied Jones, "I dare not."
The reverend gentleman nerved himself; and, turning his eyes in every direction, walked with comparative firmness to the sideboard, and returned to his chair with the decanter and a glass, which he filled with all the steadiness at his command, and then at once drank it off.
"Now, Jones," said he, when the glass had been refilled, "take this!" And Jones, whose teeth at the time violently chattered, did take it, and swallowing the contents at one gulp, was very thankful.
They now began to feel somewhat better; and although the improvement as yet was but slight, they were able to look round the room—timidly, it is true—but without that wildness of vision by which their looks had just before been characterised.
"Pray, sir, give me a little more brandy," said Jones.
"Yes, Jones, yes!" replied the reverend gentleman, replenishing the glass. "Drink this."
"Bless you, sir!—bless you!" said Jones, with much fervour. "Oh! wasn't it horrid, sir—wasn't it?"
"It was an awful sight," returned the reverend gentleman, as he helped himself to a little more brandy. "But why," he added, "why should we fear?"
Jones shook his head and shuddered.
The door was still open, and as the cold air rushed in, the reverend gentleman deemed it expedient to close it, and suggested the propriety of doing so to Jones; but as Jones, even then, dared not cross the room alone, it was eventually agreed that they should both go together—and together they accordingly went. But the moment they had reached the door of the parlour, they saw the outer door open too, which they held to be very mysterious, seeing that they had heard no bolt withdrawn. Finding, however, that all was then still, they closed the outer door, but they had no sooner done so, than they heard distinctly footsteps behind them, and on turning round beheld the identical figure slowly ascending the stairs. Jones in an instant rushed into the room, but the reverend gentleman remained till it had vanished—not prompted by courage— nor indeed by any feeling of curiosity—but because he had not the power to leave the spot.
"Come in, sir!" cried Jones. "Pray, come in, sir—come in!"
​And when the figure had disappeared, the reverend gentlemen went in, but with an expression of unmingled terror.
"Oh, do leave this house, sir—pray do!" cried Jones, as the reverend gentleman sank into his chair. "It's haunted!—I know, sir, it's haunted! If we stay we shall never go out of it alive!"
"Come what may," returned the reverend gentleman, apparently gasping for breath, "come what may, here will I remain. But," he added, "let me not control you. If you wish to leave, consider yourself at liberty to do so. Go, Jones—go, if you please."
Well, Jones thought this kind—very kind: he appreciated the privilege highly; but then—how was he to get out? He must necessarily go through the hall!—and there the spirit might perchance meet him alone! Could he have vanished through one of the windows, he would have done so with all the alacrity of which he was capable, but as he could not do this, he converted a necessity into a virtue, by saying, "I shouldn't, sir, like to leave you."
"Use your own discretion," said the reverend gentleman, calmly. "Until the morning dawns, Jones, here will I remain. There is much latent wickedness in this world, Jones. I mean by latent, hidden, private, secret."
"Yes, sir."
"Wickedness is in all ages wickedness, but it isn't in all ages proved to be wickedness."
"No, sir."
"Wickedness will, sometimes, prosper for a while."
"Yes, sir."
"But it never can prosper long."
"No, sir."
"It is certain to be found out, and when found out, punished, Jones."
"Yes, sir."
"None who deserve punishment escape."
"Very true, sir."
"This spirit which we have seen is, doubtless, the spirit of one who left the world with some secret unrevealed."
"No doubt, sir. But what do you think, sir, of ghosts in general?"
"The subject is above human comprehension, Jones, and therefore, we ought not to talk on that subject."
This closed Jones's mouth effectually, and he began to reflect upon his sins. He remembered that he was indebted to the estate of a deceased landlord to the amount of sevenpence-halfpenny, which sum, as no one but the landlord himself knew of it, he had never intended to pay. The questions which he therefore proposed were—First: Was this the spirit of that landlord?—Secondly: Would it answer the purpose of any spirit to revisit the earth to enforce the payment of the sum of sevenpence-halfpenny?—and, Thirdly: Wouldn't the spirit rest until that sum was paid? To these questions he could give no satisfactory answer. He thought that it would hardly be worth a spirit's while to disturb itself much about the sum of sevenpence-halfpenny, but he at ​once resolved to pay the sevenpence-halfpenny to the widow, in order to make all sure.
The reflections of the reverend gentleman were of a still more deeply metaphysical caste. He had, theretofore, imagined apparitions to be spiritual, ethereal!—beings having nothing at all physical about them!—but the spirit which he had seen was enveloped in a sheet, of which the material was linen—material linen! The question, therefore, was, Where did it get that sheet? The attempt, however, to solve this question was presumptuous. The reverend gentleman felt it to be presumptuous—although he tried hard to get at the solution—and as he eventually thought that he must have been mistaken—as he brought himself at length to believe that the sheet which he had seen was a spiritual sheet—he turned to the consideration of the course which he felt it his duty to pursue, and upon this he was engaged until the day began to dawn, when he and Jones left the cottage, and went thoughtfully home.
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