# Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 10

CHAPTER X.
THE GUARDIANS DISCOVERED.
Whenever mortals have inspired a passion for spirits, that passion has always been the germ of infelicity. However strongly it may have been developed, or however ardently reciprocated, discomfiture has invariably been the result. Mortals never yet made matches with spirits. Of their having loved them fondly, we have heard, but in the annals of spirits there is nothing like an absolute match of the kind on record. Nor is this to be lamented. Spirits may indeed do for mortals to love, but they certainly will not do for mortals to marry. They couldn't guide, they couldn't govern, they couldn't hold them. Of all flighty wives they would be the most flighty. They might dance very well, they might sing very well, they might look very well, and be very enchanting, but they would be found to be fit to love only in imagination. It is true that in all cases there is much imagination in love: two thirds of it is generally composed of imagination; but when love is all imagination, they by whom it is cherished are much to be pitied.
Sylvester's love for Rosalie was all imagination. But then he loved only when asleep. At no other time did it in the slightest degree disturb him: albeit, so strong was its influence then, that, prompted by a vivid recollection of his imaginary interview the preceding night, he rose immediately after Jones had commenced a fine nasal duet with his reverend friend, and proceeded—without at all disturbing those guardians—to the arbour, invoking Rosalie in the most touching tones of endearment.
Here, after having sighed deeply for a time, he beheld the scene suddenly change as before, and found himself seated in the centre of the dell upon the same couch of moss and wild roses. But Rosalie! Where was Rosalie? She was not there!
He looked anxiously round. The flowers were drooping; the birds were silent; the lake had lost its former lustre, and even the butterflies were still.
Something had occurred! Everything around him seemed stricken with grief! What could be the meaning of it? What could be the cause? Was Rosalie dead?
Presently he heard a slight fluttering among the birds; the butterflies came out, although cautiously; the lake reflected a gleam of light, and the flowers raised slowly their beautiful heads.
Sylvester turned, and saw Rosalie approaching. But her steps were lingering and languid. Her head was bowed down, and her countenance was sad, but her ensemble still was lovely.
​As she entered the dell, he rose to meet her, and the birds sung in concert a melancholy strain, which she answered, and made them more melancholy still.
"Rosalie!" said Sylvester. "Rosalie!"
Rosalie started at the sound of his voice, and having looked at him, blushed and became herself again. Again the butterflies in myriads came forth: again the lake shone like crystal; again the birds sang in their sweetest strain, and again the flowers bloomed and waived, inspired with joy by her beautiful smile.
"Rosalie!" continued Sylvester, "sweet Rosalie!"
Rosalie silently glided to the couch, and having taken her seat at one end, with a smile, pointed to the other, upon which in an instant Sylvester sat, and as they looked at each other with expressions of love, birds of Paradise playfully floated between them.
"Sweet youth!" she exclaimed, in a voice which on his ear like celestial music; but her countenance changed; she again became sad: the birds ceased to sing, and the flowers ceased to bloom, and the butterflies fell as if dead.
Why what could be the cause of this? Was she not well?—or had he been too presumptuous?
"Rosalie!" he exclaimed, after a pause, during which they sighed in unison; "Rosalie!"—why are you thus? I love you Rosalie!—sweetest! I love you!"
Rosalie again sighed, and bowed her head in sadness.
"Rosalie!—Rosalie: why are you sad? 'Tell me, my sweet one! Tell me."
"My beautiful boy!" she exclaimed, and as she spoke, her soft eyes swam in liquid love. "Oh! that I were mortal!"
"Mortal!" echoed Sylvester—Are you not mortal?"
"Alas!" she replied, "I am but a spirit!"
"Then lovely spirit let me dwell with you here?"
"It cannot be until you are also a spirit. Then will the purest joy be ours."
"But now, sweet Rosalie!—let me dwell here with you now?"
"It is, alas! impossible. But even while this mortal barrier exists I shall ever be near you: I will watch over, guard, and protect you. When you are sad, I shall be also sad: when you are happy, I shall be happy too."
"But, Rosalie!—dear Rosalie!—my love!—I cannot leave thee!"
Rosalie smiled; and by that smile he felt so inspired, that he rose to embrace her; but in an instant the butterflies flew in a mass before him, and, by shaking the downy feathers from their wings into his eyes, compelled him for a moment to close them!—when they were re-opened, all had vanished, and he found himself sitting again in the arbour.
Having dwelt for a time on the beautiful scene from which he had thus been shut out, he with a heavy heart languidly returned to the cottage, and omitting again to close the outer door, proceeded at once to his chamber.
During the whole of this time the reverend gentleman and Jones were ​keeping up with spirit their nasal duet. By the effect of this, however, no ear could have been charmed. They were both very powerful snorers, but the harmony produced was not perfect. Few, indeed, could have made more noise; few could have kept the thing up with more zeal; but as Jones alternately touched C and F, while the note on which the reverend gentleman dwelt was a very flat D, the combination cannot be said to have been harmonious. The only marvel is, that they didn't wake each other. It is, however, perfectly certain that they did'nt, and that they slept and snored without the slightest interruption until cook came down at half-past six, and found the door open as before. Nor would they have been disturbed even then, had not cook been inspired with indignation, and instead of rushing up stairs again, closed the door with so much violence that it shook the whole house.
This did disturb them both, and when the reverend gentleman had succeeded in recollecting where he was, he called out angrily for Jones, who trembled for the consequences of his conduct.
"You have been asleep, sir!" exclaimed his reverend friend.
"Ony jist dropped off, sir—scarce three winks, sir," stammered out Jones.
"Where's the light, sir? The fire out, too! Do you think that you are fit to be trusted, sir?—Hark!" he added, as cook, who had heard them, rushed from the door to tell Judkins that thieves were even then in the house. "Do you hear that?"
"Ye-e-e-es, sir."
"There they are!—Now we shall catch them. Be firm: be firm. Jones! Jones! how came you to let the lamp out? I'll never forgive you, sir!—Where is the door?"
"Can't find it, sir! Don't know the go of the room! Oh, here—" he added, sweeping the bottles off the table, for as the shutters were closed, and the curtains were drawn, not a ray of light was visible.
"What on earth are you about, sir?"
"Beg pardon, sir! Thought it was the door?" replied Jones, who at that moment swept off one of the jugs.
"You'll break all the things in the room!" exclaimed the reverend gentleman, who having given forcible expression to this sentiment, groped his way to the sideboard, and knocked down half a dozen glasses just as Jones had succeeded in tumbling over the fender, and bringing down the kettle in his fall.
"What are you at now?" cried the reverend gentleman.
"Fender, sir," replied Jones, whose intellectual faculties were then so scattered, and who had become so excessively nervous, that he took his seat at once upon the rug, conceiving that to be the place in which he was likely to do the smallest amount of mischief.
"Tut!—bless my life!—where is this door!"
"Can't think," replied Jones, still retaining his seat; "it's somewheres about, I know."
"Where are you now, Jones?"
"Here, sir."
"Near the fireplace?"
​"Yes, sir."
"Then keep to the left till we meet."
Jones had made up his mind not to move from the rug, but on being thus commanded to go to the left, he went to the left on his hands and knees, and the consequence was that, when they met, the reverend gentleman fell fairly over him.
"Bless my life and soul, Jones, what are you about? Are you crazy?"
"Beg pardon, sir," replied Jones, assisting him to rise. "Didn't dream you was so nigh."
"But what in the name of goodness were you doing down there?"
"Thought 1 shouldn't come in contract with nothing, sir. Thought I shouldn't break no more things. Broke enough already as it is, I'm afeard. Oh, here's the door, sir: here it is, this is it."
"That's right," said the reverend gentleman. "Now, Jones, be firm. But, bless my heart, let me see. I locked the door! Tut! What could I have done with the key?"
"Pocket, p'raps, sir."
"No:—let me—oh, I recollect: I left it on the table. Remain here: now, don't stir an inch from the door."
"Not a ha'porth, sir: not if I know it," said Jones; and his reverend friend approached the table and anxiously felt for the key; and while he was thus engaged, Judkins, Cook, and Mary, came into the hall, and having stationed themselves at the door listened with very great intensity."
"They're here, sir," said Jones. "They're ony jist outside. I hear 'em now plain."
"Hush!" said the reverend gentleman. "If they hear us talking they'll be off."
Jones, at the time, felt that that was the best thing they could do. Shivering as he was with cold, and that too in total darkness, he was not then in a state fit to lament such a circumstance. But it did not occur. The people outside were not disposed to be off. On the contrary, the very moment that Judkins became convinced of the fact of there being persons then in the room, he proceeded to make arrangements in order to secure them.
"Do you run to Legge," said he to Mary, in a whisper, "and tell him to come over with a couple of men. We'll fix 'em now safe! And do you run up to missis, cook, and tell her all about it, and ask her what's best to be done. I'll keep guard here! They shall not pass me!"
Away flew Mary to the Crumpet and Crown, and the moment Legge had ascertained what had been discovered, he rushed, without looking for assistance, to the cottage, in a state of mind bordering on enthusiasm, before cook had had time to explain to her mistress what she really meant.
"Do you mean to say you've got 'em?" said Legge, as he entered.
"They're now in that room," replied Judkins, "safe."
"We'll have 'em out!—we'll soon see who they are.—Why they've locked themselves in!" he added, on trying the door.
"Who's there?" demanded the reverend gentleman.
​ The Guardians brought to light.
​"It's of no use, young fellows!" said Legge. "So you may as well open the door at once."
"Why," said the reverend gentleman to Jones, on hearing these words indistinctly, "that's Legge's voice! Has he turned housebreaker?—I know you, John Legge, sir!' he added aloud. "I know you, and you shall be punished."
"Do you hear!" cried Legge, who heard some one speaking, although he knew nothing about what was said. "Are you going to open the door now, or are we to burst it open?"
"Bless my life and soul!" cried the reverend gentleman, "where on earth is this key?"
At this moment Legge placed his foot near the lock, and as the door flew open without much effort, he seized the reverend gentleman roughly by the collar, while Judkins grasped Jones by the throat.
"So we've caught you at last," cried Legge, "have we? Come to the light, and let's have a look at you!"
"What do you mean?" cried the reverend gentleman. "Give me an account of this ruffianly conduct, sir—What do you mean?"
Legge, regardless of these expressions of insulted dignity, dragged him to the light: but the moment he recognised the reverend gentleman, he relaxed his hold, and said, "There is some mistake here."
"Some mistake, sir!" cried the reverend gentleman indignantly. "I demand to know the meaning of this outrage.—What right have you here?"
"I was sent for, and we thought, on hearing voices in the room, that we had caught those fellows who had been up to their tricks."
"Well, but—bless my life and soul, it's broad daylight! Why what is it o'clock?"
"Nearly seven."
"Nearly seven!—Jones, I'll never forgive you! Don't you think that you ought to be ashamed of your conduct?"
Jones didn't say whether he did or not. He, in fact, made no reply. Judkins had grasped his throat so firmly that, on being released, he was anxious, before he attempted to speak, to ascertain well if his swallow were right.
"There has been some mistake, I perceive," resumed the reverend gentleman, addressing Legge, with comparative calmness. "The fact is, I have been waiting here all night, with the view of catching those persons. But," he added, as Aunt Eleanor made her appearance, "all will now be explained."
Aunt Eleanor—who, on hearing of the discovery, at once suspected the cause, and had hurried on her things, in order to save the private feelings of her reverend friend from outrage—no sooner saw him standing in the hall, pale and shivering with cold, than she grasped his icy hand and said, "My dear sir! I fear that you omitted to keep the fire up. Mary, run and light one immediately in the breakfast-room: there's a good girl, be quick.—Mr. Legge, I feel obliged by your attention. My servants were not aware that Mr. Rouse had been kind enough to offer to sit up with the view of discovering these persons by whom I ​have been annoyed; but, believe me, I appreciate your prompt desire to serve me, and feel much indebted to your kindness."
"I hope you'll not mention it, ma'am," replied Legge. "I only wish they had been discovered. They were here again in the course of the night, I understand, ma'am!"
"Here—what this last night?" enquired the reverend gentleman.
"Oh, yes, sir!" interposed Judkins. "The door was wide open again this morning."
"Jones! Jones!" exclaimed the reverend gentleman, shaking his head at him very severely; 'Jones! this day month, sir, you quit my service."
Jones felt that he deserved this, and therefore said nothing: nor, indeed, did Aunt Eleanor then, although she made up her mind to restore him to favour; but turning to Legge, she observed—in order to save the reverend gentleman from ridicule—"As I feel that you see the necessity for putting an end to these annoyances, Mr. Legge, I am sure you will think with me that the occurrences of this morning should go no further."
"You may rest assured that I will not open my lips on the subject to any living soul."
"You see, if it be known that preparations for a discovery are made, those tiresome people will be on their guard; and although my object is prevention, not punishment, they may for a time cease their annoyances and then recommence them."
"I understand, ma'am," replied Legge. "Not a word shall escape me. I'd give five pounds out of my own pocket, ma'am, to know who they are, because I cannot imagine what they can mean! And now, sir," he added, addressing the reverend gentleman, "I have to apologise."
"No, not a word: not a word, Mr. Legge. You acted very properly—very."
"But I'm sorry that I handled you so roughly."
"Your conduct, Mr. Legge, was extremely correct: nothing could have been more correct—nothing. I'll therefore not hear a word in the shape of an apology—not a single word."
Legge then respectfully bowed to them both and left the cottage: and Jones, who felt very uncomfortable, tried to leave too, but Aunt Eleanor perceiving his object, said, "I wish to have a word with you, Jones, before you go. Cook," she added, "bring me a jug of warm ale.—You can go now, Judkins, and attend to your horses. My dear sir, now do go into the breakfast-room and warm yourself: your hands are like ice. How could you think of letting the fire out?"
"Really I am ashamed," said the reverend gentleman.
"I ought to be ashamed," interrupted Aunt Eleanor, "of having taxed your kindness to such an extent! But go to the fire, there's a good creature. We'll talk about this by-and-by: Jones and I have a word or two to say to each other: we shall soon have settled our little business. Excuse me five minutes, I shall very soon join you."
The reverend gentleman then repaired to the breakfast-room, and cook soon appeared with a jug of warm ale, which she handed to her ​mistress, who despatched her at once to prepare as soon as possible a "very nice breakfast."
"Now," said Aunt Eleanor, turning to Jones, who had been marvelling what was about to transpire, "drink up this ale; it will warm you; and when you have finished it come and assist me."
Jones looked and bowed, and felt grateful. And he took the jug, and emptied it, and wasn't long about it, for although cold without he was parched within, and the ale was nice and smooth.
While he was thus enjoying himself—and it really was to him then a source of great enjoyment—Aunt Eleanor opened the parlour shutters, and having looked round, smiled as he entered the room.
"I'm mortal sorry, ma'am," said he, "that these things is broke. It were all done a sarching for the door."
"Never mind," said Aunt Eleanor; "pick up the pieces."
Pick up the pieces! Well! Certainly Jones did think this cool; but he went to work at once and did pick up the pieces, and put them as he picked them up into his apron, and while he was thus employed Aunt Eleanor was engaged in re-adjusting the things on the sideboard.
Having very soon succeeded in making the room look tidy again, the amiable creature—who was anxious, for her reverend friend's sake, that the servants should know as little about the matter as possible—went for a basket, and having put into it all that remained of the previous night's supper, requested Jones to leave it at the cottage of Widow Wix.
"And now," she observed, "you must manage to make your peace with your master."
"I will if I can, ma'am," said Jones. "I know 'twas my fault, and I'm very sorry for it; but if you would put in a good word for me—"
"Well, we'll see what can be done," she replied, and placing half-a-crown in his hand, started him off.
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