# Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 14

CHAPTER XIV.
THE DEPARTURE FROM THE VILLAGE.
They who have been unaccustomed to travel, find the job of preparing to leave home a strong one. However inconsiderable the journey may be, or however short the contemplated stay, the preparations which they deem essential are great. Much thought is brought to bear upon the preliminaries, much time is occupied in carrying out the scheme, and when that has been perfected and the day of departure arrives, the excitement is generally excessive.
Aunt Eleanor had been unaccustomed to travel: she found the job of preparing to leave home a strong job: she brought much thought to bear directly upon the preliminaries, and occupied much time in perfecting the scheme: nor did she expect that on the morning of her departure, she should have the slightest appetite for breakfast, for the village may be said to have been her world, and if the idea of leaving that village did not appear to her like that of leaving the world, her feelings bore a very strong affinity to those of persons who are about to visit some distant land.
On the day, however, immediately preceding that appointed for her journey to London, other feelings were inspired; for while walking alone in her garden, contemplating the change she was about to experience, and endeavouring to recollect if anything had been forgotten, she saw lying on the table in the arbour, a carefully-folded note, sealed with the family crest, and superscribed "Rosalie."
"What on earth have we here?" she exclaimed, as she turned the note over and over again. "The hand-writing resembles that of Sylvester! yet surely it cannot be his! Rosalie!—Dear me, what can it mean? Rosalie!—How very mysterious."
While anxiously dwelling upon this little incident, and considering what course she could with propriety pursue, her reverend friend entered the garden, and when they had greeted each other with their accustomed cordiality, she explained to him how she had found the note, and then proceeded to solicit his advice.
"It's very odd," said the reverend gentleman, "very odd; nay, it's remarkably odd. But let us go in, and see what we can make of it."
Into the house they accordingly went, and when they were seated, the reverend gentleman took the note, and having looked very severely at the superscription and the seal, turned it over and over and over again, with an expression of intense curiosity.
"Well," said he, at length, "let us look at the contents."
"Will it be correct," said Aunt Eleanor, "to open it?"
"Perfectly so, my dear madam!—of course!"
​"It is not addressed to either of us."
"But it is the hand-writing of Sylvester!"
"I think it is. It looks very much like his hand-writing. But I am not sure."
"Oh, it's certain to be his; and if even it be not, you have an indisputable right to examine it, seeing that it was found on your premises, addressed to a person of whom you have no knowledge; but as it most surely is his, you have a double right to examine it, inasmuch as he is here under your especial care."
"But I should not like to wound his feelings."
"For that I would submit there is no necessity whatever. The thing may be concealed. He need not know that we have opened the note; he need not even know that you found it. The young rogue may have fallen in love. Who can tell? He may be the intended victim of some artful creature, whose object is to ensnare him. Who knows? We have heard of such things, and it hence becomes our duty to protect him;—we must put him on his guard, and not allow him to be sacrificed."
"Very true, my dear sir," said Aunt Eleanor, smiling; "I fully appreciate all that you have said, but would it not be equally effective if I were to have him in, and give him the note as it is?"
"As you please, my dear madam. I of course cannot presume to have any direct voice in the matter."
"But do you not think that it would be equally effective?"
"Perhaps it might. Oh! yes. We shall be able to see the changes of his countenance, and from those changes to draw inferences which may enable us to arrive pretty nearly at the truth. Oh! yes; I can see no objection whatever to his being called in."
Aunt Eleanor then rang the bell, and directed the servant to tell Sylvester, who was in the library, that she wished to speak with him for a moment.
"The name puzzles me," resumed the reverend gentleman. "I cannot imagine who Rosalie is! I have baptized all the young persons in the village, but I do not remember the name of Rosalie! Rosalie! Rosalie! Bless my life and soul, the name of Rosalie doesn't occur to me at all."
"My dear," said Aunt Eleanor, as Sylvester entered, "who is Rosalie?"
"I don't know, I'm sure, aunt, who Rosalie is. Rosalie, I presume is the name of a young lady, and a very pretty name she has got, but I do not remember to have met with any one named Rosalie. Who is she?"
"Nay, my dear, I wish to know from you who she is. I have not the pleasure of knowing the lady myself."
"Nor have I," returned Sylvester. But why do you ask me about her?"
"This note, my dear, I found in the arbour just now. It is your hand-writing, my love, is it not?"
"It looks very much like it. Rosalie! What is it all about?" he added, breaking the seal:—
'Beautiful Rosalie, 'Meet me to night.
'Do not fail, Rosalie! Sweet! do not fail!'
"Well," he continued, "this is extraordinary. The writing is exactly like mine. I never saw two hands so much alike. Look."
"It is, indeed, like yours, my dear," said Aunt Eleanor.
"Exactly," cried Sylvester, who felt much amazed. "I'll just copy it, and then you will see the resemblance more clearly.—Beautiful Sylvester," he added, copying the note. "No, no, 'Beautiful Sylvester' will not do at all."
"Beautiful Rosalie, "Meet me to night. "Do not fail, Rosalie! Sweet! do not fail!"
"There," he continued, having finished the transcript; "look at this, and then look at that."
"I cannot distinguish the slightest difference between them," said Aunt Eleanor.
"Nor can I," returned Sylvester. "See," he added, placing both the copy and the original before the reverend gentleman, who had been watching him with unexampled subtlety. "See, what an extraordinary resemblance there is."
"Resemblance!" echoed the reverend gentleman, who couldn't at all understand this coolness. "They are both alike! The B's are the same, and the R's are the same, and so are the M's, D's, and S's. I can see no difference at all. If I fold this as that has been folded, I'll defy any man alive to tell which is which."
"Try it," said Sylvester. "Fold it in precisely the same manner, and then let us have a look at them."
The reverend gentleman gazed at him for a moment with an expression of doubt mingled with amazement, but as Sylvester met his gaze firmly, he did fold the copy in precisely the same manner, and having done so, exclaimed, "There! Now which is which?"
"I can see that this is the one which I wrote," returned Sylvester, "because the ink is not quite dry, and, therefore, somewhat paler; but were it not for that, I should be utterly unable to tell which of the two had been written by me."
"Then you really did not write them both?"
"Write them both? Certainly not. Of that I know nothing."
"Then all I can say is, it's very remarkable."
"It is remarkable. But is it supposed that the note which I have copied was written by me?"
"Why it looked so much like your hand-writing, my dear," said Aunt Eleanor, mildly, "that we did think it must have been written by you."
"Then let me, my dear aunt, at once undeceive you. The resemblance which it bears to my hand is very striking; but I assure you—I feel that you will believe me—I assure you, upon my honour, that I know nothing whatever about it."
​"That is quite sufficient, my dear—quite sufficient, I am perfectly satisfied; but is it not strange?"
"It is, indeed, extraordinary."
"Some one must have practised your style of writing with zeal, to be enabled to give so close an imitation," observed the reverend gentleman, who was still extremely sceptical on the point.
"I certainly," said Sylvester, "never before saw two hands so much alike. But who sent this note?"
"I found it in the arbour," replied his aunt. "It was lying on the table."
"In the arbour! And do you not know who this Rosalie is?"
"I have not the least idea who she can be."
"Nor have I. I do not remember to have heard the name of Rosalie before."
"But the crest, my dear madam," said the reverend gentleman; "you have not mentioned the crest."
"The crest," said Sylvester, looking at it. "Why, it is our crest! I have one exactly like it," he added, producing a seal attached to his watch-chain, and placing it in the wax. "Why it fits to a nicety! How very, very odd. The impression would seem to have been made by this very seal! You had one aunt: you haven't lost it?"
"No, my love: I have it here: but mine is much smaller."
"Well! this surpasses all I ever heard of! This seal was given to me by my poor father the very day on which he died, and as I have not corresponded with any one since, I have never had occasion to use it. How, therefore, this impression of it could have been made, I am utterly unable to conceive, being certain that it has never been out of my possession."
When Sylvester alluded to his father, tears sprang into the eyes of Aunt Eleanor on the instant, and the reverend gentleman—who up to that moment had regarded the denial as a falsehood—felt that as no human being could be guilty of an act of wickedness so awful as that of deliberately associating a falsehood with the name of a parent so recently deceased, Sylvester—however strong the evidence against him might appear—must have spoken the truth. He therefore observed that in heaven, and on earth, and in the waters under the earth, there were mysteries which set all human understanding at defiance, and having made this remarkable observation, he put an end to the discussion, by saying distinctly, and that with great firmness and point, that all he could say on the subject was this, that the thing was excessively odd.
But although he permitted the subject to drop for the time being thus, he would not suffer the investigation of that subject to rest there. No; he felt himself bound, as a minister and as a man, to find out who Rosalie was, with the view of ascertaining beyond all doubt, whether Sylvester had spoken the truth or not. He, therefore, on leaving the cottage, started on this affectionate expedition, and as he proceeded, he carefully prepared a touching lecture to be delivered with appropriate solemnity to Sylvester in the event of its being proved—satisfactorily ​ Obadiah settles the question.
​proved—that his calm declaration having reference to his entire ignorance of Rosalie was false. But then, before this could be proved to the satisfaction of any one, and consequently before this touching lecture could be delivered, Rosalie had to be found. The reverend gentleman felt this deeply. He had not the slightest doubt that, if he found her, he should be able, by an appeal—which he had also prepared, and it was one of an exceedingly powerful nature—to induce her at once to make a full confession; but he could not find her!—no one in the village knew anything of her;—not one had ever heard of the name of Rosalie before. They all knew a multitude of Maries, and all admitted that. Rosalie was a much sweeter name—more melodious in sound, and in effect more distingue—the matrons of the village were especially delighted with it, and made up their minds with the most prompt unanimity to have the next girls they had christened Rosalie, and thus left no room for the reverend gentleman to doubt that the next generation would be studded with Rosalies; but this was not the point; his object was to discover one then; but as he found—after having travelled fairly through the village, making all the inquiries which the importance of the case demanded—that no Rosalie had ever existed there within the memory of the oldest inhabitant—she being a hundred and six years of age—he gave the thing up, and the consequence was, that both the appeal and the lecture were lost.
These inquiries, however, were not without effect, although they failed to accomplish the object proposed. The reverend gentleman had omitted of course to explain to them why he sought Rosalie with so much diligence; and this omission, very naturally, and therefore very generally, suggested the question, "What he can want with her?" That she had done something wrong was a conclusion which, on being duly drawn from the premises, appeared to be rational to all; but then, what was that something?—what could it be?—was it an act of indiscretion or something much worse? They of course couldn't tell: their conjectures were innumerable, but as they were at the same time very conflicting, no dependence was placed upon any one of them, until the news reached the ears of Mr. Obadiah Drant, who proceeded to settle the question at once.
"I'll tell you what it is," said he to Pokey; "I can see clear through all the rampant ramifications of this fructifying manœuvre. Look here. Old Teddy Rouse wants this girl. Very well. What does he want her for? that's the point at issue! He's got no wife: he never had a wife. Very well then, can't you see? I'll bet you any money you like, that it's one of Ted's ladies."
"But," said Pokey, raising his eyes from his board, and taking snuff, "if it is, don't you think he'd know exact where to find her?"
"Not a bit of it! French!—Rosalie!—French, my boy! It's been a French name ever since Peter the Great's time. She's come over to find him out—don't you understand? Housekeeper! artful!—Now don't you see? These are your moral men!—these are your saints!—these are the locusts that suck fifty million a year from the sweat of the poor man's brow!—there aint one of the cloth that don't ought to ​be smothered. I'd hang, draw, and quarter the lot. What do we want a mob of vampires like that for? I'd send 'em all on board a man-o'-war, if I'd my will, and give 'em a good welting four or five times a day, and let 'em see how they like that. And it'll come to this at last: mark my words if it don't. People's eyes begin to be a little matter open: they only want to open 'em just a leetle more, and bang comes a rattling revolution."
"Not a bit of it," said Pokey, who always felt indignant when Obadiah spoke of a revolution. "Revolutions is mighty fine things for to talk about, but we aint going to have 'em. Look at me, for instance. Me and my missis has got six-and-twenty pun ten in the savings'-bank—wouldn't I fight till I dropped before I'd lose that six-and-twenty pun ten, think you? And how many thousands of men is there in the very same perdicament?"
"Fight till you dropped, for six-and-twenty pun ten!" retorted Obadiah, sneeringly. "What's six-and-twenty pun ten?
"As much to me as six-and-twenty thousand pun ten is to any of your dukes, lords, and bishops."
"Why you aint got a mite of patriotic spirit in you!"
"I aint agoing to let any patriotic spirit do me out of my money."
"Do you out of your money! I'm ashamed of you, Pokey. A man of your intellects, too!"
"I don't care: intellects in this world aint of much use to a man without money."
"Then you think that such locusts as Teddy Rouse ought to be allowed to do just as they please."
"No, I don't."
"And you'd pay 'em elevenpence-halfpenny out of every blessed shilling you earn, that they might have their French Rosalies?"
"No, I wouldn't."
"You wouldn't! Why look at Teddy Rouse. He's a sample of the sack. He must have his Rosalie, and where will you go to find one that hasn't hisn? Look at the thing logically—not through the short-sighted spectacles which always bring in view your six-and-twenty pun ten, but logically—"
"It'll take a lot of logic to convince me that I should be a better man without that six-and-twenty pun ten than I am with it."
"Well, but listen. You don't at all like these locusts. Very good! You don't at all like the idea of a revolution. Good again!—But if it's impossible to get rid of 'em without a revolution, what do you say then?"
"Why, rather than stand and see my money scrambled for, send I may live, I'd fight till I dropped."
"Then you're a Tory. I know you're a Tory. You've no right to vote for the yellows at all."
"Haven't I no right to vote for the yellows! My father was a yellow, and he brought me up a yellow; and if ever you catch me changing my colour, expect to catch a fox asleep. If I had no money, I shouldn't care a button about a revolution: a revolution then wouldn't ​matter at all to me; but as I have money, and can't draw it without notice, blister me if ever I'll vote for revolution!"
"I'm disgusted with you, Pokey!" exclaimed Obadiah. "You ought to be on Bobby Peel's side of the house. It's such sentiments as these that have drawn a matter of eighteen hundred million a year from our vitals."
"I wouldn't draw nothing from nobody's vitals."
"Then why do you sanction such men as Teddy Rouse? Why, when you see him running after his girls, don't you set your face against him? Suppose you were the father of this girl—this Rosalie—would you like it?"
"I don't say I should!"
"Very well, then. I mean to say it's monstrous that we should pay fifty million a year to enable these men to run after their Rosalies, as old Teddy Rouse has been running after his. Don't tell me about the cloth! The cloth's rotten, and always was. Even before the Pope was welted at the battle of Bunker's Hill, they were both corrupt and clerical, and anything that's clerical must of course be rotten. Look at Russia, look at Prussia, look at China, look at Spain, look at France, look at Switzerland, look where you will, they're all alike, all corrupt, all rotten, all bad. I mean to say we must have a rattling revolution in order to keep society together: we must have a regular roaring rebellion, in order to keep us from anarchy and ruin. Are we to have a parcel of oligarchies, think you, squeezing the marrow out of our very bones eternally? Do you think that this can be eternally tolerated? No!—not a bit of it. No!—they must come down!—and, mark my words, when they do come down, they'll come down with a run. All your six-and-twenty-pun-ten men in the universe won't save 'em: come down they must and will!—Mark my words. You may try to keep such men as Teddy Rouse on—you may encourage 'em in running about after their Rosalies—"
"I don't encourage 'em in nothing of the sort!"
"Then why don't you stand up against 'em like a man? Shall we wink at such practices as these, when they come directly under our very noses?
"But I don't know nothing about practices. Look here!—this Rosalie!—what do I know about her?—how do I know that there's anything wrong?—who is she?—what's her business?—where does she come from?
"Didn't I tell you, France? She's one of the French dancers, no doubt. And as for not knowing whether there's anything wrong! Look here! Suppose you were to run about the village inquiring for Rosalie or Rosamond, or any other girl, what would Mrs. Pokey say?"
"Why, I don't suppose she'd like it."
"Very well, then. Doesn't that make the case clear? But I'll find this Rosalie out!—I'll run her down!—I'll pretty soon know who she is! Master Ted shan't be let off so easy as he has been. I'll stick to him—I'll show him up!—But ta-ta! can't stop.—Mind you take care of your six-and-twenty pun ten!"
​"I means it," said Pokey.
"But, mark my words, my boy, it aint your six-and-twenty pun ten that'll save this mighty country from a rattling revolution!"
Having in a strictly confidential tone given emphatic utterance to this singular sentiment, Obadiah gaily left his monied friend, and proceeded to congratulate himself on the extraordinary eloquence he had displayed.
Meanwhile Aunt Eleanor's mind was distressed. To her the note addressed to Rosalie had been the source of much pain: not because she imagined for one moment that the declaration of Sylvester was false!—she felt on the contrary convinced that it was true—but because she was deeply apprehensive that the note had some mysterious connexion with her brother. She knew not why such an apprehension should be inspired: with the exception of the fact of the seal having been his, there was not the slightest link of connexion between them; still the previously conceived possibility of her dear brother's spirit having been perturbed, had created this feeling of apprehension of which her mind could not be divested.
This, however, was not allowed to alter her plans having reference to her journey to London on the morrow. Upon this she had decided: all her arrangements had been made, and when the reverend gentleman—who spent the evening with them, and endeavoured to cheer them by a facetious description of that which he held to be the salubrious qualities of London smoke—had taken his leave, she and Sylvester calmly retired to rest.
During that night no voices were heard. The cottage itself seemed fast asleep, and the turnip-tops nodded and nodded until they developed the strong diagnosis of dreaming: the shrubbery was hushed, and the carrots were still, and while the caterpillars ceased to work their interesting eyelet-holes, not only in the cabbage sprouts, but in the silent leaves of the savoys; the stony-hearted urns, which stood like sentinels at the gate, issued no sort of sound, which was very remarkable—very!—and as these things don't occur every night in the week they ought to be nicely described.
This general tranquillity throughout the night was appreciated, and when cook in the morning came down and saw everything around her precisely as she had left it, she began to congratulate herself on the prospect of a total cessation of that state of things by which she and the rest had been so long annoyed.
On proceeding, however, to light the kitchen fire, she found that the chimney wouldn't draw. This at first she ascribed to a change of the wind. The wood burned well, and there was plenty of it; but the smoke curled into the kitchen in volumes! She opened the door that the draught might be stronger, but the smoke became every moment more dense. She looked at the vane: the wind was south-west: the place had never smoked before when the wind was south-west!—nor did she believe that the chimney was foul.
"Hallo!" shouted Judkins, as the waves of smoke rolled into his chamber, "What are you at? Do you want to choke a fellow? What are you up to? Cook!"
​ The tail of the Tub.
​"Come down!" cried cook, who kept outside the door.
"What's the matter?" demanded Judkins on opening the window. "Is the house on fire?"
"No! but the chimney's smoking awful! Come down."
Judkins left the window, and descended the stairs; but the moment he opened the door which led immediately into the kitchen, he was met by a dense mass of smoke which almost caused him to fall backwards. His presence of mind only saved him. Suffocated as he felt—oppressed as he was—he rushed through the kitchen with all the energy at his command, and on reaching the garden, began to cough with unprecedented power and zeal.
"What—Ho, o-ho, o-ho!" he cried, "What devils—ho, o—trick is this?"
"Come and put a stop to it!" said cook, with great severity. "Don't stand rolling about and barking there like a born fool!"
Judkins would have said that she was a nice woman, but couldn't. He kept on coughing like a frightfully-asthmatic individual, and continued to cough as if he had been thus afflicted, despite the hot remonstrances of cook, who did really indulge on this occasion in many unladylike expressions of disgust.
In the meantime the density of the smoke so much increased that it drove cook fiercely from the door; and when Judkins with coughing felt utterly exhausted, he managed to turn a tub upside down, with the view of taking a seat, but in his agony he came down upon it such a lump that he broke in the bottom, and there he stuck.
Cook was now ferocious. Her rage knew no bounds. She shook her fists fiercely, and threatened to claw the eyes out of the precious head of Judkins, who had not the slightest power to extricate himself, and whose spirit of independence was too noble, too pure, to allow him to solicit her assistance.
"What do you mean?" she exclaimed, when the scum of her rage had boiled over. "What is it you mean? This is not a trick of yours—Oh! no: it isn't your trick!"
My trick!" said Judkins, as well as he could. "Woman! you're a lunatic. I've told you so before."
"Don't provoke me!" she exclaimed, as her passion increased; "you'd better not provoke me!"
And Judkins too thought that this would not be advisable, seeing that she had all the power then in her own hands; and being thus fixed, he felt that, if she were to attack him, however fiercely, he couldn't help it; he couldn't defend himself; he couldn't get away.
"Call me a lunatic again, at your peril!" she continued, coming conveniently near to the tub. "Dare to call me a lunatic again, and I'll make you remember it the longest day you have to live. Now call me a lunatic again, if you dare!"
Judkins did not dare to do anything of the sort. He had to use his own discretion, and that discretion prompted silence; but just as he had recovered sufficient strength to make an effort to relieve himself, Mary—who, finding that she could not enter the kitchen, had opened the front door and come round the cottage—appeared, when Judkins, who was ​very glad to see her, said, "Polly, my girl, help me out of this pickle."
"Don't touch him," cried cook.
"I'm sure, I shall!" returned Mary, "Why shouldn't I?"
"He has been the cause of all!" replied cook.
"Don't you mind her," said Judkins. "There, put your foot against the tub and take hold of my hands!"
Mary did so, and pulled him fairly up, and the tub rose with him; but he soon discarded that, and when he found himself free, he went boldly up to cook and asked her what she really meant.
"What do I mean," replied cook, who was, under present circumstances, somewhat more cautious; "why, this is what I mean—I mean to say that you or somebody else has been stuffing up my chimney."
"Stuffing up your chimney!" retorted Judkins. "Why you aint fit to live on a civilized scale. You took advantage of my position in society just now; but I tell you again and again you're a lunatic, and don't ought to breathe the same air as a Christian. Stop up your chimney! Why don't you go then and onstop it?"
"Cause, I don't want to be choked," replied cook.
"Choked!" echoed Judkins; "if you was choked, it would in my mind be a blessing." And he tried to rub his blade bones, but couldn't get near them, which was lamentable, seeing that they were painful in the extreme, for as they couldn't yield to the edge of the tub, and as the edge of the tub wouldn't yield an inch to them, the pressure had really been very severe.
"Well," said Mary, "what's to be done? Missis won't be long now afore she's up, and if she comes down and finds no breakfast ready for her, she won't be best pleased."
"Pleased! no more she don't ought," returned cook. "The very morning too she's going up to London. Do you think that I'd have such people about me? You'd better go round and light a fire in the parlour, and bile the kettle there. There's no chance of it's ever being biled in the kitchen. Did you ever see," she added, pointing fiercely to the smoke which still continued to rush in volumes into the garden.
"I shall have a pretty job after this. Every individual thing in the place will be smothered. But go, Mary, go and light a fire in the parlour."
And Mary for that purpose did go; and while cook was earnestly contemplating the smoke which, as the flames had expired, grew less and less dense, the unhappy man Judkins was silently invoking that spirit of ingenuity which he felt he had in him, with the view of replacing the bottom of the tub.
Scarcely, however, had he arrived at the conclusion that, if he could get it into the groove again it would hold, when Mary came rushing round the cottage, exclaiming, "It's just the same! they're all alike! the parlour's chock full of one solid mask of smoke."
"What," cried cook, glancing at Judkins significantly, "has he stuffed up the parlour chimney too?"
​"I wish your mouth was stuffed up," observed Judkins, with asperity, "that would be a comfort to all mankind. The devil's in the chimnies, that's my belief," he added; and just as he had finished this remarkable sentence, their mistress's bell rung violently.
"There!" cried cook, "now we shall just see who's right and who's wrong. Come along, Mary; we'll both go up to missis together."
"And if you say any thing about me," said Judkins, "I'll let you know the difference."
"I shan't mince the matter a mite," retorted cook.
"No, I know you won't," said Judkins. "If ever there was a imp, she's one," he added, as cook and Mary went round to answer the bell. But before they reached the chamber, their mistress met them, for as the parlour chimney communicated with the one in her room, the smoke which issued from it had driven her out.
"What on earth is the matter?" she demanded. "Where does all this smoke come from?"
"The chimney," said cook.
"Is the chimney on fire?"
"No; it's stuffed up with something, ma'am."
"Send for the sweep instantly! Don't lose a moment. Tell Judkins to make the utmost haste. Good gracious me," she continued, knocking at Sylvester's door, as Mary ran down stairs to send Judkins off for the village sweep, "Sylvester, my love!" she added, knocking still louder.
"Great heavens!—Sylvester!—Sylvester!—come to the door."
"Is that you, aunt?" he cried; and on hearing his voice, she clasped her hands, and fervently thanked heaven that he was safe.
"What is the matter?" he inquired on opening the door.
His aunt fell upon his neck, and could not for a moment answer.
"What is it?—what has happened?" again he demanded.
"Nothing, my love," she replied, "nothing of importance. I feared that you had been overpowered by the smoke."
"What, is there a fire?"
"No, no, no—no, my love—no! The chimney's out of order—yes—the chimney's out of order—nothing more."
"Then why do you tremble so?"
"Do I tremble now? I thought the smoke might have reached your room."
"No, I've had no smoke here. I smell it now strongly. But come, come! Dear aunt, you will cause me to think that something more has occurred."
"No, no—nothing more—nothing more—believe me.
"Then compose yourself: come!—the smoke will very soon evaporate. I'll just slip my things on: I'll not be a moment."
Aunt Eleanor then descended with Mary, and on going into the parlour, in which no attempt to light a fire had been made, she examined the chimney, and being unable to see anything in it, at once directed that to be tried.
And it was tried, and, lo! the result was the same: they were compelled to leave the room to escape suffocation.
​"How very extraordinary," exclaimed Aunt Eleanor. "It cannot be the wind."
She opened the front door; and as she did so, Judkins appeared with the sweep—a respectable and highly intelligent individual, who had been in practice more than half a century.
"I am glad that you are come," said Aunt Eleanor; "our chimnies are sadly out of order."
"It theemth ath though they voth," observed Chokes, who was blessed with a lisp of incomparable sweetness. "And yet it ithn't vethy long thinth they voth done. Vith one ith the vortht mum?"
"They appear to be all alike."
"Then there mutht be thomethin wrong. But vith do you vont firtht."
"The kitchen perhaps had better be done first."
"Vethy good."
"But be as quick as possible, there's a good man."
To the kitchen Chokes accordingly proceeded with Judkins, and found it comparatively clear, and while he was examining the chimney, Aunt Eleanor went into Sylvester's room, the only room in the house which was then free from smoke.
"Vy there ithn't muth thut in thith thimbly," cried Chokes. "There theemth to be nothin amith vith thith."
"There must be something amiss with it," cried cook; "that's all nonsense."
Chokes would have begged of her to allow him to know his own business, but as he had no desire to be discourteous, he merely looked as if he meant it.
"I thay," said he, "there ithn't thut enough in thith thimbley to make it thmoke. But I like to go about thingth thilent and phillethophical. How did the thmoke come down? all of a heap?"
"It come down in one mask," replied cook.
"I thee," said Chokes, with intelligence beaming in his eye. "Vethy good, then there muth in that cathe be thomethin amith with the pot."
He then walked with all his characteristic coolness into the garden, and having stationed himself tranquilly, perceived that every pot had been covered with a sack.
"There it ith," said he, waving his hand gracefully; "thatth the thtate of thingth."
"Why blarm their carcasses!" cried Judkins. "What'll they be up to next, I wonder! Now, who could have done this?"
"Who!" echoed cook, with a significant glance at Judkins. "You ask who! I could guess!" she added, emphatically. "Oh! I could guess!"
"Why you don't mean to guess that I did it, do you?"
"Them sacks there couldn't have been put upon them pots without hands!"
"Thatth vethy clear," said Chokes.
"Clear!—it is clear!—and missis shall know of it this moment!"
"Go away, woman," said Judkins, severely, as cook rushed in to tell ​her mistress all about it. "She's a imp, that woman is—a out-and-out imp."
"Vot I'm thinkin of," said Chokes, having surveyed the cottage calmly, "ith thith: how did they get up to them there poth? Have you a ladder about the premitheth?"
"A small un: it'll reach up as high as my window there."
"Thatth of no uthe."
"Couldn't they get up that gutter?" said Judkins, alluding to a wooden pipe which reached from the roof to the water butt.
"Vy," replied Chokes, "if they didn't, I don't thee how they got up at all! But there ithn't more than room enough there for a cat! A man would break his blethed neck if he attempted to valk up there. I'd back my boy againtht the univerth for climbing, but he couldn't get up there!—a reg'lar rope-danther couldn't do it."
"Well, it's quite clear they got up somehow."
"Yeth, thatth vethy clear."
"And as missis is going to London to-day, the sooner we get them there sacks off the better."
"Vethy good. Ve mutht have a long ladder to do it. Whoth got one?"
"I don't know exactly: let's go and inquire."
They accordingly started, and while they were absent, cook was endeavouring to impress upon her mistress the probability of Judkins being in this case the delinquent. But her mistress would not for a moment hear of even its possibility. "I do not," she said, at length, "believe a word of it, cook: nor have you any reason to believe it. I know that you and Judkins are not friends, and if I find on my return that you are not more friendly, you must be separated. Judkins I believe to be a most faithful servant, and I would not part with him on any slight grounds."
Cook wept at the prospect which opened before her. She was deeply attached to her mistress—it may be said that she loved her—and would not on any account have left her voluntarily—except indeed to be married. This address therefore made a deep impression on her mind, and caused her to reflect upon the expediency of reforming that infirmity of temper of which every one complained.
Judkins and Chokes now returned with a ladder—the only one in the village that could reach the roof, and one which had been locked up for months and when they had succeeded in raising it, Chokes ascended with admirable presence of mind, and having philosophically taken off the sacks, the fires when lighted burned freely again.
"Mr. Chokes," said cook, when all this had been accomplished, "you'll have a glass of ale?"
"If you pleathe," replied Chokes.
"You'll have a glass, Judkins?"
Judkins was startled! He felt quite amazed! The idea of her asking him to have a glass of ale, after what had occurred, so upset his faculties for the moment, that he seemed to have been deprived of the power of speech! She waited not, however, for his answer: she went ​at once and drew the ale, and absolutely placed two glasses before them!
This was touching. Judkins couldn't stand it. He looked at her for a moment, as if to be sure that he had made no mistake in the person, and then said "Give us your hand, old girl. I don't think at all times you mean what you say, but don't let's have these here kicks up. Let's be comfortable together. Why shouldn't we be? We've got a good missis, and if we aint happy it's all our own fault. There, give us your hand, and let's have no more quarrelling."
Cook gave her hand freely, and then left the kitchen; and when the faculties of Judkins were sufficiently restored, he proceeded to explain to Chokes precisely how the smoke had attacked him.
"Jutht tho," observed Chokes, when all had been described; "vethy true! But lithen! I've been in thith profethion now more than fifty yearth, and I flatter mythelf I know thomethin about it. Now, ven you found the thmoke tho thick in the kitchen, inthead of dathin through it ath you did, and thuth takin away all your blethed breath, you thould have dropped down inthantly upon your handth and kneeth, and then you vouldn't have had any thmoke at all. I'll tell you vy: Thmoke hath got ath muth natur about it ath we have, and knowth ath vell vot itth about. Itth the natur of thmoke to go up the thimbley, and up the thimbley ven it can it vill go, and not give no trouble to nobody; but if tho be it can't go up the thimbley, then it vill go vere it can, but alvayth up if it can. Now, thmoke vanth freth air. It'll alvayth go into freth air if it can. Vethy good. But if it can't it'll thill go up nevertheleth. Now lithen. If a room ith vethy hot, itth muth hotter at top than at bottom—that ith to thay, itth hotter near the theelin than it ith near the floor. If a room hath been heated by gath, you'll find, if you hang up your glath near the theelin, and then let it thtand for a time on the ground, it'll vathy from fifteen to twenty degreeth! Vethy good. And egthactly the same ith it vith the philothophy of thmoke, ven a room ith full of it. Near the theelin you can't breathe; it would thuffocate the devil: but near the floor you'll find freth air, upon vitch the thmoke theemth to thwim."
"There's a good deal in what you say, no doubt," said Judkins, "but if the smoke will if it can have fresh air, why don't it go down where the fresh air is?"
"Tho it would, if there voth enough of it! But it beginth at the top: it vill, as I thaid, keep up if it can, and itth vethy theldom found that a room ith tho full that thereth no fresh air at all below. The freth air trieth to forth the thmoke out!—if it can, it vill: if it can't, it can't. Nevertheleth, alvath ven a room ith full of thmoke—you know vot I mean by thaying full?—I don't, you know, mean philothophically full—alwayth crawl handth and kneeth upon the floor."
"Well, I dare say you're right about that," said Judkins; "and if you are it's a thing worth knowing."
"I know that I'm right," returned Chokes; "I know by ecthperienth, and ecthperienth teatheth vunderth. I've thaved in my time many a baby in that vay. In the cathe of a houthe on fire, ven I've found a ​room tho full of thmoke that nobody would go near it, while the mother voth a thriekin about her babyth that voth in that room, I've crawled philothophically in on my handth and kneeth, and having pulled 'em out of bed, brought 'em to her unhurt! Many a time I've done thith, and ven the mother hath blethed me and thrieked for joy, I've felt ath a man ought to feel!—tho I know what it ith!"
Judkins was interested. He felt that he had a very great respect for this man: he moreover felt that Nature's God inspired even the bosom of a sweep!
Chokes, however, although a philosopher, was yet a man of business, and as he had an engagement that morning to cure a couple of chimnies in the vicinity, he rose, when he had finished his ale, to take leave, and as he did so, Judkins grasped him cordially by the hand, in the perfect conviction that he was a man!
By this time every thing necessary had been prepared, and Sylvester sat down to breakfast with his aunt, who—although feeling of course that these things were extremely tiresome—was comparatively happy, for the very absurd nature of the last annoyance had had the effect of again removing that fearful impression which the idea of these mysterious occurrences having some remote connexion with her brother's spirit had created.
But Sylvester—if the term may be applied to any feeling either inspired or developed by one so tranquil—was deeply indignant. He felt that his aunt ought at once to offer a reward for the apprehension of these people, and declared, upon his honour, that if he were a magistrate, he would, in the event of their being apprehended, punish them severely. He was unconscious of the spirit having appeared to the reverend gentleman and Jones—that had been studiously concealed from him by his aunt, lest the knowledge of the fact might alarm him—and as he viewed all the ghost stories of the village, not indeed as idle tales, but as tales induced by the tricks of the same idle persons as those by whom his aunt had been annoyed; he did think that the career of these persons should be checked, and that they should at once be punished with the utmost rigour of the law.
The time fixed for their departure now arrived, and their reverend friend, who had kindly offered to drive them to the coach, appeared in his phaeton at the gate. The trunks were then adjusted, and when Sylvester and his aunt had taken leave of the servants, they left the village with the blessings of all who saw them start. On the way, the reverend gentleman learned from Sylvester the substance of all that had happened that morning; but although he felt vexed, and would have given, at any other time, full expression to that feeling, he thought more—much more than he deemed it, under the circumstances, wise to declare. He was in fact almost silent on the subject, and endeavoured to direct their thoughts to the scenes which they would witness in London; and when they had met the coach at the point proposed, and he had handed them safely in, he gaily, yet affectionately, bade them adieu, and with many warm expressions of high consideration, they started.
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