# Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 5

CHAPTER V.
THE MYSTERY.
There is, perhaps, nothing connected with our nature more easily excited than suspicion. However much disposed we may be to confide in the honour and sincerity of those around us, we cannot extinguish that feeling of suspicion which appears to be inherent in our hearts. It may be latent—it may even for years be dormant; but it is to be aroused by a single word, and when it is aroused it frequently developes itself with so much malignity, that prudence, pride, love, honour, justice, and reason fall before it. Some imagine that as there is so much deception beneath the surface of society, suspicion is absolutely essential to security—and it certainly is not safe to be too confiding—but it really does seem most ungenerous to suspect in a world in which there is such an immense amount of superficial honesty. There is, however, something ​very pleasing in suspicion after all; for it involves the hope that that which we suspect will be realized. If even it be prejudicial to ourselves, what a comfort there is in an opportunity of paying a compliment to our own acuteness!—what self-satisfaction is derived from the exclamation, "I knew, of course, how it would be!—I suspected it all along!—and I have not been deceived!" We do not like to be deceived—nay, we cannot, in this respect, hear to be deceived!
It is questionable—aye, very questionable—whether any one is, or ever was, entirely free from the feeling of suspicion; but then it is not to be said that all who possess that feeling are suspicious! No: Aunt Eleanor was not, in the common acceptation of the term, suspicious. She wished to believe that all around her were honest, just, virtuous, and pure: she had as much faith in their integrity as any one could have, but as she could not in any way account for that which had occurred, she felt convinced that there must be something wrong, and that conviction haunted her throughout the night.
In the morning, however, being anxious, as usual, to act with the utmost discretion, she resolved on not recurring to the subject, before the servants, until she had consulted her reverend friend, and, in pursuance of this resolution, she wrote a note to that gentleman, requesting the favour of a call, but, before she had dispatched that note, he came, ostensibly with the view of reminding her, that that was the very day on which the village would have a certain periodical visit.
Now in this visit, much mystery was involved, and as it forms a subject, which must of necessity, be reverted to anon, it will be perhaps as well to explain now, that a gentleman, named Howard, his daughter Henriette, and a lady, whose assumed name was Greville, had for some years honoured the village with their presence, for one hour on the first of April, and the first of October, for a purpose which no one connected with that village had ever been able to learn. It may also be stated, that Henriette was an elegant girl, gentle, amiable, and accomplished. She had been educated with the utmost care, under the surveillance of her father, whose every earthly hope seemed fixed upon her: she was the pride of his heart—his idol; most fondly—most dearly did he love her; but often, while gazing upon her in silence, would he burst into tears. Henriette constantly marvelled at this. To her it was indeed mysterious. She could not ascertain—nay, she could not even conceive, the cause. True, he was almost invariably sad: he was seldom, indeed, seen to smile; and when he did smile, his features in an instant assumed an expression of sadness again: but why he should be unable to look at her intently without shedding tears, she was utterly at a loss to imagine. That there was something heavy at his heart was abundantly clear; but she sought to know the cause of his sorrow in vain. They moreover lived in the most perfect seclusion. They saw no society. She never went out in the morning without him; while he invariably passed his evenings with her at home. She was all the world to him: he appeared to live only for her; and, as she had no companion, ​save him and her governess, whose lips on the subject had been effectually sealed, she continued to live enveloped in a mystery, without even the prospect of its ever being solved. That, however, which appeared to her to be most strange, was the fact of her going, twice a-year, with her father, to meet this lady, whom she never on any other occasion saw; and with whom she was permitted to remain but one hour. This did appear to her to be strange, indeed. She had been instructed by her father to address her as Mrs. Greville; but he himself never saw her. Henriette invariably entered the room alone, and the moment she entered, Mrs. Greville would eagerly receive her in her arms, and while indulging in a passionate flood of tears, would kiss her, and bless her, and press her to her heart with the most intense affection. In person, Mrs. Greville was above the middle height: her features were regular and handsome, and, while her manners were extremely elegant, her figure was commanding; but she always appeared to be overwhelmed with grief, although the presence of Henrietta seemed to inspire her with the most ecstatic joy. Often would Henrietta enquire anxiously why she did not visit them—why they met there—why at those particular times, and so on; but Mrs. Greville, while the tears were gushing forth, would only answer that she was forbidden to explain—that she was indeed happy, most happy, to see her—that she loved her—dearly, passionnately loved her—and that it was for her own happiness that she knew no more.
But even this was unknown in the village. It was not known even to the landlady of the inn!—which was wisely ordered—wisely, because, had it been known to her, of course her curiosity would have been seriously diminished, and without curiosity how could such ladies live and thrive?
Perhaps, however, Aunt Eleanor took more interest in the matter than any other person in the village. She knew not exactly why she should feel so much interest in an affair of this nature, but she, nevertheless did; and hence, on being reminded that that was the day on which the parties in question met, she thought less of the mystery of the preceding night. She did, however, eventually allude to it, and that too, in a most feeling strain, and the result was, that her reverend friend shook his head, and advised her to wait patiently, and to watch with diligence, albeit, he knew no more what she was to watch for, than she knew what to suspect, or what design it was against which she ought to guard.
In the mean time, the village was in a state of commotion. The apparition, of course, had been variously described; and the gossips had so ingeniously improved upon each description, that it soon became a monster—twelve feet high. In the height of a ghost, a few feet, more or less, is a matter of very slight importance; but when, to its height they had added their conceptions of its breadth, depth, and general deportment, the picture was truly appalling.
The gentlemen who had absolutely seen it, of course, met early at the Crumpet and Crown. There was but one absent, and that was Mr. ​Pokey, before the door of whose residence, chaff had been laid. It was the custom at that period, and in that part of the country, to strew chaff before the door of every gentleman who physically corrected his wife—chaff being held to be indicative of a threshing—but, in this particular instance, it was strewn in consequence of the lady having corrected her husband, Mrs. Pokey being extremely indignant at the fact of Mr. Pokey having kept out so horribly late. The story of the ghost failed to tranquillise her spirit. She wouldn't believe it!—which was very wrong, because Pokey declared that it was true, upon his honour—she knew better!—she wouldn't have it!—hence she thrashed him, and hence she would not in the morning suffer him to stir from his board, for Mr. Pokey was a tailor of great celebrity in the village, and, withal, a perfect master of his needle.
But the absence of Mr. Pokey, although under the circumstances deeply regretted, was not allowed to operate as a check upon the vivid imagination of his friends. They entered into the matter with infinite spirit, and made the most that could be made of every important point.
But the cause of this mysterious appearance!—not one could divine the cause. That a murder had been committed by some one, was, by the majority, held to be clear; but who was the murderer—who was the most likely man in the village to commit such a crime? Who looked most like a murderer? They really couldn't say. They remembered that about five-and-twenty years before, a gentleman, who resided opposite, mysteriously disappeared with the amount of a whole quarter's poor's-rate. He might have been murdered. Who could tell? It was possible! It was moreover held to be possible by all, save one, and that one was Obadiah Drant, who expressed his conviction that that which they had seen, was the spirit of a miser, who had then been dead about fifteen years, and in whose house only sixty guineas had been found, when every one supposed him to be worth as many thousands. He had not the slightest doubt of its being the spirit of that miser, which couldn't rest, because it didn't like the idea of leaving so much money undiscovered behind it. But this opinion was not subscribed to by the rest. Indeed there was only one point upon which all were agreed, and that point was, that the spirit might, perchance, reappear that night. This every man present believed to be highly probable, and the consequence was, that they unanimously resolved to re-assemble at night with the view of watching its manœuvres.
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