Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 18
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE MAN-TRAP.
That night, Ninety-nine kept a sharp look-out: his look-out, in fact, was remarkably sharp: he never looked out more sharply. He crept into door-ways, peeped round corners, and ran behind cabs, that he might not be seen. He was very wide awake—nay enthusiastic! Didn't he wish for about half a chance!—didn't he pray for Tom's appearance upon the parapet! He had, it is true, been paid for the blow he received from Tom on the preceding night; but he panted for revenge! Revenge was his object: the attainment of which would have made him happy. Oh! if he could but have caught him!--but he couldn't: he couldn't see him: he couldn't see any one there. Still, he inspired a most lively hope—the hope of catching him some blessed night in a state of intoxication. Wouldn't he serve him out then—wouldn't he stick his knuckles into his throat—wouldn't he knock him about with his truncheon—wouldn't he drag him to the station like a dog! Perhaps he wouldn't—which, being interpreted, means that there was nothing apocryphal about it. That night, however, he was doomed to disappointment. The object of his hot and inextinguishable hate would not even appear at the window—he, therefore, concluded that he was afraid, and said so, with an air of triumph. The morning came. Tom had slept soundly. He had not been disturbed: he had heard no noise. He, therefore, on waking, feared that he should not have the power that day of taking his honour out of the gaol of suspicion, knowing well that his mother would not accept bail. He, however, thought it right to go up and have a look, and having slipped on his things, he did go up, and beheld with amazement his man—his own man—his own skeleton—in the trap, leaning deliberately upon the sill of the open window with a book in its hand, a German pipe in its mouth, and an empty stout bottle and glass by its side.
Tom looked—of course he looked!—but he looked with an expression of mingled marvel and mirth. He couldn't tell at all what to make of it.
"I say, old fellow," he at length exclaimed, "what are you up to there?"
The skeleton answered him not.
"You seeb," said Tom, "to be doidg it rather browd!"
The skeleton made no reply.
"Have you hurt your leg at all, old fellow?"
The skeleton maintained a most contemptuous silence.
"Well," said Tom, "if ever there was a rub go this is wud!" and, approaching the skeleton, he burst into a loud roar of laughter.
"Syl must see this," said he, as soon as the first burst had subsided; and rushing down, he dashed into Sylvester's room, and, on finding him asleep, shook him violently.
"What's the matter? What's the matter?" cried Sylvester.
"Here's a go, by boy!—cobe alodg."
"Have you caught him?"
"Yes, he's id the trap!—cobe alodg."
Sylvester instantly drew on his trousers and followed Tom, who continued to roar.
"There you are!" said Tom, as Sylvester entered the study. "There he is! That's the swell!—fast as a four-year-old! That's a go, isd't it? What do you think of that?"
Sylvester knew not exactly what to think of it! He thought it very odd. He examined the skeleton from head to foot. Its leg was fixed in the trap fast enough—but how did it get there? That was the only problem to be solved.
"It's very strange," said he. "I can't understand it!"
"Udderstadd it!" cried Tom, "who cad? Surely this was dot the swell that was cuttidg his capers od the parapet! Yet it scebs as if he'd beed about to repeat the sabe gabe, got caught, add thed ibagided that he bight as well edjoy hibself id this way as dot! As to his sbokidg: that's hubbug. He hasd't the bellows to do it."
"Nor could he hold much stout," said Sylvester, "and yet the bottle's empty."
"There's sobe trick here," said Tom, "safe to be a trick. But dod't touch hib—let hib be as he is. The goverdor shall see hib: perhaps he'll be able to bake sobethidg out of it. Let's go add dress: by that tibe he'll be dowd. Dow," he added, addressing the skeleton, "if you have ady bore of your dodsedce—if you bove to your old quarters, before we cobe back agaid—I'll burder you."
They then left the room, and having locked the door securely, proceeded to dress; and when that job had been simultaneously achieved, they went down stairs together, and found in the breakfast-parlour Mrs. Delolme, Aunt Eleanor, and the doctor.
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The Skeleton secured.
"Odly just cobe up," said Tom, addressing the doctor, "odly cobe. Such a gabe."
"What is amiss?" inquired Mrs. Delolme.
"Odly cobe idto by study. I've caught hib."
"You have?" cried the doctor.
"Just cobe add look."
The doctor followed him and Sylvester on the instant, and Mrs. Delolme took the arm of Aunt Eleanor and hastily followed the doctor.
Having reached the room door, Tom unlocked it at once, and having thrown the door open, exclaimed, "There dow, what do you thidk of that?"
The doctor looked at the skeleton and smiled.
"What is all this?" said he; "what is the meaning of it, Tom?"
"The beadidg," replied Tom, "is this. Beidg adxious to catch that idsade swell who was cuttidg about the other dight od the parapet, I bought this bachide, add havidg set it last dight, this is all I, at presedt, have got for by buddy."
"Oh! Thomas—Thomas!" cried Mrs. Delolme, raising her hands in a state of mind bordering on despair.
"What's the batter?" said Tom.
"Oh!" replied Mrs. Delolme, with a sigh. "Oh! Thomas—Thomas."
"Why, what do you bead?"
"That ever I should have such a son!"
"Very good," said Tom; "but what is it you bead?"
"Do you mean to say," replied Mrs. Delolme, "Thomas! Do you mean to say that you did not yourself place that figure there, in order that we might believe that it caused that unhallowed disturbance the night before last?"
"Well," exclaimed Tom, "that beats all. I'd better go to bed add sleep, add keep there. I'b victibised every way. What! Do you bead to say that you believe that I could bake byself such a codsubbate dodkey as to cobe up here id the biddle of the dight to place by bad id such a positiod as that, to idspire the belief that it was he who was cuttidg about od the parapet?"
Of all people on earth religious enthusiasts are at once the most credulous and the most sceptical: they readily believe everything ascribable to human nature that is vile, and as readily disbelieve everything connected with human nature that is good. Mrs. Delolme, therefore, did believe that Tom had placed the skeleton there with a view to deceive them, and when she had told him that she believed this, Tom said that he was done.
"I'll dot say adother word," he added; "dot adother syllable. If you'll believe that, there's dothidg bad you'll dot believe."
"Of course," said the doctor, "you found this skeleton in that position?"
"Of course I did," replied Tom. "Do you thidk that I should be such ad idiot as to throw away by buddy upod this bachide for the purpose of stickidg by bad id it thus? I call it hard to be suspected id this badder: very hard; it isd't the thidg—it's dothidg like the thidg; I wod't have it!"
"If, as you say," observed the doctor—"and I've not the slightest doubt you speak the truth, Tom—if, as you say, you found things as they are, there is something mysterious about it."
"I declare to you, upod by hodour," said Tom, "that thidgs were as they are whed I edtered the roob, add that frob the tibe Syl add I left it last dight, till I foudd the thidgs here as they are, I dever got out of by bed."
"Oh, I am quite satisfied, Tom," said the doctor, "as far at least as you are concerned; but it's strange—very strange! Just ring the bell."
The bell was rung and James appeared.
"James," said the doctor, "have you been in this room during the night?"
"Me, sir? No, sir.
"Now, speak the truth, Jib," said Tom, fiercely, "or I pitch you out of the widdow od suspiciod."
"Upon my word, sir, I haven't: I haven't as true as I'm alive."
"Very well," said the doctor; "that will do."
James then retired, and they looked at each other with varied expressions of doubt and dismay.
"It is," observed Sylvester, "of course, inconceivable that the skeleton could have got there by itself."
"As idcodceivable," said Tom, "as that he was the swell who was cuttidg about od the parapet."
"What is the meaning of this?" inquired Aunt Eleanor. "You speak of a person having been on the parapet. What do you mean."
"Since you know so much, dear," replied Mrs. Delolme, "I'll explain all to you by and bye."
"Well," said the doctor, "I can make nothing of it at present. Perhaps after breakfast some light may appear. Come," he added, "let us go down. Lock the door, Tom, and keep the key in your pocket."
Tom did so, and as they were going down stairs, he said privately to Sylvester, "Victibised agaid! Sure to have the luck of it! If there's ady luck stirridg, I'b just as safe to have it as St. Paul's Churchyard is to have the widd."
Now it strangely enough happened, that while they were at breakfast, the Rev. Mr. Rouse was at breakfast too, and it also happened that he had no sooner finished his first cup of coffee than Sylvester's letter arrived.
"London," said he, musingly looking at the post-mark; "from that kind creature of course! And yet," he added, turning to the superscription, "it is not her writing. Tut! bless my life; now whose hand can it be? I've seen it before!—I know the hand well!—well, now, that's very strange. The seal too—a boar's head—that is not her crest! But the writing!—that's the point! Now whose can it be?"
The reverend gentleman took up an egg—not conceiving that that would assist him; but he took up an egg and broke it, chiefly in order that his memory might have some refreshment. But no: that memory of his failed him: he could not remember whose writing it was, nor could he conjecture; but as it occurred to him, at length, that if he were so break the seal he might in an instant ascertain, he opened the letter, and when he saw from whom it came, he at once recollected the hand.
But of all the extraordinary expressions into which a man's countenance ever yet was tortured, his were the most extraordinary, and at the same time perhaps the most rapidly varied, when he saw what that letter contained.
Having read the first sentence—which opened the whole case—he turned to the fire and violently poked it. He then read the next, and, albeit the word "stout" provoked something like a smile, while the expression of the highest confidence in his judgment was, as far as it went, agreeable, the strongest feelings he experienced—the feelings which prevailed—the feelings which were in the ascendant throughout—were those of wonder and vexation. He knew not why he should be vexed. It was amazing, certainly—at least, to him it appeared amazing—that she should have entertained the thought of entering into the marriage state: but then why should the circumstance vex him? He really couldn't tell. He didn't know. And yet one of the strongest feelings with which it had inspired him was that of vexation.
"Tut! bless my life!" he exclaimed; "who would have thought it? Tcha!—well!—married. Bless my heart alive. Tche!—What a singular thing! Married! God bless me. Tcha!—I must be off, sir!—be off! Tchu! the strangest thing I ever heard of. Tche!—I never was more surprised. Well, that does astonish me. Tcha!—Bless my soul. Well, so it is! There's no time to be lost!"
Having delivered himself fitfully thus, the reverend gentleman rang the bell, and when he had hastily directed the servant to fill his carpetbag with shirts, stockings, shoes, cravats, shaving machinery, and so on, he wrote a note to a reverend friend in the vicinity, requesting him to officiate during his absence.
Again he rang the bell.
"Tell Jones," said he, when the servant appeared, "to put the horse in. I'm going to town. Tell him to be quick, or we shall miss the coach!"
He then went up to dress; and when all had been prepared, he dashed through the village at a more rapid rate than he had ever dashed through that village before.
"Hollo!" said Obadiah, as he and Pokey saw him pass. "What's Ted up to now? There's something in the wind. You saw his carpet-bag, didn't you? What's the odds he isn't going after his Rosalie? I'll bet you what you like, she's been down here, incog!—I'll bet you what you like, he has seen her, and finding that he couldn't carry his games on in a place like this without exciting observation, sent her to London, where he is off to now! Come, I'll bet you what you like of it—come!"
"He's off somewhere," said Pokey.
"Of course, he is! And isn't it disgusting? Isn't it enough to make one's hair stand on end? I see it all clearly. It fructifies in my mind readily enough. I see the manœuvre. Yet these are the men we bow and scrape to—these are the men we pamper and praise! But just look you here, if we haven't before long a rattler, my boy, I'll eat grass like a cow! Sure to have it—safe—it must come: and do you mark my words, let it come when it will, all of that kidney may look out for squalls. What, do you suppose that, because Johnny Bull is an ass now, he'll be an ass always? The idea is rotten. No; just look you here now, and do you mind this: no sooner are the people's eyes a little matters open—no sooner have they got out the dust that has blinded them ever since Peter the Great's time—than down comes a regular amalgamating battery, that'll stalk through the land, and sweep everything before it. There'll be no swindles—no petty-larceny plundering proud pick-pocketing pensioners—no placemen—no priestcraft—no poverty then: bribery and corruption will then be struck flat; and if ever they're suffered to rise again, it'll be the people's fault. We shall then see how such men as Teddy Rouse'll stand. They won't have 'em at no price-no more they don't ought. They'll be swept clean away—as old Boney once said, when he went out to welt the invaders—swept clean from the face of the earth, and sent after their French girls—their Rosalies—pretty dears! There, if I'd my will, I'd have a rope to reach from one steeple to another, and string 'em all up in a lump. I'd do it wholesale—I wouldn't mince the matter with them: I'd rid the earth of them at once, and then the mass of money which they swallow up would go into the pockets of the poor. As for Teddy Rouse—why, it's awful to see a man in his situation at this game. Here's a man running after French girls openly and in the face of day, and yet—look you here—we pay that man expressly to teach us morality. I mean to say it's monstrous. Isn't it, now, dreadful? When you come to look at it, isn't it disgusting?"
"It's all very well what you say," replied Pokey; "but you've been a preaching without any text!"
"Text!" exclaimed Obadiah. "Ted is my text—corruption's my text—immorality's my text—national swindling's my text—revolution's my text! Everything's my text, when I see men like Teddy Rouse going at this rate."
"At what rate?"
"At what rate? Why, running after Rosalies!"
"You don't know, in this case, that it is so."
"Not know! You're a Tory: I always thought you were a Tory—not know?"
"You only guess."
"I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll bet you what you like of it!"
"Bet me? You know I never bet."
"I'll bet you five shillings of it: now, there!"
"But how can you prove it?"
"Never you mind—I'll prove it!"
"But when?"
"Within eight-and-forty hours."
"Then blame my buttons," cried Pokey, "if I don't take you. Now then—there's my crown."
"No, I sha'n't put down the money: let it be till the bet's decided. Mind you, I'm to prove that Ted's now gone to London."
"You are to prove that he's now gone after some girl, and that that girl's name is Rosalie."
"Not a bit of it—there you quibble. No; the bet's off—I'll not bet with any man who quibbles."
"I don't at all quibble: but I didn't think you would make such a bet as that."
"Look you here," said Obadiah; "you'll turn up a Tory—now mark you that. I've long had my suspicions; but if you don't vote for the fructifying Tories, at the very next election, you'll wholly surprise me. I'm ashamed of you, Pokey, as true as I'm alive; and so I'll leave you to your reflections. Good day."
As Obadiah left, Pokey smiled; knowing well, that although he couldn't compete with him in talking, he had but to pin him to a point and he was done.
During the whole of that morning, Mrs. Delolme and Aunt Eleanor were conversing on the subject of supernatural appearances, which is at all times, and especially with the ladies, a prolific and highly interesting theme. The conversation sprang, of course, out of that morning's marvel; and although Mrs. Delolme had entertained the belief that Tom had himself placed the skeleton there, she felt herself eventually constrained to admit that it was possible—just possible—that the spirit which formerly inhabited that skeleton had caused it to walk to the window alone. She would, however, give no opinion on the point: that she reserved until she had consulted Mr. Terre. She was sure that he would be able to settle the question; and, as she felt that he was inspired—as she religiously believed that he had divine authority for every word he uttered—it was, in her judgment, altogether impossible that any opinion which he might express upon any subject could be wrong. She, therefore, calmly waited to consult her oracle. But the feelings of Aunt Eleanor were of a more distressing caste: the mystery affected her far more deeply. The idea of a spirit—if a spirit it really were—following her thus, and being visible only when she was near—inspired her with the most intense feelings of alarm. Her thoughts again reverted to her broken-hearted brother. The death-bed scene was again before her: she again heard his last declaration of innocence; and as her former apprehensions, that, to comfort her, he had uttered a falsehood with his dying breath, again came strong upon her, her affliction was poignant in the extreme. This, however, she thought it prudent to conceal from Mrs. Delolme. She had no confidence in her judgment. She could not speak to her as to an affectionate friend; she could not unbosom herself freely; she was not a friend to whom she could open her whole heart, knowing well that if she did, instead of deriving consolation, she should be rendered still more wretched. She was, therefore, on that point silent. She conversed, indeed, freely on the subject of supernatural appearances in general, but the immediate source of her own peculiar sorrows she did not disclose.
At the same time the doctor, Tom, and Sylvester were conversing on the same subject, but in a more philosophical strain, in the study. The idea of there being anything supernatural in the removal of the skeleton from the position in which it usually stood to the trap, they unanimously repudiated as being utterly absurd. They all felt that it had been removed by some one: on that point they had not the slightest doubt; the only question with them was, who had removed it? Various were their conjectures, and, as is customary in such cases, very conflicting; but those which appeared to them to be most probable, were at length reduced to two: one being, that it was a trick of one of the servants, and the other, that the thing had been done by the man whom the policeman saw the previous night on the parapet. The latter was suggested by Sylvester himself.
"For," said he, "although it is clear that had he jumped straight down from the window he would have been caught in the trap himself, it is also clear that, by going on one side, or even over the trap, he must necessarily have escaped it. I have no doubt that he did either one or the other, and that, subsequently finding the trap set for him, he placed the skeleton in it, and made it assume the position in which it was found."
"Well," said the doctor, "that certainly appears to be reasonable, as far as it goes; but what could be the man's object in coming here? That is the point which puzzles me."
"It might be idleness merely," said Sylvester; "or what, perhaps, he would call fun. He is clearly a fanciful fellow. The position in which he placed the figures before, and especially that in which this is now, tend to prove that if his object be not purely fun, he imagines he has some fun in him."
"If I catch hib," said Tom, "I'll show hib a little bore fud. He shall hibself look fuddy, before I've dode with hib."
"Well," said the doctor, "we have come to this point, and it appears to be the most reasonable at which we can arrive. We must endeavour now to prevent a recurrence of these tricks, and I think that we shall at once attain that object by having the window barred."
"Doe," said Tom, "dod't bar the widdow yet. I wadt to catch hib; add that I shall catch hib, I'll bet ted to wud."
"Well," said the doctor, smiling, "if you should happen to catch him, and you find that fun is his only object, you must, in the administration of your justice, be merciful."
"Oh! I'll be berciful," replied Tom. "Dothidg that he ever had id the shape of bercy shall surpass it. I'll give hib such ad out-add-out dose of bercy, that a bile off people shall hear hib proclaib how peculiarly berciful I ab."
The doctor smiled, and left the study, when Tom and Sylvester replaced the male skeleton in its former position, and busied themselves about the bones of the female, until they were summoned to dinner.
As usual, the dinner went off flatly: for although the doctor chatted—and that sometimes gaily too—no one else did; Mrs. Delolme would not; Aunt Eleanor could not; and while Tom dared not, Sylvester thought he ought not. When, therefore, the ladies had retired, not only Tom and Sylvester, but the doctor himself, felt much relieved, and, after a pleasurable and profitable discussion—profitable especially, in a professional point of view—Tom and Sylvester left to attend that evening's lecture.
"Well," said Sylvester, on leaving the house, "what am I to present to this poor girl? The thing had better be done at once. What is it to be?"
"Oh!" replied Tom, "bake her a presedt of adother ridg."
"She appears to have an abundance of them already."
"What id the jewellery lide has she dot ad abuddadce of?" returned Tom; "chaids, brooches, decklaces, earridgs—I cad't thidk of adythidg of the sort that she has dot got."
"Had she a bracelet on last night?"
"The very thidg! I rebebber dow she has doe bracelets."
"Then we had better go and buy a pair at once."
They went accordingly into the first jeweller's shop they came to, and having fixed upon a pair of a chaste and elegant pattern, they purchased them, and then went direct to the hospital.
Now, before they arrived—before they could have arrived there, a cab drew up to the door of Dr. Delolme, and when the driver had given his customary knock—a knock which quite frightened the occupant of the cab, who felt really very nervous on being announced in a style which he conceived to be so dreadfully distingue—James came to the door, and then went to the cab, and, having satisfactorily answered two questions, was presented with the card of the Reverend Edward Rouse. James opened the door for the reverend gentleman to alight, and he alighted; and drew out his purse. The fare was a shilling, but as he had been, by that knock, convinced that the driver conceived him to be some highly important personage, he gave him half a crown: which was very incorrect of the reverend gentleman, for, had that cabman known why the extra fare was given, he'd have subsequently split, if he hadn't smashed in, every door it became his duty to knock at. The reverend gentleman, however, unconscious of that fact, gave the half-crown, and, having followed James in, was shown into one of the parlours.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, when James had delivered the card; "is it possible?"
"Anything the matter, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Delolme.
"I fear there is something," replied Aunt Eleanor; "I very much fear it, for Mr. Rouse, of whom you have heard me speak, dear, has come unexpectedly from Cotherstone."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Delolme; "I'm quite delighted. Pray do not let him go, dear, until you have introduced him."
Aunt Eleanor left the room; and on entering the parlour, she at once grasped the hands of the reverend gentleman, with an expression of cordiality mingled with apprehension.
"My dear, dear friend!" she exclaimed. "Why, when did you arrive?"
"I came by the coach," replied the reverend gentleman; "the same coach as that which you came by."
"Well: I'm much pleased to see you: is all right at home?"
"Oh! quite right: quite right! Why, really," he added, with a playful expression, "you must, indeed you must, be very wicked, for since you left us, the village has been as tranquil as possible: no noises, no annoyances, no apparitions: no; nothing at all of the sort."
Aunt Eleanor was sad. She could have wept; but would not do so then.
"Well now," he continued, "I only came this evening just to say, how d'ye do, and to let you know that I had arrived. I'll call in the morning: what time shall I call?"
"Oh, as early as you please! but you are not going yet?"
"Yes; I'll call in the morning: we shall then be more tranquil. You have much to say to me, and I have much to say to you. In the morning we'll talk over everything calmly."
"But I really cannot permit you to leave me in such haste. Come into the drawing-room—come."
"No, no, my dear madam; you perhaps have a party."
"No, indeed, we have not: there's only Mrs. Delolme, who is exceedingly anxious to be introduced to you. The doctor is unfortunately out now, but he will be in presently: Sylvester, too, will be in very soon: therefore, come, my dear sir—nay, you really must come. Mrs. Delolme, I know, will scold me, if you go without allowing me the pleasure of introducing you to her."
"Well, my dear madam, if you are sure that I'm not intruding, I shall be happy to be introduced to that lady. I cannot," he added, playfully, and at the same time pressing both her hands in a style which, for him, was extremely unusual, "I cannot—nor will I cause you to be scolded. I may scold you myself—that, perhaps, I may do—but you must not be scolded by any one else."
Aunt Eleanor smiled—she didn't at all understand what he meant, still she smiled; and, having conducted him into the drawing-room, presented him at once to Mrs. Delolme, who received him, gracefully it is true, but with that excessive formality which freezes. The reverend gentleman was awed! The severity of her expression had at first the effect of blocking up all conversation. Aunt Eleanor, however, at length broke the ice, and until the return of the doctor a stream of religious discourse flowed freely.
While they were thus engaged, Tom and Sylvester were listening with laudable attention to a highly important pathological lecture, during the delivery of which neither Julia nor the bracelets were, for one moment, thought of. At the conclusion, however, both were instantly remembered, and Sylvester, taking Tom's arm, proceeded at once to the bar of the Bull, accompanied, as usual, by half-a-dozen friends.
As they entered, Julia was looking anxiously at the clock, for about the fiftieth time in the course of ten minutes, but when she saw Sylvester, her heart leaped with joy, although she felt more than ever embarrassed.
Sylvester bowed and slightly smiled, and as he smiled she blessed him.
Having managed, mechanically, to supply the demands of the noisy students, she retreated to the other end of the bar, when Tom, perceiving that Sylvester had not been supplied, cried, "Hollo, here! What do you bead? What's by friedd dode? Isd't he to have ady?"
"Really," said Julia, coming forward in a tremor, and addressing Sylvester, "upon my word, I beg pardon: pray forgive me."
"I see how it is," said Tom, as Sylvester was endeavouring to convince her that it really was a matter of no moment: "you are in love with Bob Topps."
"Why, of course," cried Bob Topps, a short, stout, stumpy student, who sported a comical conical hat! "That all the world knows. We are going to tie up as soon as I've passed."
Julia smiled and retreated again.
The students now entered into an animated discussion upon a point to which, in the course of the lecture, particular reference had been made, and when Sylvester found that they were much too intent upon the subject to notice him, he made a signal for Julia to approach.
"Now," said he, "you must perform your promise by accepting these from me."
Julia took the bracelets, placed them in her bosom, and pressed them to her heart, and having taken his hand with a fervent expression, exclaimed, "God bless you!"
Tom, although apparently engaged in the discussion, saw all that passed, and shortly afterwards expressed himself precisely to this effect: "Dow, by boy, tibe's up, we bust bizzle—are you ready?"
"Quite," returned Sylvester; "quite."
"Thed we'll be off. Good dight!" he added, addressing the students; "I shall see you to-borrow."
"To-borrow bordidg," said Bob Topps, "or to-borrow dight, Tob?"
Hereupon there was a laugh—a loud laugh—among the students, and during its continuance, Sylvester shook hands with Julia, who was in consequence overjoyed, and having said, "Good night!" left the house with Tom.
"I'll tell you what it is," said Tom, "that girl's id love with you. Dothidg cad be clearer thad that. But it wod't do, Syl. Doe, that'll dever do."
"What will never do?"
"Why, it'll dever do for you to be caught, Syl, id that trap."
"Caught in that trap!" echoed Sylvester. "There's an end of it. I have accepted a present from her, and she has accepted a present from me—that settles it."
"Yes, by boy, that settles it certaidly as far as it goes; but if you codtidue to go there, by boy, you'll cause her to believe that you are desperately id love with her."
"Well, then, I had better go there no more."
"Why doe bad has a right to cause a girl to believe that he's id love with her udless he intedds to barry her.
"Very true: and as of course I have no such intention, I had better not go there again."
"Why I should say," observed Tom, "that you'd fly at a little higher gabe thad a barbaid."
"I have no contempt for her because she is a barmaid. That which you told me last night, Tom, convinced me that she ought now to be in a better position. I would not trifle with the feelings of such a girl; I would not raise hopes which could never be realised. I am sorry now that I went there at all; but the matter is settled: I go there no more."
"She's ad artful card do doubt," said Tom, "add if you give her a chadce she bay addoy you, which wouldd't be pleasadt: it wouldd't for idstadce be pleasadt at all were she to cobe sobe fide bordidg to have a chat with the old ladies! 'Where do you live, dear?' by bother would ask—'At the Bull.'—'What's the Bull?'—'A public-house.'—'Add what are you, dear?'—'I'b the barbaid.' Wouldd't the old swell oped her eyes! Sedd I bay live, what a look she'd have for her! Doe it wouldd't do at all to give her a chadce of goidg there, which she bight, add perhaps would do, to addoy you."
That Tom did not do justice to Julia is clear, but he gained his point, and the subject dropped.
On reaching home, Sylvester, when he heard of the arrival of his reverend friend, was delighted and amazed.
"Who is it, Syl?" inquired Tom.
"Mr. Rouse."
"Mr. Rouse: ah! who's he?"
"The Reverend Mr. Rouse."
"Oh: a parson: ah: I shall go idto by study. Jib, bridg be sobe coffee up there.
"But you'll come in and speak to him of course," cried Sylvester.
"Doe, Syl, I dod't like parsod's id private. They are all very well id the pulpit, but id a roob I cad't bear theb."
"Oh, but he's such a very nice fellow. I'm sure you'll be pleased with him. Do come in."
"Well, I'll go id with you; but if he be adythidg at all like the crew whob we used to have here, I shall cut it id a bobedt."
They then entered the drawing-room, and Sylvester seized the reverend gentleman by the hand, and having shaken it heartily, introduced Tom.
"Well!" exclaimed Sylvester, "this is unexpected. Why, I'd no idea of your coming to town."
"I had no idea of it myself, till this morning," returned the reverend gentleman, inferring at once that they wished it to appear that his visit was quite unexpected.
"And did you leave the village pretty quiet?" resumed Sylvester. "Have any ghosts been seen by the people since we left?"
"No: all has been tranquil—perfectly tranquil."
"By the by, Mr. Rouse," observed Mrs. Delolme, "what is your opinion of supernatural appearances—of visions—of ghosts? Do you think that they are really ever seen?"
"I have not the slightest doubt upon the subject," replied the reverend gentleman.
"Doe bad," said Tom, to whom the reverend gentleman seemed to appeal—"that is, doe idtellectual bad, I should thidk, cad have dow the ghost of a doubt about that."
"I have myself seen one," resumed the reverend gentleman—and Tom privately intimated to Sylvester that he had nearly put his foot in it—"I have seen one enter a room, walk deliberately across it, look about, turn, and then walk deliberately back—as distinctly as I see you before me."
"And it is, I suppose, impossible," said Mrs. Delolme, "for you to have been in a reverie at the time?"
"Quite impossible—quite.
"I mean, you could not have seen it in imagination, merely?"
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The unexpected visit.
"Certainly not. Had I been alone I might have doubted—I might have doubted even the evidence of my own senses—I should have been then inclined to believe that I had seen it merely in imagination; but I was not alone: I was with one who had no imagination in him!—pardon the expression—I mean my gardener, whose mind I believe to be as destitute of imagination as it is possible for the mind of a man to be."
"And may I ask, did he see it?" inquired the doctor.
"He did, as distinctly as I saw it myself."
"And had you any proof that it was not flesh and blood?"
"Why I cannot say that I had any actual proof."
"Neither you nor your servant attempted to touch it?"
"No, neither attempted to touch it."
"Did it make any noise as it walked along?"
"Not more than you or I should make without our boots."
"But as much you think?"
"I should say quite as much."
"Then there must, I submit, have been something more than spirit about it."
"I believe not. The noise indeed might have been imaginary; but the appearance of the figure I am satisfied was not."
"Well," said the doctor, "these things are extraordinary: many equally extraordinary things have been accounted for; but as many have occurred for which we cannot account, we must view this as being one of them."
The time had now arrived when the reverend gentleman thought it prudent to depart. He had previously been engaged by the doctor to dine with them on the morrow, but while taking leave of Aunt Eleanor, he promised to call upon her early in the morning.
Almost immediately after he had left, Mrs. Delolme, who was very highly pleased with him, rang the bell for prayers, and when they had been read, Tom and Sylvester retired to the study. James had provided a pound of German sausage for them this time, and a couple of bottles of Burton ale, the whole of which they managed between them, of course!—and when Tom had set the trap again, and placed a piece of string across the window, so that even the slightest touch would bring down a shelf laden with empty bottles, they left the study and retired to rest.