Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 19

In the morning, Tom, on awaking, found the skeleton by his side. He started, of course, when he saw it first, and opened his eyes and his mouth. There it stood—within a foot of him—pointing directly at him with its right hand, and making a fist of its left.

​Tom got out of bed—on the other side, of course—and he wasn't long about it. He didn't at all like the look of the thing. Nor did the expression of his features denote the existence of unmingled joy. He felt queer. He couldn't understand it. There it stood in a menacing position, with a white pocket handkerchief tied round its shin.

"Dodsedce!" cried Tom, at length. "Pooh! I wod't have it! I say, old fellow, what gabe do you call this?"

The skeleton was, as usual, silent, and Tom went round to inspect it more closely. "I'd sbash you, old fellow," said he, indignantly, "if I thought you had adythidg like life id you!" And, having given utterance to this remarkable expression, he went as he was into Sylvester's room.

"Adother gabe, Syl," said he. "Cobe add look here."

"What now?" exclaimed Sylvester.

"Just cobe add look.—There!" he added, as Sylvester entered his room. "There you are!—what do you thidk of that?"

"Good gracious!" cried Sylvester. "What, was it there when you awoke?"

"Exactly id that positiod. I haved't touched it."

"Well, this is strange!"

"Do you see its leg tied up, as if it were idjured whed caught id the trap?"

"Really, this surpasses all!"

"Dow, we wod't tell the wobed about this," said Tom; "if we do, I'b safe to be victibized agaid; but the goverdor shall see it, add thed we shall hear what he thidks of the batter."

Again and again Sylvester expressed his surprise, and feeling in reality all that he expressed—for he hadn't the most remote idea of the manner in which the skeleton had been removed—he returned to his own room to dress.

During breakfast, not a syllable on the subject was uttered; but afterwards, Tom took the doctor up stairs and showed him the thing as it stood.

"And do you mean to say, Tom, you know nothing of it?" said the doctor, who began to suspect Tom himself.

"All I kdow of it," replied Tom, "is this: that there add thus it stood whed I awoke."

"But were you not disturbed at all during the night?"

"Dot at all. Add I defy ady bad alive to cobe idto by roob while I'b asleep without wakidg be up."

"Whose handkerchief is that round the leg? That, perhaps, may give us some clue."

Tom took off the handkerchief; and, having examined it, found that it was his own.

"Ah!" said the doctor, suspiciously. "Well, all I can say, Tom, is, that it's strange. We may, perhaps, find it all out by and bye."

He then left the room; and, as Tom perceived clearly that he was again suspected, he struck the intruding skeleton in the mouth, and knocked its head off.

As the doctor was thoughtfully going down stairs, Aunt Eleanor's ​reverend friend arrived; and, on being announced, was welcomed with warmth by all, save Tom, who was privately engaged in delivering a deeply indignant soliloquy. Even the features of Mrs. Delolme were relaxed when the reverend gentleman appeared; for all the virtues he possessed, with all those which he could be imagined to possess, had been by Aunt Eleanor duly set forth.

There was, however, one fact which puzzled him exceedingly: and that was, the absence of all anxiety on the part of Aunt Eleanor to have a private conference. He couldn't understand it. He had fancied that her anxiety to converse with him privately would have been most intense!—instead of which, he found that even the most favourable opportunities were lost, and that, in fact, she was not at all anxious about the matter. He was not, it is true, displeased with this: it didn't in the slightest degree distress him: it, on the contrary, tended to convince him, that the stout individual in question, was one whom she really didn't care much about; but he did think it strange—exceedingly strange—that after having summoned him to London, expressly in crder to consult him on the subject, she should not in any manner, either directly or indirectly, allude to it. It was true she might be waiting until he had seen this stout gentleman: certainly this struck him as being extremely probable: it moreover struck him, that as bulk was the point at issue, he couldn't form anything like a just judgment upon that point, until he had seen him: still, although these might be the real causes of her silence, and although he thought it likely that he should meet him at dinner—he could not but feel—notwithstanding the delicacy of the subject—that a few brief preliminary observations would be agreeable, and, by no means whatever, incorrect.

In the course of the morning, Mrs. Delolme expressed an earnest desire to introduce him to Mr. Terre, and as the reverend gentleman—conceiving that he was in reality the man who had proposed—equally anxious for the introduction, the carriage was immediately ordered, and they went.

He now thought he saw clearly how the case stood: that this great gun was the stout individual—that Mrs. Delolme knew all about it—and that she had been deputed by Aunt Eleanor to manage the introduction, in order that he might at once be able to pass judgment upon the point at issue.

Instead, however, of finding Mr. Terre the stout person he had imagined, he found him particularly thin, which at once upset all his ideas on the subject of his being the man, and tended to remove those prejudices against him, which he had almost involuntarily inspired.

In bringing these two reverend persons together, Mrs. Delolme—perhaps naturally—anticipated a high intellectual treat; but, as this anticipation was not based upon any profound knowledge of the men, she was doomed to experience disappointment. They were both superficial, and therefore both cautious. They were afraid of each other, and knowing that there exists much virtue in silence-seeing that it leaves an immense amount of eloquence, genius, tact, and erudition, to be imagined—prudence prompted them both to avoid every subject upon which they conceived a discussion might arise.

​But although disappointed in this respect, their silence had a great effect on Mrs. Delolme; it caused her to believe that they were both profound, and hence to raise them in her estimation, for she felt it to be the true silence of wisdom; and so, indeed, it was, as far as that wisdom went.

Well; that Mr. Terre was not the individual in question, the reverend gentleman now felt convinced, he therefore resolved to wait till dinner time with patience, in the full expectation of seeing him then, and being anxious to call upon a friend or two in town, he, on their return, took leave until five.

Meanwhile Tom and Sylvester were busily engaged in devising means by which they might solve that mystery, the effect of which, upon the minds of Dr. and Mrs. Delolme had wounded Tom's private feelings deeply. He knew that he was unjustly suspected, of course; he also knew that, unless the whole affair was satisfactorily cleared up, his reputation must suffer. He admitted that, in the absence of all proof to the contrary, the suspicion that he had invented these tricks with the view of clearing himself of the accusation of Ninety-nine, was neither irrational under the circumstances, nor strained; but he did think it hard—knowing his innocence—very hard, that every thing he did for the purpose of removing that suspicion, should have a direct tendency to confirm it.

"But I'll dot give it up," said he, having invented and repudiated fifty schemes which at first appeared likely to achieve the object in view. "Ill dever give it up till I fidd out the cause, although we had better perhaps keep it to ourselves udtil the gradd result is discovered. Dow I'll tell you what I'll do to begid with: I'll sedd Jib out for a couple of bells, add as the skeletod seebs to be either directly or iddirectly the great swell, I'll hadg them ibbediately over by head, add have stridgs attached to its legs, so that if it be reboved—however slightly—the bells bay ridg udkdowd to hib who reboves it."

Very good," said Sylvester. "But why send James for the bells? Why let him know anything about them? you'd better get them yourself: or I'll run and get them for you. We shall however have to go out, by and bye, and then we can bring them in with us."

"That will be the best way, certaidly," said Tom, "but what do you thidk of the schebe?"

"I think it a very good one. But I should advise sitting up, here in the study. I'll sit up with you with pleasure."

"It wod't do, Syl—I'b sure it wod't do. Whed they see a light they'll cut back."

"Then let's sit in the dark."

"Id the dark! What bortal cad keep hibself awake throughout the dight id the dark? Hubad dature hasd't the power to do it."

"I'd do it. I'd keep myself awake—especially on such an occasion—I'd stake my existence upon it."

"Well," said Tom, "suppose we try the bell dodge first. The thidg cad't be boved without causidg the bells to ridg, dor cad the bells ridg without wakidg be. I therefore thidk that we had better try that dodge to-dight, the result of which bay perhaps guide us to-borrow."

​"Very well: then let it be so. We'll bring the bells in with us when we go out."

Having decided on pursuing this course, they left the study to prepare for dinner; and on going into the drawing-room shortly afterwards, found that the reverend gentleman had arrived. He did not, however, appear to be at ease. He was evidently anxious about something. He kept fidgeting about, and glancing at the door, and starting when any one entered.

"Your aunt and I," said he at length to Sylvester aside, "have had no conversation on that subject yet."

"Have you not," said Sylvester, who conceived that he alluded to the mystery which still occupied his thoughts.

"I don't think she likes to allude to the subject."

"Very likely not. But did you ever hear of anything so extraordinary—so unaccountable?"

"I never was more astonished in my life than when I heard of it."

"All in the house were astonished."

"Do they all know of the circumstance?"

"Oh! yes. But whatever may now occur will be concealed from them all till the point has been gained."

"Do you think that his object then will be attained?"

"I've no doubt of it."

"Well!" said the reverend gentleman, thoughtfully, "it is altogether the strangest thing I ever heard of."

Dinner was announced: and although no stout individual had arrived, the reverend gentleman felt very nervous. This feeling, however, while they were at dinner wore off: indeed the doctor, who was at all times anxious to make those around him happy, at length put him in high spirits by his lively and interesting conversation. He was delighted with the doctor. He had never met with a man whom he admired so much. And the doctor was equally delighted with him; for simplicity of manners is appreciated most by those who are most conversant with the world's hypocrisy.

At eight o'clock Tom and Sylvester left; and as the ladies had previously retired, the reverend gentleman fully expected that the doctor would allude to the contemplated marriage, seeing that Sylvester—as he imagined—had told him that the whole affair was known to them all. But the doctor, of course, knowing nothing about it, did not say a word upon the subject; which the reverend gentleman thought very strange, feeling convinced that he was perfectly cognizant of the cause of his coming to town. As, however, the subject was not alluded to by him, he did not like to allude to it, and therefore no allusion was made to it at all.

About nine, the doctor was summoned to see a patient, and having taken the reverend gentleman up to the ladies, apologised and left; and as, shortly afterwards, Mrs. Delolme quitted the room to give some instructions to the servants, Aunt Eleanor, addressing her reverend friend, who was anxious for her to begin, said, "Well; and when do you think of leaving town?"

​"Why," replied the reverend gentleman, "that depends upon circumstances entirely."

"I see. But you do not think of leaving just yet?"

"Why—no. Until something has been settled of course, I shall not think of leaving. When do you think this affair will be arranged?"

"What affair do you allude to?"

"Why, of that affair of course—which has brought me to town."

"Oh! I beg pardon. I didn't ask as a matter of curiosity. I thought it might be something in which I was concerned."

"And so, my dear madam, it is."

"Indeed! Why what do you mean?"

"I know your delicacy," replied the reverend gentleman, with great deliberation, "and I appreciate it highly: but when am I to be introduced to him?"

"To him!—To whom?"

"Why, this gentleman."

"What gentleman?"

"Why, the gentleman who has made you an offer."

"Oh!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, gaily, being quite disposed to keep up that which she conceived to be a very pleasant jest, "I understand. You shall be introduced: I'll promise you that."

"Is he—very—remarkably—stout?"

"Not very—not remarkably so—at least, not that I know of. But you shall see him one of these days."

One of these days! This, under the circumstances, struck the reverend gentleman as being a most extraordinary expression. One of these days! Had he come between sixty and seventy miles, nominally for the purpose of being introduced to this man, but virtually in order to be told that he should see him one of these days?

"He is in town, I presume?" said he, after a pause.

"Really," returned Aunt Eleanor, still keeping up the assumed joke, "I don't know exactly where he is at present."

"Indeed! But, of course, he'll be here in a day or two?"

"He may be; and when he does come, I'll at once introduce him—you funny man, be assured of that."

Funny man! Well, in the judgment of the reverend gentleman, it was a funny affair altogether. He didn't know that he was particularly funny: he might be—he wouldn't undertake to deny that he was: nor did he deny it—but he thought the whole proceeding of course very odd.

"But," said he, "in the event of your accepting this offer, when do you think the affair will take place?"

"Well, I really cannot say; but, when it does take place, you will, I hope, do me the favour to officiate?"

"I shall feel, on the occasion of your marriage, great pleasure in being present. But I suppose it will be settled now in a very few days?"

"No, I don't think it will be so soon."

"In a week, then, or so?"

"I think not so soon as that."

"Well, my dear madam," said the reverend gentleman, who really ​
The explanation.

​felt very much embarrassed, for, while he could not but think that he had not been exactly treated well, he was anxious to conceal the fact of his being annoyed, "you know best, certainly—you ought to know best. But I presume, from what you have said, that you intend to accept his offer?"

"Why, really, that is a question which I cannot answer now. I shall, however, be in a position to do so immediately after the offer has been made."

"After it has been made! Has it not already been made?"

"Not yet: no: it has not been made yet."

"Oh! I beg pardon! I thought that it had been."

"Why, what do you mean? There is nothing in your countenance facetious; and yet you are jesting, of course?"

"Jesting! Bless my life, no; I'm not jesting at all."

"Do you really mean to say that you are serious?"

"Perfectly so."

"Then what do you mean?"

"You have had—or rather you expect to have, an offer of marriage: do you not?"

"No!"

"But a gentleman has proposed, or is about to propose to you?"

"Not that I am aware of."

"Tut!—bless my life: a stout gentleman!—one whom you think somewhat too stout?"

"I know nothing of it."

"Well, but—really, my dear madam—is that a fact?"

"I know nothing whatever, my dear sir, about it."

"Bless my heart alive! Well, but did you not direct a letter to be sent to me, stating that such was the case?"

"Most certainly not."

"The young dog—the young rascal. I'll give him a lecture. I shouldn't have supposed it. I shouldn't have thought he would have done such a thing. The young scamp."

"To whom do you allude?"

"To Sylvester."

"Sylvester! Well, but, my dear sir, you don't mean to say that our Sylvester sent such a letter as that?"

"Here it is!" replied the reverend gentleman, searching all his pockets with astonishing rapidity. "Here it is!—No, it isn't: it's in my other coat. But Sylvester sent me a letter—which letter you shall see to-morrow morning—to this effect: that you had desired him to inform me, that you thought of entering into the marriage state: that you hadn't exactly made up your mind: that you would not do so until you had consulted me: that you fancied that the gentleman, who had made you an offer, was somewhat too stout—"

"Too stout!" cried Aunt Eleanor, laughing.

"Yes: somewhat too stout: that you would not decide until you had had my opinion upon the point; and that, if that opinion were favourable, you wished me to perform the marriage ceremony."

​"Why, you amaze me!"

"That is the substance of the letter which I received yesterday morning."

"And signed by Sylvester."

"Signed by him—in his own hand-writing."

"Impossible!"

"It's a fact. I'll take my oath to the writing. I'd just commenced breakfast when the letter arrived, and when I read the contents you may imagine my surprise."

"You might well be surprised," said Aunt Eleanor, smiling.

"I was surprised, because I never imagined for one moment that you contemplated anything of the sort. However, it appeared to me quite clear then, and therefore I came up to London at once."

"And was this the sole cause of your coming to town?"

"I had no other object than that of seeing you."

"Then, really, I am very sorry for it."

"I am not—I am not! On the contrary—now that I find that it's nothing but what they, in London, call a hoax—I'm quite pleased—I'm delighted! It seems to have struck into my mind a new light: it has given animation to feelings which have long lain dormant. I candidly confess to you that I am much pleased: nay, I'll also confess to you, this; that I came up fully determined to oppose that man's claim, by declaring—if I found that he was anything of a size—that he was, in reality, much too stout."

"What!" said Aunt Eleanor, gaily; "and thus to prevent me from gaining an affectionate husband?"

"No; to prevent you merely from having him. But we'll speak more of this by and bye. The idea of my leaving that letter at the inn! I wish that I had brought it. I changed my coat, you see, when I went to dress."

"Well, but are you quite sure," said Aunt Eleanor, upon whom the observation of the reverend gentleman, having reference to those feelings which had long been dormant, had a very peculiar effect; "are you certain that that letter was written by Sylvester?"

"Quite. But you shall see it in the morning, and form your own judgment. I feel quite clear upon the point."

"Then, really, I must scold him well."

"Leave that to me, my dear madam: just leave that to me. Although I cannot be angry with him for it, I'll give him a lecture. We had better not, however, say a word to him to-night. I'll bring the letter with me in the morning, and then we shall have all before us."

Mrs. Delolme now re-entered the room, and shortly after, the doctor returned and recommenced chatting to the reverend gentleman, while, at intervals, Aunt Eleanor merrily laughed at the idea of her having objected to a lover on the ground of his being too stout.

Soon after the return of Tom and Sylvester, their reverend friend took his leave, and when prayers had been read, they went as usual, into the study to supper, and when they had eaten to their hearts' content, they adjusted the bells, and went to bed.