The Mystery of Edwin Drood

CHAPTER I.
THE DAWN

An ancient English Cathedral Tower? How can the ancient English Cathedral tower
be here! The well-known massive gray square tower of its old Cathedral? How can
that be here! There is no spike of rusty iron in the air, between the eye and
it, from any point of the real prospect. What is the spike that intervenes, and
who has set it up? Maybe it is set up by the Sultan’s orders for the
impaling of a horde of Turkish robbers, one by one. It is so, for cymbals
clash, and the Sultan goes by to his palace in long procession. Ten thousand
scimitars flash in the sunlight, and thrice ten thousand dancing-girls strew
flowers. Then, follow white elephants caparisoned in countless gorgeous
colours, and infinite in number and attendants. Still the Cathedral Tower rises
in the background, where it cannot be, and still no writhing figure is on the
grim spike. Stay! Is the spike so low a thing as the rusty spike on the top of
a post of an old bedstead that has tumbled all awry? Some vague period of
drowsy laughter must be devoted to the consideration of this possibility.

Shaking from head to foot, the man whose scattered consciousness has thus
fantastically pieced itself together, at length rises, supports his trembling
frame upon his arms, and looks around. He is in the meanest and closest of
small rooms. Through the ragged window-curtain, the light of early day steals
in from a miserable court. He lies, dressed, across a large unseemly bed, upon
a bedstead that has indeed given way under the weight upon it. Lying, also
dressed and also across the bed, not longwise, are a Chinaman, a Lascar, and a
haggard woman. The two first are in a sleep or stupor; the last is blowing at a
kind of pipe, to kindle it. And as she blows, and shading it with her lean
hand, concentrates its red spark of light, it serves in the dim morning as a
lamp to show him what he sees of her.

“Another?” says this woman, in a querulous, rattling whisper.
“Have another?”

He looks about him, with his hand to his forehead.

“Ye’ve smoked as many as five since ye come in at midnight,”
the woman goes on, as she chronically complains. “Poor me, poor me, my
head is so bad. Them two come in after ye. Ah, poor me, the business is slack,
is slack! Few Chinamen about the Docks, and fewer Lascars, and no ships coming
in, these say! Here’s another ready for ye, deary. Ye’ll remember
like a good soul, won’t ye, that the market price is dreffle high just
now? More nor three shillings and sixpence for a thimbleful! And ye’ll
remember that nobody but me (and Jack Chinaman t’other side the court;
but he can’t do it as well as me) has the true secret of mixing it?
Ye’ll pay up accordingly, deary, won’t ye?”

She blows at the pipe as she speaks, and, occasionally bubbling at it, inhales
much of its contents.

“O me, O me, my lungs is weak, my lungs is bad! It’s nearly ready
for ye, deary. Ah, poor me, poor me, my poor hand shakes like to drop off! I
see ye coming-to, and I ses to my poor self, ‘I’ll have another
ready for him, and he’ll bear in mind the market price of opium, and pay
according.’ O my poor head! I makes my pipes of old penny ink-bottles, ye
see, deary—this is one—and I fits-in a mouthpiece, this way, and I
takes my mixter out of this thimble with this little horn spoon; and so I
fills, deary. Ah, my poor nerves! I got Heavens-hard drunk for sixteen year
afore I took to this; but this don’t hurt me, not to speak of. And it
takes away the hunger as well as wittles, deary.”

She hands him the nearly-emptied pipe, and sinks back, turning over on her
face.

He rises unsteadily from the bed, lays the pipe upon the hearth-stone, draws
back the ragged curtain, and looks with repugnance at his three companions. He
notices that the woman has opium-smoked herself into a strange likeness of the
Chinaman. His form of cheek, eye, and temple, and his colour, are repeated in
her. Said Chinaman convulsively wrestles with one of his many Gods or Devils,
perhaps, and snarls horribly. The Lascar laughs and dribbles at the mouth. The
hostess is still.

In the Court

“What visions can she have?” the waking man muses, as he
turns her face towards him, and stands looking down at it. “Visions of
many butchers’ shops, and public-houses, and much credit? Of an increase
of hideous customers, and this horrible bedstead set upright again, and this
horrible court swept clean? What can she rise to, under any quantity of opium,
higher than that!—Eh?”

He bends down his ear, to listen to her mutterings.

“Unintelligible!”

As he watches the spasmodic shoots and darts that break out of her face and
limbs, like fitful lightning out of a dark sky, some contagion in them seizes
upon him: insomuch that he has to withdraw himself to a lean arm-chair by the
hearth—placed there, perhaps, for such emergencies—and to sit in
it, holding tight, until he has got the better of this unclean spirit of
imitation.

Then he comes back, pounces on the Chinaman, and seizing him with both hands by
the throat, turns him violently on the bed. The Chinaman clutches the
aggressive hands, resists, gasps, and protests.

“What do you say?”

A watchful pause.

“Unintelligible!”

Slowly loosening his grasp as he listens to the incoherent jargon with an
attentive frown, he turns to the Lascar and fairly drags him forth upon the
floor. As he falls, the Lascar starts into a half-risen attitude, glares with
his eyes, lashes about him fiercely with his arms, and draws a phantom knife.
It then becomes apparent that the woman has taken possession of this knife, for
safety’s sake; for, she too starting up, and restraining and
expostulating with him, the knife is visible in her dress, not in his, when
they drowsily drop back, side by side.

There has been chattering and clattering enough between them, but to no
purpose. When any distinct word has been flung into the air, it has had no
sense or sequence. Wherefore “unintelligible!” is again the comment
of the watcher, made with some reassured nodding of his head, and a gloomy
smile. He then lays certain silver money on the table, finds his hat, gropes
his way down the broken stairs, gives a good morning to some rat-ridden
doorkeeper, in bed in a black hutch beneath the stairs, and passes out.

That same afternoon, the massive gray square tower of an old Cathedral rises
before the sight of a jaded traveller. The bells are going for daily vesper
service, and he must needs attend it, one would say, from his haste to reach
the open Cathedral door. The choir are getting on their sullied white robes, in
a hurry, when he arrives among them, gets on his own robe, and falls into the
procession filing in to service. Then, the Sacristan locks the iron-barred
gates that divide the sanctuary from the chancel, and all of the procession
having scuttled into their places, hide their faces; and then the intoned
words, “WHEN THE WICKED
MAN—” rise among groins of arches and beams of roof,
awakening muttered thunder.

CHAPTER II.
A DEAN, AND A CHAPTER ALSO

Whosoever has observed that sedate and clerical bird, the rook, may perhaps
have noticed that when he wings his way homeward towards nightfall, in a sedate
and clerical company, two rooks will suddenly detach themselves from the rest,
will retrace their flight for some distance, and will there poise and linger;
conveying to mere men the fancy that it is of some occult importance to the
body politic, that this artful couple should pretend to have renounced
connection with it.

Similarly, service being over in the old Cathedral with the square tower, and
the choir scuffling out again, and divers venerable persons of rook-like aspect
dispersing, two of these latter retrace their steps, and walk together in the
echoing Close.

Not only is the day waning, but the year. The low sun is fiery and yet cold
behind the monastery ruin, and the Virginia creeper on the Cathedral wall has
showered half its deep-red leaves down on the pavement. There has been rain
this afternoon, and a wintry shudder goes among the little pools on the
cracked, uneven flag-stones, and through the giant elm-trees as they shed a
gust of tears. Their fallen leaves lie strewn thickly about. Some of these
leaves, in a timid rush, seek sanctuary within the low arched Cathedral door;
but two men coming out resist them, and cast them forth again with their feet;
this done, one of the two locks the door with a goodly key, and the other flits
away with a folio music-book.

“Mr. Jasper was that, Tope?”

“Yes, Mr. Dean.”

“He has stayed late.”

“Yes, Mr. Dean. I have stayed for him, your Reverence. He has been took a
little poorly.”

“Say ‘taken,’ Tope—to the Dean,” the younger rook
interposes in a low tone with this touch of correction, as who should say:
“You may offer bad grammar to the laity, or the humbler clergy, not to
the Dean.”

Mr. Tope, Chief Verger and Showman, and accustomed to be high with excursion
parties, declines with a silent loftiness to perceive that any suggestion has
been tendered to him.

“And when and how has Mr. Jasper been taken—for, as Mr. Crisparkle
has remarked, it is better to say taken—taken—” repeats the
Dean; “when and how has Mr. Jasper been Taken—”

“Taken, sir,” Tope deferentially murmurs.

“—Poorly, Tope?”

“Why, sir, Mr. Jasper was that breathed—”

“I wouldn’t say ‘That breathed,’ Tope,” Mr.
Crisparkle interposes with the same touch as before. “Not
English—to the Dean.”

“Breathed to that extent,” the Dean (not unflattered by this
indirect homage) condescendingly remarks, “would be preferable.”

“Mr. Jasper’s breathing was so remarkably short”—thus
discreetly does Mr. Tope work his way round the sunken rock—“when
he came in, that it distressed him mightily to get his notes out: which was
perhaps the cause of his having a kind of fit on him after a little. His memory
grew DAZED.” Mr. Tope, with his eyes on the Reverend Mr.
Crisparkle, shoots this word out, as defying him to improve upon it: “and
a dimness and giddiness crept over him as strange as ever I saw: though he
didn’t seem to mind it particularly, himself. However, a little time and
a little water brought him out of his DAZE.” Mr. Tope
repeats the word and its emphasis, with the air of saying: “As I
have made a success, I’ll make it again.”

“And Mr. Jasper has gone home quite himself, has he?” asked the
Dean.

“Your Reverence, he has gone home quite himself. And I’m glad to
see he’s having his fire kindled up, for it’s chilly after the wet,
and the Cathedral had both a damp feel and a damp touch this afternoon, and he
was very shivery.”

They all three look towards an old stone gatehouse crossing the Close, with an
arched thoroughfare passing beneath it. Through its latticed window, a fire
shines out upon the fast-darkening scene, involving in shadow the pendent
masses of ivy and creeper covering the building’s front. As the deep
Cathedral-bell strikes the hour, a ripple of wind goes through these at their
distance, like a ripple of the solemn sound that hums through tomb and tower,
broken niche and defaced statue, in the pile close at hand.

“Is Mr. Jasper’s nephew with him?” the Dean asks.

“No, sir,” replied the Verger, “but expected. There’s
his own solitary shadow betwixt his two windows—the one looking this way,
and the one looking down into the High Street—drawing his own curtains
now.”

“Well, well,” says the Dean, with a sprightly air of breaking up
the little conference, “I hope Mr. Jasper’s heart may not be too
much set upon his nephew. Our affections, however laudable, in this transitory
world, should never master us; we should guide them, guide them. I find I am
not disagreeably reminded of my dinner, by hearing my dinner-bell. Perhaps, Mr.
Crisparkle, you will, before going home, look in on Jasper?”

“Certainly, Mr. Dean. And tell him that you had the kindness to desire to
know how he was?”

“Ay; do so, do so. Certainly. Wished to know how he was. By all means.
Wished to know how he was.”

With a pleasant air of patronage, the Dean as nearly cocks his quaint hat as a
Dean in good spirits may, and directs his comely gaiters towards the ruddy
dining-room of the snug old red-brick house where he is at present, “in
residence” with Mrs. Dean and Miss Dean.

Mr. Crisparkle, Minor Canon, fair and rosy, and perpetually pitching himself
head-foremost into all the deep running water in the surrounding country; Mr.
Crisparkle, Minor Canon, early riser, musical, classical, cheerful, kind,
good-natured, social, contented, and boy-like; Mr. Crisparkle, Minor Canon and
good man, lately “Coach” upon the chief Pagan high roads, but since
promoted by a patron (grateful for a well-taught son) to his present Christian
beat; betakes himself to the gatehouse, on his way home to his early tea.

“Sorry to hear from Tope that you have not been well, Jasper.”

“O, it was nothing, nothing!”

“You look a little worn.”

“Do I? O, I don’t think so. What is better, I don’t feel so.
Tope has made too much of it, I suspect. It’s his trade to make the most
of everything appertaining to the Cathedral, you know.”

“I may tell the Dean—I call expressly from the Dean—that you
are all right again?”

The reply, with a slight smile, is: “Certainly; with my respects and
thanks to the Dean.”

“I’m glad to hear that you expect young Drood.”

“I expect the dear fellow every moment.”

“Ah! He will do you more good than a doctor, Jasper.”

“More good than a dozen doctors. For I love him dearly, and I don’t
love doctors, or doctors’ stuff.”

Mr. Jasper is a dark man of some six-and-twenty, with thick, lustrous,
well-arranged black hair and whiskers. He looks older than he is, as dark men
often do. His voice is deep and good, his face and figure are good, his manner
is a little sombre. His room is a little sombre, and may have had its influence
in forming his manner. It is mostly in shadow. Even when the sun shines
brilliantly, it seldom touches the grand piano in the recess, or the folio
music-books on the stand, or the book-shelves on the wall, or the unfinished
picture of a blooming schoolgirl hanging over the chimneypiece; her flowing
brown hair tied with a blue riband, and her beauty remarkable for a quite
childish, almost babyish, touch of saucy discontent, comically conscious of
itself. (There is not the least artistic merit in this picture, which is a mere
daub; but it is clear that the painter has made it humorously—one might
almost say, revengefully—like the original.)

“We shall miss you, Jasper, at the ‘Alternate Musical
Wednesdays’ to-night; but no doubt you are best at home. Good-night. God
bless you! ‘Tell me, shep-herds, te-e-ell me; tell me-e-e, have you seen
(have you seen, have you seen, have you seen) my-y-y Flo-o-ora-a pass this
way!’” Melodiously good Minor Canon the Reverend Septimus
Crisparkle thus delivers himself, in musical rhythm, as he withdraws his
amiable face from the doorway and conveys it down-stairs.

Sounds of recognition and greeting pass between the Reverend Septimus and
somebody else, at the stair-foot. Mr. Jasper listens, starts from his chair,
and catches a young fellow in his arms, exclaiming:

“My dear Edwin!”

“My dear Jack! So glad to see you!”

“Get off your greatcoat, bright boy, and sit down here in your own
corner. Your feet are not wet? Pull your boots off. Do pull your boots
off.”

“My dear Jack, I am as dry as a bone. Don’t moddley-coddley,
there’s a good fellow. I like anything better than being
moddley-coddleyed.”

With the check upon him of being unsympathetically restrained in a genial
outburst of enthusiasm, Mr. Jasper stands still, and looks on intently at the
young fellow, divesting himself of his outward coat, hat, gloves, and so forth.
Once for all, a look of intentness and intensity—a look of hungry,
exacting, watchful, and yet devoted affection—is always, now and ever
afterwards, on the Jasper face whenever the Jasper face is addressed in this
direction. And whenever it is so addressed, it is never, on this occasion or on
any other, dividedly addressed; it is always concentrated.

“Now I am right, and now I’ll take my corner, Jack. Any dinner,
Jack?”

Mr. Jasper opens a door at the upper end of the room, and discloses a small
inner room pleasantly lighted and prepared, wherein a comely dame is in the act
of setting dishes on table.

“What a jolly old Jack it is!” cries the young fellow, with a clap
of his hands. “Look here, Jack; tell me; whose birthday is it?”

“Not yours, I know,” Mr. Jasper answers, pausing to consider.

“Not mine, you know? No; not mine, I know! Pussy’s!”

Fixed as the look the young fellow meets is, there is yet in it some strange
power of suddenly including the sketch over the chimneypiece.

“Pussy’s, Jack! We must drink Many happy returns to her. Come,
uncle; take your dutiful and sharp-set nephew in to dinner.”

As the boy (for he is little more) lays a hand on Jasper’s shoulder,
Jasper cordially and gaily lays a hand on his shoulder, and so
Marseillaise-wise they go in to dinner.

“And, Lord! here’s Mrs. Tope!” cries the boy. “Lovelier
than ever!”

“Never you mind me, Master Edwin,” retorts the Verger’s wife;
“I can take care of myself.”

“You can’t. You’re much too handsome. Give me a kiss because
it’s Pussy’s birthday.”

“I’d Pussy you, young man, if I was Pussy, as you call her,”
Mrs. Tope blushingly retorts, after being saluted. “Your uncle’s
too much wrapt up in you, that’s where it is. He makes so much of you,
that it’s my opinion you think you’ve only to call your Pussys by
the dozen, to make ’em come.”

“You forget, Mrs. Tope,” Mr. Jasper interposes, taking his place at
the table with a genial smile, “and so do you, Ned, that Uncle and Nephew
are words prohibited here by common consent and express agreement. For what we
are going to receive His holy name be praised!”

“Done like the Dean! Witness, Edwin Drood! Please to carve, Jack, for I
can’t.”

This sally ushers in the dinner. Little to the present purpose, or to any
purpose, is said, while it is in course of being disposed of. At length the
cloth is drawn, and a dish of walnuts and a decanter of rich-coloured sherry
are placed upon the table.

“I say! Tell me, Jack,” the young fellow then flows on: “do
you really and truly feel as if the mention of our relationship divided us at
all? I don’t.”

“Uncles as a rule, Ned, are so much older than their nephews,” is
the reply, “that I have that feeling instinctively.”

“As a rule! Ah, may-be! But what is a difference in age of half-a-dozen
years or so? And some uncles, in large families, are even younger than their
nephews. By George, I wish it was the case with us!”

“Why?”

“Because if it was, I’d take the lead with you, Jack, and be as
wise as Begone, dull Care! that turned a young man gray, and Begone, dull Care!
that turned an old man to clay.—Halloa, Jack! Don’t drink.”

“Why not?”

“Asks why not, on Pussy’s birthday, and no Happy returns proposed!
Pussy, Jack, and many of ’em! Happy returns, I mean.”

Laying an affectionate and laughing touch on the boy’s extended hand, as
if it were at once his giddy head and his light heart, Mr. Jasper drinks the
toast in silence.

“Hip, hip, hip, and nine times nine, and one to finish with, and all
that, understood. Hooray, hooray, hooray!—And now, Jack, let’s have
a little talk about Pussy. Two pairs of nut-crackers? Pass me one, and take the
other.” Crack. “How’s Pussy getting on Jack?”

“With her music? Fairly.”

“What a dreadfully conscientious fellow you are, Jack! But I know,
Lord bless you! Inattentive, isn’t she?”

“She can learn anything, if she will.”

“If she will! Egad, that’s it. But if she
won’t?”

Crack!—on Mr. Jasper’s part.

“How’s she looking, Jack?”

Mr. Jasper’s concentrated face again includes the portrait as he returns:
“Very like your sketch indeed.”

“I am a little proud of it,” says the young fellow, glancing
up at the sketch with complacency, and then shutting one eye, and taking a
corrected prospect of it over a level bridge of nut-crackers in the air:
“Not badly hit off from memory. But I ought to have caught that
expression pretty well, for I have seen it often enough.”

Crack!—on Edwin Drood’s part.

Crack!—on Mr. Jasper’s part.

“In point of fact,” the former resumes, after some silent dipping
among his fragments of walnut with an air of pique, “I see it whenever I
go to see Pussy. If I don’t find it on her face, I leave it
there.—You know I do, Miss Scornful Pert. Booh!” With a twirl of
the nut-crackers at the portrait.

Crack! crack! crack. Slowly, on Mr. Jasper’s part.

Crack. Sharply on the part of Edwin Drood.

Silence on both sides.

“Have you lost your tongue, Jack?”

“Have you found yours, Ned?”

“No, but really;—isn’t it, you know, after all—”

Mr. Jasper lifts his dark eyebrows inquiringly.

“Isn’t it unsatisfactory to be cut off from choice in such a
matter? There, Jack! I tell you! If I could choose, I would choose Pussy from
all the pretty girls in the world.”

“But you have not got to choose.”

“That’s what I complain of. My dead and gone father and
Pussy’s dead and gone father must needs marry us together by
anticipation. Why the—Devil, I was going to say, if it had been
respectful to their memory—couldn’t they leave us alone?”

“Tut, tut, dear boy,” Mr. Jasper remonstrates, in a tone of gentle
deprecation.

“Tut, tut? Yes, Jack, it’s all very well for you. You
can take it easily. Your life is not laid down to scale, and lined and
dotted out for you, like a surveyor’s plan. You have no
uncomfortable suspicion that you are forced upon anybody, nor has anybody an
uncomfortable suspicion that she is forced upon you, or that you are forced
upon her. You can choose for yourself. Life, for you, is a plum
with the natural bloom on; it hasn’t been over-carefully wiped off for
you—”

“Don’t stop, dear fellow. Go on.”

“Can I anyhow have hurt your feelings, Jack?”

“How can you have hurt my feelings?”

“Good Heaven, Jack, you look frightfully ill! There’s a strange
film come over your eyes.”

Mr. Jasper, with a forced smile, stretches out his right hand, as if at once to
disarm apprehension and gain time to get better. After a while he says faintly:

“I have been taking opium for a pain—an agony—that sometimes
overcomes me. The effects of the medicine steal over me like a blight or a
cloud, and pass. You see them in the act of passing; they will be gone
directly. Look away from me. They will go all the sooner.”

With a scared face the younger man complies by casting his eyes downward at the
ashes on the hearth. Not relaxing his own gaze on the fire, but rather
strengthening it with a fierce, firm grip upon his elbow-chair, the elder sits
for a few moments rigid, and then, with thick drops standing on his forehead,
and a sharp catch of his breath, becomes as he was before. On his so subsiding
in his chair, his nephew gently and assiduously tends him while he quite
recovers. When Jasper is restored, he lays a tender hand upon his
nephew’s shoulder, and, in a tone of voice less troubled than the purport
of his words—indeed with something of raillery or banter in it—thus
addresses him:

“There is said to be a hidden skeleton in every house; but you thought
there was none in mine, dear Ned.”

“Upon my life, Jack, I did think so. However, when I come to consider
that even in Pussy’s house—if she had one—and in
mine—if I had one—”

“You were going to say (but that I interrupted you in spite of myself)
what a quiet life mine is. No whirl and uproar around me, no distracting
commerce or calculation, no risk, no change of place, myself devoted to the art
I pursue, my business my pleasure.”

“I really was going to say something of the kind, Jack; but you see, you,
speaking of yourself, almost necessarily leave out much that I should have put
in. For instance: I should have put in the foreground your being so much
respected as Lay Precentor, or Lay Clerk, or whatever you call it, of this
Cathedral; your enjoying the reputation of having done such wonders with the
choir; your choosing your society, and holding such an independent position in
this queer old place; your gift of teaching (why, even Pussy, who don’t
like being taught, says there never was such a Master as you are!), and your
connexion.”

“Yes; I saw what you were tending to. I hate it.”

“Hate it, Jack?” (Much bewildered.)

“I hate it. The cramped monotony of my existence grinds me away by the
grain. How does our service sound to you?”

“Beautiful! Quite celestial!”

“It often sounds to me quite devilish. I am so weary of it. The echoes of
my own voice among the arches seem to mock me with my daily drudging round. No
wretched monk who droned his life away in that gloomy place, before me, can
have been more tired of it than I am. He could take for relief (and did take)
to carving demons out of the stalls and seats and desks. What shall I do? Must
I take to carving them out of my heart?”

“I thought you had so exactly found your niche in life, Jack,”
Edwin Drood returns, astonished, bending forward in his chair to lay a
sympathetic hand on Jasper’s knee, and looking at him with an anxious
face.

“I know you thought so. They all think so.”

“Well, I suppose they do,” says Edwin, meditating aloud.
“Pussy thinks so.”

“When did she tell you that?”

“The last time I was here. You remember when. Three months ago.”

“How did she phrase it?”

“O, she only said that she had become your pupil, and that you were made
for your vocation.”

The younger man glances at the portrait. The elder sees it in him.

“Anyhow, my dear Ned,” Jasper resumes, as he shakes his head with a
grave cheerfulness, “I must subdue myself to my vocation: which is much
the same thing outwardly. It’s too late to find another now. This is a
confidence between us.”

“It shall be sacredly preserved, Jack.”

“I have reposed it in you, because—”

“I feel it, I assure you. Because we are fast friends, and because you
love and trust me, as I love and trust you. Both hands, Jack.”

As each stands looking into the other’s eyes, and as the uncle holds the
nephew’s hands, the uncle thus proceeds:

“You know now, don’t you, that even a poor monotonous chorister and
grinder of music—in his niche—may be troubled with some stray sort
of ambition, aspiration, restlessness, dissatisfaction, what shall we call
it?”

“Yes, dear Jack.”

“And you will remember?”

“My dear Jack, I only ask you, am I likely to forget what you have said
with so much feeling?”

“Take it as a warning, then.”

In the act of having his hands released, and of moving a step back, Edwin
pauses for an instant to consider the application of these last words. The
instant over, he says, sensibly touched:

“I am afraid I am but a shallow, surface kind of fellow, Jack, and that
my headpiece is none of the best. But I needn’t say I am young; and
perhaps I shall not grow worse as I grow older. At all events, I hope I have
something impressible within me, which feels—deeply feels—the
disinterestedness of your painfully laying your inner self bare, as a warning
to me.”

Mr. Jasper’s steadiness of face and figure becomes so marvellous that his
breathing seems to have stopped.

“I couldn’t fail to notice, Jack, that it cost you a great effort,
and that you were very much moved, and very unlike your usual self. Of course I
knew that you were extremely fond of me, but I really was not prepared for
your, as I may say, sacrificing yourself to me in that way.”

Mr. Jasper, becoming a breathing man again without the smallest stage of
transition between the two extreme states, lifts his shoulders, laughs, and
waves his right arm.

“No; don’t put the sentiment away, Jack; please don’t; for I
am very much in earnest. I have no doubt that that unhealthy state of mind
which you have so powerfully described is attended with some real suffering,
and is hard to bear. But let me reassure you, Jack, as to the chances of its
overcoming me. I don’t think I am in the way of it. In some few months
less than another year, you know, I shall carry Pussy off from school as Mrs.
Edwin Drood. I shall then go engineering into the East, and Pussy with me. And
although we have our little tiffs now, arising out of a certain unavoidable
flatness that attends our love-making, owing to its end being all settled
beforehand, still I have no doubt of our getting on capitally then, when
it’s done and can’t be helped. In short, Jack, to go back to the
old song I was freely quoting at dinner (and who knows old songs better than
you?), my wife shall dance, and I will sing, so merrily pass the day. Of
Pussy’s being beautiful there cannot be a doubt;—and when you are
good besides, Little Miss Impudence,” once more apostrophising the
portrait, “I’ll burn your comic likeness, and paint your
music-master another.”

Mr. Jasper, with his hand to his chin, and with an expression of musing
benevolence on his face, has attentively watched every animated look and
gesture attending the delivery of these words. He remains in that attitude
after they are spoken, as if in a kind of fascination attendant on his strong
interest in the youthful spirit that he loves so well. Then he says with a
quiet smile:

“You won’t be warned, then?”

“No, Jack.”

“You can’t be warned, then?”

“No, Jack, not by you. Besides that I don’t really consider myself
in danger, I don’t like your putting yourself in that position.”

“Shall we go and walk in the churchyard?”

“By all means. You won’t mind my slipping out of it for half a
moment to the Nuns’ House, and leaving a parcel there? Only gloves for
Pussy; as many pairs of gloves as she is years old to-day. Rather poetical,
Jack?”

Mr. Jasper, still in the same attitude, murmurs: “‘Nothing half so
sweet in life,’ Ned!”

“Here’s the parcel in my greatcoat-pocket. They must be presented
to-night, or the poetry is gone. It’s against regulations for me to call
at night, but not to leave a packet. I am ready, Jack!”

Mr. Jasper dissolves his attitude, and they go out together.

CHAPTER III.
THE NUNS’ HOUSE

For sufficient reasons, which this narrative will itself unfold as it advances,
a fictitious name must be bestowed upon the old Cathedral town. Let it stand in
these pages as Cloisterham. It was once possibly known to the Druids by another
name, and certainly to the Romans by another, and to the Saxons by another, and
to the Normans by another; and a name more or less in the course of many
centuries can be of little moment to its dusty chronicles.

An ancient city, Cloisterham, and no meet dwelling-place for any one with
hankerings after the noisy world. A monotonous, silent city, deriving an earthy
flavour throughout from its Cathedral crypt, and so abounding in vestiges of
monastic graves, that the Cloisterham children grow small salad in the dust of
abbots and abbesses, and make dirt-pies of nuns and friars; while every
ploughman in its outlying fields renders to once puissant Lord Treasurers,
Archbishops, Bishops, and such-like, the attention which the Ogre in the
story-book desired to render to his unbidden visitor, and grinds their bones to
make his bread.

A drowsy city, Cloisterham, whose inhabitants seem to suppose, with an
inconsistency more strange than rare, that all its changes lie behind it, and
that there are no more to come. A queer moral to derive from antiquity, yet
older than any traceable antiquity. So silent are the streets of Cloisterham
(though prone to echo on the smallest provocation), that of a summer-day the
sunblinds of its shops scarce dare to flap in the south wind; while the
sun-browned tramps, who pass along and stare, quicken their limp a little, that
they may the sooner get beyond the confines of its oppressive respectability.
This is a feat not difficult of achievement, seeing that the streets of
Cloisterham city are little more than one narrow street by which you get into
it and get out of it: the rest being mostly disappointing yards with pumps in
them and no thoroughfare—exception made of the Cathedral-close, and a
paved Quaker settlement, in colour and general confirmation very like a
Quakeress’s bonnet, up in a shady corner.

In a word, a city of another and a bygone time is Cloisterham, with its hoarse
Cathedral-bell, its hoarse rooks hovering about the Cathedral tower, its
hoarser and less distinct rooks in the stalls far beneath. Fragments of old
wall, saint’s chapel, chapter-house, convent and monastery, have got
incongruously or obstructively built into many of its houses and gardens, much
as kindred jumbled notions have become incorporated into many of its
citizens’ minds. All things in it are of the past. Even its single
pawnbroker takes in no pledges, nor has he for a long time, but offers vainly
an unredeemed stock for sale, of which the costlier articles are dim and pale
old watches apparently in a slow perspiration, tarnished sugar-tongs with
ineffectual legs, and odd volumes of dismal books. The most abundant and the
most agreeable evidences of progressing life in Cloisterham are the evidences
of vegetable life in many gardens; even its drooping and despondent little
theatre has its poor strip of garden, receiving the foul fiend, when he ducks
from its stage into the infernal regions, among scarlet-beans or oyster-shells,
according to the season of the year.

In the midst of Cloisterham stands the Nuns’ House: a venerable brick
edifice, whose present appellation is doubtless derived from the legend of its
conventual uses. On the trim gate enclosing its old courtyard is a resplendent
brass plate flashing forth the legend: “Seminary for Young Ladies. Miss
Twinkleton.” The house-front is so old and worn, and the brass plate is
so shining and staring, that the general result has reminded imaginative
strangers of a battered old beau with a large modern eye-glass stuck in his
blind eye.

Whether the nuns of yore, being of a submissive rather than a stiff-necked
generation, habitually bent their contemplative heads to avoid collision with
the beams in the low ceilings of the many chambers of their House; whether they
sat in its long low windows telling their beads for their mortification,
instead of making necklaces of them for their adornment; whether they were ever
walled up alive in odd angles and jutting gables of the building for having
some ineradicable leaven of busy mother Nature in them which has kept the
fermenting world alive ever since; these may be matters of interest to its
haunting ghosts (if any), but constitute no item in Miss Twinkleton’s
half-yearly accounts. They are neither of Miss Twinkleton’s inclusive
regulars, nor of her extras. The lady who undertakes the poetical department of
the establishment at so much (or so little) a quarter has no pieces in her list
of recitals bearing on such unprofitable questions.

As, in some cases of drunkenness, and in others of animal magnetism, there are
two states of consciousness which never clash, but each of which pursues its
separate course as though it were continuous instead of broken (thus, if I hide
my watch when I am drunk, I must be drunk again before I can remember where),
so Miss Twinkleton has two distinct and separate phases of being. Every night,
the moment the young ladies have retired to rest, does Miss Twinkleton smarten
up her curls a little, brighten up her eyes a little, and become a sprightlier
Miss Twinkleton than the young ladies have ever seen. Every night, at the same
hour, does Miss Twinkleton resume the topics of the previous night,
comprehending the tenderer scandal of Cloisterham, of which she has no
knowledge whatever by day, and references to a certain season at Tunbridge
Wells (airily called by Miss Twinkleton in this state of her existence
“The Wells”), notably the season wherein a certain finished
gentleman (compassionately called by Miss Twinkleton, in this stage of her
existence, “Foolish Mr. Porters”) revealed a homage of the heart,
whereof Miss Twinkleton, in her scholastic state of existence, is as ignorant
as a granite pillar. Miss Twinkleton’s companion in both states of
existence, and equally adaptable to either, is one Mrs. Tisher: a deferential
widow with a weak back, a chronic sigh, and a suppressed voice, who looks after
the young ladies’ wardrobes, and leads them to infer that she has seen
better days. Perhaps this is the reason why it is an article of faith with the
servants, handed down from race to race, that the departed Tisher was a
hairdresser.

The pet pupil of the Nuns’ House is Miss Rosa Bud, of course called
Rosebud; wonderfully pretty, wonderfully childish, wonderfully whimsical. An
awkward interest (awkward because romantic) attaches to Miss Bud in the minds
of the young ladies, on account of its being known to them that a husband has
been chosen for her by will and bequest, and that her guardian is bound down to
bestow her on that husband when he comes of age. Miss Twinkleton, in her
seminarial state of existence, has combated the romantic aspect of this destiny
by affecting to shake her head over it behind Miss Bud’s dimpled
shoulders, and to brood on the unhappy lot of that doomed little victim. But
with no better effect—possibly some unfelt touch of foolish Mr. Porters
has undermined the endeavour—than to evoke from the young ladies an
unanimous bedchamber cry of “O, what a pretending old thing Miss
Twinkleton is, my dear!”

The Nuns’ House is never in such a state of flutter as when this allotted
husband calls to see little Rosebud. (It is unanimously understood by the young
ladies that he is lawfully entitled to this privilege, and that if Miss
Twinkleton disputed it, she would be instantly taken up and transported.) When
his ring at the gate-bell is expected, or takes place, every young lady who
can, under any pretence, look out of window, looks out of window; while every
young lady who is “practising,” practises out of time; and the
French class becomes so demoralised that the mark goes round as briskly as the
bottle at a convivial party in the last century.

On the afternoon of the day next after the dinner of two at the gatehouse, the
bell is rung with the usual fluttering results.

“Mr. Edwin Drood to see Miss Rosa.”

This is the announcement of the parlour-maid in chief. Miss Twinkleton, with an
exemplary air of melancholy on her, turns to the sacrifice, and says,
“You may go down, my dear.” Miss Bud goes down, followed by all
eyes.

Mr. Edwin Drood is waiting in Miss Twinkleton’s own parlour: a dainty
room, with nothing more directly scholastic in it than a terrestrial and a
celestial globe. These expressive machines imply (to parents and guardians)
that even when Miss Twinkleton retires into the bosom of privacy, duty may at
any moment compel her to become a sort of Wandering Jewess, scouring the earth
and soaring through the skies in search of knowledge for her pupils.

The last new maid, who has never seen the young gentleman Miss Rosa is engaged
to, and who is making his acquaintance between the hinges of the open door,
left open for the purpose, stumbles guiltily down the kitchen stairs, as a
charming little apparition, with its face concealed by a little silk apron
thrown over its head, glides into the parlour.

“O! it is so ridiculous!” says the apparition, stopping and
shrinking. “Don’t, Eddy!”

“Don’t what, Rosa?”

“Don’t come any nearer, please. It is so absurd.”

“What is absurd, Rosa?”

“The whole thing is. It is so absurd to be an engaged orphan and
it is so absurd to have the girls and the servants scuttling about after
one, like mice in the wainscot; and it is so absurd to be called
upon!”

The apparition appears to have a thumb in the corner of its mouth while making
this complaint.

“You give me an affectionate reception, Pussy, I must say.”

“Well, I will in a minute, Eddy, but I can’t just yet. How are
you?” (very shortly.)

“I am unable to reply that I am much the better for seeing you, Pussy,
inasmuch as I see nothing of you.”

This second remonstrance brings a dark, bright, pouting eye out from a corner
of the apron; but it swiftly becomes invisible again, as the apparition
exclaims: “O good gracious! you have had half your hair cut off!”

“I should have done better to have had my head cut off, I think,”
says Edwin, rumpling the hair in question, with a fierce glance at the
looking-glass, and giving an impatient stamp. “Shall I go?”

“No; you needn’t go just yet, Eddy. The girls would all be asking
questions why you went.”

“Once for all, Rosa, will you uncover that ridiculous little head of
yours and give me a welcome?”

The apron is pulled off the childish head, as its wearer replies:
“You’re very welcome, Eddy. There! I’m sure that’s
nice. Shake hands. No, I can’t kiss you, because I’ve got an
acidulated drop in my mouth.”

“Are you at all glad to see me, Pussy?”

“O, yes, I’m dreadfully glad.—Go and sit down.—Miss
Twinkleton.”

It is the custom of that excellent lady when these visits occur, to appear
every three minutes, either in her own person or in that of Mrs. Tisher, and
lay an offering on the shrine of Propriety by affecting to look for some
desiderated article. On the present occasion Miss Twinkleton, gracefully
gliding in and out, says in passing: “How do you do, Mr. Drood? Very glad
indeed to have the pleasure. Pray excuse me. Tweezers. Thank you!”

“I got the gloves last evening, Eddy, and I like them very much. They are
beauties.”

“Well, that’s something,” the affianced replies, half
grumbling. “The smallest encouragement thankfully received. And how did
you pass your birthday, Pussy?”

“Delightfully! Everybody gave me a present. And we had a feast. And we
had a ball at night.”

“A feast and a ball, eh? These occasions seem to go off tolerably well
without me, Pussy.”

“De-lightfully!” cries Rosa, in a quite spontaneous manner, and
without the least pretence of reserve.

“Hah! And what was the feast?”

“Tarts, oranges, jellies, and shrimps.”

“Any partners at the ball?”

“We danced with one another, of course, sir. But some of the girls made
game to be their brothers. It was so droll!”

“Did anybody make game to be—”

“To be you? O dear yes!” cries Rosa, laughing with great enjoyment.
“That was the first thing done.”

“I hope she did it pretty well,” says Edwin rather doubtfully.

“O, it was excellent!—I wouldn’t dance with you, you
know.”

Edwin scarcely seems to see the force of this; begs to know if he may take the
liberty to ask why?

“Because I was so tired of you,” returns Rosa. But she quickly
adds, and pleadingly too, seeing displeasure in his face: “Dear Eddy, you
were just as tired of me, you know.”

“Did I say so, Rosa?”

“Say so! Do you ever say so? No, you only showed it. O, she did it so
well!” cries Rosa, in a sudden ecstasy with her counterfeit betrothed.

“It strikes me that she must be a devilish impudent girl,” says
Edwin Drood. “And so, Pussy, you have passed your last birthday in this
old house.”

“Ah, yes!” Rosa clasps her hands, looks down with a sigh, and
shakes her head.

“You seem to be sorry, Rosa.”

“I am sorry for the poor old place. Somehow, I feel as if it would miss
me, when I am gone so far away, so young.”

“Perhaps we had better stop short, Rosa?”

She looks up at him with a swift bright look; next moment shakes her head,
sighs, and looks down again.

“That is to say, is it, Pussy, that we are both resigned?”

She nods her head again, and after a short silence, quaintly bursts out with:
“You know we must be married, and married from here, Eddy, or the poor
girls will be so dreadfully disappointed!”

For the moment there is more of compassion, both for her and for himself, in
her affianced husband’s face, than there is of love. He checks the look,
and asks: “Shall I take you out for a walk, Rosa dear?”

Rosa dear does not seem at all clear on this point, until her face, which has
been comically reflective, brightens. “O, yes, Eddy; let us go for a
walk! And I tell you what we’ll do. You shall pretend that you are
engaged to somebody else, and I’ll pretend that I am not engaged to
anybody, and then we shan’t quarrel.”

“Do you think that will prevent our falling out, Rosa?”

“I know it will. Hush! Pretend to look out of window—Mrs.
Tisher!”

Through a fortuitous concourse of accidents, the matronly Tisher heaves in
sight, says, in rustling through the room like the legendary ghost of a dowager
in silken skirts: “I hope I see Mr. Drood well; though I needn’t
ask, if I may judge from his complexion. I trust I disturb no one; but there
was a paper-knife—O, thank you, I am sure!” and disappears
with her prize.

“One other thing you must do, Eddy, to oblige me,” says Rosebud.
“The moment we get into the street, you must put me outside, and keep
close to the house yourself—squeeze and graze yourself against it.”

“By all means, Rosa, if you wish it. Might I ask why?”

“O! because I don’t want the girls to see you.”

“It’s a fine day; but would you like me to carry an umbrella
up?”

“Don’t be foolish, sir. You haven’t got polished leather
boots on,” pouting, with one shoulder raised.

“Perhaps that might escape the notice of the girls, even if they did see
me,” remarks Edwin, looking down at his boots with a sudden distaste for
them.

“Nothing escapes their notice, sir. And then I know what would happen.
Some of them would begin reflecting on me by saying (for they are free)
that they never will on any account engage themselves to lovers without
polished leather boots. Hark! Miss Twinkleton. I’ll ask for leave.”

That discreet lady being indeed heard without, inquiring of nobody in a blandly
conversational tone as she advances: “Eh? Indeed! Are you quite sure you
saw my mother-of-pearl button-holder on the work-table in my room?” is at
once solicited for walking leave, and graciously accords it. And soon the young
couple go out of the Nuns’ House, taking all precautions against the
discovery of the so vitally defective boots of Mr. Edwin Drood: precautions,
let us hope, effective for the peace of Mrs. Edwin Drood that is to be.

“Which way shall we take, Rosa?”

Rosa replies: “I want to go to the Lumps-of-Delight shop.”

“To the—?”

“A Turkish sweetmeat, sir. My gracious me, don’t you understand
anything? Call yourself an Engineer, and not know that?”

“Why, how should I know it, Rosa?”

“Because I am very fond of them. But O! I forgot what we are to pretend.
No, you needn’t know anything about them; never mind.”

So he is gloomily borne off to the Lumps-of-Delight shop, where Rosa makes her
purchase, and, after offering some to him (which he rather indignantly
declines), begins to partake of it with great zest: previously taking off and
rolling up a pair of little pink gloves, like rose-leaves, and occasionally
putting her little pink fingers to her rosy lips, to cleanse them from the Dust
of Delight that comes off the Lumps.

“Now, be a good-tempered Eddy, and pretend. And so you are
engaged?”

“And so I am engaged.”

“Is she nice?”

“Charming.”

“Tall?”

“Immensely tall!” Rosa being short.

“Must be gawky, I should think,” is Rosa’s quiet commentary.

“I beg your pardon; not at all,” contradiction rising in him.

“What is termed a fine woman; a splendid woman.”

“Big nose, no doubt,” is the quiet commentary again.

“Not a little one, certainly,” is the quick reply, (Rosa’s
being a little one.)

“Long pale nose, with a red knob in the middle. I know the sort of
nose,” says Rosa, with a satisfied nod, and tranquilly enjoying the
Lumps.

“You don’t know the sort of nose, Rosa,” with some
warmth; “because it’s nothing of the kind.”

“Not a pale nose, Eddy?”

“No.” Determined not to assent.

“A red nose? O! I don’t like red noses. However; to be sure she can
always powder it.”

“She would scorn to powder it,” says Edwin, becoming heated.

“Would she? What a stupid thing she must be! Is she stupid in
everything?”

“No; in nothing.”

After a pause, in which the whimsically wicked face has not been unobservant of
him, Rosa says:

“And this most sensible of creatures likes the idea of being carried off
to Egypt; does she, Eddy?”

“Yes. She takes a sensible interest in triumphs of engineering skill:
especially when they are to change the whole condition of an undeveloped
country.”

“Lor!” says Rosa, shrugging her shoulders, with a little laugh of
wonder.

“Do you object,” Edwin inquires, with a majestic turn of his eyes
downward upon the fairy figure: “do you object, Rosa, to her feeling that
interest?”

“Object? my dear Eddy! But really, doesn’t she hate boilers and
things?”

“I can answer for her not being so idiotic as to hate Boilers,” he
returns with angry emphasis; “though I cannot answer for her views about
Things; really not understanding what Things are meant.”

“But don’t she hate Arabs, and Turks, and Fellahs, and
people?”

“Certainly not.” Very firmly.

“At least she must hate the Pyramids? Come, Eddy?”

“Why should she be such a little—tall, I mean—goose, as to
hate the Pyramids, Rosa?”

“Ah! you should hear Miss Twinkleton,” often nodding her head, and
much enjoying the Lumps, “bore about them, and then you wouldn’t
ask. Tiresome old burying-grounds! Isises, and Ibises, and Cheopses, and
Pharaohses; who cares about them? And then there was Belzoni, or somebody,
dragged out by the legs, half-choked with bats and dust. All the girls say:
Serve him right, and hope it hurt him, and wish he had been quite
choked.”

The two youthful figures, side by side, but not now arm-in-arm, wander
discontentedly about the old Close; and each sometimes stops and slowly
imprints a deeper footstep in the fallen leaves.

“Well!” says Edwin, after a lengthy silence. “According to
custom. We can’t get on, Rosa.”

Rosa tosses her head, and says she don’t want to get on.

“That’s a pretty sentiment, Rosa, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“If I say what, you’ll go wrong again.”

“You’ll go wrong, you mean, Eddy. Don’t be
ungenerous.”

“Ungenerous! I like that!”

“Then I don’t like that, and so I tell you plainly,”
Rosa pouts.

“Now, Rosa, I put it to you. Who disparaged my profession, my
destination—”

“You are not going to be buried in the Pyramids, I hope?” she
interrupts, arching her delicate eyebrows. “You never said you were. If
you are, why haven’t you mentioned it to me? I can’t find out your
plans by instinct.”

“Now, Rosa, you know very well what I mean, my dear.”

“Well then, why did you begin with your detestable red-nosed giantesses?
And she would, she would, she would, she would, she WOULD powder
it!” cries Rosa, in a little burst of comical contradictory spleen.

“Somehow or other, I never can come right in these discussions,”
says Edwin, sighing and becoming resigned.

“How is it possible, sir, that you ever can come right when you’re
always wrong? And as to Belzoni, I suppose he’s dead;—I’m
sure I hope he is—and how can his legs or his chokes concern you?”

“It is nearly time for your return, Rosa. We have not had a very happy
walk, have we?”

“A happy walk? A detestably unhappy walk, sir. If I go up-stairs the
moment I get in and cry till I can’t take my dancing lesson, you are
responsible, mind!”

“Let us be friends, Rosa.”

“Ah!” cries Rosa, shaking her head and bursting into real tears,
“I wish we could be friends! It’s because we can’t be
friends, that we try one another so. I am a young little thing, Eddy, to have
an old heartache; but I really, really have, sometimes. Don’t be angry. I
know you have one yourself too often. We should both of us have done better, if
What is to be had been left What might have been. I am quite a little serious
thing now, and not teasing you. Let each of us forbear, this one time, on our
own account, and on the other’s!”

Disarmed by this glimpse of a woman’s nature in the spoilt child, though
for an instant disposed to resent it as seeming to involve the enforced
infliction of himself upon her, Edwin Drood stands watching her as she
childishly cries and sobs, with both hands to the handkerchief at her eyes, and
then—she becoming more composed, and indeed beginning in her young
inconstancy to laugh at herself for having been so moved—leads her to a
seat hard by, under the elm-trees.

Under the trees

“One clear word of understanding, Pussy dear. I am not clever out of my
own line—now I come to think of it, I don’t know that I am
particularly clever in it—but I want to do right. There is
not—there may be—I really don’t see my way to what I want to
say, but I must say it before we part—there is not any other
young—”

“O no, Eddy! It’s generous of you to ask me; but no, no, no!”

They have come very near to the Cathedral windows, and at this moment the organ
and the choir sound out sublimely. As they sit listening to the solemn swell,
the confidence of last night rises in young Edwin Drood’s mind, and he
thinks how unlike this music is to that discordance.

“I fancy I can distinguish Jack’s voice,” is his remark in a
low tone in connection with the train of thought.

“Take me back at once, please,” urges his Affianced, quickly laying
her light hand upon his wrist. “They will all be coming out directly; let
us get away. O, what a resounding chord! But don’t let us stop to listen
to it; let us get away!”

Her hurry is over as soon as they have passed out of the Close. They go
arm-in-arm now, gravely and deliberately enough, along the old High-street, to
the Nuns’ House. At the gate, the street being within sight empty, Edwin
bends down his face to Rosebud’s.

She remonstrates, laughing, and is a childish schoolgirl again.

“Eddy, no! I’m too sticky to be kissed. But give me your hand, and
I’ll blow a kiss into that.”

He does so. She breathes a light breath into it and asks, retaining it and
looking into it:—

“Now say, what do you see?”

“See, Rosa?”

“Why, I thought you Egyptian boys could look into a hand and see all
sorts of phantoms. Can’t you see a happy Future?”

For certain, neither of them sees a happy Present, as the gate opens and
closes, and one goes in, and the other goes away.

CHAPTER IV.
MR. SAPSEA

Accepting the Jackass as the type of self-sufficient stupidity and
conceit—a custom, perhaps, like some few other customs, more conventional
than fair—then the purest jackass in Cloisterham is Mr. Thomas Sapsea,
Auctioneer.

Mr. Sapsea “dresses at” the Dean; has been bowed to for the Dean,
in mistake; has even been spoken to in the street as My Lord, under the
impression that he was the Bishop come down unexpectedly, without his chaplain.
Mr. Sapsea is very proud of this, and of his voice, and of his style. He has
even (in selling landed property) tried the experiment of slightly intoning in
his pulpit, to make himself more like what he takes to be the genuine
ecclesiastical article. So, in ending a Sale by Public Auction, Mr. Sapsea
finishes off with an air of bestowing a benediction on the assembled brokers,
which leaves the real Dean—a modest and worthy gentleman—far
behind.

Mr. Sapsea has many admirers; indeed, the proposition is carried by a large
local majority, even including non-believers in his wisdom, that he is a credit
to Cloisterham. He possesses the great qualities of being portentous and dull,
and of having a roll in his speech, and another roll in his gait; not to
mention a certain gravely flowing action with his hands, as if he were
presently going to Confirm the individual with whom he holds discourse. Much
nearer sixty years of age than fifty, with a flowing outline of stomach, and
horizontal creases in his waistcoat; reputed to be rich; voting at elections in
the strictly respectable interest; morally satisfied that nothing but he
himself has grown since he was a baby; how can dunder-headed Mr. Sapsea be
otherwise than a credit to Cloisterham, and society?

Mr. Sapsea’s premises are in the High-street, over against the
Nuns’ House. They are of about the period of the Nuns’ House,
irregularly modernised here and there, as steadily deteriorating generations
found, more and more, that they preferred air and light to Fever and the
Plague. Over the doorway is a wooden effigy, about half life-size, representing
Mr. Sapsea’s father, in a curly wig and toga, in the act of selling. The
chastity of the idea, and the natural appearance of the little finger, hammer,
and pulpit, have been much admired.

Mr. Sapsea sits in his dull ground-floor sitting-room, giving first on his
paved back yard; and then on his railed-off garden. Mr. Sapsea has a bottle of
port wine on a table before the fire—the fire is an early luxury, but
pleasant on the cool, chilly autumn evening—and is characteristically
attended by his portrait, his eight-day clock, and his weather-glass.
Characteristically, because he would uphold himself against mankind, his
weather-glass against weather, and his clock against time.

By Mr. Sapsea’s side on the table are a writing-desk and writing
materials. Glancing at a scrap of manuscript, Mr. Sapsea reads it to himself
with a lofty air, and then, slowly pacing the room with his thumbs in the
arm-holes of his waistcoat, repeats it from memory: so internally, though with
much dignity, that the word “Ethelinda” is alone audible.

There are three clean wineglasses in a tray on the table. His serving-maid
entering, and announcing “Mr. Jasper is come, sir,” Mr. Sapsea
waves “Admit him,” and draws two wineglasses from the rank, as
being claimed.

“Glad to see you, sir. I congratulate myself on having the honour of
receiving you here for the first time.” Mr. Sapsea does the honours of
his house in this wise.

“You are very good. The honour is mine and the self-congratulation is
mine.”

“You are pleased to say so, sir. But I do assure you that it is a
satisfaction to me to receive you in my humble home. And that is what I would
not say to everybody.” Ineffable loftiness on Mr. Sapsea’s part
accompanies these words, as leaving the sentence to be understood: “You
will not easily believe that your society can be a satisfaction to a man like
myself; nevertheless, it is.”

“I have for some time desired to know you, Mr. Sapsea.”

“And I, sir, have long known you by reputation as a man of taste. Let me
fill your glass. I will give you, sir,” says Mr. Sapsea, filling his own:

“When the French come over,
May we meet them at Dover!”

This was a patriotic toast in Mr. Sapsea’s infancy, and he is therefore
fully convinced of its being appropriate to any subsequent era.

“You can scarcely be ignorant, Mr. Sapsea,” observes Jasper,
watching the auctioneer with a smile as the latter stretches out his legs
before the fire, “that you know the world.”

“Well, sir,” is the chuckling reply, “I think I know
something of it; something of it.”

“Your reputation for that knowledge has always interested and surprised
me, and made me wish to know you. For Cloisterham is a little place. Cooped up
in it myself, I know nothing beyond it, and feel it to be a very little
place.”

“If I have not gone to foreign countries, young man,” Mr. Sapsea
begins, and then stops:—“You will excuse me calling you young man,
Mr. Jasper? You are much my junior.”

“By all means.”

“If I have not gone to foreign countries, young man, foreign countries
have come to me. They have come to me in the way of business, and I have
improved upon my opportunities. Put it that I take an inventory, or make a
catalogue. I see a French clock. I never saw him before, in my life, but I
instantly lay my finger on him and say ‘Paris!’ I see some cups and
saucers of Chinese make, equally strangers to me personally: I put my finger on
them, then and there, and I say ‘Pekin, Nankin, and Canton.’ It is
the same with Japan, with Egypt, and with bamboo and sandalwood from the East
Indies; I put my finger on them all. I have put my finger on the North Pole
before now, and said ‘Spear of Esquimaux make, for half a pint of pale
sherry!’”

“Really? A very remarkable way, Mr. Sapsea, of acquiring a knowledge of
men and things.”

“I mention it, sir,” Mr. Sapsea rejoins, with unspeakable
complacency, “because, as I say, it don’t do to boast of what you
are; but show how you came to be it, and then you prove it.”

“Most interesting. We were to speak of the late Mrs. Sapsea.”

“We were, sir.” Mr. Sapsea fills both glasses, and takes the
decanter into safe keeping again. “Before I consult your opinion as a man
of taste on this little trifle”—holding it up—“which is
but a trifle, and still has required some thought, sir, some little
fever of the brow, I ought perhaps to describe the character of the late Mrs.
Sapsea, now dead three quarters of a year.”

Mr. Jasper, in the act of yawning behind his wineglass, puts down that screen
and calls up a look of interest. It is a little impaired in its expressiveness
by his having a shut-up gape still to dispose of, with watering eyes.

“Half a dozen years ago, or so,” Mr. Sapsea proceeds, “when I
had enlarged my mind up to—I will not say to what it now is, for that
might seem to aim at too much, but up to the pitch of wanting another mind to
be absorbed in it—I cast my eye about me for a nuptial partner. Because,
as I say, it is not good for man to be alone.”

Mr. Jasper appears to commit this original idea to memory.

“Miss Brobity at that time kept, I will not call it the rival
establishment to the establishment at the Nuns’ House opposite, but I
will call it the other parallel establishment down town. The world did have it
that she showed a passion for attending my sales, when they took place on half
holidays, or in vacation time. The world did put it about, that she admired my
style. The world did notice that as time flowed by, my style became traceable
in the dictation-exercises of Miss Brobity’s pupils. Young man, a whisper
even sprang up in obscure malignity, that one ignorant and besotted Churl (a
parent) so committed himself as to object to it by name. But I do not believe
this. For is it likely that any human creature in his right senses would so lay
himself open to be pointed at, by what I call the finger of scorn?”

Mr. Jasper shakes his head. Not in the least likely. Mr. Sapsea, in a
grandiloquent state of absence of mind, seems to refill his visitor’s
glass, which is full already; and does really refill his own, which is empty.

“Miss Brobity’s Being, young man, was deeply imbued with homage to
Mind. She revered Mind, when launched, or, as I say, precipitated, on an
extensive knowledge of the world. When I made my proposal, she did me the
honour to be so overshadowed with a species of Awe, as to be able to articulate
only the two words, ‘O Thou!’ meaning myself. Her limpid blue eyes
were fixed upon me, her semi-transparent hands were clasped together, pallor
overspread her aquiline features, and, though encouraged to proceed, she never
did proceed a word further. I disposed of the parallel establishment by private
contract, and we became as nearly one as could be expected under the
circumstances. But she never could, and she never did, find a phrase
satisfactory to her perhaps-too-favourable estimate of my intellect. To the
very last (feeble action of liver), she addressed me in the same unfinished
terms.”

Mr. Jasper has closed his eyes as the auctioneer has deepened his voice. He now
abruptly opens them, and says, in unison with the deepened voice
“Ah!”—rather as if stopping himself on the extreme verge of
adding—“men!”

“I have been since,” says Mr. Sapsea, with his legs stretched out,
and solemnly enjoying himself with the wine and the fire, “what you
behold me; I have been since a solitary mourner; I have been since, as I say,
wasting my evening conversation on the desert air. I will not say that I have
reproached myself; but there have been times when I have asked myself the
question: What if her husband had been nearer on a level with her? If she had
not had to look up quite so high, what might the stimulating action have been
upon the liver?”

Mr. Jasper says, with an appearance of having fallen into dreadfully low
spirits, that he “supposes it was to be.”

“We can only suppose so, sir,” Mr. Sapsea coincides. “As I
say, Man proposes, Heaven disposes. It may or may not be putting the same
thought in another form; but that is the way I put it.”

Mr. Jasper murmurs assent.

“And now, Mr. Jasper,” resumes the auctioneer, producing his scrap
of manuscript, “Mrs. Sapsea’s monument having had full time to
settle and dry, let me take your opinion, as a man of taste, on the inscription
I have (as I before remarked, not without some little fever of the brow) drawn
out for it. Take it in your own hand. The setting out of the lines requires to
be followed with the eye, as well as the contents with the mind.”

Mr. Jasper complying, sees and reads as follows:

ETHELINDA,
Reverential Wife of
MR. THOMAS SAPSEA,
AUCTIONEER, VALUER, ESTATE AGENT, &c.,
OF THIS CITY.
Whose Knowledge of the World,
Though somewhat extensive,
Never brought him acquainted with
A SPIRIT
More capable of
LOOKING UP TO HIM.
STRANGER, PAUSE
And ask thyself the Question,
CANST THOU DO LIKEWISE?
If Not,
WITH A BLUSH RETIRE.

Mr. Sapsea having risen and stationed himself with his back to the fire, for
the purpose of observing the effect of these lines on the countenance of a man
of taste, consequently has his face towards the door, when his serving-maid,
again appearing, announces, “Durdles is come, sir!” He promptly
draws forth and fills the third wineglass, as being now claimed, and replies,
“Show Durdles in.”

“Admirable!” quoth Mr. Jasper, handing back the paper.

“You approve, sir?”

“Impossible not to approve. Striking, characteristic, and
complete.”

The auctioneer inclines his head, as one accepting his due and giving a
receipt; and invites the entering Durdles to take off that glass of wine
(handing the same), for it will warm him.

Durdles is a stonemason; chiefly in the gravestone, tomb, and monument way, and
wholly of their colour from head to foot. No man is better known in
Cloisterham. He is the chartered libertine of the place. Fame trumpets him a
wonderful workman—which, for aught that anybody knows, he may be (as he
never works); and a wonderful sot—which everybody knows he is. With the
Cathedral crypt he is better acquainted than any living authority; it may even
be than any dead one. It is said that the intimacy of this acquaintance began
in his habitually resorting to that secret place, to lock-out the Cloisterham
boy-populace, and sleep off fumes of liquor: he having ready access to the
Cathedral, as contractor for rough repairs. Be this as it may, he does know
much about it, and, in the demolition of impedimental fragments of wall,
buttress, and pavement, has seen strange sights. He often speaks of himself in
the third person; perhaps, being a little misty as to his own identity, when he
narrates; perhaps impartially adopting the Cloisterham nomenclature in
reference to a character of acknowledged distinction. Thus he will say,
touching his strange sights: “Durdles come upon the old chap,” in
reference to a buried magnate of ancient time and high degree, “by
striking right into the coffin with his pick. The old chap gave Durdles a look
with his open eyes, as much as to say, ‘Is your name Durdles? Why, my
man, I’ve been waiting for you a devil of a time!’ And then he
turned to powder.” With a two-foot rule always in his pocket, and a
mason’s hammer all but always in his hand, Durdles goes continually
sounding and tapping all about and about the Cathedral; and whenever he says to
Tope: “Tope, here’s another old ’un in here!” Tope
announces it to the Dean as an established discovery.

In a suit of coarse flannel with horn buttons, a yellow neckerchief with
draggled ends, an old hat more russet-coloured than black, and laced boots of
the hue of his stony calling, Durdles leads a hazy, gipsy sort of life,
carrying his dinner about with him in a small bundle, and sitting on all manner
of tombstones to dine. This dinner of Durdles’s has become quite a
Cloisterham institution: not only because of his never appearing in public
without it, but because of its having been, on certain renowned occasions,
taken into custody along with Durdles (as drunk and incapable), and exhibited
before the Bench of justices at the townhall. These occasions, however, have
been few and far apart: Durdles being as seldom drunk as sober. For the rest,
he is an old bachelor, and he lives in a little antiquated hole of a house that
was never finished: supposed to be built, so far, of stones stolen from the
city wall. To this abode there is an approach, ankle-deep in stone chips,
resembling a petrified grove of tombstones, urns, draperies, and broken
columns, in all stages of sculpture. Herein two journeymen incessantly chip,
while other two journeymen, who face each other, incessantly saw stone; dipping
as regularly in and out of their sheltering sentry-boxes, as if they were
mechanical figures emblematical of Time and Death.

To Durdles, when he had consumed his glass of port, Mr. Sapsea intrusts that
precious effort of his Muse. Durdles unfeelingly takes out his two-foot rule,
and measures the lines calmly, alloying them with stone-grit.

“This is for the monument, is it, Mr. Sapsea?”

“The Inscription. Yes.” Mr. Sapsea waits for its effect on a common
mind.

“It’ll come in to a eighth of a inch,” says Durdles.
“Your servant, Mr. Jasper. Hope I see you well.”

“How are you Durdles?”

“I’ve got a touch of the Tombatism on me, Mr. Jasper, but that I
must expect.”

“You mean the Rheumatism,” says Sapsea, in a sharp tone. (He is
nettled by having his composition so mechanically received.)

“No, I don’t. I mean, Mr. Sapsea, the Tombatism. It’s another
sort from Rheumatism. Mr. Jasper knows what Durdles means. You get among them
Tombs afore it’s well light on a winter morning, and keep on, as the
Catechism says, a-walking in the same all the days of your life, and
you’ll know what Durdles means.”

“It is a bitter cold place,” Mr. Jasper assents, with an
antipathetic shiver.

“And if it’s bitter cold for you, up in the chancel, with a lot of
live breath smoking out about you, what the bitterness is to Durdles, down in
the crypt among the earthy damps there, and the dead breath of the old
’uns,” returns that individual, “Durdles leaves you to
judge.—Is this to be put in hand at once, Mr. Sapsea?”

Mr. Sapsea, with an Author’s anxiety to rush into publication, replies
that it cannot be out of hand too soon.

“You had better let me have the key then,” says Durdles.

“Why, man, it is not to be put inside the monument!”

“Durdles knows where it’s to be put, Mr. Sapsea; no man better. Ask
’ere a man in Cloisterham whether Durdles knows his work.”

Mr. Sapsea rises, takes a key from a drawer, unlocks an iron safe let into the
wall, and takes from it another key.

“When Durdles puts a touch or a finish upon his work, no matter where,
inside or outside, Durdles likes to look at his work all round, and see that
his work is a-doing him credit,” Durdles explains, doggedly.

The key proffered him by the bereaved widower being a large one, he slips his
two-foot rule into a side-pocket of his flannel trousers made for it, and
deliberately opens his flannel coat, and opens the mouth of a large
breast-pocket within it before taking the key to place it in that repository.

“Why, Durdles!” exclaims Jasper, looking on amused, “you are
undermined with pockets!”

“And I carries weight in ’em too, Mr. Jasper. Feel those!”
producing two other large keys.

“Hand me Mr. Sapsea’s likewise. Surely this is the heaviest of the
three.”

“You’ll find ’em much of a muchness, I expect,” says
Durdles. “They all belong to monuments. They all open Durdles’s
work. Durdles keeps the keys of his work mostly. Not that they’re much
used.”

“By the bye,” it comes into Jasper’s mind to say, as he idly
examines the keys, “I have been going to ask you, many a day, and have
always forgotten. You know they sometimes call you Stony Durdles, don’t
you?”

“Cloisterham knows me as Durdles, Mr. Jasper.”

“I am aware of that, of course. But the boys sometimes—”

“O! if you mind them young imps of boys—” Durdles gruffly
interrupts.

“I don’t mind them any more than you do. But there was a discussion
the other day among the Choir, whether Stony stood for Tony;” clinking
one key against another.

(“Take care of the wards, Mr. Jasper.”)

“Or whether Stony stood for Stephen;” clinking with a change of
keys.

(“You can’t make a pitch pipe of ’em, Mr. Jasper.”)

“Or whether the name comes from your trade. How stands the fact?”

Mr. Jasper weighs the three keys in his hand, lifts his head from his idly
stooping attitude over the fire, and delivers the keys to Durdles with an
ingenuous and friendly face.

But the stony one is a gruff one likewise, and that hazy state of his is always
an uncertain state, highly conscious of its dignity, and prone to take offence.
He drops his two keys back into his pocket one by one, and buttons them up; he
takes his dinner-bundle from the chair-back on which he hung it when he came
in; he distributes the weight he carries, by tying the third key up in it, as
though he were an Ostrich, and liked to dine off cold iron; and he gets out of
the room, deigning no word of answer.

Mr. Sapsea then proposes a hit at backgammon, which, seasoned with his own
improving conversation, and terminating in a supper of cold roast beef and
salad, beguiles the golden evening until pretty late. Mr. Sapsea’s wisdom
being, in its delivery to mortals, rather of the diffuse than the epigrammatic
order, is by no means expended even then; but his visitor intimates that he
will come back for more of the precious commodity on future occasions, and Mr.
Sapsea lets him off for the present, to ponder on the instalment he carries
away.

CHAPTER V.
MR. DURDLES AND FRIEND

John Jasper, on his way home through the Close, is brought to a stand-still by
the spectacle of Stony Durdles, dinner-bundle and all, leaning his back against
the iron railing of the burial-ground enclosing it from the old
cloister-arches; and a hideous small boy in rags flinging stones at him as a
well-defined mark in the moonlight. Sometimes the stones hit him, and sometimes
they miss him, but Durdles seems indifferent to either fortune. The hideous
small boy, on the contrary, whenever he hits Durdles, blows a whistle of
triumph through a jagged gap, convenient for the purpose, in the front of his
mouth, where half his teeth are wanting; and whenever he misses him, yelps out
“Mulled agin!” and tries to atone for the failure by taking a more
correct and vicious aim.

“What are you doing to the man?” demands Jasper, stepping out into
the moonlight from the shade.

“Making a cock-shy of him,” replies the hideous small boy.

“Give me those stones in your hand.”

“Yes, I’ll give ’em you down your throat, if you come
a-ketching hold of me,” says the small boy, shaking himself loose, and
backing. “I’ll smash your eye, if you don’t look out!”

“Baby-Devil that you are, what has the man done to you?”

“He won’t go home.”

“What is that to you?”

“He gives me a ’apenny to pelt him home if I ketches him out too
late,” says the boy. And then chants, like a little savage, half
stumbling and half dancing among the rags and laces of his dilapidated
boots:—

“Widdy widdy wen!
I—ket—ches—Im—out—ar—ter—ten,
Widdy widdy wy!
Then—E—don’t—go—then—I—shy—
Widdy Widdy Wake-cock warning!”

—with a comprehensive sweep on the last word, and one more delivery at
Durdles.

This would seem to be a poetical note of preparation, agreed upon, as a caution
to Durdles to stand clear if he can, or to betake himself homeward.

John Jasper invites the boy with a beck of his head to follow him (feeling it
hopeless to drag him, or coax him), and crosses to the iron railing where the
Stony (and stoned) One is profoundly meditating.

“Do you know this thing, this child?” asks Jasper, at a loss for a
word that will define this thing.

“Deputy,” says Durdles, with a nod.

“Is that its—his—name?”

“Deputy,” assents Durdles.

“I’m man-servant up at the Travellers’ Twopenny in Gas Works
Garding,” this thing explains. “All us man-servants at
Travellers’ Lodgings is named Deputy. When we’re chock full and the
Travellers is all a-bed I come out for my ’elth.” Then withdrawing
into the road, and taking aim, he resumes:—

“Widdy widdy wen!
I—ket—ches—Im—out—ar—ter—”

“Hold your hand,” cries Jasper, “and don’t throw while
I stand so near him, or I’ll kill you! Come, Durdles; let me walk home
with you to-night. Shall I carry your bundle?”

“Not on any account,” replies Durdles, adjusting it. “Durdles
was making his reflections here when you come up, sir, surrounded by his works,
like a poplar Author.—Your own brother-in-law;” introducing a
sarcophagus within the railing, white and cold in the moonlight. “Mrs.
Sapsea;” introducing the monument of that devoted wife. “Late
Incumbent;” introducing the Reverend Gentleman’s broken column.
“Departed Assessed Taxes;” introducing a vase and towel, standing
on what might represent the cake of soap. “Former pastrycook and
Muffin-maker, much respected;” introducing gravestone. “All safe
and sound here, sir, and all Durdles’s work. Of the common folk, that is
merely bundled up in turf and brambles, the less said the better. A poor lot,
soon forgot.”

“This creature, Deputy, is behind us,” says Jasper, looking back.
“Is he to follow us?”

The relations between Durdles and Deputy are of a capricious kind; for, on
Durdles’s turning himself about with the slow gravity of beery
suddenness, Deputy makes a pretty wide circuit into the road and stands on the
defensive.

“You never cried Widdy Warning before you begun to-night,” says
Durdles, unexpectedly reminded of, or imagining, an injury.

“Yer lie, I did,” says Deputy, in his only form of polite
contradiction.

“Own brother, sir,” observes Durdles, turning himself about again,
and as unexpectedly forgetting his offence as he had recalled or conceived it;
“own brother to Peter the Wild Boy! But I gave him an object in
life.”

“At which he takes aim?” Mr. Jasper suggests.

“That’s it, sir,” returns Durdles, quite satisfied; “at
which he takes aim. I took him in hand and gave him an object. What was he
before? A destroyer. What work did he do? Nothing but destruction. What did he
earn by it? Short terms in Cloisterham jail. Not a person, not a piece of
property, not a winder, not a horse, nor a dog, nor a cat, nor a bird, nor a
fowl, nor a pig, but what he stoned, for want of an enlightened object. I put
that enlightened object before him, and now he can turn his honest halfpenny by
the three penn’orth a week.”

“I wonder he has no competitors.”

“He has plenty, Mr. Jasper, but he stones ’em all away. Now, I
don’t know what this scheme of mine comes to,” pursues Durdles,
considering about it with the same sodden gravity; “I don’t know
what you may precisely call it. It ain’t a sort of a—scheme of
a—National Education?”

“I should say not,” replies Jasper.

“I should say not,” assents Durdles; “then we won’t try
to give it a name.”

“He still keeps behind us,” repeats Jasper, looking over his
shoulder; “is he to follow us?”

“We can’t help going round by the Travellers’ Twopenny, if we
go the short way, which is the back way,” Durdles answers, “and
we’ll drop him there.”

So they go on; Deputy, as a rear rank one, taking open order, and invading the
silence of the hour and place by stoning every wall, post, pillar, and other
inanimate object, by the deserted way.

“Is there anything new down in the crypt, Durdles?” asks John
Jasper.

“Anything old, I think you mean,” growls Durdles. “It
ain’t a spot for novelty.”

“Any new discovery on your part, I meant.”

“There’s a old ’un under the seventh pillar on the left as
you go down the broken steps of the little underground chapel as formerly was;
I make him out (so fur as I’ve made him out yet) to be one of them old
’uns with a crook. To judge from the size of the passages in the walls,
and of the steps and doors, by which they come and went, them crooks must have
been a good deal in the way of the old ’uns! Two on ’em meeting
promiscuous must have hitched one another by the mitre pretty often, I should
say.”

Without any endeavour to correct the literality of this opinion, Jasper surveys
his companion—covered from head to foot with old mortar, lime, and stone
grit—as though he, Jasper, were getting imbued with a romantic interest
in his weird life.

“Yours is a curious existence.”

Without furnishing the least clue to the question, whether he receives this as
a compliment or as quite the reverse, Durdles gruffly answers: “Yours is
another.”

“Well! inasmuch as my lot is cast in the same old earthy, chilly,
never-changing place, Yes. But there is much more mystery and interest in your
connection with the Cathedral than in mine. Indeed, I am beginning to have some
idea of asking you to take me on as a sort of student, or free ’prentice,
under you, and to let me go about with you sometimes, and see some of these odd
nooks in which you pass your days.”

The Stony One replies, in a general way, “All right. Everybody knows
where to find Durdles, when he’s wanted.” Which, if not strictly
true, is approximately so, if taken to express that Durdles may always be found
in a state of vagabondage somewhere.

“What I dwell upon most,” says Jasper, pursuing his subject of
romantic interest, “is the remarkable accuracy with which you would seem
to find out where people are buried.—What is the matter? That bundle is
in your way; let me hold it.”

Durdles has stopped and backed a little (Deputy, attentive to all his
movements, immediately skirmishing into the road), and was looking about for
some ledge or corner to place his bundle on, when thus relieved of it.

“Just you give me my hammer out of that,” says Durdles, “and
I’ll show you.”

Clink, clink. And his hammer is handed him.

“Now, lookee here. You pitch your note, don’t you, Mr.
Jasper?”

“Yes.”

“So I sound for mine. I take my hammer, and I tap.” (Here he
strikes the pavement, and the attentive Deputy skirmishes at a rather wider
range, as supposing that his head may be in requisition.) “I tap, tap,
tap. Solid! I go on tapping. Solid still! Tap again. Holloa! Hollow! Tap again,
persevering. Solid in hollow! Tap, tap, tap, to try it better. Solid in hollow;
and inside solid, hollow again! There you are! Old ’un crumbled away in
stone coffin, in vault!”

“Astonishing!”

“I have even done this,” says Durdles, drawing out his two-foot
rule (Deputy meanwhile skirmishing nearer, as suspecting that Treasure may be
about to be discovered, which may somehow lead to his own enrichment, and the
delicious treat of the discoverers being hanged by the neck, on his evidence,
until they are dead). “Say that hammer of mine’s a wall—my
work. Two; four; and two is six,” measuring on the pavement. “Six
foot inside that wall is Mrs. Sapsea.”

“Not really Mrs. Sapsea?”

“Say Mrs. Sapsea. Her wall’s thicker, but say Mrs. Sapsea. Durdles
taps, that wall represented by that hammer, and says, after good sounding:
‘Something betwixt us!’ Sure enough, some rubbish has been left in
that same six-foot space by Durdles’s men!”

Jasper opines that such accuracy “is a gift.”

“I wouldn’t have it at a gift,” returns Durdles, by no means
receiving the observation in good part. “I worked it out for myself.
Durdles comes by his knowledge through grubbing deep for it, and having
it up by the roots when it don’t want to come.—Holloa you
Deputy!”

“Widdy!” is Deputy’s shrill response, standing off again.

“Catch that ha’penny. And don’t let me see any more of you
to-night, after we come to the Travellers’ Twopenny.”

“Warning!” returns Deputy, having caught the halfpenny, and
appearing by this mystic word to express his assent to the arrangement.

They have but to cross what was once the vineyard, belonging to what was once
the Monastery, to come into the narrow back lane wherein stands the crazy
wooden house of two low stories currently known as the Travellers’
Twopenny:—a house all warped and distorted, like the morals of the
travellers, with scant remains of a lattice-work porch over the door, and also
of a rustic fence before its stamped-out garden; by reason of the travellers
being so bound to the premises by a tender sentiment (or so fond of having a
fire by the roadside in the course of the day), that they can never be
persuaded or threatened into departure, without violently possessing themselves
of some wooden forget-me-not, and bearing it off.

The semblance of an inn is attempted to be given to this wretched place by
fragments of conventional red curtaining in the windows, which rags are made
muddily transparent in the night-season by feeble lights of rush or cotton dip
burning dully in the close air of the inside. As Durdles and Jasper come near,
they are addressed by an inscribed paper lantern over the door, setting forth
the purport of the house. They are also addressed by some half-dozen other
hideous small boys—whether twopenny lodgers or followers or hangers-on of
such, who knows!—who, as if attracted by some carrion-scent of Deputy in
the air, start into the moonlight, as vultures might gather in the desert, and
instantly fall to stoning him and one another.

“Stop, you young brutes,” cries Jasper angrily, “and let us
go by!”

This remonstrance being received with yells and flying stones, according to a
custom of late years comfortably established among the police regulations of
our English communities, where Christians are stoned on all sides, as if the
days of Saint Stephen were revived, Durdles remarks of the young savages, with
some point, that “they haven’t got an object,” and leads the
way down the lane.

At the corner of the lane, Jasper, hotly enraged, checks his companion and
looks back. All is silent. Next moment, a stone coming rattling at his hat, and
a distant yell of “Wake-Cock! Warning!” followed by a crow, as from
some infernally-hatched Chanticleer, apprising him under whose victorious fire
he stands, he turns the corner into safety, and takes Durdles home: Durdles
stumbling among the litter of his stony yard as if he were going to turn head
foremost into one of the unfinished tombs.

John Jasper returns by another way to his gatehouse, and entering softly with
his key, finds his fire still burning. He takes from a locked press a
peculiar-looking pipe, which he fills—but not with tobacco—and,
having adjusted the contents of the bowl, very carefully, with a little
instrument, ascends an inner staircase of only a few steps, leading to two
rooms. One of these is his own sleeping chamber: the other is his
nephew’s. There is a light in each.

His nephew lies asleep, calm and untroubled. John Jasper stands looking down
upon him, his unlighted pipe in his hand, for some time, with a fixed and deep
attention. Then, hushing his footsteps, he passes to his own room, lights his
pipe, and delivers himself to the Spectres it invokes at midnight.

CHAPTER VI.
PHILANTHROPY IN MINOR CANON CORNER

The Reverend Septimus Crisparkle (Septimus, because six little brother
Crisparkles before him went out, one by one, as they were born, like six weak
little rushlights, as they were lighted), having broken the thin morning ice
near Cloisterham Weir with his amiable head, much to the invigoration of his
frame, was now assisting his circulation by boxing at a looking-glass with
great science and prowess. A fresh and healthy portrait the looking-glass
presented of the Reverend Septimus, feinting and dodging with the utmost
artfulness, and hitting out from the shoulder with the utmost straightness,
while his radiant features teemed with innocence, and soft-hearted benevolence
beamed from his boxing-gloves.

It was scarcely breakfast-time yet, for Mrs. Crisparkle—mother, not wife
of the Reverend Septimus—was only just down, and waiting for the urn.
Indeed, the Reverend Septimus left off at this very moment to take the pretty
old lady’s entering face between his boxing-gloves and kiss it. Having
done so with tenderness, the Reverend Septimus turned to again, countering with
his left, and putting in his right, in a tremendous manner.

“I say, every morning of my life, that you’ll do it at last,
Sept,” remarked the old lady, looking on; “and so you will.”

“Do what, Ma dear?”

“Break the pier-glass, or burst a blood-vessel.”

“Neither, please God, Ma dear. Here’s wind, Ma. Look at
this!” In a concluding round of great severity, the Reverend Septimus
administered and escaped all sorts of punishment, and wound up by getting the
old lady’s cap into Chancery—such is the technical term used in
scientific circles by the learned in the Noble Art—with a lightness of
touch that hardly stirred the lightest lavender or cherry riband on it.
Magnanimously releasing the defeated, just in time to get his gloves into a
drawer and feign to be looking out of window in a contemplative state of mind
when a servant entered, the Reverend Septimus then gave place to the urn and
other preparations for breakfast. These completed, and the two alone again, it
was pleasant to see (or would have been, if there had been any one to see it,
which there never was), the old lady standing to say the Lord’s Prayer
aloud, and her son, Minor Canon nevertheless, standing with bent head to hear
it, he being within five years of forty: much as he had stood to hear the same
words from the same lips when he was within five months of four.

What is prettier than an old lady—except a young lady—when her eyes
are bright, when her figure is trim and compact, when her face is cheerful and
calm, when her dress is as the dress of a china shepherdess: so dainty in its
colours, so individually assorted to herself, so neatly moulded on her? Nothing
is prettier, thought the good Minor Canon frequently, when taking his seat at
table opposite his long-widowed mother. Her thought at such times may be
condensed into the two words that oftenest did duty together in all her
conversations: “My Sept!”

They were a good pair to sit breakfasting together in Minor Canon Corner,
Cloisterham. For Minor Canon Corner was a quiet place in the shadow of the
Cathedral, which the cawing of the rooks, the echoing footsteps of rare
passers, the sound of the Cathedral bell, or the roll of the Cathedral organ,
seemed to render more quiet than absolute silence. Swaggering fighting men had
had their centuries of ramping and raving about Minor Canon Corner, and beaten
serfs had had their centuries of drudging and dying there, and powerful monks
had had their centuries of being sometimes useful and sometimes harmful there,
and behold they were all gone out of Minor Canon Corner, and so much the
better. Perhaps one of the highest uses of their ever having been there, was,
that there might be left behind, that blessed air of tranquillity which
pervaded Minor Canon Corner, and that serenely romantic state of the
mind—productive for the most part of pity and forbearance—which is
engendered by a sorrowful story that is all told, or a pathetic play that is
played out.

Red-brick walls harmoniously toned down in colour by time, strong-rooted ivy,
latticed windows, panelled rooms, big oaken beams in little places, and
stone-walled gardens where annual fruit yet ripened upon monkish trees, were
the principal surroundings of pretty old Mrs. Crisparkle and the Reverend
Septimus as they sat at breakfast.

“And what, Ma dear,” inquired the Minor Canon, giving proof of a
wholesome and vigorous appetite, “does the letter say?”

The pretty old lady, after reading it, had just laid it down upon the
breakfast-cloth. She handed it over to her son.

Now, the old lady was exceedingly proud of her bright eyes being so clear that
she could read writing without spectacles. Her son was also so proud of the
circumstance, and so dutifully bent on her deriving the utmost possible
gratification from it, that he had invented the pretence that he himself could
not read writing without spectacles. Therefore he now assumed a pair, of
grave and prodigious proportions, which not only seriously inconvenienced his
nose and his breakfast, but seriously impeded his perusal of the letter. For,
he had the eyes of a microscope and a telescope combined, when they were
unassisted.

“It’s from Mr. Honeythunder, of course,” said the old lady,
folding her arms.

“Of course,” assented her son. He then lamely read on:

“‘Haven of Philanthropy,
Chief Offices, London, Wednesday.

“‘DEAR MADAM,

“‘I write in the—;’ In the what’s this? What does
he write in?”

“In the chair,” said the old lady.

The Reverend Septimus took off his spectacles, that he might see her face, as
he exclaimed:

“Why, what should he write in?”

“Bless me, bless me, Sept,” returned the old lady, “you
don’t see the context! Give it back to me, my dear.”

Glad to get his spectacles off (for they always made his eyes water), her son
obeyed: murmuring that his sight for reading manuscript got worse and worse
daily.

“‘I write,’” his mother went on, reading very
perspicuously and precisely, “‘from the chair, to which I shall
probably be confined for some hours.’”

Septimus looked at the row of chairs against the wall, with a half-protesting
and half-appealing countenance.

“‘We have,’” the old lady read on with a little extra
emphasis, “‘a meeting of our Convened Chief Composite Committee of
Central and District Philanthropists, at our Head Haven as above; and it is
their unanimous pleasure that I take the chair.’”

Septimus breathed more freely, and muttered: “O! if he comes to
that, let him.”

“‘Not to lose a day’s post, I take the opportunity of a long
report being read, denouncing a public miscreant—’”

“It is a most extraordinary thing,” interposed the gentle Minor
Canon, laying down his knife and fork to rub his ear in a vexed manner,
“that these Philanthropists are always denouncing somebody. And it is
another most extraordinary thing that they are always so violently flush of
miscreants!”

“‘Denouncing a public miscreant—’”—the old
lady resumed, “‘to get our little affair of business off my mind. I
have spoken with my two wards, Neville and Helena Landless, on the subject of
their defective education, and they give in to the plan proposed; as I should
have taken good care they did, whether they liked it or not.’”

“And it is another most extraordinary thing,” remarked the Minor
Canon in the same tone as before, “that these philanthropists are so
given to seizing their fellow-creatures by the scruff of the neck, and (as one
may say) bumping them into the paths of peace.—I beg your pardon, Ma
dear, for interrupting.”

“‘Therefore, dear Madam, you will please prepare your son, the Rev.
Mr. Septimus, to expect Neville as an inmate to be read with, on Monday next.
On the same day Helena will accompany him to Cloisterham, to take up her
quarters at the Nuns’ House, the establishment recommended by yourself
and son jointly. Please likewise to prepare for her reception and tuition
there. The terms in both cases are understood to be exactly as stated to me in
writing by yourself, when I opened a correspondence with you on this subject,
after the honour of being introduced to you at your sister’s house in
town here. With compliments to the Rev. Mr. Septimus, I am, Dear Madam, Your
affectionate brother (In Philanthropy), LUKE
HONEYTHUNDER.’”

“Well, Ma,” said Septimus, after a little more rubbing of his ear,
“we must try it. There can be no doubt that we have room for an inmate,
and that I have time to bestow upon him, and inclination too. I must confess to
feeling rather glad that he is not Mr. Honeythunder himself. Though that seems
wretchedly prejudiced—does it not?—for I never saw him. Is he a
large man, Ma?”

“I should call him a large man, my dear,” the old lady replied
after some hesitation, “but that his voice is so much larger.”

“Than himself?”

“Than anybody.”

“Hah!” said Septimus. And finished his breakfast as if the flavour
of the Superior Family Souchong, and also of the ham and toast and eggs, were a
little on the wane.

Mrs. Crisparkle’s sister, another piece of Dresden china, and matching
her so neatly that they would have made a delightful pair of ornaments for the
two ends of any capacious old-fashioned chimneypiece, and by right should never
have been seen apart, was the childless wife of a clergyman holding Corporation
preferment in London City. Mr. Honeythunder in his public character of
Professor of Philanthropy had come to know Mrs. Crisparkle during the last
re-matching of the china ornaments (in other words during her last annual visit
to her sister), after a public occasion of a philanthropic nature, when certain
devoted orphans of tender years had been glutted with plum buns, and plump
bumptiousness. These were all the antecedents known in Minor Canon Corner of
the coming pupils.

“I am sure you will agree with me, Ma,” said Mr. Crisparkle, after
thinking the matter over, “that the first thing to be done, is, to put
these young people as much at their ease as possible. There is nothing
disinterested in the notion, because we cannot be at our ease with them unless
they are at their ease with us. Now, Jasper’s nephew is down here at
present; and like takes to like, and youth takes to youth. He is a cordial
young fellow, and we will have him to meet the brother and sister at dinner.
That’s three. We can’t think of asking him, without asking Jasper.
That’s four. Add Miss Twinkleton and the fairy bride that is to be, and
that’s six. Add our two selves, and that’s eight. Would eight at a
friendly dinner at all put you out, Ma?”

“Nine would, Sept,” returned the old lady, visibly nervous.

“My dear Ma, I particularise eight.”

“The exact size of the table and the room, my dear.”

So it was settled that way: and when Mr. Crisparkle called with his mother upon
Miss Twinkleton, to arrange for the reception of Miss Helena Landless at the
Nuns’ House, the two other invitations having reference to that
establishment were proffered and accepted. Miss Twinkleton did, indeed, glance
at the globes, as regretting that they were not formed to be taken out into
society; but became reconciled to leaving them behind. Instructions were then
despatched to the Philanthropist for the departure and arrival, in good time
for dinner, of Mr. Neville and Miss Helena; and stock for soup became fragrant
in the air of Minor Canon Corner.

In those days there was no railway to Cloisterham, and Mr. Sapsea said there
never would be. Mr. Sapsea said more; he said there never should be. And yet,
marvellous to consider, it has come to pass, in these days, that Express Trains
don’t think Cloisterham worth stopping at, but yell and whirl through it
on their larger errands, casting the dust off their wheels as a testimony
against its insignificance. Some remote fragment of Main Line to somewhere
else, there was, which was going to ruin the Money Market if it failed, and
Church and State if it succeeded, and (of course), the Constitution, whether or
no; but even that had already so unsettled Cloisterham traffic, that the
traffic, deserting the high road, came sneaking in from an unprecedented part
of the country by a back stable-way, for many years labelled at the corner:
“Beware of the Dog.”

To this ignominious avenue of approach, Mr. Crisparkle repaired, awaiting the
arrival of a short, squat omnibus, with a disproportionate heap of luggage on
the roof—like a little Elephant with infinitely too much
Castle—which was then the daily service between Cloisterham and external
mankind. As this vehicle lumbered up, Mr. Crisparkle could hardly see anything
else of it for a large outside passenger seated on the box, with his elbows
squared, and his hands on his knees, compressing the driver into a most
uncomfortably small compass, and glowering about him with a strongly-marked
face.

“Is this Cloisterham?” demanded the passenger, in a tremendous
voice.

“It is,” replied the driver, rubbing himself as if he ached, after
throwing the reins to the ostler. “And I never was so glad to see
it.”

“Tell your master to make his box-seat wider, then,” returned the
passenger. “Your master is morally bound—and ought to be legally,
under ruinous penalties—to provide for the comfort of his
fellow-man.”

The driver instituted, with the palms of his hands, a superficial perquisition
into the state of his skeleton; which seemed to make him anxious.

“Have I sat upon you?” asked the passenger.

“You have,” said the driver, as if he didn’t like it at all.

“Take that card, my friend.”

“I think I won’t deprive you on it,” returned the driver,
casting his eyes over it with no great favour, without taking it.
“What’s the good of it to me?”

“Be a Member of that Society,” said the passenger.

“What shall I get by it?” asked the driver.

“Brotherhood,” returned the passenger, in a ferocious voice.

“Thankee,” said the driver, very deliberately, as he got down;
“my mother was contented with myself, and so am I. I don’t want no
brothers.”

“But you must have them,” replied the passenger, also descending,
“whether you like it or not. I am your brother.”

“I say!” expostulated the driver, becoming more chafed in temper,
“not too fur! The worm will, when—”

But here, Mr. Crisparkle interposed, remonstrating aside, in a friendly voice:
“Joe, Joe, Joe! don’t forget yourself, Joe, my good fellow!”
and then, when Joe peaceably touched his hat, accosting the passenger with:
“Mr. Honeythunder?”

“That is my name, sir.”

“My name is Crisparkle.”

“Reverend Mr. Septimus? Glad to see you, sir. Neville and Helena are
inside. Having a little succumbed of late, under the pressure of my public
labours, I thought I would take a mouthful of fresh air, and come down with
them, and return at night. So you are the Reverend Mr. Septimus, are
you?” surveying him on the whole with disappointment, and twisting a
double eye-glass by its ribbon, as if he were roasting it, but not otherwise
using it. “Hah! I expected to see you older, sir.”

“I hope you will,” was the good-humoured reply.

“Eh?” demanded Mr. Honeythunder.

“Only a poor little joke. Not worth repeating.”

“Joke? Ay; I never see a joke,” Mr. Honeythunder frowningly
retorted. “A joke is wasted upon me, sir. Where are they? Helena and
Neville, come here! Mr. Crisparkle has come down to meet you.”

An unusually handsome lithe young fellow, and an unusually handsome lithe girl;
much alike; both very dark, and very rich in colour; she of almost the gipsy
type; something untamed about them both; a certain air upon them of hunter and
huntress; yet withal a certain air of being the objects of the chase, rather
than the followers. Slender, supple, quick of eye and limb; half shy, half
defiant; fierce of look; an indefinable kind of pause coming and going on their
whole expression, both of face and form, which might be equally likened to the
pause before a crouch or a bound. The rough mental notes made in the first five
minutes by Mr. Crisparkle would have read thus, verbatim.

He invited Mr. Honeythunder to dinner, with a troubled mind (for the
discomfiture of the dear old china shepherdess lay heavy on it), and gave his
arm to Helena Landless. Both she and her brother, as they walked all together
through the ancient streets, took great delight in what he pointed out of the
Cathedral and the Monastery ruin, and wondered—so his notes ran
on—much as if they were beautiful barbaric captives brought from some
wild tropical dominion. Mr. Honeythunder walked in the middle of the road,
shouldering the natives out of his way, and loudly developing a scheme he had,
for making a raid on all the unemployed persons in the United Kingdom, laying
them every one by the heels in jail, and forcing them, on pain of prompt
extermination, to become philanthropists.

Mrs. Crisparkle had need of her own share of philanthropy when she beheld this
very large and very loud excrescence on the little party. Always something in
the nature of a Boil upon the face of society, Mr. Honeythunder expanded into
an inflammatory Wen in Minor Canon Corner. Though it was not literally true, as
was facetiously charged against him by public unbelievers, that he called aloud
to his fellow-creatures: “Curse your souls and bodies, come here and be
blessed!” still his philanthropy was of that gunpowderous sort that the
difference between it and animosity was hard to determine. You were to abolish
military force, but you were first to bring all commanding officers who had
done their duty, to trial by court-martial for that offence, and shoot them.
You were to abolish war, but were to make converts by making war upon them, and
charging them with loving war as the apple of their eye. You were to have no
capital punishment, but were first to sweep off the face of the earth all
legislators, jurists, and judges, who were of the contrary opinion. You were to
have universal concord, and were to get it by eliminating all the people who
wouldn’t, or conscientiously couldn’t, be concordant. You were to
love your brother as yourself, but after an indefinite interval of maligning
him (very much as if you hated him), and calling him all manner of names. Above
all things, you were to do nothing in private, or on your own account. You were
to go to the offices of the Haven of Philanthropy, and put your name down as a
Member and a Professing Philanthropist. Then, you were to pay up your
subscription, get your card of membership and your riband and medal, and were
evermore to live upon a platform, and evermore to say what Mr. Honeythunder
said, and what the Treasurer said, and what the sub-Treasurer said, and what
the Committee said, and what the sub-Committee said, and what the Secretary
said, and what the Vice-Secretary said. And this was usually said in the
unanimously-carried resolution under hand and seal, to the effect: “That
this assembled Body of Professing Philanthropists views, with indignant scorn
and contempt, not unmixed with utter detestation and loathing
abhorrence”—in short, the baseness of all those who do not belong
to it, and pledges itself to make as many obnoxious statements as possible
about them, without being at all particular as to facts.

The dinner was a most doleful breakdown. The philanthropist deranged the
symmetry of the table, sat himself in the way of the waiting, blocked up the
thoroughfare, and drove Mr. Tope (who assisted the parlour-maid) to the verge
of distraction by passing plates and dishes on, over his own head. Nobody could
talk to anybody, because he held forth to everybody at once, as if the company
had no individual existence, but were a Meeting. He impounded the Reverend Mr.
Septimus, as an official personage to be addressed, or kind of human peg to
hang his oratorical hat on, and fell into the exasperating habit, common among
such orators, of impersonating him as a wicked and weak opponent. Thus, he
would ask: “And will you, sir, now stultify yourself by telling
me”—and so forth, when the innocent man had not opened his lips,
nor meant to open them. Or he would say: “Now see, sir, to what a
position you are reduced. I will leave you no escape. After exhausting all the
resources of fraud and falsehood, during years upon years; after exhibiting a
combination of dastardly meanness with ensanguined daring, such as the world
has not often witnessed; you have now the hypocrisy to bend the knee before the
most degraded of mankind, and to sue and whine and howl for mercy!”
Whereat the unfortunate Minor Canon would look, in part indignant and in part
perplexed; while his worthy mother sat bridling, with tears in her eyes, and
the remainder of the party lapsed into a sort of gelatinous state, in which
there was no flavour or solidity, and very little resistance.

But the gush of philanthropy that burst forth when the departure of Mr.
Honeythunder began to impend, must have been highly gratifying to the feelings
of that distinguished man. His coffee was produced, by the special activity of
Mr. Tope, a full hour before he wanted it. Mr. Crisparkle sat with his watch in
his hand for about the same period, lest he should overstay his time. The four
young people were unanimous in believing that the Cathedral clock struck
three-quarters, when it actually struck but one. Miss Twinkleton estimated the
distance to the omnibus at five-and-twenty minutes’ walk, when it was
really five. The affectionate kindness of the whole circle hustled him into his
greatcoat, and shoved him out into the moonlight, as if he were a fugitive
traitor with whom they sympathised, and a troop of horse were at the back door.
Mr. Crisparkle and his new charge, who took him to the omnibus, were so fervent
in their apprehensions of his catching cold, that they shut him up in it
instantly and left him, with still half-an-hour to spare.

CHAPTER VII.
MORE CONFIDENCES THAN ONE

“I know very little of that gentleman, sir,” said Neville to the
Minor Canon as they turned back.

“You know very little of your guardian?” the Minor Canon repeated.

“Almost nothing!”

“How came he—”

“To be my guardian? I’ll tell you, sir. I suppose you know
that we come (my sister and I) from Ceylon?”

“Indeed, no.”

“I wonder at that. We lived with a stepfather there. Our mother died
there, when we were little children. We have had a wretched existence. She made
him our guardian, and he was a miserly wretch who grudged us food to eat, and
clothes to wear. At his death, he passed us over to this man; for no better
reason that I know of, than his being a friend or connexion of his, whose name
was always in print and catching his attention.”

“That was lately, I suppose?”

“Quite lately, sir. This stepfather of ours was a cruel brute as well as
a grinding one. It is well he died when he did, or I might have killed
him.”

Mr. Crisparkle stopped short in the moonlight and looked at his hopeful pupil
in consternation.

“I surprise you, sir?” he said, with a quick change to a submissive
manner.

“You shock me; unspeakably shock me.”

The pupil hung his head for a little while, as they walked on, and then said:
“You never saw him beat your sister. I have seen him beat mine, more than
once or twice, and I never forgot it.”

“Nothing,” said Mr. Crisparkle, “not even a beloved and
beautiful sister’s tears under dastardly ill-usage;” he became less
severe, in spite of himself, as his indignation rose; “could justify
those horrible expressions that you used.”

“I am sorry I used them, and especially to you, sir. I beg to recall
them. But permit me to set you right on one point. You spoke of my
sister’s tears. My sister would have let him tear her to pieces, before
she would have let him believe that he could make her shed a tear.”

Mr. Crisparkle reviewed those mental notes of his, and was neither at all
surprised to hear it, nor at all disposed to question it.

“Perhaps you will think it strange, sir,”—this was said in a
hesitating voice—“that I should so soon ask you to allow me to
confide in you, and to have the kindness to hear a word or two from me in my
defence?”

“Defence?” Mr. Crisparkle repeated. “You are not on your
defence, Mr. Neville.”

“I think I am, sir. At least I know I should be, if you were better
acquainted with my character.”

“Well, Mr. Neville,” was the rejoinder. “What if you leave me
to find it out?”

“Since it is your pleasure, sir,” answered the young man, with a
quick change in his manner to sullen disappointment: “since it is your
pleasure to check me in my impulse, I must submit.”

There was that in the tone of this short speech which made the conscientious
man to whom it was addressed uneasy. It hinted to him that he might, without
meaning it, turn aside a trustfulness beneficial to a mis-shapen young mind and
perhaps to his own power of directing and improving it. They were within sight
of the lights in his windows, and he stopped.

“Let us turn back and take a turn or two up and down, Mr. Neville, or you
may not have time to finish what you wish to say to me. You are hasty in
thinking that I mean to check you. Quite the contrary. I invite your
confidence.”

“You have invited it, sir, without knowing it, ever since I came here. I
say ‘ever since,’ as if I had been here a week. The truth is, we
came here (my sister and I) to quarrel with you, and affront you, and break
away again.”

“Really?” said Mr. Crisparkle, at a dead loss for anything else to
say.

“You see, we could not know what you were beforehand, sir; could
we?”

“Clearly not,” said Mr. Crisparkle.

“And having liked no one else with whom we have ever been brought into
contact, we had made up our minds not to like you.”

“Really?” said Mr. Crisparkle again.

“But we do like you, sir, and we see an unmistakable difference between
your house and your reception of us, and anything else we have ever known.
This—and my happening to be alone with you—and everything around us
seeming so quiet and peaceful after Mr. Honeythunder’s
departure—and Cloisterham being so old and grave and beautiful, with the
moon shining on it—these things inclined me to open my heart.”

“I quite understand, Mr. Neville. And it is salutary to listen to such
influences.”

“In describing my own imperfections, sir, I must ask you not to suppose
that I am describing my sister’s. She has come out of the disadvantages
of our miserable life, as much better than I am, as that Cathedral tower is
higher than those chimneys.”

Mr. Crisparkle in his own breast was not so sure of this.

“I have had, sir, from my earliest remembrance, to suppress a deadly and
bitter hatred. This has made me secret and revengeful. I have been always
tyrannically held down by the strong hand. This has driven me, in my weakness,
to the resource of being false and mean. I have been stinted of education,
liberty, money, dress, the very necessaries of life, the commonest pleasures of
childhood, the commonest possessions of youth. This has caused me to be utterly
wanting in I don’t know what emotions, or remembrances, or good
instincts—I have not even a name for the thing, you see!—that you
have had to work upon in other young men to whom you have been
accustomed.”

“This is evidently true. But this is not encouraging,” thought Mr.
Crisparkle as they turned again.

“And to finish with, sir: I have been brought up among abject and servile
dependents, of an inferior race, and I may easily have contracted some affinity
with them. Sometimes, I don’t know but that it may be a drop of what is
tigerish in their blood.”

“As in the case of that remark just now,” thought Mr. Crisparkle.

“In a last word of reference to my sister, sir (we are twin children),
you ought to know, to her honour, that nothing in our misery ever subdued her,
though it often cowed me. When we ran away from it (we ran away four times in
six years, to be soon brought back and cruelly punished), the flight was always
of her planning and leading. Each time she dressed as a boy, and showed the
daring of a man. I take it we were seven years old when we first decamped; but
I remember, when I lost the pocket-knife with which she was to have cut her
hair short, how desperately she tried to tear it out, or bite it off. I have
nothing further to say, sir, except that I hope you will bear with me and make
allowance for me.”

“Of that, Mr. Neville, you may be sure,” returned the Minor Canon.
“I don’t preach more than I can help, and I will not repay your
confidence with a sermon. But I entreat you to bear in mind, very seriously and
steadily, that if I am to do you any good, it can only be with your own
assistance; and that you can only render that, efficiently, by seeking aid from
Heaven.”

“I will try to do my part, sir.”

“And, Mr. Neville, I will try to do mine. Here is my hand on it. May God
bless our endeavours!”

They were now standing at his house-door, and a cheerful sound of voices and
laughter was heard within.

“We will take one more turn before going in,” said Mr. Crisparkle,
“for I want to ask you a question. When you said you were in a changed
mind concerning me, you spoke, not only for yourself, but for your sister
too?”

“Undoubtedly I did, sir.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Neville, but I think you have had no opportunity of
communicating with your sister, since I met you. Mr. Honeythunder was very
eloquent; but perhaps I may venture to say, without ill-nature, that he rather
monopolised the occasion. May you not have answered for your sister without
sufficient warrant?”

Neville shook his head with a proud smile.

“You don’t know, sir, yet, what a complete understanding can exist
between my sister and me, though no spoken word—perhaps hardly as much as
a look—may have passed between us. She not only feels as I have
described, but she very well knows that I am taking this opportunity of
speaking to you, both for her and for myself.”

Mr. Crisparkle looked in his face, with some incredulity; but his face
expressed such absolute and firm conviction of the truth of what he said, that
Mr. Crisparkle looked at the pavement, and mused, until they came to his door
again.

“I will ask for one more turn, sir, this time,” said the young man,
with a rather heightened colour rising in his face. “But for Mr.
Honeythunder’s—I think you called it eloquence, sir?”
(somewhat slyly.)

“I—yes, I called it eloquence,” said Mr. Crisparkle.

“But for Mr. Honeythunder’s eloquence, I might have had no need to
ask you what I am going to ask you. This Mr. Edwin Drood, sir: I think
that’s the name?”

“Quite correct,” said Mr. Crisparkle. “D-r-double o-d.”

“Does he—or did he—read with you, sir?”

“Never, Mr. Neville. He comes here visiting his relation, Mr.
Jasper.”

“Is Miss Bud his relation too, sir?”

(“Now, why should he ask that, with sudden superciliousness?”
thought Mr. Crisparkle.) Then he explained, aloud, what he knew of the little
story of their betrothal.

“O! that’s it, is it?” said the young man. “I
understand his air of proprietorship now!”

This was said so evidently to himself, or to anybody rather than Mr.
Crisparkle, that the latter instinctively felt as if to notice it would be
almost tantamount to noticing a passage in a letter which he had read by chance
over the writer’s shoulder. A moment afterwards they re-entered the
house.

Mr. Jasper was seated at the piano as they came into his drawing-room, and was
accompanying Miss Rosebud while she sang. It was a consequence of his playing
the accompaniment without notes, and of her being a heedless little creature,
very apt to go wrong, that he followed her lips most attentively, with his eyes
as well as hands; carefully and softly hinting the key-note from time to time.
Standing with an arm drawn round her, but with a face far more intent on Mr.
Jasper than on her singing, stood Helena, between whom and her brother an
instantaneous recognition passed, in which Mr. Crisparkle saw, or thought he
saw, the understanding that had been spoken of, flash out. Mr. Neville then
took his admiring station, leaning against the piano, opposite the singer; Mr.
Crisparkle sat down by the china shepherdess; Edwin Drood gallantly furled and
unfurled Miss Twinkleton’s fan; and that lady passively claimed that sort
of exhibitor’s proprietorship in the accomplishment on view, which Mr.
Tope, the Verger, daily claimed in the Cathedral service.

At the piano

The song went on. It was a sorrowful strain of parting, and the fresh young
voice was very plaintive and tender. As Jasper watched the pretty lips, and
ever and again hinted the one note, as though it were a low whisper from
himself, the voice became less steady, until all at once the singer broke into
a burst of tears, and shrieked out, with her hands over her eyes: “I
can’t bear this! I am frightened! Take me away!”

With one swift turn of her lithe figure, Helena laid the little beauty on a
sofa, as if she had never caught her up. Then, on one knee beside her, and with
one hand upon her rosy mouth, while with the other she appealed to all the
rest, Helena said to them: “It’s nothing; it’s all over;
don’t speak to her for one minute, and she is well!”

Jasper’s hands had, in the same instant, lifted themselves from the keys,
and were now poised above them, as though he waited to resume. In that attitude
he yet sat quiet: not even looking round, when all the rest had changed their
places and were reassuring one another.

“Pussy’s not used to an audience; that’s the fact,”
said Edwin Drood. “She got nervous, and couldn’t hold out. Besides,
Jack, you are such a conscientious master, and require so much, that I believe
you make her afraid of you. No wonder.”

“No wonder,” repeated Helena.

“There, Jack, you hear! You would be afraid of him, under similar
circumstances, wouldn’t you, Miss Landless?”

“Not under any circumstances,” returned Helena.

Jasper brought down his hands, looked over his shoulder, and begged to thank
Miss Landless for her vindication of his character. Then he fell to dumbly
playing, without striking the notes, while his little pupil was taken to an
open window for air, and was otherwise petted and restored. When she was
brought back, his place was empty. “Jack’s gone, Pussy,”
Edwin told her. “I am more than half afraid he didn’t like to be
charged with being the Monster who had frightened you.” But she answered
never a word, and shivered, as if they had made her a little too cold.

Miss Twinkleton now opining that indeed these were late hours, Mrs. Crisparkle,
for finding ourselves outside the walls of the Nuns’ House, and that we
who undertook the formation of the future wives and mothers of England (the
last words in a lower voice, as requiring to be communicated in confidence)
were really bound (voice coming up again) to set a better example than one of
rakish habits, wrappers were put in requisition, and the two young cavaliers
volunteered to see the ladies home. It was soon done, and the gate of the
Nuns’ House closed upon them.

The boarders had retired, and only Mrs. Tisher in solitary vigil awaited the
new pupil. Her bedroom being within Rosa’s, very little introduction or
explanation was necessary, before she was placed in charge of her new friend,
and left for the night.

“This is a blessed relief, my dear,” said Helena. “I have
been dreading all day, that I should be brought to bay at this time.”

“There are not many of us,” returned Rosa, “and we are
good-natured girls; at least the others are; I can answer for them.”

“I can answer for you,” laughed Helena, searching the lovely little
face with her dark, fiery eyes, and tenderly caressing the small figure.
“You will be a friend to me, won’t you?”

“I hope so. But the idea of my being a friend to you seems too absurd,
though.”

“Why?”

“O, I am such a mite of a thing, and you are so womanly and handsome. You
seem to have resolution and power enough to crush me. I shrink into nothing by
the side of your presence even.”

“I am a neglected creature, my dear, unacquainted with all
accomplishments, sensitively conscious that I have everything to learn, and
deeply ashamed to own my ignorance.”

“And yet you acknowledge everything to me!” said Rosa.

“My pretty one, can I help it? There is a fascination in you.”

“O! is there though?” pouted Rosa, half in jest and half in
earnest. “What a pity Master Eddy doesn’t feel it more!”

Of course her relations towards that young gentleman had been already imparted
in Minor Canon Corner.

“Why, surely he must love you with all his heart!” cried Helena,
with an earnestness that threatened to blaze into ferocity if he didn’t.

“Eh? O, well, I suppose he does,” said Rosa, pouting again;
“I am sure I have no right to say he doesn’t. Perhaps it’s my
fault. Perhaps I am not as nice to him as I ought to be. I don’t think I
am. But it is so ridiculous!”

Helena’s eyes demanded what was.

“We are,” said Rosa, answering as if she had spoken.
“We are such a ridiculous couple. And we are always quarrelling.”

“Why?”

“Because we both know we are ridiculous, my dear!” Rosa gave that
answer as if it were the most conclusive answer in the world.

Helena’s masterful look was intent upon her face for a few moments, and
then she impulsively put out both her hands and said:

“You will be my friend and help me?”

“Indeed, my dear, I will,” replied Rosa, in a tone of affectionate
childishness that went straight and true to her heart; “I will be as good
a friend as such a mite of a thing can be to such a noble creature as you. And
be a friend to me, please; I don’t understand myself: and I want a friend
who can understand me, very much indeed.”

Helena Landless kissed her, and retaining both her hands said:

“Who is Mr. Jasper?”

Rosa turned aside her head in answering: “Eddy’s uncle, and my
music-master.”

“You do not love him?”

“Ugh!” She put her hands up to her face, and shook with fear or
horror.

“You know that he loves you?”

“O, don’t, don’t, don’t!” cried Rosa, dropping on
her knees, and clinging to her new resource. “Don’t tell me of it!
He terrifies me. He haunts my thoughts, like a dreadful ghost. I feel that I am
never safe from him. I feel as if he could pass in through the wall when he is
spoken of.” She actually did look round, as if she dreaded to see him
standing in the shadow behind her.

“Try to tell me more about it, darling.”

“Yes, I will, I will. Because you are so strong. But hold me the while,
and stay with me afterwards.”

“My child! You speak as if he had threatened you in some dark way.”

“He has never spoken to me about—that. Never.”

“What has he done?”

“He has made a slave of me with his looks. He has forced me to understand
him, without his saying a word; and he has forced me to keep silence, without
his uttering a threat. When I play, he never moves his eyes from my hands. When
I sing, he never moves his eyes from my lips. When he corrects me, and strikes
a note, or a chord, or plays a passage, he himself is in the sounds, whispering
that he pursues me as a lover, and commanding me to keep his secret. I avoid
his eyes, but he forces me to see them without looking at them. Even when a
glaze comes over them (which is sometimes the case), and he seems to wander
away into a frightful sort of dream in which he threatens most, he obliges me
to know it, and to know that he is sitting close at my side, more terrible to
me than ever.”

“What is this imagined threatening, pretty one? What is
threatened?”

“I don’t know. I have never even dared to think or wonder what it
is.”

“And was this all, to-night?”

“This was all; except that to-night when he watched my lips so closely as
I was singing, besides feeling terrified I felt ashamed and passionately hurt.
It was as if he kissed me, and I couldn’t bear it, but cried out. You
must never breathe this to any one. Eddy is devoted to him. But you said
to-night that you would not be afraid of him, under any circumstances, and that
gives me—who am so much afraid of him—courage to tell only you.
Hold me! Stay with me! I am too frightened to be left by myself.”

The lustrous gipsy-face drooped over the clinging arms and bosom, and the wild
black hair fell down protectingly over the childish form. There was a
slumbering gleam of fire in the intense dark eyes, though they were then
softened with compassion and admiration. Let whomsoever it most concerned look
well to it!

CHAPTER VIII.
DAGGERS DRAWN

The two young men, having seen the damsels, their charges, enter the courtyard
of the Nuns’ House, and finding themselves coldly stared at by the brazen
door-plate, as if the battered old beau with the glass in his eye were
insolent, look at one another, look along the perspective of the moonlit
street, and slowly walk away together.

“Do you stay here long, Mr. Drood?” says Neville.

“Not this time,” is the careless answer. “I leave for London
again, to-morrow. But I shall be here, off and on, until next Midsummer; then I
shall take my leave of Cloisterham, and England too; for many a long day, I
expect.”

“Are you going abroad?”

“Going to wake up Egypt a little,” is the condescending answer.

“Are you reading?”

“Reading?” repeats Edwin Drood, with a touch of contempt.
“No. Doing, working, engineering. My small patrimony was left a part of
the capital of the Firm I am with, by my father, a former partner; and I am a
charge upon the Firm until I come of age; and then I step into my modest share
in the concern. Jack—you met him at dinner—is, until then, my
guardian and trustee.”

“I heard from Mr. Crisparkle of your other good fortune.”

“What do you mean by my other good fortune?”

Neville has made his remark in a watchfully advancing, and yet furtive and shy
manner, very expressive of that peculiar air already noticed, of being at once
hunter and hunted. Edwin has made his retort with an abruptness not at all
polite. They stop and interchange a rather heated look.

“I hope,” says Neville, “there is no offence, Mr. Drood, in
my innocently referring to your betrothal?”

“By George!” cries Edwin, leading on again at a somewhat quicker
pace; “everybody in this chattering old Cloisterham refers to it. I
wonder no public-house has been set up, with my portrait for the sign of The
Betrothed’s Head. Or Pussy’s portrait. One or the other.”

“I am not accountable for Mr. Crisparkle’s mentioning the matter to
me, quite openly,” Neville begins.

“No; that’s true; you are not,” Edwin Drood assents.

“But,” resumes Neville, “I am accountable for mentioning it
to you. And I did so, on the supposition that you could not fail to be highly
proud of it.”

Now, there are these two curious touches of human nature working the secret
springs of this dialogue. Neville Landless is already enough impressed by
Little Rosebud, to feel indignant that Edwin Drood (far below her) should hold
his prize so lightly. Edwin Drood is already enough impressed by Helena, to
feel indignant that Helena’s brother (far below her) should dispose of
him so coolly, and put him out of the way so entirely.

However, the last remark had better be answered. So, says Edwin:

“I don’t know, Mr. Neville” (adopting that mode of address
from Mr. Crisparkle), “that what people are proudest of, they usually
talk most about; I don’t know either, that what they are proudest of,
they most like other people to talk about. But I live a busy life, and I speak
under correction by you readers, who ought to know everything, and I daresay
do.”

By this time they had both become savage; Mr. Neville out in the open; Edwin
Drood under the transparent cover of a popular tune, and a stop now and then to
pretend to admire picturesque effects in the moonlight before him.

“It does not seem to me very civil in you,” remarks Neville, at
length, “to reflect upon a stranger who comes here, not having had your
advantages, to try to make up for lost time. But, to be sure, I was not brought
up in ‘busy life,’ and my ideas of civility were formed among
Heathens.”

“Perhaps, the best civility, whatever kind of people we are brought up
among,” retorts Edwin Drood, “is to mind our own business. If you
will set me that example, I promise to follow it.”

“Do you know that you take a great deal too much upon yourself?” is
the angry rejoinder, “and that in the part of the world I come from, you
would be called to account for it?”

“By whom, for instance?” asks Edwin Drood, coming to a halt, and
surveying the other with a look of disdain.

But, here a startling right hand is laid on Edwin’s shoulder, and Jasper
stands between them. For, it would seem that he, too, has strolled round by the
Nuns’ House, and has come up behind them on the shadowy side of the road.

“Ned, Ned, Ned!” he says; “we must have no more of this. I
don’t like this. I have overheard high words between you two. Remember,
my dear boy, you are almost in the position of host to-night. You belong, as it
were, to the place, and in a manner represent it towards a stranger. Mr.
Neville is a stranger, and you should respect the obligations of hospitality.
And, Mr. Neville,” laying his left hand on the inner shoulder of that
young gentleman, and thus walking on between them, hand to shoulder on either
side: “you will pardon me; but I appeal to you to govern your temper too.
Now, what is amiss? But why ask! Let there be nothing amiss, and the question
is superfluous. We are all three on a good understanding, are we not?”

After a silent struggle between the two young men who shall speak last, Edwin
Drood strikes in with: “So far as I am concerned, Jack, there is no anger
in me.”

“Nor in me,” says Neville Landless, though not so freely; or
perhaps so carelessly. “But if Mr. Drood knew all that lies behind me,
far away from here, he might know better how it is that sharp-edged words have
sharp edges to wound me.”

“Perhaps,” says Jasper, in a soothing manner, “we had better
not qualify our good understanding. We had better not say anything having the
appearance of a remonstrance or condition; it might not seem generous. Frankly
and freely, you see there is no anger in Ned. Frankly and freely, there is no
anger in you, Mr. Neville?”

“None at all, Mr. Jasper.” Still, not quite so frankly or so
freely; or, be it said once again, not quite so carelessly perhaps.

“All over then! Now, my bachelor gatehouse is a few yards from here, and
the heater is on the fire, and the wine and glasses are on the table, and it is
not a stone’s throw from Minor Canon Corner. Ned, you are up and away
to-morrow. We will carry Mr. Neville in with us, to take a stirrup-cup.”

“With all my heart, Jack.”

“And with all mine, Mr. Jasper.” Neville feels it impossible to say
less, but would rather not go. He has an impression upon him that he has lost
hold of his temper; feels that Edwin Drood’s coolness, so far from being
infectious, makes him red-hot.

Mr. Jasper, still walking in the centre, hand to shoulder on either side,
beautifully turns the Refrain of a drinking song, and they all go up to his
rooms. There, the first object visible, when he adds the light of a lamp to
that of the fire, is the portrait over the chimneypiece. It is not an object
calculated to improve the understanding between the two young men, as rather
awkwardly reviving the subject of their difference. Accordingly, they both
glance at it consciously, but say nothing. Jasper, however (who would appear
from his conduct to have gained but an imperfect clue to the cause of their
late high words), directly calls attention to it.

“You recognise that picture, Mr. Neville?” shading the lamp to
throw the light upon it.

“I recognise it, but it is far from flattering the original.”

“O, you are hard upon it! It was done by Ned, who made me a present of
it.”

“I am sorry for that, Mr. Drood.” Neville apologises, with a real
intention to apologise; “if I had known I was in the artist’s
presence—”

“O, a joke, sir, a mere joke,” Edwin cuts in, with a provoking
yawn. “A little humouring of Pussy’s points! I’m going to
paint her gravely, one of these days, if she’s good.”

The air of leisurely patronage and indifference with which this is said, as the
speaker throws himself back in a chair and clasps his hands at the back of his
head, as a rest for it, is very exasperating to the excitable and excited
Neville. Jasper looks observantly from the one to the other, slightly smiles,
and turns his back to mix a jug of mulled wine at the fire. It seems to require
much mixing and compounding.

“I suppose, Mr. Neville,” says Edwin, quick to resent the indignant
protest against himself in the face of young Landless, which is fully as
visible as the portrait, or the fire, or the lamp: “I suppose that if you
painted the picture of your lady love—”

“I can’t paint,” is the hasty interruption.

“That’s your misfortune, and not your fault. You would if you
could. But if you could, I suppose you would make her (no matter what she was
in reality), Juno, Minerva, Diana, and Venus, all in one. Eh?”

“I have no lady love, and I can’t say.”

“If I were to try my hand,” says Edwin, with a boyish boastfulness
getting up in him, “on a portrait of Miss Landless—in earnest, mind
you; in earnest—you should see what I could do!”

“My sister’s consent to sit for it being first got, I suppose? As
it never will be got, I am afraid I shall never see what you can do. I must
bear the loss.”

Jasper turns round from the fire, fills a large goblet glass for Neville, fills
a large goblet glass for Edwin, and hands each his own; then fills for himself,
saying:

“Come, Mr. Neville, we are to drink to my nephew, Ned. As it is his foot
that is in the stirrup—metaphorically—our stirrup-cup is to be
devoted to him. Ned, my dearest fellow, my love!”

Jasper sets the example of nearly emptying his glass, and Neville follows it.
Edwin Drood says, “Thank you both very much,” and follows the
double example.

“Look at him,” cries Jasper, stretching out his hand admiringly and
tenderly, though rallyingly too. “See where he lounges so easily, Mr.
Neville! The world is all before him where to choose. A life of stirring work
and interest, a life of change and excitement, a life of domestic ease and
love! Look at him!”

Edwin Drood’s face has become quickly and remarkably flushed with the
wine; so has the face of Neville Landless. Edwin still sits thrown back in his
chair, making that rest of clasped hands for his head.

“See how little he heeds it all!” Jasper proceeds in a bantering
vein. “It is hardly worth his while to pluck the golden fruit that hangs
ripe on the tree for him. And yet consider the contrast, Mr. Neville. You and I
have no prospect of stirring work and interest, or of change and excitement, or
of domestic ease and love. You and I have no prospect (unless you are more
fortunate than I am, which may easily be), but the tedious unchanging round of
this dull place.”

“Upon my soul, Jack,” says Edwin, complacently, “I feel quite
apologetic for having my way smoothed as you describe. But you know what I
know, Jack, and it may not be so very easy as it seems, after all. May it,
Pussy?” To the portrait, with a snap of his thumb and finger. “We
have got to hit it off yet; haven’t we, Pussy? You know what I mean,
Jack.”

On dangerous ground

His speech has become thick and indistinct. Jasper, quiet and self-possessed,
looks to Neville, as expecting his answer or comment. When Neville speaks,
his speech is also thick and indistinct.

“It might have been better for Mr. Drood to have known some
hardships,” he says, defiantly.

“Pray,” retorts Edwin, turning merely his eyes in that direction,
“pray why might it have been better for Mr. Drood to have known some
hardships?”

“Ay,” Jasper assents, with an air of interest; “let us know
why?”

“Because they might have made him more sensible,” says Neville,
“of good fortune that is not by any means necessarily the result of his
own merits.”

Mr. Jasper quickly looks to his nephew for his rejoinder.

“Have you known hardships, may I ask?” says Edwin Drood,
sitting upright.

Mr. Jasper quickly looks to the other for his retort.

“I have.”

“And what have they made you sensible of?”

Mr. Jasper’s play of eyes between the two holds good throughout the
dialogue, to the end.

“I have told you once before to-night.”

“You have done nothing of the sort.”

“I tell you I have. That you take a great deal too much upon
yourself.”

“You added something else to that, if I remember?”

“Yes, I did say something else.”

“Say it again.”

“I said that in the part of the world I come from, you would be called to
account for it.”

“Only there?” cries Edwin Drood, with a contemptuous laugh.
“A long way off, I believe? Yes; I see! That part of the world is at a
safe distance.”

“Say here, then,” rejoins the other, rising in a fury. “Say
anywhere! Your vanity is intolerable, your conceit is beyond endurance; you
talk as if you were some rare and precious prize, instead of a common boaster.
You are a common fellow, and a common boaster.”

“Pooh, pooh,” says Edwin Drood, equally furious, but more
collected; “how should you know? You may know a black common fellow, or a
black common boaster, when you see him (and no doubt you have a large
acquaintance that way); but you are no judge of white men.”

This insulting allusion to his dark skin infuriates Neville to that violent
degree, that he flings the dregs of his wine at Edwin Drood, and is in the act
of flinging the goblet after it, when his arm is caught in the nick of time by
Jasper.

“Ned, my dear fellow!” he cries in a loud voice; “I entreat
you, I command you, to be still!” There has been a rush of all the three,
and a clattering of glasses and overturning of chairs. “Mr. Neville, for
shame! Give this glass to me. Open your hand, sir. I WILL have
it!”

But Neville throws him off, and pauses for an instant, in a raging passion,
with the goblet yet in his uplifted hand. Then, he dashes it down under the
grate, with such force that the broken splinters fly out again in a shower; and
he leaves the house.

When he first emerges into the night air, nothing around him is still or
steady; nothing around him shows like what it is; he only knows that he stands
with a bare head in the midst of a blood-red whirl, waiting to be struggled
with, and to struggle to the death.

But, nothing happening, and the moon looking down upon him as if he were dead
after a fit of wrath, he holds his steam-hammer beating head and heart, and
staggers away. Then, he becomes half-conscious of having heard himself bolted
and barred out, like a dangerous animal; and thinks what shall he do?

Some wildly passionate ideas of the river dissolve under the spell of the
moonlight on the Cathedral and the graves, and the remembrance of his sister,
and the thought of what he owes to the good man who has but that very day won
his confidence and given him his pledge. He repairs to Minor Canon Corner, and
knocks softly at the door.

It is Mr. Crisparkle’s custom to sit up last of the early household, very
softly touching his piano and practising his favourite parts in concerted vocal
music. The south wind that goes where it lists, by way of Minor Canon Corner on
a still night, is not more subdued than Mr. Crisparkle at such times, regardful
of the slumbers of the china shepherdess.

His knock is immediately answered by Mr. Crisparkle himself. When he opens the
door, candle in hand, his cheerful face falls, and disappointed amazement is in
it.

“Mr. Neville! In this disorder! Where have you been?”

“I have been to Mr. Jasper’s, sir. With his nephew.”

“Come in.”

The Minor Canon props him by the elbow with a strong hand (in a strictly
scientific manner, worthy of his morning trainings), and turns him into his own
little book-room, and shuts the door.

“I have begun ill, sir. I have begun dreadfully ill.”

“Too true. You are not sober, Mr. Neville.”

“I am afraid I am not, sir, though I can satisfy you at another time that
I have had a very little indeed to drink, and that it overcame me in the
strangest and most sudden manner.”

“Mr. Neville, Mr. Neville,” says the Minor Canon, shaking his head
with a sorrowful smile; “I have heard that said before.”

“I think—my mind is much confused, but I think—it is equally
true of Mr. Jasper’s nephew, sir.”

“Very likely,” is the dry rejoinder.

“We quarrelled, sir. He insulted me most grossly. He had heated that
tigerish blood I told you of to-day, before then.”

“Mr. Neville,” rejoins the Minor Canon, mildly, but firmly:
“I request you not to speak to me with that clenched right hand. Unclench
it, if you please.”

“He goaded me, sir,” pursues the young man, instantly obeying,
“beyond my power of endurance. I cannot say whether or no he meant it at
first, but he did it. He certainly meant it at last. In short, sir,” with
an irrepressible outburst, “in the passion into which he lashed me, I
would have cut him down if I could, and I tried to do it.”

“You have clenched that hand again,” is Mr. Crisparkle’s
quiet commentary.

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

“You know your room, for I showed it you before dinner; but I will
accompany you to it once more. Your arm, if you please. Softly, for the house
is all a-bed.”

Scooping his hand into the same scientific elbow-rest as before, and backing it
up with the inert strength of his arm, as skilfully as a Police Expert, and
with an apparent repose quite unattainable by novices, Mr. Crisparkle conducts
his pupil to the pleasant and orderly old room prepared for him. Arrived there,
the young man throws himself into a chair, and, flinging his arms upon his
reading-table, rests his head upon them with an air of wretched self-reproach.

The gentle Minor Canon has had it in his thoughts to leave the room, without a
word. But looking round at the door, and seeing this dejected figure, he turns
back to it, touches it with a mild hand, says “Good night!” A sob
is his only acknowledgment. He might have had many a worse; perhaps, could have
had few better.

Another soft knock at the outer door attracts his attention as he goes
down-stairs. He opens it to Mr. Jasper, holding in his hand the pupil’s
hat.

“We have had an awful scene with him,” says Jasper, in a low voice.

“Has it been so bad as that?”

“Murderous!”

Mr. Crisparkle remonstrates: “No, no, no. Do not use such strong
words.”

“He might have laid my dear boy dead at my feet. It is no fault of his,
that he did not. But that I was, through the mercy of God, swift and strong
with him, he would have cut him down on my hearth.”

The phrase smites home. “Ah!” thinks Mr. Crisparkle, “his own
words!”

“Seeing what I have seen to-night, and hearing what I have heard,”
adds Jasper, with great earnestness, “I shall never know peace of mind
when there is danger of those two coming together, with no one else to
interfere. It was horrible. There is something of the tiger in his dark
blood.”

“Ah!” thinks Mr. Crisparkle, “so he said!”

“You, my dear sir,” pursues Jasper, taking his hand, “even
you, have accepted a dangerous charge.”

“You need have no fear for me, Jasper,” returns Mr. Crisparkle,
with a quiet smile. “I have none for myself.”

“I have none for myself,” returns Jasper, with an emphasis on the
last pronoun, “because I am not, nor am I in the way of being, the object
of his hostility. But you may be, and my dear boy has been. Good night!”

Mr. Crisparkle goes in, with the hat that has so easily, so almost
imperceptibly, acquired the right to be hung up in his hall; hangs it up; and
goes thoughtfully to bed.

CHAPTER IX.
BIRDS IN THE BUSH

Rosa, having no relation that she knew of in the world, had, from the seventh
year of her age, known no home but the Nuns’ House, and no mother but
Miss Twinkleton. Her remembrance of her own mother was of a pretty little
creature like herself (not much older than herself it seemed to her), who had
been brought home in her father’s arms, drowned. The fatal accident had
happened at a party of pleasure. Every fold and colour in the pretty summer
dress, and even the long wet hair, with scattered petals of ruined flowers
still clinging to it, as the dead young figure, in its sad, sad beauty lay upon
the bed, were fixed indelibly in Rosa’s recollection. So were the wild
despair and the subsequent bowed-down grief of her poor young father, who died
broken-hearted on the first anniversary of that hard day.

The betrothal of Rosa grew out of the soothing of his year of mental distress
by his fast friend and old college companion, Drood: who likewise had been left
a widower in his youth. But he, too, went the silent road into which all
earthly pilgrimages merge, some sooner, and some later; and thus the young
couple had come to be as they were.

The atmosphere of pity surrounding the little orphan girl when she first came
to Cloisterham, had never cleared away. It had taken brighter hues as she grew
older, happier, prettier; now it had been golden, now roseate, and now azure;
but it had always adorned her with some soft light of its own. The general
desire to console and caress her, had caused her to be treated in the beginning
as a child much younger than her years; the same desire had caused her to be
still petted when she was a child no longer. Who should be her favourite, who
should anticipate this or that small present, or do her this or that small
service; who should take her home for the holidays; who should write to her the
oftenest when they were separated, and whom she would most rejoice to see again
when they were reunited; even these gentle rivalries were not without their
slight dashes of bitterness in the Nuns’ House. Well for the poor Nuns in
their day, if they hid no harder strife under their veils and rosaries!

Thus Rosa had grown to be an amiable, giddy, wilful, winning little creature;
spoilt, in the sense of counting upon kindness from all around her; but not in
the sense of repaying it with indifference. Possessing an exhaustless well of
affection in her nature, its sparkling waters had freshened and brightened the
Nuns’ House for years, and yet its depths had never yet been moved: what
might betide when that came to pass; what developing changes might fall upon
the heedless head, and light heart, then; remained to be seen.

By what means the news that there had been a quarrel between the two young men
overnight, involving even some kind of onslaught by Mr. Neville upon Edwin
Drood, got into Miss Twinkleton’s establishment before breakfast, it is
impossible to say. Whether it was brought in by the birds of the air, or came
blowing in with the very air itself, when the casement windows were set open;
whether the baker brought it kneaded into the bread, or the milkman delivered
it as part of the adulteration of his milk; or the housemaids, beating the dust
out of their mats against the gateposts, received it in exchange deposited on
the mats by the town atmosphere; certain it is that the news permeated every
gable of the old building before Miss Twinkleton was down, and that Miss
Twinkleton herself received it through Mrs. Tisher, while yet in the act of
dressing; or (as she might have expressed the phrase to a parent or guardian of
a mythological turn) of sacrificing to the Graces.

Miss Landless’s brother had thrown a bottle at Mr. Edwin Drood.

Miss Landless’s brother had thrown a knife at Mr. Edwin Drood.

A knife became suggestive of a fork; and Miss Landless’s brother had
thrown a fork at Mr. Edwin Drood.

As in the governing precedence of Peter Piper, alleged to have picked the peck
of pickled pepper, it was held physically desirable to have evidence of the
existence of the peck of pickled pepper which Peter Piper was alleged to have
picked; so, in this case, it was held psychologically important to know why
Miss Landless’s brother threw a bottle, knife, or fork—or bottle, knife,
and fork—for the cook had been given to understand it was all
three—at Mr. Edwin Drood?

Well, then. Miss Landless’s brother had said he admired Miss Bud. Mr.
Edwin Drood had said to Miss Landless’s brother that he had no business
to admire Miss Bud. Miss Landless’s brother had then
“up’d” (this was the cook’s exact information) with the
bottle, knife, fork, and decanter (the decanter now coolly flying at
everybody’s head, without the least introduction), and thrown them all at
Mr. Edwin Drood.

Poor little Rosa put a forefinger into each of her ears when these rumours
began to circulate, and retired into a corner, beseeching not to be told any
more; but Miss Landless, begging permission of Miss Twinkleton to go and speak
with her brother, and pretty plainly showing that she would take it if it were
not given, struck out the more definite course of going to Mr.
Crisparkle’s for accurate intelligence.

When she came back (being first closeted with Miss Twinkleton, in order that
anything objectionable in her tidings might be retained by that discreet
filter), she imparted to Rosa only, what had taken place; dwelling with a
flushed cheek on the provocation her brother had received, but almost limiting
it to that last gross affront as crowning “some other words between
them,” and, out of consideration for her new friend, passing lightly over
the fact that the other words had originated in her lover’s taking things
in general so very easily. To Rosa direct, she brought a petition from her
brother that she would forgive him; and, having delivered it with sisterly
earnestness, made an end of the subject.

It was reserved for Miss Twinkleton to tone down the public mind of the
Nuns’ House. That lady, therefore, entering in a stately manner what
plebeians might have called the school-room, but what, in the patrician
language of the head of the Nuns’ House, was euphuistically, not to say
round-aboutedly, denominated “the apartment allotted to study,” and
saying with a forensic air, “Ladies!” all rose. Mrs. Tisher at the
same time grouped herself behind her chief, as representing Queen
Elizabeth’s first historical female friend at Tilbury fort. Miss
Twinkleton then proceeded to remark that Rumour, Ladies, had been represented
by the bard of Avon—needless were it to mention the immortal
SHAKESPEARE, also called the Swan of his native river, not
improbably with some reference to the ancient superstition that that bird of
graceful plumage (Miss Jennings will please stand upright) sang sweetly on the
approach of death, for which we have no ornithological authority,—Rumour,
Ladies, had been represented by that bard—hem!—

        “who drew
The celebrated Jew,”

as painted full of tongues. Rumour in Cloisterham (Miss Ferdinand will honour
me with her attention) was no exception to the great limner’s portrait of
Rumour elsewhere. A slight fracas between two young gentlemen occurring
last night within a hundred miles of these peaceful walls (Miss Ferdinand,
being apparently incorrigible, will have the kindness to write out this
evening, in the original language, the first four fables of our vivacious
neighbour, Monsieur La Fontaine) had been very grossly exaggerated by
Rumour’s voice. In the first alarm and anxiety arising from our sympathy
with a sweet young friend, not wholly to be dissociated from one of the
gladiators in the bloodless arena in question (the impropriety of Miss
Reynolds’s appearing to stab herself in the hand with a pin, is far too
obvious, and too glaringly unladylike, to be pointed out), we descended from
our maiden elevation to discuss this uncongenial and this unfit theme.
Responsible inquiries having assured us that it was but one of those
“airy nothings” pointed at by the Poet (whose name and date of
birth Miss Giggles will supply within half an hour), we would now discard the
subject, and concentrate our minds upon the grateful labours of the day.

But the subject so survived all day, nevertheless, that Miss Ferdinand got into
new trouble by surreptitiously clapping on a paper moustache at dinner-time,
and going through the motions of aiming a water-bottle at Miss Giggles, who
drew a table-spoon in defence.

Now, Rosa thought of this unlucky quarrel a great deal, and thought of it with
an uncomfortable feeling that she was involved in it, as cause, or consequence,
or what not, through being in a false position altogether as to her marriage
engagement. Never free from such uneasiness when she was with her affianced
husband, it was not likely that she would be free from it when they were apart.
To-day, too, she was cast in upon herself, and deprived of the relief of
talking freely with her new friend, because the quarrel had been with
Helena’s brother, and Helena undisguisedly avoided the subject as a
delicate and difficult one to herself. At this critical time, of all times,
Rosa’s guardian was announced as having come to see her.

Mr. Grewgious had been well selected for his trust, as a man of incorruptible
integrity, but certainly for no other appropriate quality discernible on the
surface. He was an arid, sandy man, who, if he had been put into a
grinding-mill, looked as if he would have ground immediately into high-dried
snuff. He had a scanty flat crop of hair, in colour and consistency like some
very mangy yellow fur tippet; it was so unlike hair, that it must have been a
wig, but for the stupendous improbability of anybody’s voluntarily
sporting such a head. The little play of feature that his face presented, was
cut deep into it, in a few hard curves that made it more like work; and he had
certain notches in his forehead, which looked as though Nature had been about
to touch them into sensibility or refinement, when she had impatiently thrown
away the chisel, and said: “I really cannot be worried to finish off this
man; let him go as he is.”

With too great length of throat at his upper end, and too much ankle-bone and
heel at his lower; with an awkward and hesitating manner; with a shambling
walk; and with what is called a near sight—which perhaps prevented his
observing how much white cotton stocking he displayed to the public eye, in
contrast with his black suit—Mr. Grewgious still had some strange
capacity in him of making on the whole an agreeable impression.

Mr. Grewgious was discovered by his ward, much discomfited by being in Miss
Twinkleton’s company in Miss Twinkleton’s own sacred room. Dim
forebodings of being examined in something, and not coming well out of it,
seemed to oppress the poor gentleman when found in these circumstances.

“My dear, how do you do? I am glad to see you. My dear, how much improved
you are. Permit me to hand you a chair, my dear.”

Miss Twinkleton rose at her little writing-table, saying, with general
sweetness, as to the polite Universe: “Will you permit me to
retire?”

“By no means, madam, on my account. I beg that you will not move.”

“I must entreat permission to move,” returned Miss
Twinkleton, repeating the word with a charming grace; “but I will not
withdraw, since you are so obliging. If I wheel my desk to this corner window,
shall I be in the way?”

“Madam! In the way!”

“You are very kind.—Rosa, my dear, you will be under no restraint,
I am sure.”

Here Mr. Grewgious, left by the fire with Rosa, said again: “My dear, how
do you do? I am glad to see you, my dear.” And having waited for her to
sit down, sat down himself.

“My visits,” said Mr. Grewgious, “are, like those of the
angels—not that I compare myself to an angel.”

“No, sir,” said Rosa.

“Not by any means,” assented Mr. Grewgious. “I merely refer
to my visits, which are few and far between. The angels are, we know very well,
up-stairs.”

Miss Twinkleton looked round with a kind of stiff stare.

“I refer, my dear,” said Mr. Grewgious, laying his hand on
Rosa’s, as the possibility thrilled through his frame of his otherwise
seeming to take the awful liberty of calling Miss Twinkleton my dear; “I
refer to the other young ladies.”

Miss Twinkleton resumed her writing.

Mr. Grewgious, with a sense of not having managed his opening point quite as
neatly as he might have desired, smoothed his head from back to front as if he
had just dived, and were pressing the water out—this smoothing action,
however superfluous, was habitual with him—and took a pocket-book from
his coat-pocket, and a stump of black-lead pencil from his waistcoat-pocket.

“I made,” he said, turning the leaves: “I made a guiding
memorandum or so—as I usually do, for I have no conversational powers
whatever—to which I will, with your permission, my dear, refer.
‘Well and happy.’ Truly. You are well and happy, my dear? You look
so.”

“Yes, indeed, sir,” answered Rosa.

“For which,” said Mr. Grewgious, with a bend of his head towards
the corner window, “our warmest acknowledgments are due, and I am sure
are rendered, to the maternal kindness and the constant care and consideration
of the lady whom I have now the honour to see before me.”

This point, again, made but a lame departure from Mr. Grewgious, and never got
to its destination; for, Miss Twinkleton, feeling that the courtesies required
her to be by this time quite outside the conversation, was biting the end of
her pen, and looking upward, as waiting for the descent of an idea from any
member of the Celestial Nine who might have one to spare.

Mr. Grewgious smoothed his smooth head again, and then made another reference
to his pocket-book; lining out “well and happy,” as disposed of.

“‘Pounds, shillings, and pence,’ is my next note. A dry
subject for a young lady, but an important subject too. Life is pounds,
shillings, and pence. Death is—” A sudden recollection of the death
of her two parents seemed to stop him, and he said in a softer tone, and
evidently inserting the negative as an after-thought: “Death is
not pounds, shillings, and pence.”

His voice was as hard and dry as himself, and Fancy might have ground it
straight, like himself, into high-dried snuff. And yet, through the very
limited means of expression that he possessed, he seemed to express kindness.
If Nature had but finished him off, kindness might have been recognisable in
his face at this moment. But if the notches in his forehead wouldn’t fuse
together, and if his face would work and couldn’t play, what could he do,
poor man!

“‘Pounds, shillings, and pence.’ You find your allowance
always sufficient for your wants, my dear?”

Rosa wanted for nothing, and therefore it was ample.

“And you are not in debt?”

Rosa laughed at the idea of being in debt. It seemed, to her inexperience, a
comical vagary of the imagination. Mr. Grewgious stretched his near sight to be
sure that this was her view of the case. “Ah!” he said, as comment,
with a furtive glance towards Miss Twinkleton, and lining out pounds,
shillings, and pence: “I spoke of having got among the angels! So I
did!”

Rosa felt what his next memorandum would prove to be, and was blushing and
folding a crease in her dress with one embarrassed hand, long before he found
it.

“‘Marriage.’ Hem!” Mr. Grewgious carried his smoothing
hand down over his eyes and nose, and even chin, before drawing his chair a
little nearer, and speaking a little more confidentially: “I now touch,
my dear, upon the point that is the direct cause of my troubling you with the
present visit. Otherwise, being a particularly Angular man, I should not have
intruded here. I am the last man to intrude into a sphere for which I am so
entirely unfitted. I feel, on these premises, as if I was a bear—with the
cramp—in a youthful Cotillon.”

His ungainliness gave him enough of the air of his simile to set Rosa off
laughing heartily.

“It strikes you in the same light,” said Mr. Grewgious, with
perfect calmness. “Just so. To return to my memorandum. Mr. Edwin has
been to and fro here, as was arranged. You have mentioned that, in your
quarterly letters to me. And you like him, and he likes you.”

“I like him very much, sir,” rejoined Rosa.

“So I said, my dear,” returned her guardian, for whose ear the
timid emphasis was much too fine. “Good. And you correspond.”

“We write to one another,” said Rosa, pouting, as she recalled
their epistolary differences.

“Such is the meaning that I attach to the word ‘correspond’
in this application, my dear,” said Mr. Grewgious. “Good. All goes
well, time works on, and at this next Christmas-time it will become necessary,
as a matter of form, to give the exemplary lady in the corner window, to whom
we are so much indebted, business notice of your departure in the ensuing
half-year. Your relations with her are far more than business relations, no
doubt; but a residue of business remains in them, and business is business
ever. I am a particularly Angular man,” proceeded Mr. Grewgious, as if it
suddenly occurred to him to mention it, “and I am not used to give
anything away. If, for these two reasons, some competent Proxy would give
you away, I should take it very kindly.”

Rosa intimated, with her eyes on the ground, that she thought a substitute
might be found, if required.

“Surely, surely,” said Mr. Grewgious. “For instance, the
gentleman who teaches Dancing here—he would know how to do it with
graceful propriety. He would advance and retire in a manner satisfactory to the
feelings of the officiating clergyman, and of yourself, and the bridegroom, and
all parties concerned. I am—I am a particularly Angular man,” said
Mr. Grewgious, as if he had made up his mind to screw it out at last:
“and should only blunder.”

Rosa sat still and silent. Perhaps her mind had not got quite so far as the
ceremony yet, but was lagging on the way there.

“Memorandum, ‘Will.’ Now, my dear,” said Mr. Grewgious,
referring to his notes, disposing of “Marriage” with his pencil,
and taking a paper from his pocket; “although I have before possessed
you with the contents of your father’s will, I think it right at this
time to leave a certified copy of it in your hands. And although Mr. Edwin is
also aware of its contents, I think it right at this time likewise to place a
certified copy of it in Mr. Jasper’s hand—”

“Not in his own!” asked Rosa, looking up quickly. “Cannot the
copy go to Eddy himself?”

“Why, yes, my dear, if you particularly wish it; but I spoke of Mr.
Jasper as being his trustee.”

“I do particularly wish it, if you please,” said Rosa, hurriedly
and earnestly; “I don’t like Mr. Jasper to come between us, in any
way.”

“It is natural, I suppose,” said Mr. Grewgious, “that your
young husband should be all in all. Yes. You observe that I say, I suppose. The
fact is, I am a particularly Unnatural man, and I don’t know from my own
knowledge.”

Rosa looked at him with some wonder.

“I mean,” he explained, “that young ways were never my ways.
I was the only offspring of parents far advanced in life, and I half believe I
was born advanced in life myself. No personality is intended towards the name
you will so soon change, when I remark that while the general growth of people
seem to have come into existence, buds, I seem to have come into existence a
chip. I was a chip—and a very dry one—when I first became aware of
myself. Respecting the other certified copy, your wish shall be complied with.
Respecting your inheritance, I think you know all. It is an annuity of two
hundred and fifty pounds. The savings upon that annuity, and some other items
to your credit, all duly carried to account, with vouchers, will place you in
possession of a lump-sum of money, rather exceeding Seventeen Hundred Pounds. I
am empowered to advance the cost of your preparations for your marriage out of
that fund. All is told.”

“Will you please tell me,” said Rosa, taking the paper with a
prettily knitted brow, but not opening it: “whether I am right in what I
am going to say? I can understand what you tell me, so very much better than
what I read in law-writings. My poor papa and Eddy’s father made their
agreement together, as very dear and firm and fast friends, in order that we,
too, might be very dear and firm and fast friends after them?”

“Just so.”

“For the lasting good of both of us, and the lasting happiness of both of
us?”

“Just so.”

“That we might be to one another even much more than they had been to one
another?”

“Just so.”

“It was not bound upon Eddy, and it was not bound upon me, by any
forfeit, in case—”

“Don’t be agitated, my dear. In the case that it brings tears into
your affectionate eyes even to picture to yourself—in the case of your
not marrying one another—no, no forfeiture on either side. You would then
have been my ward until you were of age. No worse would have befallen you. Bad
enough perhaps!”

“And Eddy?”

“He would have come into his partnership derived from his father, and
into its arrears to his credit (if any), on attaining his majority, just as
now.”

Rosa, with her perplexed face and knitted brow, bit the corner of her attested
copy, as she sat with her head on one side, looking abstractedly on the floor,
and smoothing it with her foot.

“In short,” said Mr. Grewgious, “this betrothal is a wish, a
sentiment, a friendly project, tenderly expressed on both sides. That it was
strongly felt, and that there was a lively hope that it would prosper, there
can be no doubt. When you were both children, you began to be accustomed to it,
and it has prospered. But circumstances alter cases; and I made this
visit to-day, partly, indeed principally, to discharge myself of the duty of
telling you, my dear, that two young people can only be betrothed in marriage
(except as a matter of convenience, and therefore mockery and misery) of their
own free will, their own attachment, and their own assurance (it may or it may
not prove a mistaken one, but we must take our chance of that), that they are
suited to each other, and will make each other happy. Is it to be supposed, for
example, that if either of your fathers were living now, and had any mistrust
on that subject, his mind would not be changed by the change of circumstances
involved in the change of your years? Untenable, unreasonable, inconclusive,
and preposterous!”

Mr. Grewgious said all this, as if he were reading it aloud; or, still more, as
if he were repeating a lesson. So expressionless of any approach to spontaneity
were his face and manner.

“I have now, my dear,” he added, blurring out “Will”
with his pencil, “discharged myself of what is doubtless a formal duty in
this case, but still a duty in such a case. Memorandum, ‘Wishes.’
My dear, is there any wish of yours that I can further?”

Rosa shook her head, with an almost plaintive air of hesitation in want of
help.

“Is there any instruction that I can take from you with reference to your
affairs?”

“I—I should like to settle them with Eddy first, if you
please,” said Rosa, plaiting the crease in her dress.

“Surely, surely,” returned Mr. Grewgious. “You two should be
of one mind in all things. Is the young gentleman expected shortly?”

“He has gone away only this morning. He will be back at Christmas.”

“Nothing could happen better. You will, on his return at Christmas,
arrange all matters of detail with him; you will then communicate with me; and
I will discharge myself (as a mere business acquaintance) of my business
responsibilities towards the accomplished lady in the corner window. They will
accrue at that season.” Blurring pencil once again. “Memorandum,
‘Leave.’ Yes. I will now, my dear, take my leave.”

“Could I,” said Rosa, rising, as he jerked out of his chair in his
ungainly way: “could I ask you, most kindly to come to me at Christmas,
if I had anything particular to say to you?”

“Why, certainly, certainly,” he rejoined; apparently—if such
a word can be used of one who had no apparent lights or shadows about
him—complimented by the question. “As a particularly Angular man, I
do not fit smoothly into the social circle, and consequently I have no other
engagement at Christmas-time than to partake, on the twenty-fifth, of a boiled
turkey and celery sauce with a—with a particularly Angular clerk I have
the good fortune to possess, whose father, being a Norfolk farmer, sends him up
(the turkey up), as a present to me, from the neighbourhood of Norwich. I
should be quite proud of your wishing to see me, my dear. As a professional
Receiver of rents, so very few people do wish to see me, that the
novelty would be bracing.”

For his ready acquiescence, the grateful Rosa put her hands upon his shoulders,
stood on tiptoe, and instantly kissed him.

“Lord bless me!” cried Mr. Grewgious. “Thank you, my dear!
The honour is almost equal to the pleasure. Miss Twinkleton, madam, I have had
a most satisfactory conversation with my ward, and I will now release you from
the incumbrance of my presence.”

“Nay, sir,” rejoined Miss Twinkleton, rising with a gracious
condescension: “say not incumbrance. Not so, by any means. I cannot
permit you to say so.”

“Thank you, madam. I have read in the newspapers,” said Mr.
Grewgious, stammering a little, “that when a distinguished visitor (not
that I am one: far from it) goes to a school (not that this is one: far from
it), he asks for a holiday, or some sort of grace. It being now the afternoon
in the—College—of which you are the eminent head, the young ladies
might gain nothing, except in name, by having the rest of the day allowed them.
But if there is any young lady at all under a cloud, might I
solicit—”

“Ah, Mr. Grewgious, Mr. Grewgious!” cried Miss Twinkleton, with a
chastely-rallying forefinger. “O you gentlemen, you gentlemen! Fie for
shame, that you are so hard upon us poor maligned disciplinarians of our sex,
for your sakes! But as Miss Ferdinand is at present weighed down by an
incubus”—Miss Twinkleton might have said a pen-and-ink-ubus of
writing out Monsieur La Fontaine—“go to her, Rosa my dear, and tell
her the penalty is remitted, in deference to the intercession of your guardian,
Mr. Grewgious.”

Miss Twinkleton here achieved a curtsey, suggestive of marvels happening to her
respected legs, and which she came out of nobly, three yards behind her
starting-point.

As he held it incumbent upon him to call on Mr. Jasper before leaving
Cloisterham, Mr. Grewgious went to the gatehouse, and climbed its postern
stair. But Mr. Jasper’s door being closed, and presenting on a slip of
paper the word “Cathedral,” the fact of its being service-time was
borne into the mind of Mr. Grewgious. So he descended the stair again, and,
crossing the Close, paused at the great western folding-door of the Cathedral,
which stood open on the fine and bright, though short-lived, afternoon, for the
airing of the place.

“Dear me,” said Mr. Grewgious, peeping in, “it’s like
looking down the throat of Old Time.”

Old Time heaved a mouldy sigh from tomb and arch and vault; and gloomy shadows
began to deepen in corners; and damps began to rise from green patches of
stone; and jewels, cast upon the pavement of the nave from stained glass by the
declining sun, began to perish. Within the grill-gate of the chancel, up the
steps surmounted loomingly by the fast-darkening organ, white robes could be
dimly seen, and one feeble voice, rising and falling in a cracked, monotonous
mutter, could at intervals be faintly heard. In the free outer air, the river,
the green pastures, and the brown arable lands, the teeming hills and dales,
were reddened by the sunset: while the distant little windows in windmills and
farm homesteads, shone, patches of bright beaten gold. In the Cathedral, all
became gray, murky, and sepulchral, and the cracked monotonous mutter went on
like a dying voice, until the organ and the choir burst forth, and drowned it
in a sea of music. Then, the sea fell, and the dying voice made another feeble
effort, and then the sea rose high, and beat its life out, and lashed the roof,
and surged among the arches, and pierced the heights of the great tower; and
then the sea was dry, and all was still.

Mr. Grewgious had by that time walked to the chancel-steps, where he met the
living waters coming out.

“Nothing is the matter?” Thus Jasper accosted him, rather quickly.
“You have not been sent for?”

“Not at all, not at all. I came down of my own accord. I have been to my
pretty ward’s, and am now homeward bound again.”

“You found her thriving?”

“Blooming indeed. Most blooming. I merely came to tell her, seriously,
what a betrothal by deceased parents is.”

“And what is it—according to your judgment?”

Mr. Grewgious noticed the whiteness of the lips that asked the question, and
put it down to the chilling account of the Cathedral.

“I merely came to tell her that it could not be considered binding,
against any such reason for its dissolution as a want of affection, or want of
disposition to carry it into effect, on the side of either party.”

“May I ask, had you any especial reason for telling her that?”

Mr. Grewgious answered somewhat sharply: “The especial reason of doing my
duty, sir. Simply that.” Then he added: “Come, Mr. Jasper; I know
your affection for your nephew, and that you are quick to feel on his behalf. I
assure you that this implies not the least doubt of, or disrespect to, your
nephew.”

“You could not,” returned Jasper, with a friendly pressure of his
arm, as they walked on side by side, “speak more handsomely.”

Mr. Grewgious pulled off his hat to smooth his head, and, having smoothed it,
nodded it contentedly, and put his hat on again.

“I will wager,” said Jasper, smiling—his lips were still so
white that he was conscious of it, and bit and moistened them while speaking:
“I will wager that she hinted no wish to be released from Ned.”

“And you will win your wager, if you do,” retorted Mr. Grewgious.
“We should allow some margin for little maidenly delicacies in a young
motherless creature, under such circumstances, I suppose; it is not in my line;
what do you think?”

“There can be no doubt of it.”

“I am glad you say so. Because,” proceeded Mr. Grewgious, who had
all this time very knowingly felt his way round to action on his remembrance of
what she had said of Jasper himself: “because she seems to have some
little delicate instinct that all preliminary arrangements had best be made
between Mr. Edwin Drood and herself, don’t you see? She don’t want
us, don’t you know?”

Jasper touched himself on the breast, and said, somewhat indistinctly:
“You mean me.”

Mr. Grewgious touched himself on the breast, and said: “I mean us.
Therefore, let them have their little discussions and councils together, when
Mr. Edwin Drood comes back here at Christmas; and then you and I will step in,
and put the final touches to the business.”

“So, you settled with her that you would come back at Christmas?”
observed Jasper. “I see! Mr. Grewgious, as you quite fairly said just
now, there is such an exceptional attachment between my nephew and me, that I
am more sensitive for the dear, fortunate, happy, happy fellow than for myself.
But it is only right that the young lady should be considered, as you have
pointed out, and that I should accept my cue from you. I accept it. I
understand that at Christmas they will complete their preparations for May, and
that their marriage will be put in final train by themselves, and that nothing
will remain for us but to put ourselves in train also, and have everything
ready for our formal release from our trusts, on Edwin’s birthday.”

“That is my understanding,” assented Mr. Grewgious, as they shook
hands to part. “God bless them both!”

“God save them both!” cried Jasper.

“I said, bless them,” remarked the former, looking back over his
shoulder.

“I said, save them,” returned the latter. “Is there any
difference?”

CHAPTER X.
SMOOTHING THE WAY

It has been often enough remarked that women have a curious power of divining
the characters of men, which would seem to be innate and instinctive; seeing
that it is arrived at through no patient process of reasoning, that it can give
no satisfactory or sufficient account of itself, and that it pronounces in the
most confident manner even against accumulated observation on the part of the
other sex. But it has not been quite so often remarked that this power
(fallible, like every other human attribute) is for the most part absolutely
incapable of self-revision; and that when it has delivered an adverse opinion
which by all human lights is subsequently proved to have failed, it is
undistinguishable from prejudice, in respect of its determination not to be
corrected. Nay, the very possibility of contradiction or disproof, however
remote, communicates to this feminine judgment from the first, in nine cases
out of ten, the weakness attendant on the testimony of an interested witness;
so personally and strongly does the fair diviner connect herself with her
divination.

“Now, don’t you think, Ma dear,” said the Minor Canon to his
mother one day as she sat at her knitting in his little book-room, “that
you are rather hard on Mr. Neville?”

“No, I do not, Sept,” returned the old lady.

“Let us discuss it, Ma.”

“I have no objection to discuss it, Sept. I trust, my dear, I am always
open to discussion.” There was a vibration in the old lady’s cap,
as though she internally added: “and I should like to see the discussion
that would change my mind!”

“Very good, Ma,” said her conciliatory son. “There is nothing
like being open to discussion.”

“I hope not, my dear,” returned the old lady, evidently shut to it.

“Well! Mr. Neville, on that unfortunate occasion, commits himself under
provocation.”

“And under mulled wine,” added the old lady.

“I must admit the wine. Though I believe the two young men were much
alike in that regard.”

“I don’t,” said the old lady.

“Why not, Ma?”

“Because I don’t,” said the old lady. “Still, I
am quite open to discussion.”

“But, my dear Ma, I cannot see how we are to discuss, if you take that
line.”

“Blame Mr. Neville for it, Sept, and not me,” said the old lady,
with stately severity.

“My dear Ma! why Mr. Neville?”

“Because,” said Mrs. Crisparkle, retiring on first principles,
“he came home intoxicated, and did great discredit to this house, and
showed great disrespect to this family.”

“That is not to be denied, Ma. He was then, and he is now, very sorry for
it.”

“But for Mr. Jasper’s well-bred consideration in coming up to me,
next day, after service, in the Nave itself, with his gown still on, and
expressing his hope that I had not been greatly alarmed or had my rest
violently broken, I believe I might never have heard of that disgraceful
transaction,” said the old lady.

“To be candid, Ma, I think I should have kept it from you if I could:
though I had not decidedly made up my mind. I was following Jasper out, to
confer with him on the subject, and to consider the expediency of his and my
jointly hushing the thing up on all accounts, when I found him speaking to you.
Then it was too late.”

“Too late, indeed, Sept. He was still as pale as gentlemanly ashes at
what had taken place in his rooms overnight.”

“If I had kept it from you, Ma, you may be sure it would have been
for your peace and quiet, and for the good of the young men, and in my best
discharge of my duty according to my lights.”

The old lady immediately walked across the room and kissed him: saying,
“Of course, my dear Sept, I am sure of that.”

“However, it became the town-talk,” said Mr. Crisparkle, rubbing
his ear, as his mother resumed her seat, and her knitting, “and passed
out of my power.”

“And I said then, Sept,” returned the old lady, “that I
thought ill of Mr. Neville. And I say now, that I think ill of Mr. Neville. And
I said then, and I say now, that I hope Mr. Neville may come to good, but I
don’t believe he will.” Here the cap vibrated again considerably.

“I am sorry to hear you say so, Ma—”

“I am sorry to say so, my dear,” interposed the old lady, knitting
on firmly, “but I can’t help it.”

“—For,” pursued the Minor Canon, “it is undeniable that
Mr. Neville is exceedingly industrious and attentive, and that he improves
apace, and that he has—I hope I may say—an attachment to me.”

“There is no merit in the last article, my dear,” said the old
lady, quickly; “and if he says there is, I think the worse of him for the
boast.”

“But, my dear Ma, he never said there was.”

“Perhaps not,” returned the old lady; “still, I don’t
see that it greatly signifies.”

There was no impatience in the pleasant look with which Mr. Crisparkle
contemplated the pretty old piece of china as it knitted; but there was,
certainly, a humorous sense of its not being a piece of china to argue with
very closely.

“Besides, Sept, ask yourself what he would be without his sister. You
know what an influence she has over him; you know what a capacity she has; you
know that whatever he reads with you, he reads with her. Give her her fair
share of your praise, and how much do you leave for him?”

At these words Mr. Crisparkle fell into a little reverie, in which he thought
of several things. He thought of the times he had seen the brother and sister
together in deep converse over one of his own old college books; now, in the
rimy mornings, when he made those sharpening pilgrimages to Cloisterham Weir;
now, in the sombre evenings, when he faced the wind at sunset, having climbed
his favourite outlook, a beetling fragment of monastery ruin; and the two
studious figures passed below him along the margin of the river, in which the
town fires and lights already shone, making the landscape bleaker. He thought
how the consciousness had stolen upon him that in teaching one, he was teaching
two; and how he had almost insensibly adapted his explanations to both
minds—that with which his own was daily in contact, and that which he
only approached through it. He thought of the gossip that had reached him from
the Nuns’ House, to the effect that Helena, whom he had mistrusted as so
proud and fierce, submitted herself to the fairy-bride (as he called her), and
learnt from her what she knew. He thought of the picturesque alliance between
those two, externally so very different. He thought—perhaps most of
all—could it be that these things were yet but so many weeks old, and had
become an integral part of his life?

As, whenever the Reverend Septimus fell a-musing, his good mother took it to be
an infallible sign that he “wanted support,” the blooming old lady
made all haste to the dining-room closet, to produce from it the support
embodied in a glass of Constantia and a home-made biscuit. It was a most
wonderful closet, worthy of Cloisterham and of Minor Canon Corner. Above it, a
portrait of Handel in a flowing wig beamed down at the spectator, with a
knowing air of being up to the contents of the closet, and a musical air of
intending to combine all its harmonies in one delicious fugue. No common closet
with a vulgar door on hinges, openable all at once, and leaving nothing to be
disclosed by degrees, this rare closet had a lock in mid-air, where two
perpendicular slides met; the one falling down, and the other pushing up. The
upper slide, on being pulled down (leaving the lower a double mystery),
revealed deep shelves of pickle-jars, jam-pots, tin canisters, spice-boxes, and
agreeably outlandish vessels of blue and white, the luscious lodgings of
preserved tamarinds and ginger. Every benevolent inhabitant of this retreat had
his name inscribed upon his stomach. The pickles, in a uniform of rich brown
double-breasted buttoned coat, and yellow or sombre drab continuations,
announced their portly forms, in printed capitals, as Walnut, Gherkin, Onion,
Cabbage, Cauliflower, Mixed, and other members of that noble family. The jams,
as being of a less masculine temperament, and as wearing curlpapers, announced
themselves in feminine caligraphy, like a soft whisper, to be Raspberry,
Gooseberry, Apricot, Plum, Damson, Apple, and Peach. The scene closing on these
charmers, and the lower slide ascending, oranges were revealed, attended by a
mighty japanned sugar-box, to temper their acerbity if unripe. Home-made
biscuits waited at the Court of these Powers, accompanied by a goodly fragment
of plum-cake, and various slender ladies’ fingers, to be dipped into
sweet wine and kissed. Lowest of all, a compact leaden-vault enshrined the
sweet wine and a stock of cordials: whence issued whispers of Seville Orange,
Lemon, Almond, and Caraway-seed. There was a crowning air upon this closet of
closets, of having been for ages hummed through by the Cathedral bell and
organ, until those venerable bees had made sublimated honey of everything in
store; and it was always observed that every dipper among the shelves (deep, as
has been noticed, and swallowing up head, shoulders, and elbows) came forth
again mellow-faced, and seeming to have undergone a saccharine transfiguration.

The Reverend Septimus yielded himself up quite as willing a victim to a
nauseous medicinal herb-closet, also presided over by the china shepherdess, as
to this glorious cupboard. To what amazing infusions of gentian, peppermint,
gilliflower, sage, parsley, thyme, rue, rosemary, and dandelion, did his
courageous stomach submit itself! In what wonderful wrappers, enclosing layers
of dried leaves, would he swathe his rosy and contented face, if his mother
suspected him of a toothache! What botanical blotches would he cheerfully stick
upon his cheek, or forehead, if the dear old lady convicted him of an
imperceptible pimple there! Into this herbaceous penitentiary, situated on an
upper staircase-landing: a low and narrow whitewashed cell, where bunches of
dried leaves hung from rusty hooks in the ceiling, and were spread out upon
shelves, in company with portentous bottles: would the Reverend Septimus
submissively be led, like the highly popular lamb who has so long and
unresistingly been led to the slaughter, and there would he, unlike that lamb,
bore nobody but himself. Not even doing that much, so that the old lady were
busy and pleased, he would quietly swallow what was given him, merely taking a
corrective dip of hands and face into the great bowl of dried rose-leaves, and
into the other great bowl of dried lavender, and then would go out, as
confident in the sweetening powers of Cloisterham Weir and a wholesome mind, as
Lady Macbeth was hopeless of those of all the seas that roll.

In the present instance the good Minor Canon took his glass of Constantia with
an excellent grace, and, so supported to his mother’s satisfaction,
applied himself to the remaining duties of the day. In their orderly and
punctual progress they brought round Vesper Service and twilight. The Cathedral
being very cold, he set off for a brisk trot after service; the trot to end in
a charge at his favourite fragment of ruin, which was to be carried by storm,
without a pause for breath.

He carried it in a masterly manner, and, not breathed even then, stood looking
down upon the river. The river at Cloisterham is sufficiently near the sea to
throw up oftentimes a quantity of seaweed. An unusual quantity had come in with
the last tide, and this, and the confusion of the water, and the restless
dipping and flapping of the noisy gulls, and an angry light out seaward beyond
the brown-sailed barges that were turning black, foreshadowed a stormy night.
In his mind he was contrasting the wild and noisy sea with the quiet harbour of
Minor Canon Corner, when Helena and Neville Landless passed below him. He had
had the two together in his thoughts all day, and at once climbed down to speak
to them together. The footing was rough in an uncertain light for any tread
save that of a good climber; but the Minor Canon was as good a climber as most
men, and stood beside them before many good climbers would have been half-way
down.

“A wild evening, Miss Landless! Do you not find your usual walk with your
brother too exposed and cold for the time of year? Or at all events, when the
sun is down, and the weather is driving in from the sea?”

Helena thought not. It was their favourite walk. It was very retired.

“It is very retired,” assented Mr. Crisparkle, laying hold of his
opportunity straightway, and walking on with them. “It is a place of all
others where one can speak without interruption, as I wish to do. Mr. Neville,
I believe you tell your sister everything that passes between us?”

“Everything, sir.”

“Consequently,” said Mr. Crisparkle, “your sister is aware
that I have repeatedly urged you to make some kind of apology for that
unfortunate occurrence which befell on the night of your arrival here.”
In saying it he looked to her, and not to him; therefore it was she, and not
he, who replied:

“Yes.”

“I call it unfortunate, Miss Helena,” resumed Mr. Crisparkle,
“forasmuch as it certainly has engendered a prejudice against Neville.
There is a notion about, that he is a dangerously passionate fellow, of an
uncontrollable and furious temper: he is really avoided as such.”

“I have no doubt he is, poor fellow,” said Helena, with a look of
proud compassion at her brother, expressing a deep sense of his being
ungenerously treated. “I should be quite sure of it, from your saying so;
but what you tell me is confirmed by suppressed hints and references that I
meet with every day.”

“Now,” Mr. Crisparkle again resumed, in a tone of mild though firm
persuasion, “is not this to be regretted, and ought it not to be amended?
These are early days of Neville’s in Cloisterham, and I have no fear of
his outliving such a prejudice, and proving himself to have been misunderstood.
But how much wiser to take action at once, than to trust to uncertain time!
Besides, apart from its being politic, it is right. For there can be no
question that Neville was wrong.”

“He was provoked,” Helena submitted.

“He was the assailant,” Mr. Crisparkle submitted.

They walked on in silence, until Helena raised her eyes to the Minor
Canon’s face, and said, almost reproachfully: “O Mr. Crisparkle,
would you have Neville throw himself at young Drood’s feet, or at Mr.
Jasper’s, who maligns him every day? In your heart you cannot mean it.
From your heart you could not do it, if his case were yours.”

“I have represented to Mr. Crisparkle, Helena,” said Neville, with
a glance of deference towards his tutor, “that if I could do it from my
heart, I would. But I cannot, and I revolt from the pretence. You forget
however, that to put the case to Mr. Crisparkle as his own, is to suppose to
have done what I did.”

“I ask his pardon,” said Helena.

“You see,” remarked Mr. Crisparkle, again laying hold of his
opportunity, though with a moderate and delicate touch, “you both
instinctively acknowledge that Neville did wrong. Then why stop short, and not
otherwise acknowledge it?”

“Is there no difference,” asked Helena, with a little faltering in
her manner; “between submission to a generous spirit, and submission to a
base or trivial one?”

Before the worthy Minor Canon was quite ready with his argument in reference to
this nice distinction, Neville struck in:

“Help me to clear myself with Mr. Crisparkle, Helena. Help me to convince
him that I cannot be the first to make concessions without mockery and
falsehood. My nature must be changed before I can do so, and it is not changed.
I am sensible of inexpressible affront, and deliberate aggravation of
inexpressible affront, and I am angry. The plain truth is, I am still as angry
when I recall that night as I was that night.”

“Neville,” hinted the Minor Canon, with a steady countenance,
“you have repeated that former action of your hands, which I so much
dislike.”

“I am sorry for it, sir, but it was involuntary. I confessed that I was
still as angry.”

“And I confess,” said Mr. Crisparkle, “that I hoped for
better things.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you, sir, but it would be far worse to deceive
you, and I should deceive you grossly if I pretended that you had softened me
in this respect. The time may come when your powerful influence will do even
that with the difficult pupil whose antecedents you know; but it has not come
yet. Is this so, and in spite of my struggles against myself, Helena?”

She, whose dark eyes were watching the effect of what he said on Mr.
Crisparkle’s face, replied—to Mr. Crisparkle, not to him: “It
is so.” After a short pause, she answered the slightest look of inquiry
conceivable, in her brother’s eyes, with as slight an affirmative bend of
her own head; and he went on:

“I have never yet had the courage to say to you, sir, what in full
openness I ought to have said when you first talked with me on this subject. It
is not easy to say, and I have been withheld by a fear of its seeming
ridiculous, which is very strong upon me down to this last moment, and might,
but for my sister, prevent my being quite open with you even now.—I
admire Miss Bud, sir, so very much, that I cannot bear her being treated with
conceit or indifference; and even if I did not feel that I had an injury
against young Drood on my own account, I should feel that I had an injury
against him on hers.”

Mr. Crisparkle, in utter amazement, looked at Helena for corroboration, and met
in her expressive face full corroboration, and a plea for advice.

“The young lady of whom you speak is, as you know, Mr. Neville, shortly
to be married,” said Mr. Crisparkle, gravely; “therefore your
admiration, if it be of that special nature which you seem to indicate, is
outrageously misplaced. Moreover, it is monstrous that you should take upon
yourself to be the young lady’s champion against her chosen husband.
Besides, you have seen them only once. The young lady has become your
sister’s friend; and I wonder that your sister, even on her behalf, has
not checked you in this irrational and culpable fancy.”

“She has tried, sir, but uselessly. Husband or no husband, that fellow is
incapable of the feeling with which I am inspired towards the beautiful young
creature whom he treats like a doll. I say he is as incapable of it, as he is
unworthy of her. I say she is sacrificed in being bestowed upon him. I say that
I love her, and despise and hate him!” This with a face so flushed, and a
gesture so violent, that his sister crossed to his side, and caught his arm,
remonstrating, “Neville, Neville!”

Thus recalled to himself, he quickly became sensible of having lost the guard
he had set upon his passionate tendency, and covered his face with his hand, as
one repentant and wretched.

Mr. Crisparkle, watching him attentively, and at the same time meditating how
to proceed, walked on for some paces in silence. Then he spoke:

“Mr. Neville, Mr. Neville, I am sorely grieved to see in you more traces
of a character as sullen, angry, and wild, as the night now closing in. They
are of too serious an aspect to leave me the resource of treating the
infatuation you have disclosed, as undeserving serious consideration. I give it
very serious consideration, and I speak to you accordingly. This feud between
you and young Drood must not go on. I cannot permit it to go on any longer,
knowing what I now know from you, and you living under my roof. Whatever
prejudiced and unauthorised constructions your blind and envious wrath may put
upon his character, it is a frank, good-natured character. I know I can trust
to it for that. Now, pray observe what I am about to say. On reflection, and on
your sister’s representation, I am willing to admit that, in making peace
with young Drood, you have a right to be met half-way. I will engage that you
shall be, and even that young Drood shall make the first advance. This
condition fulfilled, you will pledge me the honour of a Christian gentleman
that the quarrel is for ever at an end on your side. What may be in your heart
when you give him your hand, can only be known to the Searcher of all hearts;
but it will never go well with you, if there be any treachery there. So far, as
to that; next as to what I must again speak of as your infatuation. I
understand it to have been confided to me, and to be known to no other person
save your sister and yourself. Do I understand aright?”

Helena answered in a low voice: “It is only known to us three who are
here together.”

“It is not at all known to the young lady, your friend?”

“On my soul, no!”

“I require you, then, to give me your similar and solemn pledge, Mr.
Neville, that it shall remain the secret it is, and that you will take no other
action whatsoever upon it than endeavouring (and that most earnestly) to erase
it from your mind. I will not tell you that it will soon pass; I will not tell
you that it is the fancy of the moment; I will not tell you that such caprices
have their rise and fall among the young and ardent every hour; I will leave
you undisturbed in the belief that it has few parallels or none, that it will
abide with you a long time, and that it will be very difficult to conquer. So
much the more weight shall I attach to the pledge I require from you, when it
is unreservedly given.”

The young man twice or thrice essayed to speak, but failed.

“Let me leave you with your sister, whom it is time you took home,”
said Mr. Crisparkle. “You will find me alone in my room by-and-by.”

“Pray do not leave us yet,” Helena implored him. “Another
minute.”

“I should not,” said Neville, pressing his hand upon his face,
“have needed so much as another minute, if you had been less patient with
me, Mr. Crisparkle, less considerate of me, and less unpretendingly good and
true. O, if in my childhood I had known such a guide!”

“Follow your guide now, Neville,” murmured Helena, “and
follow him to Heaven!”

There was that in her tone which broke the good Minor Canon’s voice, or
it would have repudiated her exaltation of him. As it was, he laid a finger on
his lips, and looked towards her brother.

“To say that I give both pledges, Mr. Crisparkle, out of my innermost
heart, and to say that there is no treachery in it, is to say nothing!”
Thus Neville, greatly moved. “I beg your forgiveness for my miserable
lapse into a burst of passion.”

“Not mine, Neville, not mine. You know with whom forgiveness lies, as the
highest attribute conceivable. Miss Helena, you and your brother are twin
children. You came into this world with the same dispositions, and you passed
your younger days together surrounded by the same adverse circumstances. What
you have overcome in yourself, can you not overcome in him? You see the rock
that lies in his course. Who but you can keep him clear of it?”

“Who but you, sir?” replied Helena. “What is my influence, or
my weak wisdom, compared with yours!”

“You have the wisdom of Love,” returned the Minor Canon, “and
it was the highest wisdom ever known upon this earth, remember. As to
mine—but the less said of that commonplace commodity the better. Good
night!”

She took the hand he offered her, and gratefully and almost reverently raised
it to her lips.

“Tut!” said the Minor Canon softly, “I am much
overpaid!” and turned away.

Mr. Crisparkle is overpaid

Retracing his steps towards the Cathedral Close, he tried, as he went along in
the dark, to think out the best means of bringing to pass what he had promised
to effect, and what must somehow be done. “I shall probably be asked to
marry them,” he reflected, “and I would they were married and gone!
But this presses first.”

He debated principally whether he should write to young Drood, or whether he
should speak to Jasper. The consciousness of being popular with the whole
Cathedral establishment inclined him to the latter course, and the well-timed
sight of the lighted gatehouse decided him to take it. “I will strike
while the iron is hot,” he said, “and see him now.”

Jasper was lying asleep on a couch before the fire, when, having ascended the
postern-stair, and received no answer to his knock at the door, Mr. Crisparkle
gently turned the handle and looked in. Long afterwards he had cause to
remember how Jasper sprang from the couch in a delirious state between sleeping
and waking, and crying out: “What is the matter? Who did it?”

“It is only I, Jasper. I am sorry to have disturbed you.”

The glare of his eyes settled down into a look of recognition, and he moved a
chair or two, to make a way to the fireside.

“I was dreaming at a great rate, and am glad to be disturbed from an
indigestive after-dinner sleep. Not to mention that you are always
welcome.”

“Thank you. I am not confident,” returned Mr. Crisparkle, as he sat
himself down in the easy-chair placed for him, “that my subject will at
first sight be quite as welcome as myself; but I am a minister of peace, and I
pursue my subject in the interests of peace. In a word, Jasper, I want to
establish peace between these two young fellows.”

A very perplexed expression took hold of Mr. Jasper’s face; a very
perplexing expression too, for Mr. Crisparkle could make nothing of it.

“How?” was Jasper’s inquiry, in a low and slow voice, after a
silence.

“For the ‘How’ I come to you. I want to ask you to do me the
great favour and service of interposing with your nephew (I have already
interposed with Mr. Neville), and getting him to write you a short note, in his
lively way, saying that he is willing to shake hands. I know what a
good-natured fellow he is, and what influence you have with him. And without in
the least defending Mr. Neville, we must all admit that he was bitterly
stung.”

Jasper turned that perplexed face towards the fire. Mr. Crisparkle continuing
to observe it, found it even more perplexing than before, inasmuch as it seemed
to denote (which could hardly be) some close internal calculation.

“I know that you are not prepossessed in Mr. Neville’s
favour,” the Minor Canon was going on, when Jasper stopped him:

“You have cause to say so. I am not, indeed.”

“Undoubtedly; and I admit his lamentable violence of temper, though I
hope he and I will get the better of it between us. But I have exacted a very
solemn promise from him as to his future demeanour towards your nephew, if you
do kindly interpose; and I am sure he will keep it.”

“You are always responsible and trustworthy, Mr. Crisparkle. Do you
really feel sure that you can answer for him so confidently?”

“I do.”

The perplexed and perplexing look vanished.

“Then you relieve my mind of a great dread, and a heavy weight,”
said Jasper; “I will do it.”

Mr. Crisparkle, delighted by the swiftness and completeness of his success,
acknowledged it in the handsomest terms.

“I will do it,” repeated Jasper, “for the comfort of having
your guarantee against my vague and unfounded fears. You will laugh—but
do you keep a Diary?”

“A line for a day; not more.”

“A line for a day would be quite as much as my uneventful life would
need, Heaven knows,” said Jasper, taking a book from a desk, “but
that my Diary is, in fact, a Diary of Ned’s life too. You will laugh at
this entry; you will guess when it was made:

“‘Past midnight.—After what I have just now seen, I have a
morbid dread upon me of some horrible consequences resulting to my dear boy,
that I cannot reason with or in any way contend against. All my efforts are
vain. The demoniacal passion of this Neville Landless, his strength in his
fury, and his savage rage for the destruction of its object, appal me. So
profound is the impression, that twice since I have gone into my dear
boy’s room, to assure myself of his sleeping safely, and not lying dead
in his blood.’

“Here is another entry next morning:

“‘Ned up and away. Light-hearted and unsuspicious as ever. He
laughed when I cautioned him, and said he was as good a man as Neville Landless
any day. I told him that might be, but he was not as bad a man. He continued to
make light of it, but I travelled with him as far as I could, and left him most
unwillingly. I am unable to shake off these dark intangible presentiments of
evil—if feelings founded upon staring facts are to be so called.’

“Again and again,” said Jasper, in conclusion, twirling the leaves
of the book before putting it by, “I have relapsed into these moods, as
other entries show. But I have now your assurance at my back, and shall put it
in my book, and make it an antidote to my black humours.”

“Such an antidote, I hope,” returned Mr. Crisparkle, “as will
induce you before long to consign the black humours to the flames. I ought to
be the last to find any fault with you this evening, when you have met my
wishes so freely; but I must say, Jasper, that your devotion to your nephew has
made you exaggerative here.”

“You are my witness,” said Jasper, shrugging his shoulders,
“what my state of mind honestly was, that night, before I sat down to
write, and in what words I expressed it. You remember objecting to a word I
used, as being too strong? It was a stronger word than any in my Diary.”

“Well, well. Try the antidote,” rejoined Mr. Crisparkle; “and
may it give you a brighter and better view of the case! We will discuss it no
more now. I have to thank you for myself, thank you sincerely.”

“You shall find,” said Jasper, as they shook hands, “that I
will not do the thing you wish me to do, by halves. I will take care that Ned,
giving way at all, shall give way thoroughly.”

On the third day after this conversation, he called on Mr. Crisparkle with the
following letter:

“MY DEAR JACK,
    “I am touched by your account of your interview with Mr. Crisparkle,
whom I much respect and esteem. At once I openly say that I forgot myself on
that occasion quite as much as Mr. Landless did, and that I wish that bygone to
be a bygone, and all to be right again.
    “Look here, dear old boy. Ask Mr. Landless to dinner on Christmas Eve
(the better the day the better the deed), and let there be only we three, and
let us shake hands all round there and then, and say no more about it.

“My dear Jack,
“Ever your most affectionate,
“EDWIN DROOD.

“P.S. Love to Miss Pussy at the next music-lesson.”

“You expect Mr. Neville, then?” said Mr. Crisparkle.

“I count upon his coming,” said Mr. Jasper.

CHAPTER XI.
A PICTURE AND A RING

Behind the most ancient part of Holborn, London, where certain gabled houses
some centuries of age still stand looking on the public way, as if
disconsolately looking for the Old Bourne that has long run dry, is a little
nook composed of two irregular quadrangles, called Staple Inn. It is one of
those nooks, the turning into which out of the clashing street, imparts to the
relieved pedestrian the sensation of having put cotton in his ears, and velvet
soles on his boots. It is one of those nooks where a few smoky sparrows twitter
in smoky trees, as though they called to one another, “Let us play at
country,” and where a few feet of garden-mould and a few yards of gravel
enable them to do that refreshing violence to their tiny understandings.
Moreover, it is one of those nooks which are legal nooks; and it contains a
little Hall, with a little lantern in its roof: to what obstructive purposes
devoted, and at whose expense, this history knoweth not.

In the days when Cloisterham took offence at the existence of a railroad afar
off, as menacing that sensitive constitution, the property of us Britons: the
odd fortune of which sacred institution it is to be in exactly equal degrees
croaked about, trembled for, and boasted of, whatever happens to anything,
anywhere in the world: in those days no neighbouring architecture of lofty
proportions had arisen to overshadow Staple Inn. The westering sun bestowed
bright glances on it, and the south-west wind blew into it unimpeded.

Neither wind nor sun, however, favoured Staple Inn one December afternoon
towards six o’clock, when it was filled with fog, and candles shed murky
and blurred rays through the windows of all its then-occupied sets of chambers;
notably from a set of chambers in a corner house in the little inner
quadrangle, presenting in black and white over its ugly portal the mysterious
inscription:

In which set of chambers, never having troubled his head about the inscription,
unless to bethink himself at odd times on glancing up at it, that haply it
might mean Perhaps John Thomas, or Perhaps Joe Tyler, sat Mr. Grewgious writing
by his fire.

Who could have told, by looking at Mr. Grewgious, whether he had ever known
ambition or disappointment? He had been bred to the Bar, and had laid himself
out for chamber practice; to draw deeds; “convey the wise it call,”
as Pistol says. But Conveyancing and he had made such a very indifferent
marriage of it that they had separated by consent—if there can be said to
be separation where there has never been coming together.

No. Coy Conveyancing would not come to Mr. Grewgious. She was wooed, not won,
and they went their several ways. But an Arbitration being blown towards him by
some unaccountable wind, and he gaining great credit in it as one indefatigable
in seeking out right and doing right, a pretty fat Receivership was next blown
into his pocket by a wind more traceable to its source. So, by chance, he had
found his niche. Receiver and Agent now, to two rich estates, and deputing
their legal business, in an amount worth having, to a firm of solicitors on the
floor below, he had snuffed out his ambition (supposing him to have ever
lighted it), and had settled down with his snuffers for the rest of his life
under the dry vine and fig-tree of P. J. T., who planted in
seventeen-forty-seven.

Many accounts and account-books, many files of correspondence, and several
strong boxes, garnished Mr. Grewgious’s room. They can scarcely be
represented as having lumbered it, so conscientious and precise was their
orderly arrangement. The apprehension of dying suddenly, and leaving one fact
or one figure with any incompleteness or obscurity attaching to it, would have
stretched Mr. Grewgious stone-dead any day. The largest fidelity to a trust was
the life-blood of the man. There are sorts of life-blood that course more
quickly, more gaily, more attractively; but there is no better sort in
circulation.

There was no luxury in his room. Even its comforts were limited to its being
dry and warm, and having a snug though faded fireside. What may be called its
private life was confined to the hearth, and an easy-chair, and an
old-fashioned occasional round table that was brought out upon the rug after
business hours, from a corner where it elsewise remained turned up like a
shining mahogany shield. Behind it, when standing thus on the defensive, was a
closet, usually containing something good to drink. An outer room was the
clerk’s room; Mr. Grewgious’s sleeping-room was across the common
stair; and he held some not empty cellarage at the bottom of the common stair.
Three hundred days in the year, at least, he crossed over to the hotel in
Furnival’s Inn for his dinner, and after dinner crossed back again, to
make the most of these simplicities until it should become broad business day
once more, with P. J. T., date seventeen-forty-seven.

As Mr. Grewgious sat and wrote by his fire that afternoon, so did the clerk of
Mr. Grewgious sit and write by his fire. A pale, puffy-faced,
dark-haired person of thirty, with big dark eyes that wholly wanted lustre, and
a dissatisfied doughy complexion, that seemed to ask to be sent to the
baker’s, this attendant was a mysterious being, possessed of some strange
power over Mr. Grewgious. As though he had been called into existence, like a
fabulous Familiar, by a magic spell which had failed when required to dismiss
him, he stuck tight to Mr. Grewgious’s stool, although Mr.
Grewgious’s comfort and convenience would manifestly have been advanced
by dispossessing him. A gloomy person with tangled locks, and a general air of
having been reared under the shadow of that baleful tree of Java which has
given shelter to more lies than the whole botanical kingdom, Mr. Grewgious,
nevertheless, treated him with unaccountable consideration.

“Now, Bazzard,” said Mr. Grewgious, on the entrance of his clerk:
looking up from his papers as he arranged them for the night: “what is in
the wind besides fog?”

“Mr. Drood,” said Bazzard.

“What of him?”

“Has called,” said Bazzard.

“You might have shown him in.”

“I am doing it,” said Bazzard.

The visitor came in accordingly.

“Dear me!” said Mr. Grewgious, looking round his pair of office
candles. “I thought you had called and merely left your name and gone.
How do you do, Mr. Edwin? Dear me, you’re choking!”

“It’s this fog,” returned Edwin; “and it makes my eyes
smart, like Cayenne pepper.”

“Is it really so bad as that? Pray undo your wrappers. It’s
fortunate I have so good a fire; but Mr. Bazzard has taken care of me.”

“No I haven’t,” said Mr. Bazzard at the door.

“Ah! then it follows that I must have taken care of myself without
observing it,” said Mr. Grewgious. “Pray be seated in my chair. No.
I beg! Coming out of such an atmosphere, in my chair.”

Edwin took the easy-chair in the corner; and the fog he had brought in with
him, and the fog he took off with his greatcoat and neck-shawl, was speedily
licked up by the eager fire.

“I look,” said Edwin, smiling, “as if I had come to
stop.”

“—By the by,” cried Mr. Grewgious; “excuse my
interrupting you; do stop. The fog may clear in an hour or two. We can have
dinner in from just across Holborn. You had better take your Cayenne pepper
here than outside; pray stop and dine.”

“You are very kind,” said Edwin, glancing about him as though
attracted by the notion of a new and relishing sort of gipsy-party.

“Not at all,” said Mr. Grewgious; “you are very kind
to join issue with a bachelor in chambers, and take pot-luck. And I’ll
ask,” said Mr. Grewgious, dropping his voice, and speaking with a
twinkling eye, as if inspired with a bright thought: “I’ll ask
Bazzard. He mightn’t like it else.—Bazzard!”

Bazzard reappeared.

“Dine presently with Mr. Drood and me.”

“If I am ordered to dine, of course I will, sir,” was the gloomy
answer.

“Save the man!” cried Mr. Grewgious. “You’re not
ordered; you’re invited.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Bazzard; “in that case I don’t
care if I do.”

“That’s arranged. And perhaps you wouldn’t mind,” said
Mr. Grewgious, “stepping over to the hotel in Furnival’s, and
asking them to send in materials for laying the cloth. For dinner we’ll
have a tureen of the hottest and strongest soup available, and we’ll have
the best made-dish that can be recommended, and we’ll have a joint (such
as a haunch of mutton), and we’ll have a goose, or a turkey, or any
little stuffed thing of that sort that may happen to be in the bill of
fare—in short, we’ll have whatever there is on hand.”

These liberal directions Mr. Grewgious issued with his usual air of reading an
inventory, or repeating a lesson, or doing anything else by rote. Bazzard,
after drawing out the round table, withdrew to execute them.

“I was a little delicate, you see,” said Mr. Grewgious, in a lower
tone, after his clerk’s departure, “about employing him in the
foraging or commissariat department. Because he mightn’t like it.”

“He seems to have his own way, sir,” remarked Edwin.

“His own way?” returned Mr. Grewgious. “O dear no! Poor
fellow, you quite mistake him. If he had his own way, he wouldn’t be
here.”

“I wonder where he would be!” Edwin thought. But he only thought
it, because Mr. Grewgious came and stood himself with his back to the other
corner of the fire, and his shoulder-blades against the chimneypiece, and
collected his skirts for easy conversation.

“I take it, without having the gift of prophecy, that you have done me
the favour of looking in to mention that you are going down yonder—where
I can tell you, you are expected—and to offer to execute any little
commission from me to my charming ward, and perhaps to sharpen me up a bit in
any proceedings? Eh, Mr. Edwin?”

“I called, sir, before going down, as an act of attention.”

“Of attention!” said Mr. Grewgious. “Ah! of course, not of
impatience?”

“Impatience, sir?”

Mr. Grewgious had meant to be arch—not that he in the remotest degree
expressed that meaning—and had brought himself into scarcely supportable
proximity with the fire, as if to burn the fullest effect of his archness into
himself, as other subtle impressions are burnt into hard metals. But his
archness suddenly flying before the composed face and manner of his visitor,
and only the fire remaining, he started and rubbed himself.

“I have lately been down yonder,” said Mr. Grewgious, rearranging
his skirts; “and that was what I referred to, when I said I could tell
you you are expected.”

“Indeed, sir! Yes; I knew that Pussy was looking out for me.”

“Do you keep a cat down there?” asked Mr. Grewgious.

Edwin coloured a little as he explained: “I call Rosa Pussy.”

“O, really,” said Mr. Grewgious, smoothing down his head;
“that’s very affable.”

Edwin glanced at his face, uncertain whether or no he seriously objected to the
appellation. But Edwin might as well have glanced at the face of a clock.

“A pet name, sir,” he explained again.

“Umps,” said Mr. Grewgious, with a nod. But with such an
extraordinary compromise between an unqualified assent and a qualified dissent,
that his visitor was much disconcerted.

“Did PRosa—” Edwin began by way of recovering himself.

“PRosa?” repeated Mr. Grewgious.

“I was going to say Pussy, and changed my mind;—did she tell you
anything about the Landlesses?”

“No,” said Mr. Grewgious. “What is the Landlesses? An estate?
A villa? A farm?”

“A brother and sister. The sister is at the Nuns’ House, and has
become a great friend of P—”

“PRosa’s,” Mr. Grewgious struck in, with a fixed face.

“She is a strikingly handsome girl, sir, and I thought she might have
been described to you, or presented to you perhaps?”

“Neither,” said Mr. Grewgious. “But here is Bazzard.”

Bazzard returned, accompanied by two waiters—an immovable waiter, and a
flying waiter; and the three brought in with them as much fog as gave a new
roar to the fire. The flying waiter, who had brought everything on his
shoulders, laid the cloth with amazing rapidity and dexterity; while the
immovable waiter, who had brought nothing, found fault with him. The flying
waiter then highly polished all the glasses he had brought, and the immovable
waiter looked through them. The flying waiter then flew across Holborn for the
soup, and flew back again, and then took another flight for the made-dish, and
flew back again, and then took another flight for the joint and poultry, and
flew back again, and between whiles took supplementary flights for a great
variety of articles, as it was discovered from time to time that the immovable
waiter had forgotten them all. But let the flying waiter cleave the air as he
might, he was always reproached on his return by the immovable waiter for
bringing fog with him, and being out of breath. At the conclusion of the
repast, by which time the flying waiter was severely blown, the immovable
waiter gathered up the tablecloth under his arm with a grand air, and having
sternly (not to say with indignation) looked on at the flying waiter while he
set the clean glasses round, directed a valedictory glance towards Mr.
Grewgious, conveying: “Let it be clearly understood between us that the
reward is mine, and that Nil is the claim of this slave,” and pushed the
flying waiter before him out of the room.

It was like a highly-finished miniature painting representing My Lords of the
Circumlocution Department, Commandership-in-Chief of any sort, Government. It
was quite an edifying little picture to be hung on the line in the National
Gallery.

As the fog had been the proximate cause of this sumptuous repast, so the fog
served for its general sauce. To hear the out-door clerks sneezing, wheezing,
and beating their feet on the gravel was a zest far surpassing Doctor
Kitchener’s. To bid, with a shiver, the unfortunate flying waiter shut
the door before he had opened it, was a condiment of a profounder flavour than
Harvey. And here let it be noticed, parenthetically, that the leg of this young
man, in its application to the door, evinced the finest sense of touch: always
preceding himself and tray (with something of an angling air about it), by some
seconds: and always lingering after he and the tray had disappeared, like
Macbeth’s leg when accompanying him off the stage with reluctance to the
assassination of Duncan.

The host had gone below to the cellar, and had brought up bottles of ruby,
straw-coloured, and golden drinks, which had ripened long ago in lands where no
fogs are, and had since lain slumbering in the shade. Sparkling and tingling
after so long a nap, they pushed at their corks to help the corkscrew (like
prisoners helping rioters to force their gates), and danced out gaily. If P. J.
T. in seventeen-forty-seven, or in any other year of his period, drank such
wines—then, for a certainty, P. J. T. was Pretty Jolly Too.

Externally, Mr. Grewgious showed no signs of being mellowed by these glowing
vintages. Instead of his drinking them, they might have been poured over him in
his high-dried snuff form, and run to waste, for any lights and shades they
caused to flicker over his face. Neither was his manner influenced. But, in his
wooden way, he had observant eyes for Edwin; and when at the end of dinner, he
motioned Edwin back to his own easy-chair in the fireside corner, and Edwin
sank luxuriously into it after very brief remonstrance, Mr. Grewgious, as he
turned his seat round towards the fire too, and smoothed his head and face,
might have been seen looking at his visitor between his smoothing fingers.

“Bazzard!” said Mr. Grewgious, suddenly turning to him.

“I follow you, sir,” returned Bazzard; who had done his work of
consuming meat and drink in a workmanlike manner, though mostly in
speechlessness.

“I drink to you, Bazzard; Mr. Edwin, success to Mr. Bazzard!”

“Success to Mr. Bazzard!” echoed Edwin, with a totally unfounded
appearance of enthusiasm, and with the unspoken addition: “What in, I
wonder!”

“And May!” pursued Mr. Grewgious—“I am not at liberty
to be definite—May!—my conversational powers are so very limited
that I know I shall not come well out of this—May!—it ought to be
put imaginatively, but I have no imagination—May!—the thorn of
anxiety is as nearly the mark as I am likely to get—May it come out at
last!”

Mr. Bazzard, with a frowning smile at the fire, put a hand into his tangled
locks, as if the thorn of anxiety were there; then into his waistcoat, as if it
were there; then into his pockets, as if it were there. In all these movements
he was closely followed by the eyes of Edwin, as if that young gentleman
expected to see the thorn in action. It was not produced, however, and Mr.
Bazzard merely said: “I follow you, sir, and I thank you.”

“I am going,” said Mr. Grewgious, jingling his glass on the table
with one hand, and bending aside under cover of the other, to whisper to Edwin,
“to drink to my ward. But I put Bazzard first. He mightn’t like it
else.”

This was said with a mysterious wink; or what would have been a wink, if, in
Mr. Grewgious’s hands, it could have been quick enough. So Edwin winked
responsively, without the least idea what he meant by doing so.

“And now,” said Mr. Grewgious, “I devote a bumper to the fair
and fascinating Miss Rosa. Bazzard, the fair and fascinating Miss Rosa!”

“I follow you, sir,” said Bazzard, “and I pledge you!”

“And so do I!” said Edwin.

“Lord bless me,” cried Mr. Grewgious, breaking the blank silence
which of course ensued: though why these pauses should come upon us when
we have performed any small social rite, not directly inducive of
self-examination or mental despondency, who can tell? “I am a
particularly Angular man, and yet I fancy (if I may use the word, not having a
morsel of fancy), that I could draw a picture of a true lover’s state of
mind, to-night.”

“Let us follow you, sir,” said Bazzard, “and have the
picture.”

“Mr. Edwin will correct it where it’s wrong,” resumed Mr.
Grewgious, “and will throw in a few touches from the life. I dare say it
is wrong in many particulars, and wants many touches from the life, for I was
born a Chip, and have neither soft sympathies nor soft experiences. Well! I
hazard the guess that the true lover’s mind is completely permeated by
the beloved object of his affections. I hazard the guess that her dear name is
precious to him, cannot be heard or repeated without emotion, and is preserved
sacred. If he has any distinguishing appellation of fondness for her, it is
reserved for her, and is not for common ears. A name that it would be a
privilege to call her by, being alone with her own bright self, it would be a
liberty, a coldness, an insensibility, almost a breach of good faith, to flaunt
elsewhere.”

It was wonderful to see Mr. Grewgious sitting bolt upright, with his hands on
his knees, continuously chopping this discourse out of himself: much as a
charity boy with a very good memory might get his catechism said: and evincing
no correspondent emotion whatever, unless in a certain occasional little
tingling perceptible at the end of his nose.

“My picture,” Mr. Grewgious proceeded, “goes on to represent
(under correction from you, Mr. Edwin), the true lover as ever impatient to be
in the presence or vicinity of the beloved object of his affections; as caring
very little for his case in any other society; and as constantly seeking that.
If I was to say seeking that, as a bird seeks its nest, I should make an ass of
myself, because that would trench upon what I understand to be poetry; and I am
so far from trenching upon poetry at any time, that I never, to my knowledge,
got within ten thousand miles of it. And I am besides totally unacquainted with
the habits of birds, except the birds of Staple Inn, who seek their nests on
ledges, and in gutter-pipes and chimneypots, not constructed for them by the
beneficent hand of Nature. I beg, therefore, to be understood as foregoing the
bird’s-nest. But my picture does represent the true lover as having no
existence separable from that of the beloved object of his affections, and as
living at once a doubled life and a halved life. And if I do not clearly
express what I mean by that, it is either for the reason that having no
conversational powers, I cannot express what I mean, or that having no meaning,
I do not mean what I fail to express. Which, to the best of my belief, is not
the case.”

Edwin had turned red and turned white, as certain points of this picture came
into the light. He now sat looking at the fire, and bit his lip.

“The speculations of an Angular man,” resumed Mr. Grewgious, still
sitting and speaking exactly as before, “are probably erroneous on so
globular a topic. But I figure to myself (subject, as before, to Mr.
Edwin’s correction), that there can be no coolness, no lassitude, no
doubt, no indifference, no half fire and half smoke state of mind, in a real
lover. Pray am I at all near the mark in my picture?”

As abrupt in his conclusion as in his commencement and progress, he jerked this
inquiry at Edwin, and stopped when one might have supposed him in the middle of
his oration.

“I should say, sir,” stammered Edwin, “as you refer the
question to me—”

“Yes,” said Mr. Grewgious, “I refer it to you, as an
authority.”

“I should say, then, sir,” Edwin went on, embarrassed, “that
the picture you have drawn is generally correct; but I submit that perhaps you
may be rather hard upon the unlucky lover.”

“Likely so,” assented Mr. Grewgious, “likely so. I am a hard
man in the grain.”

“He may not show,” said Edwin, “all he feels; or he may
not—”

There he stopped so long, to find the rest of his sentence, that Mr. Grewgious
rendered his difficulty a thousand times the greater by unexpectedly striking
in with:

“No to be sure; he may not!”

After that, they all sat silent; the silence of Mr. Bazzard being occasioned by
slumber.

“His responsibility is very great, though,” said Mr. Grewgious at
length, with his eyes on the fire.

Edwin nodded assent, with his eyes on the fire.

“And let him be sure that he trifles with no one,” said Mr.
Grewgious; “neither with himself, nor with any other.”

Edwin bit his lip again, and still sat looking at the fire.

“He must not make a plaything of a treasure. Woe betide him if he does!
Let him take that well to heart,” said Mr. Grewgious.

Though he said these things in short sentences, much as the supposititious
charity boy just now referred to might have repeated a verse or two from the
Book of Proverbs, there was something dreamy (for so literal a man) in the way
in which he now shook his right forefinger at the live coals in the grate, and
again fell silent.

But not for long. As he sat upright and stiff in his chair, he suddenly rapped
his knees, like the carved image of some queer Joss or other coming out of its
reverie, and said: “We must finish this bottle, Mr. Edwin. Let me help
you. I’ll help Bazzard too, though he is asleep. He mightn’t
like it else.”

He helped them both, and helped himself, and drained his glass, and stood it
bottom upward on the table, as though he had just caught a bluebottle in it.

“And now, Mr. Edwin,” he proceeded, wiping his mouth and hands upon
his handkerchief: “to a little piece of business. You received from me,
the other day, a certified copy of Miss Rosa’s father’s will. You
knew its contents before, but you received it from me as a matter of business.
I should have sent it to Mr. Jasper, but for Miss Rosa’s wishing it to
come straight to you, in preference. You received it?”

“Quite safely, sir.”

“You should have acknowledged its receipt,” said Mr. Grewgious;
“business being business all the world over. However, you did not.”

“I meant to have acknowledged it when I first came in this evening,
sir.”

“Not a business-like acknowledgment,” returned Mr. Grewgious;
“however, let that pass. Now, in that document you have observed a few
words of kindly allusion to its being left to me to discharge a little trust,
confided to me in conversation, at such time as I in my discretion may think
best.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Edwin, it came into my mind just now, when I was looking at the
fire, that I could, in my discretion, acquit myself of that trust at no better
time than the present. Favour me with your attention, half a minute.”

He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, singled out by the candle-light the
key he wanted, and then, with a candle in his hand, went to a bureau or
escritoire, unlocked it, touched the spring of a little secret drawer, and took
from it an ordinary ring-case made for a single ring. With this in his hand, he
returned to his chair. As he held it up for the young man to see, his hand
trembled.

“Mr. Edwin, this rose of diamonds and rubies delicately set in gold, was
a ring belonging to Miss Rosa’s mother. It was removed from her dead
hand, in my presence, with such distracted grief as I hope it may never be my
lot to contemplate again. Hard man as I am, I am not hard enough for that. See
how bright these stones shine!” opening the case. “And yet the eyes
that were so much brighter, and that so often looked upon them with a light and
a proud heart, have been ashes among ashes, and dust among dust, some years! If
I had any imagination (which it is needless to say I have not), I might imagine
that the lasting beauty of these stones was almost cruel.”

He closed the case again as he spoke.

“This ring was given to the young lady who was drowned so early in her
beautiful and happy career, by her husband, when they first plighted their
faith to one another. It was he who removed it from her unconscious hand, and
it was he who, when his death drew very near, placed it in mine. The trust in
which I received it, was, that, you and Miss Rosa growing to manhood and
womanhood, and your betrothal prospering and coming to maturity, I should give
it to you to place upon her finger. Failing those desired results, it was to
remain in my possession.”

Some trouble was in the young man’s face, and some indecision was in the
action of his hand, as Mr. Grewgious, looking steadfastly at him, gave him the
ring.

“Your placing it on her finger,” said Mr. Grewgious, “will be
the solemn seal upon your strict fidelity to the living and the dead. You are
going to her, to make the last irrevocable preparations for your marriage. Take
it with you.”

The young man took the little case, and placed it in his breast.

“If anything should be amiss, if anything should be even slightly wrong,
between you; if you should have any secret consciousness that you are
committing yourself to this step for no higher reason than because you have
long been accustomed to look forward to it; then,” said Mr. Grewgious,
“I charge you once more, by the living and by the dead, to bring that
ring back to me!”

Here Bazzard awoke himself by his own snoring; and, as is usual in such cases,
sat apoplectically staring at vacancy, as defying vacancy to accuse him of
having been asleep.

“Bazzard!” said Mr. Grewgious, harder than ever.

“I follow you, sir,” said Bazzard, “and I have been following
you.”

“In discharge of a trust, I have handed Mr. Edwin Drood a ring of
diamonds and rubies. You see?”

Edwin reproduced the little case, and opened it; and Bazzard looked into it.

“I follow you both, sir,” returned Bazzard, “and I witness
the transaction.”

Evidently anxious to get away and be alone, Edwin Drood now resumed his outer
clothing, muttering something about time and appointments. The fog was reported
no clearer (by the flying waiter, who alighted from a speculative flight in the
coffee interest), but he went out into it; and Bazzard, after his manner,
“followed” him.

Mr. Grewgious, left alone, walked softly and slowly to and fro, for an hour and
more. He was restless to-night, and seemed dispirited.

“I hope I have done right,” he said. “The appeal to him
seemed necessary. It was hard to lose the ring, and yet it must have gone from
me very soon.”

He closed the empty little drawer with a sigh, and shut and locked the
escritoire, and came back to the solitary fireside.

“Her ring,” he went on. “Will it come back to me? My mind
hangs about her ring very uneasily to-night. But that is explainable. I have
had it so long, and I have prized it so much! I wonder—”

He was in a wondering mood as well as a restless; for, though he checked
himself at that point, and took another walk, he resumed his wondering when he
sat down again.

“I wonder (for the ten-thousandth time, and what a weak fool I, for what
can it signify now!) whether he confided the charge of their orphan child to
me, because he knew—Good God, how like her mother she has become!”

“I wonder whether he ever so much as suspected that some one doted on
her, at a hopeless, speechless distance, when he struck in and won her. I
wonder whether it ever crept into his mind who that unfortunate some one
was!”

“I wonder whether I shall sleep to-night! At all events, I will shut out
the world with the bedclothes, and try.”

Mr. Grewgious crossed the staircase to his raw and foggy bedroom, and was soon
ready for bed. Dimly catching sight of his face in the misty looking-glass, he
held his candle to it for a moment.

“A likely some one, you, to come into anybody’s thoughts in
such an aspect!” he exclaimed. “There! there! there! Get to bed,
poor man, and cease to jabber!”

With that, he extinguished his light, pulled up the bedclothes around him, and
with another sigh shut out the world. And yet there are such unexplored
romantic nooks in the unlikeliest men, that even old tinderous and touchwoody
P. J. T. Possibly Jabbered Thus, at some odd times, in or about
seventeen-forty-seven.

CHAPTER XII.
A NIGHT WITH DURDLES

When Mr. Sapsea has nothing better to do, towards evening, and finds the
contemplation of his own profundity becoming a little monotonous in spite of
the vastness of the subject, he often takes an airing in the Cathedral Close
and thereabout. He likes to pass the churchyard with a swelling air of
proprietorship, and to encourage in his breast a sort of benignant-landlord
feeling, in that he has been bountiful towards that meritorious tenant, Mrs.
Sapsea, and has publicly given her a prize. He likes to see a stray face or two
looking in through the railings, and perhaps reading his inscription. Should he
meet a stranger coming from the churchyard with a quick step, he is morally
convinced that the stranger is “with a blush retiring,” as
monumentally directed.

Mr. Sapsea’s importance has received enhancement, for he has become Mayor
of Cloisterham. Without mayors, and many of them, it cannot be disputed that
the whole framework of society—Mr. Sapsea is confident that he invented
that forcible figure—would fall to pieces. Mayors have been knighted for
“going up” with addresses: explosive machines intrepidly
discharging shot and shell into the English Grammar. Mr. Sapsea may “go
up” with an address. Rise, Sir Thomas Sapsea! Of such is the salt of the
earth.

Mr. Sapsea has improved the acquaintance of Mr. Jasper, since their first
meeting to partake of port, epitaph, backgammon, beef, and salad. Mr. Sapsea
has been received at the gatehouse with kindred hospitality; and on that
occasion Mr. Jasper seated himself at the piano, and sang to him, tickling his
ears—figuratively—long enough to present a considerable area for
tickling. What Mr. Sapsea likes in that young man is, that he is always ready
to profit by the wisdom of his elders, and that he is sound, sir, at the core.
In proof of which, he sang to Mr. Sapsea that evening, no kickshaw ditties,
favourites with national enemies, but gave him the genuine George the Third
home-brewed; exhorting him (as “my brave boys”) to reduce to a
smashed condition all other islands but this island, and all continents,
peninsulas, isthmuses, promontories, and other geographical forms of land
soever, besides sweeping the seas in all directions. In short, he rendered it
pretty clear that Providence made a distinct mistake in originating so small a
nation of hearts of oak, and so many other verminous peoples.

Mr. Sapsea, walking slowly this moist evening near the churchyard with his
hands behind him, on the look-out for a blushing and retiring stranger, turns a
corner, and comes instead into the goodly presence of the Dean, conversing with
the Verger and Mr. Jasper. Mr. Sapsea makes his obeisance, and is instantly
stricken far more ecclesiastical than any Archbishop of York or Canterbury.

“You are evidently going to write a book about us, Mr. Jasper,”
quoth the Dean; “to write a book about us. Well! We are very ancient, and
we ought to make a good book. We are not so richly endowed in possessions as in
age; but perhaps you will put that in your book, among other things, and
call attention to our wrongs.”

Mr. Tope, as in duty bound, is greatly entertained by this.

“I really have no intention at all, sir,” replies Jasper, “of
turning author or archæologist. It is but a whim of mine. And even for my
whim, Mr. Sapsea here is more accountable than I am.”

“How so, Mr. Mayor?” says the Dean, with a nod of good-natured
recognition of his Fetch. “How is that, Mr. Mayor?”

“I am not aware,” Mr. Sapsea remarks, looking about him for
information, “to what the Very Reverend the Dean does me the honour of
referring.” And then falls to studying his original in minute points of
detail.

“Durdles,” Mr. Tope hints.

“Ay!” the Dean echoes; “Durdles, Durdles!”

“The truth is, sir,” explains Jasper, “that my curiosity in
the man was first really stimulated by Mr. Sapsea. Mr. Sapsea’s knowledge
of mankind and power of drawing out whatever is recluse or odd around him,
first led to my bestowing a second thought upon the man: though of course I had
met him constantly about. You would not be surprised by this, Mr. Dean, if you
had seen Mr. Sapsea deal with him in his own parlour, as I did.”

“O!” cries Sapsea, picking up the ball thrown to him with ineffable
complacency and pomposity; “yes, yes. The Very Reverend the Dean refers
to that? Yes. I happened to bring Durdles and Mr. Jasper together. I regard
Durdles as a Character.”

“A character, Mr. Sapsea, that with a few skilful touches you turn inside
out,” says Jasper.

“Nay, not quite that,” returns the lumbering auctioneer. “I
may have a little influence over him, perhaps; and a little insight into his
character, perhaps. The Very Reverend the Dean will please to bear in mind that
I have seen the world.” Here Mr. Sapsea gets a little behind the Dean, to
inspect his coat-buttons.

“Well!” says the Dean, looking about him to see what has become of
his copyist: “I hope, Mr. Mayor, you will use your study and knowledge of
Durdles to the good purpose of exhorting him not to break our worthy and
respected Choir-Master’s neck; we cannot afford it; his head and voice
are much too valuable to us.”

Mr. Tope is again highly entertained, and, having fallen into respectful
convulsions of laughter, subsides into a deferential murmur, importing that
surely any gentleman would deem it a pleasure and an honour to have his neck
broken, in return for such a compliment from such a source.

“I will take it upon myself, sir,” observes Sapsea loftily,
“to answer for Mr. Jasper’s neck. I will tell Durdles to be careful
of it. He will mind what I say. How is it at present endangered?”
he inquires, looking about him with magnificent patronage.

“Only by my making a moonlight expedition with Durdles among the tombs,
vaults, towers, and ruins,” returns Jasper. “You remember
suggesting, when you brought us together, that, as a lover of the picturesque,
it might be worth my while?”

“I remember!” replies the auctioneer. And the solemn idiot really
believes that he does remember.

“Profiting by your hint,” pursues Jasper, “I have had some
day-rambles with the extraordinary old fellow, and we are to make a moonlight
hole-and-corner exploration to-night.”

“And here he is,” says the Dean.

Durdles with his dinner-bundle in his hand, is indeed beheld slouching towards
them. Slouching nearer, and perceiving the Dean, he pulls off his hat, and is
slouching away with it under his arm, when Mr. Sapsea stops him.

“Mind you take care of my friend,” is the injunction Mr. Sapsea
lays upon him.

“What friend o’ yourn is dead?” asks Durdles. “No
orders has come in for any friend o’ yourn.”

“I mean my live friend there.”

“O! him?” says Durdles. “He can take care of himself, can
Mister Jarsper.”

“But do you take care of him too,” says Sapsea.

Whom Durdles (there being command in his tone) surlily surveys from head to
foot.

“With submission to his Reverence the Dean, if you’ll mind what
concerns you, Mr. Sapsea, Durdles he’ll mind what concerns him.”

“You’re out of temper,” says Mr. Sapsea, winking to the
company to observe how smoothly he will manage him. “My friend concerns
me, and Mr. Jasper is my friend. And you are my friend.”

“Don’t you get into a bad habit of boasting,” retorts
Durdles, with a grave cautionary nod. “It’ll grow upon you.”

Durdles cautions Mr. Sapsea against boasting

“You are out of temper,” says Sapsea again; reddening, but again
sinking to the company.

“I own to it,” returns Durdles; “I don’t like
liberties.”

Mr. Sapsea winks a third wink to the company, as who should say: “I think
you will agree with me that I have settled his business;” and
stalks out of the controversy.

Durdles then gives the Dean a good evening, and adding, as he puts his hat on,
“You’ll find me at home, Mister Jarsper, as agreed, when you want
me; I’m a-going home to clean myself,” soon slouches out of sight.
This going home to clean himself is one of the man’s incomprehensible
compromises with inexorable facts; he, and his hat, and his boots, and his
clothes, never showing any trace of cleaning, but being uniformly in one
condition of dust and grit.

The lamplighter now dotting the quiet Close with specks of light, and running
at a great rate up and down his little ladder with that object—his little
ladder under the sacred shadow of whose inconvenience generations had grown up,
and which all Cloisterham would have stood aghast at the idea of
abolishing—the Dean withdraws to his dinner, Mr. Tope to his tea, and Mr.
Jasper to his piano. There, with no light but that of the fire, he sits
chanting choir-music in a low and beautiful voice, for two or three hours; in
short, until it has been for some time dark, and the moon is about to rise.

Then he closes his piano softly, softly changes his coat for a pea-jacket, with
a goodly wicker-cased bottle in its largest pocket, and putting on a
low-crowned, flap-brimmed hat, goes softly out. Why does he move so softly
to-night? No outward reason is apparent for it. Can there be any sympathetic
reason crouching darkly within him?

Repairing to Durdles’s unfinished house, or hole in the city wall, and
seeing a light within it, he softly picks his course among the gravestones,
monuments, and stony lumber of the yard, already touched here and there,
sidewise, by the rising moon. The two journeymen have left their two great saws
sticking in their blocks of stone; and two skeleton journeymen out of the Dance
of Death might be grinning in the shadow of their sheltering sentry-boxes,
about to slash away at cutting out the gravestones of the next two people
destined to die in Cloisterham. Likely enough, the two think little of that
now, being alive, and perhaps merry. Curious, to make a guess at the
two;—or say one of the two!

“Ho! Durdles!”

The light moves, and he appears with it at the door. He would seem to have been
“cleaning himself” with the aid of a bottle, jug, and tumbler; for
no other cleansing instruments are visible in the bare brick room with rafters
overhead and no plastered ceiling, into which he shows his visitor.

“Are you ready?”

“I am ready, Mister Jarsper. Let the old ’uns come out if they
dare, when we go among their tombs. My spirit is ready for ’em.”

“Do you mean animal spirits, or ardent?”

“The one’s the t’other,” answers Durdles, “and I
mean ’em both.”

He takes a lantern from a hook, puts a match or two in his pocket wherewith to
light it, should there be need; and they go out together, dinner-bundle and
all.

Surely an unaccountable sort of expedition! That Durdles himself, who is always
prowling among old graves, and ruins, like a Ghoul—that he should be
stealing forth to climb, and dive, and wander without an object, is nothing
extraordinary; but that the Choir-Master or any one else should hold it worth
his while to be with him, and to study moonlight effects in such company is
another affair. Surely an unaccountable sort of expedition, therefore!

“’Ware that there mound by the yard-gate, Mister Jarsper.”

“I see it. What is it?”

“Lime.”

Mr. Jasper stops, and waits for him to come up, for he lags behind. “What
you call quick-lime?”

“Ay!” says Durdles; “quick enough to eat your boots. With a
little handy stirring, quick enough to eat your bones.”

They go on, presently passing the red windows of the Travellers’
Twopenny, and emerging into the clear moonlight of the Monks’ Vineyard.
This crossed, they come to Minor Canon Corner: of which the greater part lies
in shadow until the moon shall rise higher in the sky.

The sound of a closing house-door strikes their ears, and two men come out.
These are Mr. Crisparkle and Neville. Jasper, with a strange and sudden smile
upon his face, lays the palm of his hand upon the breast of Durdles, stopping
him where he stands.

At that end of Minor Canon Corner the shadow is profound in the existing state
of the light: at that end, too, there is a piece of old dwarf wall, breast
high, the only remaining boundary of what was once a garden, but is now the
thoroughfare. Jasper and Durdles would have turned this wall in another
instant; but, stopping so short, stand behind it.

“Those two are only sauntering,” Jasper whispers; “they will
go out into the moonlight soon. Let us keep quiet here, or they will detain us,
or want to join us, or what not.”

Durdles nods assent, and falls to munching some fragments from his bundle.
Jasper folds his arms upon the top of the wall, and, with his chin resting on
them, watches. He takes no note whatever of the Minor Canon, but watches
Neville, as though his eye were at the trigger of a loaded rifle, and he had
covered him, and were going to fire. A sense of destructive power is so
expressed in his face, that even Durdles pauses in his munching, and looks at
him, with an unmunched something in his cheek.

Meanwhile Mr. Crisparkle and Neville walk to and fro, quietly talking together.
What they say, cannot be heard consecutively; but Mr. Jasper has already
distinguished his own name more than once.

“This is the first day of the week,” Mr. Crisparkle can be
distinctly heard to observe, as they turn back; “and the last day of the
week is Christmas Eve.”

“You may be certain of me, sir.”

The echoes were favourable at those points, but as the two approach, the sound
of their talking becomes confused again. The word “confidence,”
shattered by the echoes, but still capable of being pieced together, is uttered
by Mr. Crisparkle. As they draw still nearer, this fragment of a reply is
heard: “Not deserved yet, but shall be, sir.” As they turn away
again, Jasper again hears his own name, in connection with the words from Mr.
Crisparkle: “Remember that I said I answered for you confidently.”
Then the sound of their talk becomes confused again; they halting for a little
while, and some earnest action on the part of Neville succeeding. When they
move once more, Mr. Crisparkle is seen to look up at the sky, and to point
before him. They then slowly disappear; passing out into the moonlight at the
opposite end of the Corner.

It is not until they are gone, that Mr. Jasper moves. But then he turns to
Durdles, and bursts into a fit of laughter. Durdles, who still has that
suspended something in his cheek, and who sees nothing to laugh at, stares at
him until Mr. Jasper lays his face down on his arms to have his laugh out. Then
Durdles bolts the something, as if desperately resigning himself to
indigestion.

Among those secluded nooks there is very little stir or movement after dark.
There is little enough in the high tide of the day, but there is next to none
at night. Besides that the cheerfully frequented High Street lies nearly
parallel to the spot (the old Cathedral rising between the two), and is the
natural channel in which the Cloisterham traffic flows, a certain awful hush
pervades the ancient pile, the cloisters, and the churchyard, after dark, which
not many people care to encounter. Ask the first hundred citizens of
Cloisterham, met at random in the streets at noon, if they believed in Ghosts,
they would tell you no; but put them to choose at night between these eerie
Precincts and the thoroughfare of shops, and you would find that ninety-nine
declared for the longer round and the more frequented way. The cause of this is
not to be found in any local superstition that attaches to the
Precincts—albeit a mysterious lady, with a child in her arms and a rope
dangling from her neck, has been seen flitting about there by sundry witnesses
as intangible as herself—but it is to be sought in the innate shrinking
of dust with the breath of life in it from dust out of which the breath of life
has passed; also, in the widely diffused, and almost as widely unacknowledged,
reflection: “If the dead do, under any circumstances, become visible to
the living, these are such likely surroundings for the purpose that I, the
living, will get out of them as soon as I can.” Hence, when Mr. Jasper
and Durdles pause to glance around them, before descending into the crypt by a
small side door, of which the latter has a key, the whole expanse of moonlight
in their view is utterly deserted. One might fancy that the tide of life was
stemmed by Mr. Jasper’s own gatehouse. The murmur of the tide is heard
beyond; but no wave passes the archway, over which his lamp burns red behind
his curtain, as if the building were a Lighthouse.

They enter, locking themselves in, descend the rugged steps, and are down in
the Crypt. The lantern is not wanted, for the moonlight strikes in at the
groined windows, bare of glass, the broken frames for which cast patterns on
the ground. The heavy pillars which support the roof engender masses of black
shade, but between them there are lanes of light. Up and down these lanes they
walk, Durdles discoursing of the “old uns” he yet counts on
disinterring, and slapping a wall, in which he considers “a whole family
on ’em” to be stoned and earthed up, just as if he were a familiar
friend of the family. The taciturnity of Durdles is for the time overcome by
Mr. Jasper’s wicker bottle, which circulates freely;—in the sense,
that is to say, that its contents enter freely into Mr. Durdles’s
circulation, while Mr. Jasper only rinses his mouth once, and casts forth the
rinsing.

They are to ascend the great Tower. On the steps by which they rise to the
Cathedral, Durdles pauses for new store of breath. The steps are very dark, but
out of the darkness they can see the lanes of light they have traversed.
Durdles seats himself upon a step. Mr. Jasper seats himself upon another. The
odour from the wicker bottle (which has somehow passed into Durdles’s
keeping) soon intimates that the cork has been taken out; but this is not
ascertainable through the sense of sight, since neither can descry the other.
And yet, in talking, they turn to one another, as though their faces could
commune together.

“This is good stuff, Mister Jarsper!”

“It is very good stuff, I hope.—I bought it on purpose.”

“They don’t show, you see, the old uns don’t, Mister
Jarsper!”

“It would be a more confused world than it is, if they could.”

“Well, it would lead towards a mixing of things,” Durdles
acquiesces: pausing on the remark, as if the idea of ghosts had not previously
presented itself to him in a merely inconvenient light, domestically or
chronologically. “But do you think there may be Ghosts of other things,
though not of men and women?”

“What things? Flower-beds and watering-pots? Horses and harness?”

“No. Sounds.”

“What sounds?”

“Cries.”

“What cries do you mean? Chairs to mend?”

“No. I mean screeches. Now I’ll tell you, Mr. Jarsper. Wait a bit
till I put the bottle right.” Here the cork is evidently taken out again,
and replaced again. “There! Now it’s right! This time last
year, only a few days later, I happened to have been doing what was correct by
the season, in the way of giving it the welcome it had a right to expect, when
them town-boys set on me at their worst. At length I gave ’em the slip,
and turned in here. And here I fell asleep. And what woke me? The ghost of a
cry. The ghost of one terrific shriek, which shriek was followed by the ghost
of the howl of a dog: a long, dismal, woeful howl, such as a dog gives when a
person’s dead. That was my last Christmas Eve.”

“What do you mean?” is the very abrupt, and, one might say, fierce
retort.

“I mean that I made inquiries everywhere about, and, that no living ears
but mine heard either that cry or that howl. So I say they was both ghosts;
though why they came to me, I’ve never made out.”

“I thought you were another kind of man,” says Jasper, scornfully.

“So I thought myself,” answers Durdles with his usual composure;
“and yet I was picked out for it.”

Jasper had risen suddenly, when he asked him what he meant, and he now says,
“Come; we shall freeze here; lead the way.”

Durdles complies, not over-steadily; opens the door at the top of the steps
with the key he has already used; and so emerges on the Cathedral level, in a
passage at the side of the chancel. Here, the moonlight is so very bright again
that the colours of the nearest stained-glass window are thrown upon their
faces. The appearance of the unconscious Durdles, holding the door open for his
companion to follow, as if from the grave, is ghastly enough, with a purple
hand across his face, and a yellow splash upon his brow; but he bears the close
scrutiny of his companion in an insensible way, although it is prolonged while
the latter fumbles among his pockets for a key confided to him that will open
an iron gate, so to enable them to pass to the staircase of the great tower.

“That and the bottle are enough for you to carry,” he says, giving
it to Durdles; “hand your bundle to me; I am younger and longer-winded
than you.” Durdles hesitates for a moment between bundle and bottle; but
gives the preference to the bottle as being by far the better company, and
consigns the dry weight to his fellow-explorer.

Then they go up the winding staircase of the great tower, toilsomely, turning
and turning, and lowering their heads to avoid the stairs above, or the rough
stone pivot around which they twist. Durdles has lighted his lantern, by
drawing from the cold, hard wall a spark of that mysterious fire which lurks in
everything, and, guided by this speck, they clamber up among the cobwebs and
the dust. Their way lies through strange places. Twice or thrice they emerge
into level, low-arched galleries, whence they can look down into the moonlit
nave; and where Durdles, waving his lantern, waves the dim angels’ heads
upon the corbels of the roof, seeming to watch their progress. Anon they turn
into narrower and steeper staircases, and the night-air begins to blow upon
them, and the chirp of some startled jackdaw or frightened rook precedes the
heavy beating of wings in a confined space, and the beating down of dust and
straws upon their heads. At last, leaving their light behind a stair—for
it blows fresh up here—they look down on Cloisterham, fair to see in the
moonlight: its ruined habitations and sanctuaries of the dead, at the
tower’s base: its moss-softened red-tiled roofs and red-brick houses of
the living, clustered beyond: its river winding down from the mist on the
horizon, as though that were its source, and already heaving with a restless
knowledge of its approach towards the sea.

Once again, an unaccountable expedition this! Jasper (always moving softly with
no visible reason) contemplates the scene, and especially that stillest part of
it which the Cathedral overshadows. But he contemplates Durdles quite as
curiously, and Durdles is by times conscious of his watchful eyes.

Only by times, because Durdles is growing drowsy. As aëronauts lighten the
load they carry, when they wish to rise, similarly Durdles has lightened the
wicker bottle in coming up. Snatches of sleep surprise him on his legs, and
stop him in his talk. A mild fit of calenture seizes him, in which he deems
that the ground so far below, is on a level with the tower, and would as lief
walk off the tower into the air as not. Such is his state when they begin to
come down. And as aëronauts make themselves heavier when they wish to
descend, similarly Durdles charges himself with more liquid from the wicker
bottle, that he may come down the better.

The iron gate attained and locked—but not before Durdles has tumbled
twice, and cut an eyebrow open once—they descend into the crypt again,
with the intent of issuing forth as they entered. But, while returning among
those lanes of light, Durdles becomes so very uncertain, both of foot and
speech, that he half drops, half throws himself down, by one of the heavy
pillars, scarcely less heavy than itself, and indistinctly appeals to his
companion for forty winks of a second each.

“If you will have it so, or must have it so,” replies Jasper,
“I’ll not leave you here. Take them, while I walk to and
fro.”

Durdles is asleep at once; and in his sleep he dreams a dream.

It is not much of a dream, considering the vast extent of the domains of
dreamland, and their wonderful productions; it is only remarkable for being
unusually restless and unusually real. He dreams of lying there, asleep, and
yet counting his companion’s footsteps as he walks to and fro. He dreams
that the footsteps die away into distance of time and of space, and that
something touches him, and that something falls from his hand. Then something
clinks and gropes about, and he dreams that he is alone for so long a time,
that the lanes of light take new directions as the moon advances in her course.
From succeeding unconsciousness he passes into a dream of slow uneasiness from
cold; and painfully awakes to a perception of the lanes of light—really
changed, much as he had dreamed—and Jasper walking among them, beating
his hands and feet.

“Holloa!” Durdles cries out, unmeaningly alarmed.

“Awake at last?” says Jasper, coming up to him. “Do you know
that your forties have stretched into thousands?”

“No.”

“They have though.”

“What’s the time?”

“Hark! The bells are going in the Tower!”

They strike four quarters, and then the great bell strikes.

“Two!” cries Durdles, scrambling up; “why didn’t you
try to wake me, Mister Jarsper?”

“I did. I might as well have tried to wake the dead—your own family
of dead, up in the corner there.”

“Did you touch me?”

“Touch you! Yes. Shook you.”

As Durdles recalls that touching something in his dream, he looks down on the
pavement, and sees the key of the crypt door lying close to where he himself
lay.

“I dropped you, did I?” he says, picking it up, and recalling that
part of his dream. As he gathers himself up again into an upright position, or
into a position as nearly upright as he ever maintains, he is again conscious
of being watched by his companion.

“Well?” says Jasper, smiling, “are you quite ready? Pray
don’t hurry.”

“Let me get my bundle right, Mister Jarsper, and I’m with
you.” As he ties it afresh, he is once more conscious that he is very
narrowly observed.

“What do you suspect me of, Mister Jarsper?” he asks, with drunken
displeasure. “Let them as has any suspicions of Durdles name
’em.”

“I’ve no suspicions of you, my good Mr. Durdles; but I have
suspicions that my bottle was filled with something stiffer than either of us
supposed. And I also have suspicions,” Jasper adds, taking it from the
pavement and turning it bottom upwards, “that it’s empty.”

Durdles condescends to laugh at this. Continuing to chuckle when his laugh is
over, as though remonstrant with himself on his drinking powers, he rolls to
the door and unlocks it. They both pass out, and Durdles relocks it, and
pockets his key.

“A thousand thanks for a curious and interesting night,” says
Jasper, giving him his hand; “you can make your own way home?”

“I should think so!” answers Durdles. “If you was to offer
Durdles the affront to show him his way home, he wouldn’t go home.

Durdles wouldn’t go home till morning;
And then Durdles wouldn’t go home,

Durdles wouldn’t.” This with the utmost defiance.

“Good-night, then.”

“Good-night, Mister Jarsper.”

Each is turning his own way, when a sharp whistle rends the silence, and the
jargon is yelped out:

Widdy widdy wen!
I—ket—ches—Im—out—ar—ter—ten.
Widdy widdy wy!
Then—E—don’t—go—then—I—shy—
Widdy Widdy Wake-cock warning!”

Instantly afterwards, a rapid fire of stones rattles at the Cathedral wall, and
the hideous small boy is beheld opposite, dancing in the moonlight.

“What! Is that baby-devil on the watch there!” cries Jasper in a
fury: so quickly roused, and so violent, that he seems an older devil himself.
“I shall shed the blood of that impish wretch! I know I shall do
it!” Regardless of the fire, though it hits him more than once, he rushes
at Deputy, collars him, and tries to bring him across. But Deputy is not to be
so easily brought across. With a diabolical insight into the strongest part of
his position, he is no sooner taken by the throat than he curls up his legs,
forces his assailant to hang him, as it were, and gurgles in his throat, and
screws his body, and twists, as already undergoing the first agonies of
strangulation. There is nothing for it but to drop him. He instantly gets
himself together, backs over to Durdles, and cries to his assailant, gnashing
the great gap in front of his mouth with rage and malice:

“I’ll blind yer, s’elp me! I’ll stone yer eyes out,
s’elp me! If I don’t have yer eyesight, bellows me!” At the
same time dodging behind Durdles, and snarling at Jasper, now from this side of
him, and now from that: prepared, if pounced upon, to dart away in all manner
of curvilinear directions, and, if run down after all, to grovel in the dust,
and cry: “Now, hit me when I’m down! Do it!”

“Don’t hurt the boy, Mister Jarsper,” urges Durdles,
shielding him. “Recollect yourself.”

“He followed us to-night, when we first came here!”

“Yer lie, I didn’t!” replies Deputy, in his one form of
polite contradiction.

“He has been prowling near us ever since!”

“Yer lie, I haven’t,” returns Deputy. “I’d only
jist come out for my ’elth when I see you two a-coming out of the
Kin-freederel. If

I—ket—ches—Im—out—ar—ter—ten!”

(with the usual rhythm and dance, though dodging behind Durdles), “it
ain’t any fault, is it?”

“Take him home, then,” retorts Jasper, ferociously, though with a
strong check upon himself, “and let my eyes be rid of the sight of
you!”

Deputy, with another sharp whistle, at once expressing his relief, and his
commencement of a milder stoning of Mr. Durdles, begins stoning that
respectable gentleman home, as if he were a reluctant ox. Mr. Jasper goes to
his gatehouse, brooding. And thus, as everything comes to an end, the
unaccountable expedition comes to an end—for the time.

CHAPTER XIII.
BOTH AT THEIR BEST

Miss Twinkleton’s establishment was about to undergo a serene hush. The
Christmas recess was at hand. What had once, and at no remote period, been
called, even by the erudite Miss Twinkleton herself, “the half,”
but what was now called, as being more elegant, and more strictly collegiate,
“the term,” would expire to-morrow. A noticeable relaxation of
discipline had for some few days pervaded the Nuns’ House. Club suppers
had occurred in the bedrooms, and a dressed tongue had been carved with a pair
of scissors, and handed round with the curling tongs. Portions of marmalade had
likewise been distributed on a service of plates constructed of curlpaper; and
cowslip wine had been quaffed from the small squat measuring glass in which
little Rickitts (a junior of weakly constitution) took her steel drops daily.
The housemaids had been bribed with various fragments of riband, and sundry
pairs of shoes more or less down at heel, to make no mention of crumbs in the
beds; the airiest costumes had been worn on these festive occasions; and the
daring Miss Ferdinand had even surprised the company with a sprightly solo on
the comb-and-curlpaper, until suffocated in her own pillow by two
flowing-haired executioners.

Nor were these the only tokens of dispersal. Boxes appeared in the bedrooms
(where they were capital at other times), and a surprising amount of packing
took place, out of all proportion to the amount packed. Largess, in the form of
odds and ends of cold cream and pomatum, and also of hairpins, was freely
distributed among the attendants. On charges of inviolable secrecy, confidences
were interchanged respecting golden youth of England expected to call,
“at home,” on the first opportunity. Miss Giggles (deficient in
sentiment) did indeed profess that she, for her part, acknowledged such homage
by making faces at the golden youth; but this young lady was outvoted by an
immense majority.

On the last night before a recess, it was always expressly made a point of
honour that nobody should go to sleep, and that Ghosts should be encouraged by
all possible means. This compact invariably broke down, and all the young
ladies went to sleep very soon, and got up very early.

The concluding ceremony came off at twelve o’clock on the day of
departure; when Miss Twinkleton, supported by Mrs. Tisher, held a drawing-room
in her own apartment (the globes already covered with brown Holland), where
glasses of white-wine and plates of cut pound-cake were discovered on the
table. Miss Twinkleton then said: Ladies, another revolving year had brought us
round to that festive period at which the first feelings of our nature bounded
in our—Miss Twinkleton was annually going to add “bosoms,”
but annually stopped on the brink of that expression, and substituted
“hearts.” Hearts; our hearts. Hem! Again a revolving year, ladies,
had brought us to a pause in our studies—let us hope our greatly advanced
studies—and, like the mariner in his bark, the warrior in his tent, the
captive in his dungeon, and the traveller in his various conveyances, we
yearned for home. Did we say, on such an occasion, in the opening words of Mr.
Addison’s impressive tragedy:

“The dawn is overcast, the morning lowers,
And heavily in clouds brings on the day,
The great, th’ important day—?”

Not so. From horizon to zenith all was couleur de rose, for all was
redolent of our relations and friends. Might we find them
prospering as we expected; might they find us prospering
as they expected! Ladies, we would now, with our love to one another,
wish one another good-bye, and happiness, until we met again. And when the time
should come for our resumption of those pursuits which (here a general
depression set in all round), pursuits which, pursuits which;—then let us
ever remember what was said by the Spartan General, in words too trite for
repetition, at the battle it were superfluous to specify.

The handmaidens of the establishment, in their best caps, then handed the
trays, and the young ladies sipped and crumbled, and the bespoken coaches began
to choke the street. Then leave-taking was not long about; and Miss Twinkleton,
in saluting each young lady’s cheek, confided to her an exceedingly neat
letter, addressed to her next friend at law, “with Miss
Twinkleton’s best compliments” in the corner. This missive she
handed with an air as if it had not the least connexion with the bill, but were
something in the nature of a delicate and joyful surprise.

So many times had Rosa seen such dispersals, and so very little did she know of
any other Home, that she was contented to remain where she was, and was even
better contented than ever before, having her latest friend with her. And yet
her latest friendship had a blank place in it of which she could not fail to be
sensible. Helena Landless, having been a party to her brother’s
revelation about Rosa, and having entered into that compact of silence with Mr.
Crisparkle, shrank from any allusion to Edwin Drood’s name. Why she so
avoided it, was mysterious to Rosa, but she perfectly perceived the fact. But
for the fact, she might have relieved her own little perplexed heart of some of
its doubts and hesitations, by taking Helena into her confidence. As it was,
she had no such vent: she could only ponder on her own difficulties, and wonder
more and more why this avoidance of Edwin’s name should last, now that
she knew—for so much Helena had told her—that a good understanding
was to be reëstablished between the two young men, when Edwin came down.

It would have made a pretty picture, so many pretty girls kissing Rosa in the
cold porch of the Nuns’ House, and that sunny little creature peeping out
of it (unconscious of sly faces carved on spout and gable peeping at her), and
waving farewells to the departing coaches, as if she represented the spirit of
rosy youth abiding in the place to keep it bright and warm in its desertion.
The hoarse High Street became musical with the cry, in various silvery voices,
“Good-bye, Rosebud darling!” and the effigy of Mr. Sapsea’s
father over the opposite doorway seemed to say to mankind: “Gentlemen,
favour me with your attention to this charming little last lot left behind, and
bid with a spirit worthy of the occasion!” Then the staid street, so
unwontedly sparkling, youthful, and fresh for a few rippling moments, ran dry,
and Cloisterham was itself again.

“Good-bye, Rosebud darling”

If Rosebud in her bower now waited Edwin Drood’s coming with an uneasy
heart, Edwin for his part was uneasy too. With far less force of purpose in his
composition than the childish beauty, crowned by acclamation fairy queen of
Miss Twinkleton’s establishment, he had a conscience, and Mr. Grewgious
had pricked it. That gentleman’s steady convictions of what was right and
what was wrong in such a case as his, were neither to be frowned aside nor
laughed aside. They would not be moved. But for the dinner in Staple Inn, and
but for the ring he carried in the breast pocket of his coat, he would have
drifted into their wedding-day without another pause for real thought, loosely
trusting that all would go well, left alone. But that serious putting him on
his truth to the living and the dead had brought him to a check. He must either
give the ring to Rosa, or he must take it back. Once put into this narrowed way
of action, it was curious that he began to consider Rosa’s claims upon
him more unselfishly than he had ever considered them before, and began to be
less sure of himself than he had ever been in all his easy-going days.

“I will be guided by what she says, and by how we get on,” was his
decision, walking from the gatehouse to the Nuns’ House. “Whatever
comes of it, I will bear his words in mind, and try to be true to the living
and the dead.”

Rosa was dressed for walking. She expected him. It was a bright, frosty day,
and Miss Twinkleton had already graciously sanctioned fresh air. Thus they got
out together before it became necessary for either Miss Twinkleton, or the
deputy high-priest Mrs. Tisher, to lay even so much as one of those usual
offerings on the shrine of Propriety.

“My dear Eddy,” said Rosa, when they had turned out of the High
Street, and had got among the quiet walks in the neighbourhood of the Cathedral
and the river: “I want to say something very serious to you. I have been
thinking about it for a long, long time.”

“I want to be serious with you too, Rosa dear. I mean to be serious and
earnest.”

“Thank you, Eddy. And you will not think me unkind because I begin, will
you? You will not think I speak for myself only, because I speak first? That
would not be generous, would it? And I know you are generous!”

He said, “I hope I am not ungenerous to you, Rosa.” He called her
Pussy no more. Never again.

“And there is no fear,” pursued Rosa, “of our quarrelling, is
there? Because, Eddy,” clasping her hand on his arm, “we have so
much reason to be very lenient to each other!”

“We will be, Rosa.”

“That’s a dear good boy! Eddy, let us be courageous. Let us change
to brother and sister from this day forth.”

“Never be husband and wife?”

“Never!”

Neither spoke again for a little while. But after that pause he said, with some
effort:

“Of course I know that this has been in both our minds, Rosa, and of
course I am in honour bound to confess freely that it does not originate with
you.”

“No, nor with you, dear,” she returned, with pathetic earnestness.
“That sprung up between us. You are not truly happy in our engagement; I
am not truly happy in it. O, I am so sorry, so sorry!” And there she
broke into tears.

“I am deeply sorry too, Rosa. Deeply sorry for you.”

“And I for you, poor boy! And I for you!”

This pure young feeling, this gentle and forbearing feeling of each towards the
other, brought with it its reward in a softening light that seemed to shine on
their position. The relations between them did not look wilful, or capricious,
or a failure, in such a light; they became elevated into something more
self-denying, honourable, affectionate, and true.

“If we knew yesterday,” said Rosa, as she dried her eyes,
“and we did know yesterday, and on many, many yesterdays, that we were
far from right together in those relations which were not of our own choosing,
what better could we do to-day than change them? It is natural that we should
be sorry, and you see how sorry we both are; but how much better to be sorry
now than then!”

“When, Rosa?”

“When it would be too late. And then we should be angry, besides.”

Another silence fell upon them.

“And you know,” said Rosa innocently, “you couldn’t
like me then; and you can always like me now, for I shall not be a drag upon
you, or a worry to you. And I can always like you now, and your sister will not
tease or trifle with you. I often did when I was not your sister, and I beg
your pardon for it.”

“Don’t let us come to that, Rosa; or I shall want more pardoning
than I like to think of.”

“No, indeed, Eddy; you are too hard, my generous boy, upon yourself. Let
us sit down, brother, on these ruins, and let me tell you how it was with us. I
think I know, for I have considered about it very much since you were here last
time. You liked me, didn’t you? You thought I was a nice little
thing?”

“Everybody thinks that, Rosa.”

“Do they?” She knitted her brow musingly for a moment, and then
flashed out with the bright little induction: “Well, but say they do.
Surely it was not enough that you should think of me only as other people did;
now, was it?”

The point was not to be got over. It was not enough.

“And that is just what I mean; that is just how it was with us,”
said Rosa. “You liked me very well, and you had grown used to me, and had
grown used to the idea of our being married. You accepted the situation as an
inevitable kind of thing, didn’t you? It was to be, you thought, and why
discuss or dispute it?”

It was new and strange to him to have himself presented to himself so clearly,
in a glass of her holding up. He had always patronised her, in his superiority
to her share of woman’s wit. Was that but another instance of something
radically amiss in the terms on which they had been gliding towards a life-long
bondage?

“All this that I say of you is true of me as well, Eddy. Unless it was, I
might not be bold enough to say it. Only, the difference between us was, that
by little and little there crept into my mind a habit of thinking about it,
instead of dismissing it. My life is not so busy as yours, you see, and I have
not so many things to think of. So I thought about it very much, and I cried
about it very much too (though that was not your fault, poor boy); when all at
once my guardian came down, to prepare for my leaving the Nuns’ House. I
tried to hint to him that I was not quite settled in my mind, but I hesitated
and failed, and he didn’t understand me. But he is a good, good man. And
he put before me so kindly, and yet so strongly, how seriously we ought to
consider, in our circumstances, that I resolved to speak to you the next moment
we were alone and grave. And if I seemed to come to it easily just now, because
I came to it all at once, don’t think it was so really, Eddy, for O, it
was very, very hard, and O, I am very, very sorry!”

Her full heart broke into tears again. He put his arm about her waist, and they
walked by the river-side together.

“Your guardian has spoken to me too, Rosa dear. I saw him before I left
London.” His right hand was in his breast, seeking the ring; but he
checked it, as he thought: “If I am to take it back, why should I tell
her of it?”

“And that made you more serious about it, didn’t it, Eddy? And if I
had not spoken to you, as I have, you would have spoken to me? I hope you can
tell me so? I don’t like it to be all my doing, though it
is so much better for us.”

“Yes, I should have spoken; I should have put everything before you; I
came intending to do it. But I never could have spoken to you as you have
spoken to me, Rosa.”

“Don’t say you mean so coldly or unkindly, Eddy, please, if you can
help it.”

“I mean so sensibly and delicately, so wisely and affectionately.”

“That’s my dear brother!” She kissed his hand in a little
rapture. “The dear girls will be dreadfully disappointed,” added
Rosa, laughing, with the dewdrops glistening in her bright eyes. “They
have looked forward to it so, poor pets!”

“Ah! but I fear it will be a worse disappointment to Jack,” said
Edwin Drood, with a start. “I never thought of Jack!”

Her swift and intent look at him as he said the words could no more be recalled
than a flash of lightning can. But it appeared as though she would have
instantly recalled it, if she could; for she looked down, confused, and
breathed quickly.

“You don’t doubt its being a blow to Jack, Rosa?”

She merely replied, and that evasively and hurriedly: Why should she? She had
not thought about it. He seemed, to her, to have so little to do with it.

“My dear child! can you suppose that any one so wrapped up in
another—Mrs. Tope’s expression: not mine—as Jack is in me,
could fail to be struck all of a heap by such a sudden and complete change in
my life? I say sudden, because it will be sudden to him, you
know.”

She nodded twice or thrice, and her lips parted as if she would have assented.
But she uttered no sound, and her breathing was no slower.

“How shall I tell Jack?” said Edwin, ruminating. If he had been
less occupied with the thought, he must have seen her singular emotion.
“I never thought of Jack. It must be broken to him, before the town-crier
knows it. I dine with the dear fellow to-morrow and next day—Christmas
Eve and Christmas Day—but it would never do to spoil his feast-days. He
always worries about me, and moddley-coddleys in the merest trifles. The news
is sure to overset him. How on earth shall this be broken to Jack?”

“He must be told, I suppose?” said Rosa.

“My dear Rosa! who ought to be in our confidence, if not Jack?”

“My guardian promised to come down, if I should write and ask him. I am
going to do so. Would you like to leave it to him?”

“A bright idea!” cried Edwin. “The other trustee. Nothing
more natural. He comes down, he goes to Jack, he relates what we have agreed
upon, and he states our case better than we could. He has already spoken
feelingly to you, he has already spoken feelingly to me, and he’ll put
the whole thing feelingly to Jack. That’s it! I am not a coward, Rosa,
but to tell you a secret, I am a little afraid of Jack.”

“No, no! you are not afraid of him!” cried Rosa, turning white, and
clasping her hands.

“Why, sister Rosa, sister Rosa, what do you see from the turret?”
said Edwin, rallying her. “My dear girl!”

“You frightened me.”

“Most unintentionally, but I am as sorry as if I had meant to do it.
Could you possibly suppose for a moment, from any loose way of speaking of
mine, that I was literally afraid of the dear fond fellow? What I mean is, that
he is subject to a kind of paroxysm, or fit—I saw him in it
once—and I don’t know but that so great a surprise, coming upon him
direct from me whom he is so wrapped up in, might bring it on perhaps.
Which—and this is the secret I was going to tell you—is another
reason for your guardian’s making the communication. He is so steady,
precise, and exact, that he will talk Jack’s thoughts into shape, in no
time: whereas with me Jack is always impulsive and hurried, and, I may say,
almost womanish.”

Rosa seemed convinced. Perhaps from her own very different point of view of
“Jack,” she felt comforted and protected by the interposition of
Mr. Grewgious between herself and him.

And now, Edwin Drood’s right hand closed again upon the ring in its
little case, and again was checked by the consideration: “It is certain,
now, that I am to give it back to him; then why should I tell her of it?”
That pretty sympathetic nature which could be so sorry for him in the blight of
their childish hopes of happiness together, and could so quietly find itself
alone in a new world to weave fresh wreaths of such flowers as it might prove
to bear, the old world’s flowers being withered, would be grieved by
those sorrowful jewels; and to what purpose? Why should it be? They were but a
sign of broken joys and baseless projects; in their very beauty they were (as
the unlikeliest of men had said) almost a cruel satire on the loves, hopes,
plans, of humanity, which are able to forecast nothing, and are so much brittle
dust. Let them be. He would restore them to her guardian when he came down; he
in his turn would restore them to the cabinet from which he had unwillingly
taken them; and there, like old letters or old vows, or other records of old
aspirations come to nothing, they would be disregarded, until, being valuable,
they were sold into circulation again, to repeat their former round.

Let them be. Let them lie unspoken of, in his breast. However distinctly or
indistinctly he entertained these thoughts, he arrived at the conclusion, Let
them be. Among the mighty store of wonderful chains that are for ever forging,
day and night, in the vast iron-works of time and circumstance, there was one
chain forged in the moment of that small conclusion, riveted to the foundations
of heaven and earth, and gifted with invincible force to hold and drag.

They walked on by the river. They began to speak of their separate plans. He
would quicken his departure from England, and she would remain where she was,
at least as long as Helena remained. The poor dear girls should have their
disappointment broken to them gently, and, as the first preliminary, Miss
Twinkleton should be confided in by Rosa, even in advance of the reappearance
of Mr. Grewgious. It should be made clear in all quarters that she and Edwin
were the best of friends. There had never been so serene an understanding
between them since they were first affianced. And yet there was one reservation
on each side; on hers, that she intended through her guardian to withdraw
herself immediately from the tuition of her music-master; on his, that he did
already entertain some wandering speculations whether it might ever come to
pass that he would know more of Miss Landless.

The bright, frosty day declined as they walked and spoke together. The sun
dipped in the river far behind them, and the old city lay red before them, as
their walk drew to a close. The moaning water cast its seaweed duskily at their
feet, when they turned to leave its margin; and the rooks hovered above them
with hoarse cries, darker splashes in the darkening air.

“I will prepare Jack for my flitting soon,” said Edwin, in a low
voice, “and I will but see your guardian when he comes, and then go
before they speak together. It will be better done without my being by.
Don’t you think so?”

“Yes.”

“We know we have done right, Rosa?”

“Yes.”

“We know we are better so, even now?”

“And shall be far, far better so by-and-by.”

Still there was that lingering tenderness in their hearts towards the old
positions they were relinquishing, that they prolonged their parting. When they
came among the elm-trees by the Cathedral, where they had last sat together,
they stopped as by consent, and Rosa raised her face to his, as she had never
raised it in the old days;—for they were old already.

“God bless you, dear! Good-bye!”

“God bless you, dear! Good-bye!”

They kissed each other fervently.

“Now, please take me home, Eddy, and let me be by myself.”

“Don’t look round, Rosa,” he cautioned her, as he drew her
arm through his, and led her away. “Didn’t you see Jack?”

“No! Where?”

“Under the trees. He saw us, as we took leave of each other. Poor fellow!
he little thinks we have parted. This will be a blow to him, I am much
afraid!”

She hurried on, without resting, and hurried on until they had passed under the
gatehouse into the street; once there, she asked:

“Has he followed us? You can look without seeming to. Is he
behind?”

“No. Yes, he is! He has just passed out under the gateway. The dear,
sympathetic old fellow likes to keep us in sight. I am afraid he will be
bitterly disappointed!”

She pulled hurriedly at the handle of the hoarse old bell, and the gate soon
opened. Before going in, she gave him one last, wide, wondering look, as if she
would have asked him with imploring emphasis: “O! don’t you
understand?” And out of that look he vanished from her view.

CHAPTER XIV.
WHEN SHALL THESE THREE MEET AGAIN?

Christmas Eve in Cloisterham. A few strange faces in the streets; a few other
faces, half strange and half familiar, once the faces of Cloisterham children,
now the faces of men and women who come back from the outer world at long
intervals to find the city wonderfully shrunken in size, as if it had not
washed by any means well in the meanwhile. To these, the striking of the
Cathedral clock, and the cawing of the rooks from the Cathedral tower, are like
voices of their nursery time. To such as these, it has happened in their dying
hours afar off, that they have imagined their chamber-floor to be strewn with
the autumnal leaves fallen from the elm-trees in the Close: so have the
rustling sounds and fresh scents of their earliest impressions revived when the
circle of their lives was very nearly traced, and the beginning and the end
were drawing close together.

Seasonable tokens are about. Red berries shine here and there in the lattices
of Minor Canon Corner; Mr. and Mrs. Tope are daintily sticking sprigs of holly
into the carvings and sconces of the Cathedral stalls, as if they were sticking
them into the coat-button-holes of the Dean and Chapter. Lavish profusion is in
the shops: particularly in the articles of currants, raisins, spices, candied
peel, and moist sugar. An unusual air of gallantry and dissipation is abroad;
evinced in an immense bunch of mistletoe hanging in the greengrocer’s
shop doorway, and a poor little Twelfth Cake, culminating in the figure of a
Harlequin—such a very poor little Twelfth Cake, that one would rather
called it a Twenty-fourth Cake or a Forty-eighth Cake—to be raffled for
at the pastrycook’s, terms one shilling per member. Public amusements are
not wanting. The Wax-Work which made so deep an impression on the reflective
mind of the Emperor of China is to be seen by particular desire during
Christmas Week only, on the premises of the bankrupt livery-stable-keeper up
the lane; and a new grand comic Christmas pantomime is to be produced at the
Theatre: the latter heralded by the portrait of Signor Jacksonini the clown,
saying “How do you do to-morrow?” quite as large as life, and
almost as miserably. In short, Cloisterham is up and doing: though from this
description the High School and Miss Twinkleton’s are to be excluded.
From the former establishment the scholars have gone home, every one of them in
love with one of Miss Twinkleton’s young ladies (who knows nothing about
it); and only the handmaidens flutter occasionally in the windows of the
latter. It is noticed, by the bye, that these damsels become, within the limits
of decorum, more skittish when thus intrusted with the concrete representation
of their sex, than when dividing the representation with Miss
Twinkleton’s young ladies.

Three are to meet at the gatehouse to-night. How does each one of the three get
through the day?

Neville Landless, though absolved from his books for the time by Mr.
Crisparkle—whose fresh nature is by no means insensible to the charms of
a holiday—reads and writes in his quiet room, with a concentrated air,
until it is two hours past noon. He then sets himself to clearing his table, to
arranging his books, and to tearing up and burning his stray papers. He makes a
clean sweep of all untidy accumulations, puts all his drawers in order, and
leaves no note or scrap of paper undestroyed, save such memoranda as bear
directly on his studies. This done, he turns to his wardrobe, selects a few
articles of ordinary wear—among them, change of stout shoes and socks for
walking—and packs these in a knapsack. This knapsack is new, and he
bought it in the High Street yesterday. He also purchased, at the same time and
at the same place, a heavy walking-stick; strong in the handle for the grip of
the hand, and iron-shod. He tries this, swings it, poises it, and lays it by,
with the knapsack, on a window-seat. By this time his arrangements are
complete.

He dresses for going out, and is in the act of going—indeed has left his
room, and has met the Minor Canon on the staircase, coming out of his bedroom
upon the same story—when he turns back again for his walking-stick,
thinking he will carry it now. Mr. Crisparkle, who has paused on the staircase,
sees it in his hand on his immediately reappearing, takes it from him, and asks
him with a smile how he chooses a stick?

“Really I don’t know that I understand the subject,” he
answers. “I chose it for its weight.”

“Much too heavy, Neville; much too heavy.”

“To rest upon in a long walk, sir?”

“Rest upon?” repeats Mr. Crisparkle, throwing himself into
pedestrian form. “You don’t rest upon it; you merely balance with
it.”

“I shall know better, with practice, sir. I have not lived in a walking
country, you know.”

“True,” says Mr. Crisparkle. “Get into a little training, and
we will have a few score miles together. I should leave you nowhere now. Do you
come back before dinner?”

“I think not, as we dine early.”

Mr. Crisparkle gives him a bright nod and a cheerful good-bye; expressing (not
without intention) absolute confidence and ease.

Neville repairs to the Nuns’ House, and requests that Miss Landless may
be informed that her brother is there, by appointment. He waits at the gate,
not even crossing the threshold; for he is on his parole not to put himself in
Rosa’s way.

His sister is at least as mindful of the obligation they have taken on
themselves as he can be, and loses not a moment in joining him. They meet
affectionately, avoid lingering there, and walk towards the upper inland
country.

“I am not going to tread upon forbidden ground, Helena,” says
Neville, when they have walked some distance and are turning; “you will
understand in another moment that I cannot help referring to—what shall I
say?—my infatuation.”

“Had you not better avoid it, Neville? You know that I can hear
nothing.”

“You can hear, my dear, what Mr. Crisparkle has heard, and heard with
approval.”

“Yes; I can hear so much.”

“Well, it is this. I am not only unsettled and unhappy myself, but I am
conscious of unsettling and interfering with other people. How do I know that,
but for my unfortunate presence, you, and—and—the rest of that
former party, our engaging guardian excepted, might be dining cheerfully in
Minor Canon Corner to-morrow? Indeed it probably would be so. I can see too
well that I am not high in the old lady’s opinion, and it is easy to
understand what an irksome clog I must be upon the hospitalities of her orderly
house—especially at this time of year—when I must be kept asunder
from this person, and there is such a reason for my not being brought into
contact with that person, and an unfavourable reputation has preceded me with
such another person; and so on. I have put this very gently to Mr. Crisparkle,
for you know his self-denying ways; but still I have put it. What I have laid
much greater stress upon at the same time is, that I am engaged in a miserable
struggle with myself, and that a little change and absence may enable me to
come through it the better. So, the weather being bright and hard, I am going
on a walking expedition, and intend taking myself out of everybody’s way
(my own included, I hope) to-morrow morning.”

“When to come back?”

“In a fortnight.”

“And going quite alone?”

“I am much better without company, even if there were any one but you to
bear me company, my dear Helena.”

“Mr. Crisparkle entirely agrees, you say?”

“Entirely. I am not sure but that at first he was inclined to think it
rather a moody scheme, and one that might do a brooding mind harm. But we took
a moonlight walk last Monday night, to talk it over at leisure, and I
represented the case to him as it really is. I showed him that I do want to
conquer myself, and that, this evening well got over, it is surely better that
I should be away from here just now, than here. I could hardly help meeting
certain people walking together here, and that could do no good, and is
certainly not the way to forget. A fortnight hence, that chance will probably
be over, for the time; and when it again arises for the last time, why, I can
again go away. Farther, I really do feel hopeful of bracing exercise and
wholesome fatigue. You know that Mr. Crisparkle allows such things their full
weight in the preservation of his own sound mind in his own sound body, and
that his just spirit is not likely to maintain one set of natural laws for
himself and another for me. He yielded to my view of the matter, when convinced
that I was honestly in earnest; and so, with his full consent, I start
to-morrow morning. Early enough to be not only out of the streets, but out of
hearing of the bells, when the good people go to church.”

Helena thinks it over, and thinks well of it. Mr. Crisparkle doing so, she
would do so; but she does originally, out of her own mind, think well of it, as
a healthy project, denoting a sincere endeavour and an active attempt at
self-correction. She is inclined to pity him, poor fellow, for going away
solitary on the great Christmas festival; but she feels it much more to the
purpose to encourage him. And she does encourage him.

He will write to her?

He will write to her every alternate day, and tell her all his adventures.

Does he send clothes on in advance of him?

“My dear Helena, no. Travel like a pilgrim, with wallet and staff. My
wallet—or my knapsack—is packed, and ready for strapping on; and
here is my staff!”

He hands it to her; she makes the same remark as Mr. Crisparkle, that it is
very heavy; and gives it back to him, asking what wood it is? Iron-wood.

Up to this point he has been extremely cheerful. Perhaps, the having to carry
his case with her, and therefore to present it in its brightest aspect, has
roused his spirits. Perhaps, the having done so with success, is followed by a
revulsion. As the day closes in, and the city-lights begin to spring up before
them, he grows depressed.

“I wish I were not going to this dinner, Helena.”

“Dear Neville, is it worth while to care much about it? Think how soon it
will be over.”

“How soon it will be over!” he repeats gloomily. “Yes. But I
don’t like it.”

There may be a moment’s awkwardness, she cheeringly represents to him,
but it can only last a moment. He is quite sure of himself.

“I wish I felt as sure of everything else, as I feel of myself,” he
answers her.

“How strangely you speak, dear! What do you mean?”

“Helena, I don’t know. I only know that I don’t like it. What
a strange dead weight there is in the air!”

She calls his attention to those copperous clouds beyond the river, and says
that the wind is rising. He scarcely speaks again, until he takes leave of her,
at the gate of the Nuns’ House. She does not immediately enter, when they
have parted, but remains looking after him along the street. Twice he passes
the gatehouse, reluctant to enter. At length, the Cathedral clock chiming one
quarter, with a rapid turn he hurries in.

And so he goes up the postern stair.

Edwin Drood passes a solitary day. Something of deeper moment than he had
thought, has gone out of his life; and in the silence of his own chamber he
wept for it last night. Though the image of Miss Landless still hovers in the
background of his mind, the pretty little affectionate creature, so much firmer
and wiser than he had supposed, occupies its stronghold. It is with some
misgiving of his own unworthiness that he thinks of her, and of what they might
have been to one another, if he had been more in earnest some time ago; if he
had set a higher value on her; if, instead of accepting his lot in life as an
inheritance of course, he had studied the right way to its appreciation and
enhancement. And still, for all this, and though there is a sharp heartache in
all this, the vanity and caprice of youth sustain that handsome figure of Miss
Landless in the background of his mind.

That was a curious look of Rosa’s when they parted at the gate. Did it
mean that she saw below the surface of his thoughts, and down into their
twilight depths? Scarcely that, for it was a look of astonished and keen
inquiry. He decides that he cannot understand it, though it was remarkably
expressive.

As he only waits for Mr. Grewgious now, and will depart immediately after
having seen him, he takes a sauntering leave of the ancient city and its
neighbourhood. He recalls the time when Rosa and he walked here or there, mere
children, full of the dignity of being engaged. Poor children! he thinks, with
a pitying sadness.

Finding that his watch has stopped, he turns into the jeweller’s shop, to
have it wound and set. The jeweller is knowing on the subject of a bracelet,
which he begs leave to submit, in a general and quite aimless way. It would
suit (he considers) a young bride, to perfection; especially if of a rather
diminutive style of beauty. Finding the bracelet but coldly looked at, the
jeweller invites attention to a tray of rings for gentlemen; here is a style of
ring, now, he remarks—a very chaste signet—which gentlemen are much
given to purchasing, when changing their condition. A ring of a very
responsible appearance. With the date of their wedding-day engraved inside,
several gentlemen have preferred it to any other kind of memento.

The rings are as coldly viewed as the bracelet. Edwin tells the tempter that he
wears no jewellery but his watch and chain, which were his father’s; and
his shirt-pin.

“That I was aware of,” is the jeweller’s reply, “for
Mr. Jasper dropped in for a watch-glass the other day, and, in fact, I showed
these articles to him, remarking that if he should wish to make a
present to a gentleman relative, on any particular occasion—But he said
with a smile that he had an inventory in his mind of all the jewellery his
gentleman relative ever wore; namely, his watch and chain, and his
shirt-pin.” Still (the jeweller considers) that might not apply to all
times, though applying to the present time. “Twenty minutes past two, Mr.
Drood, I set your watch at. Let me recommend you not to let it run down,
sir.”

Edwin takes his watch, puts it on, and goes out, thinking: “Dear old
Jack! If I were to make an extra crease in my neckcloth, he would think it
worth noticing!”

He strolls about and about, to pass the time until the dinner-hour. It somehow
happens that Cloisterham seems reproachful to him to-day; has fault to find
with him, as if he had not used it well; but is far more pensive with him than
angry. His wonted carelessness is replaced by a wistful looking at, and
dwelling upon, all the old landmarks. He will soon be far away, and may never
see them again, he thinks. Poor youth! Poor youth!

As dusk draws on, he paces the Monks’ Vineyard. He has walked to and fro,
full half an hour by the Cathedral chimes, and it has closed in dark, before he
becomes quite aware of a woman crouching on the ground near a wicket gate in a
corner. The gate commands a cross bye-path, little used in the gloaming; and
the figure must have been there all the time, though he has but gradually and
lately made it out.

He strikes into that path, and walks up to the wicket. By the light of a lamp
near it, he sees that the woman is of a haggard appearance, and that her weazen
chin is resting on her hands, and that her eyes are staring—with an
unwinking, blind sort of steadfastness—before her.

Always kindly, but moved to be unusually kind this evening, and having bestowed
kind words on most of the children and aged people he has met, he at once bends
down, and speaks to this woman.

“Are you ill?”

“No, deary,” she answers, without looking at him, and with no
departure from her strange blind stare.

“Are you blind?”

“No, deary.”

“Are you lost, homeless, faint? What is the matter, that you stay here in
the cold so long, without moving?”

By slow and stiff efforts, she appears to contract her vision until it can rest
upon him; and then a curious film passes over her, and she begins to shake.

He straightens himself, recoils a step, and looks down at her in a dread
amazement; for he seems to know her.

“Good Heaven!” he thinks, next moment. “Like Jack that
night!”

As he looks down at her, she looks up at him, and whimpers: “My lungs is
weakly; my lungs is dreffle bad. Poor me, poor me, my cough is rattling
dry!” and coughs in confirmation horribly.

“Where do you come from?”

“Come from London, deary.” (Her cough still rending her.)

“Where are you going to?”

“Back to London, deary. I came here, looking for a needle in a haystack,
and I ain’t found it. Look’ee, deary; give me three-and-sixpence,
and don’t you be afeard for me. I’ll get back to London then, and
trouble no one. I’m in a business.—Ah, me! It’s slack,
it’s slack, and times is very bad!—but I can make a shift to live
by it.”

“Do you eat opium?”

“Smokes it,” she replies with difficulty, still racked by her
cough. “Give me three-and-sixpence, and I’ll lay it out well, and
get back. If you don’t give me three-and-sixpence, don’t give me a
brass farden. And if you do give me three-and-sixpence, deary, I’ll tell
you something.”

He counts the money from his pocket, and puts it in her hand. She instantly
clutches it tight, and rises to her feet with a croaking laugh of satisfaction.

“Bless ye! Hark’ee, dear genl’mn. What’s your
Chris’en name?”

“Edwin.”

“Edwin, Edwin, Edwin,” she repeats, trailing off into a drowsy
repetition of the word; and then asks suddenly: “Is the short of that
name Eddy?”

“It is sometimes called so,” he replies, with the colour starting
to his face.

“Don’t sweethearts call it so?” she asks, pondering.

“How should I know?”

“Haven’t you a sweetheart, upon your soul?”

“None.”

She is moving away, with another “Bless ye, and thank’ee,
deary!” when he adds: “You were to tell me something; you may as
well do so.”

“So I was, so I was. Well, then. Whisper. You be thankful that your name
ain’t Ned.”

He looks at her quite steadily, as he asks: “Why?”

“Because it’s a bad name to have just now.”

“How a bad name?”

“A threatened name. A dangerous name.”

“The proverb says that threatened men live long,” he tells her,
lightly.

“Then Ned—so threatened is he, wherever he may be while I am
a-talking to you, deary—should live to all eternity!” replies the
woman.

She has leaned forward to say it in his ear, with her forefinger shaking before
his eyes, and now huddles herself together, and with another “Bless ye,
and thank’ee!” goes away in the direction of the Travellers’
Lodging House.

This is not an inspiriting close to a dull day. Alone, in a sequestered place,
surrounded by vestiges of old time and decay, it rather has a tendency to call
a shudder into being. He makes for the better-lighted streets, and resolves as
he walks on to say nothing of this to-night, but to mention it to Jack (who
alone calls him Ned), as an odd coincidence, to-morrow; of course only as a
coincidence, and not as anything better worth remembering.

Still, it holds to him, as many things much better worth remembering never did.
He has another mile or so, to linger out before the dinner-hour; and, when he
walks over the bridge and by the river, the woman’s words are in the
rising wind, in the angry sky, in the troubled water, in the flickering lights.
There is some solemn echo of them even in the Cathedral chime, which strikes a
sudden surprise to his heart as he turns in under the archway of the gatehouse.

And so he goes up the postern stair.

John Jasper passes a more agreeable and cheerful day than either of his guests.
Having no music-lessons to give in the holiday season, his time is his own, but
for the Cathedral services. He is early among the shopkeepers, ordering little
table luxuries that his nephew likes. His nephew will not be with him long, he
tells his provision-dealers, and so must be petted and made much of. While out
on his hospitable preparations, he looks in on Mr. Sapsea; and mentions that
dear Ned, and that inflammable young spark of Mr. Crisparkle’s, are to
dine at the gatehouse to-day, and make up their difference. Mr. Sapsea is by no
means friendly towards the inflammable young spark. He says that his complexion
is “Un-English.” And when Mr. Sapsea has once declared anything to
be Un-English, he considers that thing everlastingly sunk in the bottomless
pit.

John Jasper is truly sorry to hear Mr. Sapsea speak thus, for he knows right
well that Mr. Sapsea never speaks without a meaning, and that he has a subtle
trick of being right. Mr. Sapsea (by a very remarkable coincidence) is of
exactly that opinion.

Mr. Jasper is in beautiful voice this day. In the pathetic supplication to have
his heart inclined to keep this law, he quite astonishes his fellows by his
melodious power. He has never sung difficult music with such skill and harmony,
as in this day’s Anthem. His nervous temperament is occasionally prone to
take difficult music a little too quickly; to-day, his time is perfect.

These results are probably attained through a grand composure of the spirits.
The mere mechanism of his throat is a little tender, for he wears, both with
his singing-robe and with his ordinary dress, a large black scarf of strong
close-woven silk, slung loosely round his neck. But his composure is so
noticeable, that Mr. Crisparkle speaks of it as they come out from Vespers.

“I must thank you, Jasper, for the pleasure with which I have heard you
to-day. Beautiful! Delightful! You could not have so outdone yourself, I hope,
without being wonderfully well.”

“I am wonderfully well.”

“Nothing unequal,” says the Minor Canon, with a smooth motion of
his hand: “nothing unsteady, nothing forced, nothing avoided; all
thoroughly done in a masterly manner, with perfect self-command.”

“Thank you. I hope so, if it is not too much to say.”

“One would think, Jasper, you had been trying a new medicine for that
occasional indisposition of yours.”

“No, really? That’s well observed; for I have.”

“Then stick to it, my good fellow,” says Mr. Crisparkle, clapping
him on the shoulder with friendly encouragement, “stick to it.”

“I will.”

“I congratulate you,” Mr. Crisparkle pursues, as they come out of
the Cathedral, “on all accounts.”

“Thank you again. I will walk round to the Corner with you, if you
don’t object; I have plenty of time before my company come; and I want to
say a word to you, which I think you will not be displeased to hear.”

“What is it?”

“Well. We were speaking, the other evening, of my black humours.”

Mr. Crisparkle’s face falls, and he shakes his head deploringly.

“I said, you know, that I should make you an antidote to those black
humours; and you said you hoped I would consign them to the flames.”

“And I still hope so, Jasper.”

“With the best reason in the world! I mean to burn this year’s
Diary at the year’s end.”

“Because you—?” Mr. Crisparkle brightens greatly as he thus
begins.

“You anticipate me. Because I feel that I have been out of sorts, gloomy,
bilious, brain-oppressed, whatever it may be. You said I had been exaggerative.
So I have.”

Mr. Crisparkle’s brightened face brightens still more.

“I couldn’t see it then, because I was out of sorts; but I
am in a healthier state now, and I acknowledge it with genuine pleasure. I made
a great deal of a very little; that’s the fact.”

“It does me good,” cries Mr. Crisparkle, “to hear you say
it!”

“A man leading a monotonous life,” Jasper proceeds, “and
getting his nerves, or his stomach, out of order, dwells upon an idea until it
loses its proportions. That was my case with the idea in question. So I shall
burn the evidence of my case, when the book is full, and begin the next volume
with a clearer vision.”

“This is better,” says Mr. Crisparkle, stopping at the steps of his
own door to shake hands, “than I could have hoped.”

“Why, naturally,” returns Jasper. “You had but little reason
to hope that I should become more like yourself. You are always training
yourself to be, mind and body, as clear as crystal, and you always are, and
never change; whereas I am a muddy, solitary, moping weed. However, I have got
over that mope. Shall I wait, while you ask if Mr. Neville has left for my
place? If not, he and I may walk round together.”

“I think,” says Mr. Crisparkle, opening the entrance-door with his
key, “that he left some time ago; at least I know he left, and I think he
has not come back. But I’ll inquire. You won’t come in?”

“My company wait,” said Jasper, with a smile.

The Minor Canon disappears, and in a few moments returns. As he thought, Mr.
Neville has not come back; indeed, as he remembers now, Mr. Neville said he
would probably go straight to the gatehouse.

“Bad manners in a host!” says Jasper. “My company will be
there before me! What will you bet that I don’t find my company
embracing?”

“I will bet—or I would, if ever I did bet,” returns Mr.
Crisparkle, “that your company will have a gay entertainer this
evening.”

Jasper nods, and laughs good-night!

He retraces his steps to the Cathedral door, and turns down past it to the
gatehouse. He sings, in a low voice and with delicate expression, as he walks
along. It still seems as if a false note were not within his power to-night,
and as if nothing could hurry or retard him. Arriving thus under the arched
entrance of his dwelling, he pauses for an instant in the shelter to pull off
that great black scarf, and bang it in a loop upon his arm. For that brief
time, his face is knitted and stern. But it immediately clears, as he resumes
his singing, and his way.

And so he goes up the postern stair.

The red light burns steadily all the evening in the lighthouse on the margin of
the tide of busy life. Softened sounds and hum of traffic pass it and flow on
irregularly into the lonely Precincts; but very little else goes by, save
violent rushes of wind. It comes on to blow a boisterous gale.

The Precincts are never particularly well lighted; but the strong blasts of
wind blowing out many of the lamps (in some instances shattering the frames
too, and bringing the glass rattling to the ground), they are unusually dark
to-night. The darkness is augmented and confused, by flying dust from the
earth, dry twigs from the trees, and great ragged fragments from the
rooks’ nests up in the tower. The trees themselves so toss and creak, as
this tangible part of the darkness madly whirls about, that they seem in peril
of being torn out of the earth: while ever and again a crack, and a rushing
fall, denote that some large branch has yielded to the storm.

Not such power of wind has blown for many a winter night. Chimneys topple in
the streets, and people hold to posts and corners, and to one another, to keep
themselves upon their feet. The violent rushes abate not, but increase in
frequency and fury until at midnight, when the streets are empty, the storm
goes thundering along them, rattling at all the latches, and tearing at all the
shutters, as if warning the people to get up and fly with it, rather than have
the roofs brought down upon their brains.

Still, the red light burns steadily. Nothing is steady but the red light.

All through the night the wind blows, and abates not. But early in the morning,
when there is barely enough light in the east to dim the stars, it begins to
lull. From that time, with occasional wild charges, like a wounded monster
dying, it drops and sinks; and at full daylight it is dead.

It is then seen that the hands of the Cathedral clock are torn off; that lead
from the roof has been stripped away, rolled up, and blown into the Close; and
that some stones have been displaced upon the summit of the great tower.
Christmas morning though it be, it is necessary to send up workmen, to
ascertain the extent of the damage done. These, led by Durdles, go aloft; while
Mr. Tope and a crowd of early idlers gather down in Minor Canon Corner, shading
their eyes and watching for their appearance up there.

This cluster is suddenly broken and put aside by the hands of Mr. Jasper; all
the gazing eyes are brought down to the earth by his loudly inquiring of Mr.
Crisparkle, at an open window:

“Where is my nephew?”

“He has not been here. Is he not with you?”

“No. He went down to the river last night, with Mr. Neville, to look at
the storm, and has not been back. Call Mr. Neville!”

“He left this morning, early.”

“Left this morning early? Let me in! let me in!”

There is no more looking up at the tower, now. All the assembled eyes are
turned on Mr. Jasper, white, half-dressed, panting, and clinging to the rail
before the Minor Canon’s house.

CHAPTER XV.
IMPEACHED

Neville Landless had started so early and walked at so good a pace, that when
the church-bells began to ring in Cloisterham for morning service, he was eight
miles away. As he wanted his breakfast by that time, having set forth on a
crust of bread, he stopped at the next roadside tavern to refresh.

Visitors in want of breakfast—unless they were horses or cattle, for
which class of guests there was preparation enough in the way of water-trough
and hay—were so unusual at the sign of The Tilted Wagon, that it took a
long time to get the wagon into the track of tea and toast and bacon. Neville
in the interval, sitting in a sanded parlour, wondering in how long a time
after he had gone, the sneezy fire of damp fagots would begin to make somebody
else warm.

Indeed, The Tilted Wagon, as a cool establishment on the top of a hill, where
the ground before the door was puddled with damp hoofs and trodden straw; where
a scolding landlady slapped a moist baby (with one red sock on and one
wanting), in the bar; where the cheese was cast aground upon a shelf, in
company with a mouldy tablecloth and a green-handled knife, in a sort of
cast-iron canoe; where the pale-faced bread shed tears of crumb over its
shipwreck in another canoe; where the family linen, half washed and half dried,
led a public life of lying about; where everything to drink was drunk out of
mugs, and everything else was suggestive of a rhyme to mugs; The Tilted Wagon,
all these things considered, hardly kept its painted promise of providing good
entertainment for Man and Beast. However, Man, in the present case, was not
critical, but took what entertainment he could get, and went on again after a
longer rest than he needed.

He stopped at some quarter of a mile from the house, hesitating whether to
pursue the road, or to follow a cart track between two high hedgerows, which
led across the slope of a breezy heath, and evidently struck into the road
again by-and-by. He decided in favour of this latter track, and pursued it with
some toil; the rise being steep, and the way worn into deep ruts.

He was labouring along, when he became aware of some other pedestrians behind
him. As they were coming up at a faster pace than his, he stood aside, against
one of the high banks, to let them pass. But their manner was very curious.
Only four of them passed. Other four slackened speed, and loitered as intending
to follow him when he should go on. The remainder of the party (half-a-dozen
perhaps) turned, and went back at a great rate.

He looked at the four behind him, and he looked at the four before him. They
all returned his look. He resumed his way. The four in advance went on,
constantly looking back; the four in the rear came closing up.

When they all ranged out from the narrow track upon the open slope of the
heath, and this order was maintained, let him diverge as he would to either
side, there was no longer room to doubt that he was beset by these fellows. He
stopped, as a last test; and they all stopped.

“Why do you attend upon me in this way?” he asked the whole body.
“Are you a pack of thieves?”

“Don’t answer him,” said one of the number; he did not see
which. “Better be quiet.”

“Better be quiet?” repeated Neville. “Who said so?”

Nobody replied.

“It’s good advice, whichever of you skulkers gave it,” he
went on angrily. “I will not submit to be penned in between four men
there, and four men there. I wish to pass, and I mean to pass, those four in
front.”

They were all standing still; himself included.

“If eight men, or four men, or two men, set upon one,” he
proceeded, growing more enraged, “the one has no chance but to set his
mark upon some of them. And, by the Lord, I’ll do it, if I am interrupted
any farther!”

Shouldering his heavy stick, and quickening his pace, he shot on to pass the
four ahead. The largest and strongest man of the number changed swiftly to the
side on which he came up, and dexterously closed with him and went down with
him; but not before the heavy stick had descended smartly.

“Let him be!” said this man in a suppressed voice, as they
struggled together on the grass. “Fair play! His is the build of a girl
to mine, and he’s got a weight strapped to his back besides. Let him
alone. I’ll manage him.”

After a little rolling about, in a close scuffle which caused the faces of both
to be besmeared with blood, the man took his knee from Neville’s chest,
and rose, saying: “There! Now take him arm-in-arm, any two of you!”

It was immediately done.

“As to our being a pack of thieves, Mr. Landless,” said the man, as
he spat out some blood, and wiped more from his face; “you know better
than that at midday. We wouldn’t have touched you if you hadn’t
forced us. We’re going to take you round to the high road, anyhow, and
you’ll find help enough against thieves there, if you want it.—Wipe
his face, somebody; see how it’s a-trickling down him!”

When his face was cleansed, Neville recognised in the speaker, Joe, driver of
the Cloisterham omnibus, whom he had seen but once, and that on the day of his
arrival.

“And what I recommend you for the present, is, don’t talk, Mr.
Landless. You’ll find a friend waiting for you, at the high
road—gone ahead by the other way when we split into two parties—and
you had much better say nothing till you come up with him. Bring that stick
along, somebody else, and let’s be moving!”

Utterly bewildered, Neville stared around him and said not a word. Walking
between his two conductors, who held his arms in theirs, he went on, as in a
dream, until they came again into the high road, and into the midst of a little
group of people. The men who had turned back were among the group; and its
central figures were Mr. Jasper and Mr. Crisparkle. Neville’s conductors
took him up to the Minor Canon, and there released him, as an act of deference
to that gentleman.

“What is all this, sir? What is the matter? I feel as if I had lost my
senses!” cried Neville, the group closing in around him.

“Where is my nephew?” asked Mr. Jasper, wildly.

“Where is your nephew?” repeated Neville, “Why do you ask
me?”

“I ask you,” retorted Jasper, “because you were the last
person in his company, and he is not to be found.”

“Not to be found!” cried Neville, aghast.

“Stay, stay,” said Mr. Crisparkle. “Permit me, Jasper. Mr.
Neville, you are confounded; collect your thoughts; it is of great importance
that you should collect your thoughts; attend to me.”

“I will try, sir, but I seem mad.”

“You left Mr. Jasper last night with Edwin Drood?”

“Yes.”

“At what hour?”

“Was it at twelve o’clock?” asked Neville, with his hand to
his confused head, and appealing to Jasper.

“Quite right,” said Mr. Crisparkle; “the hour Mr. Jasper has
already named to me. You went down to the river together?”

“Undoubtedly. To see the action of the wind there.”

“What followed? How long did you stay there?”

“About ten minutes; I should say not more. We then walked together to
your house, and he took leave of me at the door.”

“Did he say that he was going down to the river again?”

“No. He said that he was going straight back.”

The bystanders looked at one another, and at Mr. Crisparkle. To whom Mr.
Jasper, who had been intensely watching Neville, said, in a low, distinct,
suspicious voice: “What are those stains upon his dress?”

All eyes were turned towards the blood upon his clothes.

“And here are the same stains upon this stick!” said Jasper, taking
it from the hand of the man who held it. “I know the stick to be his, and
he carried it last night. What does this mean?”

“In the name of God, say what it means, Neville!” urged Mr.
Crisparkle.

“That man and I,” said Neville, pointing out his late adversary,
“had a struggle for the stick just now, and you may see the same marks on
him, sir. What was I to suppose, when I found myself molested by eight people?
Could I dream of the true reason when they would give me none at all?”

They admitted that they had thought it discreet to be silent, and that the
struggle had taken place. And yet the very men who had seen it looked darkly at
the smears which the bright cold air had already dried.

“We must return, Neville,” said Mr. Crisparkle; “of course
you will be glad to come back to clear yourself?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Mr. Landless will walk at my side,” the Minor Canon continued,
looking around him. “Come, Neville!”

They set forth on the walk back; and the others, with one exception, straggled
after them at various distances. Jasper walked on the other side of Neville,
and never quitted that position. He was silent, while Mr. Crisparkle more than
once repeated his former questions, and while Neville repeated his former
answers; also, while they both hazarded some explanatory conjectures. He was
obstinately silent, because Mr. Crisparkle’s manner directly appealed to
him to take some part in the discussion, and no appeal would move his fixed
face. When they drew near to the city, and it was suggested by the Minor Canon
that they might do well in calling on the Mayor at once, he assented with a
stern nod; but he spake no word until they stood in Mr. Sapsea’s parlour.

Mr. Sapsea being informed by Mr. Crisparkle of the circumstances under which
they desired to make a voluntary statement before him, Mr. Jasper broke silence
by declaring that he placed his whole reliance, humanly speaking, on Mr.
Sapsea’s penetration. There was no conceivable reason why his nephew
should have suddenly absconded, unless Mr. Sapsea could suggest one, and then
he would defer. There was no intelligible likelihood of his having returned to
the river, and been accidentally drowned in the dark, unless it should appear
likely to Mr. Sapsea, and then again he would defer. He washed his hands as
clean as he could of all horrible suspicions, unless it should appear to Mr.
Sapsea that some such were inseparable from his last companion before his
disappearance (not on good terms with previously), and then, once more, he
would defer. His own state of mind, he being distracted with doubts, and
labouring under dismal apprehensions, was not to be safely trusted; but Mr.
Sapsea’s was.

Mr. Sapsea expressed his opinion that the case had a dark look; in short (and
here his eyes rested full on Neville’s countenance), an Un-English
complexion. Having made this grand point, he wandered into a denser haze and
maze of nonsense than even a mayor might have been expected to disport himself
in, and came out of it with the brilliant discovery that to take the life of a
fellow-creature was to take something that didn’t belong to you. He
wavered whether or no he should at once issue his warrant for the committal of
Neville Landless to jail, under circumstances of grave suspicion; and he might
have gone so far as to do it but for the indignant protest of the Minor Canon:
who undertook for the young man’s remaining in his own house, and being
produced by his own hands, whenever demanded. Mr. Jasper then understood Mr.
Sapsea to suggest that the river should be dragged, that its banks should be
rigidly examined, that particulars of the disappearance should be sent to all
outlying places and to London, and that placards and advertisements should be
widely circulated imploring Edwin Drood, if for any unknown reason he had
withdrawn himself from his uncle’s home and society, to take pity on that
loving kinsman’s sore bereavement and distress, and somehow inform him
that he was yet alive. Mr. Sapsea was perfectly understood, for this was
exactly his meaning (though he had said nothing about it); and measures were
taken towards all these ends immediately.

It would be difficult to determine which was the more oppressed with horror and
amazement: Neville Landless, or John Jasper. But that Jasper’s position
forced him to be active, while Neville’s forced him to be passive, there
would have been nothing to choose between them. Each was bowed down and broken.

With the earliest light of the next morning, men were at work upon the river,
and other men—most of whom volunteered for the service—were
examining the banks. All the livelong day the search went on; upon the river,
with barge and pole, and drag and net; upon the muddy and rushy shore, with
jack-boots, hatchet, spade, rope, dogs, and all imaginable appliances. Even at
night, the river was specked with lanterns, and lurid with fires; far-off
creeks, into which the tide washed as it changed, had their knots of watchers,
listening to the lapping of the stream, and looking out for any burden it might
bear; remote shingly causeways near the sea, and lonely points off which there
was a race of water, had their unwonted flaring cressets and rough-coated
figures when the next day dawned; but no trace of Edwin Drood revisited the
light of the sun.

All that day, again, the search went on. Now, in barge and boat; and now ashore
among the osiers, or tramping amidst mud and stakes and jagged stones in
low-lying places, where solitary watermarks and signals of strange shapes
showed like spectres, John Jasper worked and toiled. But to no purpose; for
still no trace of Edwin Drood revisited the light of the sun.

Setting his watches for that night again, so that vigilant eyes should be kept
on every change of tide, he went home exhausted. Unkempt and disordered,
bedaubed with mud that had dried upon him, and with much of his clothing torn
to rags, he had but just dropped into his easy-chair, when Mr. Grewgious stood
before him.

“This is strange news,” said Mr. Grewgious.

“Strange and fearful news.”

Jasper had merely lifted up his heavy eyes to say it, and now dropped them
again as he drooped, worn out, over one side of his easy-chair.

Mr. Grewgious smoothed his head and face, and stood looking at the fire.

“How is your ward?” asked Jasper, after a time, in a faint,
fatigued voice.

“Poor little thing! You may imagine her condition.”

“Have you seen his sister?” inquired Jasper, as before.

“Whose?”

The curtness of the counter-question, and the cool, slow manner in which, as he
put it, Mr. Grewgious moved his eyes from the fire to his companion’s
face, might at any other time have been exasperating. In his depression and
exhaustion, Jasper merely opened his eyes to say: “The suspected young
man’s.”

“Do you suspect him?” asked Mr. Grewgious.

“I don’t know what to think. I cannot make up my mind.”

“Nor I,” said Mr. Grewgious. “But as you spoke of him as the
suspected young man, I thought you had made up your mind.—I have
just left Miss Landless.”

Mr. Grewgious has his suspicions

“What is her state?”

“Defiance of all suspicion, and unbounded faith in her brother.”

“Poor thing!”

“However,” pursued Mr. Grewgious, “it is not of her that I
came to speak. It is of my ward. I have a communication to make that will
surprise you. At least, it has surprised me.”

Jasper, with a groaning sigh, turned wearily in his chair.

“Shall I put it off till to-morrow?” said Mr. Grewgious.
“Mind, I warn you, that I think it will surprise you!”

More attention and concentration came into John Jasper’s eyes as they
caught sight of Mr. Grewgious smoothing his head again, and again looking at
the fire; but now, with a compressed and determined mouth.

“What is it?” demanded Jasper, becoming upright in his chair.

“To be sure,” said Mr. Grewgious, provokingly slowly and
internally, as he kept his eyes on the fire: “I might have known it
sooner; she gave me the opening; but I am such an exceedingly Angular man, that
it never occurred to me; I took all for granted.”

“What is it?” demanded Jasper once more.

Mr. Grewgious, alternately opening and shutting the palms of his hands as he
warmed them at the fire, and looking fixedly at him sideways, and never
changing either his action or his look in all that followed, went on to reply.

“This young couple, the lost youth and Miss Rosa, my ward, though so long
betrothed, and so long recognising their betrothal, and so near being
married—”

Mr. Grewgious saw a staring white face, and two quivering white lips, in the
easy-chair, and saw two muddy hands gripping its sides. But for the hands, he
might have thought he had never seen the face.

“—This young couple came gradually to the discovery (made on both
sides pretty equally, I think), that they would be happier and better, both in
their present and their future lives, as affectionate friends, or say rather as
brother and sister, than as husband and wife.”

Mr. Grewgious saw a lead-coloured face in the easy-chair, and on its surface
dreadful starting drops or bubbles, as if of steel.

“This young couple formed at length the healthy resolution of
interchanging their discoveries, openly, sensibly, and tenderly. They met for
that purpose. After some innocent and generous talk, they agreed to dissolve
their existing, and their intended, relations, for ever and ever.”

Mr. Grewgious saw a ghastly figure rise, open-mouthed, from the easy-chair, and
lift its outspread hands towards its head.

“One of this young couple, and that one your nephew, fearful, however,
that in the tenderness of your affection for him you would be bitterly
disappointed by so wide a departure from his projected life, forbore to tell
you the secret, for a few days, and left it to be disclosed by me, when I
should come down to speak to you, and he would be gone. I speak to you, and he
is gone.”

Mr. Grewgious saw the ghastly figure throw back its head, clutch its hair with
its hands, and turn with a writhing action from him.

“I have now said all I have to say: except that this young couple parted,
firmly, though not without tears and sorrow, on the evening when you last saw
them together.”

Mr. Grewgious heard a terrible shriek, and saw no ghastly figure, sitting or
standing; saw nothing but a heap of torn and miry clothes upon the floor.

Not changing his action even then, he opened and shut the palms of his hands as
he warmed them, and looked down at it.

CHAPTER XVI.
DEVOTED

When John Jasper recovered from his fit or swoon, he found himself being tended
by Mr. and Mrs. Tope, whom his visitor had summoned for the purpose. His
visitor, wooden of aspect, sat stiffly in a chair, with his hands upon his
knees, watching his recovery.

“There! You’ve come to nicely now, sir,” said the tearful
Mrs. Tope; “you were thoroughly worn out, and no wonder!”

“A man,” said Mr. Grewgious, with his usual air of repeating a
lesson, “cannot have his rest broken, and his mind cruelly tormented, and
his body overtaxed by fatigue, without being thoroughly worn out.”

“I fear I have alarmed you?” Jasper apologised faintly, when he was
helped into his easy-chair.

“Not at all, I thank you,” answered Mr. Grewgious.

“You are too considerate.”

“Not at all, I thank you,” answered Mr. Grewgious again.

“You must take some wine, sir,” said Mrs. Tope, “and the
jelly that I had ready for you, and that you wouldn’t put your lips to at
noon, though I warned you what would come of it, you know, and you not
breakfasted; and you must have a wing of the roast fowl that has been put back
twenty times if it’s been put back once. It shall all be on table in five
minutes, and this good gentleman belike will stop and see you take it.”

This good gentleman replied with a snort, which might mean yes, or no, or
anything or nothing, and which Mrs. Tope would have found highly mystifying,
but that her attention was divided by the service of the table.

“You will take something with me?” said Jasper, as the cloth was
laid.

“I couldn’t get a morsel down my throat, I thank you,”
answered Mr. Grewgious.

Jasper both ate and drank almost voraciously. Combined with the hurry in his
mode of doing it, was an evident indifference to the taste of what he took,
suggesting that he ate and drank to fortify himself against any other failure
of the spirits, far more than to gratify his palate. Mr. Grewgious in the
meantime sat upright, with no expression in his face, and a hard kind of
imperturbably polite protest all over him: as though he would have said, in
reply to some invitation to discourse; “I couldn’t originate the
faintest approach to an observation on any subject whatever, I thank
you.”

“Do you know,” said Jasper, when he had pushed away his plate and
glass, and had sat meditating for a few minutes: “do you know that I find
some crumbs of comfort in the communication with which you have so much amazed
me?”

“Do you?” returned Mr. Grewgious, pretty plainly adding the
unspoken clause: “I don’t, I thank you!”

“After recovering from the shock of a piece of news of my dear boy, so
entirely unexpected, and so destructive of all the castles I had built for him;
and after having had time to think of it; yes.”

“I shall be glad to pick up your crumbs,” said Mr. Grewgious,
dryly.

“Is there not, or is there—if I deceive myself, tell me so, and
shorten my pain—is there not, or is there, hope that, finding himself in
this new position, and becoming sensitively alive to the awkward burden of
explanation, in this quarter, and that, and the other, with which it would load
him, he avoided the awkwardness, and took to flight?”

“Such a thing might be,” said Mr. Grewgious, pondering.

“Such a thing has been. I have read of cases in which people, rather than
face a seven days’ wonder, and have to account for themselves to the idle
and impertinent, have taken themselves away, and been long unheard of.”

“I believe such things have happened,” said Mr. Grewgious,
pondering still.

“When I had, and could have, no suspicion,” pursued Jasper, eagerly
following the new track, “that the dear lost boy had withheld anything
from me—most of all, such a leading matter as this—what gleam of
light was there for me in the whole black sky? When I supposed that his
intended wife was here, and his marriage close at hand, how could I entertain
the possibility of his voluntarily leaving this place, in a manner that would
be so unaccountable, capricious, and cruel? But now that I know what you have
told me, is there no little chink through which day pierces? Supposing him to
have disappeared of his own act, is not his disappearance more accountable and
less cruel? The fact of his having just parted from your ward, is in itself a
sort of reason for his going away. It does not make his mysterious departure
the less cruel to me, it is true; but it relieves it of cruelty to her.”

Mr. Grewgious could not but assent to this.

“And even as to me,” continued Jasper, still pursuing the new
track, with ardour, and, as he did so, brightening with hope: “he knew
that you were coming to me; he knew that you were intrusted to tell me what you
have told me; if your doing so has awakened a new train of thought in my
perplexed mind, it reasonably follows that, from the same premises, he might
have foreseen the inferences that I should draw. Grant that he did foresee
them; and even the cruelty to me—and who am I!—John Jasper, Music
Master, vanishes!”—

Once more, Mr. Grewgious could not but assent to this.

“I have had my distrusts, and terrible distrusts they have been,”
said Jasper; “but your disclosure, overpowering as it was at
first—showing me that my own dear boy had had a great disappointing
reservation from me, who so fondly loved him, kindles hope within me. You do
not extinguish it when I state it, but admit it to be a reasonable hope. I
begin to believe it possible:” here he clasped his hands: “that he
may have disappeared from among us of his own accord, and that he may yet be
alive and well.”

Mr. Crisparkle came in at the moment. To whom Mr. Jasper repeated:

“I begin to believe it possible that he may have disappeared of his own
accord, and may yet be alive and well.”

Mr. Crisparkle taking a seat, and inquiring: “Why so?” Mr. Jasper
repeated the arguments he had just set forth. If they had been less plausible
than they were, the good Minor Canon’s mind would have been in a state of
preparation to receive them, as exculpatory of his unfortunate pupil. But he,
too, did really attach great importance to the lost young man’s having
been, so immediately before his disappearance, placed in a new and embarrassing
relation towards every one acquainted with his projects and affairs; and the
fact seemed to him to present the question in a new light.

“I stated to Mr. Sapsea, when we waited on him,” said Jasper: as he
really had done: “that there was no quarrel or difference between the two
young men at their last meeting. We all know that their first meeting was
unfortunately very far from amicable; but all went smoothly and quietly when
they were last together at my house. My dear boy was not in his usual spirits;
he was depressed—I noticed that—and I am bound henceforth to dwell
upon the circumstance the more, now that I know there was a special reason for
his being depressed: a reason, moreover, which may possibly have induced him to
absent himself.”

“I pray to Heaven it may turn out so!” exclaimed Mr. Crisparkle.

“I pray to Heaven it may turn out so!” repeated Jasper.
“You know—and Mr. Grewgious should now know likewise—that I
took a great prepossession against Mr. Neville Landless, arising out of his
furious conduct on that first occasion. You know that I came to you, extremely
apprehensive, on my dear boy’s behalf, of his mad violence. You know that
I even entered in my Diary, and showed the entry to you, that I had dark
forebodings against him. Mr. Grewgious ought to be possessed of the whole case.
He shall not, through any suppression of mine, be informed of a part of it, and
kept in ignorance of another part of it. I wish him to be good enough to
understand that the communication he has made to me has hopefully influenced my
mind, in spite of its having been, before this mysterious occurrence took
place, profoundly impressed against young Landless.”

This fairness troubled the Minor Canon much. He felt that he was not as open in
his own dealing. He charged against himself reproachfully that he had
suppressed, so far, the two points of a second strong outbreak of temper
against Edwin Drood on the part of Neville, and of the passion of jealousy
having, to his own certain knowledge, flamed up in Neville’s breast
against him. He was convinced of Neville’s innocence of any part in the
ugly disappearance; and yet so many little circumstances combined so wofully
against him, that he dreaded to add two more to their cumulative weight. He was
among the truest of men; but he had been balancing in his mind, much to its
distress, whether his volunteering to tell these two fragments of truth, at
this time, would not be tantamount to a piecing together of falsehood in the
place of truth.

However, here was a model before him. He hesitated no longer. Addressing Mr.
Grewgious, as one placed in authority by the revelation he had brought to bear
on the mystery (and surpassingly Angular Mr. Grewgious became when he found
himself in that unexpected position), Mr. Crisparkle bore his testimony to Mr.
Jasper’s strict sense of justice, and, expressing his absolute confidence
in the complete clearance of his pupil from the least taint of suspicion,
sooner or later, avowed that his confidence in that young gentleman had been
formed, in spite of his confidential knowledge that his temper was of the
hottest and fiercest, and that it was directly incensed against Mr.
Jasper’s nephew, by the circumstance of his romantically supposing
himself to be enamoured of the same young lady. The sanguine reaction manifest
in Mr. Jasper was proof even against this unlooked-for declaration. It turned
him paler; but he repeated that he would cling to the hope he had derived from
Mr. Grewgious; and that if no trace of his dear boy were found, leading to the
dreadful inference that he had been made away with, he would cherish unto the
last stretch of possibility the idea, that he might have absconded of his own
wild will.

Now, it fell out that Mr. Crisparkle, going away from this conference still
very uneasy in his mind, and very much troubled on behalf of the young man whom
he held as a kind of prisoner in his own house, took a memorable night walk.

He walked to Cloisterham Weir.

He often did so, and consequently there was nothing remarkable in his footsteps
tending that way. But the preoccupation of his mind so hindered him from
planning any walk, or taking heed of the objects he passed, that his first
consciousness of being near the Weir, was derived from the sound of the falling
water close at hand.

“How did I come here!” was his first thought, as he stopped.

“Why did I come here!” was his second.

Then, he stood intently listening to the water. A familiar passage in his
reading, about airy tongues that syllable men’s names, rose so unbidden
to his ear, that he put it from him with his hand, as if it were tangible.

It was starlight. The Weir was full two miles above the spot to which the young
men had repaired to watch the storm. No search had been made up here, for the
tide had been running strongly down, at that time of the night of Christmas
Eve, and the likeliest places for the discovery of a body, if a fatal accident
had happened under such circumstances, all lay—both when the tide ebbed,
and when it flowed again—between that spot and the sea. The water came
over the Weir, with its usual sound on a cold starlight night, and little could
be seen of it; yet Mr. Crisparkle had a strange idea that something unusual
hung about the place.

He reasoned with himself: What was it? Where was it? Put it to the proof. Which
sense did it address?

No sense reported anything unusual there. He listened again, and his sense of
hearing again checked the water coming over the Weir, with its usual sound on a
cold starlight night.

Knowing very well that the mystery with which his mind was occupied, might of
itself give the place this haunted air, he strained those hawk’s eyes of
his for the correction of his sight. He got closer to the Weir, and peered at
its well-known posts and timbers. Nothing in the least unusual was remotely
shadowed forth. But he resolved that he would come back early in the morning.

The Weir ran through his broken sleep, all night, and he was back again at
sunrise. It was a bright frosty morning. The whole composition before him, when
he stood where he had stood last night, was clearly discernible in its minutest
details. He had surveyed it closely for some minutes, and was about to withdraw
his eyes, when they were attracted keenly to one spot.

He turned his back upon the Weir, and looked far away at the sky, and at the
earth, and then looked again at that one spot. It caught his sight again
immediately, and he concentrated his vision upon it. He could not lose it now,
though it was but such a speck in the landscape. It fascinated his sight. His
hands began plucking off his coat. For it struck him that at that spot—a
corner of the Weir—something glistened, which did not move and come over
with the glistening water-drops, but remained stationary.

He assured himself of this, he threw off his clothes, he plunged into the icy
water, and swam for the spot. Climbing the timbers, he took from them, caught
among their interstices by its chain, a gold watch, bearing engraved upon its
back E. D.

He brought the watch to the bank, swam to the Weir again, climbed it, and dived
off. He knew every hole and corner of all the depths, and dived and dived and
dived, until he could bear the cold no more. His notion was, that he would find
the body; he only found a shirt-pin sticking in some mud and ooze.

With these discoveries he returned to Cloisterham, and, taking Neville Landless
with him, went straight to the Mayor. Mr. Jasper was sent for, the watch and
shirt-pin were identified, Neville was detained, and the wildest frenzy and
fatuity of evil report rose against him. He was of that vindictive and violent
nature, that but for his poor sister, who alone had influence over him, and out
of whose sight he was never to be trusted, he would be in the daily commission
of murder. Before coming to England he had caused to be whipped to death sundry
“Natives”—nomadic persons, encamping now in Asia, now in
Africa, now in the West Indies, and now at the North Pole—vaguely
supposed in Cloisterham to be always black, always of great virtue, always
calling themselves Me, and everybody else Massa or Missie (according to sex),
and always reading tracts of the obscurest meaning, in broken English, but
always accurately understanding them in the purest mother tongue. He had nearly
brought Mrs. Crisparkle’s grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. (Those
original expressions were Mr. Sapsea’s.) He had repeatedly said he would
have Mr. Crisparkle’s life. He had repeatedly said he would have
everybody’s life, and become in effect the last man. He had been brought
down to Cloisterham, from London, by an eminent Philanthropist, and why?
Because that Philanthropist had expressly declared: “I owe it to my
fellow-creatures that he should be, in the words of BENTHAM,
where he is the cause of the greatest danger to the smallest number.”

These dropping shots from the blunderbusses of blunderheadedness might not have
hit him in a vital place. But he had to stand against a trained and
well-directed fire of arms of precision too. He had notoriously threatened the
lost young man, and had, according to the showing of his own faithful friend
and tutor who strove so hard for him, a cause of bitter animosity (created by
himself, and stated by himself), against that ill-starred fellow. He had armed
himself with an offensive weapon for the fatal night, and he had gone off early
in the morning, after making preparations for departure. He had been found with
traces of blood on him; truly, they might have been wholly caused as he
represented, but they might not, also. On a search-warrant being issued for the
examination of his room, clothes, and so forth, it was discovered that he had
destroyed all his papers, and rearranged all his possessions, on the very
afternoon of the disappearance. The watch found at the Weir was challenged by
the jeweller as one he had wound and set for Edwin Drood, at twenty minutes
past two on that same afternoon; and it had run down, before being cast into
the water; and it was the jeweller’s positive opinion that it had never
been re-wound. This would justify the hypothesis that the watch was taken from
him not long after he left Mr. Jasper’s house at midnight, in company
with the last person seen with him, and that it had been thrown away after
being retained some hours. Why thrown away? If he had been murdered, and so
artfully disfigured, or concealed, or both, as that the murderer hoped
identification to be impossible, except from something that he wore, assuredly
the murderer would seek to remove from the body the most lasting, the best
known, and the most easily recognisable, things upon it. Those things would be
the watch and shirt-pin. As to his opportunities of casting them into the
river; if he were the object of these suspicions, they were easy. For, he had
been seen by many persons, wandering about on that side of the
city—indeed on all sides of it—in a miserable and seemingly
half-distracted manner. As to the choice of the spot, obviously such
criminating evidence had better take its chance of being found anywhere, rather
than upon himself, or in his possession. Concerning the reconciliatory nature
of the appointed meeting between the two young men, very little could be made
of that in young Landless’s favour; for it distinctly appeared that the
meeting originated, not with him, but with Mr. Crisparkle, and that it had been
urged on by Mr. Crisparkle; and who could say how unwillingly, or in what
ill-conditioned mood, his enforced pupil had gone to it? The more his case was
looked into, the weaker it became in every point. Even the broad suggestion
that the lost young man had absconded, was rendered additionally improbable on
the showing of the young lady from whom he had so lately parted; for; what did
she say, with great earnestness and sorrow, when interrogated? That he had,
expressly and enthusiastically, planned with her, that he would await the
arrival of her guardian, Mr. Grewgious. And yet, be it observed, he disappeared
before that gentleman appeared.

On the suspicions thus urged and supported, Neville was detained, and
re-detained, and the search was pressed on every hand, and Jasper laboured
night and day. But nothing more was found. No discovery being made, which
proved the lost man to be dead, it at length became necessary to release the
person suspected of having made away with him. Neville was set at large. Then,
a consequence ensued which Mr. Crisparkle had too well foreseen. Neville must
leave the place, for the place shunned him and cast him out. Even had it not
been so, the dear old china shepherdess would have worried herself to death
with fears for her son, and with general trepidation occasioned by their having
such an inmate. Even had that not been so, the authority to which the Minor
Canon deferred officially, would have settled the point.

“Mr. Crisparkle,” quoth the Dean, “human justice may err, but
it must act according to its lights. The days of taking sanctuary are past.
This young man must not take sanctuary with us.”

“You mean that he must leave my house, sir?”

“Mr. Crisparkle,” returned the prudent Dean, “I claim no
authority in your house. I merely confer with you, on the painful necessity you
find yourself under, of depriving this young man of the great advantages of
your counsel and instruction.”

“It is very lamentable, sir,” Mr. Crisparkle represented.

“Very much so,” the Dean assented.

“And if it be a necessity—” Mr. Crisparkle faltered.

“As you unfortunately find it to be,” returned the Dean.

Mr. Crisparkle bowed submissively: “It is hard to prejudge his case, sir,
but I am sensible that—”

“Just so. Perfectly. As you say, Mr. Crisparkle,” interposed the
Dean, nodding his head smoothly, “there is nothing else to be done. No
doubt, no doubt. There is no alternative, as your good sense has
discovered.”

“I am entirely satisfied of his perfect innocence, sir,
nevertheless.”

“We-e-ell!” said the Dean, in a more confidential tone, and
slightly glancing around him, “I would not say so, generally. Not
generally. Enough of suspicion attaches to him to—no, I think I would not
say so, generally.”

Mr. Crisparkle bowed again.

“It does not become us, perhaps,” pursued the Dean, “to be
partisans. Not partisans. We clergy keep our hearts warm and our heads cool,
and we hold a judicious middle course.”

“I hope you do not object, sir, to my having stated in public,
emphatically, that he will reappear here, whenever any new suspicion may be
awakened, or any new circumstance may come to light in this extraordinary
matter?”

“Not at all,” returned the Dean. “And yet, do you know, I
don’t think,” with a very nice and neat emphasis on those two
words: “I don’t think I would state it emphatically. State
it? Ye-e-es! But emphatically? No-o-o. I think not. In point of fact,
Mr. Crisparkle, keeping our hearts warm and our heads cool, we clergy need do
nothing emphatically.”

So Minor Canon Row knew Neville Landless no more; and he went whithersoever he
would, or could, with a blight upon his name and fame.

It was not until then that John Jasper silently resumed his place in the choir.
Haggard and red-eyed, his hopes plainly had deserted him, his sanguine mood was
gone, and all his worst misgivings had come back. A day or two afterwards,
while unrobing, he took his Diary from a pocket of his coat, turned the leaves,
and with an impressive look, and without one spoken word, handed this entry to
Mr. Crisparkle to read:

“My dear boy is murdered. The discovery of the watch and shirt-pin
convinces me that he was murdered that night, and that his jewellery was taken
from him to prevent identification by its means. All the delusive hopes I had
founded on his separation from his betrothed wife, I give to the winds. They
perish before this fatal discovery. I now swear, and record the oath on this
page, That I nevermore will discuss this mystery with any human creature until
I hold the clue to it in my hand. That I never will relax in my secrecy or in
my search. That I will fasten the crime of the murder of my dear dead boy upon
the murderer. And, That I devote myself to his destruction.”

CHAPTER XVII.
PHILANTHROPY, PROFESSIONAL AND UNPROFESSIONAL

Full half a year had come and gone, and Mr. Crisparkle sat in a waiting-room in
the London chief offices of the Haven of Philanthropy, until he could have
audience of Mr. Honeythunder.

In his college days of athletic exercises, Mr. Crisparkle had known professors
of the Noble Art of fisticuffs, and had attended two or three of their gloved
gatherings. He had now an opportunity of observing that as to the phrenological
formation of the backs of their heads, the Professing Philanthropists were
uncommonly like the Pugilists. In the development of all those organs which
constitute, or attend, a propensity to “pitch into” your
fellow-creatures, the Philanthropists were remarkably favoured. There were
several Professors passing in and out, with exactly the aggressive air upon
them of being ready for a turn-up with any Novice who might happen to be on
hand, that Mr. Crisparkle well remembered in the circles of the Fancy.
Preparations were in progress for a moral little Mill somewhere on the rural
circuit, and other Professors were backing this or that Heavy-Weight as good
for such or such speech-making hits, so very much after the manner of the
sporting publicans, that the intended Resolutions might have been Rounds. In an
official manager of these displays much celebrated for his platform tactics,
Mr. Crisparkle recognised (in a suit of black) the counterpart of a deceased
benefactor of his species, an eminent public character, once known to fame as
Frosty-faced Fogo, who in days of yore superintended the formation of the magic
circle with the ropes and stakes. There were only three conditions of
resemblance wanting between these Professors and those. Firstly, the
Philanthropists were in very bad training: much too fleshy, and presenting,
both in face and figure, a superabundance of what is known to Pugilistic
Experts as Suet Pudding. Secondly, the Philanthropists had not the good temper
of the Pugilists, and used worse language. Thirdly, their fighting code stood
in great need of revision, as empowering them not only to bore their man to the
ropes, but to bore him to the confines of distraction; also to hit him when he
was down, hit him anywhere and anyhow, kick him, stamp upon him, gouge him, and
maul him behind his back without mercy. In these last particulars the
Professors of the Noble Art were much nobler than the Professors of
Philanthropy.

Mr. Crisparkle was so completely lost in musing on these similarities and
dissimilarities, at the same time watching the crowd which came and went by,
always, as it seemed, on errands of antagonistically snatching something from
somebody, and never giving anything to anybody, that his name was called before
he heard it. On his at length responding, he was shown by a miserably shabby
and underpaid stipendiary Philanthropist (who could hardly have done worse if
he had taken service with a declared enemy of the human race) to Mr.
Honeythunder’s room.

“Sir,” said Mr. Honeythunder, in his tremendous voice, like a
schoolmaster issuing orders to a boy of whom he had a bad opinion, “sit
down.”

Mr. Crisparkle seated himself.

Mr. Honeythunder having signed the remaining few score of a few thousand
circulars, calling upon a corresponding number of families without means to
come forward, stump up instantly, and be Philanthropists, or go to the Devil,
another shabby stipendiary Philanthropist (highly disinterested, if in earnest)
gathered these into a basket and walked off with them.

“Now, Mr. Crisparkle,” said Mr. Honeythunder, turning his chair
half round towards him when they were alone, and squaring his arms with his
hands on his knees, and his brows knitted, as if he added, I am going to make
short work of you: “Now, Mr. Crisparkle, we entertain different
views, you and I, sir, of the sanctity of human life.”

“Do we?” returned the Minor Canon.

“We do, sir.”

“Might I ask you,” said the Minor Canon: “what are your views
on that subject?”

“That human life is a thing to be held sacred, sir.”

“Might I ask you,” pursued the Minor Canon as before: “what
you suppose to be my views on that subject?”

“By George, sir!” returned the Philanthropist, squaring his arms
still more, as he frowned on Mr. Crisparkle: “they are best known to
yourself.”

“Readily admitted. But you began by saying that we took different views,
you know. Therefore (or you could not say so) you must have set up some views
as mine. Pray, what views have you set up as mine?”

“Here is a man—and a young man,” said Mr. Honeythunder, as if
that made the matter infinitely worse, and he could have easily borne the loss
of an old one, “swept off the face of the earth by a deed of violence.
What do you call that?”

“Murder,” said the Minor Canon.

“What do you call the doer of that deed, sir?

“A murderer,” said the Minor Canon.

“I am glad to hear you admit so much, sir,” retorted Mr.
Honeythunder, in his most offensive manner; “and I candidly tell you that
I didn’t expect it.” Here he lowered heavily at Mr. Crisparkle
again.

“Be so good as to explain what you mean by those very unjustifiable
expressions.”

“I don’t sit here, sir,” returned the Philanthropist, raising
his voice to a roar, “to be browbeaten.”

“As the only other person present, no one can possibly know that better
than I do,” returned the Minor Canon very quietly. “But I interrupt
your explanation.”

“Murder!” proceeded Mr. Honeythunder, in a kind of boisterous
reverie, with his platform folding of his arms, and his platform nod of
abhorrent reflection after each short sentiment of a word. “Bloodshed!
Abel! Cain! I hold no terms with Cain. I repudiate with a shudder the red hand
when it is offered me.”

Instead of instantly leaping into his chair and cheering himself hoarse, as the
Brotherhood in public meeting assembled would infallibly have done on this cue,
Mr. Crisparkle merely reversed the quiet crossing of his legs, and said mildly:
“Don’t let me interrupt your explanation—when you begin
it.”

“The Commandments say, no murder. NO murder, sir!” proceeded Mr.
Honeythunder, platformally pausing as if he took Mr. Crisparkle to task for
having distinctly asserted that they said: You may do a little murder, and then
leave off.

“And they also say, you shall bear no false witness,” observed Mr.
Crisparkle.

“Enough!” bellowed Mr. Honeythunder, with a solemnity and severity
that would have brought the house down at a meeting, “E—e—nough! My late
wards being now of age, and I being released from a trust which I cannot
contemplate without a thrill of horror, there are the accounts which you have
undertaken to accept on their behalf, and there is a statement of the balance
which you have undertaken to receive, and which you cannot receive too soon.
And let me tell you, sir, I wish that, as a man and a Minor Canon, you were
better employed,” with a nod. “Better employed,” with another
nod. “Bet—ter em—ployed!” with another and the three nods added up.

Mr. Crisparkle rose; a little heated in the face, but with perfect command of
himself.

“Mr. Honeythunder,” he said, taking up the papers referred to:
“my being better or worse employed than I am at present is a matter of
taste and opinion. You might think me better employed in enrolling myself a
member of your Society.”

“Ay, indeed, sir!” retorted Mr. Honeythunder, shaking his head in a
threatening manner. “It would have been better for you if you had done
that long ago!”

“I think otherwise.”

“Or,” said Mr. Honeythunder, shaking his head again, “I might
think one of your profession better employed in devoting himself to the
discovery and punishment of guilt than in leaving that duty to be undertaken by
a layman.”

“I may regard my profession from a point of view which teaches me that
its first duty is towards those who are in necessity and tribulation, who are
desolate and oppressed,” said Mr. Crisparkle. “However, as I have
quite clearly satisfied myself that it is no part of my profession to make
professions, I say no more of that. But I owe it to Mr. Neville, and to Mr.
Neville’s sister (and in a much lower degree to myself), to say to you
that I know I was in the full possession and understanding of Mr.
Neville’s mind and heart at the time of this occurrence; and that,
without in the least colouring or concealing what was to be deplored in him and
required to be corrected, I feel certain that his tale is true. Feeling that
certainty, I befriend him. As long as that certainty shall last, I will
befriend him. And if any consideration could shake me in this resolve, I should
be so ashamed of myself for my meanness, that no man’s good
opinion—no, nor no woman’s—so gained, could compensate me for
the loss of my own.”

Good fellow! manly fellow! And he was so modest, too. There was no more
self-assertion in the Minor Canon than in the schoolboy who had stood in the
breezy playing-fields keeping a wicket. He was simply and staunchly true to his
duty alike in the large case and in the small. So all true souls ever are. So
every true soul ever was, ever is, and ever will be. There is nothing little to
the really great in spirit.

“Then who do you make out did the deed?” asked Mr. Honeythunder,
turning on him abruptly.

“Heaven forbid,” said Mr. Crisparkle, “that in my desire to
clear one man I should lightly criminate another! I accuse no one.”

“Tcha!” ejaculated Mr. Honeythunder with great disgust; for this
was by no means the principle on which the Philanthropic Brotherhood usually
proceeded. “And, sir, you are not a disinterested witness, we must bear
in mind.”

“How am I an interested one?” inquired Mr. Crisparkle, smiling
innocently, at a loss to imagine.

“There was a certain stipend, sir, paid to you for your pupil, which may
have warped your judgment a bit,” said Mr. Honeythunder, coarsely.

“Perhaps I expect to retain it still?” Mr. Crisparkle returned,
enlightened; “do you mean that too?”

“Well, sir,” returned the professional Philanthropist, getting up
and thrusting his hands down into his trousers-pockets, “I don’t go
about measuring people for caps. If people find I have any about me that fit
’em, they can put ’em on and wear ’em, if they like.
That’s their look out: not mine.”

Mr. Crisparkle eyed him with a just indignation, and took him to task thus:

“Mr. Honeythunder, I hoped when I came in here that I might be under no
necessity of commenting on the introduction of platform manners or platform
manœuvres among the decent forbearances of private life. But you have
given me such a specimen of both, that I should be a fit subject for both if I
remained silent respecting them. They are detestable.”

“They don’t suit you, I dare say, sir.”

“They are,” repeated Mr. Crisparkle, without noticing the
interruption, “detestable. They violate equally the justice that should
belong to Christians, and the restraints that should belong to gentlemen. You
assume a great crime to have been committed by one whom I, acquainted with the
attendant circumstances, and having numerous reasons on my side, devoutly
believe to be innocent of it. Because I differ from you on that vital point,
what is your platform resource? Instantly to turn upon me, charging that I have
no sense of the enormity of the crime itself, but am its aider and abettor! So,
another time—taking me as representing your opponent in other
cases—you set up a platform credulity; a moved and seconded and
carried-unanimously profession of faith in some ridiculous delusion or
mischievous imposition. I decline to believe it, and you fall back upon your
platform resource of proclaiming that I believe nothing; that because I will
not bow down to a false God of your making, I deny the true God! Another time
you make the platform discovery that War is a calamity, and you propose to
abolish it by a string of twisted resolutions tossed into the air like the tail
of a kite. I do not admit the discovery to be yours in the least, and I have
not a grain of faith in your remedy. Again, your platform resource of
representing me as revelling in the horrors of a battle-field like a fiend
incarnate! Another time, in another of your undiscriminating platform rushes,
you would punish the sober for the drunken. I claim consideration for the
comfort, convenience, and refreshment of the sober; and you presently make
platform proclamation that I have a depraved desire to turn Heaven’s
creatures into swine and wild beasts! In all such cases your movers, and your
seconders, and your supporters—your regular Professors of all degrees,
run amuck like so many mad Malays; habitually attributing the lowest and basest
motives with the utmost recklessness (let me call your attention to a recent
instance in yourself for which you should blush), and quoting figures which you
know to be as wilfully onesided as a statement of any complicated account that
should be all Creditor side and no Debtor, or all Debtor side and no Creditor.
Therefore it is, Mr. Honeythunder, that I consider the platform a sufficiently
bad example and a sufficiently bad school, even in public life; but hold that,
carried into private life, it becomes an unendurable nuisance.”

“These are strong words, sir!” exclaimed the Philanthropist.

“I hope so,” said Mr. Crisparkle. “Good morning.”

He walked out of the Haven at a great rate, but soon fell into his regular
brisk pace, and soon had a smile upon his face as he went along, wondering what
the china shepherdess would have said if she had seen him pounding Mr.
Honeythunder in the late little lively affair. For Mr. Crisparkle had just
enough of harmless vanity to hope that he had hit hard, and to glow with the
belief that he had trimmed the Philanthropic Jacket pretty handsomely.

He took himself to Staple Inn, but not to P. J. T. and Mr. Grewgious. Full many
a creaking stair he climbed before he reached some attic rooms in a corner,
turned the latch of their unbolted door, and stood beside the table of Neville
Landless.

An air of retreat and solitude hung about the rooms and about their inhabitant.
He was much worn, and so were they. Their sloping ceilings, cumbrous rusty
locks and grates, and heavy wooden bins and beams, slowly mouldering withal,
had a prisonous look, and he had the haggard face of a prisoner. Yet the
sunlight shone in at the ugly garret-window, which had a penthouse to itself
thrust out among the tiles; and on the cracked and smoke-blackened parapet
beyond, some of the deluded sparrows of the place rheumatically hopped, like
little feathered cripples who had left their crutches in their nests; and there
was a play of living leaves at hand that changed the air, and made an imperfect
sort of music in it that would have been melody in the country.

The rooms were sparely furnished, but with good store of books. Everything
expressed the abode of a poor student. That Mr. Crisparkle had been either
chooser, lender, or donor of the books, or that he combined the three
characters, might have been easily seen in the friendly beam of his eyes upon
them as he entered.

“How goes it, Neville?”

“I am in good heart, Mr. Crisparkle, and working away.”

“I wish your eyes were not quite so large and not quite so bright,”
said the Minor Canon, slowly releasing the hand he had taken in his.

“They brighten at the sight of you,” returned Neville. “If
you were to fall away from me, they would soon be dull enough.”

“Rally, rally!” urged the other, in a stimulating tone.
“Fight for it, Neville!”

“If I were dying, I feel as if a word from you would rally me; if my
pulse had stopped, I feel as if your touch would make it beat again,”
said Neville. “But I have rallied, and am doing famously.”

Mr. Crisparkle turned him with his face a little more towards the light.

“I want to see a ruddier touch here, Neville,” he said, indicating
his own healthy cheek by way of pattern. “I want more sun to shine upon
you.”

Neville drooped suddenly, as he replied in a lowered voice: “I am not
hardy enough for that, yet. I may become so, but I cannot bear it yet. If you
had gone through those Cloisterham streets as I did; if you had seen, as I did,
those averted eyes, and the better sort of people silently giving me too much
room to pass, that I might not touch them or come near them, you wouldn’t
think it quite unreasonable that I cannot go about in the daylight.”

“My poor fellow!” said the Minor Canon, in a tone so purely
sympathetic that the young man caught his hand, “I never said it was
unreasonable; never thought so. But I should like you to do it.”

“And that would give me the strongest motive to do it. But I cannot yet.
I cannot persuade myself that the eyes of even the stream of strangers I pass
in this vast city look at me without suspicion. I feel marked and tainted, even
when I go out—as I do only—at night. But the darkness covers me
then, and I take courage from it.”

Mr. Crisparkle laid a hand upon his shoulder, and stood looking down at him.

“If I could have changed my name,” said Neville, “I would
have done so. But as you wisely pointed out to me, I can’t do that, for
it would look like guilt. If I could have gone to some distant place, I might
have found relief in that, but the thing is not to be thought of, for the same
reason. Hiding and escaping would be the construction in either case. It seems
a little hard to be so tied to a stake, and innocent; but I don’t
complain.”

“And you must expect no miracle to help you, Neville,” said Mr.
Crisparkle, compassionately.

“No, sir, I know that. The ordinary fulness of time and circumstances is
all I have to trust to.”

“It will right you at last, Neville.”

“So I believe, and I hope I may live to know it.”

But perceiving that the despondent mood into which he was falling cast a shadow
on the Minor Canon, and (it may be) feeling that the broad hand upon his
shoulder was not then quite as steady as its own natural strength had rendered
it when it first touched him just now, he brightened and said:

“Excellent circumstances for study, anyhow! and you know, Mr. Crisparkle,
what need I have of study in all ways. Not to mention that you have advised me
to study for the difficult profession of the law, specially, and that of course
I am guiding myself by the advice of such a friend and helper. Such a good
friend and helper!”

He took the fortifying hand from his shoulder, and kissed it. Mr. Crisparkle
beamed at the books, but not so brightly as when he had entered.

“I gather from your silence on the subject that my late guardian is
adverse, Mr. Crisparkle?”

The Minor Canon answered: “Your late guardian is a—a most
unreasonable person, and it signifies nothing to any reasonable person whether
he is adverse, perverse, or the reverse.”

“Well for me that I have enough with economy to live upon,” sighed
Neville, half wearily and half cheerily, “while I wait to be learned, and
wait to be righted! Else I might have proved the proverb, that while the grass
grows, the steed starves!”

He opened some books as he said it, and was soon immersed in their interleaved
and annotated passages; while Mr. Crisparkle sat beside him, expounding,
correcting, and advising. The Minor Canon’s Cathedral duties made these
visits of his difficult to accomplish, and only to be compassed at intervals of
many weeks. But they were as serviceable as they were precious to Neville
Landless.

When they had got through such studies as they had in hand, they stood leaning
on the window-sill, and looking down upon the patch of garden. “Next
week,” said Mr. Crisparkle, “you will cease to be alone, and will
have a devoted companion.”

“And yet,” returned Neville, “this seems an uncongenial place
to bring my sister to.”

“I don’t think so,” said the Minor Canon. “There is
duty to be done here; and there are womanly feeling, sense, and courage wanted
here.”

“I meant,” explained Neville, “that the surroundings are so
dull and unwomanly, and that Helena can have no suitable friend or society
here.”

“You have only to remember,” said Mr. Crisparkle, “that you
are here yourself, and that she has to draw you into the sunlight.”

They were silent for a little while, and then Mr. Crisparkle began anew.

“When we first spoke together, Neville, you told me that your sister had
risen out of the disadvantages of your past lives as superior to you as the
tower of Cloisterham Cathedral is higher than the chimneys of Minor Canon
Corner. Do you remember that?”

“Right well!”

“I was inclined to think it at the time an enthusiastic flight. No matter
what I think it now. What I would emphasise is, that under the head of Pride
your sister is a great and opportune example to you.”

“Under all heads that are included in the composition of a fine
character, she is.”

“Say so; but take this one. Your sister has learnt how to govern what is
proud in her nature. She can dominate it even when it is wounded through her
sympathy with you. No doubt she has suffered deeply in those same streets where
you suffered deeply. No doubt her life is darkened by the cloud that darkens
yours. But bending her pride into a grand composure that is not haughty or
aggressive, but is a sustained confidence in you and in the truth, she has won
her way through those streets until she passes along them as high in the
general respect as any one who treads them. Every day and hour of her life
since Edwin Drood’s disappearance, she has faced malignity and
folly—for you—as only a brave nature well directed can. So it will
be with her to the end. Another and weaker kind of pride might sink
broken-hearted, but never such a pride as hers: which knows no shrinking, and
can get no mastery over her.”

The pale cheek beside him flushed under the comparison, and the hint implied in
it.

“I will do all I can to imitate her,” said Neville.

“Do so, and be a truly brave man, as she is a truly brave woman,”
answered Mr. Crisparkle stoutly. “It is growing dark. Will you go my way
with me, when it is quite dark? Mind! it is not I who wait for darkness.”

Neville replied, that he would accompany him directly. But Mr. Crisparkle said
he had a moment’s call to make on Mr. Grewgious as an act of courtesy,
and would run across to that gentleman’s chambers, and rejoin Neville on
his own doorstep, if he would come down there to meet him.

Mr. Grewgious, bolt upright as usual, sat taking his wine in the dusk at his
open window; his wineglass and decanter on the round table at his elbow;
himself and his legs on the window-seat; only one hinge in his whole body, like
a bootjack.

“How do you do, reverend sir?” said Mr. Grewgious, with abundant
offers of hospitality, which were as cordially declined as made. “And how
is your charge getting on over the way in the set that I had the pleasure of
recommending to you as vacant and eligible?”

Mr. Crisparkle replied suitably.

“I am glad you approve of them,” said Mr. Grewgious, “because
I entertain a sort of fancy for having him under my eye.”

As Mr. Grewgious had to turn his eye up considerably before he could see the
chambers, the phrase was to be taken figuratively and not literally.

“And how did you leave Mr. Jasper, reverend sir?” said Mr.
Grewgious.

Mr. Crisparkle had left him pretty well.

“And where did you leave Mr. Jasper, reverend sir?” Mr. Crisparkle
had left him at Cloisterham.

“And when did you leave Mr. Jasper, reverend sir?” That morning.

“Umps!” said Mr. Grewgious. “He didn’t say he was
coming, perhaps?”

“Coming where?”

“Anywhere, for instance?” said Mr. Grewgious.

“No.”

“Because here he is,” said Mr. Grewgious, who had asked all these
questions, with his preoccupied glance directed out at window. “And he
don’t look agreeable, does he?”

Mr. Crisparkle was craning towards the window, when Mr. Grewgious added:

“If you will kindly step round here behind me, in the gloom of the room,
and will cast your eye at the second-floor landing window in yonder house, I
think you will hardly fail to see a slinking individual in whom I recognise our
local friend.”

“You are right!” cried Mr. Crisparkle.

“Umps!” said Mr. Grewgious. Then he added, turning his face so
abruptly that his head nearly came into collision with Mr. Crisparkle’s:
“what should you say that our local friend was up to?”

The last passage he had been shown in the Diary returned on Mr.
Crisparkle’s mind with the force of a strong recoil, and he asked Mr.
Grewgious if he thought it possible that Neville was to be harassed by the
keeping of a watch upon him?

“A watch?” repeated Mr. Grewgious musingly. “Ay!”

“Which would not only of itself haunt and torture his life,” said
Mr. Crisparkle warmly, “but would expose him to the torment of a
perpetually reviving suspicion, whatever he might do, or wherever he might
go.”

“Ay!” said Mr. Grewgious musingly still. “Do I see him
waiting for you?”

“No doubt you do.”

“Then would you have the goodness to excuse my getting up to see
you out, and to go out to join him, and to go the way that you were going, and
to take no notice of our local friend?” said Mr. Grewgious. “I
entertain a sort of fancy for having him under my eye to-night, do you
know?”

Mr. Crisparkle, with a significant nod complied; and rejoining Neville, went
away with him. They dined together, and parted at the yet unfinished and
undeveloped railway station: Mr. Crisparkle to get home; Neville to walk the
streets, cross the bridges, make a wide round of the city in the friendly
darkness, and tire himself out.

It was midnight when he returned from his solitary expedition and climbed his
staircase. The night was hot, and the windows of the staircase were all wide
open. Coming to the top, it gave him a passing chill of surprise (there being
no rooms but his up there) to find a stranger sitting on the window-sill, more
after the manner of a venturesome glazier than an amateur ordinarily careful of
his neck; in fact, so much more outside the window than inside, as to suggest
the thought that he must have come up by the water-spout instead of the stairs.

The stranger said nothing until Neville put his key in his door; then, seeming
to make sure of his identity from the action, he spoke:

“I beg your pardon,” he said, coming from the window with a frank
and smiling air, and a prepossessing address; “the beans.”

Neville was quite at a loss.

“Runners,” said the visitor. “Scarlet. Next door at the
back.”

“O,” returned Neville. “And the mignonette and
wall-flower?”

“The same,” said the visitor.

“Pray walk in.”

“Thank you.”

Neville lighted his candles, and the visitor sat down. A handsome gentleman,
with a young face, but with an older figure in its robustness and its breadth
of shoulder; say a man of eight-and-twenty, or at the utmost thirty; so
extremely sunburnt that the contrast between his brown visage and the white
forehead shaded out of doors by his hat, and the glimpses of white throat below
the neckerchief, would have been almost ludicrous but for his broad temples,
bright blue eyes, clustering brown hair, and laughing teeth.

“I have noticed,” said he; “—my name is Tartar.”

Neville inclined his head.

“I have noticed (excuse me) that you shut yourself up a good deal, and
that you seem to like my garden aloft here. If you would like a little more of
it, I could throw out a few lines and stays between my windows and yours, which
the runners would take to directly. And I have some boxes, both of mignonette
and wall-flower, that I could shove on along the gutter (with a boathook I have
by me) to your windows, and draw back again when they wanted watering or
gardening, and shove on again when they were ship-shape; so that they would
cause you no trouble. I couldn’t take this liberty without asking your
permission, so I venture to ask it. Tartar, corresponding set, next
door.”

“You are very kind.”

“Not at all. I ought to apologise for looking in so late. But having
noticed (excuse me) that you generally walk out at night, I thought I should
inconvenience you least by awaiting your return. I am always afraid of
inconveniencing busy men, being an idle man.”

“I should not have thought so, from your appearance.”

“No? I take it as a compliment. In fact, I was bred in the Royal Navy,
and was First Lieutenant when I quitted it. But, an uncle disappointed in the
service leaving me his property on condition that I left the Navy, I accepted
the fortune, and resigned my commission.”

“Lately, I presume?”

“Well, I had had twelve or fifteen years of knocking about first. I came
here some nine months before you; I had had one crop before you came. I chose
this place, because, having served last in a little corvette, I knew I should
feel more at home where I had a constant opportunity of knocking my head
against the ceiling. Besides, it would never do for a man who had been aboard
ship from his boyhood to turn luxurious all at once. Besides, again; having
been accustomed to a very short allowance of land all my life, I thought
I’d feel my way to the command of a landed estate, by beginning in
boxes.”

Whimsically as this was said, there was a touch of merry earnestness in it that
made it doubly whimsical.

“However,” said the Lieutenant, “I have talked quite enough
about myself. It is not my way, I hope; it has merely been to present myself to
you naturally. If you will allow me to take the liberty I have described, it
will be a charity, for it will give me something more to do. And you are not to
suppose that it will entail any interruption or intrusion on you, for that is
far from my intention.”

Neville replied that he was greatly obliged, and that he thankfully accepted
the kind proposal.

“I am very glad to take your windows in tow,” said the Lieutenant.
“From what I have seen of you when I have been gardening at mine, and you
have been looking on, I have thought you (excuse me) rather too studious and
delicate. May I ask, is your health at all affected?”

“I have undergone some mental distress,” said Neville, confused,
“which has stood me in the stead of illness.”

“Pardon me,” said Mr. Tartar.

With the greatest delicacy he shifted his ground to the windows again, and
asked if he could look at one of them. On Neville’s opening it, he
immediately sprang out, as if he were going aloft with a whole watch in an
emergency, and were setting a bright example.

“For Heaven’s sake,” cried Neville, “don’t do
that! Where are you going Mr. Tartar? You’ll be dashed to pieces!”

“All well!” said the Lieutenant, coolly looking about him on the
housetop. “All taut and trim here. Those lines and stays shall be rigged
before you turn out in the morning. May I take this short cut home, and say
good-night?”

“Mr. Tartar!” urged Neville. “Pray! It makes me giddy to see
you!”

But Mr. Tartar, with a wave of his hand and the deftness of a cat, had already
dipped through his scuttle of scarlet runners without breaking a leaf, and
“gone below.”

Mr. Grewgious, his bedroom window-blind held aside with his hand, happened at
the moment to have Neville’s chambers under his eye for the last time
that night. Fortunately his eye was on the front of the house and not the back,
or this remarkable appearance and disappearance might have broken his rest as a
phenomenon. But Mr. Grewgious seeing nothing there, not even a light in the
windows, his gaze wandered from the windows to the stars, as if he would have
read in them something that was hidden from him. Many of us would, if we could;
but none of us so much as know our letters in the stars yet—or seem
likely to do it, in this state of existence—and few languages can be read
until their alphabets are mastered.

CHAPTER XVIII.
A SETTLER IN CLOISTERHAM

At about this time a stranger appeared in Cloisterham; a white-haired
personage, with black eyebrows. Being buttoned up in a tightish blue surtout,
with a buff waistcoat and gray trousers, he had something of a military air,
but he announced himself at the Crozier (the orthodox hotel, where he put up
with a portmanteau) as an idle dog who lived upon his means; and he farther
announced that he had a mind to take a lodging in the picturesque old city for
a month or two, with a view of settling down there altogether. Both
announcements were made in the coffee-room of the Crozier, to all whom it might
or might not concern, by the stranger as he stood with his back to the empty
fireplace, waiting for his fried sole, veal cutlet, and pint of sherry. And the
waiter (business being chronically slack at the Crozier) represented all whom
it might or might not concern, and absorbed the whole of the information.

This gentleman’s white head was unusually large, and his shock of white
hair was unusually thick and ample. “I suppose, waiter,” he said,
shaking his shock of hair, as a Newfoundland dog might shake his before sitting
down to dinner, “that a fair lodging for a single buffer might be found
in these parts, eh?”

The waiter had no doubt of it.

“Something old,” said the gentleman. “Take my hat down for a
moment from that peg, will you? No, I don’t want it; look into it. What
do you see written there?”

The waiter read: “Datchery.”

“Now you know my name,” said the gentleman; “Dick Datchery.
Hang it up again. I was saying something old is what I should prefer, something
odd and out of the way; something venerable, architectural, and
inconvenient.”

“We have a good choice of inconvenient lodgings in the town, sir, I
think,” replied the waiter, with modest confidence in its resources that
way; “indeed, I have no doubt that we could suit you that far, however
particular you might be. But a architectural lodging!” That seemed to
trouble the waiter’s head, and he shook it.

“Anything Cathedraly, now,” Mr. Datchery suggested.

“Mr. Tope,” said the waiter, brightening, as he rubbed his chin
with his hand, “would be the likeliest party to inform in that
line.”

“Who is Mr. Tope?” inquired Dick Datchery.

The waiter explained that he was the Verger, and that Mrs. Tope had indeed once
upon a time let lodgings herself or offered to let them; but that as nobody had
ever taken them, Mrs. Tope’s window-bill, long a Cloisterham Institution,
had disappeared; probably had tumbled down one day, and never been put up
again.

“I’ll call on Mrs. Tope,” said Mr. Datchery, “after
dinner.”

So when he had done his dinner, he was duly directed to the spot, and sallied
out for it. But the Crozier being an hotel of a most retiring disposition, and
the waiter’s directions being fatally precise, he soon became bewildered,
and went boggling about and about the Cathedral Tower, whenever he could catch
a glimpse of it, with a general impression on his mind that Mrs. Tope’s
was somewhere very near it, and that, like the children in the game of hot
boiled beans and very good butter, he was warm in his search when he saw the
Tower, and cold when he didn’t see it.

He was getting very cold indeed when he came upon a fragment of burial-ground
in which an unhappy sheep was grazing. Unhappy, because a hideous small boy was
stoning it through the railings, and had already lamed it in one leg, and was
much excited by the benevolent sportsmanlike purpose of breaking its other
three legs, and bringing it down.

“’It ’im agin!” cried the boy, as the poor creature
leaped; “and made a dint in his wool.”

“Let him be!” said Mr. Datchery. “Don’t you see you
have lamed him?”

“Yer lie,” returned the sportsman. “’E went and lamed
isself. I see ’im do it, and I giv’ ’im a shy as a
Widdy-warning to ’im not to go a-bruisin’ ’is master’s
mutton any more.”

“Come here.”

“I won’t; I’ll come when yer can ketch me.”

“Stay there then, and show me which is Mr. Tope’s.”

“Ow can I stay here and show you which is Topeseses, when Topeseses is
t’other side the Kinfreederal, and over the crossings, and round ever so
many comers? Stoo-pid! Ya-a-ah!”

“Show me where it is, and I’ll give you something.”

“Come on, then.”

This brisk dialogue concluded, the boy led the way, and by-and-by stopped at
some distance from an arched passage, pointing.

“Lookie yonder. You see that there winder and door?”

“That’s Tope’s?”

“Yer lie; it ain’t. That’s Jarsper’s.”

“Indeed?” said Mr. Datchery, with a second look of some interest.

“Yes, and I ain’t a-goin’ no nearer ’IM, I tell
yer.”

“Why not?”

“’Cos I ain’t a-goin’ to be lifted off my legs and
’ave my braces bust and be choked; not if I knows it, and not by
’Im. Wait till I set a jolly good flint a-flyin’ at the back
o’ ’is jolly old ’ed some day! Now look t’other side
the harch; not the side where Jarsper’s door is; t’other
side.”

“I see.”

“A little way in, o’ that side, there’s a low door, down two
steps. That’s Topeseses with ’is name on a hoval plate.”

“Good. See here,” said Mr. Datchery, producing a shilling.
“You owe me half of this.”

“Yer lie! I don’t owe yer nothing; I never seen yer.”

“I tell you you owe me half of this, because I have no sixpence in my
pocket. So the next time you meet me you shall do something else for me, to pay
me.”

“All right, give us ’old.”

“What is your name, and where do you live?”

“Deputy. Travellers’ Twopenny, ’cross the green.”

The boy instantly darted off with the shilling, lest Mr. Datchery should
repent, but stopped at a safe distance, on the happy chance of his being uneasy
in his mind about it, to goad him with a demon dance expressive of its
irrevocability.

Mr. Datchery, taking off his hat to give that shock of white hair of his
another shake, seemed quite resigned, and betook himself whither he had been
directed.

Mr. Tope’s official dwelling, communicating by an upper stair with Mr.
Jasper’s (hence Mrs. Tope’s attendance on that gentleman), was of
very modest proportions, and partook of the character of a cool dungeon. Its
ancient walls were massive, and its rooms rather seemed to have been dug out of
them, than to have been designed beforehand with any reference to them. The
main door opened at once on a chamber of no describable shape, with a groined
roof, which in its turn opened on another chamber of no describable shape, with
another groined roof: their windows small, and in the thickness of the walls.
These two chambers, close as to their atmosphere, and swarthy as to their
illumination by natural light, were the apartments which Mrs. Tope had so long
offered to an unappreciative city. Mr. Datchery, however, was more
appreciative. He found that if he sat with the main door open he would enjoy
the passing society of all comers to and fro by the gateway, and would have
light enough. He found that if Mr. and Mrs. Tope, living overhead, used for
their own egress and ingress a little side stair that came plump into the
Precincts by a door opening outward, to the surprise and inconvenience of a
limited public of pedestrians in a narrow way, he would be alone, as in a
separate residence. He found the rent moderate, and everything as quaintly
inconvenient as he could desire. He agreed, therefore, to take the lodging then
and there, and money down, possession to be had next evening, on condition that
reference was permitted him to Mr. Jasper as occupying the gatehouse, of which
on the other side of the gateway, the Verger’s hole-in-the-wall was an
appanage or subsidiary part.

The poor dear gentleman was very solitary and very sad, Mrs. Tope said, but she
had no doubt he would “speak for her.” Perhaps Mr. Datchery had
heard something of what had occurred there last winter?

Mr. Datchery had as confused a knowledge of the event in question, on trying to
recall it, as he well could have. He begged Mrs. Tope’s pardon when she
found it incumbent on her to correct him in every detail of his summary of the
facts, but pleaded that he was merely a single buffer getting through life upon
his means as idly as he could, and that so many people were so constantly
making away with so many other people, as to render it difficult for a buffer
of an easy temper to preserve the circumstances of the several cases unmixed in
his mind.

Mr. Jasper proving willing to speak for Mrs. Tope, Mr. Datchery, who had sent
up his card, was invited to ascend the postern staircase. The Mayor was there,
Mr. Tope said; but he was not to be regarded in the light of company, as he and
Mr. Jasper were great friends.

“I beg pardon,” said Mr. Datchery, making a leg with his hat under
his arm, as he addressed himself equally to both gentlemen; “a selfish
precaution on my part, and not personally interesting to anybody but myself.
But as a buffer living on his means, and having an idea of doing it in this
lovely place in peace and quiet, for remaining span of life, I beg to ask if
the Tope family are quite respectable?”

Mr. Jasper could answer for that without the slightest hesitation.

“That is enough, sir,” said Mr. Datchery.

“My friend the Mayor,” added Mr. Jasper, presenting Mr. Datchery
with a courtly motion of his hand towards that potentate; “whose
recommendation is actually much more important to a stranger than that of an
obscure person like myself, will testify in their behalf, I am sure.”

“The Worshipful the Mayor,” said Mr. Datchery, with a low bow,
“places me under an infinite obligation.”

“Very good people, sir, Mr. and Mrs. Tope,” said Mr. Sapsea, with
condescension. “Very good opinions. Very well behaved. Very respectful.
Much approved by the Dean and Chapter.”

“The Worshipful the Mayor gives them a character,” said Mr.
Datchery, “of which they may indeed be proud. I would ask His Honour (if
I might be permitted) whether there are not many objects of great interest in
the city which is under his beneficent sway?”

“We are, sir,” returned Mr. Sapsea, “an ancient city, and an
ecclesiastical city. We are a constitutional city, as it becomes such a city to
be, and we uphold and maintain our glorious privileges.”

“His Honour,” said Mr. Datchery, bowing, “inspires me with a
desire to know more of the city, and confirms me in my inclination to end my
days in the city.”

“Retired from the Army, sir?” suggested Mr. Sapsea.

“His Honour the Mayor does me too much credit,” returned Mr.
Datchery.

“Navy, sir?” suggested Mr. Sapsea.

“Again,” repeated Mr. Datchery, “His Honour the Mayor does me
too much credit.”

“Diplomacy is a fine profession,” said Mr. Sapsea, as a general
remark.

“There, I confess, His Honour the Mayor is too many for me,” said
Mr. Datchery, with an ingenious smile and bow; “even a diplomatic bird
must fall to such a gun.”

Now this was very soothing. Here was a gentleman of a great, not to say a
grand, address, accustomed to rank and dignity, really setting a fine example
how to behave to a Mayor. There was something in that third-person style of
being spoken to, that Mr. Sapsea found particularly recognisant of his merits
and position.

“But I crave pardon,” said Mr. Datchery. “His Honour the
Mayor will bear with me, if for a moment I have been deluded into occupying his
time, and have forgotten the humble claims upon my own, of my hotel, the
Crozier.”

“Not at all, sir,” said Mr. Sapsea. “I am returning home, and
if you would like to take the exterior of our Cathedral in your way, I shall be
glad to point it out.”

“His Honour the Mayor,” said Mr. Datchery, “is more than kind
and gracious.”

As Mr. Datchery, when he had made his acknowledgments to Mr. Jasper, could not
be induced to go out of the room before the Worshipful, the Worshipful led the
way down-stairs; Mr. Datchery following with his hat under his arm, and his
shock of white hair streaming in the evening breeze.

“Might I ask His Honour,” said Mr. Datchery, “whether that
gentleman we have just left is the gentleman of whom I have heard in the
neighbourhood as being much afflicted by the loss of a nephew, and
concentrating his life on avenging the loss?”

“That is the gentleman. John Jasper, sir.”

“Would His Honour allow me to inquire whether there are strong suspicions
of any one?”

“More than suspicions, sir,” returned Mr. Sapsea; “all but
certainties.”

“Only think now!” cried Mr. Datchery.

“But proof, sir, proof must be built up stone by stone,” said the
Mayor. “As I say, the end crowns the work. It is not enough that justice
should be morally certain; she must be immorally certain—legally, that
is.”

“His Honour,” said Mr. Datchery, “reminds me of the nature of
the law. Immoral. How true!”

“As I say, sir,” pompously went on the Mayor, “the arm of the
law is a strong arm, and a long arm. That is the way I put it. A strong arm and
a long arm.”

“How forcible!—And yet, again, how true!” murmured Mr.
Datchery.

“And without betraying, what I call the secrets of the
prison-house,” said Mr. Sapsea; “the secrets of the prison-house is
the term I used on the bench.”

“And what other term than His Honour’s would express it?”
said Mr. Datchery.

“Without, I say, betraying them, I predict to you, knowing the iron will
of the gentleman we have just left (I take the bold step of calling it iron, on
account of its strength), that in this case the long arm will reach, and the
strong arm will strike.—This is our Cathedral, sir. The best judges are
pleased to admire it, and the best among our townsmen own to being a little
vain of it.”

All this time Mr. Datchery had walked with his hat under his arm, and his white
hair streaming. He had an odd momentary appearance upon him of having forgotten
his hat, when Mr. Sapsea now touched it; and he clapped his hand up to his head
as if with some vague expectation of finding another hat upon it.

“Pray be covered, sir,” entreated Mr. Sapsea; magnificently plying:
“I shall not mind it, I assure you.”

“His Honour is very good, but I do it for coolness,” said Mr.
Datchery.

Then Mr. Datchery admired the Cathedral, and Mr. Sapsea pointed it out as if he
himself had invented and built it: there were a few details indeed of which he
did not approve, but those he glossed over, as if the workmen had made mistakes
in his absence. The Cathedral disposed of, he led the way by the churchyard,
and stopped to extol the beauty of the evening—by chance—in the
immediate vicinity of Mrs. Sapsea’s epitaph.

“And by the by,” said Mr. Sapsea, appearing to descend from an
elevation to remember it all of a sudden; like Apollo shooting down from
Olympus to pick up his forgotten lyre; “that is one of our small
lions. The partiality of our people has made it so, and strangers have been
seen taking a copy of it now and then. I am not a judge of it myself, for it is
a little work of my own. But it was troublesome to turn, sir; I may say,
difficult to turn with elegance.”

Mr. Datchery became so ecstatic over Mr. Sapsea’s composition, that, in
spite of his intention to end his days in Cloisterham, and therefore his
probably having in reserve many opportunities of copying it, he would have
transcribed it into his pocket-book on the spot, but for the slouching towards
them of its material producer and perpetuator, Durdles, whom Mr. Sapsea hailed,
not sorry to show him a bright example of behaviour to superiors.

“Ah, Durdles! This is the mason, sir; one of our Cloisterham worthies;
everybody here knows Durdles. Mr. Datchery, Durdles a gentleman who is going to
settle here.”

“I wouldn’t do it if I was him,” growled Durdles.
“We’re a heavy lot.”

“You surely don’t speak for yourself, Mr. Durdles,” returned
Mr. Datchery, “any more than for His Honour.”

“Who’s His Honour?” demanded Durdles.

“His Honour the Mayor.”

“I never was brought afore him,” said Durdles, with anything but
the look of a loyal subject of the mayoralty, “and it’ll be time
enough for me to Honour him when I am. Until which, and when, and where,

‘Mister Sapsea is his name,
    England is his nation,
Cloisterham’s his dwelling-place,
    Aukshneer’s his occupation.’”

Here, Deputy (preceded by a flying oyster-shell) appeared upon the scene, and
requested to have the sum of threepence instantly “chucked” to him
by Mr. Durdles, whom he had been vainly seeking up and down, as lawful wages
overdue. While that gentleman, with his bundle under his arm, slowly found and
counted out the money, Mr. Sapsea informed the new settler of Durdles’s
habits, pursuits, abode, and reputation. “I suppose a curious stranger
might come to see you, and your works, Mr. Durdles, at any odd time?”
said Mr. Datchery upon that.

“Any gentleman is welcome to come and see me any evening if he brings
liquor for two with him,” returned Durdles, with a penny between his
teeth and certain halfpence in his hands; “or if he likes to make it
twice two, he’ll be doubly welcome.”

“I shall come. Master Deputy, what do you owe me?”

“A job.”

“Mind you pay me honestly with the job of showing me Mr. Durdles’s
house when I want to go there.”

Deputy, with a piercing broadside of whistle through the whole gap in his
mouth, as a receipt in full for all arrears, vanished.

The Worshipful and the Worshipper then passed on together until they parted,
with many ceremonies, at the Worshipful’s door; even then the Worshipper
carried his hat under his arm, and gave his streaming white hair to the breeze.

Said Mr. Datchery to himself that night, as he looked at his white hair in the
gas-lighted looking-glass over the coffee-room chimneypiece at the Crozier, and
shook it out: “For a single buffer, of an easy temper, living idly on his
means, I have had a rather busy afternoon!”

CHAPTER XIX.
SHADOW ON THE SUN-DIAL

Again Miss Twinkleton has delivered her valedictory address, with the
accompaniments of white-wine and pound-cake, and again the young ladies have
departed to their several homes. Helena Landless has left the Nuns’ House
to attend her brother’s fortunes, and pretty Rosa is alone.

Cloisterham is so bright and sunny in these summer days, that the Cathedral and
the monastery-ruin show as if their strong walls were transparent. A soft glow
seems to shine from within them, rather than upon them from without, such is
their mellowness as they look forth on the hot corn-fields and the smoking
roads that distantly wind among them. The Cloisterham gardens blush with
ripening fruit. Time was when travel-stained pilgrims rode in clattering
parties through the city’s welcome shades; time is when wayfarers,
leading a gipsy life between haymaking time and harvest, and looking as if they
were just made of the dust of the earth, so very dusty are they, lounge about
on cool doorsteps, trying to mend their unmendable shoes, or giving them to
the city kennels as a hopeless job, and seeking others in the bundles that they
carry, along with their yet unused sickles swathed in bands of straw. At all
the more public pumps there is much cooling of bare feet, together with much
bubbling and gurgling of drinking with hand to spout on the part of these
Bedouins; the Cloisterham police meanwhile looking askant from their beats with
suspicion, and manifest impatience that the intruders should depart from within
the civic bounds, and once more fry themselves on the simmering high-roads.

On the afternoon of such a day, when the last Cathedral service is done, and
when that side of the High Street on which the Nuns’ House stands is in
grateful shade, save where its quaint old garden opens to the west between the
boughs of trees, a servant informs Rosa, to her terror, that Mr. Jasper desires
to see her.

If he had chosen his time for finding her at a disadvantage, he could have done
no better. Perhaps he has chosen it. Helena Landless is gone, Mrs. Tisher is
absent on leave, Miss Twinkleton (in her amateur state of existence) has
contributed herself and a veal pie to a picnic.

“O why, why, why, did you say I was at home!” cried Rosa,
helplessly.

The maid replies, that Mr. Jasper never asked the question.

That he said he knew she was at home, and begged she might be told that he
asked to see her.

“What shall I do! what shall I do!” thinks Rosa, clasping her
hands.

Possessed by a kind of desperation, she adds in the next breath, that she will
come to Mr. Jasper in the garden. She shudders at the thought of being shut up
with him in the house; but many of its windows command the garden, and she can
be seen as well as heard there, and can shriek in the free air and run away.
Such is the wild idea that flutters through her mind.

She has never seen him since the fatal night, except when she was questioned
before the Mayor, and then he was present in gloomy watchfulness, as
representing his lost nephew and burning to avenge him. She hangs her
garden-hat on her arm, and goes out. The moment she sees him from the porch,
leaning on the sun-dial, the old horrible feeling of being compelled by him,
asserts its hold upon her. She feels that she would even then go back, but that
he draws her feet towards him. She cannot resist, and sits down, with her head
bent, on the garden-seat beside the sun-dial. She cannot look up at him for
abhorrence, but she has perceived that he is dressed in deep mourning. So is
she. It was not so at first; but the lost has long been given up, and mourned
for, as dead.

He would begin by touching her hand. She feels the intention, and draws her
hand back. His eyes are then fixed upon her, she knows, though her own see
nothing but the grass.

“I have been waiting,” he begins, “for some time, to be
summoned back to my duty near you.”

After several times forming her lips, which she knows he is closely watching,
into the shape of some other hesitating reply, and then into none, she answers:
“Duty, sir?”

“The duty of teaching you, serving you as your faithful
music-master.”

“I have left off that study.”

“Not left off, I think. Discontinued. I was told by your guardian that
you discontinued it under the shock that we have all felt so acutely. When will
you resume?”

“Never, sir.”

“Never? You could have done no more if you had loved my dear boy.”

“I did love him!” cried Rosa, with a flash of anger.

“Yes; but not quite—not quite in the right way, shall I say? Not in
the intended and expected way. Much as my dear boy was, unhappily, too
self-conscious and self-satisfied (I’ll draw no parallel between him and
you in that respect) to love as he should have loved, or as any one in his
place would have loved—must have loved!”

She sits in the same still attitude, but shrinking a little more.

“Then, to be told that you discontinued your study with me, was to be
politely told that you abandoned it altogether?” he suggested.

“Yes,” says Rosa, with sudden spirit, “The politeness was my
guardian’s, not mine. I told him that I was resolved to leave off, and
that I was determined to stand by my resolution.”

“And you still are?”

“I still am, sir. And I beg not to be questioned any more about it. At
all events, I will not answer any more; I have that in my power.”

She is so conscious of his looking at her with a gloating admiration of the
touch of anger on her, and the fire and animation it brings with it, that even
as her spirit rises, it falls again, and she struggles with a sense of shame,
affront, and fear, much as she did that night at the piano.

“I will not question you any more, since you object to it so much; I will
confess—”

“I do not wish to hear you, sir,” cries Rosa, rising.

This time he does touch her with his outstretched hand. In shrinking from it,
she shrinks into her seat again.

“We must sometimes act in opposition to our wishes,” he tells her
in a low voice. “You must do so now, or do more harm to others than you
can ever set right.”

“What harm?”

“Presently, presently. You question me, you see, and surely
that’s not fair when you forbid me to question you. Nevertheless, I will
answer the question presently. Dearest Rosa! Charming Rosa!”

She starts up again.

This time he does not touch her. But his face looks so wicked and menacing, as
he stands leaning against the sun-dial-setting, as it were, his black mark upon
the very face of day—that her flight is arrested by horror as she looks
at him.

“I do not forget how many windows command a view of us,” he says,
glancing towards them. “I will not touch you again; I will come no nearer
to you than I am. Sit down, and there will be no mighty wonder in your
music-master’s leaning idly against a pedestal and speaking with you,
remembering all that has happened, and our shares in it. Sit down, my
beloved.”

She would have gone once more—was all but gone—and once more his
face, darkly threatening what would follow if she went, has stopped her.
Looking at him with the expression of the instant frozen on her face, she sits
down on the seat again.

“Rosa, even when my dear boy was affianced to you, I loved you madly;
even when I thought his happiness in having you for his wife was certain, I
loved you madly; even when I strove to make him more ardently devoted to you, I
loved you madly; even when he gave me the picture of your lovely face so
carelessly traduced by him, which I feigned to hang always in my sight for his
sake, but worshipped in torment for years, I loved you madly; in the
distasteful work of the day, in the wakeful misery of the night, girded by
sordid realities, or wandering through Paradises and Hells of visions into
which I rushed, carrying your image in my arms, I loved you madly.”

If anything could make his words more hideous to her than they are in
themselves, it would be the contrast between the violence of his look and
delivery, and the composure of his assumed attitude.

“I endured it all in silence. So long as you were his, or so long as I
supposed you to be his, I hid my secret loyally. Did I not?”

This lie, so gross, while the mere words in which it is told are so true, is
more than Rosa can endure. She answers with kindling indignation: “You
were as false throughout, sir, as you are now. You were false to him, daily and
hourly. You know that you made my life unhappy by your pursuit of me. You know
that you made me afraid to open his generous eyes, and that you forced me, for
his own trusting, good, good sake, to keep the truth from him, that you were a
bad, bad man!”

His preservation of his easy attitude rendering his working features and his
convulsive hands absolutely diabolical, he returns, with a fierce extreme of
admiration:

“How beautiful you are! You are more beautiful in anger than in repose. I
don’t ask you for your love; give me yourself and your hatred; give me
yourself and that pretty rage; give me yourself and that enchanting scorn; it
will be enough for me.”

Impatient tears rise to the eyes of the trembling little beauty, and her face
flames; but as she again rises to leave him in indignation, and seek protection
within the house, he stretches out his hand towards the porch, as though he
invited her to enter it.

“I told you, you rare charmer, you sweet witch, that you must stay and
hear me, or do more harm than can ever be undone. You asked me what harm. Stay,
and I will tell you. Go, and I will do it!”

Again Rosa quails before his threatening face, though innocent of its meaning,
and she remains. Her panting breathing comes and goes as if it would choke her;
but with a repressive hand upon her bosom, she remains.

“I have made my confession that my love is mad. It is so mad, that had
the ties between me and my dear lost boy been one silken thread less strong, I
might have swept even him from your side, when you favoured him.”

A film comes over the eyes she raises for an instant, as though he had turned
her faint.

“Even him,” he repeats. “Yes, even him! Rosa, you see me and
you hear me. Judge for yourself whether any other admirer shall love you and
live, whose life is in my hand.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I mean to show you how mad my love is. It was hawked through the late
inquiries by Mr. Crisparkle, that young Landless had confessed to him that he
was a rival of my lost boy. That is an inexpiable offence in my eyes. The same
Mr. Crisparkle knows under my hand that I have devoted myself to the
murderer’s discovery and destruction, be he whom he might, and that I
determined to discuss the mystery with no one until I should hold the clue in
which to entangle the murderer as in a net. I have since worked patiently to
wind and wind it round him; and it is slowly winding as I speak.”

Jasper’s sacrifices

“Your belief, if you believe in the criminality of Mr. Landless, is not
Mr. Crisparkle’s belief, and he is a good man,” Rosa retorts.

“My belief is my own; and I reserve it, worshipped of my soul!
Circumstances may accumulate so strongly even against an innocent man,
that directed, sharpened, and pointed, they may slay him. One wanting link
discovered by perseverance against a guilty man, proves his guilt, however
slight its evidence before, and he dies. Young Landless stands in deadly peril
either way.”

“If you really suppose,” Rosa pleads with him, turning paler,
“that I favour Mr. Landless, or that Mr. Landless has ever in any way
addressed himself to me, you are wrong.”

He puts that from him with a slighting action of his hand and a curled lip.

“I was going to show you how madly I love you. More madly now than ever,
for I am willing to renounce the second object that has arisen in my life to
divide it with you; and henceforth to have no object in existence but you only.
Miss Landless has become your bosom friend. You care for her peace of
mind?”

“I love her dearly.”

“You care for her good name?”

“I have said, sir, I love her dearly.”

“I am unconsciously,” he observes with a smile, as he folds his
hands upon the sun-dial and leans his chin upon them, so that his talk would
seem from the windows (faces occasionally come and go there) to be of the
airiest and playfullest—“I am unconsciously giving offence by
questioning again. I will simply make statements, therefore, and not put
questions. You do care for your bosom friend’s good name, and you do care
for her peace of mind. Then remove the shadow of the gallows from her, dear
one!”

“You dare propose to me to—”

“Darling, I dare propose to you. Stop there. If it be bad to idolise you,
I am the worst of men; if it be good, I am the best. My love for you is above
all other love, and my truth to you is above all other truth. Let me have hope
and favour, and I am a forsworn man for your sake.”

Rosa puts her hands to her temples, and, pushing back her hair, looks wildly
and abhorrently at him, as though she were trying to piece together what it is
his deep purpose to present to her only in fragments.

“Reckon up nothing at this moment, angel, but the sacrifices that I lay
at those dear feet, which I could fall down among the vilest ashes and kiss,
and put upon my head as a poor savage might. There is my fidelity to my dear
boy after death. Tread upon it!”

With an action of his hands, as though he cast down something precious.

“There is the inexpiable offence against my adoration of you. Spurn
it!”

With a similar action.

“There are my labours in the cause of a just vengeance for six toiling
months. Crush them!”

With another repetition of the action.

“There is my past and my present wasted life. There is the desolation of
my heart and my soul. There is my peace; there is my despair. Stamp them into
the dust; so that you take me, were it even mortally hating me!”

The frightful vehemence of the man, now reaching its full height, so
additionally terrifies her as to break the spell that has held her to the spot.
She swiftly moves towards the porch; but in an instant he is at her side, and
speaking in her ear.

“Rosa, I am self-repressed again. I am walking calmly beside you to the
house. I shall wait for some encouragement and hope. I shall not strike too
soon. Give me a sign that you attend to me.”

She slightly and constrainedly moves her hand.

“Not a word of this to any one, or it will bring down the blow, as
certainly as night follows day. Another sign that you attend to me.”

She moves her hand once more.

“I love you, love you, love you! If you were to cast me off now—but
you will not—you would never be rid of me. No one should come between us.
I would pursue you to the death.”

The handmaid coming out to open the gate for him, he quietly pulls off his hat
as a parting salute, and goes away with no greater show of agitation than is
visible in the effigy of Mr. Sapsea’s father opposite. Rosa faints in
going up-stairs, and is carefully carried to her room and laid down on her bed.
A thunderstorm is coming on, the maids say, and the hot and stifling air has
overset the pretty dear: no wonder; they have felt their own knees all of a
tremble all day long.

CHAPTER XX.
A FLIGHT

Rosa no sooner came to herself than the whole of the late interview was before
her. It even seemed as if it had pursued her into her insensibility, and she
had not had a moment’s unconsciousness of it. What to do, she was at a
frightened loss to know: the only one clear thought in her mind was, that she
must fly from this terrible man.

But where could she take refuge, and how could she go? She had never breathed
her dread of him to any one but Helena. If she went to Helena, and told her
what had passed, that very act might bring down the irreparable mischief that
he threatened he had the power, and that she knew he had the will, to do. The
more fearful he appeared to her excited memory and imagination, the more
alarming her responsibility appeared; seeing that a slight mistake on her part,
either in action or delay, might let his malevolence loose on Helena’s
brother.

Rosa’s mind throughout the last six months had been stormily confused. A
half-formed, wholly unexpressed suspicion tossed in it, now heaving itself up,
and now sinking into the deep; now gaining palpability, and now losing it.
Jasper’s self-absorption in his nephew when he was alive, and his
unceasing pursuit of the inquiry how he came by his death, if he were dead,
were themes so rife in the place, that no one appeared able to suspect the
possibility of foul play at his hands. She had asked herself the question,
“Am I so wicked in my thoughts as to conceive a wickedness that others
cannot imagine?” Then she had considered, Did the suspicion come of her
previous recoiling from him before the fact? And if so, was not that a proof of
its baselessness? Then she had reflected, “What motive could he have,
according to my accusation?” She was ashamed to answer in her mind,
“The motive of gaining me!” And covered her face, as if the
lightest shadow of the idea of founding murder on such an idle vanity were a
crime almost as great.

She ran over in her mind again, all that he had said by the sun-dial in the
garden. He had persisted in treating the disappearance as murder, consistently
with his whole public course since the finding of the watch and shirt-pin. If
he were afraid of the crime being traced out, would he not rather encourage the
idea of a voluntary disappearance? He had even declared that if the ties
between him and his nephew had been less strong, he might have swept
“even him” away from her side. Was that like his having really done
so? He had spoken of laying his six months’ labours in the cause of a
just vengeance at her feet. Would he have done that, with that violence of
passion, if they were a pretence? Would he have ranged them with his desolate
heart and soul, his wasted life, his peace and his despair? The very first
sacrifice that he represented himself as making for her, was his fidelity to
his dear boy after death. Surely these facts were strong against a fancy that
scarcely dared to hint itself. And yet he was so terrible a man! In short, the
poor girl (for what could she know of the criminal intellect, which its own
professed students perpetually misread, because they persist in trying to
reconcile it with the average intellect of average men, instead of identifying
it as a horrible wonder apart) could get by no road to any other conclusion
than that he was a terrible man, and must be fled from.

She had been Helena’s stay and comfort during the whole time. She had
constantly assured her of her full belief in her brother’s innocence, and
of her sympathy with him in his misery. But she had never seen him since the
disappearance, nor had Helena ever spoken one word of his avowal to Mr.
Crisparkle in regard of Rosa, though as a part of the interest of the case it
was well known far and wide. He was Helena’s unfortunate brother, to her,
and nothing more. The assurance she had given her odious suitor was strictly
true, though it would have been better (she considered now) if she could have
restrained herself from so giving it. Afraid of him as the bright and delicate
little creature was, her spirit swelled at the thought of his knowing it from
her own lips.

But where was she to go? Anywhere beyond his reach, was no reply to the
question. Somewhere must be thought of. She determined to go to her guardian,
and to go immediately. The feeling she had imparted to Helena on the night of
their first confidence, was so strong upon her—the feeling of not being
safe from him, and of the solid walls of the old convent being powerless to
keep out his ghostly following of her—that no reasoning of her own could
calm her terrors. The fascination of repulsion had been upon her so long, and
now culminated so darkly, that she felt as if he had power to bind her by a
spell. Glancing out at window, even now, as she rose to dress, the sight of the
sun-dial on which he had leaned when he declared himself, turned her cold, and
made her shrink from it, as though he had invested it with some awful quality
from his own nature.

She wrote a hurried note to Miss Twinkleton, saying that she had sudden reason
for wishing to see her guardian promptly, and had gone to him; also, entreating
the good lady not to be uneasy, for all was well with her. She hurried a few
quite useless articles into a very little bag, left the note in a conspicuous
place, and went out, softly closing the gate after her.

It was the first time she had ever been even in Cloisterham High Street alone.
But knowing all its ways and windings very well, she hurried straight to the
corner from which the omnibus departed. It was, at that very moment, going off.

“Stop and take me, if you please, Joe. I am obliged to go to
London.”

In less than another minute she was on her road to the railway, under
Joe’s protection. Joe waited on her when she got there, put her safely
into the railway carriage, and handed in the very little bag after her, as
though it were some enormous trunk, hundredweights heavy, which she must on no
account endeavour to lift.

“Can you go round when you get back, and tell Miss Twinkleton that you
saw me safely off, Joe?”

“It shall be done, Miss.”

“With my love, please, Joe.”

“Yes, Miss—and I wouldn’t mind having it myself!” But
Joe did not articulate the last clause; only thought it.

Now that she was whirling away for London in real earnest, Rosa was at leisure
to resume the thoughts which her personal hurry had checked. The indignant
thought that his declaration of love soiled her; that she could only be
cleansed from the stain of its impurity by appealing to the honest and true;
supported her for a time against her fears, and confirmed her in her hasty
resolution. But as the evening grew darker and darker, and the great city
impended nearer and nearer, the doubts usual in such cases began to arise.
Whether this was not a wild proceeding, after all; how Mr. Grewgious might
regard it; whether she should find him at the journey’s end; how she
would act if he were absent; what might become of her, alone, in a place so
strange and crowded; how if she had but waited and taken counsel first;
whether, if she could now go back, she would not do it thankfully; a multitude
of such uneasy speculations disturbed her, more and more as they accumulated.
At length the train came into London over the housetops; and down below lay the
gritty streets with their yet un-needed lamps a-glow, on a hot, light, summer
night.

“Hiram Grewgious, Esquire, Staple Inn, London.” This was all Rosa
knew of her destination; but it was enough to send her rattling away again in a
cab, through deserts of gritty streets, where many people crowded at the corner
of courts and byways to get some air, and where many other people walked with a
miserably monotonous noise of shuffling of feet on hot paving-stones, and where
all the people and all their surroundings were so gritty and so shabby!

There was music playing here and there, but it did not enliven the case. No
barrel-organ mended the matter, and no big drum beat dull care away. Like the
chapel bells that were also going here and there, they only seemed to evoke
echoes from brick surfaces, and dust from everything. As to the flat
wind-instruments, they seemed to have cracked their hearts and souls in pining
for the country.

Her jingling conveyance stopped at last at a fast-closed gateway, which
appeared to belong to somebody who had gone to bed very early, and was much
afraid of housebreakers; Rosa, discharging her conveyance, timidly knocked at
this gateway, and was let in, very little bag and all, by a watchman.

“Does Mr. Grewgious live here?”

“Mr. Grewgious lives there, Miss,” said the watchman, pointing
further in.

So Rosa went further in, and, when the clocks were striking ten, stood on P. J.
T.’s doorsteps, wondering what P. J. T. had done with his street-door.

Guided by the painted name of Mr. Grewgious, she went up-stairs and softly
tapped and tapped several times. But no one answering, and Mr.
Grewgious’s door-handle yielding to her touch, she went in, and saw her
guardian sitting on a window-seat at an open window, with a shaded lamp placed
far from him on a table in a corner.

Rosa drew nearer to him in the twilight of the room. He saw her, and he said,
in an undertone: “Good Heaven!”

Rosa fell upon his neck, with tears, and then he said, returning her embrace:

“My child, my child! I thought you were your mother!—But what,
what, what,” he added, soothingly, “has happened? My dear, what has
brought you here? Who has brought you here?”

“No one. I came alone.”

“Lord bless me!” ejaculated Mr. Grewgious. “Came alone! Why
didn’t you write to me to come and fetch you?”

“I had no time. I took a sudden resolution. Poor, poor Eddy!”

“Ah, poor fellow, poor fellow!”

“His uncle has made love to me. I cannot bear it,” said Rosa, at
once with a burst of tears, and a stamp of her little foot; “I shudder
with horror of him, and I have come to you to protect me and all of us from
him, if you will?”

“I will,” cried Mr. Grewgious, with a sudden rush of amazing
energy. “Damn him!

‘Confound his politics!
Frustrate his knavish tricks!
On Thee his hopes to fix?
        Damn him again!’”

After this most extraordinary outburst, Mr. Grewgious, quite beside himself,
plunged about the room, to all appearance undecided whether he was in a fit of
loyal enthusiasm, or combative denunciation.

He stopped and said, wiping his face: “I beg your pardon, my dear, but
you will be glad to know I feel better. Tell me no more just now, or I might do
it again. You must be refreshed and cheered. What did you take last? Was it
breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea, or supper? And what will you take next? Shall it
be breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea, or supper?”

The respectful tenderness with which, on one knee before her, he helped her to
remove her hat, and disentangle her pretty hair from it, was quite a chivalrous
sight. Yet who, knowing him only on the surface, would have expected
chivalry—and of the true sort, too; not the spurious—from Mr.
Grewgious?

“Your rest too must be provided for,” he went on; “and you
shall have the prettiest chamber in Furnival’s. Your toilet must be
provided for, and you shall have everything that an unlimited head
chambermaid—by which expression I mean a head chambermaid not limited as
to outlay—can procure. Is that a bag?” he looked hard at it; sooth
to say, it required hard looking at to be seen at all in a dimly lighted room:
“and is it your property, my dear?”

“Yes, sir. I brought it with me.”

“It is not an extensive bag,” said Mr. Grewgious, candidly,
“though admirably calculated to contain a day’s provision for a
canary-bird. Perhaps you brought a canary-bird?”

Rosa smiled and shook her head.

“If you had, he should have been made welcome,” said Mr. Grewgious,
“and I think he would have been pleased to be hung upon a nail outside
and pit himself against our Staple sparrows; whose execution must be admitted
to be not quite equal to their intention. Which is the case with so many of us!
You didn’t say what meal, my dear. Have a nice jumble of all
meals.”

Rosa thanked him, but said she could only take a cup of tea. Mr. Grewgious,
after several times running out, and in again, to mention such supplementary
items as marmalade, eggs, watercresses, salted fish, and frizzled ham, ran
across to Furnival’s without his hat, to give his various directions. And
soon afterwards they were realised in practice, and the board was spread.

“Lord bless my soul,” cried Mr. Grewgious, putting the lamp upon
it, and taking his seat opposite Rosa; “what a new sensation for a poor
old Angular bachelor, to be sure!”

Mr. Grewgious experiences a new sensation

Rosa’s expressive little eyebrows asked him what he meant?

“The sensation of having a sweet young presence in the place, that
whitewashes it, paints it, papers it, decorates it with gilding, and makes it
Glorious!” said Mr. Grewgious. “Ah me! Ah me!”

As there was something mournful in his sigh, Rosa, in touching him with her
tea-cup, ventured to touch him with her small hand too.

“Thank you, my dear,” said Mr. Grewgious. “Ahem! Let’s
talk!”

“Do you always live here, sir?” asked Rosa.

“Yes, my dear.”

“And always alone?”

“Always alone; except that I have daily company in a gentleman by the
name of Bazzard, my clerk.”

“He doesn’t live here?”

“No, he goes his way, after office hours. In fact, he is off duty here,
altogether, just at present; and a firm down-stairs, with which I have business
relations, lend me a substitute. But it would be extremely difficult to replace
Mr. Bazzard.”

“He must be very fond of you,” said Rosa.

“He bears up against it with commendable fortitude if he is,”
returned Mr. Grewgious, after considering the matter. “But I doubt if he
is. Not particularly so. You see, he is discontented, poor fellow.”

“Why isn’t he contented?” was the natural inquiry.

“Misplaced,” said Mr. Grewgious, with great mystery.

Rosa’s eyebrows resumed their inquisitive and perplexed expression.

“So misplaced,” Mr. Grewgious went on, “that I feel
constantly apologetic towards him. And he feels (though he doesn’t
mention it) that I have reason to be.”

Mr. Grewgious had by this time grown so very mysterious, that Rosa did not know
how to go on. While she was thinking about it Mr. Grewgious suddenly jerked out
of himself for the second time:

“Let’s talk. We were speaking of Mr. Bazzard. It’s a secret,
and moreover it is Mr. Bazzard’s secret; but the sweet presence at my
table makes me so unusually expansive, that I feel I must impart it in
inviolable confidence. What do you think Mr. Bazzard has done?”

“O dear!” cried Rosa, drawing her chair a little nearer, and her
mind reverting to Jasper, “nothing dreadful, I hope?”

“He has written a play,” said Mr. Grewgious, in a solemn whisper.
“A tragedy.”

Rosa seemed much relieved.

“And nobody,” pursued Mr. Grewgious in the same tone, “will
hear, on any account whatever, of bringing it out.”

Rosa looked reflective, and nodded her head slowly; as who should say,
“Such things are, and why are they!”

“Now, you know,” said Mr. Grewgious, “I couldn’t
write a play.”

“Not a bad one, sir?” said Rosa, innocently, with her eyebrows
again in action.

“No. If I was under sentence of decapitation, and was about to be
instantly decapitated, and an express arrived with a pardon for the condemned
convict Grewgious if he wrote a play, I should be under the necessity of
resuming the block, and begging the executioner to proceed to
extremities,—meaning,” said Mr. Grewgious, passing his hand under
his chin, “the singular number, and this extremity.”

Rosa appeared to consider what she would do if the awkward supposititious case
were hers.

“Consequently,” said Mr. Grewgious, “Mr. Bazzard would have a
sense of my inferiority to himself under any circumstances; but when I am his
master, you know, the case is greatly aggravated.”

Mr. Grewgious shook his head seriously, as if he felt the offence to be a
little too much, though of his own committing.

“How came you to be his master, sir?” asked Rosa.

“A question that naturally follows,” said Mr. Grewgious.
“Let’s talk. Mr. Bazzard’s father, being a Norfolk farmer,
would have furiously laid about him with a flail, a pitch-fork, and every
agricultural implement available for assaulting purposes, on the slightest hint
of his son’s having written a play. So the son, bringing to me the
father’s rent (which I receive), imparted his secret, and pointed out
that he was determined to pursue his genius, and that it would put him in peril
of starvation, and that he was not formed for it.”

“For pursuing his genius, sir?”

“No, my dear,” said Mr. Grewgious, “for starvation. It was
impossible to deny the position, that Mr. Bazzard was not formed to be starved,
and Mr. Bazzard then pointed out that it was desirable that I should stand
between him and a fate so perfectly unsuited to his formation. In that way Mr.
Bazzard became my clerk, and he feels it very much.”

“I am glad he is grateful,” said Rosa.

“I didn’t quite mean that, my dear. I mean, that he feels the
degradation. There are some other geniuses that Mr. Bazzard has become
acquainted with, who have also written tragedies, which likewise nobody will on
any account whatever hear of bringing out, and these choice spirits dedicate
their plays to one another in a highly panegyrical manner. Mr. Bazzard has been
the subject of one of these dedications. Now, you know, I never had a play
dedicated to me!”

Rosa looked at him as if she would have liked him to be the recipient of a
thousand dedications.

“Which again, naturally, rubs against the grain of Mr. Bazzard,”
said Mr. Grewgious. “He is very short with me sometimes, and then I feel
that he is meditating, ‘This blockhead is my master! A fellow who
couldn’t write a tragedy on pain of death, and who will never have one
dedicated to him with the most complimentary congratulations on the high
position he has taken in the eyes of posterity!’ Very trying, very
trying. However, in giving him directions, I reflect beforehand: ‘Perhaps
he may not like this,’ or ‘He might take it ill if I asked
that;’ and so we get on very well. Indeed, better than I could have
expected.”

“Is the tragedy named, sir?” asked Rosa.

“Strictly between ourselves,” answered Mr. Grewgious, “it has
a dreadfully appropriate name. It is called The Thorn of Anxiety. But Mr.
Bazzard hopes—and I hope—that it will come out at last.”

It was not hard to divine that Mr. Grewgious had related the Bazzard history
thus fully, at least quite as much for the recreation of his ward’s mind
from the subject that had driven her there, as for the gratification of his own
tendency to be social and communicative.

“And now, my dear,” he said at this point, “if you are not
too tired to tell me more of what passed to-day—but only if you feel
quite able—I should be glad to hear it. I may digest it the better, if I
sleep on it to-night.”

Rosa, composed now, gave him a faithful account of the interview. Mr. Grewgious
often smoothed his head while it was in progress, and begged to be told a
second time those parts which bore on Helena and Neville. When Rosa had
finished, he sat grave, silent, and meditative for a while.

“Clearly narrated,” was his only remark at last, “and, I
hope, clearly put away here,” smoothing his head again. “See, my
dear,” taking her to the open window, “where they live! The dark
windows over yonder.”

“I may go to Helena to-morrow?” asked Rosa.

“I should like to sleep on that question to-night,” he answered
doubtfully. “But let me take you to your own rest, for you must need
it.”

With that Mr. Grewgious helped her to get her hat on again, and hung upon his
arm the very little bag that was of no earthly use, and led her by the hand
(with a certain stately awkwardness, as if he were going to walk a minuet)
across Holborn, and into Furnival’s Inn. At the hotel door, he confided
her to the Unlimited head chambermaid, and said that while she went up to see
her room, he would remain below, in case she should wish it exchanged for
another, or should find that there was anything she wanted.

Rosa’s room was airy, clean, comfortable, almost gay. The Unlimited had
laid in everything omitted from the very little bag (that is to say, everything
she could possibly need), and Rosa tripped down the great many stairs again, to
thank her guardian for his thoughtful and affectionate care of her.

“Not at all, my dear,” said Mr. Grewgious, infinitely gratified;
“it is I who thank you for your charming confidence and for your charming
company. Your breakfast will be provided for you in a neat, compact, and
graceful little sitting-room (appropriate to your figure), and I will come to
you at ten o’clock in the morning. I hope you don’t feel very
strange indeed, in this strange place.”

“O no, I feel so safe!”

“Yes, you may be sure that the stairs are fire-proof,” said Mr.
Grewgious, “and that any outbreak of the devouring element would be
perceived and suppressed by the watchmen.”

“I did not mean that,” Rosa replied. “I mean, I feel so safe
from him.”

“There is a stout gate of iron bars to keep him out,” said Mr.
Grewgious, smiling; “and Furnival’s is fire-proof, and specially
watched and lighted, and I live over the way!” In the stoutness of
his knight-errantry, he seemed to think the last-named protection all
sufficient. In the same spirit he said to the gate-porter as he went out,
“If some one staying in the hotel should wish to send across the road to
me in the night, a crown will be ready for the messenger.” In the same
spirit, he walked up and down outside the iron gate for the best part of an
hour, with some solicitude; occasionally looking in between the bars, as if he
had laid a dove in a high roost in a cage of lions, and had it on his mind that
she might tumble out.

CHAPTER XXI.
A RECOGNITION

Nothing occurred in the night to flutter the tired dove; and the dove arose
refreshed. With Mr. Grewgious, when the clock struck ten in the morning, came
Mr. Crisparkle, who had come at one plunge out of the river at Cloisterham.

“Miss Twinkleton was so uneasy, Miss Rosa,” he explained to her,
“and came round to Ma and me with your note, in such a state of wonder,
that, to quiet her, I volunteered on this service by the very first train to be
caught in the morning. I wished at the time that you had come to me; but now I
think it best that you did as you did, and came to your guardian.”

“I did think of you,” Rosa told him; “but Minor Canon Corner
was so near him—”

“I understand. It was quite natural.”

“I have told Mr. Crisparkle,” said Mr. Grewgious, “all that
you told me last night, my dear. Of course I should have written it to him
immediately; but his coming was most opportune. And it was particularly kind of
him to come, for he had but just gone.”

“Have you settled,” asked Rosa, appealing to them both, “what
is to be done for Helena and her brother?”

“Why really,” said Mr. Crisparkle, “I am in great perplexity.
If even Mr. Grewgious, whose head is much longer than mine, and who is a whole
night’s cogitation in advance of me, is undecided, what must I be!”

The Unlimited here put her head in at the door—after having rapped, and
been authorised to present herself—announcing that a gentleman wished for
a word with another gentleman named Crisparkle, if any such gentleman were
there. If no such gentleman were there, he begged pardon for being mistaken.

“Such a gentleman is here,” said Mr. Crisparkle, “but is
engaged just now.”

“Is it a dark gentleman?” interposed Rosa, retreating on her
guardian.

“No, Miss, more of a brown gentleman.”

“You are sure not with black hair?” asked Rosa, taking courage.

“Quite sure of that, Miss. Brown hair and blue eyes.”

“Perhaps,” hinted Mr. Grewgious, with habitual caution, “it
might be well to see him, reverend sir, if you don’t object. When one is
in a difficulty or at a loss, one never knows in what direction a way out may
chance to open. It is a business principle of mine, in such a case, not to
close up any direction, but to keep an eye on every direction that may present
itself. I could relate an anecdote in point, but that it would be
premature.”

“If Miss Rosa will allow me, then? Let the gentleman come in,” said
Mr. Crisparkle.

The gentleman came in; apologised, with a frank but modest grace, for not
finding Mr. Crisparkle alone; turned to Mr. Crisparkle, and smilingly asked the
unexpected question: “Who am I?”

“You are the gentleman I saw smoking under the trees in Staple Inn, a few
minutes ago.”

“True. There I saw you. Who else am I?”

Mr. Crisparkle concentrated his attention on a handsome face, much sunburnt;
and the ghost of some departed boy seemed to rise, gradually and dimly, in the
room.

The gentleman saw a struggling recollection lighten up the Minor Canon’s
features, and smiling again, said: “What will you have for breakfast this
morning? You are out of jam.”

“Wait a moment!” cried Mr. Crisparkle, raising his right hand.
“Give me another instant! Tartar!”

The two shook hands with the greatest heartiness, and then went the wonderful
length—for Englishmen—of laying their hands each on the
other’s shoulders, and looking joyfully each into the other’s face.

“My old fag!” said Mr. Crisparkle.

“My old master!” said Mr. Tartar.

“You saved me from drowning!” said Mr. Crisparkle.

“After which you took to swimming, you know!” said Mr. Tartar.

“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Crisparkle.

“Amen!” said Mr. Tartar.

And then they fell to shaking hands most heartily again.

“Imagine,” exclaimed Mr. Crisparkle, with glistening eyes:
“Miss Rosa Bud and Mr. Grewgious, imagine Mr. Tartar, when he was the
smallest of juniors, diving for me, catching me, a big heavy senior, by the
hair of the head, and striking out for the shore with me like a
water-giant!”

“Imagine my not letting him sink, as I was his fag!” said Mr.
Tartar. “But the truth being that he was my best protector and friend,
and did me more good than all the masters put together, an irrational impulse
seized me to pick him up, or go down with him.”

“Hem! Permit me, sir, to have the honour,” said Mr. Grewgious,
advancing with extended hand, “for an honour I truly esteem it. I am
proud to make your acquaintance. I hope you didn’t take cold. I hope you
were not inconvenienced by swallowing too much water. How have you been
since?”

It was by no means apparent that Mr. Grewgious knew what he said, though it was
very apparent that he meant to say something highly friendly and appreciative.

If Heaven, Rosa thought, had but sent such courage and skill to her poor
mother’s aid! And he to have been so slight and young then!

“I don’t wish to be complimented upon it, I thank you; but I think
I have an idea,” Mr. Grewgious announced, after taking a jog-trot or two
across the room, so unexpected and unaccountable that they all stared at him,
doubtful whether he was choking or had the cramp—“I think I
have an idea. I believe I have had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Tartar’s
name as tenant of the top set in the house next the top set in the
corner?”

“Yes, sir,” returned Mr. Tartar. “You are right so
far.”

“I am right so far,” said Mr. Grewgious. “Tick that
off;” which he did, with his right thumb on his left. “Might you
happen to know the name of your neighbour in the top set on the other side of
the party-wall?” coming very close to Mr. Tartar, to lose nothing of his
face, in his shortness of sight.

“Landless.”

“Tick that off,” said Mr. Grewgious, taking another trot, and then
coming back. “No personal knowledge, I suppose, sir?”

“Slight, but some.”

“Tick that off,” said Mr. Grewgious, taking another trot, and again
coming back. “Nature of knowledge, Mr. Tartar?”

“I thought he seemed to be a young fellow in a poor way, and I asked his
leave—only within a day or so—to share my flowers up there with
him; that is to say, to extend my flower-garden to his windows.”

“Would you have the kindness to take seats?” said Mr. Grewgious.
“I have an idea!”

They complied; Mr. Tartar none the less readily, for being all abroad; and Mr.
Grewgious, seated in the centre, with his hands upon his knees, thus stated his
idea, with his usual manner of having got the statement by heart.

“I cannot as yet make up my mind whether it is prudent to hold open
communication under present circumstances, and on the part of the fair member
of the present company, with Mr. Neville or Miss Helena. I have reason to know
that a local friend of ours (on whom I beg to bestow a passing but a hearty
malediction, with the kind permission of my reverend friend) sneaks to and fro,
and dodges up and down. When not doing so himself, he may have some informant
skulking about, in the person of a watchman, porter, or such-like hanger-on of
Staple. On the other hand, Miss Rosa very naturally wishes to see her friend
Miss Helena, and it would seem important that at least Miss Helena (if not her
brother too, through her) should privately know from Miss Rosa’s lips
what has occurred, and what has been threatened. Am I agreed with generally in
the views I take?”

“I entirely coincide with them,” said Mr. Crisparkle, who had been
very attentive.

“As I have no doubt I should,” added Mr. Tartar, smiling, “if
I understood them.”

“Fair and softly, sir,” said Mr. Grewgious; “we shall fully
confide in you directly, if you will favour us with your permission. Now, if
our local friend should have any informant on the spot, it is tolerably clear
that such informant can only be set to watch the chambers in the occupation of
Mr. Neville. He reporting, to our local friend, who comes and goes there, our
local friend would supply for himself, from his own previous knowledge, the
identity of the parties. Nobody can be set to watch all Staple, or to concern
himself with comers and goers to other sets of chambers: unless, indeed,
mine.”

“I begin to understand to what you tend,” said Mr. Crisparkle,
“and highly approve of your caution.”

“I needn’t repeat that I know nothing yet of the why and
wherefore,” said Mr. Tartar; “but I also understand to what you
tend, so let me say at once that my chambers are freely at your
disposal.”

“There!” cried Mr. Grewgious, smoothing his head triumphantly,
“now we have all got the idea. You have it, my dear?”

“I think I have,” said Rosa, blushing a little as Mr. Tartar looked
quickly towards her.

“You see, you go over to Staple with Mr. Crisparkle and Mr.
Tartar,” said Mr. Grewgious; “I going in and out, and out and in
alone, in my usual way; you go up with those gentlemen to Mr. Tartar’s
rooms; you look into Mr. Tartar’s flower-garden; you wait for Miss
Helena’s appearance there, or you signify to Miss Helena that you are
close by; and you communicate with her freely, and no spy can be the
wiser.”

“I am very much afraid I shall be—”

“Be what, my dear?” asked Mr. Grewgious, as she hesitated.
“Not frightened?”

“No, not that,” said Rosa, shyly; “in Mr. Tartar’s way.
We seem to be appropriating Mr. Tartar’s residence so very coolly.”

“I protest to you,” returned that gentleman, “that I shall
think the better of it for evermore, if your voice sounds in it only
once.”

Rosa, not quite knowing what to say about that, cast down her eyes, and turning
to Mr. Grewgious, dutifully asked if she should put her hat on? Mr. Grewgious
being of opinion that she could not do better, she withdrew for the purpose.
Mr. Crisparkle took the opportunity of giving Mr. Tartar a summary of the
distresses of Neville and his sister; the opportunity was quite long enough, as
the hat happened to require a little extra fitting on.

Mr. Tartar gave his arm to Rosa, and Mr. Crisparkle walked, detached, in front.

“Poor, poor Eddy!” thought Rosa, as they went along.

Mr. Tartar waved his right hand as he bent his head down over Rosa, talking in
an animated way.

“It was not so powerful or so sun-browned when it saved Mr.
Crisparkle,” thought Rosa, glancing at it; “but it must have been
very steady and determined even then.”

Mr. Tartar told her he had been a sailor, roving everywhere for years and
years.

“When are you going to sea again?” asked Rosa.

“Never!”

Rosa wondered what the girls would say if they could see her crossing the wide
street on the sailor’s arm. And she fancied that the passers-by must
think her very little and very helpless, contrasted with the strong figure that
could have caught her up and carried her out of any danger, miles and miles
without resting.

She was thinking further, that his far-seeing blue eyes looked as if they had
been used to watch danger afar off, and to watch it without flinching, drawing
nearer and nearer: when, happening to raise her own eyes, she found that he
seemed to be thinking something about them.

This a little confused Rosebud, and may account for her never afterwards quite
knowing how she ascended (with his help) to his garden in the air, and seemed
to get into a marvellous country that came into sudden bloom like the country
on the summit of the magic bean-stalk. May it flourish for ever!

CHAPTER XXII.
A GRITTY STATE OF THINGS COMES ON

Mr. Tartar’s chambers were the neatest, the cleanest, and the
best-ordered chambers ever seen under the sun, moon, and stars. The floors were
scrubbed to that extent, that you might have supposed the London blacks
emancipated for ever, and gone out of the land for good. Every inch of
brass-work in Mr. Tartar’s possession was polished and burnished, till it
shone like a brazen mirror. No speck, nor spot, nor spatter soiled the purity
of any of Mr. Tartar’s household gods, large, small, or middle-sized. His
sitting-room was like the admiral’s cabin, his bath-room was like a
dairy, his sleeping-chamber, fitted all about with lockers and drawers, was
like a seedsman’s shop; and his nicely-balanced cot just stirred in the
midst, as if it breathed. Everything belonging to Mr. Tartar had quarters of
its own assigned to it: his maps and charts had their quarters; his books had
theirs; his brushes had theirs; his boots had theirs; his clothes had theirs;
his case-bottles had theirs; his telescopes and other instruments had theirs.
Everything was readily accessible. Shelf, bracket, locker, hook, and drawer
were equally within reach, and were equally contrived with a view to avoiding
waste of room, and providing some snug inches of stowage for something that
would have exactly fitted nowhere else. His gleaming little service of plate
was so arranged upon his sideboard as that a slack salt-spoon would have
instantly betrayed itself; his toilet implements were so arranged upon his
dressing-table as that a toothpick of slovenly deportment could have been
reported at a glance. So with the curiosities he had brought home from various
voyages. Stuffed, dried, repolished, or otherwise preserved, according to their
kind; birds, fishes, reptiles, arms, articles of dress, shells, seaweeds,
grasses, or memorials of coral reef; each was displayed in its especial place,
and each could have been displayed in no better place. Paint and varnish seemed
to be kept somewhere out of sight, in constant readiness to obliterate stray
finger-marks wherever any might become perceptible in Mr. Tartar’s
chambers. No man-of-war was ever kept more spick and span from careless touch.
On this bright summer day, a neat awning was rigged over Mr. Tartar’s
flower-garden as only a sailor can rig it, and there was a sea-going air upon
the whole effect, so delightfully complete, that the flower-garden might have
appertained to stern-windows afloat, and the whole concern might have bowled
away gallantly with all on board, if Mr. Tartar had only clapped to his lips
the speaking-trumpet that was slung in a corner, and given hoarse orders to
heave the anchor up, look alive there, men, and get all sail upon her!

Mr. Tartar doing the honours of this gallant craft was of a piece with the
rest. When a man rides an amiable hobby that shies at nothing and kicks nobody,
it is only agreeable to find him riding it with a humorous sense of the droll
side of the creature. When the man is a cordial and an earnest man by nature,
and withal is perfectly fresh and genuine, it may be doubted whether he is ever
seen to greater advantage than at such a time. So Rosa would have naturally
thought (even if she hadn’t been conducted over the ship with all the
homage due to the First Lady of the Admiralty, or First Fairy of the Sea), that
it was charming to see and hear Mr. Tartar half laughing at, and half rejoicing
in, his various contrivances. So Rosa would have naturally thought, anyhow,
that the sunburnt sailor showed to great advantage when, the inspection
finished, he delicately withdrew out of his admiral’s cabin, beseeching
her to consider herself its Queen, and waving her free of his flower-garden
with the hand that had had Mr. Crisparkle’s life in it.

“Helena! Helena Landless! Are you there?”

“Who speaks to me? Not Rosa?” Then a second handsome face
appearing.

“Yes, my darling!”

“Why, how did you come here, dearest?”

“I—I don’t quite know,” said Rosa with a blush;
“unless I am dreaming!”

Why with a blush? For their two faces were alone with the other flowers. Are
blushes among the fruits of the country of the magic bean-stalk?

“I am not dreaming,” said Helena, smiling. “I should
take more for granted if I were. How do we come together—or so near
together—so very unexpectedly?”

Unexpectedly indeed, among the dingy gables and chimneypots of P. J.
T.’s connection, and the flowers that had sprung from the salt sea. But
Rosa, waking, told in a hurry how they came to be together, and all the why and
wherefore of that matter.

“And Mr. Crisparkle is here,” said Rosa, in rapid conclusion;
“and, could you believe it? long ago he saved his life!”

“I could believe any such thing of Mr. Crisparkle,” returned
Helena, with a mantling face.

(More blushes in the bean-stalk country!)

“Yes, but it wasn’t Crisparkle,” said Rosa, quickly putting
in the correction.

“I don’t understand, love.”

“It was very nice of Mr. Crisparkle to be saved,” said Rosa,
“and he couldn’t have shown his high opinion of Mr. Tartar more
expressively. But it was Mr. Tartar who saved him.”

Helena’s dark eyes looked very earnestly at the bright face among the
leaves, and she asked, in a slower and more thoughtful tone:

“Is Mr. Tartar with you now, dear?”

“No; because he has given up his rooms to me—to us, I mean. It is
such a beautiful place!”

“Is it?”

“It is like the inside of the most exquisite ship that ever sailed. It is
like—it is like—”

“Like a dream?” suggested Helena.

Rosa answered with a little nod, and smelled the flowers.

Helena resumed, after a short pause of silence, during which she seemed (or it
was Rosa’s fancy) to compassionate somebody: “My poor Neville is
reading in his own room, the sun being so very bright on this side just now. I
think he had better not know that you are so near.”

“O, I think so too!” cried Rosa very readily.

“I suppose,” pursued Helena, doubtfully, “that he must know
by-and-by all you have told me; but I am not sure. Ask Mr. Crisparkle’s
advice, my darling. Ask him whether I may tell Neville as much or as little of
what you have told me as I think best.”

Rosa subsided into her state-cabin, and propounded the question. The Minor
Canon was for the free exercise of Helena’s judgment.

“I thank him very much,” said Helena, when Rosa emerged again with
her report. “Ask him whether it would be best to wait until any more
maligning and pursuing of Neville on the part of this wretch shall disclose
itself, or to try to anticipate it: I mean, so far as to find out whether any
such goes on darkly about us?”

The Minor Canon found this point so difficult to give a confident opinion on,
that, after two or three attempts and failures, he suggested a reference to Mr.
Grewgious. Helena acquiescing, he betook himself (with a most unsuccessful
assumption of lounging indifference) across the quadrangle to P. J. T.’s,
and stated it. Mr. Grewgious held decidedly to the general principle, that if
you could steal a march upon a brigand or a wild beast, you had better do it;
and he also held decidedly to the special case, that John Jasper was a brigand
and a wild beast in combination.

Thus advised, Mr. Crisparkle came back again and reported to Rosa, who in her
turn reported to Helena. She now steadily pursuing her train of thought at her
window, considered thereupon.

“We may count on Mr. Tartar’s readiness to help us, Rosa?”
she inquired.

O yes! Rosa shyly thought so. O yes, Rosa shyly believed she could almost
answer for it. But should she ask Mr. Crisparkle? “I think your authority
on the point as good as his, my dear,” said Helena, sedately, “and
you needn’t disappear again for that.” Odd of Helena!

“You see, Neville,” Helena pursued after more reflection,
“knows no one else here: he has not so much as exchanged a word with any
one else here. If Mr. Tartar would call to see him openly and often; if he
would spare a minute for the purpose, frequently; if he would even do so,
almost daily; something might come of it.”

“Something might come of it, dear?” repeated Rosa, surveying her
friend’s beauty with a highly perplexed face. “Something
might?”

“If Neville’s movements are really watched, and if the purpose
really is to isolate him from all friends and acquaintance and wear his daily
life out grain by grain (which would seem to be the threat to you), does it not
appear likely,” said Helena, “that his enemy would in some way
communicate with Mr. Tartar to warn him off from Neville? In which case, we
might not only know the fact, but might know from Mr. Tartar what the terms of
the communication were.”

“I see!” cried Rosa. And immediately darted into her state-cabin
again.

Presently her pretty face reappeared, with a greatly heightened colour, and she
said that she had told Mr. Crisparkle, and that Mr. Crisparkle had fetched in
Mr. Tartar, and that Mr. Tartar—“who is waiting now, in case you
want him,” added Rosa, with a half look back, and in not a little
confusion between the inside of the state-cabin and out—had declared his
readiness to act as she had suggested, and to enter on his task that very day.

“I thank him from my heart,” said Helena. “Pray tell him
so.”

Again not a little confused between the Flower-garden and the Cabin, Rosa
dipped in with her message, and dipped out again with more assurances from Mr.
Tartar, and stood wavering in a divided state between Helena and him, which
proved that confusion is not always necessarily awkward, but may sometimes
present a very pleasant appearance.

“And now, darling,” said Helena, “we will be mindful of the
caution that has restricted us to this interview for the present, and will
part. I hear Neville moving too. Are you going back?”

“To Miss Twinkleton’s?” asked Rosa.

“Yes.”

“O, I could never go there any more. I couldn’t indeed, after that
dreadful interview!” said Rosa.

“Then where are you going, pretty one?”

“Now I come to think of it, I don’t know,” said Rosa.
“I have settled nothing at all yet, but my guardian will take care of me.
Don’t be uneasy, dear. I shall be sure to be somewhere.”

(It did seem likely.)

“And I shall hear of my Rosebud from Mr. Tartar?” inquired Helena.

“Yes, I suppose so; from—” Rosa looked back again in a
flutter, instead of supplying the name. “But tell me one thing before we
part, dearest Helena. Tell me—that you are sure, sure, sure, I
couldn’t help it.”

“Help it, love?”

“Help making him malicious and revengeful. I couldn’t hold any
terms with him, could I?”

“You know how I love you, darling,” answered Helena, with
indignation; “but I would sooner see you dead at his wicked feet.”

“That’s a great comfort to me! And you will tell your poor brother
so, won’t you? And you will give him my remembrance and my sympathy? And
you will ask him not to hate me?”

With a mournful shake of the head, as if that would be quite a superfluous
entreaty, Helena lovingly kissed her two hands to her friend, and her
friend’s two hands were kissed to her; and then she saw a third hand (a
brown one) appear among the flowers and leaves, and help her friend out of
sight.

The refection that Mr. Tartar produced in the Admiral’s Cabin by merely
touching the spring knob of a locker and the handle of a drawer, was a dazzling
enchanted repast. Wonderful macaroons, glittering liqueurs, magically-preserved
tropical spices, and jellies of celestial tropical fruits, displayed themselves
profusely at an instant’s notice. But Mr. Tartar could not make time
stand still; and time, with his hard-hearted fleetness, strode on so fast, that
Rosa was obliged to come down from the bean-stalk country to earth and her
guardian’s chambers.

“And now, my dear,” said Mr. Grewgious, “what is to be done
next? To put the same thought in another form; what is to be done with
you?”

Rosa could only look apologetically sensible of being very much in her own way
and in everybody else’s. Some passing idea of living, fireproof, up a
good many stairs in Furnival’s Inn for the rest of her life, was the only
thing in the nature of a plan that occurred to her.

“It has come into my thoughts,” said Mr. Grewgious, “that as
the respected lady, Miss Twinkleton, occasionally repairs to London in the
recess, with the view of extending her connection, and being available for
interviews with metropolitan parents, if any—whether, until we have time
in which to turn ourselves round, we might invite Miss Twinkleton to come and
stay with you for a month?”

“Stay where, sir?”

“Whether,” explained Mr. Grewgious, “we might take a
furnished lodging in town for a month, and invite Miss Twinkleton to assume the
charge of you in it for that period?”

“And afterwards?” hinted Rosa.

“And afterwards,” said Mr. Grewgious, “we should be no worse
off than we are now.”

“I think that might smooth the way,” assented Rosa.

“Then let us,” said Mr. Grewgious, rising, “go and look for a
furnished lodging. Nothing could be more acceptable to me than the sweet
presence of last evening, for all the remaining evenings of my existence; but
these are not fit surroundings for a young lady. Let us set out in quest of
adventures, and look for a furnished lodging. In the meantime, Mr. Crisparkle
here, about to return home immediately, will no doubt kindly see Miss
Twinkleton, and invite that lady to co-operate in our plan.”

Mr. Crisparkle, willingly accepting the commission, took his departure; Mr.
Grewgious and his ward set forth on their expedition.

As Mr. Grewgious’s idea of looking at a furnished lodging was to get on
the opposite side of the street to a house with a suitable bill in the window,
and stare at it; and then work his way tortuously to the back of the house, and
stare at that; and then not go in, but make similar trials of another house,
with the same result; their progress was but slow. At length he bethought
himself of a widowed cousin, divers times removed, of Mr. Bazzard’s, who
had once solicited his influence in the lodger world, and who lived in
Southampton Street, Bloomsbury Square. This lady’s name, stated in
uncompromising capitals of considerable size on a brass door-plate, and yet not
lucidly as to sex or condition, was BILLICKIN.

Personal faintness, and an overpowering personal candour, were the
distinguishing features of Mrs. Billickin’s organisation. She came
languishing out of her own exclusive back parlour, with the air of having been
expressly brought-to for the purpose, from an accumulation of several swoons.

“I hope I see you well, sir,” said Mrs. Billickin, recognising her
visitor with a bend.

“Thank you, quite well. And you, ma’am?” returned Mr.
Grewgious.

“I am as well,” said Mrs. Billickin, becoming aspirational with
excess of faintness, “as I hever ham.”

“My ward and an elderly lady,” said Mr. Grewgious, “wish to
find a genteel lodging for a month or so. Have you any apartments available,
ma’am?”

“Mr. Grewgious,” returned Mrs. Billickin, “I will not deceive
you; far from it. I have apartments available.”

This with the air of adding: “Convey me to the stake, if you will; but
while I live, I will be candid.”

“And now, what apartments, ma’am?” asked Mr. Grewgious,
cosily. To tame a certain severity apparent on the part of Mrs. Billickin.

“There is this sitting-room—which, call it what you will, it is the
front parlour, Miss,” said Mrs. Billickin, impressing Rosa into the
conversation: “the back parlour being what I cling to and never part
with; and there is two bedrooms at the top of the ’ouse with gas laid on.
I do not tell you that your bedroom floors is firm, for firm they are not. The
gas-fitter himself allowed, that to make a firm job, he must go right under
your jistes, and it were not worth the outlay as a yearly tenant so to do. The
piping is carried above your jistes, and it is best that it should be made
known to you.”

Mr. Grewgious and Rosa exchanged looks of some dismay, though they had not the
least idea what latent horrors this carriage of the piping might involve. Mrs.
Billickin put her hand to her heart, as having eased it of a load.

“Well! The roof is all right, no doubt,” said Mr. Grewgious,
plucking up a little.

“Mr. Grewgious,” returned Mrs. Billickin, “if I was to tell
you, sir, that to have nothink above you is to have a floor above you, I should
put a deception upon you which I will not do. No, sir. Your slates
WILL rattle loose at that elewation in windy weather, do your
utmost, best or worst! I defy you, sir, be you what you may, to keep your
slates tight, try how you can.” Here Mrs. Billickin, having been warm
with Mr. Grewgious, cooled a little, not to abuse the moral power she held over
him. “Consequent,” proceeded Mrs. Billickin, more mildly, but still
firmly in her incorruptible candour: “consequent it would be worse than
of no use for me to trapse and travel up to the top of the ’ouse with
you, and for you to say, ‘Mrs. Billickin, what stain do I notice in the
ceiling, for a stain I do consider it?’ and for me to answer, ‘I do
not understand you, sir.’ No, sir, I will not be so underhand. I
do understand you before you pint it out. It is the wet, sir. It do come
in, and it do not come in. You may lay dry there half your lifetime; but the
time will come, and it is best that you should know it, when a dripping sop
would be no name for you.”