The Mystery of Edwin Drood

  CHAPTER XI--A PICTURE AND A RING

  Behind the most ancient part of Holborn, London, where certain gabledhouses some centuries of age still stand looking on the public way, as ifdisconsolately looking for the Old Bourne that has long run dry, is alittle nook composed of two irregular quadrangles, called Staple Inn. Itis one of those nooks, the turning into which out of the clashing street,imparts to the relieved pedestrian the sensation of having put cotton inhis ears, and velvet soles on his boots. It is one of those nooks wherea few smoky sparrows twitter in smoky trees, as though they called to oneanother, 'Let us play at country,' and where a few feet of garden-mouldand a few yards of gravel enable them to do that refreshing violence totheir tiny understandings. Moreover, it is one of those nooks which arelegal nooks; and it contains a little Hall, with a little lantern in itsroof: to what obstructive purposes devoted, and at whose expense, thishistory knoweth not.

  In the days when Cloisterham took offence at the existence of a railroadafar off, as menacing that sensitive constitution, the property of usBritons: the odd fortune of which sacred institution it is to be inexactly equal degrees croaked about, trembled for, and boasted of,whatever happens to anything, anywhere in the world: in those days noneighbouring architecture of lofty proportions had arisen to overshadowStaple Inn. The westering sun bestowed bright glances on it, and thesouth-west wind blew into it unimpeded.

  Neither wind nor sun, however, favoured Staple Inn one December afternoontowards six o'clock, when it was filled with fog, and candles shed murkyand blurred rays through the windows of all its then-occupied sets ofchambers; notably from a set of chambers in a corner house in the littleinner quadrangle, presenting in black and white over its ugly portal themysterious inscription:

  P J T 1747

  In which set of chambers, never having troubled his head about theinscription, unless to bethink himself at odd times on glancing up at it,that haply it might mean Perhaps John Thomas, or Perhaps Joe Tyler, satMr. Grewgious writing by his fire.

  Who could have told, by looking at Mr. Grewgious, whether he had everknown ambition or disappointment? He had been bred to the Bar, and hadlaid himself out for chamber practice; to draw deeds; 'convey the wise itcall,' as Pistol says. But Conveyancing and he had made such a veryindifferent marriage of it that they had separated by consent--if therecan 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 beingblown towards him by some unaccountable wind, and he gaining great creditin it as one indefatigable in seeking out right and doing right, a prettyfat Receivership was next blown into his pocket by a wind more traceableto its source. So, by chance, he had found his niche. Receiver andAgent now, to two rich estates, and deputing their legal business, in anamount worth having, to a firm of solicitors on the floor below, he hadsnuffed out his ambition (supposing him to have ever lighted it), and hadsettled down with his snuffers for the rest of his life under the dryvine and fig-tree of P. J. T., who planted in seventeen-forty-seven.

  Many accounts and account-books, many files of correspondence, andseveral strong boxes, garnished Mr. Grewgious's room. They can scarcelybe represented as having lumbered it, so conscientious and precise wastheir orderly arrangement. The apprehension of dying suddenly, andleaving one fact or one figure with any incompleteness or obscurityattaching 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 aresorts of life-blood that course more quickly, more gaily, moreattractively; but there is no better sort in circulation.

  There was no luxury in his room. Even its comforts were limited to itsbeing dry and warm, and having a snug though faded fireside. What may becalled its private life was confined to the hearth, and all easy-chair,and an old-fashioned occasional round table that was brought out upon therug after business hours, from a corner where it elsewise remained turnedup like a shining mahogany shield. Behind it, when standing thus on thedefensive, was a closet, usually containing something good to drink. Anouter room was the clerk's room; Mr. Grewgious's sleeping-room was acrossthe common stair; and he held some not empty cellarage at the bottom ofthe common stair. Three hundred days in the year, at least, he crossedover to the hotel in Furnival's Inn for his dinner, and after dinnercrossed back again, to make the most of these simplicities until itshould become broad business day once more, with P. J. T., dateseventeen-forty-seven.

  As Mr. Grewgious sat and wrote by his fire that afternoon, so did theclerk of Mr. Grewgious sit and write by _his_ fire. A pale, puffy-faced,dark-haired person of thirty, with big dark eyes that wholly wantedlustre, and a dissatisfied doughy complexion, that seemed to ask to besent to the baker's, this attendant was a mysterious being, possessed ofsome strange power over Mr. Grewgious. As though he had been called intoexistence, like a fabulous Familiar, by a magic spell which had failedwhen required to dismiss him, he stuck tight to Mr. Grewgious's stool,although Mr. Grewgious's comfort and convenience would manifestly havebeen advanced by dispossessing him. A gloomy person with tangled locks,and a general air of having been reared under the shadow of that balefultree of Java which has given shelter to more lies than the wholebotanical kingdom, Mr. Grewgious, nevertheless, treated him withunaccountable consideration.

  'Now, Bazzard,' said Mr. Grewgious, on the entrance of his clerk: lookingup from his papers as he arranged them for the night: 'what is in thewind 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 youdo, Mr. Edwin? Dear me, you're choking!'

  'It's this fog,' returned Edwin; 'and it makes my eyes smart, likeCayenne pepper.'

  'Is it really so bad as that? Pray undo your wrappers. It's fortunate Ihave 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 withoutobserving it,' said Mr. Grewgious. 'Pray be seated in my chair. No. Ibeg! Coming out of such an atmosphere, in _my_ chair.'

  Edwin took the easy-chair in the corner; and the fog he had brought inwith him, and the fog he took off with his greatcoat and neck-shawl, wasspeedily 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 justacross Holborn. You had better take your Cayenne pepper here thanoutside; pray stop and dine.'

  'You are very kind,' said Edwin, glancing about him as though attractedby the notion of a new and relishing sort of gipsy-party.

  'Not at all,' said Mr. Grewgious; '_you_ are very kind to join issue witha bachelor in chambers, and take pot-luck. And I'll ask,' said Mr.Grewgious, dropping his voice, and speaking with a twinkling eye, as ifinspired with a bright thought: 'I'll ask Bazzard. He mightn't like itelse.--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'reinvited.'

  '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 inmaterials for laying the cloth. For dinner we'll have a tureen of thehottest and strongest soup available, and we'll have the best made-dishthat can be recommended, and we'll have a joint (such
as a haunch ofmutton), and we'll have a goose, or a turkey, or any little stuffed thingof that sort that may happen to be in the bill of fare--in short, we'llhave whatever there is on hand.'

  These liberal directions Mr. Grewgious issued with his usual air ofreading an inventory, or repeating a lesson, or doing anything else byrote. Bazzard, after drawing out the round table, withdrew to executethem.

  '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 orcommissariat 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, youquite 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 othercorner of the fire, and his shoulder-blades against the chimneypiece, andcollected his skirts for easy conversation.

  'I take it, without having the gift of prophecy, that you have done methe favour of looking in to mention that you are going down yonder--whereI can tell you, you are expected--and to offer to execute any littlecommission from me to my charming ward, and perhaps to sharpen me up abit 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 degreeexpressed that meaning--and had brought himself into scarcely supportableproximity with the fire, as if to burn the fullest effect of his archnessinto himself, as other subtle impressions are burnt into hard metals.But his archness suddenly flying before the composed face and manner ofhis visitor, and only the fire remaining, he started and rubbed himself.

  'I have lately been down yonder,' said Mr. Grewgious, rearranging hisskirts; 'and that was what I referred to, when I said I could tell youyou 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 veryaffable.'

  Edwin glanced at his face, uncertain whether or no he seriously objectedto the appellation. But Edwin might as well have glanced at the face ofa clock.

  'A pet name, sir,' he explained again.

  'Umps,' said Mr. Grewgious, with a nod. But with such an extraordinarycompromise between an unqualified assent and a qualified dissent, thathis 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 youanything 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 becomea 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 havebeen 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 aflying waiter; and the three brought in with them as much fog as gave anew roar to the fire. The flying waiter, who had brought everything onhis shoulders, laid the cloth with amazing rapidity and dexterity; whilethe immovable waiter, who had brought nothing, found fault with him. Theflying waiter then highly polished all the glasses he had brought, andthe immovable waiter looked through them. The flying waiter then flewacross Holborn for the soup, and flew back again, and then took anotherflight for the made-dish, and flew back again, and then took anotherflight for the joint and poultry, and flew back again, and between whilestook supplementary flights for a great variety of articles, as it wasdiscovered from time to time that the immovable waiter had forgotten themall. But let the flying waiter cleave the air as he might, he was alwaysreproached on his return by the immovable waiter for bringing fog withhim, and being out of breath. At the conclusion of the repast, by whichtime the flying waiter was severely blown, the immovable waiter gatheredup the tablecloth under his arm with a grand air, and having sternly (notto say with indignation) looked on at the flying waiter while he set theclean glasses round, directed a valedictory glance towards Mr. Grewgious,conveying: 'Let it be clearly understood between us that the reward ismine, and that Nil is the claim of this slave,' and pushed the flyingwaiter before him out of the room.

  It was like a highly-finished miniature painting representing My Lords ofthe Circumlocution Department, Commandership-in-Chief of any sort,Government. It was quite an edifying little picture to be hung on theline in the National Gallery.

  As the fog had been the proximate cause of this sumptuous repast, so thefog served for its general sauce. To hear the out-door clerks sneezing,wheezing, and beating their feet on the gravel was a zest far surpassingDoctor Kitchener's. To bid, with a shiver, the unfortunate flying waitershut the door before he had opened it, was a condiment of a profounderflavour than Harvey. And here let it be noticed, parenthetically, thatthe leg of this young man, in its application to the door, evinced thefinest sense of touch: always preceding himself and tray (with somethingof an angling air about it), by some seconds: and always lingering afterhe and the tray had disappeared, like Macbeth's leg when accompanying himoff the stage with reluctance to the assassination of Duncan.

  The host had gone below to the cellar, and had brought up bottles ofruby, straw-coloured, and golden drinks, which had ripened long ago inlands 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 tohelp the corkscrew (like prisoners helping rioters to force their gates),and danced out gaily. If P. J. T. in seventeen-forty-seven, or in anyother 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 theseglowing vintages. Instead of his drinking them, they might have beenpoured over him in his high-dried snuff form, and run to waste, for anylights and shades they caused to flicker over his face. Neither was hismanner influenced. But, in his wooden way, he had observant eyes forEdwin; and when at the end of dinner, he motioned Edwin back to his owneasy-chair in the fireside corner, and Edwin sank luxuriously into itafter very brief remonstrance, Mr. Grewgious, as he turned his seat roundtowards the fire too, and smoothed his head and face, might have beenseen 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 consumingmeat 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 unfoundedappearance of enthusiasm, and with the unspoken addition: 'What in, Iwonder!'

  'And May!' pursued Mr. Grewgious--'I am not at liberty to bedefinite--May!--my conversational powers are so very limited that I knowI shall not come well out of this--May!--it ought to be putimaginatively, but I have no imagination--May!--the thorn of anxiety isas 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 histangled locks, as if the thorn of anxiety were there; then into hiswaistcoat, as if it were there; then into his pockets, as if it werethere. In all these movements he was closely followed by the eyes ofEdwin, 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 withone hand, and bending aside under cover of the other, to whisper toEdwin, 'to drink to my ward. But I put Bazzard first. He mightn't likeit 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 Edwinwinked responsively, without the least idea what he meant by doing so.

  'And now,' said Mr. Grewgious, 'I devote a bumper to the fair andfascinating 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 ofcourse ensued: though why these pauses _should_ come upon us when we haveperformed any small social rite, not directly inducive ofself-examination or mental despondency, who can tell? 'I am aparticularly Angular man, and yet I fancy (if I may use the word, nothaving a morsel of fancy), that I could draw a picture of a true lover'sstate 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, 'andwill throw in a few touches from the life. I dare say it is wrong inmany particulars, and wants many touches from the life, for I was born aChip, and have neither soft sympathies nor soft experiences. Well! Ihazard the guess that the true lover's mind is completely permeated bythe beloved object of his affections. I hazard the guess that her dearname is precious to him, cannot be heard or repeated without emotion, andis preserved sacred. If he has any distinguishing appellation offondness for her, it is reserved for her, and is not for common ears. Aname that it would be a privilege to call her by, being alone with herown 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 hishands on his knees, continuously chopping this discourse out of himself:much as a charity boy with a very good memory might get his catechismsaid: and evincing no correspondent emotion whatever, unless in a certainoccasional little tingling perceptible at the end of his nose.

  'My picture,' Mr. Grewgious proceeded, 'goes on to represent (undercorrection from you, Mr. Edwin), the true lover as ever impatient to bein the presence or vicinity of the beloved object of his affections; ascaring very little for his case in any other society; and as constantlyseeking that. If I was to say seeking that, as a bird seeks its nest, Ishould make an ass of myself, because that would trench upon what Iunderstand to be poetry; and I am so far from trenching upon poetry atany time, that I never, to my knowledge, got within ten thousand miles ofit. And I am besides totally unacquainted with the habits of birds,except the birds of Staple Inn, who seek their nests on ledges, and ingutter-pipes and chimneypots, not constructed for them by the beneficenthand of Nature. I beg, therefore, to be understood as foregoing thebird's-nest. But my picture does represent the true lover as having noexistence 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 notclearly express what I mean by that, it is either for the reason thathaving no conversational powers, I cannot express what I mean, or thathaving no meaning, I do not mean what I fail to express. Which, to thebest of my belief, is not the case.'

  Edwin had turned red and turned white, as certain points of this picturecame into the light. He now sat looking at the fire, and bit his lip.

  'The speculations of an Angular man,' resumed Mr. Grewgious, stillsitting and speaking exactly as before, 'are probably erroneous on soglobular a topic. But I figure to myself (subject, as before, to Mr.Edwin's correction), that there can be no coolness, no lassitude, nodoubt, no indifference, no half fire and half smoke state of mind, in areal lover. Pray am I at all near the mark in my picture?'

  As abrupt in his conclusion as in his commencement and progress, hejerked this inquiry at Edwin, and stopped when one might have supposedhim 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 pictureyou have drawn is generally correct; but I submit that perhaps you may berather hard upon the unlucky lover.'

  'Likely so,' assented Mr. Grewgious, 'likely so. I am a hard man in thegrain.'

  '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 byunexpectedly striking in with:

  'No to be sure; he _may_ not!'

  After that, they all sat silent; the silence of Mr. Bazzard beingoccasioned 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 thesupposititious charity boy just now referred to might have repeated averse or two from the Book of Proverbs, there was something dreamy (forso literal a man) in the way in which he now shook his right forefingerat the live coals in the grate, and again fell silent.

  But not for long. As he sat upright and stiff in his chair, he suddenlyrapped his knees, like the carved image of some queer Joss or othercoming 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 stoodit bottom upward on the table, as though he had just caught a bluebottlein it.

  'And now, Mr. Edwin,' he proceeded, wiping his mouth and hands upon hishandkerchief: 'to a little piece of business. You received from me, theother day, a certified copy of Miss Rosa's father's will. You knew itscontents before, but you received it from me as a matter of business. Ishould have sent it to Mr. Jasper, but for Miss Rosa's wishing it to comestraight to you, in preference. You received it?'

  'Quite safely, sir.'

  'You should have acknowledged its receipt,' said Mr. Grewgious; 'businessbeing 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 ofkindly 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 maythink best.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Mr. Edwin, it came into my mind just now, when I was looking at thefire, that I could, in my discretion, acquit myself of that trust at nobetter time than the present. Favour me with your attention, half aminute.'

  He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, singled out by the candle-lightthe key he wanted, and then, with a candle in his hand, went to a bureauor 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 thisin his hand, he returned to his chair. As he held it up for the youngman to see, his hand trembled.

  'Mr. Edwin, this rose of diamonds and rubies delicately set in gold, wasa ring belonging to Miss Rosa's mother. It was removed from her deadhand, in my presence, with such distracted grief as I hope it may neverbe my lot to contemplate again. Hard man as I am, I am not hard enoughfor that. See how bright these stones shine!' opening the case. 'Andyet the eyes that were so much brighter, and that so often looked uponthem with a light and a proud he
art, have been ashes among ashes, anddust among dust, some years! If I had any imagination (which it isneedless to say I have not), I might imagine that the lasting beauty ofthese 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 herbeautiful and happy career, by her husband, when they first plightedtheir faith to one another. It was he who removed it from herunconscious 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 andMiss Rosa growing to manhood and womanhood, and your betrothal prosperingand 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 theaction of his hand, as Mr. Grewgious, looking steadfastly at him, gavehim the ring.

  'Your placing it on her finger,' said Mr. Grewgious, 'will be the solemnseal upon your strict fidelity to the living and the dead. You are goingto 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 arecommitting yourself to this step for no higher reason than because youhave long been accustomed to look forward to it; then,' said Mr.Grewgious, 'I charge you once more, by the living and by the dead, tobring that ring back to me!'

  Here Bazzard awoke himself by his own snoring; and, as is usual in suchcases, sat apoplectically staring at vacancy, as defying vacancy toaccuse 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 ofdiamonds and rubies. You see?'

  Edwin reproduced the little case, and opened it; and Bazzard looked intoit.

  'I follow you both, sir,' returned Bazzard, 'and I witness thetransaction.'

  Evidently anxious to get away and be alone, Edwin Drood now resumed hisouter clothing, muttering something about time and appointments. The fogwas reported no clearer (by the flying waiter, who alighted from aspeculative flight in the coffee interest), but he went out into it; andBazzard, after his manner, 'followed' him.

  Mr. Grewgious, left alone, walked softly and slowly to and fro, for anhour and more. He was restless to-night, and seemed dispirited.

  'I hope I have done right,' he said. 'The appeal to him seemednecessary. It was hard to lose the ring, and yet it must have gone fromme very soon.'

  He closed the empty little drawer with a sigh, and shut and locked theescritoire, and came back to the solitary fireside.

  'Her ring,' he went on. 'Will it come back to me? My mind hangs abouther ring very uneasily to-night. But that is explainable. I have had itso long, and I have prized it so much! I wonder--'

  He was in a wondering mood as well as a restless; for, though he checkedhimself at that point, and took another walk, he resumed his wonderingwhen he sat down again.

  'I wonder (for the ten-thousandth time, and what a weak fool I, for whatcan it signify now!) whether he confided the charge of their orphan childto 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 onher, at a hopeless, speechless distance, when he struck in and won her.I wonder whether it ever crept into his mind who that unfortunate someone was!'

  'I wonder whether I shall sleep to-night! At all events, I will shut outthe world with the bedclothes, and try.'

  Mr. Grewgious crossed the staircase to his raw and foggy bedroom, and wassoon ready for bed. Dimly catching sight of his face in the mistylooking-glass, he held his candle to it for a moment.

  'A likely some one, _you_, to come into anybody's thoughts in such anaspect!' he exclaimed. 'There! there! there! Get to bed, poor man, andcease to jabber!'

  With that, he extinguished his light, pulled up the bedclothes aroundhim, and with another sigh shut out the world. And yet there are suchunexplored romantic nooks in the unlikeliest men, that even old tinderousand touchwoody P. J. T. Possibly Jabbered Thus, at some odd times, in orabout seventeen-forty-seven.