CHAPTER XIV--WHEN SHALL THESE THREE MEET AGAIN?
Christmas Eve in Cloisterham. A few strange faces in the streets; a fewother faces, half strange and half familiar, once the faces ofCloisterham children, now the faces of men and women who come back fromthe outer world at long intervals to find the city wonderfully shrunkenin size, as if it had not washed by any means well in the meanwhile. Tothese, the striking of the Cathedral clock, and the cawing of the rooksfrom the Cathedral tower, are like voices of their nursery time. To suchas these, it has happened in their dying hours afar off, that they haveimagined their chamber-floor to be strewn with the autumnal leaves fallenfrom the elm-trees in the Close: so have the rustling sounds and freshscents of their earliest impressions revived when the circle of theirlives was very nearly traced, and the beginning and the end were drawingclose together.
Seasonable tokens are about. Red berries shine here and there in thelattices of Minor Canon Corner; Mr. and Mrs. Tope are daintily stickingsprigs of holly into the carvings and sconces of the Cathedral stalls, asif they were sticking them into the coat-button-holes of the Dean andChapter. Lavish profusion is in the shops: particularly in the articlesof currants, raisins, spices, candied peel, and moist sugar. An unusualair of gallantry and dissipation is abroad; evinced in an immense bunchof mistletoe hanging in the greengrocer's shop doorway, and a poor littleTwelfth Cake, culminating in the figure of a Harlequin--such a very poorlittle Twelfth Cake, that one would rather called it a Twenty-fourth Cakeor a Forty-eighth Cake--to be raffled for at the pastrycook's, terms oneshilling per member. Public amusements are not wanting. The Wax-Workwhich made so deep an impression on the reflective mind of the Emperor ofChina is to be seen by particular desire during Christmas Week only, onthe premises of the bankrupt livery-stable-keeper up the lane; and a newgrand comic Christmas pantomime is to be produced at the Theatre: thelatter heralded by the portrait of Signor Jacksonini the clown, saying'How do you do to-morrow?' quite as large as life, and almost asmiserably. In short, Cloisterham is up and doing: though from thisdescription the High School and Miss Twinkleton's are to be excluded.From the former establishment the scholars have gone home, every one ofthem in love with one of Miss Twinkleton's young ladies (who knowsnothing about it); and only the handmaidens flutter occasionally in thewindows of the latter. It is noticed, by the bye, that these damselsbecome, within the limits of decorum, more skittish when thus intrustedwith the concrete representation of their sex, than when dividing therepresentation with Miss Twinkleton's young ladies.
Three are to meet at the gatehouse to-night. How does each one of thethree 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 ofa 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 histable, to arranging his books, and to tearing up and burning his straypapers. He makes a clean sweep of all untidy accumulations, puts all hisdrawers in order, and leaves no note or scrap of paper undestroyed, savesuch memoranda as bear directly on his studies. This done, he turns tohis wardrobe, selects a few articles of ordinary wear--among them, changeof 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. Healso purchased, at the same time and at the same place, a heavywalking-stick; strong in the handle for the grip of the hand, andiron-shod. He tries this, swings it, poises it, and lays it by, with theknapsack, 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 hisroom, and has met the Minor Canon on the staircase, coming out of hisbedroom upon the same story--when he turns back again for hiswalking-stick, thinking he will carry it now. Mr. Crisparkle, who haspaused on the staircase, sees it in his hand on his immediatelyreappearing, takes it from him, and asks him with a smile how he choosesa stick?
'Really I don't know that I understand the subject,' he answers. 'Ichose 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 pedestrianform. 'You don't rest upon it; you merely balance with it.'
'I shall know better, with practice, sir. I have not lived in a walkingcountry, you know.'
'True,' says Mr. Crisparkle. 'Get into a little training, and we willhave a few score miles together. I should leave you nowhere now. Do youcome 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 maybe informed that her brother is there, by appointment. He waits at thegate, not even crossing the threshold; for he is on his parole not to puthimself in Rosa's way.
His sister is at least as mindful of the obligation they have taken onthemselves as he can be, and loses not a moment in joining him. Theymeet affectionately, avoid lingering there, and walk towards the upperinland country.
'I am not going to tread upon forbidden ground, Helena,' says Neville,when they have walked some distance and are turning; 'you will understandin another moment that I cannot help referring to--what shall I say?--myinfatuation.'
'Had you not better avoid it, Neville? You know that I can hearnothing.'
'You can hear, my dear, what Mr. Crisparkle has heard, and heard withapproval.'
'Yes; I can hear so much.'
'Well, it is this. I am not only unsettled and unhappy myself, but I amconscious of unsettling and interfering with other people. How do I knowthat, but for my unfortunate presence, you, and--and--the rest of thatformer party, our engaging guardian excepted, might be dining cheerfullyin Minor Canon Corner to-morrow? Indeed it probably would be so. I cansee too well that I am not high in the old lady's opinion, and it is easyto understand what an irksome clog I must be upon the hospitalities ofher orderly house--especially at this time of year--when I must be keptasunder from this person, and there is such a reason for my not beingbrought into contact with that person, and an unfavourable reputation haspreceded me with such another person; and so on. I have put this verygently to Mr. Crisparkle, for you know his self-denying ways; but still Ihave put it. What I have laid much greater stress upon at the same timeis, that I am engaged in a miserable struggle with myself, and that alittle change and absence may enable me to come through it the better.So, the weather being bright and hard, I am going on a walkingexpedition, and intend taking myself out of everybody's way (my ownincluded, 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 tobear 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 itrather a moody scheme, and one that might do a brooding mind harm. Butwe 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 Ido want to conquer myself, and that, this evening well got over, it issurely better that I should be away from here just now, than here. Icould hardly help meeting certain people walking together here, and thatcould do no good, and is certainly not the way to forget. A fortnighthence, that chance will probably be over, for the time; and when it againarises for the last time, why, I can again go away. Farther, I really dofeel hopeful of bracing exercise and wholesome fatigue. You know thatMr. Crisparkle allows such things their full weight in the preservationof his own sound mind in his own sound body, and that his just spirit isnot likely to maintain one set of natural laws for himself and anotherfor me. He yielded to
my view of the matter, when convinced that I washonestly in earnest; and so, with his full consent, I start to-morrowmorning. Early enough to be not only out of the streets, but out ofhearing 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 wellof it, as a healthy project, denoting a sincere endeavour and an activeattempt at self-correction. She is inclined to pity him, poor fellow,for going away solitary on the great Christmas festival; but she feels itmuch 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 hisadventures.
Does he send clothes on in advance of him?
'My dear Helena, no. Travel like a pilgrim, with wallet and staff. Mywallet--or my knapsack--is packed, and ready for strapping on; and hereis my staff!'
He hands it to her; she makes the same remark as Mr. Crisparkle, that itis 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 tocarry his case with her, and therefore to present it in its brightestaspect, has roused his spirits. Perhaps, the having done so withsuccess, is followed by a revulsion. As the day closes in, and thecity-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 soonit will be over.'
'How soon it will be over!' he repeats gloomily. 'Yes. But I don't likeit.'
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,' heanswers 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 strangedead weight there is in the air!'
She calls his attention to those copperous clouds beyond the river, andsays that the wind is rising. He scarcely speaks again, until he takesleave of her, at the gate of the Nuns' House. She does not immediatelyenter, when they have parted, but remains looking after him along thestreet. 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 hehad thought, has gone out of his life; and in the silence of his ownchamber he wept for it last night. Though the image of Miss Landlessstill hovers in the background of his mind, the pretty littleaffectionate creature, so much firmer and wiser than he had supposed,occupies its stronghold. It is with some misgiving of his ownunworthiness that he thinks of her, and of what they might have been toone another, if he had been more in earnest some time ago; if he had seta higher value on her; if, instead of accepting his lot in life as aninheritance of course, he had studied the right way to its appreciationand enhancement. And still, for all this, and though there is a sharpheartache in all this, the vanity and caprice of youth sustain thathandsome 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 itmean that she saw below the surface of his thoughts, and down into theirtwilight depths? Scarcely that, for it was a look of astonished and keeninquiry. He decides that he cannot understand it, though it wasremarkably expressive.
As he only waits for Mr. Grewgious now, and will depart immediately afterhaving seen him, he takes a sauntering leave of the ancient city and itsneighbourhood. He recalls the time when Rosa and he walked here orthere, mere children, full of the dignity of being engaged. Poorchildren! he thinks, with a pitying sadness.
Finding that his watch has stopped, he turns into the jeweller's shop, tohave it wound and set. The jeweller is knowing on the subject of abracelet, which he begs leave to submit, in a general and quite aimlessway. It would suit (he considers) a young bride, to perfection;especially if of a rather diminutive style of beauty. Finding thebracelet but coldly looked at, the jeweller invites attention to a trayof rings for gentlemen; here is a style of ring, now, he remarks--a verychaste signet--which gentlemen are much given to purchasing, whenchanging their condition. A ring of a very responsible appearance. Withthe date of their wedding-day engraved inside, several gentlemen havepreferred it to any other kind of memento.
The rings are as coldly viewed as the bracelet. Edwin tells the tempterthat he wears no jewellery but his watch and chain, which were hisfather's; and his shirt-pin.
'That I was aware of,' is the jeweller's reply, 'for Mr. Jasper droppedin for a watch-glass the other day, and, in fact, I showed these articlesto him, remarking that if he _should_ wish to make a present to agentleman relative, on any particular occasion--But he said with a smilethat he had an inventory in his mind of all the jewellery his gentlemanrelative ever wore; namely, his watch and chain, and his shirt-pin.'Still (the jeweller considers) that might not apply to all times, thoughapplying to the present time. 'Twenty minutes past two, Mr. Drood, I setyour 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 oldJack! If I were to make an extra crease in my neckcloth, he would thinkit worth noticing!'
He strolls about and about, to pass the time until the dinner-hour. Itsomehow happens that Cloisterham seems reproachful to him to-day; hasfault to find with him, as if he had not used it well; but is far morepensive with him than angry. His wonted carelessness is replaced by awistful looking at, and dwelling upon, all the old landmarks. He willsoon 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 andfro, full half an hour by the Cathedral chimes, and it has closed indark, before he becomes quite aware of a woman crouching on the groundnear 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 thetime, 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 alamp near it, he sees that the woman is of a haggard appearance, and thather weazen chin is resting on her hands, and that her eyes arestaring--with an unwinking, blind sort of steadfastness--before her.
Always kindly, but moved to be unusually kind this evening, and havingbestowed 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 departurefrom her strange blind stare.
'Are you blind?'
'No, deary.'
'Are you lost, homeless, faint? What is the matter, that you stay herein the cold so long, without moving?'
By slow and stiff efforts, she appears to contract her vision until itcan rest upon him; and then a curious film passes over her, and shebegins to shake.
He straightens himself, recoils a step, and looks down at her in a dreadamazement; 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 isweakly; my lungs is dreffle bad. Poor me, poor me, my cough is rattlingdry!' 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, anddon't you be afeard for me. I'll get back to London then, and trouble noone. 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. Ifyou don't give me three-and-sixpence, don't give me a brass farden. Andif 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. Sheinstantly clutches it tight, and rises to her feet with a croaking laughof 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 repetitionof 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 hisface.
'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 headds: '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 yourname 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-talkingto you, deary--should live to all eternity!' replies the woman.
She has leaned forward to say it in his ear, with her forefinger shakingbefore 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 sequesteredplace, surrounded by vestiges of old time and decay, it rather has atendency to call a shudder into being. He makes for the better-lightedstreets, and resolves as he walks on to say nothing of this to-night, butto 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 betterworth remembering.
Still, it holds to him, as many things much better worth rememberingnever did. He has another mile or so, to linger out before thedinner-hour; and, when he walks over the bridge and by the river, thewoman's words are in the rising wind, in the angry sky, in the troubledwater, in the flickering lights. There is some solemn echo of them evenin the Cathedral chime, which strikes a sudden surprise to his heart ashe 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 hisguests. Having no music-lessons to give in the holiday season, his timeis his own, but for the Cathedral services. He is early among theshopkeepers, ordering little table luxuries that his nephew likes. Hisnephew will not be with him long, he tells his provision-dealers, and somust be petted and made much of. While out on his hospitablepreparations, he looks in on Mr. Sapsea; and mentions that dear Ned, andthat inflammable young spark of Mr. Crisparkle's, are to dine at thegatehouse to-day, and make up their difference. Mr. Sapsea is by nomeans friendly towards the inflammable young spark. He says that hiscomplexion is 'Un-English.' And when Mr. Sapsea has once declaredanything to be Un-English, he considers that thing everlastingly sunk inthe bottomless pit.
John Jasper is truly sorry to hear Mr. Sapsea speak thus, for he knowsright well that Mr. Sapsea never speaks without a meaning, and that hehas a subtle trick of being right. Mr. Sapsea (by a very remarkablecoincidence) is of exactly that opinion.
Mr. Jasper is in beautiful voice this day. In the pathetic supplicationto have his heart inclined to keep this law, he quite astonishes hisfellows by his melodious power. He has never sung difficult music withsuch skill and harmony, as in this day's Anthem. His nervous temperamentis 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 thespirits. The mere mechanism of his throat is a little tender, for hewears, both with his singing-robe and with his ordinary dress, a largeblack scarf of strong close-woven silk, slung loosely round his neck.But his composure is so noticeable, that Mr. Crisparkle speaks of it asthey come out from Vespers.
'I must thank you, Jasper, for the pleasure with which I have heard youto-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 hishand: 'nothing unsteady, nothing forced, nothing avoided; all thoroughlydone 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 thatoccasional indisposition of yours.'
'No, really? That's well observed; for I have.'
'Then stick to it, my good fellow,' says Mr. Crisparkle, clapping him onthe shoulder with friendly encouragement, 'stick to it.'
'I will.'
'I congratulate you,' Mr. Crisparkle pursues, as they come out of theCathedral, 'on all accounts.'
'Thank you again. I will walk round to the Corner with you, if you don'tobject; I have plenty of time before my company come; and I want to say aword 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 blackhumours; 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 atthe 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 hadbeen 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 ahealthier state now, and I acknowledge it with genuine pleasure. I madea 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 hisnerves, or his stomach, out of order, dwells upon an idea until it losesits proportions. That was my case with the idea in question. So I shallburn the evidence of my case, when the book is full, and begin the nextvolume with a clearer vision.'
'This is better,' says Mr. Crisparkle, stopping at the steps of his owndoor to shake hands, 'than I could have hoped.'
'Why, naturally,' returns Jasper. 'You had but little reason to hopethat I should become more like yourself. You are always trainingyourself 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. Nevillehas 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 hasnot 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. Nevillesaid he would probably go straight to the gatehouse.
'Bad manners in a host!' says Jasper. 'My company will be t
here beforeme! 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 tothe gatehouse. He sings, in a low voice and with delicate expression, ashe walks along. It still seems as if a false note were not within hispower to-night, and as if nothing could hurry or retard him. Arrivingthus under the arched entrance of his dwelling, he pauses for an instantin the shelter to pull off that great black scarf, and bang it in a loopupon his arm. For that brief time, his face is knitted and stern. Butit 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 themargin of the tide of busy life. Softened sounds and hum of traffic passit and flow on irregularly into the lonely Precincts; but very littleelse goes by, save violent rushes of wind. It comes on to blow aboisterous gale.
The Precincts are never particularly well lighted; but the strong blastsof wind blowing out many of the lamps (in some instances shattering theframes too, and bringing the glass rattling to the ground), they areunusually dark to-night. The darkness is augmented and confused, byflying dust from the earth, dry twigs from the trees, and great raggedfragments from the rooks' nests up in the tower. The trees themselves sotoss 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 andagain a crack, and a rushing fall, denote that some large branch hasyielded to the storm.
Not such power of wind has blown for many a winter night. Chimneystopple in the streets, and people hold to posts and corners, and to oneanother, to keep themselves upon their feet. The violent rushes abatenot, but increase in frequency and fury until at midnight, when thestreets are empty, the storm goes thundering along them, rattling at allthe latches, and tearing at all the shutters, as if warning the people toget up and fly with it, rather than have the roofs brought down upontheir brains.
Still, the red light burns steadily. Nothing is steady but the redlight.
All through the night the wind blows, and abates not. But early in themorning, 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 awounded monster dying, it drops and sinks; and at full daylight it isdead.
It is then seen that the hands of the Cathedral clock are torn off; thatlead from the roof has been stripped away, rolled up, and blown into theClose; and that some stones have been displaced upon the summit of thegreat tower. Christmas morning though it be, it is necessary to send upworkmen, to ascertain the extent of the damage done. These, led byDurdles, go aloft; while Mr. Tope and a crowd of early idlers gather downin Minor Canon Corner, shading their eyes and watching for theirappearance 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 inquiringof 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 atthe 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 eyesare turned on Mr. Jasper, white, half-dressed, panting, and clinging tothe rail before the Minor Canon's house.