CHAPTER XXIII--THE DAWN AGAIN
Although Mr. Crisparkle and John Jasper met daily under the Cathedralroof, nothing at any time passed between them having reference to EdwinDrood, after the time, more than half a year gone by, when Jasper mutelyshowed the Minor Canon the conclusion and the resolution entered in hisDiary. It is not likely that they ever met, though so often, without thethoughts of each reverting to the subject. It is not likely that theyever met, though so often, without a sensation on the part of each thatthe other was a perplexing secret to him. Jasper as the denouncer andpursuer of Neville Landless, and Mr. Crisparkle as his consistentadvocate and protector, must at least have stood sufficiently inopposition to have speculated with keen interest on the steadiness andnext direction of the other's designs. But neither ever broached thetheme.
False pretence not being in the Minor Canon's nature, he doubtlessdisplayed openly that he would at any time have revived the subject, andeven desired to discuss it. The determined reticence of Jasper, however,was not to be so approached. Impassive, moody, solitary, resolute, soconcentrated on one idea, and on its attendant fixed purpose, that hewould share it with no fellow-creature, he lived apart from human life.Constantly exercising an Art which brought him into mechanical harmonywith others, and which could not have been pursued unless he and they hadbeen in the nicest mechanical relations and unison, it is curious toconsider that the spirit of the man was in moral accordance orinterchange with nothing around him. This indeed he had confided to hislost nephew, before the occasion for his present inflexibility arose.
That he must know of Rosa's abrupt departure, and that he must divine itscause, was not to be doubted. Did he suppose that he had terrified herinto silence? or did he suppose that she had imparted to any one--to Mr.Crisparkle himself, for instance--the particulars of his last interviewwith her? Mr. Crisparkle could not determine this in his mind. He couldnot but admit, however, as a just man, that it was not, of itself, acrime to fall in love with Rosa, any more than it was a crime to offer toset love above revenge.
The dreadful suspicion of Jasper, which Rosa was so shocked to havereceived into her imagination, appeared to have no harbour in Mr.Crisparkle's. If it ever haunted Helena's thoughts or Neville's, neithergave it one spoken word of utterance. Mr. Grewgious took no pains toconceal his implacable dislike of Jasper, yet he never referred it,however distantly, to such a source. But he was a reticent as well as aneccentric man; and he made no mention of a certain evening when he warmedhis hands at the gatehouse fire, and looked steadily down upon a certainheap of torn and miry clothes upon the floor.
Drowsy Cloisterham, whenever it awoke to a passing reconsideration of astory above six months old and dismissed by the bench of magistrates, waspretty equally divided in opinion whether John Jasper's beloved nephewhad been killed by his treacherously passionate rival, or in an openstruggle; or had, for his own purposes, spirited himself away. It thenlifted up its head, to notice that the bereaved Jasper was still everdevoted to discovery and revenge; and then dozed off again. This was thecondition of matters, all round, at the period to which the presenthistory has now attained.
The Cathedral doors have closed for the night; and the Choir-master, on ashort leave of absence for two or three services, sets his face towardsLondon. He travels thither by the means by which Rosa travelled, andarrives, as Rosa arrived, on a hot, dusty evening.
His travelling baggage is easily carried in his hand, and he repairs withit on foot, to a hybrid hotel in a little square behind AldersgateStreet, near the General Post Office. It is hotel, boarding-house, orlodging-house, at its visitor's option. It announces itself, in the newRailway Advertisers, as a novel enterprise, timidly beginning to springup. It bashfully, almost apologetically, gives the traveller tounderstand that it does not expect him, on the good old constitutionalhotel plan, to order a pint of sweet blacking for his drinking, and throwit away; but insinuates that he may have his boots blacked instead of hisstomach, and maybe also have bed, breakfast, attendance, and a porter upall night, for a certain fixed charge. From these and similar premises,many true Britons in the lowest spirits deduce that the times arelevelling times, except in the article of high roads, of which there willshortly be not one in England.
He eats without appetite, and soon goes forth again. Eastward and stilleastward through the stale streets he takes his way, until he reaches hisdestination: a miserable court, specially miserable among many such.
He ascends a broken staircase, opens a door, looks into a dark stiflingroom, and says: 'Are you alone here?'
'Alone, deary; worse luck for me, and better for you,' replies a croakingvoice. 'Come in, come in, whoever you be: I can't see you till I light amatch, yet I seem to know the sound of your speaking. I'm acquaintedwith you, ain't I?'
'Light your match, and try.'
'So I will, deary, so I will; but my hand that shakes, as I can't lay iton a match all in a moment. And I cough so, that, put my matches where Imay, I never find 'em there. They jump and start, as I cough and cough,like live things. Are you off a voyage, deary?'
'No.'
'Not seafaring?'
'No.'
'Well, there's land customers, and there's water customers. I'm a motherto both. Different from Jack Chinaman t'other side the court. He ain'ta father to neither. It ain't in him. And he ain't got the true secretof mixing, though he charges as much as me that has, and more if he canget it. Here's a match, and now where's the candle? If my cough takesme, I shall cough out twenty matches afore I gets a light.'
But she finds the candle, and lights it, before the cough comes on. Itseizes her in the moment of success, and she sits down rocking herself toand fro, and gasping at intervals: 'O, my lungs is awful bad! my lungs iswore away to cabbage-nets!' until the fit is over. During itscontinuance she has had no power of sight, or any other power notabsorbed in the struggle; but as it leaves her, she begins to strain hereyes, and as soon as she is able to articulate, she cries, staring:
'Why, it's you!'
'Are you so surprised to see me?'
'I thought I never should have seen you again, deary. I thought you wasdead, and gone to Heaven.'
'Why?'
'I didn't suppose you could have kept away, alive, so long, from the poorold soul with the real receipt for mixing it. And you are in mourningtoo! Why didn't you come and have a pipe or two of comfort? Did theyleave you money, perhaps, and so you didn't want comfort?'
'No.'
'Who was they as died, deary?'
'A relative.'
'Died of what, lovey?'
'Probably, Death.'
'We are short to-night!' cries the woman, with a propitiatory laugh.'Short and snappish we are! But we're out of sorts for want of a smoke.We've got the all-overs, haven't us, deary? But this is the place tocure 'em in; this is the place where the all-overs is smoked off.'
'You may make ready, then,' replies the visitor, 'as soon as you like.'
He divests himself of his shoes, loosens his cravat, and lies across thefoot of the squalid bed, with his head resting on his left hand.
'Now you begin to look like yourself,' says the woman approvingly. 'NowI begin to know my old customer indeed! Been trying to mix for yourselfthis long time, poppet?'
'I have been taking it now and then in my own way.'
'Never take it your own way. It ain't good for trade, and it ain't goodfor you. Where's my ink-bottle, and where's my thimble, and where's mylittle spoon? He's going to take it in a artful form now, my dearydear!'
Entering on her process, and beginning to bubble and blow at the faintspark enclosed in the hollow of her hands, she speaks from time to time,in a tone of snuffling satisfaction, without leaving off. When hespeaks, he does so without looking at her, and as if his thoughts werealready roaming away by anticipation.
'I've got a pretty many smokes ready for you, first and last, haven't I,chuckey?'
'A good many.'
'When you first come, you was quite new to it; warn't ye?'
'Yes, I was easily disposed of, then.'
'But you got on in the world, and was able by-and-by to take your pipewith the best of 'em, warn't ye?'
'Ah; and the worst.'
'It's just ready for you. What a sweet singer you was when you firstcome! Used to drop your head, and sing yourself off like a bird! It'sready for you now, deary.'
He takes it from her with great care, and puts the mouthpiece to hislips. She seats herself beside him, ready to refill the pipe.
After inhaling a few whiffs in silence, he doubtingly accosts her with:
'Is it as potent as it used to be?'
'What do you speak of, deary?'
'What should I speak of, but what I have in my mouth?'
'It's just the same. Always the identical same.'
'It doesn't taste so. And it's slower.'
'You've got more used to it, you see.'
'That may be the cause, certainly. Look here.' He stops, becomesdreamy, and seems to forget that he has invited her attention. She bendsover him, and speaks in his ear.
'I'm attending to you. Says you just now, Look here. Says I now, I'mattending to ye. We was talking just before of your being used to it.'
'I know all that. I was only thinking. Look here. Suppose you hadsomething in your mind; something you were going to do.'
'Yes, deary; something I was going to do?'
'But had not quite determined to do.'
'Yes, deary.'
'Might or might not do, you understand.'
'Yes.' With the point of a needle she stirs the contents of the bowl.
'Should you do it in your fancy, when you were lying here doing this?'
She nods her head. 'Over and over again.'
'Just like me! I did it over and over again. I have done it hundreds ofthousands of times in this room.'
'It's to be hoped it was pleasant to do, deary.'
'It _was_ pleasant to do!'
He says this with a savage air, and a spring or start at her. Quiteunmoved she retouches and replenishes the contents of the bowl with herlittle spatula. Seeing her intent upon the occupation, he sinks into hisformer attitude.
'It was a journey, a difficult and dangerous journey. That was thesubject in my mind. A hazardous and perilous journey, over abysses wherea slip would be destruction. Look down, look down! You see what lies atthe bottom there?'
He has darted forward to say it, and to point at the ground, as though atsome imaginary object far beneath. The woman looks at him, as hisspasmodic face approaches close to hers, and not at his pointing. Sheseems to know what the influence of her perfect quietude would be; if so,she has not miscalculated it, for he subsides again.
'Well; I have told you I did it here hundreds of thousands of times.What do I say? I did it millions and billions of times. I did it sooften, and through such vast expanses of time, that when it was reallydone, it seemed not worth the doing, it was done so soon.'
'That's the journey you have been away upon,' she quietly remarks.
He glares at her as he smokes; and then, his eyes becoming filmy,answers: 'That's the journey.'
Silence ensues. His eyes are sometimes closed and sometimes open. Thewoman sits beside him, very attentive to the pipe, which is all the whileat his lips.
'I'll warrant,' she observes, when he has been looking fixedly at her forsome consecutive moments, with a singular appearance in his eyes ofseeming to see her a long way off, instead of so near him: 'I'll warrantyou made the journey in a many ways, when you made it so often?'
'No, always in one way.'
'Always in the same way?'
'Ay.'
'In the way in which it was really made at last?'
'Ay.'
'And always took the same pleasure in harping on it?'
'Ay.'
For the time he appears unequal to any other reply than this lazymonosyllabic assent. Probably to assure herself that it is not theassent of a mere automaton, she reverses the form of her next sentence.
'Did you never get tired of it, deary, and try to call up something elsefor a change?'
He struggles into a sitting posture, and retorts upon her: 'What do youmean? What did I want? What did I come for?'
She gently lays him back again, and before returning him the instrumenthe has dropped, revives the fire in it with her own breath; then says tohim, coaxingly:
'Sure, sure, sure! Yes, yes, yes! Now I go along with you. You was tooquick for me. I see now. You come o' purpose to take the journey. Why,I might have known it, through its standing by you so.'
He answers first with a laugh, and then with a passionate setting of histeeth: 'Yes, I came on purpose. When I could not bear my life, I came toget the relief, and I got it. It WAS one! It WAS one!' This repetitionwith extraordinary vehemence, and the snarl of a wolf.
She observes him very cautiously, as though mentally feeling her way toher next remark. It is: 'There was a fellow-traveller, deary.'
'Ha, ha, ha!' He breaks into a ringing laugh, or rather yell.
'To think,' he cries, 'how often fellow-traveller, and yet not know it!To think how many times he went the journey, and never saw the road!'
The woman kneels upon the floor, with her arms crossed on the coverlet ofthe bed, close by him, and her chin upon them. In this crouchingattitude she watches him. The pipe is falling from his mouth. She putsit back, and laying her hand upon his chest, moves him slightly from sideto side. Upon that he speaks, as if she had spoken.
'Yes! I always made the journey first, before the changes of colours andthe great landscapes and glittering processions began. They couldn'tbegin till it was off my mind. I had no room till then for anythingelse.'
Once more he lapses into silence. Once more she lays her hand upon hischest, and moves him slightly to and fro, as a cat might stimulate ahalf-slain mouse. Once more he speaks, as if she had spoken.
[Picture: Sleeping it off]
'What? I told you so. When it comes to be real at last, it is so shortthat it seems unreal for the first time. Hark!'
'Yes, deary. I'm listening.'
'Time and place are both at hand.'
He is on his feet, speaking in a whisper, and as if in the dark.
'Time, place, and fellow-traveller,' she suggests, adopting his tone, andholding him softly by the arm.
'How could the time be at hand unless the fellow-traveller was? Hush!The journey's made. It's over.'
'So soon?'
'That's what I said to you. So soon. Wait a little. This is a vision.I shall sleep it off. It has been too short and easy. I must have abetter vision than this; this is the poorest of all. No struggle, noconsciousness of peril, no entreaty--and yet I never saw _that_ before.'With a start.
'Saw what, deary?'
'Look at it! Look what a poor, mean, miserable thing it is! _That_ mustbe real. It's over.'
He has accompanied this incoherence with some wild unmeaning gestures;but they trail off into the progressive inaction of stupor, and he lies alog upon the bed.
The woman, however, is still inquisitive. With a repetition of hercat-like action she slightly stirs his body again, and listens; stirsagain, and listens; whispers to it, and listens. Finding it past allrousing for the time, she slowly gets upon her feet, with an air ofdisappointment, and flicks the face with the back of her hand in turningfrom it.
But she goes no further away from it than the chair upon the hearth. Shesits in it, with an elbow on one of its arms, and her chin upon her hand,intent upon him. 'I heard ye say once,' she croaks under her breath, 'Iheard ye say once, when I was lying where you're lying, and you weremaking your speculations upon me, "Unintelligible!" I heard you say so,of two more than me. But don't ye be too sure always; don't be ye toosure, beauty!'
Unwinking, cat-like, and intent, she presently adds: 'Not so potent as itonce was?
Ah! Perhaps not at first. You may be more right there.Practice makes perfect. I may have learned the secret how to make yetalk, deary.'
He talks no more, whether or no. Twitching in an ugly way from time totime, both as to his face and limbs, he lies heavy and silent. Thewretched candle burns down; the woman takes its expiring end between herfingers, lights another at it, crams the guttering frying morsel deepinto the candlestick, and rams it home with the new candle, as if shewere loading some ill-savoured and unseemly weapon of witchcraft; the newcandle in its turn burns down; and still he lies insensible. At lengthwhat remains of the last candle is blown out, and daylight looks into theroom.
It has not looked very long, when he sits up, chilled and shaking, slowlyrecovers consciousness of where he is, and makes himself ready to depart.The woman receives what he pays her with a grateful, 'Bless ye, bless ye,deary!' and seems, tired out, to begin making herself ready for sleep ashe leaves the room.
But seeming may be false or true. It is false in this case; for, themoment the stairs have ceased to creak under his tread, she glides afterhim, muttering emphatically: 'I'll not miss ye twice!'
There is no egress from the court but by its entrance. With a weird peepfrom the doorway, she watches for his looking back. He does not lookback before disappearing, with a wavering step. She follows him, peepsfrom the court, sees him still faltering on without looking back, andholds him in view.
He repairs to the back of Aldersgate Street, where a door immediatelyopens to his knocking. She crouches in another doorway, watching thatone, and easily comprehending that he puts up temporarily at that house.Her patience is unexhausted by hours. For sustenance she can, and does,buy bread within a hundred yards, and milk as it is carried past her.
He comes forth again at noon, having changed his dress, but carryingnothing in his hand, and having nothing carried for him. He is not goingback into the country, therefore, just yet. She follows him a littleway, hesitates, instantaneously turns confidently, and goes straight intothe house he has quitted.
'Is the gentleman from Cloisterham indoors?
'Just gone out.'
'Unlucky. When does the gentleman return to Cloisterham?'
'At six this evening.'
'Bless ye and thank ye. May the Lord prosper a business where a civilquestion, even from a poor soul, is so civilly answered!'
'I'll not miss ye twice!' repeats the poor soul in the street, and not socivilly. 'I lost ye last, where that omnibus you got into nigh yourjourney's end plied betwixt the station and the place. I wasn't so muchas certain that you even went right on to the place. Now I know ye did.My gentleman from Cloisterham, I'll be there before ye, and bide yourcoming. I've swore my oath that I'll not miss ye twice!'
Accordingly, that same evening the poor soul stands in Cloisterham HighStreet, looking at the many quaint gables of the Nuns' House, and gettingthrough the time as she best can until nine o'clock; at which hour shehas reason to suppose that the arriving omnibus passengers may have someinterest for her. The friendly darkness, at that hour, renders it easyfor her to ascertain whether this be so or not; and it is so, for thepassenger not to be missed twice arrives among the rest.
'Now let me see what becomes of you. Go on!'
An observation addressed to the air, and yet it might be addressed to thepassenger, so compliantly does he go on along the High Street until hecomes to an arched gateway, at which he unexpectedly vanishes. The poorsoul quickens her pace; is swift, and close upon him entering under thegateway; but only sees a postern staircase on one side of it, and on theother side an ancient vaulted room, in which a large-headed, gray-hairedgentleman is writing, under the odd circumstances of sitting open to thethoroughfare and eyeing all who pass, as if he were toll-taker of thegateway: though the way is free.
'Halloa!' he cries in a low voice, seeing her brought to a stand-still:'who are you looking for?'
'There was a gentleman passed in here this minute, sir.'
'Of course there was. What do you want with him?'
'Where do he live, deary?'
'Live? Up that staircase.'
'Bless ye! Whisper. What's his name, deary?'
'Surname Jasper, Christian name John. Mr. John Jasper.'
'Has he a calling, good gentleman?'
'Calling? Yes. Sings in the choir.'
'In the spire?'
'Choir.'
'What's that?'
Mr. Datchery rises from his papers, and comes to his doorstep. 'Do youknow what a cathedral is?' he asks, jocosely.
The woman nods.
'What is it?'
She looks puzzled, casting about in her mind to find a definition, whenit occurs to her that it is easier to point out the substantial objectitself, massive against the dark-blue sky and the early stars.
'That's the answer. Go in there at seven to-morrow morning, and you maysee Mr. John Jasper, and hear him too.'
'Thank ye! Thank ye!'
The burst of triumph in which she thanks him does not escape the noticeof the single buffer of an easy temper living idly on his means. Heglances at her; clasps his hands behind him, as the wont of such buffersis; and lounges along the echoing Precincts at her side.
'Or,' he suggests, with a backward hitch of his head, 'you can go up atonce to Mr. Jasper's rooms there.'
The woman eyes him with a cunning smile, and shakes her head.
'O! you don't want to speak to him?'
She repeats her dumb reply, and forms with her lips a soundless 'No.'
'You can admire him at a distance three times a day, whenever you like.It's a long way to come for that, though.'
The woman looks up quickly. If Mr. Datchery thinks she is to be soinduced to declare where she comes from, he is of a much easier temperthan she is. But she acquits him of such an artful thought, as helounges along, like the chartered bore of the city, with his uncoveredgray hair blowing about, and his purposeless hands rattling the loosemoney in the pockets of his trousers.
The chink of the money has an attraction for her greedy ears. 'Wouldn'tyou help me to pay for my traveller's lodging, dear gentleman, and to paymy way along? I am a poor soul, I am indeed, and troubled with agrievous cough.'
'You know the travellers' lodging, I perceive, and are making directlyfor it,' is Mr. Datchery's bland comment, still rattling his loose money.'Been here often, my good woman?'
'Once in all my life.'
'Ay, ay?'
They have arrived at the entrance to the Monks' Vineyard. An appropriateremembrance, presenting an exemplary model for imitation, is revived inthe woman's mind by the sight of the place. She stops at the gate, andsays energetically:
'By this token, though you mayn't believe it, That a young gentleman gaveme three-and-sixpence as I was coughing my breath away on this verygrass. I asked him for three-and-sixpence, and he gave it me.'
'Wasn't it a little cool to name your sum?' hints Mr. Datchery, stillrattling. 'Isn't it customary to leave the amount open? Mightn't ithave had the appearance, to the young gentleman--only theappearance--that he was rather dictated to?'
'Look'ee here, deary,' she replies, in a confidential and persuasivetone, 'I wanted the money to lay it out on a medicine as does me good,and as I deal in. I told the young gentleman so, and he gave it me, andI laid it out honest to the last brass farden. I want to lay out thesame sum in the same way now; and if you'll give it me, I'll lay it outhonest to the last brass farden again, upon my soul!'
'What's the medicine?'
'I'll be honest with you beforehand, as well as after. It's opium.'
Mr. Datchery, with a sudden change of countenance, gives her a suddenlook.
'It's opium, deary. Neither more nor less. And it's like a humancreetur so far, that you always hear what can be said against it, butseldom what can be said in its praise.'
Mr. Datchery begins very slowly to count out the sum demanded of him.Greedily watching his hands, she continues to hold forth on the
greatexample set him.
'It was last Christmas Eve, just arter dark, the once that I was hereafore, when the young gentleman gave me the three-and-six.' Mr. Datcherystops in his counting, finds he has counted wrong, shakes his moneytogether, and begins again.
'And the young gentleman's name,' she adds, 'was Edwin.'
Mr. Datchery drops some money, stoops to pick it up, and reddens with theexertion as he asks:
'How do you know the young gentleman's name?'
'I asked him for it, and he told it me. I only asked him the twoquestions, what was his Chris'en name, and whether he'd a sweetheart?And he answered, Edwin, and he hadn't.'
Mr. Datchery pauses with the selected coins in his hand, rather as if hewere falling into a brown study of their value, and couldn't bear to partwith them. The woman looks at him distrustfully, and with her angerbrewing for the event of his thinking better of the gift; but he bestowsit on her as if he were abstracting his mind from the sacrifice, and withmany servile thanks she goes her way.
John Jasper's lamp is kindled, and his lighthouse is shining when Mr.Datchery returns alone towards it. As mariners on a dangerous voyage,approaching an iron-bound coast, may look along the beams of the warninglight to the haven lying beyond it that may never be reached, so Mr.Datchery's wistful gaze is directed to this beacon, and beyond.
His object in now revisiting his lodging is merely to put on the hatwhich seems so superfluous an article in his wardrobe. It is half-pastten by the Cathedral clock when he walks out into the Precincts again; helingers and looks about him, as though, the enchanted hour when Mr.Durdles may be stoned home having struck, he had some expectation ofseeing the Imp who is appointed to the mission of stoning him.
In effect, that Power of Evil is abroad. Having nothing living to stoneat the moment, he is discovered by Mr. Datchery in the unholy office ofstoning the dead, through the railings of the churchyard. The Imp findsthis a relishing and piquing pursuit; firstly, because theirresting-place is announced to be sacred; and secondly, because the tallheadstones are sufficiently like themselves, on their beat in the dark,to justify the delicious fancy that they are hurt when hit.
Mr. Datchery hails with him: 'Halloa, Winks!'
He acknowledges the hail with: 'Halloa, Dick!' Their acquaintanceseemingly having been established on a familiar footing.
'But, I say,' he remonstrates, 'don't yer go a-making my name public. Inever means to plead to no name, mind yer. When they says to me in theLock-up, a-going to put me down in the book, "What's your name?" I saysto them, "Find out." Likewise when they says, "What's your religion?" Isays, "Find out."'
Which, it may be observed in passing, it would be immensely difficult forthe State, however statistical, to do.
'Asides which,' adds the boy, 'there ain't no family of Winkses.'
'I think there must be.'
'Yer lie, there ain't. The travellers give me the name on account of mygetting no settled sleep and being knocked up all night; whereby I getsone eye roused open afore I've shut the other. That's what Winks means.Deputy's the nighest name to indict me by: but yer wouldn't catch mepleading to that, neither.'
'Deputy be it always, then. We two are good friends; eh, Deputy?'
'Jolly good.'
'I forgave you the debt you owed me when we first became acquainted, andmany of my sixpences have come your way since; eh, Deputy?'
'Ah! And what's more, yer ain't no friend o' Jarsper's. What did he goa-histing me off my legs for?'
'What indeed! But never mind him now. A shilling of mine is going yourway to-night, Deputy. You have just taken in a lodger I have beenspeaking to; an infirm woman with a cough.'
'Puffer,' assents Deputy, with a shrewd leer of recognition, and smokingan imaginary pipe, with his head very much on one side and his eyes verymuch out of their places: 'Hopeum Puffer.'
'What is her name?'
''Er Royal Highness the Princess Puffer.'
'She has some other name than that; where does she live?'
'Up in London. Among the Jacks.'
'The sailors?'
'I said so; Jacks; and Chayner men: and hother Knifers.'
'I should like to know, through you, exactly where she lives.'
'All right. Give us 'old.'
A shilling passes; and, in that spirit of confidence which should pervadeall business transactions between principals of honour, this piece ofbusiness is considered done.
'But here's a lark!' cries Deputy. 'Where did yer think 'Er RoyalHighness is a-goin' to to-morrow morning? Blest if she ain't a-goin' tothe KIN-FREE-DER-EL!' He greatly prolongs the word in his ecstasy, andsmites his leg, and doubles himself up in a fit of shrill laughter.
'How do you know that, Deputy?'
'Cos she told me so just now. She said she must be hup and hout o'purpose. She ses, "Deputy, I must 'ave a early wash, and make myself asswell as I can, for I'm a-goin' to take a turn at the KIN-FREE-DER-EL!"'He separates the syllables with his former zest, and, not finding hissense of the ludicrous sufficiently relieved by stamping about on thepavement, breaks into a slow and stately dance, perhaps supposed to beperformed by the Dean.
Mr. Datchery receives the communication with a well-satisfied thoughpondering face, and breaks up the conference. Returning to his quaintlodging, and sitting long over the supper of bread-and-cheese and saladand ale which Mrs. Tope has left prepared for him, he still sits when hissupper is finished. At length he rises, throws open the door of a cornercupboard, and refers to a few uncouth chalked strokes on its inner side.
'I like,' says Mr. Datchery, 'the old tavern way of keeping scores.Illegible except to the scorer. The scorer not committed, the scoreddebited with what is against him. Hum; ha! A very small score this; avery poor score!'
He sighs over the contemplation of its poverty, takes a bit of chalk fromone of the cupboard shelves, and pauses with it in his hand, uncertainwhat addition to make to the account.
'I think a moderate stroke,' he concludes, 'is all I am justified inscoring up;' so, suits the action to the word, closes the cupboard, andgoes to bed.
A brilliant morning shines on the old city. Its antiquities and ruinsare surpassingly beautiful, with a lusty ivy gleaming in the sun, and therich trees waving in the balmy air. Changes of glorious light frommoving boughs, songs of birds, scents from gardens, woods, andfields--or, rather, from the one great garden of the whole cultivatedisland in its yielding time--penetrate into the Cathedral, subdue itsearthy odour, and preach the Resurrection and the Life. The cold stonetombs of centuries ago grow warm; and flecks of brightness dart into thesternest marble corners of the building, fluttering there like wings.
Comes Mr. Tope with his large keys, and yawningly unlocks and sets open.Come Mrs. Tope and attendant sweeping sprites. Come, in due time,organist and bellows-boy, peeping down from the red curtains in the loft,fearlessly flapping dust from books up at that remote elevation, andwhisking it from stops and pedals. Come sundry rooks, from variousquarters of the sky, back to the great tower; who may be presumed toenjoy vibration, and to know that bell and organ are going to give itthem. Come a very small and straggling congregation indeed: chiefly fromMinor Canon Corner and the Precincts. Come Mr. Crisparkle, fresh andbright; and his ministering brethren, not quite so fresh and bright.Come the Choir in a hurry (always in a hurry, and struggling into theirnightgowns at the last moment, like children shirking bed), and comesJohn Jasper leading their line. Last of all comes Mr. Datchery into astall, one of a choice empty collection very much at his service, andglancing about him for Her Royal Highness the Princess Puffer.
The service is pretty well advanced before Mr. Datchery can discern HerRoyal Highness. But by that time he has made her out, in the shade. Sheis behind a pillar, carefully withdrawn from the Choir-master's view, butregards him with the closest attention. All unconscious of her presence,he chants and sings. She grins when he is most musically fervid,and--yes, Mr. Datchery sees her do it!--shakes her fis
t at him behind thepillar's friendly shelter.
Mr. Datchery looks again, to convince himself. Yes, again! As ugly andwithered as one of the fantastic carvings on the under brackets of thestall seats, as malignant as the Evil One, as hard as the big brass eagleholding the sacred books upon his wings (and, according to the sculptor'srepresentation of his ferocious attributes, not at all converted bythem), she hugs herself in her lean arms, and then shakes both fists atthe leader of the Choir.
And at that moment, outside the grated door of the Choir, having eludedthe vigilance of Mr. Tope by shifty resources in which he is an adept,Deputy peeps, sharp-eyed, through the bars, and stares astounded from thethreatener to the threatened.
The service comes to an end, and the servitors disperse to breakfast.Mr. Datchery accosts his last new acquaintance outside, when the Choir(as much in a hurry to get their bedgowns off, as they were but now toget them on) have scuffled away.
'Well, mistress. Good morning. You have seen him?'
'_I've_ seen him, deary; _I've_ seen him!'
'And you know him?'
'Know him! Better far than all the Reverend Parsons put together knowhim.'
Mrs. Tope's care has spread a very neat, clean breakfast ready for herlodger. Before sitting down to it, he opens his corner-cupboard door;takes his bit of chalk from its shelf; adds one thick line to the score,extending from the top of the cupboard door to the bottom; and then fallsto with an appetite.