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.

[Illustration: 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.