CHAPTER XIII.
BOTH AT THEIR BEST
Miss Twinkleton’s establishment was about to undergo a serene hush. The
Christmas recess was at hand. What had once, and at no remote period,
been called, even by the erudite Miss Twinkleton herself, “the half,”
but what was now called, as being more elegant, and more strictly
collegiate, “the term,” would expire to-morrow. A noticeable relaxation
of discipline had for some few days pervaded the Nuns’ House. Club
suppers had occurred in the bedrooms, and a dressed tongue had been
carved with a pair of scissors, and handed round with the curling
tongs. Portions of marmalade had likewise been distributed on a service
of plates constructed of curlpaper; and cowslip wine had been quaffed
from the small squat measuring glass in which little Rickitts (a junior
of weakly constitution) took her steel drops daily. The housemaids had
been bribed with various fragments of riband, and sundry pairs of shoes
more or less down at heel, to make no mention of crumbs in the beds;
the airiest costumes had been worn on these festive occasions; and the
daring Miss Ferdinand had even surprised the company with a sprightly
solo on the comb-and-curlpaper, until suffocated in her own pillow by
two flowing-haired executioners.
Nor were these the only tokens of dispersal. Boxes appeared in the
bedrooms (where they were capital at other times), and a surprising
amount of packing took place, out of all proportion to the amount
packed. Largess, in the form of odds and ends of cold cream and
pomatum, and also of hairpins, was freely distributed among the
attendants. On charges of inviolable secrecy, confidences were
interchanged respecting golden youth of England expected to call, “at
home,” on the first opportunity. Miss Giggles (deficient in sentiment)
did indeed profess that she, for her part, acknowledged such homage by
making faces at the golden youth; but this young lady was outvoted by
an immense majority.
On the last night before a recess, it was always expressly made a point
of honour that nobody should go to sleep, and that Ghosts should be
encouraged by all possible means. This compact invariably broke down,
and all the young ladies went to sleep very soon, and got up very
early.
The concluding ceremony came off at twelve o’clock on the day of
departure; when Miss Twinkleton, supported by Mrs. Tisher, held a
drawing-room in her own apartment (the globes already covered with
brown Holland), where glasses of white-wine and plates of cut
pound-cake were discovered on the table. Miss Twinkleton then said:
Ladies, another revolving year had brought us round to that festive
period at which the first feelings of our nature bounded in our—Miss
Twinkleton was annually going to add “bosoms,” but annually stopped on
the brink of that expression, and substituted “hearts.” Hearts; our
hearts. Hem! Again a revolving year, ladies, had brought us to a pause
in our studies—let us hope our greatly advanced studies—and, like the
mariner in his bark, the warrior in his tent, the captive in his
dungeon, and the traveller in his various conveyances, we yearned for
home. Did we say, on such an occasion, in the opening words of Mr.
Addison’s impressive tragedy:
“The dawn is overcast, the morning lowers,
And heavily in clouds brings on the day,
The great, th’ important day—?”
Not so. From horizon to zenith all was _couleur de rose_, for all was
redolent of our relations and friends. Might _we_ find _them_
prospering as _we_ expected; might _they_ find _us_ prospering as
_they_ expected! Ladies, we would now, with our love to one another,
wish one another good-bye, and happiness, until we met again. And when
the time should come for our resumption of those pursuits which (here a
general depression set in all round), pursuits which, pursuits
which;—then let us ever remember what was said by the Spartan General,
in words too trite for repetition, at the battle it were superfluous to
specify.
The handmaidens of the establishment, in their best caps, then handed
the trays, and the young ladies sipped and crumbled, and the bespoken
coaches began to choke the street. Then leave-taking was not long
about; and Miss Twinkleton, in saluting each young lady’s cheek,
confided to her an exceedingly neat letter, addressed to her next
friend at law, “with Miss Twinkleton’s best compliments” in the corner.
This missive she handed with an air as if it had not the least
connexion with the bill, but were something in the nature of a delicate
and joyful surprise.
So many times had Rosa seen such dispersals, and so very little did she
know of any other Home, that she was contented to remain where she was,
and was even better contented than ever before, having her latest
friend with her. And yet her latest friendship had a blank place in it
of which she could not fail to be sensible. Helena Landless, having
been a party to her brother’s revelation about Rosa, and having entered
into that compact of silence with Mr. Crisparkle, shrank from any
allusion to Edwin Drood’s name. Why she so avoided it, was mysterious
to Rosa, but she perfectly perceived the fact. But for the fact, she
might have relieved her own little perplexed heart of some of its
doubts and hesitations, by taking Helena into her confidence. As it
was, she had no such vent: she could only ponder on her own
difficulties, and wonder more and more why this avoidance of Edwin’s
name should last, now that she knew—for so much Helena had told
her—that a good understanding was to be reëstablished between the two
young men, when Edwin came down.
It would have made a pretty picture, so many pretty girls kissing Rosa
in the cold porch of the Nuns’ House, and that sunny little creature
peeping out of it (unconscious of sly faces carved on spout and gable
peeping at her), and waving farewells to the departing coaches, as if
she represented the spirit of rosy youth abiding in the place to keep
it bright and warm in its desertion. The hoarse High Street became
musical with the cry, in various silvery voices, “Good-bye, Rosebud
darling!” and the effigy of Mr. Sapsea’s father over the opposite
doorway seemed to say to mankind: “Gentlemen, favour me with your
attention to this charming little last lot left behind, and bid with a
spirit worthy of the occasion!” Then the staid street, so unwontedly
sparkling, youthful, and fresh for a few rippling moments, ran dry, and
Cloisterham was itself again.
[Illustration: “Good-bye, Rosebud darling”]
If Rosebud in her bower now waited Edwin Drood’s coming with an uneasy
heart, Edwin for his part was uneasy too. With far less force of
purpose in his composition than the childish beauty, crowned by
acclamation fairy queen of Miss Twinkleton’s establishment, he had a
conscience, and Mr. Grewgious had pricked it. That gentleman’s steady
convictions of what was right and what was wrong in such a case as his,
were neither to be frowned aside nor laughed aside. They would not be
moved. But for the dinner in Staple Inn, and but for the ring he
carried in the breast pocket of his coat, he would have drifted into
their wedding-day without another pause for real thought, loosely
trusting that all would go well, left alone. But that serious putting
him on his truth to the living and the dead had brought him to a check.
He must either give the ring to Rosa, or he must take it back. Once put
into this narrowed way of action, it was curious that he began to
consider Rosa’s claims upon him more unselfishly than he had ever
considered them before, and began to be less sure of himself than he
had ever been in all his easy-going days.
“I will be guided by what she says, and by how we get on,” was his
decision, walking from the gatehouse to the Nuns’ House. “Whatever
comes of it, I will bear his words in mind, and try to be true to the
living and the dead.”
Rosa was dressed for walking. She expected him. It was a bright, frosty
day, and Miss Twinkleton had already graciously sanctioned fresh air.
Thus they got out together before it became necessary for either Miss
Twinkleton, or the deputy high-priest Mrs. Tisher, to lay even so much
as one of those usual offerings on the shrine of Propriety.
“My dear Eddy,” said Rosa, when they had turned out of the High Street,
and had got among the quiet walks in the neighbourhood of the Cathedral
and the river: “I want to say something very serious to you. I have
been thinking about it for a long, long time.”
“I want to be serious with you too, Rosa dear. I mean to be serious and
earnest.”
“Thank you, Eddy. And you will not think me unkind because I begin,
will you? You will not think I speak for myself only, because I speak
first? That would not be generous, would it? And I know you are
generous!”
He said, “I hope I am not ungenerous to you, Rosa.” He called her Pussy
no more. Never again.
“And there is no fear,” pursued Rosa, “of our quarrelling, is there?
Because, Eddy,” clasping her hand on his arm, “we have so much reason
to be very lenient to each other!”
“We will be, Rosa.”
“That’s a dear good boy! Eddy, let us be courageous. Let us change to
brother and sister from this day forth.”
“Never be husband and wife?”
“Never!”
Neither spoke again for a little while. But after that pause he said,
with some effort:
“Of course I know that this has been in both our minds, Rosa, and of
course I am in honour bound to confess freely that it does not
originate with you.”
“No, nor with you, dear,” she returned, with pathetic earnestness.
“That sprung up between us. You are not truly happy in our engagement;
I am not truly happy in it. O, I am so sorry, so sorry!” And there she
broke into tears.
“I am deeply sorry too, Rosa. Deeply sorry for you.”
“And I for you, poor boy! And I for you!”
This pure young feeling, this gentle and forbearing feeling of each
towards the other, brought with it its reward in a softening light that
seemed to shine on their position. The relations between them did not
look wilful, or capricious, or a failure, in such a light; they became
elevated into something more self-denying, honourable, affectionate,
and true.
“If we knew yesterday,” said Rosa, as she dried her eyes, “and we did
know yesterday, and on many, many yesterdays, that we were far from
right together in those relations which were not of our own choosing,
what better could we do to-day than change them? It is natural that we
should be sorry, and you see how sorry we both are; but how much better
to be sorry now than then!”
“When, Rosa?”
“When it would be too late. And then we should be angry, besides.”
Another silence fell upon them.
“And you know,” said Rosa innocently, “you couldn’t like me then; and
you can always like me now, for I shall not be a drag upon you, or a
worry to you. And I can always like you now, and your sister will not
tease or trifle with you. I often did when I was not your sister, and I
beg your pardon for it.”
“Don’t let us come to that, Rosa; or I shall want more pardoning than I
like to think of.”
“No, indeed, Eddy; you are too hard, my generous boy, upon yourself.
Let us sit down, brother, on these ruins, and let me tell you how it
was with us. I think I know, for I have considered about it very much
since you were here last time. You liked me, didn’t you? You thought I
was a nice little thing?”
“Everybody thinks that, Rosa.”
“Do they?” She knitted her brow musingly for a moment, and then flashed
out with the bright little induction: “Well, but say they do. Surely it
was not enough that you should think of me only as other people did;
now, was it?”
The point was not to be got over. It was not enough.
“And that is just what I mean; that is just how it was with us,” said
Rosa. “You liked me very well, and you had grown used to me, and had
grown used to the idea of our being married. You accepted the situation
as an inevitable kind of thing, didn’t you? It was to be, you thought,
and why discuss or dispute it?”
It was new and strange to him to have himself presented to himself so
clearly, in a glass of her holding up. He had always patronised her, in
his superiority to her share of woman’s wit. Was that but another
instance of something radically amiss in the terms on which they had
been gliding towards a life-long bondage?
“All this that I say of you is true of me as well, Eddy. Unless it was,
I might not be bold enough to say it. Only, the difference between us
was, that by little and little there crept into my mind a habit of
thinking about it, instead of dismissing it. My life is not so busy as
yours, you see, and I have not so many things to think of. So I thought
about it very much, and I cried about it very much too (though that was
not your fault, poor boy); when all at once my guardian came down, to
prepare for my leaving the Nuns’ House. I tried to hint to him that I
was not quite settled in my mind, but I hesitated and failed, and he
didn’t understand me. But he is a good, good man. And he put before me
so kindly, and yet so strongly, how seriously we ought to consider, in
our circumstances, that I resolved to speak to you the next moment we
were alone and grave. And if I seemed to come to it easily just now,
because I came to it all at once, don’t think it was so really, Eddy,
for O, it was very, very hard, and O, I am very, very sorry!”
Her full heart broke into tears again. He put his arm about her waist,
and they walked by the river-side together.
“Your guardian has spoken to me too, Rosa dear. I saw him before I left
London.” His right hand was in his breast, seeking the ring; but he
checked it, as he thought: “If I am to take it back, why should I tell
her of it?”
“And that made you more serious about it, didn’t it, Eddy? And if I had
not spoken to you, as I have, you would have spoken to me? I hope you
can tell me so? I don’t like it to be _all_ my doing, though it _is_ so
much better for us.”
“Yes, I should have spoken; I should have put everything before you; I
came intending to do it. But I never could have spoken to you as you
have spoken to me, Rosa.”
“Don’t say you mean so coldly or unkindly, Eddy, please, if you can
help it.”
“I mean so sensibly and delicately, so wisely and affectionately.”
“That’s my dear brother!” She kissed his hand in a little rapture. “The
dear girls will be dreadfully disappointed,” added Rosa, laughing, with
the dewdrops glistening in her bright eyes. “They have looked forward
to it so, poor pets!”
“Ah! but I fear it will be a worse disappointment to Jack,” said Edwin
Drood, with a start. “I never thought of Jack!”
Her swift and intent look at him as he said the words could no more be
recalled than a flash of lightning can. But it appeared as though she
would have instantly recalled it, if she could; for she looked down,
confused, and breathed quickly.
“You don’t doubt its being a blow to Jack, Rosa?”
She merely replied, and that evasively and hurriedly: Why should she?
She had not thought about it. He seemed, to her, to have so little to
do with it.
“My dear child! can you suppose that any one so wrapped up in
another—Mrs. Tope’s expression: not mine—as Jack is in me, could fail
to be struck all of a heap by such a sudden and complete change in my
life? I say sudden, because it will be sudden to _him_, you know.”
She nodded twice or thrice, and her lips parted as if she would have
assented. But she uttered no sound, and her breathing was no slower.
“How shall I tell Jack?” said Edwin, ruminating. If he had been less
occupied with the thought, he must have seen her singular emotion. “I
never thought of Jack. It must be broken to him, before the town-crier
knows it. I dine with the dear fellow to-morrow and next day—Christmas
Eve and Christmas Day—but it would never do to spoil his feast-days. He
always worries about me, and moddley-coddleys in the merest trifles.
The news is sure to overset him. How on earth shall this be broken to
Jack?”
“He must be told, I suppose?” said Rosa.
“My dear Rosa! who ought to be in our confidence, if not Jack?”
“My guardian promised to come down, if I should write and ask him. I am
going to do so. Would you like to leave it to him?”
“A bright idea!” cried Edwin. “The other trustee. Nothing more natural.
He comes down, he goes to Jack, he relates what we have agreed upon,
and he states our case better than we could. He has already spoken
feelingly to you, he has already spoken feelingly to me, and he’ll put
the whole thing feelingly to Jack. That’s it! I am not a coward, Rosa,
but to tell you a secret, I am a little afraid of Jack.”
“No, no! you are not afraid of him!” cried Rosa, turning white, and
clasping her hands.
“Why, sister Rosa, sister Rosa, what do you see from the turret?” said
Edwin, rallying her. “My dear girl!”
“You frightened me.”
“Most unintentionally, but I am as sorry as if I had meant to do it.
Could you possibly suppose for a moment, from any loose way of speaking
of mine, that I was literally afraid of the dear fond fellow? What I
mean is, that he is subject to a kind of paroxysm, or fit—I saw him in
it once—and I don’t know but that so great a surprise, coming upon him
direct from me whom he is so wrapped up in, might bring it on perhaps.
Which—and this is the secret I was going to tell you—is another reason
for your guardian’s making the communication. He is so steady, precise,
and exact, that he will talk Jack’s thoughts into shape, in no time:
whereas with me Jack is always impulsive and hurried, and, I may say,
almost womanish.”
Rosa seemed convinced. Perhaps from her own very different point of
view of “Jack,” she felt comforted and protected by the interposition
of Mr. Grewgious between herself and him.
And now, Edwin Drood’s right hand closed again upon the ring in its
little case, and again was checked by the consideration: “It is
certain, now, that I am to give it back to him; then why should I tell
her of it?” That pretty sympathetic nature which could be so sorry for
him in the blight of their childish hopes of happiness together, and
could so quietly find itself alone in a new world to weave fresh
wreaths of such flowers as it might prove to bear, the old world’s
flowers being withered, would be grieved by those sorrowful jewels; and
to what purpose? Why should it be? They were but a sign of broken joys
and baseless projects; in their very beauty they were (as the
unlikeliest of men had said) almost a cruel satire on the loves, hopes,
plans, of humanity, which are able to forecast nothing, and are so much
brittle dust. Let them be. He would restore them to her guardian when
he came down; he in his turn would restore them to the cabinet from
which he had unwillingly taken them; and there, like old letters or old
vows, or other records of old aspirations come to nothing, they would
be disregarded, until, being valuable, they were sold into circulation
again, to repeat their former round.
Let them be. Let them lie unspoken of, in his breast. However
distinctly or indistinctly he entertained these thoughts, he arrived at
the conclusion, Let them be. Among the mighty store of wonderful chains
that are for ever forging, day and night, in the vast iron-works of
time and circumstance, there was one chain forged in the moment of that
small conclusion, riveted to the foundations of heaven and earth, and
gifted with invincible force to hold and drag.
They walked on by the river. They began to speak of their separate
plans. He would quicken his departure from England, and she would
remain where she was, at least as long as Helena remained. The poor
dear girls should have their disappointment broken to them gently, and,
as the first preliminary, Miss Twinkleton should be confided in by
Rosa, even in advance of the reappearance of Mr. Grewgious. It should
be made clear in all quarters that she and Edwin were the best of
friends. There had never been so serene an understanding between them
since they were first affianced. And yet there was one reservation on
each side; on hers, that she intended through her guardian to withdraw
herself immediately from the tuition of her music-master; on his, that
he did already entertain some wandering speculations whether it might
ever come to pass that he would know more of Miss Landless.
The bright, frosty day declined as they walked and spoke together. The
sun dipped in the river far behind them, and the old city lay red
before them, as their walk drew to a close. The moaning water cast its
seaweed duskily at their feet, when they turned to leave its margin;
and the rooks hovered above them with hoarse cries, darker splashes in
the darkening air.
“I will prepare Jack for my flitting soon,” said Edwin, in a low voice,
“and I will but see your guardian when he comes, and then go before
they speak together. It will be better done without my being by. Don’t
you think so?”
“Yes.”
“We know we have done right, Rosa?”
“Yes.”
“We know we are better so, even now?”
“And shall be far, far better so by-and-by.”
Still there was that lingering tenderness in their hearts towards the
old positions they were relinquishing, that they prolonged their
parting. When they came among the elm-trees by the Cathedral, where
they had last sat together, they stopped as by consent, and Rosa raised
her face to his, as she had never raised it in the old days;—for they
were old already.
“God bless you, dear! Good-bye!”
“God bless you, dear! Good-bye!”
They kissed each other fervently.
“Now, please take me home, Eddy, and let me be by myself.”
“Don’t look round, Rosa,” he cautioned her, as he drew her arm through
his, and led her away. “Didn’t you see Jack?”
“No! Where?”
“Under the trees. He saw us, as we took leave of each other. Poor
fellow! he little thinks we have parted. This will be a blow to him, I
am much afraid!”
She hurried on, without resting, and hurried on until they had passed
under the gatehouse into the street; once there, she asked:
“Has he followed us? You can look without seeming to. Is he behind?”
“No. Yes, he is! He has just passed out under the gateway. The dear,
sympathetic old fellow likes to keep us in sight. I am afraid he will
be bitterly disappointed!”
She pulled hurriedly at the handle of the hoarse old bell, and the gate
soon opened. Before going in, she gave him one last, wide, wondering
look, as if she would have asked him with imploring emphasis: “O! don’t
you understand?” And out of that look he vanished from her view.