CHAPTER XIV.

WHEN SHALL THESE THREE MEET AGAIN?

Christmas Eve in Cloisterham. A few strange faces in the streets; a few

other faces, half strange and half familiar, once the faces of

Cloisterham children, now the faces of men and women who come back from

the outer world at long intervals to find the city wonderfully shrunken

in size, as if it had not washed by any means well in the meanwhile. To

these, the striking of the Cathedral clock, and the cawing of the rooks

from the Cathedral tower, are like voices of their nursery time. To

such as these, it has happened in their dying hours afar off, that they

have imagined their chamber-floor to be strewn with the autumnal leaves

fallen from the elm-trees in the Close: so have the rustling sounds and

fresh scents of their earliest impressions revived when the circle of

their lives was very nearly traced, and the beginning and the end were

drawing close together.

Seasonable tokens are about. Red berries shine here and there in the

lattices of Minor Canon Corner; Mr. and Mrs. Tope are daintily sticking

sprigs of holly into the carvings and sconces of the Cathedral stalls,

as if they were sticking them into the coat-button-holes of the Dean

and Chapter. Lavish profusion is in the shops: particularly in the

articles of currants, raisins, spices, candied peel, and moist sugar.

An unusual air of gallantry and dissipation is abroad; evinced in an

immense bunch of mistletoe hanging in the greengrocer’s shop doorway,

and a poor little Twelfth Cake, culminating in the figure of a

Harlequin—such a very poor little Twelfth Cake, that one would rather

called it a Twenty-fourth Cake or a Forty-eighth Cake—to be raffled for

at the pastrycook’s, terms one shilling per member. Public amusements

are not wanting. The Wax-Work which made so deep an impression on the

reflective mind of the Emperor of China is to be seen by particular

desire during Christmas Week only, on the premises of the bankrupt

livery-stable-keeper up the lane; and a new grand comic Christmas

pantomime is to be produced at the Theatre: the latter heralded by the

portrait of Signor Jacksonini the clown, saying “How do you do

to-morrow?” quite as large as life, and almost as miserably. In short,

Cloisterham is up and doing: though from this description the High

School and Miss Twinkleton’s are to be excluded. From the former

establishment the scholars have gone home, every one of them in love

with one of Miss Twinkleton’s young ladies (who knows nothing about

it); and only the handmaidens flutter occasionally in the windows of

the latter. It is noticed, by the bye, that these damsels become,

within the limits of decorum, more skittish when thus intrusted with

the concrete representation of their sex, than when dividing the

representation with Miss Twinkleton’s young ladies.

Three are to meet at the gatehouse to-night. How does each one of the

three 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

of a 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

his table, to arranging his books, and to tearing up and burning his

stray papers. He makes a clean sweep of all untidy accumulations, puts

all his drawers in order, and leaves no note or scrap of paper

undestroyed, save such memoranda as bear directly on his studies. This

done, he turns to his wardrobe, selects a few articles of ordinary

wear—among them, change of 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. He also purchased, at the same time and at the same

place, a heavy walking-stick; strong in the handle for the grip of the

hand, and iron-shod. He tries this, swings it, poises it, and lays it

by, with the knapsack, 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

his room, and has met the Minor Canon on the staircase, coming out of

his bedroom upon the same story—when he turns back again for his

walking-stick, thinking he will carry it now. Mr. Crisparkle, who has

paused on the staircase, sees it in his hand on his immediately

reappearing, takes it from him, and asks him with a smile how he

chooses a stick?

“Really I don’t know that I understand the subject,” he answers. “I

chose 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 pedestrian

form. “You don’t rest upon it; you merely balance with it.”

“I shall know better, with practice, sir. I have not lived in a walking

country, you know.”

“True,” says Mr. Crisparkle. “Get into a little training, and we will

have a few score miles together. I should leave you nowhere now. Do you

come 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 may

be informed that her brother is there, by appointment. He waits at the

gate, not even crossing the threshold; for he is on his parole not to

put himself in Rosa’s way.

His sister is at least as mindful of the obligation they have taken on

themselves as he can be, and loses not a moment in joining him. They

meet affectionately, avoid lingering there, and walk towards the upper

inland country.

“I am not going to tread upon forbidden ground, Helena,” says Neville,

when they have walked some distance and are turning; “you will

understand in another moment that I cannot help referring to—what shall

I say?—my infatuation.”

“Had you not better avoid it, Neville? You know that I can hear

nothing.”

“You can hear, my dear, what Mr. Crisparkle has heard, and heard with

approval.”

“Yes; I can hear so much.”

“Well, it is this. I am not only unsettled and unhappy myself, but I am

conscious of unsettling and interfering with other people. How do I

know that, but for my unfortunate presence, you, and—and—the rest of

that former party, our engaging guardian excepted, might be dining

cheerfully in Minor Canon Corner to-morrow? Indeed it probably would be

so. I can see too well that I am not high in the old lady’s opinion,

and it is easy to understand what an irksome clog I must be upon the

hospitalities of her orderly house—especially at this time of year—when

I must be kept asunder from this person, and there is such a reason for

my not being brought into contact with that person, and an unfavourable

reputation has preceded me with such another person; and so on. I have

put this very gently to Mr. Crisparkle, for you know his self-denying

ways; but still I have put it. What I have laid much greater stress

upon at the same time is, that I am engaged in a miserable struggle

with myself, and that a little change and absence may enable me to come

through it the better. So, the weather being bright and hard, I am

going on a walking expedition, and intend taking myself out of

everybody’s way (my own included, 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

to bear 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 it

rather a moody scheme, and one that might do a brooding mind harm. But

we 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 I

do want to conquer myself, and that, this evening well got over, it is

surely better that I should be away from here just now, than here. I

could hardly help meeting certain people walking together here, and

that could do no good, and is certainly not the way to forget. A

fortnight hence, that chance will probably be over, for the time; and

when it again arises for the last time, why, I can again go away.

Farther, I really do feel hopeful of bracing exercise and wholesome

fatigue. You know that Mr. Crisparkle allows such things their full

weight in the preservation of his own sound mind in his own sound body,

and that his just spirit is not likely to maintain one set of natural

laws for himself and another for me. He yielded to my view of the

matter, when convinced that I was honestly in earnest; and so, with his

full consent, I start to-morrow morning. Early enough to be not only

out of the streets, but out of hearing 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

well of it, as a healthy project, denoting a sincere endeavour and an

active attempt at self-correction. She is inclined to pity him, poor

fellow, for going away solitary on the great Christmas festival; but

she feels it much 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 his

adventures.

Does he send clothes on in advance of him?

“My dear Helena, no. Travel like a pilgrim, with wallet and staff. My

wallet—or my knapsack—is packed, and ready for strapping on; and here

is my staff!”

He hands it to her; she makes the same remark as Mr. Crisparkle, that

it is 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 to

carry his case with her, and therefore to present it in its brightest

aspect, has roused his spirits. Perhaps, the having done so with

success, is followed by a revulsion. As the day closes in, and the

city-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 soon

it will be over.”

“How soon it will be over!” he repeats gloomily. “Yes. But I don’t like

it.”

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,” he

answers 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 strange

dead weight there is in the air!”

She calls his attention to those copperous clouds beyond the river, and

says that the wind is rising. He scarcely speaks again, until he takes

leave of her, at the gate of the Nuns’ House. She does not immediately

enter, when they have parted, but remains looking after him along the

street. 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 he

had thought, has gone out of his life; and in the silence of his own

chamber he wept for it last night. Though the image of Miss Landless

still hovers in the background of his mind, the pretty little

affectionate creature, so much firmer and wiser than he had supposed,

occupies its stronghold. It is with some misgiving of his own

unworthiness that he thinks of her, and of what they might have been to

one another, if he had been more in earnest some time ago; if he had

set a higher value on her; if, instead of accepting his lot in life as

an inheritance of course, he had studied the right way to its

appreciation and enhancement. And still, for all this, and though there

is a sharp heartache in all this, the vanity and caprice of youth

sustain that handsome 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 it

mean that she saw below the surface of his thoughts, and down into

their twilight depths? Scarcely that, for it was a look of astonished

and keen inquiry. He decides that he cannot understand it, though it

was remarkably expressive.

As he only waits for Mr. Grewgious now, and will depart immediately

after having seen him, he takes a sauntering leave of the ancient city

and its neighbourhood. He recalls the time when Rosa and he walked here

or there, mere children, full of the dignity of being engaged. Poor

children! he thinks, with a pitying sadness.

Finding that his watch has stopped, he turns into the jeweller’s shop,

to have it wound and set. The jeweller is knowing on the subject of a

bracelet, which he begs leave to submit, in a general and quite aimless

way. It would suit (he considers) a young bride, to perfection;

especially if of a rather diminutive style of beauty. Finding the

bracelet but coldly looked at, the jeweller invites attention to a tray

of rings for gentlemen; here is a style of ring, now, he remarks—a very

chaste signet—which gentlemen are much given to purchasing, when

changing their condition. A ring of a very responsible appearance. With

the date of their wedding-day engraved inside, several gentlemen have

preferred it to any other kind of memento.

The rings are as coldly viewed as the bracelet. Edwin tells the tempter

that he wears no jewellery but his watch and chain, which were his

father’s; and his shirt-pin.

“That I was aware of,” is the jeweller’s reply, “for Mr. Jasper dropped

in for a watch-glass the other day, and, in fact, I showed these

articles to him, remarking that if he _should_ wish to make a present

to a gentleman relative, on any particular occasion—But he said with a

smile that he had an inventory in his mind of all the jewellery his

gentleman relative ever wore; namely, his watch and chain, and his

shirt-pin.” Still (the jeweller considers) that might not apply to all

times, though applying to the present time. “Twenty minutes past two,

Mr. Drood, I set your 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 old

Jack! If I were to make an extra crease in my neckcloth, he would think

it worth noticing!”

He strolls about and about, to pass the time until the dinner-hour. It

somehow happens that Cloisterham seems reproachful to him to-day; has

fault to find with him, as if he had not used it well; but is far more

pensive with him than angry. His wonted carelessness is replaced by a

wistful looking at, and dwelling upon, all the old landmarks. He will

soon 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 and

fro, full half an hour by the Cathedral chimes, and it has closed in

dark, before he becomes quite aware of a woman crouching on the ground

near 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

the time, 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

a lamp near it, he sees that the woman is of a haggard appearance, and

that her weazen chin is resting on her hands, and that her eyes are

staring—with an unwinking, blind sort of steadfastness—before her.

Always kindly, but moved to be unusually kind this evening, and having

bestowed 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 departure

from her strange blind stare.

“Are you blind?”

“No, deary.”

“Are you lost, homeless, faint? What is the matter, that you stay here

in the cold so long, without moving?”

By slow and stiff efforts, she appears to contract her vision until it

can rest upon him; and then a curious film passes over her, and she

begins to shake.

He straightens himself, recoils a step, and looks down at her in a

dread amazement; 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

is weakly; my lungs is dreffle bad. Poor me, poor me, my cough is

rattling dry!” 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, and don’t you be afeard for me. I’ll get back to

London then, and trouble no one. 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. If

you don’t give me three-and-sixpence, don’t give me a brass farden. And

if 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. She

instantly clutches it tight, and rises to her feet with a croaking

laugh of 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

repetition of 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

his face.

“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

he adds: “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 your

name 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-talking

to you, deary—should live to all eternity!” replies the woman.

She has leaned forward to say it in his ear, with her forefinger

shaking before 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 sequestered

place, surrounded by vestiges of old time and decay, it rather has a

tendency to call a shudder into being. He makes for the better-lighted

streets, and resolves as he walks on to say nothing of this to-night,

but to 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 better worth remembering.

Still, it holds to him, as many things much better worth remembering

never did. He has another mile or so, to linger out before the

dinner-hour; and, when he walks over the bridge and by the river, the

woman’s words are in the rising wind, in the angry sky, in the troubled

water, in the flickering lights. There is some solemn echo of them even

in the Cathedral chime, which strikes a sudden surprise to his heart as

he 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 his

guests. Having no music-lessons to give in the holiday season, his time

is his own, but for the Cathedral services. He is early among the

shopkeepers, ordering little table luxuries that his nephew likes. His

nephew will not be with him long, he tells his provision-dealers, and

so must be petted and made much of. While out on his hospitable

preparations, he looks in on Mr. Sapsea; and mentions that dear Ned,

and that inflammable young spark of Mr. Crisparkle’s, are to dine at

the gatehouse to-day, and make up their difference. Mr. Sapsea is by no

means friendly towards the inflammable young spark. He says that his

complexion is “Un-English.” And when Mr. Sapsea has once declared

anything to be Un-English, he considers that thing everlastingly sunk

in the bottomless pit.

John Jasper is truly sorry to hear Mr. Sapsea speak thus, for he knows

right well that Mr. Sapsea never speaks without a meaning, and that he

has a subtle trick of being right. Mr. Sapsea (by a very remarkable

coincidence) is of exactly that opinion.

Mr. Jasper is in beautiful voice this day. In the pathetic supplication

to have his heart inclined to keep this law, he quite astonishes his

fellows by his melodious power. He has never sung difficult music with

such skill and harmony, as in this day’s Anthem. His nervous

temperament is 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 the

spirits. The mere mechanism of his throat is a little tender, for he

wears, both with his singing-robe and with his ordinary dress, a large

black scarf of strong close-woven silk, slung loosely round his neck.

But his composure is so noticeable, that Mr. Crisparkle speaks of it as

they come out from Vespers.

“I must thank you, Jasper, for the pleasure with which I have heard you

to-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 his

hand: “nothing unsteady, nothing forced, nothing avoided; all

thoroughly done 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 that

occasional indisposition of yours.”

“No, really? That’s well observed; for I have.”

“Then stick to it, my good fellow,” says Mr. Crisparkle, clapping him

on the shoulder with friendly encouragement, “stick to it.”

“I will.”

“I congratulate you,” Mr. Crisparkle pursues, as they come out of the

Cathedral, “on all accounts.”

“Thank you again. I will walk round to the Corner with you, if you

don’t object; I have plenty of time before my company come; and I want

to say a word 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 black

humours; 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 at

the 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 had

been 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 a

healthier state now, and I acknowledge it with genuine pleasure. I made

a 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 his

nerves, or his stomach, out of order, dwells upon an idea until it

loses its proportions. That was my case with the idea in question. So I

shall burn the evidence of my case, when the book is full, and begin

the next volume with a clearer vision.”

“This is better,” says Mr. Crisparkle, stopping at the steps of his own

door to shake hands, “than I could have hoped.”

“Why, naturally,” returns Jasper. “You had but little reason to hope

that I should become more like yourself. You are always training

yourself 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. Neville

has 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

has not 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. Neville said he would probably go straight to the gatehouse.

“Bad manners in a host!” says Jasper. “My company will be there before

me! 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 to

the gatehouse. He sings, in a low voice and with delicate expression,

as he walks along. It still seems as if a false note were not within

his power to-night, and as if nothing could hurry or retard him.

Arriving thus under the arched entrance of his dwelling, he pauses for

an instant in the shelter to pull off that great black scarf, and bang

it in a loop upon his arm. For that brief time, his face is knitted and

stern. But it 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 the

margin of the tide of busy life. Softened sounds and hum of traffic

pass it and flow on irregularly into the lonely Precincts; but very

little else goes by, save violent rushes of wind. It comes on to blow a

boisterous gale.

The Precincts are never particularly well lighted; but the strong

blasts of wind blowing out many of the lamps (in some instances

shattering the frames too, and bringing the glass rattling to the

ground), they are unusually dark to-night. The darkness is augmented

and confused, by flying dust from the earth, dry twigs from the trees,

and great ragged fragments from the rooks’ nests up in the tower. The

trees themselves so toss 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 and again a crack, and a rushing fall, denote

that some large branch has yielded to the storm.

Not such power of wind has blown for many a winter night. Chimneys

topple in the streets, and people hold to posts and corners, and to one

another, to keep themselves upon their feet. The violent rushes abate

not, but increase in frequency and fury until at midnight, when the

streets are empty, the storm goes thundering along them, rattling at

all the latches, and tearing at all the shutters, as if warning the

people to get up and fly with it, rather than have the roofs brought

down upon their brains.

Still, the red light burns steadily. Nothing is steady but the red

light.

All through the night the wind blows, and abates not. But early in the

morning, 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 a wounded monster dying, it drops and sinks; and at full daylight

it is dead.

It is then seen that the hands of the Cathedral clock are torn off;

that lead from the roof has been stripped away, rolled up, and blown

into the Close; and that some stones have been displaced upon the

summit of the great tower. Christmas morning though it be, it is

necessary to send up workmen, to ascertain the extent of the damage

done. These, led by Durdles, go aloft; while Mr. Tope and a crowd of

early idlers gather down in Minor Canon Corner, shading their eyes and

watching for their appearance 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

inquiring of 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 at

the 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 eyes

are turned on Mr. Jasper, white, half-dressed, panting, and clinging to

the rail before the Minor Canon’s house.