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The Mystery of Edwin Drood by Charles Dickens

Part 4 out of 6

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drop him. He instantly gets himself together, backs over to
Durdles, and cries to his assailant, gnashing the great gap in
front of his mouth with rage and malice:

'I'll blind yer, s'elp me! I'll stone yer eyes out, s'elp me! If
I don't have yer eyesight, bellows me!' At the same time dodging
behind Durdles, and snarling at Jasper, now from this side of him,
and now from that: prepared, if pounced upon, to dart away in all
manner of curvilinear directions, and, if run down after all, to
grovel in the dust, and cry: 'Now, hit me when I'm down! Do it!'

'Don't hurt the boy, Mister Jarsper,' urges Durdles, shielding him.
'Recollect yourself.'

'He followed us to-night, when we first came here!'

'Yer lie, I didn't!' replies Deputy, in his one form of polite

'He has been prowling near us ever since!'

'Yer lie, I haven't,' returns Deputy. 'I'd only jist come out for
my 'elth when I see you two a-coming out of the Kin-freederel. If


(with the usual rhythm and dance, though dodging behind Durdles),
'it ain't ANY fault, is it?'

'Take him home, then,' retorts Jasper, ferociously, though with a
strong check upon himself, 'and let my eyes be rid of the sight of

Deputy, with another sharp whistle, at once expressing his relief,
and his commencement of a milder stoning of Mr. Durdles, begins
stoning that respectable gentleman home, as if he were a reluctant
ox. Mr. Jasper goes to his gatehouse, brooding. And thus, as
everything comes to an end, the unaccountable expedition comes to
an end--for the time.


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

'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 reestablished 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.

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?'


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

'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?'


'We know we have done right, Rosa?'


'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

'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.


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

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

'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

'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

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,' 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?'


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 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,

'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

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

'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

'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

'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

'I will bet--or I would, if ever I did bet,' returns Mr.
Crisparkle, 'that your company will have a gay entertainer this

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

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.


Neville Landless had started so early and walked at so good a pace,
that when the church-bells began to ring in Cloisterham for morning
service, he was eight miles away. As he wanted his breakfast by
that time, having set forth on a crust of bread, he stopped at the
next roadside tavern to refresh.

Visitors in want of breakfast--unless they were horses or cattle,
for which class of guests there was preparation enough in the way
of water-trough and hay--were so unusual at the sign of The Tilted
Wagon, that it took a long time to get the wagon into the track of
tea and toast and bacon. Neville in the interval, sitting in a
sanded parlour, wondering in how long a time after he had gone, the
sneezy fire of damp fagots would begin to make somebody else warm.

Indeed, The Tilted Wagon, as a cool establishment on the top of a
hill, where the ground before the door was puddled with damp hoofs
and trodden straw; where a scolding landlady slapped a moist baby
(with one red sock on and one wanting), in the bar; where the
cheese was cast aground upon a shelf, in company with a mouldy
tablecloth and a green-handled knife, in a sort of cast-iron canoe;
where the pale-faced bread shed tears of crumb over its shipwreck
in another canoe; where the family linen, half washed and half
dried, led a public life of lying about; where everything to drink
was drunk out of mugs, and everything else was suggestive of a
rhyme to mugs; The Tilted Wagon, all these things considered,
hardly kept its painted promise of providing good entertainment for
Man and Beast. However, Man, in the present case, was not
critical, but took what entertainment he could get, and went on
again after a longer rest than he needed.

He stopped at some quarter of a mile from the house, hesitating
whether to pursue the road, or to follow a cart track between two
high hedgerows, which led across the slope of a breezy heath, and
evidently struck into the road again by-and-by. He decided in
favour of this latter track, and pursued it with some toil; the
rise being steep, and the way worn into deep ruts.

He was labouring along, when he became aware of some other
pedestrians behind him. As they were coming up at a faster pace
than his, he stood aside, against one of the high banks, to let
them pass. But their manner was very curious. Only four of them
passed. Other four slackened speed, and loitered as intending to
follow him when he should go on. The remainder of the party (half-
a-dozen perhaps) turned, and went back at a great rate.

He looked at the four behind him, and he looked at the four before
him. They all returned his look. He resumed his way. The four in
advance went on, constantly looking back; the four in the rear came
closing up.

When they all ranged out from the narrow track upon the open slope
of the heath, and this order was maintained, let him diverge as he
would to either side, there was no longer room to doubt that he was
beset by these fellows. He stopped, as a last test; and they all

'Why do you attend upon me in this way?' he asked the whole body.
'Are you a pack of thieves?'

'Don't answer him,' said one of the number; he did not see which.
'Better be quiet.'

'Better be quiet?' repeated Neville. 'Who said so?'

Nobody replied.

'It's good advice, whichever of you skulkers gave it,' he went on
angrily. 'I will not submit to be penned in between four men
there, and four men there. I wish to pass, and I mean to pass,
those four in front.'

They were all standing still; himself included.

'If eight men, or four men, or two men, set upon one,' he
proceeded, growing more enraged, 'the one has no chance but to set
his mark upon some of them. And, by the Lord, I'll do it, if I am
interrupted any farther!'

Shouldering his heavy stick, and quickening his pace, he shot on to
pass the four ahead. The largest and strongest man of the number
changed swiftly to the side on which he came up, and dexterously
closed with him and went down with him; but not before the heavy
stick had descended smartly.

'Let him be!' said this man in a suppressed voice, as they
struggled together on the grass. 'Fair play! His is the build of
a girl to mine, and he's got a weight strapped to his back besides.
Let him alone. I'll manage him.'

After a little rolling about, in a close scuffle which caused the
faces of both to be besmeared with blood, the man took his knee
from Neville's chest, and rose, saying: 'There! Now take him arm-
in-arm, any two of you!'

It was immediately done.

'As to our being a pack of thieves, Mr. Landless,' said the man, as
he spat out some blood, and wiped more from his face; 'you know
better than that at midday. We wouldn't have touched you if you
hadn't forced us. We're going to take you round to the high road,
anyhow, and you'll find help enough against thieves there, if you
want it.--Wipe his face, somebody; see how it's a-trickling down

When his face was cleansed, Neville recognised in the speaker, Joe,
driver of the Cloisterham omnibus, whom he had seen but once, and
that on the day of his arrival.

'And what I recommend you for the present, is, don't talk, Mr.
Landless. You'll find a friend waiting for you, at the high road--
gone ahead by the other way when we split into two parties--and you
had much better say nothing till you come up with him. Bring that
stick along, somebody else, and let's be moving!'

Utterly bewildered, Neville stared around him and said not a word.
Walking between his two conductors, who held his arms in theirs, he
went on, as in a dream, until they came again into the high road,
and into the midst of a little group of people. The men who had
turned back were among the group; and its central figures were Mr.
Jasper and Mr. Crisparkle. Neville's conductors took him up to the
Minor Canon, and there released him, as an act of deference to that

'What is all this, sir? What is the matter? I feel as if I had
lost my senses!' cried Neville, the group closing in around him.

'Where is my nephew?' asked Mr. Jasper, wildly.

'Where is your nephew?' repeated Neville, 'Why do you ask me?'

'I ask you,' retorted Jasper, 'because you were the last person in
his company, and he is not to be found.'

'Not to be found!' cried Neville, aghast.

'Stay, stay,' said Mr. Crisparkle. 'Permit me, Jasper. Mr.
Neville, you are confounded; collect your thoughts; it is of great
importance that you should collect your thoughts; attend to me.'

'I will try, sir, but I seem mad.'

'You left Mr. Jasper last night with Edwin Drood?'


'At what hour?'

'Was it at twelve o'clock?' asked Neville, with his hand to his
confused head, and appealing to Jasper.

'Quite right,' said Mr. Crisparkle; 'the hour Mr. Jasper has
already named to me. You went down to the river together?'

'Undoubtedly. To see the action of the wind there.'

'What followed? How long did you stay there?'

'About ten minutes; I should say not more. We then walked together
to your house, and he took leave of me at the door.'

'Did he say that he was going down to the river again?'

'No. He said that he was going straight back.'

The bystanders looked at one another, and at Mr. Crisparkle. To
whom Mr. Jasper, who had been intensely watching Neville, said, in
a low, distinct, suspicious voice: 'What are those stains upon his

All eyes were turned towards the blood upon his clothes.

'And here are the same stains upon this stick!' said Jasper, taking
it from the hand of the man who held it. 'I know the stick to be
his, and he carried it last night. What does this mean?'

'In the name of God, say what it means, Neville!' urged Mr.

'That man and I,' said Neville, pointing out his late adversary,
'had a struggle for the stick just now, and you may see the same
marks on him, sir. What was I to suppose, when I found myself
molested by eight people? Could I dream of the true reason when
they would give me none at all?'

They admitted that they had thought it discreet to be silent, and
that the struggle had taken place. And yet the very men who had
seen it looked darkly at the smears which the bright cold air had
already dried.

'We must return, Neville,' said Mr. Crisparkle; 'of course you will
be glad to come back to clear yourself?'

'Of course, sir.'

'Mr. Landless will walk at my side,' the Minor Canon continued,
looking around him. 'Come, Neville!'

They set forth on the walk back; and the others, with one
exception, straggled after them at various distances. Jasper
walked on the other side of Neville, and never quitted that
position. He was silent, while Mr. Crisparkle more than once
repeated his former questions, and while Neville repeated his
former answers; also, while they both hazarded some explanatory
conjectures. He was obstinately silent, because Mr. Crisparkle's
manner directly appealed to him to take some part in the
discussion, and no appeal would move his fixed face. When they
drew near to the city, and it was suggested by the Minor Canon that
they might do well in calling on the Mayor at once, he assented
with a stern nod; but he spake no word until they stood in Mr.
Sapsea's parlour.

Mr. Sapsea being informed by Mr. Crisparkle of the circumstances
under which they desired to make a voluntary statement before him,
Mr. Jasper broke silence by declaring that he placed his whole
reliance, humanly speaking, on Mr. Sapsea's penetration. There was
no conceivable reason why his nephew should have suddenly
absconded, unless Mr. Sapsea could suggest one, and then he would
defer. There was no intelligible likelihood of his having returned
to the river, and been accidentally drowned in the dark, unless it
should appear likely to Mr. Sapsea, and then again he would defer.
He washed his hands as clean as he could of all horrible
suspicions, unless it should appear to Mr. Sapsea that some such
were inseparable from his last companion before his disappearance
(not on good terms with previously), and then, once more, he would
defer. His own state of mind, he being distracted with doubts, and
labouring under dismal apprehensions, was not to be safely trusted;
but Mr. Sapsea's was.

Mr. Sapsea expressed his opinion that the case had a dark look; in
short (and here his eyes rested full on Neville's countenance), an
Un-English complexion. Having made this grand point, he wandered
into a denser haze and maze of nonsense than even a mayor might
have been expected to disport himself in, and came out of it with
the brilliant discovery that to take the life of a fellow-creature
was to take something that didn't belong to you. He wavered
whether or no he should at once issue his warrant for the committal
of Neville Landless to jail, under circumstances of grave
suspicion; and he might have gone so far as to do it but for the
indignant protest of the Minor Canon: who undertook for the young
man's remaining in his own house, and being produced by his own
hands, whenever demanded. Mr. Jasper then understood Mr. Sapsea to
suggest that the river should be dragged, that its banks should be
rigidly examined, that particulars of the disappearance should be
sent to all outlying places and to London, and that placards and
advertisements should be widely circulated imploring Edwin Drood,
if for any unknown reason he had withdrawn himself from his uncle's
home and society, to take pity on that loving kinsman's sore
bereavement and distress, and somehow inform him that he was yet
alive. Mr. Sapsea was perfectly understood, for this was exactly
his meaning (though he had said nothing about it); and measures
were taken towards all these ends immediately.

It would be difficult to determine which was the more oppressed
with horror and amazement: Neville Landless, or John Jasper. But
that Jasper's position forced him to be active, while Neville's
forced him to be passive, there would have been nothing to choose
between them. Each was bowed down and broken.

With the earliest light of the next morning, men were at work upon
the river, and other men--most of whom volunteered for the service-
-were examining the banks. All the livelong day the search went
on; upon the river, with barge and pole, and drag and net; upon the
muddy and rushy shore, with jack-boots, hatchet, spade, rope, dogs,
and all imaginable appliances. Even at night, the river was
specked with lanterns, and lurid with fires; far-off creeks, into
which the tide washed as it changed, had their knots of watchers,
listening to the lapping of the stream, and looking out for any
burden it might bear; remote shingly causeways near the sea, and
lonely points off which there was a race of water, had their
unwonted flaring cressets and rough-coated figures when the next
day dawned; but no trace of Edwin Drood revisited the light of the

All that day, again, the search went on. Now, in barge and boat;
and now ashore among the osiers, or tramping amidst mud and stakes
and jagged stones in low-lying places, where solitary watermarks
and signals of strange shapes showed like spectres, John Jasper
worked and toiled. But to no purpose; for still no trace of Edwin
Drood revisited the light of the sun.

Setting his watches for that night again, so that vigilant eyes
should be kept on every change of tide, he went home exhausted.
Unkempt and disordered, bedaubed with mud that had dried upon him,
and with much of his clothing torn to rags, he had but just dropped
into his easy-chair, when Mr. Grewgious stood before him.

'This is strange news,' said Mr. Grewgious.

'Strange and fearful news.'

Jasper had merely lifted up his heavy eyes to say it, and now
dropped them again as he drooped, worn out, over one side of his

Mr. Grewgious smoothed his head and face, and stood looking at the

'How is your ward?' asked Jasper, after a time, in a faint,
fatigued voice.

'Poor little thing! You may imagine her condition.'

'Have you seen his sister?' inquired Jasper, as before.


The curtness of the counter-question, and the cool, slow manner in
which, as he put it, Mr. Grewgious moved his eyes from the fire to
his companion's face, might at any other time have been
exasperating. In his depression and exhaustion, Jasper merely
opened his eyes to say: 'The suspected young man's.'

'Do you suspect him?' asked Mr. Grewgious.

'I don't know what to think. I cannot make up my mind.'

'Nor I,' said Mr. Grewgious. 'But as you spoke of him as the
suspected young man, I thought you HAD made up your mind.--I have
just left Miss Landless.'

'What is her state?'

'Defiance of all suspicion, and unbounded faith in her brother.'

'Poor thing!'

'However,' pursued Mr. Grewgious, 'it is not of her that I came to
speak. It is of my ward. I have a communication to make that will
surprise you. At least, it has surprised me.'

Jasper, with a groaning sigh, turned wearily in his chair.

'Shall I put it off till to-morrow?' said Mr. Grewgious. 'Mind, I
warn you, that I think it will surprise you!'

More attention and concentration came into John Jasper's eyes as
they caught sight of Mr. Grewgious smoothing his head again, and
again looking at the fire; but now, with a compressed and
determined mouth.

'What is it?' demanded Jasper, becoming upright in his chair.

'To be sure,' said Mr. Grewgious, provokingly slowly and
internally, as he kept his eyes on the fire: 'I might have known
it sooner; she gave me the opening; but I am such an exceedingly
Angular man, that it never occurred to me; I took all for granted.'

'What is it?' demanded Jasper once more.

Mr. Grewgious, alternately opening and shutting the palms of his
hands as he warmed them at the fire, and looking fixedly at him
sideways, and never changing either his action or his look in all
that followed, went on to reply.

'This young couple, the lost youth and Miss Rosa, my ward, though
so long betrothed, and so long recognising their betrothal, and so
near being married--'

Mr. Grewgious saw a staring white face, and two quivering white
lips, in the easy-chair, and saw two muddy hands gripping its
sides. But for the hands, he might have thought he had never seen
the face.

'--This young couple came gradually to the discovery (made on both
sides pretty equally, I think), that they would be happier and
better, both in their present and their future lives, as
affectionate friends, or say rather as brother and sister, than as
husband and wife.'

Mr. Grewgious saw a lead-coloured face in the easy-chair, and on
its surface dreadful starting drops or bubbles, as if of steel.

'This young couple formed at length the healthy resolution of
interchanging their discoveries, openly, sensibly, and tenderly.
They met for that purpose. After some innocent and generous talk,
they agreed to dissolve their existing, and their intended,
relations, for ever and ever.'

Mr. Grewgious saw a ghastly figure rise, open-mouthed, from the
easy-chair, and lift its outspread hands towards its head.

'One of this young couple, and that one your nephew, fearful,
however, that in the tenderness of your affection for him you would
be bitterly disappointed by so wide a departure from his projected
life, forbore to tell you the secret, for a few days, and left it
to be disclosed by me, when I should come down to speak to you, and
he would be gone. I speak to you, and he is gone.'

Mr. Grewgious saw the ghastly figure throw back its head, clutch
its hair with its hands, and turn with a writhing action from him.

'I have now said all I have to say: except that this young couple
parted, firmly, though not without tears and sorrow, on the evening
when you last saw them together.'

Mr. Grewgious heard a terrible shriek, and saw no ghastly figure,
sitting or standing; saw nothing but a heap of torn and miry
clothes upon the floor.

Not changing his action even then, he opened and shut the palms of
his hands as he warmed them, and looked down at it.


When John Jasper recovered from his fit or swoon, he found himself
being tended by Mr. and Mrs. Tope, whom his visitor had summoned
for the purpose. His visitor, wooden of aspect, sat stiffly in a
chair, with his hands upon his knees, watching his recovery.

'There! You've come to nicely now, sir,' said the tearful Mrs.
Tope; 'you were thoroughly worn out, and no wonder!'

'A man,' said Mr. Grewgious, with his usual air of repeating a
lesson, 'cannot have his rest broken, and his mind cruelly
tormented, and his body overtaxed by fatigue, without being
thoroughly worn out.'

'I fear I have alarmed you?' Jasper apologised faintly, when he was
helped into his easy-chair.

'Not at all, I thank you,' answered Mr. Grewgious.

'You are too considerate.'

'Not at all, I thank you,' answered Mr. Grewgious again.

'You must take some wine, sir,' said Mrs. Tope, 'and the jelly that
I had ready for you, and that you wouldn't put your lips to at
noon, though I warned you what would come of it, you know, and you
not breakfasted; and you must have a wing of the roast fowl that
has been put back twenty times if it's been put back once. It
shall all be on table in five minutes, and this good gentleman
belike will stop and see you take it.'

This good gentleman replied with a snort, which might mean yes, or
no, or anything or nothing, and which Mrs. Tope would have found
highly mystifying, but that her attention was divided by the
service of the table.

'You will take something with me?' said Jasper, as the cloth was

'I couldn't get a morsel down my throat, I thank you,' answered Mr.

Jasper both ate and drank almost voraciously. Combined with the
hurry in his mode of doing it, was an evident indifference to the
taste of what he took, suggesting that he ate and drank to fortify
himself against any other failure of the spirits, far more than to
gratify his palate. Mr. Grewgious in the meantime sat upright,
with no expression in his face, and a hard kind of imperturbably
polite protest all over him: as though he would have said, in
reply to some invitation to discourse; 'I couldn't originate the
faintest approach to an observation on any subject whatever, I
thank you.'

'Do you know,' said Jasper, when he had pushed away his plate and
glass, and had sat meditating for a few minutes: 'do you know that
I find some crumbs of comfort in the communication with which you
have so much amazed me?'

'DO you?' returned Mr. Grewgious, pretty plainly adding the
unspoken clause: 'I don't, I thank you!'

'After recovering from the shock of a piece of news of my dear boy,
so entirely unexpected, and so destructive of all the castles I had
built for him; and after having had time to think of it; yes.'

'I shall be glad to pick up your crumbs,' said Mr. Grewgious,

'Is there not, or is there--if I deceive myself, tell me so, and
shorten my pain--is there not, or is there, hope that, finding
himself in this new position, and becoming sensitively alive to the
awkward burden of explanation, in this quarter, and that, and the
other, with which it would load him, he avoided the awkwardness,
and took to flight?'

'Such a thing might be,' said Mr. Grewgious, pondering.

'Such a thing has been. I have read of cases in which people,
rather than face a seven days' wonder, and have to account for
themselves to the idle and impertinent, have taken themselves away,
and been long unheard of.'

'I believe such things have happened,' said Mr. Grewgious,
pondering still.

'When I had, and could have, no suspicion,' pursued Jasper, eagerly
following the new track, 'that the dear lost boy had withheld
anything from me--most of all, such a leading matter as this--what
gleam of light was there for me in the whole black sky? When I
supposed that his intended wife was here, and his marriage close at
hand, how could I entertain the possibility of his voluntarily
leaving this place, in a manner that would be so unaccountable,
capricious, and cruel? But now that I know what you have told me,
is there no little chink through which day pierces? Supposing him
to have disappeared of his own act, is not his disappearance more
accountable and less cruel? The fact of his having just parted
from your ward, is in itself a sort of reason for his going away.
It does not make his mysterious departure the less cruel to me, it
is true; but it relieves it of cruelty to her.'

Mr. Grewgious could not but assent to this.

'And even as to me,' continued Jasper, still pursuing the new
track, with ardour, and, as he did so, brightening with hope: 'he
knew that you were coming to me; he knew that you were intrusted to
tell me what you have told me; if your doing so has awakened a new
train of thought in my perplexed mind, it reasonably follows that,
from the same premises, he might have foreseen the inferences that
I should draw. Grant that he did foresee them; and even the
cruelty to me--and who am I!--John Jasper, Music Master, vanishes!'

Once more, Mr. Grewgious could not but assent to this.

'I have had my distrusts, and terrible distrusts they have been,'
said Jasper; 'but your disclosure, overpowering as it was at first-
-showing me that my own dear boy had had a great disappointing
reservation from me, who so fondly loved him, kindles hope within
me. You do not extinguish it when I state it, but admit it to be a
reasonable hope. I begin to believe it possible:' here he clasped
his hands: 'that he may have disappeared from among us of his own
accord, and that he may yet be alive and well.'

Mr. Crisparkle came in at the moment. To whom Mr. Jasper repeated:

'I begin to believe it possible that he may have disappeared of his
own accord, and may yet be alive and well.'

Mr. Crisparkle taking a seat, and inquiring: 'Why so?' Mr. Jasper
repeated the arguments he had just set forth. If they had been
less plausible than they were, the good Minor Canon's mind would
have been in a state of preparation to receive them, as exculpatory
of his unfortunate pupil. But he, too, did really attach great
importance to the lost young man's having been, so immediately
before his disappearance, placed in a new and embarrassing relation
towards every one acquainted with his projects and affairs; and the
fact seemed to him to present the question in a new light.

'I stated to Mr. Sapsea, when we waited on him,' said Jasper: as
he really had done: 'that there was no quarrel or difference
between the two young men at their last meeting. We all know that
their first meeting was unfortunately very far from amicable; but
all went smoothly and quietly when they were last together at my
house. My dear boy was not in his usual spirits; he was depressed-
-I noticed that--and I am bound henceforth to dwell upon the
circumstance the more, now that I know there was a special reason
for his being depressed: a reason, moreover, which may possibly
have induced him to absent himself.'

'I pray to Heaven it may turn out so!' exclaimed Mr. Crisparkle.

'_I_ pray to Heaven it may turn out so!' repeated Jasper. 'You
know--and Mr. Grewgious should now know likewise--that I took a
great prepossession against Mr. Neville Landless, arising out of
his furious conduct on that first occasion. You know that I came
to you, extremely apprehensive, on my dear boy's behalf, of his mad
violence. You know that I even entered in my Diary, and showed the
entry to you, that I had dark forebodings against him. Mr.
Grewgious ought to be possessed of the whole case. He shall not,
through any suppression of mine, be informed of a part of it, and
kept in ignorance of another part of it. I wish him to be good
enough to understand that the communication he has made to me has
hopefully influenced my mind, in spite of its having been, before
this mysterious occurrence took place, profoundly impressed against
young Landless.'

This fairness troubled the Minor Canon much. He felt that he was
not as open in his own dealing. He charged against himself
reproachfully that he had suppressed, so far, the two points of a
second strong outbreak of temper against Edwin Drood on the part of
Neville, and of the passion of jealousy having, to his own certain
knowledge, flamed up in Neville's breast against him. He was
convinced of Neville's innocence of any part in the ugly
disappearance; and yet so many little circumstances combined so
wofully against him, that he dreaded to add two more to their
cumulative weight. He was among the truest of men; but he had been
balancing in his mind, much to its distress, whether his
volunteering to tell these two fragments of truth, at this time,
would not be tantamount to a piecing together of falsehood in the
place of truth.

However, here was a model before him. He hesitated no longer.
Addressing Mr. Grewgious, as one placed in authority by the
revelation he had brought to bear on the mystery (and surpassingly
Angular Mr. Grewgious became when he found himself in that
unexpected position), Mr. Crisparkle bore his testimony to Mr.
Jasper's strict sense of justice, and, expressing his absolute
confidence in the complete clearance of his pupil from the least
taint of suspicion, sooner or later, avowed that his confidence in
that young gentleman had been formed, in spite of his confidential
knowledge that his temper was of the hottest and fiercest, and that
it was directly incensed against Mr. Jasper's nephew, by the
circumstance of his romantically supposing himself to be enamoured
of the same young lady. The sanguine reaction manifest in Mr.
Jasper was proof even against this unlooked-for declaration. It
turned him paler; but he repeated that he would cling to the hope
he had derived from Mr. Grewgious; and that if no trace of his dear
boy were found, leading to the dreadful inference that he had been
made away with, he would cherish unto the last stretch of
possibility the idea, that he might have absconded of his own wild

Now, it fell out that Mr. Crisparkle, going away from this
conference still very uneasy in his mind, and very much troubled on
behalf of the young man whom he held as a kind of prisoner in his
own house, took a memorable night walk.

He walked to Cloisterham Weir.

He often did so, and consequently there was nothing remarkable in
his footsteps tending that way. But the preoccupation of his mind
so hindered him from planning any walk, or taking heed of the
objects he passed, that his first consciousness of being near the
Weir, was derived from the sound of the falling water close at

'How did I come here!' was his first thought, as he stopped.

'Why did I come here!' was his second.

Then, he stood intently listening to the water. A familiar passage
in his reading, about airy tongues that syllable men's names, rose
so unbidden to his ear, that he put it from him with his hand, as
if it were tangible.

It was starlight. The Weir was full two miles above the spot to
which the young men had repaired to watch the storm. No search had
been made up here, for the tide had been running strongly down, at
that time of the night of Christmas Eve, and the likeliest places
for the discovery of a body, if a fatal accident had happened under
such circumstances, all lay--both when the tide ebbed, and when it
flowed again--between that spot and the sea. The water came over
the Weir, with its usual sound on a cold starlight night, and
little could be seen of it; yet Mr. Crisparkle had a strange idea
that something unusual hung about the place.

He reasoned with himself: What was it? Where was it? Put it to
the proof. Which sense did it address?

No sense reported anything unusual there. He listened again, and
his sense of hearing again checked the water coming over the Weir,
with its usual sound on a cold starlight night.

Knowing very well that the mystery with which his mind was
occupied, might of itself give the place this haunted air, he
strained those hawk's eyes of his for the correction of his sight.
He got closer to the Weir, and peered at its well-known posts and
timbers. Nothing in the least unusual was remotely shadowed forth.
But he resolved that he would come back early in the morning.

The Weir ran through his broken sleep, all night, and he was back
again at sunrise. It was a bright frosty morning. The whole
composition before him, when he stood where he had stood last
night, was clearly discernible in its minutest details. He had
surveyed it closely for some minutes, and was about to withdraw his
eyes, when they were attracted keenly to one spot.

He turned his back upon the Weir, and looked far away at the sky,
and at the earth, and then looked again at that one spot. It
caught his sight again immediately, and he concentrated his vision
upon it. He could not lose it now, though it was but such a speck
in the landscape. It fascinated his sight. His hands began
plucking off his coat. For it struck him that at that spot--a
corner of the Weir--something glistened, which did not move and
come over with the glistening water-drops, but remained stationary.

He assured himself of this, he threw off his clothes, he plunged
into the icy water, and swam for the spot. Climbing the timbers,
he took from them, caught among their interstices by its chain, a
gold watch, bearing engraved upon its back E. D.

He brought the watch to the bank, swam to the Weir again, climbed
it, and dived off. He knew every hole and corner of all the
depths, and dived and dived and dived, until he could bear the cold
no more. His notion was, that he would find the body; he only
found a shirt-pin sticking in some mud and ooze.

With these discoveries he returned to Cloisterham, and, taking
Neville Landless with him, went straight to the Mayor. Mr. Jasper
was sent for, the watch and shirt-pin were identified, Neville was
detained, and the wildest frenzy and fatuity of evil report rose
against him. He was of that vindictive and violent nature, that
but for his poor sister, who alone had influence over him, and out
of whose sight he was never to be trusted, he would be in the daily
commission of murder. Before coming to England he had caused to be
whipped to death sundry 'Natives'--nomadic persons, encamping now
in Asia, now in Africa, now in the West Indies, and now at the
North Pole--vaguely supposed in Cloisterham to be always black,
always of great virtue, always calling themselves Me, and everybody
else Massa or Missie (according to sex), and always reading tracts
of the obscurest meaning, in broken English, but always accurately
understanding them in the purest mother tongue. He had nearly
brought Mrs. Crisparkle's grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.
(Those original expressions were Mr. Sapsea's.) He had repeatedly
said he would have Mr. Crisparkle's life. He had repeatedly said
he would have everybody's life, and become in effect the last man.
He had been brought down to Cloisterham, from London, by an eminent
Philanthropist, and why? Because that Philanthropist had expressly
declared: 'I owe it to my fellow-creatures that he should be, in
the words of BENTHAM, where he is the cause of the greatest danger
to the smallest number.'

These dropping shots from the blunderbusses of blunderheadedness
might not have hit him in a vital place. But he had to stand
against a trained and well-directed fire of arms of precision too.
He had notoriously threatened the lost young man, and had,
according to the showing of his own faithful friend and tutor who
strove so hard for him, a cause of bitter animosity (created by
himself, and stated by himself), against that ill-starred fellow.
He had armed himself with an offensive weapon for the fatal night,
and he had gone off early in the morning, after making preparations
for departure. He had been found with traces of blood on him;
truly, they might have been wholly caused as he represented, but
they might not, also. On a search-warrant being issued for the
examination of his room, clothes, and so forth, it was discovered
that he had destroyed all his papers, and rearranged all his
possessions, on the very afternoon of the disappearance. The watch
found at the Weir was challenged by the jeweller as one he had
wound and set for Edwin Drood, at twenty minutes past two on that
same afternoon; and it had run down, before being cast into the
water; and it was the jeweller's positive opinion that it had never
been re-wound. This would justify the hypothesis that the watch
was taken from him not long after he left Mr. Jasper's house at
midnight, in company with the last person seen with him, and that
it had been thrown away after being retained some hours. Why
thrown away? If he had been murdered, and so artfully disfigured,
or concealed, or both, as that the murderer hoped identification to
be impossible, except from something that he wore, assuredly the
murderer would seek to remove from the body the most lasting, the
best known, and the most easily recognisable, things upon it.
Those things would be the watch and shirt-pin. As to his
opportunities of casting them into the river; if he were the object
of these suspicions, they were easy. For, he had been seen by many
persons, wandering about on that side of the city--indeed on all
sides of it--in a miserable and seemingly half-distracted manner.
As to the choice of the spot, obviously such criminating evidence
had better take its chance of being found anywhere, rather than
upon himself, or in his possession. Concerning the reconciliatory
nature of the appointed meeting between the two young men, very
little could be made of that in young Landless's favour; for it
distinctly appeared that the meeting originated, not with him, but
with Mr. Crisparkle, and that it had been urged on by Mr.
Crisparkle; and who could say how unwillingly, or in what ill-
conditioned mood, his enforced pupil had gone to it? The more his
case was looked into, the weaker it became in every point. Even
the broad suggestion that the lost young man had absconded, was
rendered additionally improbable on the showing of the young lady
from whom he had so lately parted; for; what did she say, with
great earnestness and sorrow, when interrogated? That he had,
expressly and enthusiastically, planned with her, that he would
await the arrival of her guardian, Mr. Grewgious. And yet, be it
observed, he disappeared before that gentleman appeared.

On the suspicions thus urged and supported, Neville was detained,
and re-detained, and the search was pressed on every hand, and
Jasper laboured night and day. But nothing more was found. No
discovery being made, which proved the lost man to be dead, it at
length became necessary to release the person suspected of having
made away with him. Neville was set at large. Then, a consequence
ensued which Mr. Crisparkle had too well foreseen. Neville must
leave the place, for the place shunned him and cast him out. Even
had it not been so, the dear old china shepherdess would have
worried herself to death with fears for her son, and with general
trepidation occasioned by their having such an inmate. Even had
that not been so, the authority to which the Minor Canon deferred
officially, would have settled the point.

'Mr. Crisparkle,' quoth the Dean, 'human justice may err, but it
must act according to its lights. The days of taking sanctuary are
past. This young man must not take sanctuary with us.'

'You mean that he must leave my house, sir?'

'Mr. Crisparkle,' returned the prudent Dean, 'I claim no authority
in your house. I merely confer with you, on the painful necessity
you find yourself under, of depriving this young man of the great
advantages of your counsel and instruction.'

'It is very lamentable, sir,' Mr. Crisparkle represented.

'Very much so,' the Dean assented.

'And if it be a necessity--' Mr. Crisparkle faltered.

'As you unfortunately find it to be,' returned the Dean.

Mr. Crisparkle bowed submissively: 'It is hard to prejudge his
case, sir, but I am sensible that--'

'Just so. Perfectly. As you say, Mr. Crisparkle,' interposed the
Dean, nodding his head smoothly, 'there is nothing else to be done.
No doubt, no doubt. There is no alternative, as your good sense
has discovered.'

'I am entirely satisfied of his perfect innocence, sir,

'We-e-ell!' said the Dean, in a more confidential tone, and
slightly glancing around him, 'I would not say so, generally. Not
generally. Enough of suspicion attaches to him to--no, I think I
would not say so, generally.'

Mr. Crisparkle bowed again.

'It does not become us, perhaps,' pursued the Dean, 'to be
partisans. Not partisans. We clergy keep our hearts warm and our
heads cool, and we hold a judicious middle course.'

'I hope you do not object, sir, to my having stated in public,
emphatically, that he will reappear here, whenever any new
suspicion may be awakened, or any new circumstance may come to
light in this extraordinary matter?'

'Not at all,' returned the Dean. 'And yet, do you know, I don't
think,' with a very nice and neat emphasis on those two words: 'I
DON'T THINK I would state it emphatically. State it? Ye-e-es!
But emphatically? No-o-o. I THINK not. In point of fact, Mr.
Crisparkle, keeping our hearts warm and our heads cool, we clergy
need do nothing emphatically.'

So Minor Canon Row knew Neville Landless no more; and he went

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