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The Mystery of Edwin Drood by Charles Dickens

Part 5 out of 6

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whithersoever he would, or could, with a blight upon his name and

It was not until then that John Jasper silently resumed his place
in the choir. Haggard and red-eyed, his hopes plainly had deserted
him, his sanguine mood was gone, and all his worst misgivings had
come back. A day or two afterwards, while unrobing, he took his
Diary from a pocket of his coat, turned the leaves, and with an
impressive look, and without one spoken word, handed this entry to
Mr. Crisparkle to read:

'My dear boy is murdered. The discovery of the watch and shirt-pin
convinces me that he was murdered that night, and that his
jewellery was taken from him to prevent identification by its
means. All the delusive hopes I had founded on his separation from
his betrothed wife, I give to the winds. They perish before this
fatal discovery. I now swear, and record the oath on this page,
That I nevermore will discuss this mystery with any human creature
until I hold the clue to it in my hand. That I never will relax in
my secrecy or in my search. That I will fasten the crime of the
murder of my dear dead boy upon the murderer. And, That I devote
myself to his destruction.'


Full half a year had come and gone, and Mr. Crisparkle sat in a
waiting-room in the London chief offices of the Haven of
Philanthropy, until he could have audience of Mr. Honeythunder.

In his college days of athletic exercises, Mr. Crisparkle had known
professors of the Noble Art of fisticuffs, and had attended two or
three of their gloved gatherings. He had now an opportunity of
observing that as to the phrenological formation of the backs of
their heads, the Professing Philanthropists were uncommonly like
the Pugilists. In the development of all those organs which
constitute, or attend, a propensity to 'pitch into' your fellow-
creatures, the Philanthropists were remarkably favoured. There
were several Professors passing in and out, with exactly the
aggressive air upon them of being ready for a turn-up with any
Novice who might happen to be on hand, that Mr. Crisparkle well
remembered in the circles of the Fancy. Preparations were in
progress for a moral little Mill somewhere on the rural circuit,
and other Professors were backing this or that Heavy-Weight as good
for such or such speech-making hits, so very much after the manner
of the sporting publicans, that the intended Resolutions might have
been Rounds. In an official manager of these displays much
celebrated for his platform tactics, Mr. Crisparkle recognised (in
a suit of black) the counterpart of a deceased benefactor of his
species, an eminent public character, once known to fame as Frosty-
faced Fogo, who in days of yore superintended the formation of the
magic circle with the ropes and stakes. There were only three
conditions of resemblance wanting between these Professors and
those. Firstly, the Philanthropists were in very bad training:
much too fleshy, and presenting, both in face and figure, a
superabundance of what is known to Pugilistic Experts as Suet
Pudding. Secondly, the Philanthropists had not the good temper of
the Pugilists, and used worse language. Thirdly, their fighting
code stood in great need of revision, as empowering them not only
to bore their man to the ropes, but to bore him to the confines of
distraction; also to hit him when he was down, hit him anywhere and
anyhow, kick him, stamp upon him, gouge him, and maul him behind
his back without mercy. In these last particulars the Professors
of the Noble Art were much nobler than the Professors of

Mr. Crisparkle was so completely lost in musing on these
similarities and dissimilarities, at the same time watching the
crowd which came and went by, always, as it seemed, on errands of
antagonistically snatching something from somebody, and never
giving anything to anybody, that his name was called before he
heard it. On his at length responding, he was shown by a miserably
shabby and underpaid stipendiary Philanthropist (who could hardly
have done worse if he had taken service with a declared enemy of
the human race) to Mr. Honeythunder's room.

'Sir,' said Mr. Honeythunder, in his tremendous voice, like a
schoolmaster issuing orders to a boy of whom he had a bad opinion,
'sit down.'

Mr. Crisparkle seated himself.

Mr. Honeythunder having signed the remaining few score of a few
thousand circulars, calling upon a corresponding number of families
without means to come forward, stump up instantly, and be
Philanthropists, or go to the Devil, another shabby stipendiary
Philanthropist (highly disinterested, if in earnest) gathered these
into a basket and walked off with them.

'Now, Mr. Crisparkle,' said Mr. Honeythunder, turning his chair
half round towards him when they were alone, and squaring his arms
with his hands on his knees, and his brows knitted, as if he added,
I am going to make short work of YOU: 'Now, Mr. Crisparkle, we
entertain different views, you and I, sir, of the sanctity of human

'Do we?' returned the Minor Canon.

'We do, sir?'

'Might I ask you,' said the Minor Canon: 'what are your views on
that subject?'

'That human life is a thing to be held sacred, sir.'

'Might I ask you,' pursued the Minor Canon as before: 'what you
suppose to be my views on that subject?'

'By George, sir!' returned the Philanthropist, squaring his arms
still more, as he frowned on Mr. Crisparkle: 'they are best known
to yourself.'

'Readily admitted. But you began by saying that we took different
views, you know. Therefore (or you could not say so) you must have
set up some views as mine. Pray, what views HAVE you set up as

'Here is a man--and a young man,' said Mr. Honeythunder, as if that
made the matter infinitely worse, and he could have easily borne
the loss of an old one, 'swept off the face of the earth by a deed
of violence. What do you call that?'

'Murder,' said the Minor Canon.

'What do you call the doer of that deed, sir?

'A murderer,' said the Minor Canon.

'I am glad to hear you admit so much, sir,' retorted Mr.
Honeythunder, in his most offensive manner; 'and I candidly tell
you that I didn't expect it.' Here he lowered heavily at Mr.
Crisparkle again.

'Be so good as to explain what you mean by those very unjustifiable

'I don't sit here, sir,' returned the Philanthropist, raising his
voice to a roar, 'to be browbeaten.'

'As the only other person present, no one can possibly know that
better than I do,' returned the Minor Canon very quietly. 'But I
interrupt your explanation.'

'Murder!' proceeded Mr. Honeythunder, in a kind of boisterous
reverie, with his platform folding of his arms, and his platform
nod of abhorrent reflection after each short sentiment of a word.
'Bloodshed! Abel! Cain! I hold no terms with Cain. I repudiate
with a shudder the red hand when it is offered me.'

Instead of instantly leaping into his chair and cheering himself
hoarse, as the Brotherhood in public meeting assembled would
infallibly have done on this cue, Mr. Crisparkle merely reversed
the quiet crossing of his legs, and said mildly: 'Don't let me
interrupt your explanation--when you begin it.'

'The Commandments say, no murder. NO murder, sir!' proceeded Mr.
Honeythunder, platformally pausing as if he took Mr. Crisparkle to
task for having distinctly asserted that they said: You may do a
little murder, and then leave off.

'And they also say, you shall bear no false witness,' observed Mr.

'Enough!' bellowed Mr. Honeythunder, with a solemnity and severity
that would have brought the house down at a meeting, 'E-e-nough!
My late wards being now of age, and I being released from a trust
which I cannot contemplate without a thrill of horror, there are
the accounts which you have undertaken to accept on their behalf,
and there is a statement of the balance which you have undertaken
to receive, and which you cannot receive too soon. And let me tell
you, sir, I wish that, as a man and a Minor Canon, you were better
employed,' with a nod. 'Better employed,' with another nod. 'Bet-
ter em-ployed!' with another and the three nods added up.

Mr. Crisparkle rose; a little heated in the face, but with perfect
command of himself.

'Mr. Honeythunder,' he said, taking up the papers referred to: 'my
being better or worse employed than I am at present is a matter of
taste and opinion. You might think me better employed in enrolling
myself a member of your Society.'

'Ay, indeed, sir!' retorted Mr. Honeythunder, shaking his head in a
threatening manner. 'It would have been better for you if you had
done that long ago!'

'I think otherwise.'

'Or,' said Mr. Honeythunder, shaking his head again, 'I might think
one of your profession better employed in devoting himself to the
discovery and punishment of guilt than in leaving that duty to be
undertaken by a layman.'

'I may regard my profession from a point of view which teaches me
that its first duty is towards those who are in necessity and
tribulation, who are desolate and oppressed,' said Mr. Crisparkle.
'However, as I have quite clearly satisfied myself that it is no
part of my profession to make professions, I say no more of that.
But I owe it to Mr. Neville, and to Mr. Neville's sister (and in a
much lower degree to myself), to say to you that I KNOW I was in
the full possession and understanding of Mr. Neville's mind and
heart at the time of this occurrence; and that, without in the
least colouring or concealing what was to be deplored in him and
required to be corrected, I feel certain that his tale is true.
Feeling that certainty, I befriend him. As long as that certainty
shall last, I will befriend him. And if any consideration could
shake me in this resolve, I should be so ashamed of myself for my
meanness, that no man's good opinion--no, nor no woman's--so
gained, could compensate me for the loss of my own.'

Good fellow! manly fellow! And he was so modest, too. There was
no more self-assertion in the Minor Canon than in the schoolboy who
had stood in the breezy playing-fields keeping a wicket. He was
simply and staunchly true to his duty alike in the large case and
in the small. So all true souls ever are. So every true soul ever
was, ever is, and ever will be. There is nothing little to the
really great in spirit.

'Then who do you make out did the deed?' asked Mr. Honeythunder,
turning on him abruptly.

'Heaven forbid,' said Mr. Crisparkle, 'that in my desire to clear
one man I should lightly criminate another! I accuse no one,'

'Tcha!' ejaculated Mr. Honeythunder with great disgust; for this
was by no means the principle on which the Philanthropic
Brotherhood usually proceeded. 'And, sir, you are not a
disinterested witness, we must bear in mind.'

'How am I an interested one?' inquired Mr. Crisparkle, smiling
innocently, at a loss to imagine.

'There was a certain stipend, sir, paid to you for your pupil,
which may have warped your judgment a bit,' said Mr. Honeythunder,

'Perhaps I expect to retain it still?' Mr. Crisparkle returned,
enlightened; 'do you mean that too?'

'Well, sir,' returned the professional Philanthropist, getting up
and thrusting his hands down into his trousers-pockets, 'I don't go
about measuring people for caps. If people find I have any about
me that fit 'em, they can put 'em on and wear 'em, if they like.
That's their look out: not mine.'

Mr. Crisparkle eyed him with a just indignation, and took him to
task thus:

'Mr. Honeythunder, I hoped when I came in here that I might be
under no necessity of commenting on the introduction of platform
manners or platform manoeuvres among the decent forbearances of
private life. But you have given me such a specimen of both, that
I should be a fit subject for both if I remained silent respecting
them. They are detestable.'

'They don't suit YOU, I dare say, sir.'

'They are,' repeated Mr. Crisparkle, without noticing the
interruption, 'detestable. They violate equally the justice that
should belong to Christians, and the restraints that should belong
to gentlemen. You assume a great crime to have been committed by
one whom I, acquainted with the attendant circumstances, and having
numerous reasons on my side, devoutly believe to be innocent of it.
Because I differ from you on that vital point, what is your
platform resource? Instantly to turn upon me, charging that I have
no sense of the enormity of the crime itself, but am its aider and
abettor! So, another time--taking me as representing your opponent
in other cases--you set up a platform credulity; a moved and
seconded and carried-unanimously profession of faith in some
ridiculous delusion or mischievous imposition. I decline to
believe it, and you fall back upon your platform resource of
proclaiming that I believe nothing; that because I will not bow
down to a false God of your making, I deny the true God! Another
time you make the platform discovery that War is a calamity, and
you propose to abolish it by a string of twisted resolutions tossed
into the air like the tail of a kite. I do not admit the discovery
to be yours in the least, and I have not a grain of faith in your
remedy. Again, your platform resource of representing me as
revelling in the horrors of a battle-field like a fiend incarnate!
Another time, in another of your undiscriminating platform rushes,
you would punish the sober for the drunken. I claim consideration
for the comfort, convenience, and refreshment of the sober; and you
presently make platform proclamation that I have a depraved desire
to turn Heaven's creatures into swine and wild beasts! In all such
cases your movers, and your seconders, and your supporters --your
regular Professors of all degrees, run amuck like so many mad
Malays; habitually attributing the lowest and basest motives with
the utmost recklessness (let me call your attention to a recent
instance in yourself for which you should blush), and quoting
figures which you know to be as wilfully onesided as a statement of
any complicated account that should be all Creditor side and no
Debtor, or all Debtor side and no Creditor. Therefore it is, Mr.
Honeythunder, that I consider the platform a sufficiently bad
example and a sufficiently bad school, even in public life; but
hold that, carried into private life, it becomes an unendurable

'These are strong words, sir!' exclaimed the Philanthropist.

'I hope so,' said Mr. Crisparkle. 'Good morning.'

He walked out of the Haven at a great rate, but soon fell into his
regular brisk pace, and soon had a smile upon his face as he went
along, wondering what the china shepherdess would have said if she
had seen him pounding Mr. Honeythunder in the late little lively
affair. For Mr. Crisparkle had just enough of harmless vanity to
hope that he had hit hard, and to glow with the belief that he had
trimmed the Philanthropic Jacket pretty handsomely.

He took himself to Staple Inn, but not to P. J. T. and Mr.
Grewgious. Full many a creaking stair he climbed before he reached
some attic rooms in a corner, turned the latch of their unbolted
door, and stood beside the table of Neville Landless.

An air of retreat and solitude hung about the rooms and about their
inhabitant. He was much worn, and so were they. Their sloping
ceilings, cumbrous rusty locks and grates, and heavy wooden bins
and beams, slowly mouldering withal, had a prisonous look, and he
had the haggard face of a prisoner. Yet the sunlight shone in at
the ugly garret-window, which had a penthouse to itself thrust out
among the tiles; and on the cracked and smoke-blackened parapet
beyond, some of the deluded sparrows of the place rheumatically
hopped, like little feathered cripples who had left their crutches
in their nests; and there was a play of living leaves at hand that
changed the air, and made an imperfect sort of music in it that
would have been melody in the country.

The rooms were sparely furnished, but with good store of books.
Everything expressed the abode of a poor student. That Mr.
Crisparkle had been either chooser, lender, or donor of the books,
or that he combined the three characters, might have been easily
seen in the friendly beam of his eyes upon them as he entered.

'How goes it, Neville?'

'I am in good heart, Mr. Crisparkle, and working away.'

'I wish your eyes were not quite so large and not quite so bright,'
said the Minor Canon, slowly releasing the hand he had taken in

'They brighten at the sight of you,' returned Neville. 'If you
were to fall away from me, they would soon be dull enough.'

'Rally, rally!' urged the other, in a stimulating tone. 'Fight for
it, Neville!'

'If I were dying, I feel as if a word from you would rally me; if
my pulse had stopped, I feel as if your touch would make it beat
again,' said Neville. 'But I HAVE rallied, and am doing famously.'

Mr. Crisparkle turned him with his face a little more towards the

'I want to see a ruddier touch here, Neville,' he said, indicating
his own healthy cheek by way of pattern. 'I want more sun to shine
upon you.'

Neville drooped suddenly, as he replied in a lowered voice: 'I am
not hardy enough for that, yet. I may become so, but I cannot bear
it yet. If you had gone through those Cloisterham streets as I
did; if you had seen, as I did, those averted eyes, and the better
sort of people silently giving me too much room to pass, that I
might not touch them or come near them, you wouldn't think it quite
unreasonable that I cannot go about in the daylight.'

'My poor fellow!' said the Minor Canon, in a tone so purely
sympathetic that the young man caught his hand, 'I never said it
was unreasonable; never thought so. But I should like you to do

'And that would give me the strongest motive to do it. But I
cannot yet. I cannot persuade myself that the eyes of even the
stream of strangers I pass in this vast city look at me without
suspicion. I feel marked and tainted, even when I go out--as I do
only--at night. But the darkness covers me then, and I take
courage from it.'

Mr. Crisparkle laid a hand upon his shoulder, and stood looking
down at him.

'If I could have changed my name,' said Neville, 'I would have done
so. But as you wisely pointed out to me, I can't do that, for it
would look like guilt. If I could have gone to some distant place,
I might have found relief in that, but the thing is not to be
thought of, for the same reason. Hiding and escaping would be the
construction in either case. It seems a little hard to be so tied
to a stake, and innocent; but I don't complain.'

'And you must expect no miracle to help you, Neville,' said Mr.
Crisparkle, compassionately.

'No, sir, I know that. The ordinary fulness of time and
circumstances is all I have to trust to.'

'It will right you at last, Neville.'

'So I believe, and I hope I may live to know it.'

But perceiving that the despondent mood into which he was falling
cast a shadow on the Minor Canon, and (it may be) feeling that the
broad hand upon his shoulder was not then quite as steady as its
own natural strength had rendered it when it first touched him just
now, he brightened and said:

'Excellent circumstances for study, anyhow! and you know, Mr.
Crisparkle, what need I have of study in all ways. Not to mention
that you have advised me to study for the difficult profession of
the law, specially, and that of course I am guiding myself by the
advice of such a friend and helper. Such a good friend and

He took the fortifying hand from his shoulder, and kissed it. Mr.
Crisparkle beamed at the books, but not so brightly as when he had

'I gather from your silence on the subject that my late guardian is
adverse, Mr. Crisparkle?'

The Minor Canon answered: 'Your late guardian is a--a most
unreasonable person, and it signifies nothing to any reasonable
person whether he is ADverse, PERverse, or the REverse.'

'Well for me that I have enough with economy to live upon,' sighed
Neville, half wearily and half cheerily, 'while I wait to be
learned, and wait to be righted! Else I might have proved the
proverb, that while the grass grows, the steed starves!'

He opened some books as he said it, and was soon immersed in their
interleaved and annotated passages; while Mr. Crisparkle sat beside
him, expounding, correcting, and advising. The Minor Canon's
Cathedral duties made these visits of his difficult to accomplish,
and only to be compassed at intervals of many weeks. But they were
as serviceable as they were precious to Neville Landless.

When they had got through such studies as they had in hand, they
stood leaning on the window-sill, and looking down upon the patch
of garden. 'Next week,' said Mr. Crisparkle, 'you will cease to be
alone, and will have a devoted companion.'

'And yet,' returned Neville, 'this seems an uncongenial place to
bring my sister to.'

'I don't think so,' said the Minor Canon. 'There is duty to be
done here; and there are womanly feeling, sense, and courage wanted

'I meant,' explained Neville, 'that the surroundings are so dull
and unwomanly, and that Helena can have no suitable friend or
society here.'

'You have only to remember,' said Mr. Crisparkle, 'that you are
here yourself, and that she has to draw you into the sunlight.'

They were silent for a little while, and then Mr. Crisparkle began

'When we first spoke together, Neville, you told me that your
sister had risen out of the disadvantages of your past lives as
superior to you as the tower of Cloisterham Cathedral is higher
than the chimneys of Minor Canon Corner. Do you remember that?'

'Right well!'

'I was inclined to think it at the time an enthusiastic flight. No
matter what I think it now. What I would emphasise is, that under
the head of Pride your sister is a great and opportune example to

'Under ALL heads that are included in the composition of a fine
character, she is.'

'Say so; but take this one. Your sister has learnt how to govern
what is proud in her nature. She can dominate it even when it is
wounded through her sympathy with you. No doubt she has suffered
deeply in those same streets where you suffered deeply. No doubt
her life is darkened by the cloud that darkens yours. But bending
her pride into a grand composure that is not haughty or aggressive,
but is a sustained confidence in you and in the truth, she has won
her way through those streets until she passes along them as high
in the general respect as any one who treads them. Every day and
hour of her life since Edwin Drood's disappearance, she has faced
malignity and folly--for you--as only a brave nature well directed
can. So it will be with her to the end. Another and weaker kind
of pride might sink broken-hearted, but never such a pride as hers:
which knows no shrinking, and can get no mastery over her.'

The pale cheek beside him flushed under the comparison, and the
hint implied in it.

'I will do all I can to imitate her,' said Neville.

'Do so, and be a truly brave man, as she is a truly brave woman,'
answered Mr. Crisparkle stoutly. 'It is growing dark. Will you go
my way with me, when it is quite dark? Mind! it is not I who wait
for darkness.'

Neville replied, that he would accompany him directly. But Mr.
Crisparkle said he had a moment's call to make on Mr. Grewgious as
an act of courtesy, and would run across to that gentleman's
chambers, and rejoin Neville on his own doorstep, if he would come
down there to meet him.

Mr. Grewgious, bolt upright as usual, sat taking his wine in the
dusk at his open window; his wineglass and decanter on the round
table at his elbow; himself and his legs on the window-seat; only
one hinge in his whole body, like a bootjack.

'How do you do, reverend sir?' said Mr. Grewgious, with abundant
offers of hospitality, which were as cordially declined as made.
'And how is your charge getting on over the way in the set that I
had the pleasure of recommending to you as vacant and eligible?'

Mr. Crisparkle replied suitably.

'I am glad you approve of them,' said Mr. Grewgious, 'because I
entertain a sort of fancy for having him under my eye.'

As Mr. Grewgious had to turn his eye up considerably before he
could see the chambers, the phrase was to be taken figuratively and
not literally.

'And how did you leave Mr. Jasper, reverend sir?' said Mr.

Mr. Crisparkle had left him pretty well.

'And where did you leave Mr. Jasper, reverend sir?' Mr. Crisparkle
had left him at Cloisterham.

'And when did you leave Mr. Jasper, reverend sir?' That morning.

'Umps!' said Mr. Grewgious. 'He didn't say he was coming,

'Coming where?'

'Anywhere, for instance?' said Mr. Grewgious.


'Because here he is,' said Mr. Grewgious, who had asked all these
questions, with his preoccupied glance directed out at window.
'And he don't look agreeable, does he?'

Mr. Crisparkle was craning towards the window, when Mr. Grewgious

'If you will kindly step round here behind me, in the gloom of the
room, and will cast your eye at the second-floor landing window in
yonder house, I think you will hardly fail to see a slinking
individual in whom I recognise our local friend.'

'You are right!' cried Mr. Crisparkle.

'Umps!' said Mr. Grewgious. Then he added, turning his face so
abruptly that his head nearly came into collision with Mr.
Crisparkle's: 'what should you say that our local friend was up

The last passage he had been shown in the Diary returned on Mr.
Crisparkle's mind with the force of a strong recoil, and he asked
Mr. Grewgious if he thought it possible that Neville was to be
harassed by the keeping of a watch upon him?

'A watch?' repeated Mr. Grewgious musingly. 'Ay!'

'Which would not only of itself haunt and torture his life,' said
Mr. Crisparkle warmly, 'but would expose him to the torment of a
perpetually reviving suspicion, whatever he might do, or wherever
he might go.'

'Ay!' said Mr. Grewgious musingly still. 'Do I see him waiting for

'No doubt you do.'

'Then WOULD you have the goodness to excuse my getting up to see
you out, and to go out to join him, and to go the way that you were
going, and to take no notice of our local friend?' said Mr.
Grewgious. 'I entertain a sort of fancy for having HIM under my
eye to-night, do you know?'

Mr. Crisparkle, with a significant need complied; and rejoining
Neville, went away with him. They dined together, and parted at
the yet unfinished and undeveloped railway station: Mr. Crisparkle
to get home; Neville to walk the streets, cross the bridges, make a
wide round of the city in the friendly darkness, and tire himself

It was midnight when he returned from his solitary expedition and
climbed his staircase. The night was hot, and the windows of the
staircase were all wide open. Coming to the top, it gave him a
passing chill of surprise (there being no rooms but his up there)
to find a stranger sitting on the window-sill, more after the
manner of a venturesome glazier than an amateur ordinarily careful
of his neck; in fact, so much more outside the window than inside,
as to suggest the thought that he must have come up by the water-
spout instead of the stairs.

The stranger said nothing until Neville put his key in his door;
then, seeming to make sure of his identity from the action, he

'I beg your pardon,' he said, coming from the window with a frank
and smiling air, and a prepossessing address; 'the beans.'

Neville was quite at a loss.

'Runners,' said the visitor. 'Scarlet. Next door at the back.'

'O,' returned Neville. 'And the mignonette and wall-flower?'

'The same,' said the visitor.

'Pray walk in.'

'Thank you.'

Neville lighted his candles, and the visitor sat down. A handsome
gentleman, with a young face, but with an older figure in its
robustness and its breadth of shoulder; say a man of eight-and-
twenty, or at the utmost thirty; so extremely sunburnt that the
contrast between his brown visage and the white forehead shaded out
of doors by his hat, and the glimpses of white throat below the
neckerchief, would have been almost ludicrous but for his broad
temples, bright blue eyes, clustering brown hair, and laughing

'I have noticed,' said he; '--my name is Tartar.'

Neville inclined his head.

'I have noticed (excuse me) that you shut yourself up a good deal,
and that you seem to like my garden aloft here. If you would like
a little more of it, I could throw out a few lines and stays
between my windows and yours, which the runners would take to
directly. And I have some boxes, both of mignonette and wall-
flower, that I could shove on along the gutter (with a boathook I
have by me) to your windows, and draw back again when they wanted
watering or gardening, and shove on again when they were ship-
shape; so that they would cause you no trouble. I couldn't take
this liberty without asking your permission, so I venture to ask
it. Tartar, corresponding set, next door.'

'You are very kind.'

'Not at all. I ought to apologise for looking in so late. But
having noticed (excuse me) that you generally walk out at night, I
thought I should inconvenience you least by awaiting your return.
I am always afraid of inconveniencing busy men, being an idle man.'

'I should not have thought so, from your appearance.'

'No? I take it as a compliment. In fact, I was bred in the Royal
Navy, and was First Lieutenant when I quitted it. But, an uncle
disappointed in the service leaving me his property on condition
that I left the Navy, I accepted the fortune, and resigned my

'Lately, I presume?'

'Well, I had had twelve or fifteen years of knocking about first.
I came here some nine months before you; I had had one crop before
you came. I chose this place, because, having served last in a
little corvette, I knew I should feel more at home where I had a
constant opportunity of knocking my head against the ceiling.
Besides, it would never do for a man who had been aboard ship from
his boyhood to turn luxurious all at once. Besides, again; having
been accustomed to a very short allowance of land all my life, I
thought I'd feel my way to the command of a landed estate, by
beginning in boxes.'

Whimsically as this was said, there was a touch of merry
earnestness in it that made it doubly whimsical.

'However,' said the Lieutenant, 'I have talked quite enough about
myself. It is not my way, I hope; it has merely been to present
myself to you naturally. If you will allow me to take the liberty
I have described, it will be a charity, for it will give me
something more to do. And you are not to suppose that it will
entail any interruption or intrusion on you, for that is far from
my intention.'

Neville replied that he was greatly obliged, and that he thankfully
accepted the kind proposal.

'I am very glad to take your windows in tow,' said the Lieutenant.
'From what I have seen of you when I have been gardening at mine,
and you have been looking on, I have thought you (excuse me) rather
too studious and delicate. May I ask, is your health at all

'I have undergone some mental distress,' said Neville, confused,
'which has stood me in the stead of illness.'

'Pardon me,' said Mr. Tartar.

With the greatest delicacy he shifted his ground to the windows
again, and asked if he could look at one of them. On Neville's
opening it, he immediately sprang out, as if he were going aloft
with a whole watch in an emergency, and were setting a bright

'For Heaven's sake,' cried Neville, 'don't do that! Where are you
going Mr. Tartar? You'll be dashed to pieces!'

'All well!' said the Lieutenant, coolly looking about him on the
housetop. 'All taut and trim here. Those lines and stays shall be
rigged before you turn out in the morning. May I take this short
cut home, and say good-night?'

'Mr. Tartar!' urged Neville. 'Pray! It makes me giddy to see

But Mr. Tartar, with a wave of his hand and the deftness of a cat,
had already dipped through his scuttle of scarlet runners without
breaking a leaf, and 'gone below.'

Mr. Grewgious, his bedroom window-blind held aside with his hand,
happened at the moment to have Neville's chambers under his eye for
the last time that night. Fortunately his eye was on the front of
the house and not the back, or this remarkable appearance and
disappearance might have broken his rest as a phenomenon. But Mr.
Grewgious seeing nothing there, not even a light in the windows,
his gaze wandered from the windows to the stars, as if he would
have read in them something that was hidden from him. Many of us
would, if we could; but none of us so much as know our letters in
the stars yet--or seem likely to do it, in this state of existence-
-and few languages can be read until their alphabets are mastered.


At about this time a stranger appeared in Cloisterham; a white-
haired personage, with black eyebrows. Being buttoned up in a
tightish blue surtout, with a buff waistcoat and gray trousers, he
had something of a military air, but he announced himself at the
Crozier (the orthodox hotel, where he put up with a portmanteau) as
an idle dog who lived upon his means; and he farther announced that
he had a mind to take a lodging in the picturesque old city for a
month or two, with a view of settling down there altogether. Both
announcements were made in the coffee-room of the Crozier, to all
whom it might or might not concern, by the stranger as he stood
with his back to the empty fireplace, waiting for his fried sole,
veal cutlet, and pint of sherry. And the waiter (business being
chronically slack at the Crozier) represented all whom it might or
might not concern, and absorbed the whole of the information.

This gentleman's white head was unusually large, and his shock of
white hair was unusually thick and ample. 'I suppose, waiter,' he
said, shaking his shock of hair, as a Newfoundland dog might shake
his before sitting down to dinner, 'that a fair lodging for a
single buffer might be found in these parts, eh?'

The waiter had no doubt of it.

'Something old,' said the gentleman. 'Take my hat down for a
moment from that peg, will you? No, I don't want it; look into it.
What do you see written there?'

The waiter read: 'Datchery.'

'Now you know my name,' said the gentleman; 'Dick Datchery. Hang
it up again. I was saying something old is what I should prefer,
something odd and out of the way; something venerable,
architectural, and inconvenient.'

'We have a good choice of inconvenient lodgings in the town, sir, I
think,' replied the waiter, with modest confidence in its resources
that way; 'indeed, I have no doubt that we could suit you that far,
however particular you might be. But a architectural lodging!'
That seemed to trouble the waiter's head, and he shook it.

'Anything Cathedraly, now,' Mr. Datchery suggested.

'Mr. Tope,' said the waiter, brightening, as he rubbed his chin
with his hand, 'would be the likeliest party to inform in that

'Who is Mr. Tope?' inquired Dick Datchery.

The waiter explained that he was the Verger, and that Mrs. Tope had
indeed once upon a time let lodgings herself or offered to let
them; but that as nobody had ever taken them, Mrs. Tope's window-
bill, long a Cloisterham Institution, had disappeared; probably had
tumbled down one day, and never been put up again.

'I'll call on Mrs. Tope,' said Mr. Datchery, 'after dinner.'

So when he had done his dinner, he was duly directed to the spot,
and sallied out for it. But the Crozier being an hotel of a most
retiring disposition, and the waiter's directions being fatally
precise, he soon became bewildered, and went boggling about and
about the Cathedral Tower, whenever he could catch a glimpse of it,
with a general impression on his mind that Mrs. Tope's was
somewhere very near it, and that, like the children in the game of
hot boiled beans and very good butter, he was warm in his search
when he saw the Tower, and cold when he didn't see it.

He was getting very cold indeed when he came upon a fragment of
burial-ground in which an unhappy sheep was grazing. Unhappy,
because a hideous small boy was stoning it through the railings,
and had already lamed it in one leg, and was much excited by the
benevolent sportsmanlike purpose of breaking its other three legs,
and bringing it down.

''It 'im agin!' cried the boy, as the poor creature leaped; 'and
made a dint in his wool.'

'Let him be!' said Mr. Datchery. 'Don't you see you have lamed

'Yer lie,' returned the sportsman. ''E went and lamed isself. I
see 'im do it, and I giv' 'im a shy as a Widdy-warning to 'im not
to go a-bruisin' 'is master's mutton any more.'

'Come here.'

'I won't; I'll come when yer can ketch me.'

'Stay there then, and show me which is Mr. Tope's.'

'Ow can I stay here and show you which is Topeseses, when Topeseses
is t'other side the Kinfreederal, and over the crossings, and round
ever so many comers? Stoo-pid! Ya-a-ah!'

'Show me where it is, and I'll give you something.'

'Come on, then.'

This brisk dialogue concluded, the boy led the way, and by-and-by
stopped at some distance from an arched passage, pointing.

'Lookie yonder. You see that there winder and door?'

'That's Tope's?'

'Yer lie; it ain't. That's Jarsper's.'

'Indeed?' said Mr. Datchery, with a second look of some interest.

'Yes, and I ain't a-goin' no nearer 'IM, I tell yer.'

'Why not?'

''Cos I ain't a-goin' to be lifted off my legs and 'ave my braces
bust and be choked; not if I knows it, and not by 'Im. Wait till I
set a jolly good flint a-flyin' at the back o' 'is jolly old 'ed
some day! Now look t'other side the harch; not the side where
Jarsper's door is; t'other side.'

'I see.'

'A little way in, o' that side, there's a low door, down two steps.
That's Topeseses with 'is name on a hoval plate.'

'Good. See here,' said Mr. Datchery, producing a shilling. 'You
owe me half of this.'

'Yer lie! I don't owe yer nothing; I never seen yer.'

'I tell you you owe me half of this, because I have no sixpence in
my pocket. So the next time you meet me you shall do something
else for me, to pay me.'

'All right, give us 'old.'

'What is your name, and where do you live?'

'Deputy. Travellers' Twopenny, 'cross the green.'

The boy instantly darted off with the shilling, lest Mr. Datchery
should repent, but stopped at a safe distance, on the happy chance
of his being uneasy in his mind about it, to goad him with a demon
dance expressive of its irrevocability.

Mr. Datchery, taking off his hat to give that shock of white hair
of his another shake, seemed quite resigned, and betook himself
whither he had been directed.

Mr. Tope's official dwelling, communicating by an upper stair with
Mr. Jasper's (hence Mrs. Tope's attendance on that gentleman), was
of very modest proportions, and partook of the character of a cool
dungeon. Its ancient walls were massive, and its rooms rather
seemed to have been dug out of them, than to have been designed
beforehand with any reference to them. The main door opened at
once on a chamber of no describable shape, with a groined roof,
which in its turn opened on another chamber of no describable
shape, with another groined roof: their windows small, and in the
thickness of the walls. These two chambers, close as to their
atmosphere, and swarthy as to their illumination by natural light,
were the apartments which Mrs. Tope had so long offered to an
unappreciative city. Mr. Datchery, however, was more appreciative.
He found that if he sat with the main door open he would enjoy the
passing society of all comers to and fro by the gateway, and would
have light enough. He found that if Mr. and Mrs. Tope, living
overhead, used for their own egress and ingress a little side stair
that came plump into the Precincts by a door opening outward, to
the surprise and inconvenience of a limited public of pedestrians
in a narrow way, he would be alone, as in a separate residence. He
found the rent moderate, and everything as quaintly inconvenient as
he could desire. He agreed, therefore, to take the lodging then
and there, and money down, possession to be had next evening, on
condition that reference was permitted him to Mr. Jasper as
occupying the gatehouse, of which on the other side of the gateway,
the Verger's hole-in-the-wall was an appanage or subsidiary part.

The poor dear gentleman was very solitary and very sad, Mrs. Tope
said, but she had no doubt he would 'speak for her.' Perhaps Mr.
Datchery had heard something of what had occurred there last

Mr. Datchery had as confused a knowledge of the event in question,
on trying to recall it, as he well could have. He begged Mrs.
Tope's pardon when she found it incumbent on her to correct him in
every detail of his summary of the facts, but pleaded that he was
merely a single buffer getting through life upon his means as idly
as he could, and that so many people were so constantly making away
with so many other people, as to render it difficult for a buffer
of an easy temper to preserve the circumstances of the several
cases unmixed in his mind.

Mr. Jasper proving willing to speak for Mrs. Tope, Mr. Datchery,
who had sent up his card, was invited to ascend the postern
staircase. The Mayor was there, Mr. Tope said; but he was not to
be regarded in the light of company, as he and Mr. Jasper were
great friends.

'I beg pardon,' said Mr. Datchery, making a leg with his hat under
his arm, as he addressed himself equally to both gentlemen; 'a
selfish precaution on my part, and not personally interesting to
anybody but myself. But as a buffer living on his means, and
having an idea of doing it in this lovely place in peace and quiet,
for remaining span of life, I beg to ask if the Tope family are
quite respectable?'

Mr. Jasper could answer for that without the slightest hesitation.

'That is enough, sir,' said Mr. Datchery.

'My friend the Mayor,' added Mr. Jasper, presenting Mr. Datchery
with a courtly motion of his hand towards that potentate; 'whose
recommendation is actually much more important to a stranger than
that of an obscure person like myself, will testify in their
behalf, I am sure.'

'The Worshipful the Mayor,' said Mr. Datchery, with a low bow,
'places me under an infinite obligation.'

'Very good people, sir, Mr. and Mrs. Tope,' said Mr. Sapsea, with
condescension. 'Very good opinions. Very well behaved. Very
respectful. Much approved by the Dean and Chapter.'

'The Worshipful the Mayor gives them a character,' said Mr.
Datchery, 'of which they may indeed be proud. I would ask His
Honour (if I might be permitted) whether there are not many objects
of great interest in the city which is under his beneficent sway?'

'We are, sir,' returned Mr. Sapsea, 'an ancient city, and an
ecclesiastical city. We are a constitutional city, as it becomes
such a city to be, and we uphold and maintain our glorious

'His Honour,' said Mr. Datchery, bowing, 'inspires me with a desire
to know more of the city, and confirms me in my inclination to end
my days in the city.'

'Retired from the Army, sir?' suggested Mr. Sapsea.

'His Honour the Mayor does me too much credit,' returned Mr.

'Navy, sir?' suggested Mr. Sapsea.

'Again,' repeated Mr. Datchery, 'His Honour the Mayor does me too
much credit.'

'Diplomacy is a fine profession,' said Mr. Sapsea, as a general

'There, I confess, His Honour the Mayor is too many for me,' said
Mr. Datchery, with an ingenious smile and bow; 'even a diplomatic
bird must fall to such a gun.'

Now this was very soothing. Here was a gentleman of a great, not
to say a grand, address, accustomed to rank and dignity, really
setting a fine example how to behave to a Mayor. There was
something in that third-person style of being spoken to, that Mr.
Sapsea found particularly recognisant of his merits and position.

'But I crave pardon,' said Mr. Datchery. 'His Honour the Mayor
will bear with me, if for a moment I have been deluded into
occupying his time, and have forgotten the humble claims upon my
own, of my hotel, the Crozier.'

'Not at all, sir,' said Mr. Sapsea. 'I am returning home, and if
you would like to take the exterior of our Cathedral in your way, I
shall be glad to point it out.'

'His Honour the Mayor,' said Mr. Datchery, 'is more than kind and

As Mr. Datchery, when he had made his acknowledgments to Mr.
Jasper, could not be induced to go out of the room before the
Worshipful, the Worshipful led the way down-stairs; Mr. Datchery
following with his hat under his arm, and his shock of white hair
streaming in the evening breeze.

'Might I ask His Honour,' said Mr. Datchery, 'whether that
gentleman we have just left is the gentleman of whom I have heard
in the neighbourhood as being much afflicted by the loss of a
nephew, and concentrating his life on avenging the loss?'

'That is the gentleman. John Jasper, sir.'

'Would His Honour allow me to inquire whether there are strong
suspicions of any one?'

'More than suspicions, sir,' returned Mr. Sapsea; 'all but

'Only think now!' cried Mr. Datchery.

'But proof, sir, proof must be built up stone by stone,' said the
Mayor. 'As I say, the end crowns the work. It is not enough that
justice should be morally certain; she must be immorally certain--
legally, that is.'

'His Honour,' said Mr. Datchery, 'reminds me of the nature of the
law. Immoral. How true!'

'As I say, sir,' pompously went on the Mayor, 'the arm of the law
is a strong arm, and a long arm. That is the may I put it. A
strong arm and a long arm.'

'How forcible!--And yet, again, how true!' murmured Mr. Datchery.

'And without betraying, what I call the secrets of the prison-
house,' said Mr. Sapsea; 'the secrets of the prison-house is the
term I used on the bench.'

'And what other term than His Honour's would express it?' said Mr.

'Without, I say, betraying them, I predict to you, knowing the iron
will of the gentleman we have just left (I take the bold step of
calling it iron, on account of its strength), that in this case the
long arm will reach, and the strong arm will strike.--This is our
Cathedral, sir. The best judges are pleased to admire it, and the
best among our townsmen own to being a little vain of it.'

All this time Mr. Datchery had walked with his hat under his arm,
and his white hair streaming. He had an odd momentary appearance
upon him of having forgotten his hat, when Mr. Sapsea now touched
it; and he clapped his hand up to his head as if with some vague
expectation of finding another hat upon it.

'Pray be covered, sir,' entreated Mr. Sapsea; magnificently plying:
'I shall not mind it, I assure you.'

'His Honour is very good, but I do it for coolness,' said Mr.

Then Mr. Datchery admired the Cathedral, and Mr. Sapsea pointed it
out as if he himself had invented and built it: there were a few
details indeed of which he did not approve, but those he glossed
over, as if the workmen had made mistakes in his absence. The
Cathedral disposed of, he led the way by the churchyard, and
stopped to extol the beauty of the evening--by chance--in the
immediate vicinity of Mrs. Sapsea's epitaph.

'And by the by,' said Mr. Sapsea, appearing to descend from an
elevation to remember it all of a sudden; like Apollo shooting down
from Olympus to pick up his forgotten lyre; 'THAT is one of our
small lions. The partiality of our people has made it so, and
strangers have been seen taking a copy of it now and then. I am
not a judge of it myself, for it is a little work of my own. But
it was troublesome to turn, sir; I may say, difficult to turn with

Mr. Datchery became so ecstatic over Mr. Sapsea's composition,
that, in spite of his intention to end his days in Cloisterham, and
therefore his probably having in reserve many opportunities of
copying it, he would have transcribed it into his pocket-book on
the spot, but for the slouching towards them of its material
producer and perpetuator, Durdles, whom Mr. Sapsea hailed, not
sorry to show him a bright example of behaviour to superiors.

'Ah, Durdles! This is the mason, sir; one of our Cloisterham
worthies; everybody here knows Durdles. Mr. Datchery, Durdles a
gentleman who is going to settle here.'

'I wouldn't do it if I was him,' growled Durdles. 'We're a heavy

'You surely don't speak for yourself, Mr. Durdles,' returned Mr.
Datchery, 'any more than for His Honour.'

'Who's His Honour?' demanded Durdles.

'His Honour the Mayor.'

'I never was brought afore him,' said Durdles, with anything but
the look of a loyal subject of the mayoralty, 'and it'll be time
enough for me to Honour him when I am. Until which, and when, and

"Mister Sapsea is his name,
England is his nation,
Cloisterham's his dwelling-place,
Aukshneer's his occupation."'

Here, Deputy (preceded by a flying oyster-shell) appeared upon the
scene, and requested to have the sum of threepence instantly
'chucked' to him by Mr. Durdles, whom he had been vainly seeking up
and down, as lawful wages overdue. While that gentleman, with his
bundle under his arm, slowly found and counted out the money, Mr.
Sapsea informed the new settler of Durdles's habits, pursuits,
abode, and reputation. 'I suppose a curious stranger might come to
see you, and your works, Mr. Durdles, at any odd time?' said Mr.
Datchery upon that.

'Any gentleman is welcome to come and see me any evening if he
brings liquor for two with him,' returned Durdles, with a penny
between his teeth and certain halfpence in his hands; 'or if he
likes to make it twice two, he'll be doubly welcome.'

'I shall come. Master Deputy, what do you owe me?'

'A job.'

'Mind you pay me honestly with the job of showing me Mr. Durdles's
house when I want to go there.'

Deputy, with a piercing broadside of whistle through the whole gap
in his mouth, as a receipt in full for all arrears, vanished.

The Worshipful and the Worshipper then passed on together until
they parted, with many ceremonies, at the Worshipful's door; even
then the Worshipper carried his hat under his arm, and gave his
streaming white hair to the breeze.

Said Mr. Datchery to himself that night, as he looked at his white
hair in the gas-lighted looking-glass over the coffee-room
chimneypiece at the Crozier, and shook it out: 'For a single
buffer, of an easy temper, living idly on his means, I have had a
rather busy afternoon!'


Again Miss Twinkleton has delivered her valedictory address, with
the accompaniments of white-wine and pound-cake, and again the
young ladies have departed to their several homes. Helena Landless
has left the Nuns' House to attend her brother's fortunes, and
pretty Rosa is alone.

Cloisterham is so bright and sunny in these summer days, that the
Cathedral and the monastery-ruin show as if their strong walls were
transparent. A soft glow seems to shine from within them, rather
than upon them from without, such is their mellowness as they look
forth on the hot corn-fields and the smoking roads that distantly
wind among them. The Cloisterham gardens blush with ripening
fruit. Time was when travel-stained pilgrims rode in clattering
parties through the city's welcome shades; time is when wayfarers,
leading a gipsy life between haymaking time and harvest, and
looking as if they were just made of the dust of the earth, so very
dusty are they, lounge about on cool door-steps, trying to mend
their unmendable shoes, or giving them to the city kennels as a
hopeless job, and seeking others in the bundles that they carry,
along with their yet unused sickles swathed in bands of straw. At
all the more public pumps there is much cooling of bare feet,
together with much bubbling and gurgling of drinking with hand to
spout on the part of these Bedouins; the Cloisterham police
meanwhile looking askant from their beats with suspicion, and
manifest impatience that the intruders should depart from within
the civic bounds, and once more fry themselves on the simmering

On the afternoon of such a day, when the last Cathedral service is
done, and when that side of the High Street on which the Nuns'
House stands is in grateful shade, save where its quaint old garden
opens to the west between the boughs of trees, a servant informs
Rosa, to her terror, that Mr. Jasper desires to see her.

If he had chosen his time for finding her at a disadvantage, he
could have done no better. Perhaps he has chosen it. Helena
Landless is gone, Mrs. Tisher is absent on leave, Miss Twinkleton
(in her amateur state of existence) has contributed herself and a
veal pie to a picnic.

'O why, why, why, did you say I was at home!' cried Rosa,

The maid replies, that Mr. Jasper never asked the question.

That he said he knew she was at home, and begged she might be told
that he asked to see her.

'What shall I do! what shall I do!' thinks Rosa, clasping her

Possessed by a kind of desperation, she adds in the next breath,
that she will come to Mr. Jasper in the garden. She shudders at
the thought of being shut up with him in the house; but many of its
windows command the garden, and she can be seen as well as heard
there, and can shriek in the free air and run away. Such is the
wild idea that flutters through her mind.

She has never seen him since the fatal night, except when she was
questioned before the Mayor, and then he was present in gloomy
watchfulness, as representing his lost nephew and burning to avenge
him. She hangs her garden-hat on her arm, and goes out. The
moment she sees him from the porch, leaning on the sun-dial, the
old horrible feeling of being compelled by him, asserts its hold
upon her. She feels that she would even then go back, but that he
draws her feet towards him. She cannot resist, and sits down, with
her head bent, on the garden-seat beside the sun-dial. She cannot
look up at him for abhorrence, but she has perceived that he is
dressed in deep mourning. So is she. It was not so at first; but
the lost has long been given up, and mourned for, as dead.

He would begin by touching her hand. She feels the intention, and
draws her hand back. His eyes are then fixed upon her, she knows,
though her own see nothing but the grass.

'I have been waiting,' he begins, 'for some time, to be summoned
back to my duty near you.'

After several times forming her lips, which she knows he is closely
watching, into the shape of some other hesitating reply, and then
into none, she answers: 'Duty, sir?'

'The duty of teaching you, serving you as your faithful music-

'I have left off that study.'

'Not left off, I think. Discontinued. I was told by your guardian
that you discontinued it under the shock that we have all felt so
acutely. When will you resume?'

'Never, sir.'

'Never? You could have done no more if you had loved my dear boy.'

'I did love him!' cried Rosa, with a flash of anger.

'Yes; but not quite--not quite in the right way, shall I say? Not
in the intended and expected way. Much as my dear boy was,
unhappily, too self-conscious and self-satisfied (I'll draw no
parallel between him and you in that respect) to love as he should
have loved, or as any one in his place would have loved--must have

She sits in the same still attitude, but shrinking a little more.

'Then, to be told that you discontinued your study with me, was to
be politely told that you abandoned it altogether?' he suggested.

'Yes,' says Rosa, with sudden spirit, 'The politeness was my
guardian's, not mine. I told him that I was resolved to leave off,
and that I was determined to stand by my resolution.'

'And you still are?'

'I still am, sir. And I beg not to be questioned any more about
it. At all events, I will not answer any more; I have that in my

She is so conscious of his looking at her with a gloating
admiration of the touch of anger on her, and the fire and animation
it brings with it, that even as her spirit rises, it falls again,
and she struggles with a sense of shame, affront, and fear, much as
she did that night at the piano.

'I will not question you any more, since you object to it so much;
I will confess--'

'I do not wish to hear you, sir,' cries Rosa, rising.

This time he does touch her with his outstretched hand. In
shrinking from it, she shrinks into her seat again.

'We must sometimes act in opposition to our wishes,' he tells her
in a low voice. 'You must do so now, or do more harm to others
than you can ever set right.'

'What harm?'

'Presently, presently. You question ME, you see, and surely that's
not fair when you forbid me to question you. Nevertheless, I will
answer the question presently. Dearest Rosa! Charming Rosa!'

She starts up again.

This time he does not touch her. But his face looks so wicked and
menacing, as he stands leaning against the sun-dial-setting, as it
were, his black mark upon the very face of day--that her flight is
arrested by horror as she looks at him.

'I do not forget how many windows command a view of us,' he says,
glancing towards them. 'I will not touch you again; I will come no
nearer to you than I am. Sit down, and there will be no mighty
wonder in your music-master's leaning idly against a pedestal and
speaking with you, remembering all that has happened, and our
shares in it. Sit down, my beloved.'

She would have gone once more--was all but gone--and once more his
face, darkly threatening what would follow if she went, has stopped
her. Looking at him with the expression of the instant frozen on
her face, she sits down on the seat again.

'Rosa, even when my dear boy was affianced to you, I loved you
madly; even when I thought his happiness in having you for his wife
was certain, I loved you madly; even when I strove to make him more
ardently devoted to you, I loved you madly; even when he gave me
the picture of your lovely face so carelessly traduced by him,
which I feigned to hang always in my sight for his sake, but
worshipped in torment for years, I loved you madly; in the
distasteful work of the day, in the wakeful misery of the night,
girded by sordid realities, or wandering through Paradises and
Hells of visions into which I rushed, carrying your image in my
arms, I loved you madly.'

If anything could make his words more hideous to her than they are
in themselves, it would be the contrast between the violence of his
look and delivery, and the composure of his assumed attitude.

'I endured it all in silence. So long as you were his, or so long
as I supposed you to be his, I hid my secret loyally. Did I not?'

This lie, so gross, while the mere words in which it is told are so
true, is more than Rosa can endure. She answers with kindling
indignation: 'You were as false throughout, sir, as you are now.
You were false to him, daily and hourly. You know that you made my
life unhappy by your pursuit of me. You know that you made me
afraid to open his generous eyes, and that you forced me, for his
own trusting, good, good sake, to keep the truth from him, that you
were a bad, bad man!'

His preservation of his easy attitude rendering his working
features and his convulsive hands absolutely diabolical, he
returns, with a fierce extreme of admiration:

'How beautiful you are! You are more beautiful in anger than in
repose. I don't ask you for your love; give me yourself and your
hatred; give me yourself and that pretty rage; give me yourself and
that enchanting scorn; it will be enough for me.'

Impatient tears rise to the eyes of the trembling little beauty,
and her face flames; but as she again rises to leave him in
indignation, and seek protection within the house, he stretches out
his hand towards the porch, as though he invited her to enter it.

'I told you, you rare charmer, you sweet witch, that you must stay
and hear me, or do more harm than can ever be undone. You asked me
what harm. Stay, and I will tell you. Go, and I will do it!'

Again Rosa quails before his threatening face, though innocent of
its meaning, and she remains. Her panting breathing comes and goes
as if it would choke her; but with a repressive hand upon her
bosom, she remains.

'I have made my confession that my love is mad. It is so mad, that
had the ties between me and my dear lost boy been one silken thread
less strong, I might have swept even him from your side, when you
favoured him.'

A film come over the eyes she raises for an instant, as though he
had turned her faint.

'Even him,' he repeats. 'Yes, even him! Rosa, you see me and you
hear me. Judge for yourself whether any other admirer shall love
you and live, whose life is in my hand.'

'What do you mean, sir?'

'I mean to show you how mad my love is. It was hawked through the
late inquiries by Mr. Crisparkle, that young Landless had confessed
to him that he was a rival of my lost boy. That is an inexpiable
offence in my eyes. The same Mr. Crisparkle knows under my hand
that I have devoted myself to the murderer's discovery and
destruction, be he whom he might, and that I determined to discuss
the mystery with no one until I should hold the clue in which to
entangle the murderer as in a net. I have since worked patiently
to wind and wind it round him; and it is slowly winding as I

'Your belief, if you believe in the criminality of Mr. Landless, is
not Mr. Crisparkle's belief, and he is a good man,' Rosa retorts.

'My belief is my own; and I reserve it, worshipped of my soul!
Circumstances may accumulate so strongly EVEN AGAINST AN INNOCENT
MAN, that directed, sharpened, and pointed, they may slay him. One
wanting link discovered by perseverance against a guilty man,
proves his guilt, however slight its evidence before, and he dies.
Young Landless stands in deadly peril either way.'

'If you really suppose,' Rosa pleads with him, turning paler, 'that
I favour Mr. Landless, or that Mr. Landless has ever in any way
addressed himself to me, you are wrong.'

He puts that from him with a slighting action of his hand and a
curled lip.

'I was going to show you how madly I love you. More madly now than
ever, for I am willing to renounce the second object that has
arisen in my life to divide it with you; and henceforth to have no
object in existence but you only. Miss Landless has become your
bosom friend. You care for her peace of mind?'

'I love her dearly.'

'You care for her good name?'

'I have said, sir, I love her dearly.'

'I am unconsciously,' he observes with a smile, as he folds his
hands upon the sun-dial and leans his chin upon them, so that his
talk would seem from the windows (faces occasionally come and go
there) to be of the airiest and playfullest--'I am unconsciously
giving offence by questioning again. I will simply make
statements, therefore, and not put questions. You do care for your
bosom friend's good name, and you do care for her peace of mind.
Then remove the shadow of the gallows from her, dear one!'

'You dare propose to me to--'

'Darling, I dare propose to you. Stop there. If it be bad to
idolise you, I am the worst of men; if it be good, I am the best.
My love for you is above all other love, and my truth to you is
above all other truth. Let me have hope and favour, and I am a
forsworn man for your sake.'

Rosa puts her hands to her temples, and, pushing back her hair,
looks wildly and abhorrently at him, as though she were trying to
piece together what it is his deep purpose to present to her only
in fragments.

'Reckon up nothing at this moment, angel, but the sacrifices that I
lay at those dear feet, which I could fall down among the vilest
ashes and kiss, and put upon my head as a poor savage might. There
is my fidelity to my dear boy after death. Tread upon it!'

With an action of his hands, as though he cast down something

'There is the inexpiable offence against my adoration of you.
Spurn it!'

With a similar action.

'There are my labours in the cause of a just vengeance for six
toiling months. Crush them!'

With another repetition of the action.

'There is my past and my present wasted life. There is the
desolation of my heart and my soul. There is my peace; there is my
despair. Stamp them into the dust; so that you take me, were it
even mortally hating me!'

The frightful vehemence of the man, now reaching its full height,
so additionally terrifies her as to break the spell that has held
her to the spot. She swiftly moves towards the porch; but in an
instant he is at her side, and speaking in her ear.

'Rosa, I am self-repressed again. I am walking calmly beside you
to the house. I shall wait for some encouragement and hope. I
shall not strike too soon. Give me a sign that you attend to me.'

She slightly and constrainedly moves her hand.

'Not a word of this to any one, or it will bring down the blow, as
certainly as night follows day. Another sign that you attend to

She moves her hand once more.

'I love you, love you, love you! If you were to cast me off now--
but you will not--you would never be rid of me. No one should come
between us. I would pursue you to the death.'

The handmaid coming out to open the gate for him, he quietly pulls
off his hat as a parting salute, and goes away with no greater show
of agitation than is visible in the effigy of Mr. Sapsea's father
opposite. Rosa faints in going up-stairs, and is carefully carried
to her room and laid down on her bed. A thunderstorm is coming on,
the maids say, and the hot and stifling air has overset the pretty
dear: no wonder; they have felt their own knees all of a tremble
all day long.


Rosa no sooner came to herself than the whole of the late interview
was before her. It even seemed as if it had pursued her into her
insensibility, and she had not had a moment's unconsciousness of
it. What to do, she was at a frightened loss to know: the only
one clear thought in her mind was, that she must fly from this
terrible man.

But where could she take refuge, and how could she go? She had
never breathed her dread of him to any one but Helena. If she went
to Helena, and told her what had passed, that very act might bring
down the irreparable mischief that he threatened he had the power,
and that she knew he had the will, to do. The more fearful he
appeared to her excited memory and imagination, the more alarming
her responsibility appeared; seeing that a slight mistake on her
part, either in action or delay, might let his malevolence loose on
Helena's brother.

Rosa's mind throughout the last six months had been stormily
confused. A half-formed, wholly unexpressed suspicion tossed in
it, now heaving itself up, and now sinking into the deep; now
gaining palpability, and now losing it. Jasper's self-absorption
in his nephew when he was alive, and his unceasing pursuit of the
inquiry how he came by his death, if he were dead, were themes so
rife in the place, that no one appeared able to suspect the
possibility of foul play at his hands. She had asked herself the
question, 'Am I so wicked in my thoughts as to conceive a
wickedness that others cannot imagine?' Then she had considered,
Did the suspicion come of her previous recoiling from him before
the fact? And if so, was not that a proof of its baselessness?
Then she had reflected, 'What motive could he have, according to my
accusation?' She was ashamed to answer in her mind, 'The motive of
gaining ME!' And covered her face, as if the lightest shadow of
the idea of founding murder on such an idle vanity were a crime
almost as great.

She ran over in her mind again, all that he had said by the sun-
dial in the garden. He had persisted in treating the disappearance
as murder, consistently with his whole public course since the
finding of the watch and shirt-pin. If he were afraid of the crime
being traced out, would he not rather encourage the idea of a
voluntary disappearance? He had even declared that if the ties
between him and his nephew had been less strong, he might have
swept 'even him' away from her side. Was that like his having
really done so? He had spoken of laying his six months' labours in
the cause of a just vengeance at her feet. Would he have done
that, with that violence of passion, if they were a pretence?
Would he have ranged them with his desolate heart and soul, his
wasted life, his peace and his despair? The very first sacrifice
that he represented himself as making for her, was his fidelity to
his dear boy after death. Surely these facts were strong against a
fancy that scarcely dared to hint itself. And yet he was so
terrible a man! In short, the poor girl (for what could she know
of the criminal intellect, which its own professed students
perpetually misread, because they persist in trying to reconcile it
with the average intellect of average men, instead of identifying
it as a horrible wonder apart) could get by no road to any other
conclusion than that he WAS a terrible man, and must be fled from.

She had been Helena's stay and comfort during the whole time. She
had constantly assured her of her full belief in her brother's
innocence, and of her sympathy with him in his misery. But she had
never seen him since the disappearance, nor had Helena ever spoken
one word of his avowal to Mr. Crisparkle in regard of Rosa, though
as a part of the interest of the case it was well known far and
wide. He was Helena's unfortunate brother, to her, and nothing
more. The assurance she had given her odious suitor was strictly
true, though it would have been better (she considered now) if she
could have restrained herself from so giving it. Afraid of him as
the bright and delicate little creature was, her spirit swelled at
the thought of his knowing it from her own lips.

But where was she to go? Anywhere beyond his reach, was no reply
to the question. Somewhere must be thought of. She determined to
go to her guardian, and to go immediately. The feeling she had
imparted to Helena on the night of their first confidence, was so
strong upon her--the feeling of not being safe from him, and of the
solid walls of the old convent being powerless to keep out his
ghostly following of her--that no reasoning of her own could calm
her terrors. The fascination of repulsion had been upon her so
long, and now culminated so darkly, that she felt as if he had
power to bind her by a spell. Glancing out at window, even now, as
she rose to dress, the sight of the sun-dial on which he had leaned
when he declared himself, turned her cold, and made her shrink from
it, as though he had invested it with some awful quality from his
own nature.

She wrote a hurried note to Miss Twinkleton, saying that she had
sudden reason for wishing to see her guardian promptly, and had
gone to him; also, entreating the good lady not to be uneasy, for
all was well with her. She hurried a few quite useless articles
into a very little bag, left the note in a conspicuous place, and
went out, softly closing the gate after her.

It was the first time she had ever been even in Cloisterham High
Street alone. But knowing all its ways and windings very well, she
hurried straight to the corner from which the omnibus departed. It
was, at that very moment, going off.

'Stop and take me, if you please, Joe. I am obliged to go to

In less than another minute she was on her road to the railway,
under Joe's protection. Joe waited on her when she got there, put
her safely into the railway carriage, and handed in the very little
bag after her, as though it were some enormous trunk,
hundredweights heavy, which she must on no account endeavour to

'Can you go round when you get back, and tell Miss Twinkleton that
you saw me safely off, Joe

'It shall be done, Miss.'

'With my love, please, Joe.'

'Yes, Miss--and I wouldn't mind having it myself!' But Joe did not
articulate the last clause; only thought it.

Now that she was whirling away for London in real earnest, Rosa was
at leisure to resume the thoughts which her personal hurry had
checked. The indignant thought that his declaration of love soiled
her; that she could only be cleansed from the stain of its impurity
by appealing to the honest and true; supported her for a time
against her fears, and confirmed her in her hasty resolution. But
as the evening grew darker and darker, and the great city impended
nearer and nearer, the doubts usual in such cases began to arise.
Whether this was not a wild proceeding, after all; how Mr.
Grewgious might regard it; whether she should find him at the
journey's end; how she would act if he were absent; what might
become of her, alone, in a place so strange and crowded; how if she
had but waited and taken counsel first; whether, if she could now
go back, she would not do it thankfully; a multitude of such uneasy
speculations disturbed her, more and more as they accumulated. At
length the train came into London over the housetops; and down
below lay the gritty streets with their yet un-needed lamps a-glow,
on a hot, light, summer night.

'Hiram Grewgious, Esquire, Staple Inn, London.' This was all Rosa
knew of her destination; but it was enough to send her rattling
away again in a cab, through deserts of gritty streets, where many
people crowded at the corner of courts and byways to get some air,
and where many other people walked with a miserably monotonous
noise of shuffling of feet on hot paving-stones, and where all the
people and all their surroundings were so gritty and so shabby!

There was music playing here and there, but it did not enliven the
case. No barrel-organ mended the matter, and no big drum beat dull
care away. Like the chapel bells that were also going here and
there, they only seemed to evoke echoes from brick surfaces, and
dust from everything. As to the flat wind-instruments, they seemed
to have cracked their hearts and souls in pining for the country.

Her jingling conveyance stopped at last at a fast-closed gateway,
which appeared to belong to somebody who had gone to bed very
early, and was much afraid of housebreakers; Rosa, discharging her
conveyance, timidly knocked at this gateway, and was let in, very
little bag and all, by a watchman.

'Does Mr. Grewgious live here?'

'Mr. Grewgious lives there, Miss,' said the watchman, pointing
further in.

So Rosa went further in, and, when the clocks were striking ten,
stood on P. J. T.'s doorsteps, wondering what P. J. T. had done
with his street-door.

Guided by the painted name of Mr. Grewgious, she went up-stairs and
softly tapped and tapped several times. But no one answering, and
Mr. Grewgious's door-handle yielding to her touch, she went in, and
saw her guardian sitting on a window-seat at an open window, with a
shaded lamp placed far from him on a table in a corner.

Rosa drew nearer to him in the twilight of the room. He saw her,
and he said, in an undertone: 'Good Heaven!'

Rosa fell upon his neck, with tears, and then he said, returning
her embrace:

'My child, my child! I thought you were your mother!--But what,
what, what,' he added, soothingly, 'has happened? My dear, what
has brought you here? Who has brought you here?'

'No one. I came alone.'

'Lord bless me!' ejaculated Mr. Grewgious. 'Came alone! Why
didn't you write to me to come and fetch you?'

'I had no time. I took a sudden resolution. Poor, poor Eddy!'

'Ah, poor fellow, poor fellow!'

'His uncle has made love to me. I cannot bear it,' said Rosa, at
once with a burst of tears, and a stamp of her little foot; 'I
shudder with horror of him, and I have come to you to protect me
and all of us from him, if you will?'

'I will,' cried Mr. Grewgious, with a sudden rush of amazing
energy. 'Damn him!

"Confound his politics!
Frustrate his knavish tricks!
On Thee his hopes to fix?
Damn him again!"'

After this most extraordinary outburst, Mr. Grewgious, quite beside
himself, plunged about the room, to all appearance undecided
whether he was in a fit of loyal enthusiasm, or combative

He stopped and said, wiping his face: 'I beg your pardon, my dear,
but you will be glad to know I feel better. Tell me no more just
now, or I might do it again. You must be refreshed and cheered.
What did you take last? Was it breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea, or
supper? And what will you take next? Shall it be breakfast,
lunch, dinner, tea, or supper?'

The respectful tenderness with which, on one knee before her, he
helped her to remove her hat, and disentangle her pretty hair from
it, was quite a chivalrous sight. Yet who, knowing him only on the
surface, would have expected chivalry--and of the true sort, too;
not the spurious--from Mr. Grewgious?

'Your rest too must be provided for,' he went on; 'and you shall
have the prettiest chamber in Furnival's. Your toilet must be
provided for, and you shall have everything that an unlimited head
chambermaid--by which expression I mean a head chambermaid not
limited as to outlay--can procure. Is that a bag?' he looked hard
at it; sooth to say, it required hard looking at to be seen at all
in a dimly lighted room: 'and is it your property, my dear?'

'Yes, sir. I brought it with me.'

'It is not an extensive bag,' said Mr. Grewgious, candidly, 'though
admirably calculated to contain a day's provision for a canary-
bird. Perhaps you brought a canary-bird?'

Rosa smiled and shook her head.

'If you had, he should have been made welcome,' said Mr. Grewgious,
'and I think he would have been pleased to be hung upon a nail
outside and pit himself against our Staple sparrows; whose
execution must be admitted to be not quite equal to their
intention. Which is the case with so many of us! You didn't say
what meal, my dear. Have a nice jumble of all meals.'

Rosa thanked him, but said she could only take a cup of tea. Mr.
Grewgious, after several times running out, and in again, to
mention such supplementary items as marmalade, eggs, watercresses,
salted fish, and frizzled ham, ran across to Furnival's without his
hat, to give his various directions. And soon afterwards they were
realised in practice, and the board was spread.

'Lord bless my soul,' cried Mr. Grewgious, putting the lamp upon
it, and taking his seat opposite Rosa; 'what a new sensation for a
poor old Angular bachelor, to be sure!'

Rosa's expressive little eyebrows asked him what he meant?

'The sensation of having a sweet young presence in the place, that
whitewashes it, paints it, papers it, decorates it with gilding,
and makes it Glorious!' said Mr. Grewgious. 'Ah me! Ah me!'

As there was something mournful in his sigh, Rosa, in touching him
with her tea-cup, ventured to touch him with her small hand too.

'Thank you, my dear,' said Mr. Grewgious. 'Ahem! Let's talk!'

'Do you always live here, sir?' asked Rosa.

'Yes, my dear.'

'And always alone?'

'Always alone; except that I have daily company in a gentleman by
the name of Bazzard, my clerk.'

'HE doesn't live here?'

'No, he goes his way, after office hours. In fact, he is off duty
here, altogether, just at present; and a firm down-stairs, with
which I have business relations, lend me a substitute. But it
would be extremely difficult to replace Mr. Bazzard.'

'He must be very fond of you,' said Rosa.

'He bears up against it with commendable fortitude if he is,'
returned Mr. Grewgious, after considering the matter. 'But I doubt
if he is. Not particularly so. You see, he is discontented, poor

'Why isn't he contented?' was the natural inquiry.

'Misplaced,' said Mr. Grewgious, with great mystery.

Rosa's eyebrows resumed their inquisitive and perplexed expression.

'So misplaced,' Mr. Grewgious went on, 'that I feel constantly
apologetic towards him. And he feels (though he doesn't mention
it) that I have reason to be.'

Mr. Grewgious had by this time grown so very mysterious, that Rosa
did not know how to go on. While she was thinking about it Mr.
Grewgious suddenly jerked out of himself for the second time:

'Let's talk. We were speaking of Mr. Bazzard. It's a secret, and
moreover it is Mr. Bazzard's secret; but the sweet presence at my
table makes me so unusually expansive, that I feel I must impart it
in inviolable confidence. What do you think Mr. Bazzard has done?'

'O dear!' cried Rosa, drawing her chair a little nearer, and her
mind reverting to Jasper, 'nothing dreadful, I hope?'

'He has written a play,' said Mr. Grewgious, in a solemn whisper.
'A tragedy.'

Rosa seemed much relieved.

'And nobody,' pursued Mr. Grewgious in the same tone, 'will hear,
on any account whatever, of bringing it out.'

Rosa looked reflective, and nodded her head slowly; as who should
say, 'Such things are, and why are they!'

'Now, you know,' said Mr. Grewgious, '_I_ couldn't write a play.'

'Not a bad one, sir?' said Rosa, innocently, with her eyebrows
again in action.

'No. If I was under sentence of decapitation, and was about to be
instantly decapitated, and an express arrived with a pardon for the
condemned convict Grewgious if he wrote a play, I should be under
the necessity of resuming the block, and begging the executioner to
proceed to extremities,--meaning,' said Mr. Grewgious, passing his
hand under his chin, 'the singular number, and this extremity.'

Rosa appeared to consider what she would do if the awkward
supposititious case were hers.

'Consequently,' said Mr. Grewgious, 'Mr. Bazzard would have a sense
of my inferiority to himself under any circumstances; but when I am
his master, you know, the case is greatly aggravated.'

Mr. Grewgious shook his head seriously, as if he felt the offence
to be a little too much, though of his own committing.

'How came you to be his master, sir?' asked Rosa.

'A question that naturally follows,' said Mr. Grewgious. 'Let's
talk. Mr. Bazzard's father, being a Norfolk farmer, would have
furiously laid about him with a flail, a pitch-fork, and every
agricultural implement available for assaulting purposes, on the
slightest hint of his son's having written a play. So the son,
bringing to me the father's rent (which I receive), imparted his
secret, and pointed out that he was determined to pursue his
genius, and that it would put him in peril of starvation, and that
he was not formed for it.'

'For pursuing his genius, sir?'

'No, my dear,' said Mr. Grewgious, 'for starvation. It was
impossible to deny the position, that Mr. Bazzard was not formed to
be starved, and Mr. Bazzard then pointed out that it was desirable
that I should stand between him and a fate so perfectly unsuited to
his formation. In that way Mr. Bazzard became my clerk, and he
feels it very much.'

'I am glad he is grateful,' said Rosa.

'I didn't quite mean that, my dear. I mean, that he feels the
degradation. There are some other geniuses that Mr. Bazzard has
become acquainted with, who have also written tragedies, which
likewise nobody will on any account whatever hear of bringing out,
and these choice spirits dedicate their plays to one another in a
highly panegyrical manner. Mr. Bazzard has been the subject of one
of these dedications. Now, you know, I never had a play dedicated
to ME!'

Rosa looked at him as if she would have liked him to be the
recipient of a thousand dedications.

'Which again, naturally, rubs against the grain of Mr. Bazzard,'
said Mr. Grewgious. 'He is very short with me sometimes, and then
I feel that he is meditating, "This blockhead is my master! A
fellow who couldn't write a tragedy on pain of death, and who will
never have one dedicated to him with the most complimentary
congratulations on the high position he has taken in the eyes of
posterity!" Very trying, very trying. However, in giving him
directions, I reflect beforehand: "Perhaps he may not like this,"
or "He might take it ill if I asked that;" and so we get on very
well. Indeed, better than I could have expected.'

'Is the tragedy named, sir?' asked Rosa.

'Strictly between ourselves,' answered Mr. Grewgious, 'it has a
dreadfully appropriate name. It is called The Thorn of Anxiety.
But Mr. Bazzard hopes--and I hope--that it will come out at last.'

It was not hard to divine that Mr. Grewgious had related the
Bazzard history thus fully, at least quite as much for the
recreation of his ward's mind from the subject that had driven her
there, as for the gratification of his own tendency to be social
and communicative.

'And now, my dear,' he said at this point, 'if you are not too
tired to tell me more of what passed to-day--but only if you feel
quite able--I should be glad to hear it. I may digest it the
better, if I sleep on it to-night.'

Rosa, composed now, gave him a faithful account of the interview.
Mr. Grewgious often smoothed his head while it was in progress, and
begged to be told a second time those parts which bore on Helena
and Neville. When Rosa had finished, he sat grave, silent, and
meditative for a while.

'Clearly narrated,' was his only remark at last, 'and, I hope,
clearly put away here,' smoothing his head again. 'See, my dear,'
taking her to the open window, 'where they live! The dark windows
over yonder.'

'I may go to Helena to-morrow?' asked Rosa.

'I should like to sleep on that question to-night,' he answered
doubtfully. 'But let me take you to your own rest, for you must
need it.'

With that Mr. Grewgious helped her to get her hat on again, and
hung upon his arm the very little bag that was of no earthly use,
and led her by the hand (with a certain stately awkwardness, as if
he were going to walk a minuet) across Holborn, and into Furnival's
Inn. At the hotel door, he confided her to the Unlimited head
chambermaid, and said that while she went up to see her room, he
would remain below, in case she should wish it exchanged for
another, or should find that there was anything she wanted.

Rosa's room was airy, clean, comfortable, almost gay. The
Unlimited had laid in everything omitted from the very little bag
(that is to say, everything she could possibly need), and Rosa
tripped down the great many stairs again, to thank her guardian for
his thoughtful and affectionate care of her.

'Not at all, my dear,' said Mr. Grewgious, infinitely gratified;
'it is I who thank you for your charming confidence and for your
charming company. Your breakfast will be provided for you in a
neat, compact, and graceful little sitting-room (appropriate to
your figure), and I will come to you at ten o'clock in the morning.
I hope you don't feel very strange indeed, in this strange place.'

'O no, I feel so safe!'

'Yes, you may be sure that the stairs are fire-proof,' said Mr.
Grewgious, 'and that any outbreak of the devouring element would be
perceived and suppressed by the watchmen.'

'I did not mean that,' Rosa replied. 'I mean, I feel so safe from

'There is a stout gate of iron bars to keep him out,' said Mr.
Grewgious, smiling; 'and Furnival's is fire-proof, and specially
watched and lighted, and _I_ live over the way!' In the stoutness
of his knight-errantry, he seemed to think the last-named
protection all sufficient. In the same spirit he said to the gate-
porter as he went out, 'If some one staying in the hotel should
wish to send across the road to me in the night, a crown will be
ready for the messenger.' In the same spirit, he walked up and
down outside the iron gate for the best part of an hour, with some
solicitude; occasionally looking in between the bars, as if he had
laid a dove in a high roost in a cage of lions, and had it on his
mind that she might tumble out.


Nothing occurred in the night to flutter the tired dove; and the
dove arose refreshed. With Mr. Grewgious, when the clock struck
ten in the morning, came Mr. Crisparkle, who had come at one plunge
out of the river at Cloisterham.

'Miss Twinkleton was so uneasy, Miss Rosa,' he explained to her,
'and came round to Ma and me with your note, in such a state of
wonder, that, to quiet her, I volunteered on this service by the
very first train to be caught in the morning. I wished at the time
that you had come to me; but now I think it best that you did AS
you did, and came to your guardian.'

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