The Mystery of Edwin Drood
as if they were sticking them into the coat-button-holes of the Dean
and Chapter. Lavish profusion is in the shops: particularly in the
articles of currants, raisins, spices, candied peel, and moist sugar.
An unusual air of gallantry and dissipation is abroad; evinced in an
immense bunch of mistletoe hanging in the greengrocer’s shop doorway,
and a poor little Twelfth Cake, culminating in the figure of a
Harlequin—such a very poor little Twelfth Cake, that one would rather
called it a Twenty-fourth Cake or a Forty-eighth Cake—to be raffled for
at the pastrycook’s, terms one shilling per member. Public amusements
are not wanting. The Wax-Work which made so deep an impression on the
reflective mind of the Emperor of China is to be seen by particular
desire during Christmas Week only, on the premises of the bankrupt
livery-stable-keeper up the lane; and a new grand comic Christmas
pantomime is to be produced at the Theatre: the latter heralded by the
portrait of Signor Jacksonini the clown, saying “How do you do
to-morrow?” quite as large as life, and almost as miserably. In short,
Cloisterham is up and doing: though from this description the High
School and Miss Twinkleton’s are to be excluded. From the former
establishment the scholars have gone home, every one of them in love
with one of Miss Twinkleton’s young ladies (who knows nothing about
it); and only the handmaidens flutter occasionally in the windows of
the latter. It is noticed, by the bye, that these damsels become,
within the limits of decorum, more skittish when thus intrusted with
the concrete representation of their sex, than when dividing the
representation with Miss Twinkleton’s young ladies.
Three are to meet at the gatehouse to-night. How does each one of the
three get through the day?
Neville Landless, though absolved from his books for the time by Mr.
Crisparkle—whose fresh nature is by no means insensible to the charms
of a holiday—reads and writes in his quiet room, with a concentrated
air, until it is two hours past noon. He then sets himself to clearing
his table, to arranging his books, and to tearing up and burning his
stray papers. He makes a clean sweep of all untidy accumulations, puts
all his drawers in order, and leaves no note or scrap of paper
undestroyed, save such memoranda as bear directly on his studies. This
done, he turns to his wardrobe, selects a few articles of ordinary
wear—among them, change of stout shoes and socks for walking—and packs
these in a knapsack. This knapsack is new, and he bought it in the High
Street yesterday. He also purchased, at the same time and at the same
place, a heavy walking-stick; strong in the handle for the grip of the
hand, and iron-shod. He tries this, swings it, poises it, and lays it
by, with the knapsack, on a window-seat. By this time his arrangements
are complete.
He dresses for going out, and is in the act of going—indeed has left
his room, and has met the Minor Canon on the staircase, coming out of
his bedroom upon the same story—when he turns back again for his
walking-stick, thinking he will carry it now. Mr. Crisparkle, who has
paused on the staircase, sees it in his hand on his immediately
reappearing, takes it from him, and asks him with a smile how he
chooses a stick?
“Really I don’t know that I understand the subject,” he answers. “I
chose it for its weight.”
“Much too heavy, Neville; _much_ too heavy.”
“To rest upon in a long walk, sir?”
“Rest upon?” repeats Mr. Crisparkle, throwing himself into pedestrian
form. “You don’t rest upon it; you merely balance with it.”
“I shall know better, with practice, sir. I have not lived in a walking
country, you know.”
“True,” says Mr. Crisparkle. “Get into a little training, and we will
have a few score miles together. I should leave you nowhere now. Do you
come back before dinner?”
“I think not, as we dine early.”
Mr. Crisparkle gives him a bright nod and a cheerful good-bye;
expressing (not without intention) absolute confidence and ease.
Neville repairs to the Nuns’ House, and requests that Miss Landless may
be informed that her brother is there, by appointment. He waits at the
gate, not even crossing the threshold; for he is on his parole not to
put himself in Rosa’s way.
His sister is at least as mindful of the obligation they have taken on
themselves as he can be, and loses not a moment in joining him. They
meet affectionately, avoid lingering there, and walk towards the upper
inland country.
“I am not going to tread upon forbidden ground, Helena,” says Neville,
when they have walked some distance and are turning; “you will
understand in another moment that I cannot help referring to—what shall
I say?—my infatuation.”
“Had you not better avoid it, Neville? You know that I can hear
nothing.”
“You can hear, my dear, what Mr. Crisparkle has heard, and heard with
approval.”
“Yes; I can hear so much.”
“Well, it is this. I am not only unsettled and unhappy myself, but I am
conscious of unsettling and interfering with other people. How do I
know that, but for my unfortunate presence, you, and—and—the rest of
that former party, our engaging guardian excepted, might be dining
cheerfully in Minor Canon Corner to-morrow? Indeed it probably would be
so. I can see too well that I am not high in the old lady’s opinion,
and it is easy to understand what an irksome clog I must be upon the
hospitalities of her orderly house—especially at this time of year—when
I must be kept asunder from this person, and there is such a reason for
my not being brought into contact with that person, and an unfavourable
reputation has preceded me with such another person; and so on. I have
put this very gently to Mr. Crisparkle, for you know his self-denying
ways; but still I have put it. What I have laid much greater stress
upon at the same time is, that I am engaged in a miserable struggle
with myself, and that a little change and absence may enable me to come
through it the better. So, the weather being bright and hard, I am
going on a walking expedition, and intend taking myself out of
everybody’s way (my own included, I hope) to-morrow morning.”
“When to come back?”
“In a fortnight.”
“And going quite alone?”
“I am much better without company, even if there were any one but you
to bear me company, my dear Helena.”
“Mr. Crisparkle entirely agrees, you say?”
“Entirely. I am not sure but that at first he was inclined to think it
rather a moody scheme, and one that might do a brooding mind harm. But
we took a moonlight walk last Monday night, to talk it over at leisure,
and I represented the case to him as it really is. I showed him that I
do want to conquer myself, and that, this evening well got over, it is
surely better that I should be away from here just now, than here. I
could hardly help meeting certain people walking together here, and
that could do no good, and is certainly not the way to forget. A
fortnight hence, that chance will probably be over, for the time; and
when it again arises for the last time, why, I can again go away.
Farther, I really do feel hopeful of bracing exercise and wholesome
fatigue. You know that Mr. Crisparkle allows such things their full
weight in the preservation of his own sound mind in his own sound body,
and that his just spirit is not likely to maintain one set of natural
laws for himself and another for me. He yielded to my view of the
matter, when convinced that I was honestly in earnest; and so, with his
full consent, I start to-morrow morning. Early enough to be not only
out of the streets, but out of hearing of the bells, when the good
people go to church.”
Helena thinks it over, and thinks well of it. Mr. Crisparkle doing so,
she would do so; but she does originally, out of her own mind, think
well of it, as a healthy project, denoting a sincere endeavour and an
active attempt at self-correction. She is inclined to pity him, poor
fellow, for going away solitary on the great Christmas festival; but
she feels it much more to the purpose to encourage him. And she does
encourage him.
He will write to her?
He will write to her every alternate day, and tell her all his
adventures.
Does he send clothes on in advance of him?
“My dear Helena, no. Travel like a pilgrim, with wallet and staff. My
wallet—or my knapsack—is packed, and ready for strapping on; and here
is my staff!”
He hands it to her; she makes the same remark as Mr. Crisparkle, that
it is very heavy; and gives it back to him, asking what wood it is?
Iron-wood.
Up to this point he has been extremely cheerful. Perhaps, the having to
carry his case with her, and therefore to present it in its brightest
aspect, has roused his spirits. Perhaps, the having done so with
success, is followed by a revulsion. As the day closes in, and the
city-lights begin to spring up before them, he grows depressed.
“I wish I were not going to this dinner, Helena.”
“Dear Neville, is it worth while to care much about it? Think how soon
it will be over.”
“How soon it will be over!” he repeats gloomily. “Yes. But I don’t like
it.”
There may be a moment’s awkwardness, she cheeringly represents to him,
but it can only last a moment. He is quite sure of himself.
“I wish I felt as sure of everything else, as I feel of myself,” he
answers her.
“How strangely you speak, dear! What do you mean?”
“Helena, I don’t know. I only know that I don’t like it. What a strange
dead weight there is in the air!”
She calls his attention to those copperous clouds beyond the river, and
says that the wind is rising. He scarcely speaks again, until he takes
leave of her, at the gate of the Nuns’ House. She does not immediately
enter, when they have parted, but remains looking after him along the
street. Twice he passes the gatehouse, reluctant to enter. At length,
the Cathedral clock chiming one quarter, with a rapid turn he hurries
in.
And so _he_ goes up the postern stair.
Edwin Drood passes a solitary day. Something of deeper moment than he
had thought, has gone out of his life; and in the silence of his own
chamber he wept for it last night. Though the image of Miss Landless
still hovers in the background of his mind, the pretty little
affectionate creature, so much firmer and wiser than he had supposed,
occupies its stronghold. It is with some misgiving of his own
unworthiness that he thinks of her, and of what they might have been to
one another, if he had been more in earnest some time ago; if he had
set a higher value on her; if, instead of accepting his lot in life as
an inheritance of course, he had studied the right way to its
appreciation and enhancement. And still, for all this, and though there
is a sharp heartache in all this, the vanity and caprice of youth
sustain that handsome figure of Miss Landless in the background of his
mind.
That was a curious look of Rosa’s when they parted at the gate. Did it
mean that she saw below the surface of his thoughts, and down into
their twilight depths? Scarcely that, for it was a look of astonished
and keen inquiry. He decides that he cannot understand it, though it
was remarkably expressive.
As he only waits for Mr. Grewgious now, and will depart immediately
after having seen him, he takes a sauntering leave of the ancient city
and its neighbourhood. He recalls the time when Rosa and he walked here
or there, mere children, full of the dignity of being engaged. Poor
children! he thinks, with a pitying sadness.
Finding that his watch has stopped, he turns into the jeweller’s shop,
to have it wound and set. The jeweller is knowing on the subject of a
bracelet, which he begs leave to submit, in a general and quite aimless
way. It would suit (he considers) a young bride, to perfection;