The Mystery of Edwin Drood
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 him.”
“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.
CHAPTER XXI.
A RECOGNITION
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.”
“I did think of you,” Rosa told him; “but Minor Canon Corner was so
near him—”
“I understand. It was quite natural.”
“I have told Mr. Crisparkle,” said Mr. Grewgious, “all that you told me
last night, my dear. Of course I should have written it to him
immediately; but his coming was most opportune. And it was particularly
kind of him to come, for he had but just gone.”
“Have you settled,” asked Rosa, appealing to them both, “what is to be
done for Helena and her brother?”
“Why really,” said Mr. Crisparkle, “I am in great perplexity. If even
Mr. Grewgious, whose head is much longer than mine, and who is a whole
night’s cogitation in advance of me, is undecided, what must I be!”
The Unlimited here put her head in at the door—after having rapped, and
been authorised to present herself—announcing that a gentleman wished
for a word with another gentleman named Crisparkle, if any such
gentleman were there. If no such gentleman were there, he begged pardon
for being mistaken.
“Such a gentleman is here,” said Mr. Crisparkle, “but is engaged just
now.”
“Is it a dark gentleman?” interposed Rosa, retreating on her guardian.
“No, Miss, more of a brown gentleman.”
“You are sure not with black hair?” asked Rosa, taking courage.
“Quite sure of that, Miss. Brown hair and blue eyes.”
“Perhaps,” hinted Mr. Grewgious, with habitual caution, “it might be
well to see him, reverend sir, if you don’t object. When one is in a
difficulty or at a loss, one never knows in what direction a way out
may chance to open. It is a business principle of mine, in such a case,
not to close up any direction, but to keep an eye on every direction
that may present itself. I could relate an anecdote in point, but that
it would be premature.”
“If Miss Rosa will allow me, then? Let the gentleman come in,” said Mr.
Crisparkle.
The gentleman came in; apologised, with a frank but modest grace, for
not finding Mr. Crisparkle alone; turned to Mr. Crisparkle, and
smilingly asked the unexpected question: “Who am I?”
“You are the gentleman I saw smoking under the trees in Staple Inn, a
few minutes ago.”
“True. There I saw you. Who else am I?”
Mr. Crisparkle concentrated his attention on a handsome face, much
sunburnt; and the ghost of some departed boy seemed to rise, gradually
and dimly, in the room.
The gentleman saw a struggling recollection lighten up the Minor
Canon’s features, and smiling again, said: “What will you have for
breakfast this morning? You are out of jam.”
“Wait a moment!” cried Mr. Crisparkle, raising his right hand. “Give me
another instant! Tartar!”
The two shook hands with the greatest heartiness, and then went the
wonderful length—for Englishmen—of laying their hands each on the
other’s shoulders, and looking joyfully each into the other’s face.
“My old fag!” said Mr. Crisparkle.
“My old master!” said Mr. Tartar.
“You saved me from drowning!” said Mr. Crisparkle.
“After which you took to swimming, you know!” said Mr. Tartar.
“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Crisparkle.
“Amen!” said Mr. Tartar.
And then they fell to shaking hands most heartily again.
“Imagine,” exclaimed Mr. Crisparkle, with glistening eyes: “Miss Rosa
Bud and Mr. Grewgious, imagine Mr. Tartar, when he was the smallest of
juniors, diving for me, catching me, a big heavy senior, by the hair of
the head, and striking out for the shore with me like a water-giant!”
“Imagine my not letting him sink, as I was his fag!” said Mr. Tartar.
“But the truth being that he was my best protector and friend, and did
me more good than all the masters put together, an irrational impulse
seized me to pick him up, or go down with him.”
“Hem! Permit me, sir, to have the honour,” said Mr. Grewgious,
advancing with extended hand, “for an honour I truly esteem it. I am
proud to make your acquaintance. I hope you didn’t take cold. I hope
you were not inconvenienced by swallowing too much water. How have you
been since?”
It was by no means apparent that Mr. Grewgious knew what he said,
though it was very apparent that he meant to say something highly
friendly and appreciative.
If Heaven, Rosa thought, had but sent such courage and skill to her
poor mother’s aid! And he to have been so slight and young then!
“I don’t wish to be complimented upon it, I thank you; but I think I
have an idea,” Mr. Grewgious announced, after taking a jog-trot or two
across the room, so unexpected and unaccountable that they all stared
at him, doubtful whether he was choking or had the cramp—“I _think_ I
have an idea. I believe I have had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Tartar’s
name as tenant of the top set in the house next the top set in the
corner?”
“Yes, sir,” returned Mr. Tartar. “You are right so far.”
“I am right so far,” said Mr. Grewgious. “Tick that off;” which he did,
with his right thumb on his left. “Might you happen to know the name of
your neighbour in the top set on the other side of the party-wall?”
coming very close to Mr. Tartar, to lose nothing of his face, in his
shortness of sight.
“Landless.”
“Tick that off,” said Mr. Grewgious, taking another trot, and then
coming back. “No personal knowledge, I suppose, sir?”
“Slight, but some.”
“Tick that off,” said Mr. Grewgious, taking another trot, and again
coming back. “Nature of knowledge, Mr. Tartar?”
“I thought he seemed to be a young fellow in a poor way, and I asked
his leave—only within a day or so—to share my flowers up there with
him; that is to say, to extend my flower-garden to his windows.”
“Would you have the kindness to take seats?” said Mr. Grewgious. “I
_have_ an idea!”
They complied; Mr. Tartar none the less readily, for being all abroad;
and Mr. Grewgious, seated in the centre, with his hands upon his knees,
thus stated his idea, with his usual manner of having got the statement
by heart.
“I cannot as yet make up my mind whether it is prudent to hold open
communication under present circumstances, and on the part of the fair
member of the present company, with Mr. Neville or Miss Helena. I have
reason to know that a local friend of ours (on whom I beg to bestow a
passing but a hearty malediction, with the kind permission of my
reverend friend) sneaks to and fro, and dodges up and down. When not
doing so himself, he may have some informant skulking about, in the
person of a watchman, porter, or such-like hanger-on of Staple. On the
other hand, Miss Rosa very naturally wishes to see her friend Miss
Helena, and it would seem important that at least Miss Helena (if not
her brother too, through her) should privately know from Miss Rosa’s
lips what has occurred, and what has been threatened. Am I agreed with
generally in the views I take?”
“I entirely coincide with them,” said Mr. Crisparkle, who had been very
attentive.
“As I have no doubt I should,” added Mr. Tartar, smiling, “if I
understood them.”
“Fair and softly, sir,” said Mr. Grewgious; “we shall fully confide in
you directly, if you will favour us with your permission. Now, if our
local friend should have any informant on the spot, it is tolerably
clear that such informant can only be set to watch the chambers in the
occupation of Mr. Neville. He reporting, to our local friend, who comes
and goes there, our local friend would supply for himself, from his own
previous knowledge, the identity of the parties. Nobody can be set to
watch all Staple, or to concern himself with comers and goers to other
sets of chambers: unless, indeed, mine.”
“I begin to understand to what you tend,” said Mr. Crisparkle, “and
highly approve of your caution.”
“I needn’t repeat that I know nothing yet of the why and wherefore,”
said Mr. Tartar; “but I also understand to what you tend, so let me say
at once that my chambers are freely at your disposal.”
“There!” cried Mr. Grewgious, smoothing his head triumphantly, “now we
have all got the idea. You have it, my dear?”
“I think I have,” said Rosa, blushing a little as Mr. Tartar looked
quickly towards her.
“You see, you go over to Staple with Mr. Crisparkle and Mr. Tartar,”
said Mr. Grewgious; “I going in and out, and out and in alone, in my
usual way; you go up with those gentlemen to Mr. Tartar’s rooms; you
look into Mr. Tartar’s flower-garden; you wait for Miss Helena’s
appearance there, or you signify to Miss Helena that you are close by;
and you communicate with her freely, and no spy can be the wiser.”
“I am very much afraid I shall be—”
“Be what, my dear?” asked Mr. Grewgious, as she hesitated. “Not
frightened?”
“No, not that,” said Rosa, shyly; “in Mr. Tartar’s way. We seem to be
appropriating Mr. Tartar’s residence so very coolly.”
“I protest to you,” returned that gentleman, “that I shall think the
better of it for evermore, if your voice sounds in it only once.”
Rosa, not quite knowing what to say about that, cast down her eyes, and
turning to Mr. Grewgious, dutifully asked if she should put her hat on?
Mr. Grewgious being of opinion that she could not do better, she
withdrew for the purpose. Mr. Crisparkle took the opportunity of giving