The Mystery of Edwin Drood (77 page)

 

  “If you refer to the poverty of your
circulation,” began Miss Twinkleton, when again the Billickin neatly stopped
her.

 

  “I have used no such expressions.”

 

  “If you refer, then, to the poorness of
your blood—”

 

  “Brought upon me,” stipulated the
Billickin, expressly, “at a boarding-school—”

 

  “Then,” resumed Miss Twinkleton, “all I
can say is, that I am bound to believe, on your asseveration, that it is very
poor indeed. I cannot forbear adding, that if that unfortunate circumstance
influences your conversation, it is much to be lamented, and it is eminently
desirable that your blood were richer. —Rosa, my dear, how are you getting on
with your work?”

 

  “Hem! Before retiring, Miss,” proclaimed
the Billickin to Rosa, loftily cancelling Miss Twinkleton, “I should wish it to
be understood between yourself and me that my transactions in future is with
you alone. I know no elderly lady here, Miss, none older than yourself.”

 

  “A highly desirable arrangement, Rosa my
dear,” observed Miss Twinkleton.

 

  “It is not, Miss,” said the Billickin,
with a sarcastic smile, “that I possess the Mill I have heard of, in which old
single ladies could be ground up young (what a gift it would be to some of us),
but that I limit myself to you totally.”

 

  “When I have any desire to communicate a
request to the person of the house, Rosa my dear,” observed Miss Twinkleton
with majestic cheerfulness, “I will make it known to you, and you will kindly
undertake, I am sure, that it is conveyed to the proper quarter.”

 

  “Good-evening, Miss,” said the
Billickin, at once affectionately and distantly. “Being alone in my eyes, I
wish you good-evening with best wishes, and do not find myself drove, I am
truly “appy to say, into expressing my contempt for an indiwidual, unfortunately
for yourself, belonging to you.”

 

  The Billickin gracefully withdrew with
this parting speech, and from that time Rosa occupied the restless position of
shuttlecock between these two battledores. Nothing could be done without a
smart match being played out. Thus, on the daily-arising question of dinner,
Miss Twinkleton would say, the three being present together:

 

  “Perhaps, my love, you will consult with
the person of the house, whether she can procure us a lamb's fry; or, failing
that, a roast fowl.”

 

  On which the Billickin would retort
(Rosa not having spoken a word), “If you was better accustomed to butcher's
meat, Miss, you would not entertain the idea of a lamb's fry. Firstly, because
lambs has long been sheep, and secondly, because there is such things as
killing-days, and there is not. As to roast fowls, Miss, why you must be quite
surfeited with roast fowls, letting alone your buying, when you market for
yourself, the agedest of poultry with the scaliest of legs, quite as if you was
accustomed to picking “em out for cheapness. Try a little inwention, Miss. Use
yourself to “ousekeeping a bit. Come now, think of somethink else.”

 

  To this encouragement, offered with the
indulgent toleration of a wise and liberal expert, Miss Twinkleton would
rejoin, reddening:

 

  “Or, my dear, you might propose to the
person of the house a duck.”

 

  “Well, Miss!” the Billickin would
exclaim (still no word being spoken by Rosa), “you do surprise me when you
speak of ducks! Not to mention that they're getting out of season and very
dear, it really strikes to my heart to see you have a duck; for the breast,
which is the only delicate cuts in a duck, always goes in a direction which I
cannot imagine where, and your own plate comes down so miserably skin-and-bony!
Try again, Miss. Think more of yourself, and less of others. A dish of
sweetbreads now, or a bit of mutton. Something at which you can get your equal
chance.”

 

  Occasionally the game would wax very
brisk indeed, and would be kept up with a smartness rendering such an encounter
as this quite tame. But the Billickin almost invariably made by far the higher
score; and would come in with side hits of the most unexpected and
extraordinary description, when she seemed without a chance.

 

  All this did not improve the gritty
state of things in London, or the air that London had acquired in Rosa's eyes
of waiting for something that never came. Tired of working, and conversing with
Miss Twinkleton, she suggested working and reading: to which Miss Twinkleton
readily assented, as an admirable reader, of tried powers. But Rosa soon made
the discovery that Miss Twinkleton didn't read fairly. She cut the love-scenes,
interpolated passages in praise of female celibacy, and was guilty of other
glaring pious frauds. As an instance in point, take the glowing passage: “Ever
dearest and best adored,—said Edward, clasping the dear head to his breast, and
drawing the silken hair through his caressing fingers, from which he suffered
it to fall like golden rain,—ever dearest and best adored, let us fly from the
unsympathetic world and the sterile coldness of the stony-hearted, to the rich
warm Paradise of Trust and Love.” Miss Twinkleton's fraudulent version tamely
ran thus: “Ever engaged to me with the consent of our parents on both sides,
and the approbation of the silver-haired rector of the district,—said Edward,
respectfully raising to his lips the taper fingers so skilful in embroidery,
tambour, crochet, and other truly feminine arts,—let me call on thy papa ere
tomorrow's dawn has sunk into the west, and propose a suburban establishment,
lowly it may be, but within our means, where he will be always welcome as an
evening guest, and where every arrangement shall invest economy, and constant
interchange of scholastic acquirements with the attributes of the ministering
angel to domestic bliss.”

 

  As the days crept on and nothing
happened, the neighbours began to say that the pretty girl at Billickin's, who
looked so wistfully and so much out of the gritty windows of the drawing-room,
seemed to be losing her spirits. The pretty girl might have lost them but for
the accident of lighting on some books of voyages and seaadventure. As a compensation
against their romance, Miss Twinkleton, reading aloud, made the most of all the
latitudes and longitudes, bearings, winds, currents, offsets, and other
statistics (which she felt to be none the less improving because they expressed
nothing whatever to her); while Rosa, listening intently, made the most of what
was nearest to her heart. So they both did better than before.

 

   

 

   

 

  CHAPTER XXIII—THE DAWN AGAIN

 

   

 

  ALTHOUGH Mr. Crisparkle and John Jasper
met daily under the Cathedral roof, nothing at any time passed between them
having reference to Edwin Drood, after the time, more than half a year gone by,
when Jasper mutely showed the Minor Canon the conclusion and the resolution
entered in his Diary. It is not likely that they ever met, though so often,
without the thoughts of each reverting to the subject. It is not likely that
they ever met, though so often, without a sensation on the part of each that
the other was a perplexing secret to him. Jasper as the denouncer and pursuer
of Neville Landless, and Mr. Crisparkle as his consistent advocate and
protector, must at least have stood sufficiently in opposition to have
speculated with keen interest on the steadiness and next direction of the
other's designs. But neither ever broached the theme.

 

  False pretence not being in the Minor
Canon's nature, he doubtless displayed openly that he would at any time have
revived the subject, and even desired to discuss it. The determined reticence
of Jasper, however, was not to be so approached. Impassive, moody, solitary,
resolute, so concentrated on one idea, and on its attendant fixed purpose, that
he would share it with no fellowcreature, he lived apart from human life. Constantly
exercising an Art which brought him into mechanical harmony with others, and
which could not have been pursued unless he and they had been in the nicest
mechanical relations and unison, it is curious to consider that the spirit of
the man was in moral accordance or interchange with nothing around him. This
indeed he had confided to his lost nephew, before the occasion for his present
inflexibility arose.

 

  That he must know of Rosa's abrupt
departure, and that he must divine its cause, was not to be doubted. Did he
suppose that he had terrified her into silence? or did he suppose that she had
imparted to any one—to Mr. Crisparkle himself, for instance—the particulars of
his last interview with her? Mr. Crisparkle could not determine this in his
mind. He could not but admit, however, as a just man, that it was not, of
itself, a crime to fall in love with Rosa, any more than it was a crime to
offer to set love above revenge.

 

  The dreadful suspicion of Jasper, which
Rosa was so shocked to have received into her imagination, appeared to have no
harbour in Mr. Crisparkle's. If it ever haunted Helena's thoughts or Neville's,
neither gave it one spoken word of utterance. Mr. Grewgious took no pains to
conceal his implacable dislike of Jasper, yet he never referred it, however distantly,
to such a source. But he was a reticent as well as an eccentric man; and he
made no mention of a certain evening when he warmed his hands at the gatehouse
fire, and looked steadily down upon a certain heap of torn and miry clothes
upon the floor.

 

  Drowsy Cloisterham, whenever it awoke to
a passing reconsideration of a story above six months old and dismissed by the
bench of magistrates, was pretty equally divided in opinion whether John
Jasper's beloved nephew had been killed by his treacherously passionate rival,
or in an open struggle; or had, for his own purposes, spirited himself away. It
then lifted up its head, to notice that the bereaved Jasper was still ever
devoted to discovery and revenge; and then dozed off again. This was the
condition of matters, all round, at the period to which the present history has
now attained.

 

  The Cathedral doors have closed for the
night; and the Choirmaster, on a short leave of absence for two or three
services, sets his face towards London. He travels thither by the means by
which Rosa travelled, and arrives, as Rosa arrived, on a hot, dusty evening.

 

  His travelling baggage is easily carried
in his hand, and he repairs with it on foot, to a hybrid hotel in a little
square behind Aldersgate Street, near the General Post Office. It is hotel,
boarding-house, or lodging-house, at its visitor's option. It announces itself,
in the new Railway Advertisers, as a novel enterprise, timidly beginning to
spring up. It bashfully, almost apologetically, gives the traveller to
understand that it does not expect him, on the good old constitutional hotel
plan, to order a pint of sweet blacking for his drinking, and throw it away;
but insinuates that he may have his boots blacked instead of his stomach, and
maybe also have bed, breakfast, attendance, and a porter up all night, for a
certain fixed charge. From these and similar premises, many true Britons in the
lowest spirits deduce that the times are levelling times, except in the article
of high roads, of which there will shortly be not one in England.

 

  He eats without appetite, and soon goes
forth again. Eastward and still eastward through the stale streets he takes his
way, until he reaches his destination: a miserable court, specially miserable
among many such.

 

  He ascends a broken staircase, opens a
door, looks into a dark stifling room, and says: “Are you alone here?”

 

  “Alone, deary; worse luck for me, and
better for you,” replies a croaking voice. “Come in, come in, whoever you be: I
can't see you till I light a match, yet I seem to know the sound of your
speaking. I'm acquainted with you, ain't I?”

 

  “Light your match, and try.”

 

  “So I will, deary, so I will; but my
hand that shakes, as I can't lay it on a match all in a moment. And I cough so,
that, put my matches where I may, I never find “em there. They jump and start,
as I cough and cough, like live things. Are you off a voyage, deary?”

 

  “No.”

 

  “Not seafaring?”

 

  “No.”

 

  “Well, there's land customers, and
there's water customers. I'm a mother to both. Different from Jack Chinaman
t'other side the court. He ain't a father to neither. It ain't in him. And he
ain't got the true secret of mixing, though he charges as much as me that has,
and more if he can get it. Here's a match, and now where's the candle? If my
cough takes me, I shall cough out twenty matches afore I gets a light.”

 

  But she finds the candle, and lights it,
before the cough comes on. It seizes her in the moment of success, and she sits
down rocking herself to and fro, and gasping at intervals: “O, my lungs is
awful bad! my lungs is wore away to cabbage-nets!” until the fit is over.
During its continuance she has had no power of sight, or any other power not absorbed
in the struggle; but as it leaves her, she begins to strain her eyes, and as
soon as she is able to articulate, she cries, staring:

 

  “Why, it's you!”

 

  “Are you so surprised to see me?”

 

  “I thought I never should have seen you
again, deary. I thought you was dead, and gone to Heaven.”

 

  “Why?”

 

  “I didn't suppose you could have kept
away, alive, so long, from the poor old soul with the real receipt for mixing
it. And you are in mourning too! Why didn't you come and have a pipe or two of
comfort? Did they leave you money, perhaps, and so you didn't want comfort?”

 

  “ No.”

 

  “Who was they as died, deary?”

 

  “A relative.”

 

  “Died of what, lovey?”

 

  “Probably, Death.”

 

  “We are short to-night!” cries the
woman, with a propitiatory laugh. “Short and snappish we are! But we're out of
sorts for want of a smoke. We've got the all-overs, haven't us, deary? But this
is the place to cure “em in; this is the place where the allovers is smoked
off.”