Chapter XIII - Both at Their Best

The Mystery of Edwin Drood

by Charles Dickens

Miss Twinkleton's establishment was about to undergo a serene
hush. The Christmas recess was at hand. What had once, and at no
remote period, been called, even by the erudite Miss Twinkleton
herself, 'the half;' but what was now called, as being more elegant,
and more strictly collegiate, 'the term,' would expire to-morrow. A
noticeable relaxation of discipline had for some few days pervaded
the Nuns' House. Club suppers had occurred in the bedrooms, and a
dressed tongue had been carved with a pair of scissors, and handed
round with the curling tongs. Portions of marmalade had likewise
been distributed on a service of plates constructed of curlpaper;
and cowslip wine had been quaffed from the small squat measuring
glass in which little Rickitts (a junior of weakly constitution)
took her steel drops daily. The housemaids had been bribed with
various fragments of riband, and sundry pairs of shoes more or less
down at heel, to make no mention of crumbs in the beds; the airiest
costumes had been worn on these festive occasions; and the daring
Miss Ferdinand had even surprised the company with a sprightly solo
on the comb-and-curlpaper, until suffocated in her own pillow by two
flowing-haired executioners.

Nor were these the only tokens of dispersal. Boxes appeared in
the bedrooms (where they were capital at other times), and a
surprising amount of packing took place, out of all proportion to
the amount packed. Largess, in the form of odds and ends of cold
cream and pomatum, and also of hairpins, was freely distributed
among the attendants. On charges of inviolable secrecy, confidences
were interchanged respecting golden youth of England expected to
call, 'at home,' on the first opportunity. Miss Giggles (deficient
in sentiment) did indeed profess that she, for her part,
acknowledged such homage by making faces at the golden youth; but
this young lady was outvoted by an immense majority.

On the last night before a recess, it was always expressly made
a point of honour that nobody should go to sleep, and that Ghosts
should be encouraged by all possible means. This compact invariably
broke down, and all the young ladies went to sleep very soon, and
got up very early.

The concluding ceremony came off at twelve o'clock on the day of
departure; when Miss Twinkleton, supported by Mrs. Tisher, held a
drawing-room in her own apartment (the globes already covered with
brown Holland), where glasses of white-wine and plates of cut
pound-cake were discovered on the table. Miss Twinkleton then said:
Ladies, another revolving year had brought us round to that festive
period at which the first feelings of our nature bounded in our -
Miss Twinkleton was annually going to add 'bosoms,' but annually
stopped on the brink of that expression, and substituted 'hearts.'
Hearts; our hearts. Hem! Again a revolving year, ladies, had
brought us to a pause in our studies - let us hope our greatly
advanced studies - and, like the mariner in his bark, the warrior in
his tent, the captive in his dungeon, and the traveller in his
various conveyances, we yearned for home. Did we say, on such an
occasion, in the opening words of Mr. Addison's impressive
tragedy:

'The dawn is overcast, the morning lowers,
And heavily in
clouds brings on the day,
The great, th' important day - ?'

Not so. From horizon to zenith all was couleur de rose, for all
was redolent of our relations and friends. Might we find them
prospering as we expected; might they find us prospering as they
expected! Ladies, we would now, with our love to one another, wish
one another good-bye, and happiness, until we met again. And when
the time should come for our resumption of those pursuits which
(here a general depression set in all round), pursuits which,
pursuits which; - then let us ever remember what was said by the
Spartan General, in words too trite for repetition, at the battle it
were superfluous to specify.

The handmaidens of the establishment, in their best caps, then
handed the trays, and the young ladies sipped and crumbled, and the
bespoken coaches began to choke the street. Then leave-taking was
not long about; and Miss Twinkleton, in saluting each young lady's
cheek, confided to her an exceedingly neat letter, addressed to her
next friend at law, 'with Miss Twinkleton's best compliments' in the
corner. This missive she handed with an air as if it had not the
least connexion with the bill, but were something in the nature of a
delicate and joyful surprise.

So many times had Rosa seen such dispersals, and so very little
did she know of any other Home, that she was contented to remain
where she was, and was even better contented than ever before,
having her latest friend with her. And yet her latest friendship
had a blank place in it of which she could not fail to be sensible.
Helena Landless, having been a party to her brother's revelation
about Rosa, and having entered into that compact of silence with Mr.
Crisparkle, shrank from any allusion to Edwin Drood's name. Why
she so avoided it, was mysterious to Rosa, but she perfectly
perceived the fact. But for the fact, she might have relieved her
own little perplexed heart of some of its doubts and hesitations, by
taking Helena into her confidence. As it was, she had no such vent:
she could only ponder on her own difficulties, and wonder more and
more why this avoidance of Edwin's name should last, now that she
knew - for so much Helena had told her - that a good understanding
was to be reestablished between the two young men, when Edwin came
down.

It would have made a pretty picture, so many pretty girls
kissing Rosa in the cold porch of the Nuns' House, and that sunny
little creature peeping out of it (unconscious of sly faces carved
on spout and gable peeping at her), and waving farewells to the
departing coaches, as if she represented the spirit of rosy youth
abiding in the place to keep it bright and warm in its desertion.
The hoarse High Street became musical with the cry, in various
silvery voices, 'Good-bye, Rosebud darling!' and the effigy of Mr.
Sapsea's father over the opposite doorway seemed to say to mankind:
'Gentlemen, favour me with your attention to this charming little
last lot left behind, and bid with a spirit worthy of the occasion!'
Then the staid street, so unwontedly sparkling, youthful, and fresh
for a few rippling moments, ran dry, and Cloisterham was itself
again.

If Rosebud in her bower now waited Edwin Drood's coming with an
uneasy heart, Edwin for his part was uneasy too. With far less
force of purpose in his composition than the childish beauty,
crowned by acclamation fairy queen of Miss Twinkleton's
establishment, he had a conscience, and Mr. Grewgious had pricked
it. That gentleman's steady convictions of what was right and what
was wrong in such a case as his, were neither to be frowned aside
nor laughed aside. They would not be moved. But for the dinner in
Staple Inn, and but for the ring he carried in the breast pocket of
his coat, he would have drifted into their wedding-day without
another pause for real thought, loosely trusting that all would go
well, left alone. But that serious putting him on his truth to the
living and the dead had brought him to a check. He must either give
the ring to Rosa, or he must take it back. Once put into this
narrowed way of action, it was curious that he began to consider
Rosa's claims upon him more unselfishly than he had ever considered
them before, and began to be less sure of himself than he had ever
been in all his easy-going days.

'I will be guided by what she says, and by how we get on,' was
his decision, walking from the gatehouse to the Nuns' House.
'Whatever comes of it, I will bear his words in mind, and try to be
true to the living and the dead.'

Rosa was dressed for walking. She expected him. It was a
bright, frosty day, and Miss Twinkleton had already graciously
sanctioned fresh air. Thus they got out together before it became
necessary for either Miss Twinkleton, or the deputy high-priest Mrs.
Tisher, to lay even so much as one of those usual offerings on the
shrine of Propriety.

'My dear Eddy,' said Rosa, when they had turned out of the High
Street, and had got among the quiet walks in the neighbourhood of
the Cathedral and the river: 'I want to say something very serious
to you. I have been thinking about it for a long, long time.'

'I want to be serious with you too, Rosa dear. I mean to be
serious and earnest.'

'Thank you, Eddy. And you will not think me unkind because I
begin, will you? You will not think I speak for myself only,
because I speak first? That would not be generous, would it? And I
know you are generous!'

He said, 'I hope I am not ungenerous to you, Rosa.' He called
her Pussy no more. Never again.

'And there is no fear,' pursued Rosa, 'of our quarrelling, is
there? Because, Eddy,' clasping her hand on his arm, 'we have so
much reason to be very lenient to each other!'

'We will be, Rosa.'

'That's a dear good boy! Eddy, let us be courageous. Let us
change to brother and sister from this day forth.'

'Never be husband and wife?'

'Never!'

Neither spoke again for a little while. But after that pause he
said, with some effort:

'Of course I know that this has been in both our minds, Rosa,
and of course I am in honour bound to confess freely that it does
not originate with you.'

'No, nor with you, dear,' she returned, with pathetic
earnestness. 'That sprung up between us. You are not truly happy
in our engagement; I am not truly happy in it. O, I am so sorry, so
sorry!' And there she broke into tears.

'I am deeply sorry too, Rosa. Deeply sorry for you.'

'And I for you, poor boy! And I for you!'

This pure young feeling, this gentle and forbearing feeling of
each towards the other, brought with it its reward in a softening
light that seemed to shine on their position. The relations between
them did not look wilful, or capricious, or a failure, in such a
light; they became elevated into something more self-denying,
honourable, affectionate, and true.

'If we knew yesterday,' said Rosa, as she dried her eyes, 'and
we did know yesterday, and on many, many yesterdays, that we were
far from right together in those relations which were not of our own
choosing, what better could we do to-day than change them? It is
natural that we should be sorry, and you see how sorry we both are;
but how much better to be sorry now than then!'

'When, Rosa?'

'When it would be too late. And then we should be angry,
besides.'

Another silence fell upon them.

'And you know,' said Rosa innocently, 'you couldn't like me
then; and you can always like me now, for I shall not be a drag upon
you, or a worry to you. And I can always like you now, and your
sister will not tease or trifle with you. I often did when I was
not your sister, and I beg your pardon for it.'

'Don't let us come to that, Rosa; or I shall want more pardoning
than I like to think of.'

'No, indeed, Eddy; you are too hard, my generous boy, upon
yourself. Let us sit down, brother, on these ruins, and let me tell
you how it was with us. I think I know, for I have considered about
it very much since you were here last time. You liked me, didn't
you? You thought I was a nice little thing?'

'Everybody thinks that, Rosa.'

'Do they?' She knitted her brow musingly for a moment, and then
flashed out with the bright little induction: 'Well, but say they
do. Surely it was not enough that you should think of me only as
other people did; now, was it?'

The point was not to be got over. It was not enough.

'And that is just what I mean; that is just how it was with us,'
said Rosa. 'You liked me very well, and you had grown used to me,
and had grown used to the idea of our being married. You accepted
the situation as an inevitable kind of thing, didn't you? It was to
be, you thought, and why discuss or dispute it?'

It was new and strange to him to have himself presented to
himself so clearly, in a glass of her holding up. He had always
patronised her, in his superiority to her share of woman's wit. Was
that but another instance of something radically amiss in the terms
on which they had been gliding towards a life-long bondage?

'All this that I say of you is true of me as well, Eddy. Unless
it was, I might not be bold enough to say it. Only, the difference
between us was, that by little and little there crept into my mind a
habit of thinking about it, instead of dismissing it. My life is
not so busy as yours, you see, and I have not so many things to
think of. So I thought about it very much, and I cried about it
very much too (though that was not your fault, poor boy); when all
at once my guardian came down, to prepare for my leaving the Nuns'
House. I tried to hint to him that I was not quite settled in my
mind, but I hesitated and failed, and he didn't understand me. But
he is a good, good man. And he put before me so kindly, and yet so
strongly, how seriously we ought to consider, in our circumstances,
that I resolved to speak to you the next moment we were alone and
grave. And if I seemed to come to it easily just now, because I
came to it all at once, don't think it was so really, Eddy, for O,
it was very, very hard, and O, I am very, very sorry!'

Her full heart broke into tears again. He put his arm about her
waist, and they walked by the river-side together.

'Your guardian has spoken to me too, Rosa dear. I saw him
before I left London.' His right hand was in his breast, seeking
the ring; but he checked it, as he thought: 'If I am to take it
back, why should I tell her of it?'

'And that made you more serious about it, didn't it, Eddy? And
if I had not spoken to you, as I have, you would have spoken to me?
I hope you can tell me so? I don't like it to be all my doing,
though it is so much better for us.'

'Yes, I should have spoken; I should have put everything before
you; I came intending to do it. But I never could have spoken to
you as you have spoken to me, Rosa.'

'Don't say you mean so coldly or unkindly, Eddy, please, if you
can help it.'

'I mean so sensibly and delicately, so wisely and
affectionately.'

'That's my dear brother!' She kissed his hand in a little
rapture. 'The dear girls will be dreadfully disappointed,' added
Rosa, laughing, with the dewdrops glistening in her bright eyes.
'They have looked forward to it so, poor pets!'

'Ah! but I fear it will be a worse disappointment to Jack,' said
Edwin Drood, with a start. 'I never thought of Jack!'

Her swift and intent look at him as he said the words could no
more be recalled than a flash of lightning can. But it appeared as
though she would have instantly recalled it, if she could; for she
looked down, confused, and breathed quickly.

'You don't doubt its being a blow to Jack, Rosa?'

She merely replied, and that evasively and hurriedly: Why
should she? She had not thought about it. He seemed, to her, to
have so little to do with it.

'My dear child! can you suppose that any one so wrapped up in
another - Mrs. Tope's expression: not mine - as Jack is in me,
could fail to be struck all of a heap by such a sudden and complete
change in my life? I say sudden, because it will be sudden to him,
you know.'

She nodded twice or thrice, and her lips parted as if she would
have assented. But she uttered no sound, and her breathing was no
slower.

'How shall I tell Jack?' said Edwin, ruminating. If he had been
less occupied with the thought, he must have seen her singular
emotion. 'I never thought of Jack. It must be broken to him,
before the town-crier knows it. I dine with the dear fellow to-
morrow and next day - Christmas Eve and Christmas Day - but it would
never do to spoil his feast-days. He always worries about me, and
moddley-coddleys in the merest trifles. The news is sure to overset
him. How on earth shall this be broken to Jack?'

'He must be told, I suppose?' said Rosa.

'My dear Rosa! who ought to be in our confidence, if not
Jack?'

'My guardian promised to come down, if I should write and ask
him. I am going to do so. Would you like to leave it to him?'

'A bright idea!' cried Edwin. 'The other trustee. Nothing more
natural. He comes down, he goes to Jack, he relates what we have
agreed upon, and he states our case better than we could. He has
already spoken feelingly to you, he has already spoken feelingly to
me, and he'll put the whole thing feelingly to Jack. That's it! I
am not a coward, Rosa, but to tell you a secret, I am a little
afraid of Jack.'

'No, no! you are not afraid of him!' cried Rosa, turning white,
and clasping her hands.

'Why, sister Rosa, sister Rosa, what do you see from the
turret?' said Edwin, rallying her. 'My dear girl!'

'You frightened me.'

'Most unintentionally, but I am as sorry as if I had meant to do
it. Could you possibly suppose for a moment, from any loose way of
speaking of mine, that I was literally afraid of the dear fond
fellow? What I mean is, that he is subject to a kind of paroxysm,
or fit - I saw him in it once - and I don't know but that so great a
surprise, coming upon him direct from me whom he is so wrapped up
in, might bring it on perhaps. Which - and this is the secret I was
going to tell you - is another reason for your guardian's making the
communication. He is so steady, precise, and exact, that he will
talk Jack's thoughts into shape, in no time: whereas with me Jack
is always impulsive and hurried, and, I may say, almost
womanish.'

Rosa seemed convinced. Perhaps from her own very different
point of view of 'Jack,' she felt comforted and protected by the
interposition of Mr. Grewgious between herself and him.

And now, Edwin Drood's right hand closed again upon the ring in
its little case, and again was checked by the consideration: 'It is
certain, now, that I am to give it back to him; then why should I
tell her of it?' That pretty sympathetic nature which could be so
sorry for him in the blight of their childish hopes of happiness
together, and could so quietly find itself alone in a new world to
weave fresh wreaths of such flowers as it might prove to bear, the
old world's flowers being withered, would be grieved by those
sorrowful jewels; and to what purpose? Why should it be? They were
but a sign of broken joys and baseless projects; in their very
beauty they were (as the unlikeliest of men had said) almost a cruel
satire on the loves, hopes, plans, of humanity, which are able to
forecast nothing, and are so much brittle dust. Let them be. He
would restore them to her guardian when he came down; he in his turn
would restore them to the cabinet from which he had unwillingly
taken them; and there, like old letters or old vows, or other
records of old aspirations come to nothing, they would be
disregarded, until, being valuable, they were sold into circulation
again, to repeat their former round.

Let them be. Let them lie unspoken of, in his breast. However
distinctly or indistinctly he entertained these thoughts, he arrived
at the conclusion, Let them be. Among the mighty store of wonderful
chains that are for ever forging, day and night, in the vast
iron-works of time and circumstance, there was one chain forged in
the moment of that small conclusion, riveted to the foundations of
heaven and earth, and gifted with invincible force to hold and
drag.

They walked on by the river. They began to speak of their
separate plans. He would quicken his departure from England, and
she would remain where she was, at least as long as Helena remained.
The poor dear girls should have their disappointment broken to them
gently, and, as the first preliminary, Miss Twinkleton should be
confided in by Rosa, even in advance of the reappearance of Mr.
Grewgious. It should be made clear in all quarters that she and
Edwin were the best of friends. There had never been so serene an
understanding between them since they were first affianced. And yet
there was one reservation on each side; on hers, that she intended
through her guardian to withdraw herself immediately from the
tuition of her music-master; on his, that he did already entertain
some wandering speculations whether it might ever come to pass that
he would know more of Miss Landless.

The bright, frosty day declined as they walked and spoke
together. The sun dipped in the river far behind them, and the old
city lay red before them, as their walk drew to a close. The
moaning water cast its seaweed duskily at their feet, when they
turned to leave its margin; and the rooks hovered above them with
hoarse cries, darker splashes in the darkening air.

'I will prepare Jack for my flitting soon,' said Edwin, in a low
voice, 'and I will but see your guardian when he comes, and then go
before they speak together. It will be better done without my being
by. Don't you think so?'

'Yes.'

'We know we have done right, Rosa?'

'Yes.'

'We know we are better so, even now?'

'And shall be far, far better so by-and-by.'

Still there was that lingering tenderness in their hearts
towards the old positions they were relinquishing, that they
prolonged their parting. When they came among the elm-trees by the
Cathedral, where they had last sat together, they stopped as by
consent, and Rosa raised her face to his, as she had never raised it
in the old days; - for they were old already.

'God bless you, dear! Good-bye!'

'God bless you, dear! Good-bye!'

They kissed each other fervently.

'Now, please take me home, Eddy, and let me be by myself.'

'Don't look round, Rosa,' he cautioned her, as he drew her arm
through his, and led her away. 'Didn't you see Jack?'

'No! Where?'

'Under the trees. He saw us, as we took leave of each other.
Poor fellow! he little thinks we have parted. This will be a blow
to him, I am much afraid!'

She hurried on, without resting, and hurried on until they had
passed under the gatehouse into the street; once there, she asked:

'Has he followed us? You can look without seeming to. Is he
behind?'

'No. Yes, he is! He has just passed out under the gateway. The
dear, sympathetic old fellow likes to keep us in sight. I am
afraid he will be bitterly disappointed!'

She pulled hurriedly at the handle of the hoarse old bell, and
the gate soon opened. Before going in, she gave him one last, wide,
wondering look, as if she would have asked him with imploring
emphasis: 'O! don't you understand?' And out of that look he
vanished from her view.