The Mystery of Edwin Drood by Charles Dickens (red seas under red skies txt) 📕

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. Grewgious.

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, perhaps?’

‘Coming where?’

‘Anywhere, for instance?’ said Mr. Grewgious.

‘No.’

‘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 added:

‘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 to?’

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 you?’

‘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 out.

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 spoke:

‘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 teeth.

‘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 commission.’

‘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 affected?’

‘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 example.

‘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 you!’

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.