both indignant and sorrowful. She alone knew where he was, and how to
find him, for deeming it impossible, because of his trouble with the
Coketown workmen, to get work under his own name, he had taken another.
Now that he was directly charged with the crime, she wrote him the news
at once, so that he might lose no time in returning to face the unjust
accusation. Being so certain herself of his innocence, she made no
secret of what she had done, and all Coketown waited, wondering whether
he would appear or not.
Two days passed and he had not come, and then Rachel told Bounderby the
address to which she had written him. Messengers were sent, who came
back with the report that Stephen had received her letter and had left
at once, saying he was going to Coketown, where he should long since
have arrived.
Another day with no Stephen, and now almost every one believed he was
guilty, had taken Rachel's letter as a warning and had fled. All the
while Tom waited nervously, biting his nails and with fevered lips,
knowing that Stephen, when he came, would tell the real reason why he
had loitered near the bank, and so point suspicion to himself.
On the third day Mrs. Sparsit saw a chance to distinguish herself. She
recognized on the street "Mrs. Pegler," the old countrywoman who also
had been suspected. She seized her and, regardless of her entreaties,
dragged her to Bounderby's house and into his dining-room, with a
curious crowd flocking at their heels.
She plumed herself on catching one of the robbers, but what was her
astonishment when the old woman called Bounderby her dear son, pleading
that her coming to his house was not her fault and begging him not to be
angry even if people did know at last that she was his mother.
Mr. Gradgrind, who was present when they entered, having always heard
Bounderby tell such dreadful tales of his bringing-up, reproached her
for deserting her boy in his infancy to a drunken grandmother. At this
the old woman nearly burst with indignation, calling on Bounderby
himself to tell how false this was and how she had pinched and denied
herself for him till he had begun to be successful.
Everybody laughed at this, for now the true story of the bullying mill
owner's tales was out. Bounderby, who had turned very red, was the only
one who did not seem to enjoy the scene. After he had wrathfully shut
every one else from the house, he vented his anger on Mrs. Sparsit for
meddling (as he called it) with his own family affairs. He ended by
giving her the wages due her and inviting her to take herself off at
once.
So Mrs. Sparsit, for all her cap-setting and spying, had to leave her
comfortable nest and go to live in a poor lodging as companion to the
most grudging, peevish, tormenting one of her noble relatives, an
invalid with a lame leg.
But meanwhile another day had passed--the fourth since Rachel had sent
her letter--and still Stephen had not come. On this day, full of her
trouble, Rachel had wandered with Sissy, now her fast friend, some
distance out of the town, through some fields where mining had once been
carried on.
Suddenly she cried out--she had picked up a hat and inside it was the
name "Stephen Blackpool." An instant later a scream broke from her lips
that echoed over the country-side. Before them, at their very feet,
half-hidden by rubbish and grasses, yawned the ragged mouth of a dark,
abandoned shaft. That instant both Rachel and Sissy guessed the
truth--that Stephen, returning, had not seen the chasm in the darkness,
and had fallen into its depths.
They ran and roused the town. Crowds came from Coketown. Rope and
windlass were brought and two men were lowered into the pit. The poor
fellow was there, alive but terribly injured. A rough bed was made, and
so at last the crushed and broken form was brought up to the light and
air.
A surgeon was at hand with wine and medicines, but it was too late.
Stephen spoke with Rachel first, then called Mr. Gradgrind to him and
asked him to clear the blemish from his name. He told him simply that he
could do so through his son Tom. This was all. He died while they bore
him home, holding the hand of Rachel, whom he loved.
Stephen's last words had told the truth to Mr. Gradgrind. He read in
them that his own son was the robber. Tom's guilty glance had seen
also. With suspicion removed from Stephen, he felt his own final arrest
sure.
Sissy noted Tom's pale face and trembling limbs. Guessing that he would
attempt flight too late, and longing to save the heartbroken father from
the shame of seeing his son's arrest and imprisonment, she drew the
shaking thief aside and in a whisper bade him go at once to Sleary, the
proprietor of the circus to which her father had once belonged. She told
him where the circus was to be found at that season of the year, and
bade him ask Sleary to hide him for her sake till she came. Tom obeyed.
He disappeared that night, and later Sissy told his father what she had
done.
Mr. Gradgrind, with Sissy and Louisa, followed as soon as possible,
intending to get his son to the nearest seaport and so out of the
country on a vessel, for he knew that soon he himself, Tom's father,
would be questioned and obliged to tell the truth. They traveled all
night, and at length reached the town where the circus showed.
Sleary, for Sissy's sake, had provided Tom with a disguise in which not
even his father recognized him. He had blacked his sullen face and
dressed him in a moth-eaten greatcoat and a mad cocked hat, in which
attire he played the rôle of a black servant in the performance. Tom met
them, grimy and defiant, ashamed to meet Louisa's eyes, brazen to his
father, anxious only to be saved from his deserved punishment.
A seaport was but three hours away. He was soon dressed and plans for
his departure were completed. But at the last moment danger appeared. It
came in the person of the porter of Bounderby's bank, who had all along
suspected Tom. He had watched the Gradgrind house, followed its master
when he left and now laid hands on Tom, vowing he would take him back to
Coketown.
In this moment of the father's despair, Sleary the showman saved the day
for the shivering thief. He agreed with the porter that as Tom was
guilty of a crime he must certainly go with him, and he offered,
moreover, to drive the captor and his prisoner at once to the nearest
railroad station. He winked at Sissy as he proposed this, and she was
not alarmed. The porter accepted the proposal at once, but he did not
guess what the showman had in mind.
Sleary's horse was an educated horse. At a certain word from its owner
it would stop and begin to dance, and would not budge from the spot till
he gave the command in a particular way. He had an educated dog, also,
that would do anything it was told. With this horse hitched to the
carriage and this dog trotting innocently behind, the showman set off
with the porter and Tom, while Mr. Gradgrind and Louisa, whom Sissy had
told to trust in Sleary, waited all night for his return.
It was morning before Sleary came back, with the news that Tom was
undoubtedly safe from pursuit, if not already aboard ship. He told them
how, at the word from him, the educated horse had begun to dance; how
Tom had slipped down and got away, while the educated dog, at his
command, had penned the frightened porter in the carriage all night,
fearing to stir.
Thus Tom, who did not deserve any such good luck, got safely away, but
though his father was spared the shame of ever seeing his son behind the
bars of a jail, yet he was a broken man ever after the truth became
known.
What was the fate of all these? Bounderby, a bully to the last, died of
a fit five years afterward, leaving his entire fortune to the perpetual
support of twenty-five humbugs, each of whom was required to take the
name of "Josiah Bounderby of Coketown." Louisa never remarried, but
lived to be the comfort of her father and the loving comrade of Sissy
Jupe. Sissy never found her father, and when at last Merrylegs, his
wonderful dog, came back alone to die of old age at Sleary's feet, all
knew that his master must be dead. Tom died, softened and penitent, in a
foreign land. Rachel remained the same pensive little worker, always
dressed in black, beloved by all and helping every one, even Stephen's
besotted wife.
As for Mr. Gradgrind, a white-haired, decrepit old man, he forgot all
the facts on which he had so depended, and tried for ever after to
mingle his life's acts with Faith, Hope and Charity.
THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD
Published 1870
_Scene_: London and Cloisterham, a Neighboring Town
_Time_: About 1865
CHARACTERS
Edwin Drood A young engineer
John Jasper His uncle and guardian. A choir master
Rosa Bud An orphan girl, engaged to marry Drood
Known as "Rosebud"
Mr. Grewgious A lawyer. Her guardian
Miss Twinkleton The principal of the Young Ladies'
Seminary in Cloisterham
The Reverend Mr. Crisparkle A minister A minister
Neville Landless Mr. Crisparkle's pupil
Helena His twin sister
Rosebud's room-mate in the seminary
Luke Honeythunder A self-styled "philanthropist" and
bore. Guardian of Neville and Helena
Lieutenant Tartar A retired naval officer
"Dick Datchery" A detective
Durdles A stone-mason and chiseler of tombstones
"The Deputy" A street Arab
THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD
I
JOHN JASPER
In the quiet town of Cloisterham, in England, in a boarding-school, once
lived a beautiful girl named Rosa Bud--an amiable, wilful, winning,
whimsical little creature whom every one called Rosebud. She was an
orphan. Her mother had been drowned when she was only seven years old
and her father had died of grief on the first anniversary of that day.
Her father's friend and college mate, a Mr. Drood, had comforted his
last hours, and they had agreed between them that when Rosebud was old
enough she should marry Mr. Drood's son Edwin, then a little boy. Her
father put this wish in his will, as did Mr. Drood, who died also soon
after his friend, and so Rosebud and Edwin Drood grew up knowing that,
though not bound in any way, each was intended for the other. So it came
about that, while if they had been let alone they might have fallen in
love naturally, yet as it was they were always shy and ill at ease with
one another. Yet they liked each other, too.
Rosebud's guardian was a Mr. Grewgious, an arid, sandy man who looked
as if he might be put in a grinding-mill and turned out first-class
snuff. He had scanty hair like a yellow fur tippet, and deep notches in
his forehead, and was very near-sighted. He seemed to have been born
old, so that when he came to London to call on Rosebud amid all the
school-girls he used to say he felt like a bear with the cramp.
Grewgious, however, under his oddity had a very tender heart,
particularly for Rosebud, whose mother he had been secretly in love with
before she married. But he had grown up a dry old bachelor, living in
gloomy rooms in London, and no one would have guessed him ever to have
been a bit romantic.
The school Rosebud attended was called Nun's House. Miss Twinkleton, the
prim old maid who managed it, termed it a "Seminary for Young Ladies."
It had a worn front, with a shining brass door-plate that made it look
at a distance like a battered old beau with a big new eye-glass stuck in
his blind eye. Here Rosebud lived a happy life, the pet of the whole
seminary, till she was a young lady.
Cloisterham was a dull, gray town with an ancient cathedral, which was
so cold and dark and damp that looking into its door was like looking
down the throat of old Father Time. The cathedral had a fine choir,
which sang at all the services and was taught and led by a music-master
whose name was John Jasper. This Jasper, as it happened, was the uncle
and guardian of Edwin Drood.
Drood, who was studying to be an engineer, was very fond of his uncle
and came often to Cloisterham to visit him, so that Rosebud saw a great
deal of her intended husband. He always called her "Pussy." He used to
call on her at the school and take her walking and buy her candy at a
Turkish shop, called "Lumps of Delight," and did his best to get on well
with her, though he felt awkward.
Drood and Jasper were much more like two friends than like uncle and
nephew, for the choir master was very little older than the other.
Jasper seemed to be wonderfully fond of Drood, and every one who knew
him thought him a most honorable and upright man; but in reality he was
far different. At heart he hated the cathedral and the singing, and
wished often that he could find relief, like some old monk, in carving
demons out of the desks and seats. He had a soul that was without fear
or conscience.
One vile and wicked practice he had which he had hidden from all who
knew him. He was an opium smoker. He would steal away to London to a
garret kept by a mumbling old woman who knew the secret of mixing the
drug, and there, stretched on a dirty pallet, sometimes with a drunken
Chinaman or a Lascar beside him, would smoke pipe after pipe of the
dreadful mixture that stole away his senses and left him worse than
before. Hours later he would awake, give the woman money and hurry back
to Cloisterham just in time, perhaps, to put on his church robes and
lead the cathedral choir.
Though no one knew of this, and though Edwin Drood thought his uncle was
well-nigh perfect, Rosebud, after she grew up, had no liking for Jasper.
He gave her music lessons and every time they met he terrified her. She
felt sometimes that he haunted her thoughts like a dreadful ghost. He
seemed almost to make a slave of her with his looks, and she felt that
in every glance he was telling her that he, Jasper, loved her and yet
compelled her to keep silence. But, though disliking the choir master
so, and shivering whenever he came near her, Rosebud did not know how to
tell Edwin, who she knew loved and believed in Jasper, of her feelings.
II
THE COMING OF NEVILLE LANDLESS
One of the ministers in charge of the cathedral was the Reverend Mr.
Crisparkle, a ruddy, young, active, honest fellow, who was perpetually
practising boxing before the looking-glass or pitching himself
head-foremost into all the streams about the town for a swim, even when
it was winter and he had to break the ice with his head.
Mr. Crisparkle sometimes took young men into his home to live while he
tutored them to prepare them for college. One day he received word from
a Mr. Luke Honeythunder in London, telling him he was about to bring to
Cloisterham a twin brother and sister, Neville and Helena Landless, the
young man to be taught by Mr. Crisparkle and his sister Helena to be put
in Miss Twinkleton's seminary.
This Luke Honeythunder called himself a philanthropist, but he was a
queer sort of one, indeed. He was always getting up public meetings and
talking loudly, insisting on everybody's thinking exactly as he did, and
saying dreadful things of them if they did not.
Helena and Neville Landless had been born in Ceylon, where as little
children they had been cruelly treated by their stepfather. But they had
brave spirits, and four times in six years they had run away, only to be
brought back each time and punished. On each of these occasions (the
first had been when they were but seven years old) Helena had dressed as
a boy and once had even tried to cut off her long hair with Neville's
pocket-knife. At length their cruel stepfather died, and they were sent
to England, where for no other reason than that his name was continually
appearing in the newspapers, Mr. Honeythunder had been appointed their
guardian.
No wonder the brother and sister had grown up thinking everybody was
their enemy. They were quite prepared to hate Mr. Crisparkle when their
guardian brought them. But by the time Mr. Honeythunder had gone (and
Mr. Crisparkle was as glad as they were when he went home) they liked
the young minister and felt that they would be happy there. They were a
handsome pair, and Mr. Crisparkle was attracted to them both. Neville
was lithe, and dark and rich in color; Helena was almost like a gypsy,
slender, supple and quick. Both seemed half shy, half defiant, as though
their blood were untamed.
To make them welcome that first evening, Mr. Crisparkle invited to his
house Jasper, the choir master, with Edwin Drood, who was visiting him,
and Rosebud from the seminary. Before they parted Rosebud was asked to
sing.
Jasper played her accompaniment, and while she sang he watched her lips
intently. All at once, to their great astonishment, Rosebud covered her
face with her hands and, crying out, "I can't bear this! I am
frightened! Take me away!" burst into tears.
Helena, the new-comer, who had liked Rosebud at first sight, seemed to
understand her better than any one else. She laid her on a sofa, soothed
her, and in a few moments Rosebud seemed again as usual. Mr. Crisparkle
and Edwin Drood thought it only a fit of nervousness. To her relief,
they made light of the matter, and so the evening ended.
But later, at Nun's House, where she and Helena were to be room-mates,
Rosebud told her new friend how much she disliked Jasper and how his
eyes terrified her, and how, as she sang, with his eyes watching her
lips, she felt as if he had kissed her.
While the two girls were talking of this, Neville and Edwin Drood, who
had gone with them as far as the door of the seminary, were walking back
together. Mr. Crisparkle had told Neville of Drood's betrothal to
Rosebud, and Neville now spoke of it. Drood, who had felt all along that
he and Rosebud did not get along well together and who was sensitive on
the subject, was unjustly angry that the other should so soon know what
he considered his own private affair. He answered in a surly way and, as
both were quick-tempered, they soon came to high words.
As it happened, Jasper was walking near, and, overhearing, came between
them. He reproved them good-naturedly and took them to his rooms, where
he insisted they should drink a glass of wine with him to their good
fellowship. There he did a dastardly thing. He mixed with the wine a
drug which, once drunk, aroused their angry passions. Their speech grew
thick and the quarrel began again. Safe now from any spectator, Jasper
did not attempt to soothe them. He let them go on until they were about
to come to blows. Then, pretending the greatest indignation, he threw
himself upon Neville and forced him, hatless, from the house.
In the cool night air Neville's strange dizziness, and with it his rage,
cleared away. He realized that the blame for the quarrel had been
Jasper's, but he did not guess the drugging of the wine and could not
explain the incident even to himself. He went, however, manfully and
sorrowfully to Mr. Crisparkle and told him what had occurred, and
naturally Mr. Crisparkle, who had never found Edwin Drood quarrelsome,
thought it the fault of Neville's hot blood and revengeful character.
He was the more certain of this when Jasper came to him, bringing
Neville's hat, and told him his own story of the meeting. Jasper told
him falsely that Neville had made a murderous attack on Drood, and but
for him would have laid his nephew dead at his feet. He warned the
minister that Neville had a tigerish nature and would yet be guilty of
terrible crime. Mr. Crisparkle liked Neville, and all this saddened him,
for he had not the least suspicion that Jasper was lying for a cruel
purpose of his own.
The affair was an unhappy one for Neville. Jasper took care that the
story spread abroad, and as it went it grew, so that almost everybody in
Cloisterham came to consider Helena's brother a sullen fellow of a
furious temper. And they believed it the more because Neville made no
secret of the fact that he had fallen in love, too, with Rosebud, and
in this they thought they saw a reason for his hating Edwin Drood.
Mr. Crisparkle was a faithful friend. He concluded soon that the fault
was not all on Neville's side. But he was anxious to have the two young
men friends, and he begged his pupil for his own part to lay aside the
ill feeling. He went to the choir master also on the same errand, and
Jasper assured him that his nephew would do the same. He even promised,
hypocritically, that to bring this about he would invite both Edwin
Drood and Neville to dine with him on Christmas Eve, in his own rooms,
where they might meet and shake hands.
Both young men promised to come to the dinner, and Mr. Crisparkle was
highly pleased, little dreaming what the outcome would be.
III
THE CHOIR MASTER'S DINNER
There was a quaint character in Cloisterham named Durdles. He was a
stone-mason whose specialty was the chiseling of tombstones. He was an
old bachelor and was both a very skilful workman and a very great sot.
He had keys to all the cathedral vaults and was fond of prowling about
the old pile and its dismal crypt, for ever tap-tapping, with a little
hammer he carried, on its stones and walls, hunting for forgotten
cavities, in which, perhaps, centuries before, persons had been buried.
He wore a coarse flannel suit with horn buttons and a yellow
handkerchief with draggled ends, and it was a daily sight to see him
perched on a tombstone eating his dinner out of a bundle. When he was
not feeling well he used to say he had a touch of "tomb-atism," instead
of rheumatism.
Durdles was drunk so much that he was never certain about getting home
at night, so he had hired, at a penny a day, a hideous small boy, known
as "The Deputy" to throw stones at him whenever he found him out of
doors after ten o'clock, and drive him home to his little hole of an
unfurnished stone house.
The Deputy used to watch for Durdles after this hour, and when he saw
him he would dance up and sing:
"Widdy, widdy, wen!
I ketches--him--out--arter ten!
Widdy, widdy wy!
When he--don't--go--then--I shy!
Widdy, widdy, Wake-Cock-Warning!"
It was a part of the bargain that he must give this warning before he
began to throw the stones, and when Durdles heard this yell he knew what
was coming.
Before the Christmas Eve dinner Jasper picked a friendship with
Durdles, and, pretending he wanted to make a trip by moonlight with him
among the vaults, he persuaded him one night to be his guide. While they
were in the crypt of the cathedral Jasper plied him with liquor which he
had brought, to such purpose that Durdles went fast asleep and the key
of the crypt fell from his hand. He had a dim idea that Jasper picked up
the key and went away with it, and was a long time gone, but when he
awoke he could not tell whether this had really happened or not. And
this, when The Deputy stoned him home that night, was all he could
remember of the expedition.
But what Jasper had really done while Durdles was asleep--whether he had
taken away the key to make a copy of it so as to make one like it for
some evil purpose of his own, or whether he wanted to be able to unlock
that dark underground place and hide something in it sometime when no
one would be with him--this only Jasper himself knew!
The Christmas season arrived, and Edwin Drood, according to his promise,
came to Cloisterham to his uncle's dinner, at which he was to meet
Neville.
Before leaving, however, he called upon Mr. Grewgious, Rosebud's
guardian, who had sent for him with a particular purpose. This purpose
was to give into his hands a ring set with diamonds and rubies that had
belonged to Rosebud's mother. It had been left in trust to Mr.
Grewgious to give to the man who married her, that he might himself put
it on her finger. And in accordance with the trust, the lawyer charged
Drood if anything should be amiss or if anything happened between him
and Rosebud, to bring back the ring.
Mr. Grewgious gave him this keepsake with such wise and friendly advice
on the seriousness of marriage that all the way to Cloisterham with the
ring in his pocket, Edwin Drood was very thoughtful. He asked himself
whether he really loved Rosebud as a man should love his wife, whether
he had not drifted into this betrothal rather as a result of their
parents' wish and wills than from any deeper feeling. And he began to
wonder if by marrying her thus he would not be doing her a vast
injustice. He decided, therefore, to tell her all that was in his mind
and be guided by her judgment.