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CHAPTER XIX - SHADOW ON THE SUN-DIAL
Again Miss Twinkleton has delivered her valedictory address, with
the accompaniments of white-wine and pound-cake, and again the
young ladies have departed to their several homes. Helena Landless
has left the Nuns' House to attend her brother's fortunes, and
pretty Rosa is alone.
Cloisterham is so bright and sunny in these summer days, that the
Cathedral and the monastery-ruin show as if their strong walls were
transparent. A soft glow seems to shine from within them, rather
than upon them from without, such is their mellowness as they look
forth on the hot corn-fields and the smoking roads that distantly
wind among them. The Cloisterham gardens blush with ripening
fruit. Time was when travel-stained pilgrims rode in clattering
parties through the city's welcome shades; time is when wayfarers,
leading a gipsy life between haymaking time and harvest, and
looking as if they were just made of the dust of the earth, so very
dusty are they, lounge about on cool door-steps, trying to mend
their unmendable shoes, or giving them to the city kennels as a
hopeless job, and seeking others in the bundles that they carry,
along with their yet unused sickles swathed in bands of straw. At
all the more public pumps there is much cooling of bare feet,
together with much bubbling and gurgling of drinking with hand to
spout on the part of these Bedouins; the Cloisterham police
meanwhile looking askant from their beats with suspicion, and
manifest impatience that the intruders should depart from within
the civic bounds, and once more fry themselves on the simmering
high-roads.
On the afternoon of such a day, when the last Cathedral service is
done, and when that side of the High Street on which the Nuns'
House stands is in grateful shade, save where its quaint old garden
opens to the west between the boughs of trees, a servant informs
Rosa, to her terror, that Mr. Jasper desires to see her.
If he had chosen his time for finding her at a disadvantage, he
could have done no better. Perhaps he has chosen it. Helena
Landless is gone, Mrs. Tisher is absent on leave, Miss Twinkleton
(in her amateur state of existence) has contributed herself and a
veal pie to a picnic.
'O why, why, why, did you say I was at home!' cried Rosa,
helplessly.
The maid replies, that Mr. Jasper never asked the question.
That he said he knew she was at home, and begged she might be told
that he asked to see her.
'What shall I do! what shall I do!' thinks Rosa, clasping her
hands.
Possessed by a kind of desperation, she adds in the next breath,
that she will come to Mr. Jasper in the garden. She shudders at
the thought of being shut up with him in the house; but many of its
windows command the garden, and she can be seen as well as heard
there, and can shriek in the free air and run away. Such is the
wild idea that flutters through her mind.
She has never seen him since the fatal night, except when she was
questioned before the Mayor, and then he was present in gloomy
watchfulness, as representing his lost nephew and burning to avenge
him. She hangs her garden-hat on her arm, and goes out. The
moment she sees him from the porch, leaning on the sun-dial, the
old horrible feeling of being compelled by him, asserts its hold
upon her. She feels that she would even then go back, but that he
draws her feet towards him. She cannot resist, and sits down, with
her head bent, on the garden-seat beside the sun-dial. She cannot
look up at him for abhorrence, but she has perceived that he is
dressed in deep mourning. So is she. It was not so at first; but
the lost has long been given up, and mourned for, as dead.
He would begin by touching her hand. She feels the intention, and
draws her hand back. His eyes are then fixed upon her, she knows,
though her own see nothing but the grass.
'I have been waiting,' he begins, 'for some time, to be summoned
back to my duty near you.'
After several times forming her lips, which she knows he is closely
watching, into the shape of some other hesitating reply, and then
into none, she answers: 'Duty, sir?'
'The duty of teaching you, serving you as your faithful music-
master.'
'I have left off that study.'
'Not left off, I think. Discontinued. I was told by your guardian
that you discontinued it under the shock that we have all felt so
acutely. When will you resume?'
'Never, sir.'
'Never? You could have done no more if you had loved my dear boy.'
'I did love him!' cried Rosa, with a flash of anger.
'Yes; but not quite--not quite in the right way, shall I say? Not
in the intended and expected way. Much as my dear boy was,
unhappily, too self-conscious and self-satisfied (I'll draw no
parallel between him and you in that respect) to love as he should
have loved, or as any one in his place would have loved--must have
loved!'
She sits in the same still attitude, but shrinking a little more.
'Then, to be told that you discontinued your study with me, was to
be politely told that you abandoned it altogether?' he suggested.
'Yes,' says Rosa, with sudden spirit, 'The politeness was my
guardian's, not mine. I told him that I was resolved to leave off,
and that I was determined to stand by my resolution.'
'And you still are?'
'I still am, sir. And I beg not to be questioned any more about
it. At all events, I will not answer any more; I have that in my
power.'
She is so conscious of his looking at her with a gloating
admiration of the touch of anger on her, and the fire and animation
it brings with it, that even as her spirit rises, it falls again,
and she struggles with a sense of shame, affront, and fear, much as
she did that night at the piano.
'I will not question you any more, since you object to it so much;
I will confess--'
'I do not wish to hear you, sir,' cries Rosa, rising.
This time he does touch her with his outstretched hand. In
shrinking from it, she shrinks into her seat again.
'We must sometimes act in opposition to our wishes,' he tells her
in a low voice. 'You must do so now, or do more harm to others
than you can ever set right.'
'What harm?'
'Presently, presently. You question ME, you see, and surely that's
not fair when you forbid me to question you. Nevertheless, I will
answer the question presently. Dearest Rosa! Charming Rosa!'
She starts up again.
This time he does not touch her. But his face looks so wicked and
menacing, as he stands leaning against the sun-dial-setting, as it
were, his black mark upon the very face of day--that her flight is
arrested by horror as she looks at him.
'I do not forget how many windows command a view of us,' he says,
glancing towards them. 'I will not touch you again; I will come no
nearer to you than I am. Sit down, and there will be no mighty
wonder in your music-master's leaning idly against a pedestal and
speaking with you, remembering all that has happened, and our
shares in it. Sit down, my beloved.'
She would have gone once more--was all but gone--and once more his
face, darkly threatening what would follow if she went, has stopped
her. Looking at him with the expression of the instant frozen on
her face, she sits down on the seat again.
'Rosa, even when my dear boy was affianced to you, I loved you
madly; even when I thought his happiness in having you for his wife
was certain, I loved you madly; even when I strove to make him more
ardently devoted to you, I loved you madly; even when he gave me
the picture of your lovely face so carelessly traduced by him,
which I feigned to hang always in my sight for his sake, but
worshipped in torment for years, I loved you madly; in the
distasteful work of the day, in the wakeful misery of the night,
girded by sordid realities, or wandering through Paradises and
Hells of visions into which I rushed, carrying your image in my
arms, I loved you madly.'
If anything could make his words more hideous to her than they are
in themselves, it would be the contrast between the violence of his
look and delivery, and the composure of his assumed attitude.
'I endured it all in silence. So long as you were his, or so long
as I supposed you to be his, I hid my secret loyally. Did I not?'
This lie, so gross, while the mere words in which it is told are so
true, is more than Rosa can endure. She answers with kindling
indignation: 'You were as false throughout, sir, as you are now.
You were false to him, daily and hourly. You know that you made my
life unhappy by your pursuit of me. You know that you made me
afraid to open his generous eyes, and that you forced me, for his
own trusting, good, good sake, to keep the truth from him, that you
were a bad, bad man!'
His preservation of his easy attitude rendering his working
features and his convulsive hands absolutely diabolical, he
returns, with a fierce extreme of admiration:
'How beautiful you are! You are more beautiful in anger than in
repose. I don't ask you for your love; give me yourself and your
hatred; give me yourself and that pretty rage; give me yourself and
that enchanting scorn; it will be enough for me.'
Impatient tears rise to the eyes of the trembling little beauty,
and her face flames; but as she again rises to leave him in
indignation, and seek protection within the house, he stretches out
his hand towards the porch, as though he invited her to enter it.
'I told you, you rare charmer, you sweet witch, that you must stay
and hear me, or do more harm than can ever be undone. You asked me
what harm. Stay, and I will tell you. Go, and I will do it!'
Again Rosa quails before his threatening face, though innocent of
its meaning, and she remains. Her panting breathing comes and goes
as if it would choke her; but with a repressive hand upon her
bosom, she remains.
'I have made my confession that my love is mad. It is so mad, that
had the ties between me and my dear lost boy been one silken thread
less strong, I might have swept even him from your side, when you
favoured him.'
A film come over the eyes she raises for an instant, as though he
had turned her faint.
'Even him,' he repeats. 'Yes, even him! Rosa, you see me and you
hear me. Judge for yourself whether any other admirer shall love
you and live, whose life is in my hand.'
'What do you mean, sir?'
'I mean to show you how mad my love is. It was hawked through the
late inquiries by Mr. Crisparkle, that young Landless had confessed
to him that he was a rival of my lost boy. That is an inexpiable
offence in my eyes. The same Mr. Crisparkle knows under my hand
that I have devoted myself to the murderer's discovery and
destruction, be he whom he might, and that I determined to discuss
the mystery with no one until I should hold the clue in which to
entangle the murderer as in a net. I have since worked patiently
to wind and wind it round him; and it is slowly winding as I
speak.'
'Your belief, if you believe in the criminality of Mr. Landless, is
not Mr. Crisparkle's belief, and he is a good man,' Rosa retorts.
'My belief is my own; and I reserve it, worshipped of my soul!
Circumstances may accumulate so strongly EVEN AGAINST AN INNOCENT
MAN, that directed, sharpened, and pointed, they may slay him. One
wanting link discovered by perseverance against a guilty man,
proves his guilt, however slight its evidence before, and he dies.
Young Landless stands in deadly peril either way.'
'If you really suppose,' Rosa pleads with him, turning paler, 'that
I favour Mr. Landless, or that Mr. Landless has ever in any way
addressed himself to me, you are wrong.'
He puts that from him with a slighting action of his hand and a
curled lip.
'I was going to show you how madly I love you. More madly now than
ever, for I am willing to renounce the second object that has
arisen in my life to divide it with you; and henceforth to have no
object in existence but you only. Miss Landless has become your
bosom friend. You care for her peace of mind?'
'I love her dearly.'
'You care for her good name?'
'I have said, sir, I love her dearly.'
'I am unconsciously,' he observes with a smile, as he folds his
hands upon the sun-dial and leans his chin upon them, so that his
talk would seem from the windows (faces occasionally come and go
there) to be of the airiest and playfullest--'I am unconsciously
giving offence by questioning again. I will simply make
statements, therefore, and not put questions. You do care for your
bosom friend's good name, and you do care for her peace of mind.
Then remove the shadow of the gallows from her, dear one!'
'You dare propose to me to--'
'Darling, I dare propose to you. Stop there. If it be bad to
idolise you, I am the worst of men; if it be good, I am the best.
My love for you is above all other love, and my truth to you is
above all other truth. Let me have hope and favour, and I am a
forsworn man for your sake.'
Rosa puts her hands to her temples, and, pushing back her hair,
looks wildly and abhorrently at him, as though she were trying to
piece together what it is his deep purpose to present to her only
in fragments.
'Reckon up nothing at this moment, angel, but the sacrifices that I
lay at those dear feet, which I could fall down among the vilest
ashes and kiss, and put upon my head as a poor savage might. There
is my fidelity to my dear boy after death. Tread upon it!'
With an action of his hands, as though he cast down something
precious.
'There is the inexpiable offence against my adoration of you.
Spurn it!'
With a similar action.
'There are my labours in the cause of a just vengeance for six
toiling months. Crush them!'
With another repetition of the action.
'There is my past and my present wasted life. There is the
desolation of my heart and my soul. There is my peace; there is my
despair. Stamp them into the dust; so that you take me, were it
even mortally hating me!'
The frightful vehemence of the man, now reaching its full height,
so additionally terrifies her as to break the spell that has held
her to the spot. She swiftly moves towards the porch; but in an
instant he is at her side, and speaking in her ear.
'Rosa, I am self-repressed again. I am walking calmly beside you
to the house. I shall wait for some encouragement and hope. I
shall not strike too soon. Give me a sign that you attend to me.'
She slightly and constrainedly moves her hand.
'Not a word of this to any one, or it will bring down the blow, as
certainly as night follows day. Another sign that you attend to
me.'
She moves her hand once more.
'I love you, love you, love you! If you were to cast me off now--
but you will not--you would never be rid of me. No one should come
between us. I would pursue you to the death.'
The handmaid coming out to open the gate for him, he quietly pulls
off his hat as a parting salute, and goes away with no greater show
of agitation than is visible in the effigy of Mr. Sapsea's father
opposite. Rosa faints in going up-stairs, and is carefully carried
to her room and laid down on her bed. A thunderstorm is coming on,
the maids say, and the hot and stifling air has overset the pretty
dear: no wonder; they have felt their own knees all of a tremble
all day long.
Content of CHAPTER XIX - SHADOW ON THE SUN-DIAL [Charles Dickens' novel: The Mystery of Edwin Drood]
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