CHAPTER 23

DIVERSE DISCUSSIONS

“Helena,” cried Neville over a late breakfast, “what am I to do? I still love Rosa, yet she is now farther from me than ever.”

“We have discussed this before, Neville,” replied Helena; “You must put all thought of her out of your mind.”

“You are right, dear sister. Yet I admit, though I admit it only to you, that to see her love another is anguish. Indeed, I cannot decide which is worse: to see her betrothed to a man much her inferior, as was poor Edwin Drood, or to see her smitten by a man who is, in every way, good enough to marry her and, in every way, much better than myself.”

“Tartar is indeed a fine man but, if he is in any way your superior, it is only because he chooses to breath fresh air and feel the sun upon his cheeks. And, would you but seek companionship, you would find the world full of young ladies many of whom are at least the equal of our pretty little friend. For that matter, I cannot see how you can continue to be infatuated with a girl whom you have seen but once.”

“Twice,” quibbled Neville, “I saw her crossing the yard on Tartar's arm after you spoke.” At Helena's withering glare he continued, “But you are right, I say again, and I am in love with an image of a woman rather than the woman herself. You see, Helena, I am adapting myself to this loss; it is, after all, only another disappointment in a lifelong string of disappointments. Tartar is a fine man, and I can honestly wish them a happy life together.”

“I am so pleased to hear you say that,” said Helena. “I have pledged to protect Rosa, yet I must also protect you, my brother; and you can see what strain this has put me under. It is well you accept Tartar, for he is one who may clear the cloud under which you live.”

“A fine man and a worthy friend, even did he not hold some promise of salvation. 'Promise of Salvation' I make it sound as if he could save my soul, not just my reputation. Still, he has become a friend and I think that, rather than wait for his customary visit here, I should like to call upon him at his home. Do you think this wise?”

Helena granting that it was wise, the two soon left his flat for the ancient wooden staircase where he sneezed at the dust and dander left by centuries of wool merchants now as dusty as their stock, and descended three flights to ground level. Thence she proceeded across the courtyard while he stepped from his alcove to the next and climbed three more flights of ancient wooden stairs back to the level from which he had begun.

“I begin to understand why Tartar is so fond of climbing about on roof-tops,” he thought to himself, slightly breathed, as he tapped at Tartar's door.

“Welcome, my friend,” said Tartar, opening wide the door. “I was about to visit you, so your timing is of the best. Come, visit my little abode.”

Once again the tidy attic was put upon display. This time it was Neville who was treated to the sight of rooms compleatly devoid of dirt or clutter; of cabinetry fitted precisely to each nook and cranny; of treasures, value great or little or none, gathered from around the world; of a Hanging Garden to rival Babylon's fabled verdancy. Upon completion of the tour (which had upon Neville the salutary effect of showing him what could be done with his own drab quarters), the two young men settled down to serious conversation.

“Have you, as yet,” began Neville, “been contacted by anyone warning you away from me?”

“Not yet,” returned Tartar, “although I think such contact will come soon. There is a man I have noticed who watches your rooms rather closely, and I fancy he has now started to watch me, as well. A tall, well-dressed man who looks Bristol on first glance, but, I dare-say, would not pass close inspection.”

“If this is the man I think, Helena has espied him already. She is quite the huntress, you know.”

“I know,” laughed Tartar. “Had I not already decided my course, I think I should set my sights on her. Oh, dear me! I am most sorry. I did not think.”

For Tartar's quick eyes had spotted the shadow that crossed Neville's face.

“It is alright,” said Neville, “although, perhaps, it would be wise for us to settle this between us now.”

“Quite right,” agreed Tartar, wondering just what settlement was to be essayed.

Neville struggled within himself for some minutes, both gathering the resolution to renounce his love and seeking out the exact words he would use, then he began again: “Tartar, do you love Rosa Bud?”

“Yes,” came the unequivocal response.

“You are aware that I, too, love the young lady?”

“Yes.”

“You are aware that I threatened her former fiancé‚ with bodily violence?”

“Yes.” Tartar, veteran of navy battle and harbour brawl, was obliged to keep his face straight at this, not being able to imagine how the slender Neville Landless could possibly harm him.

“You are aware that many people consider me to be the murderer of Edwin Drood?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you speak to me as a friend? Knowing that my evil temper could, without warning, dash your brain to bits?”

Again, Tartar suppressed his laughter, understanding that this subject was of the utmost seriousness to his new young friend. In his gravest manner he asked, “Neville, forgive me this question, but it is one that I must ask. Did you kill Edwin Drood?”

“Bless you,” exclaimed Neville, “for asking that question! It is one that no-one has yet asked me, and I have always felt that it was because they were afraid of the answer. No, Tartar, I did not kill Edwin Drood. My temper is hot, I acknowledge it, and I have been much provoked in my youth, but have I never killed anyone.”

“Then I feel safe, indeed proud, to speak to you as friend.”

“And I, for my part, can assure you of this: although I continue to love Rosa, and I believe I shall throughout the length of my life, I put aside all claim to her. I shall never approach her with my love in any way. And I shall wish nothing but blessings on your union.”

“Handsomely spoken,” said Tartar. “Keep your love for Rosa, Neville I shall never reproach you for that. Time will cure the ache but leave the warmth, and will, too, bring you another love.”

“For another love I am not yet ready, but I thank you for the words you intend to bring comfort. I have now a second true friend to add to Mr. Crisparkle.”

“Let us drink, then, as men, to true friendships the kind that last a lifetime!”

At this he produced from one of his cupboards a flask of French brandy and liberally filled two crystal goblets that magically appeared from another.

At the same time as Neville's visit to Tartar, Dick Datchery was preparing to leave Cloisterham for a quick visit to London.

“Thank you, Mrs. Tope, a lunch to eat on the train would be most welcome. No, I shall not return to-night. Probably to-morrow, though perhaps not even then, for I do not know how long my business in London will take. So, do not be perturbed should I not return for two or three days.”

“No, sir, we'll not be perterred,” replied the good woman. “It's not as if we have a steady call to let out your premises. Everything will be kept as is until you return. But, here! It's that wretched boy from the Travellers' Twopenny.”

“Halloa, Dick Datchees!” came echoing from the street.

“Halloa, Winks! Please allow him in, Mrs. Tope. I shall make sure he breaks nothing.”

“It's not what he might break that worries me, Mr. Datchery, it's what you might find missing when he's gone.”

“I've nothing here of value, and I think the boy would find insuperable difficulties in removing your furniture. You may admit him, if you please.

“Now, Deputy,” continued Mr. Datchery, Mrs. Tope retiring with unseemly haste in the face of the youthful barbarian's advance. “What is it that you want? Have you got for me that opium-smoking woman's address?”

“Not 'tirely, Mr. Datchees,” said the Impious One, momentarily humbled by being in a proper gentleman's quarters, however unassuming (and unprofitable) they might be.

“Then some other item, perhaps?”

“Aye,” replied the hideous child, “I was remembered of summat at the Kinfreederel this morning.”

“You were in the Cathedral?” questioned Datchery, surprised that such a transgression had not resulted in the collapse of that ancient edifice.

“Aye,” assented Deputy, “I crawled in to the bit ahind the Choir soes I could see through the brarss bars.” This brought a re-enactment of the struggle to dodge Tope the Verger while making steady progress toward his objective, the performance giving Datchery time to ponder what eccentric metallurgy turned black, wrought-iron bars into 'brarss'.

“When I sees the Puffer Princess a-shaking her fists at Jarsper, I remembers last winter there was a Chayner man at the Inn looking for a hopeum-puffer what lived 'ere. It wasn't 'til I seen her looking at Jarsper this morning that I knewed who the Chayner man was arter.”

“Excellent work, Deputy,” said Datchery, “you have really outdone yourself. A shilling's worth, I think.”

“Give 'ere! I did arsk the Princess where she lived,” continued Deputy, hoping to mine a little more brarss. “She arsked me 'Why's yer want to know, deary?' and I sez 'I wants to smoke hopeum.' Then she tells me 'Don't yer go smoking hopeum, deary, it ain't good for young ones like yer. Yer got to be mighty hard done by afore it'll do yer good, but then it'll do yer more good than ought else, deary.' I reckoned then as how she weren't going to say no more, so I tells her 'There's sometimes travellers what comes through here as wants to know where to find hopeum in London,' so she tells me she lives in Shardwell, nigh the Eastern dock.”

“Half an address, I'll give you sixpence for it, the other six if you can find her street and building. Fair?” said Datchery.

“Fair 'nough, Datchees. Wotcher.” With this pronouncement, the little abhorrence was off.

“Mrs. Tope,” Datchery called up the stairs, “do not pack that lunch. I shall not be going to London to-day, after all.”

“Shadwell,” he thought, “it fits.” And he made for his cupboard with chalk in hand.

Not long after Deputy had finished his business with Datchery, Neville had finished his with Tartar, and the two (scandalously unsteady as a consequence of sealing their eternal friendship) were carefully negotiating the short distance between one alcove and the next.

“Should I leave you here, Neville,” asked Tartar, “or would you prefer my help up the steps?”

“No, shank you, Tar'ar. All is well with me, I'm as ship-shape as a man-o-war, an' I don' wan' Helena to s'speck I migh' have had too mush.”

The sailor, being more experienced with spirits than the student, thought it unlikely Helena's sharp eyes would fail to notice the latter's florid complexion and wobbly gait, but, as he felt sure she would know, in her uncanny fashion, that his condition was a happy one, he allowed Neville to go up the stairs alone. Feeling the need himself for air and exercise, he proceeded across the court to the gateway, intending to walk down to the Temple Stairs to check on his boat. On Chancery Lane, near the Law Courts, he became aware through the fogginess in his mind of a tall man pacing him step for step. He turned onto the Strand, the tall man turned; he crossed over to Arundel, the tall man crossed, as well. At the Embankment he turned upon his shadow.

“What do you want?” he asked, with unaccustomed sharpness.

“Only a word, Mr. Tartar, sir, only a word or two of well-meant advice.”

Tartar, who was sobering rapidly, now recognized his consort to be none other than the man of whom he and Neville had already spoken.

“What do you want?” he repeated.

“You might find it to your advantage not to associate too closely with that young man in the garret next to yours,” said the other. “He is a man not to be trusted.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“This man is a hot-tempered foreigner. A Bully, if you will. Almost certainly worse than that.”

“How so?”

“You would do ill to walk with him at night, doubly so if he finds out your interest in a certain young lady. Watch your back, Mr. Tartar, when you are near him. To stay away from him altogether would be better for you, sir, better for everybody.”

With that, the tall man disappeared back into the busy city streets. And Tartar laughed.

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