“You have the wisdom of Love,” returned the Minor Canon, “and it was the highest wisdom ever known upon this earth, remember. As to mine—but the less said of that commonplace commodity the better. Good night!”
She took the hand he offered her, and gratefully and almost reverently raised it to her lips.
“Tut!” said the Minor Canon softly, “I am much overpaid!” and turned away.
Mr. Crisparkle is overpaid
Retracing his steps towards the Cathedral Close, he tried, as he went along in the dark, to think out the best means of bringing to pass what he had promised to effect, and what must somehow be done. “I shall probably be asked to marry them,” he reflected, “and I would they were married and gone! But this presses first.”
He debated principally whether he should write to young Drood, or whether he should speak to Jasper. The consciousness of being popular with the whole Cathedral establishment inclined him to the latter course, and the well-timed sight of the lighted gatehouse decided him to take it. “I will strike while the iron is hot,” he said, “and see him now.”
Jasper was lying asleep on a couch before the fire, when, having ascended the postern-stair, and received no answer to his knock at the door, Mr. Crisparkle gently turned the handle and looked in. Long afterwards he had cause to remember how Jasper sprang from the couch in a delirious state between sleeping and waking, and crying out: “What is the matter? Who did it?”
“It is only I, Jasper. I am sorry to have disturbed you.”
The glare of his eyes settled down into a look of recognition, and he moved a chair or two, to make a way to the fireside.