But for the fact, she might have relieved her
own little perplexed heart of some of its doubts and hesitations,
by taking Helena into her confidence. As it was, she had no such
vent: she could only ponder on her own difficulties, and wonder
more and more why this avoidance of Edwin's name should last, now
that she knew - for so much Helena had told her - that a good
understanding was to be reestablished between the two young men,
when Edwin came down.
It would have made a pretty picture, so many pretty girls kissing
Rosa in the cold porch of the Nuns' House, and that sunny little
creature peeping out of it (unconscious of sly faces carved on
spout and gable peeping at her), and waving farewells to the
departing coaches, as if she represented the spirit of rosy youth
abiding in the place to keep it bright and warm in its desertion.
The hoarse High Street became musical with the cry, in various
silvery voices, 'Good-bye, Rosebud darling!' and the effigy of Mr.
Sapsea's father over the opposite doorway seemed to say to mankind:
'Gentlemen, favour me with your attention to this charming little
last lot left behind, and bid with a spirit worthy of the
occasion!' Then the staid street, so unwontedly sparkling,
youthful, and fresh for a few rippling moments, ran dry, and
Cloisterham was itself again.
If Rosebud in her bower now waited Edwin Drood's coming with an
uneasy heart, Edwin for his part was uneasy too. With far less
force of purpose in his composition than the childish beauty,
crowned by acclamation fairy queen of Miss Twinkleton's
establishment, he had a conscience, and Mr.
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