Helena thinks it over, and thinks well of it.  Mr. Crisparkle doing so, she would do so; but she does originally, out of her own mind, think well of it, as a healthy project, denoting a sincere endeavour and an active attempt at self-correction.  She is inclined to pity him, poor fellow, for going away solitary on the great Christmas festival; but she feels it much more to the purpose to encourage him.  And she does encourage him.

He will write to her?

He will write to her every alternate day, and tell her all his adventures.

Does he send clothes on in advance of him?

’My dear Helena, no.  Travel like a pilgrim, with wallet and staff.  My wallet—­or my knapsack—­is packed, and ready for strapping on; and here is my staff!’

He hands it to her; she makes the same remark as Mr. Crisparkle, that it is very heavy; and gives it back to him, asking what wood it is?  Iron-wood.

Up to this point he has been extremely cheerful.  Perhaps, the having to carry his case with her, and therefore to present it in its brightest aspect, has roused his spirits.  Perhaps, the having done so with success, is followed by a revulsion.  As the day closes in, and the city-lights begin to spring up before them, he grows depressed.

‘I wish I were not going to this dinner, Helena.’

’Dear Neville, is it worth while to care much about it?  Think how soon it will be over.’

‘How soon it will be over!’ he repeats gloomily.  ’Yes.  But I don’t like it.’

There may be a moment’s awkwardness, she cheeringly represents to him, but it can only last a moment.  He is quite sure of himself.

‘I wish I felt as sure of everything else, as I feel of myself,’ he answers her.

‘How strangely you speak, dear!  What do you mean?’

’Helena, I don’t know.  I only know that I don’t like it.  What a strange dead weight there is in the air!’

She calls his attention to those copperous clouds beyond the river, and says that the wind is rising.  He scarcely speaks again, until he takes leave of her, at the gate of the Nuns’ House.  She does not immediately enter, when they have parted, but remains looking after him along the street.  Twice he passes the gatehouse, reluctant to enter.  At length, the Cathedral clock chiming one quarter, with a rapid turn he hurries in.

And so he goes up the postern stair.

Edwin Drood passes a solitary day.  Something of deeper moment than he had thought, has gone out of his life; and in the silence of his own chamber he wept for it last night.  Though the image of Miss Landless still hovers in the background of his mind, the pretty little affectionate creature, so much firmer and wiser than he had supposed, occupies its stronghold.  It is with some misgiving of his own unworthiness that he thinks of her, and of what they might have been to one another, if he had been more in earnest some time ago; if he had set a higher value on her; if, instead of accepting his lot in life as an inheritance of course, he had studied the right way to its appreciation and enhancement.  And still, for all this, and though there is a sharp heartache in all this, the vanity and caprice of youth sustain that handsome figure of Miss Landless in the background of his mind.