Rosa’s mind throughout the last six months had been stormily confused.  A half-formed, wholly unexpressed suspicion tossed in it, now heaving itself up, and now sinking into the deep; now gaining palpability, and now losing it.  Jasper’s self-absorption in his nephew when he was alive, and his unceasing pursuit of the inquiry how he came by his death, if he were dead, were themes so rife in the place, that no one appeared able to suspect the possibility of foul play at his hands.  She had asked herself the question, ’Am I so wicked in my thoughts as to conceive a wickedness that others cannot imagine?’ Then she had considered, Did the suspicion come of her previous recoiling from him before the fact?  And if so, was not that a proof of its baselessness?  Then she had reflected, ’What motive could he have, according to my accusation?’ She was ashamed to answer in her mind, ’The motive of gaining me!’ And covered her face, as if the lightest shadow of the idea of founding murder on such an idle vanity were a crime almost as great.

She ran over in her mind again, all that he had said by the sun-dial in the garden.  He had persisted in treating the disappearance as murder, consistently with his whole public course since the finding of the watch and shirt-pin.  If he were afraid of the crime being traced out, would he not rather encourage the idea of a voluntary disappearance?  He had even declared that if the ties between him and his nephew had been less strong, he might have swept ‘even him’ away from her side.  Was that like his having really done so?  He had spoken of laying his six months’ labours in the cause of a just vengeance at her feet.  Would he have done that, with that violence of passion, if they were a pretence?  Would he have ranged them with his desolate heart and soul, his wasted life, his peace and his despair?  The very first sacrifice that he represented himself as making for her, was his fidelity to his dear boy after death.  Surely these facts were strong against a fancy that scarcely dared to hint itself.  And yet he was so terrible a man!  In short, the poor girl (for what could she know of the criminal intellect, which its own professed students perpetually misread, because they persist in trying to reconcile it with the average intellect of average men, instead of identifying it as a horrible wonder apart) could get by no road to any other conclusion than that he was a terrible man, and must be fled from.

She had been Helena’s stay and comfort during the whole time.  She had constantly assured her of her full belief in her brother’s innocence, and of her sympathy with him in his misery.  But she had never seen him since the disappearance, nor had Helena ever spoken one word of his avowal to Mr. Crisparkle in regard of Rosa, though as a part of the interest of the case it was well known far and wide.  He was Helena’s unfortunate brother, to her, and nothing more.  The assurance she had given her odious suitor was strictly true, though it would have been better (she considered now) if she could have restrained herself from so giving it.  Afraid of him as the bright and delicate little creature was, her spirit swelled at the thought of his knowing it from her own lips.