“I begin to understand to what you tend,” said Mr. Crisparkle, “and highly approve of your caution.”
“I needn’t repeat that I know nothing yet of the why and wherefore,” said Mr. Tartar; “but I also understand to what you tend, so let me say at once that my chambers are freely at your disposal.”
“There!” cried Mr. Grewgious, smoothing his head triumphantly. “Now we have all got the idea. You have it, my dear?”
“I think I have,” said Rosa, blushing a little as Mr. Tartar looked quickly towards her.
“You see, you go over to Staple with Mr. Crisparkle and Mr. Tartar,” said Mr. Grewgious; “I going in and out and out and in, alone, in my usual way; you go up with those gentlemen to Mr. Tartar’s rooms; you look into Mr. Tartar’s flower-garden; you wait for Miss Helena’s appearance there, or you signify to Miss Helena that you are close by; and you communicate with her freely, and no spy can be the wiser.”
“I am very much afraid I shall be—”
“Be what, my dear?” asked Mr. Grewgious, as she hesitated. “Not frightened?”
“No, not that,” said Rosa, shyly; “in Mr. Tartar’s way. We seem to be appropriating Mr. Tartar’s residence so very coolly.”
“I protest to you,” returned that gentleman, “that I shall think the better of it forevermore, if your voice sounds in it only once.”
Rosa not quite knowing what to say about that, cast down her eyes, and turning to Mr. Grewgious, dutifully asked if she should put her hat on? Mr. Grewgious being of opinion that she could not do better, she withdrew for the purpose. Mr. Crisparkle took the opportunity of giving Mr. Tartar a summary of the distresses of Neville and his sister; the opportunity was quite long enough, as the hat happened to require a little extra fitting on.
Mr. Tartar gave his arm to Rosa, and Mr. Crisparkle walked, detached, in front.
“Poor, poor Eddy!” thought Rosa, as they went along.
Mr. Tartar waved his right hand as he bent his head down over Rosa, talking in an animated way.
“It was not so powerful or so sun-browned when it saved Mr. Crisparkle,” thought Rosa, glancing at it; “but it must have been very steady and determined even then.”
Mr. Tartar told her he had been a sailor, roving everywhere for years and years.
“When are you going to sea again?” asked Rosa.
“Never!”
Rosa wondered what the girls would say if they could see her crossing the wide street on the sailor’s arm. And she fancied that the passersby must think her very little and very helpless, contrasted with the strong figure that could have caught her up and carried her out of any danger, miles and miles without resting.
She was thinking further, that his farseeing blue eyes looked as if they had been used to watch danger afar off, and to watch it without flinching, drawing nearer and nearer: when, happening to raise her own eyes, she found that he seemed to be thinking something about them.
This a little confused Rosebud, and may account for her never afterwards quite knowing how she ascended (with his help) to his garden in the air, and seemed to get into a marvellous country that came into sudden bloom like the country on the summit of the magic beanstalk. May it flourish forever!
XXII
A Gritty State of Things Comes On
Mr. Tartar’s chambers were the neatest, the cleanest, and the best-ordered chambers ever seen under the sun, moon, and stars. The floors were scrubbed to that extent, that you might have supposed the London blacks emancipated forever, and gone out of the land for good. Every inch of brass-work in Mr. Tartar’s possession was polished and burnished, till it shone like a brazen mirror. No speck, nor spot, nor spatter soiled the purity of any of Mr. Tartar’s household goods, large, small, or middle-sized. His sitting-room was like the admiral’s cabin, his bathroom was like a dairy, his sleeping-chamber, fitted all about with lockers and drawers, was like a seedsman’s shop; and his nicely-balanced cot just stirred in the midst, as if it breathed. Everything belonging to Mr. Tartar had quarters of its own assigned to it: his maps and charts had their quarters; his books had theirs; his brushes had theirs; his boots had theirs; his clothes had theirs; his case-bottles had theirs; his telescopes and other instruments had theirs. Everything was readily accessible. Shelf, bracket, locker, hook, and drawer were equally within reach, and were equally contrived with a view to avoiding waste of room, and providing some snug inches of stowage for something that would have exactly fitted nowhere else. His gleaming little service of plate was so arranged upon his sideboard as that a slack salt-spoon would have instantly betrayed itself; his toilet implements were so arranged upon his dressing-table as that a toothpick of slovenly deportment could have been reported at a glance. So with the curiosities he had brought home from various voyages. Stuffed, dried, repolished, or otherwise preserved, according to their kind; birds, fishes, reptiles, arms, articles of dress, shells, seaweeds, grasses, or memorials of coral reef; each was displayed in its especial place, and each could have been displayed in no better place. Paint and varnish seemed to be kept somewhere out of sight, in constant readiness to obliterate stray fingermarks wherever any might become perceptible in Mr. Tartar’s chambers. No man-of-war was ever kept more spick and span from careless touch. On this bright summer day, a neat awning was rigged over Mr. Tartar’s flower-garden as only a sailor can rig it, and there was a seagoing air upon the whole effect, so delightfully complete, that the flower-garden might have appertained to stern-windows afloat, and the whole concern might have bowled away gallantly with all on board, if Mr. Tartar had only clapped to his lips the speaking-trumpet that was slung in a corner, and given hoarse
