“I am entirely satisfied of his perfect innocence, sir, nevertheless.”
“We‑e‑ell!” said the Dean, in a more confidential tone, and slightly glancing around him, “I would not say so, generally. Not generally. Enough of suspicion attaches to him to—no, I think I would not say so, generally.”
Mr. Crisparkle bowed again.
“It does not become us, perhaps,” pursued the Dean, “to be partisans. Not partisans. We clergy keep our hearts warm and our heads cool, and we hold a judicious middle course.”
“I hope you do not object, sir, to my having stated in public, emphatically, that he will reappear here, whenever any new suspicion may be awakened, or any new circumstance may come to light in this extraordinary matter?”
“Not at all,” returned the Dean. “And yet, do you know, I don’t think,” with a very nice and neat emphasis on those two words: “I don’t think I would state it, emphatically. State it? Ye‑e‑es! But emphatically? No‑o‑o. I think not. In point of fact, Mr. Crisparkle, keeping our hearts warm and our heads cool, we clergy need do nothing emphatically.”
So, Minor Canon Row knew Neville Landless no more; and he went whithersoever he would, or could, with a blight upon his name and fame.
It was not until then that John Jasper silently resumed his place in the choir. Haggard and red-eyed, his hopes plainly had deserted him, his sanguine mood was gone, and all his worst misgivings had come back. A day or two afterwards, while unrobing, he took his Diary from a pocket of his coat, turned the leaves, and with an impressive look, and without one spoken word, handed this entry to Mr. Crisparkle to read: