The Mystery of Edwin Drood (50 page)

 

  “What is this imagined threatening,
pretty one? What is threatened?”

 

  “I don't know. I have never even dared
to think or wonder what it is.”

 

  “And was this all, to-night?”

 

  “This was all; except that to-night when
he watched my lips so closely as I was singing, besides feeling terrified I
felt ashamed and passionately hurt. It was as if he kissed me, and I couldn't
bear it, but cried out. You must never breathe this to any one. Eddy is devoted
to him. But you said to-night that you would not be afraid of him, under any circumstances,
and that gives me—who am so much afraid of him—courage to tell only you. Hold
me! Stay with me! I am too frightened to be left by myself.”

 

  The lustrous gipsy-face drooped over the
clinging arms and bosom, and the wild black hair fell down protectingly over
the childish form. There was a slumbering gleam of fire in the intense dark
eyes, though they were then softened with compassion and admiration. Let
whomsoever it most concerned look well to it!

 

   

 

   

 

  CHAPTER VIII—DAGGERS DRAWN

 

   

 

  THE two young men, having seen the
damsels, their charges, enter the courtyard of the Nuns' House, and finding
themselves coldly stared at by the brazen door-plate, as if the battered old
beau with the glass in his eye were insolent, look at one another, look along
the perspective of the moonlit street, and slowly walk away together.

 

  “Do you stay here long, Mr. Drood?” says
Neville.

 

  “Not this time,” is the careless answer.
“I leave for London again, to-morrow. But I shall be here, off and on, until
next Midsummer; then I shall take my leave of Cloisterham, and England too; for
many a long day, I expect.”

 

  “Are you going abroad?”

 

  “Going to wake up Egypt a little,” is
the condescending answer.

 

  “Are you reading?”

 

  “Reading?” repeats Edwin Drood, with a
touch of contempt. “No. Doing, working, engineering. My small patrimony was
left a part of the capital of the Firm I am with, by my father, a former
partner; and I am a charge upon the Firm until I come of age; and then I step
into my modest share in the concern. Jack—you met him at dinner—is, until then,
my guardian and trustee.”

 

  “I heard from Mr. Crisparkle of your
other good fortune.”

 

  “What do you mean by my other good
fortune?”

 

  Neville has made his remark in a
watchfully advancing, and yet furtive and shy manner, very expressive of that
peculiar air already noticed, of being at once hunter and hunted. Edwin has
made his retort with an abruptness not at all polite. They stop and interchange
a rather heated look.

 

  “I hope,” says Neville, “there is no
offence, Mr. Drood, in my innocently referring to your betrothal?”

 

  “By George!” cries Edwin, leading on
again at a somewhat quicker pace; “everybody in this chattering old Cloisterham
refers to it I wonder no public-house has been set up, with my portrait for the
sign of The Betrothed's Head. Or Pussy's portrait. One or the other.”

 

  “I am not accountable for Mr.
Crisparkle's mentioning the matter to me, quite openly,” Neville begins.

 

  “No; that's true; you are not,” Edwin
Drood assents.

 

  “But,” resumes Neville, “I am
accountable for mentioning it to you. And I did so, on the supposition that you
could not fail to be highly proud of it.”

 

  Now, there are these two curious touches
of human nature working the secret springs of this dialogue. Neville Landless
is already enough impressed by Little Rosebud, to feel indignant that Edwin
Drood (far below her) should hold his prize so lightly. Edwin Drood is already
enough impressed by Helena, to feel indignant that Helena's brother (far below
her) should dispose of him so coolly, and put him out of the way so entirely.

 

  However, the last remark had better be
answered. So, says Edwin:

 

  “I don't know, Mr. Neville” (adopting that
mode of address from Mr. Crisparkle), “that what people are proudest of, they
usually talk most about; I don't know either, that what they are proudest of,
they most like other people to talk about. But I live a busy life, and I speak
under correction by you readers, who ought to know everything, and I daresay
do.”

 

  By this time they had both become
savage; Mr. Neville out in the open; Edwin Drood under the transparent cover of
a popular tune, and a stop now and then to pretend to admire picturesque effects
in the moonlight before him.

 

  “It does not seem to me very civil in
you,” remarks Neville, at length, “to reflect upon a stranger who comes here,
not having had your advantages, to try to make up for lost time. But, to be
sure, I was not brought up in “busy life,” and my ideas of civility were formed
among Heathens.”

 

  “Perhaps, the best civility, whatever
kind of people we are brought up among,” retorts Edwin Drood, “is to mind our
own business. If you will set me that example, I promise to follow it.”

 

  “Do you know that you take a great deal
too much upon yourself?” is the angry rejoinder, “and that in the part of the
world I come from, you would be called to account for it?”

 

  “By whom, for instance?” asks Edwin
Drood, coming to a halt, and surveying the other with a look of disdain.

 

  But, here a startling right hand is laid
on Edwin's shoulder, and Jasper stands between them. For, it would seem that
he, too, has strolled round by the Nuns' House, and has come up behind them on
the shadowy side of the road.

 

  “Ned, Ned, Ned!” he says; “we must have
no more of this. I don't like this. I have overheard high words between you
two. Remember, my dear boy, you are almost in the position of host to-night.
You belong, as it were, to the place, and in a manner represent it towards a
stranger. Mr. Neville is a stranger, and you should respect the obligations of
hospitality. And, Mr. Neville,” laying his left hand on the inner shoulder of
that young gentleman, and thus walking on between them, hand to shoulder on
either side: “you will pardon me; but I appeal to you to govern your temper
too. Now, what is amiss? But why ask! Let there be nothing amiss, and the
question is superfluous. We are all three on a good understanding, are we not?”

 

  After a silent struggle between the two
young men who shall speak last, Edwin Drood strikes in with: “So far as I am
concerned, Jack, there is no anger in me.”

 

  “Nor in me,” says Neville Landless,
though not so freely; or perhaps so carelessly. “But if Mr. Drood knew all that
lies behind me, far away from here, he might know better how it is that
sharpedged words have sharp edges to wound me.”

 

  “Perhaps,” says Jasper, in a soothing
manner, “we had better not qualify our good understanding. We had better not
say anything having the appearance of a remonstrance or condition; it might not
seem generous. Frankly and freely, you see there is no anger in Ned. Frankly
and freely, there is no anger in you, Mr. Neville?”

 

  “None at all, Mr. Jasper.” Still, not
quite so frankly or so freely; or, be it said once again, not quite so
carelessly perhaps.

 

  “All over then! Now, my bachelor
gatehouse is a few yards from here, and the heater is on the fire, and the wine
and glasses are on the table, and it is not a stone's throw from Minor Canon
Corner. Ned, you are up and away to-morrow. We will carry Mr. Neville in with
us, to take a stirrup-cup.”

 

  “With all my heart, Jack.”

 

  “And with all mine, Mr. Jasper.” Neville
feels it impossible to say less, but would rather not go. He has an impression
upon him that he has lost hold of his temper; feels that Edwin Drood's
coolness, so far from being infectious, makes him red-hot.

 

  Mr. Jasper, still walking in the centre,
hand to shoulder on either side, beautifully turns the Refrain of a drinking
song, and they all go up to his rooms. There, the first object visible, when he
adds the light of a lamp to that of the fire, is the portrait over the
chimneypicce. It is not an object calculated to improve the understanding
between the two young men, as rather awkwardly reviving the subject of their
difference. Accordingly, they both glance at it consciously, but say nothing.
Jasper, however (who would appear from his conduct to have gained but an
imperfect clue to the cause of their late high words), directly calls attention
to it.

 

  “You recognise that picture, Mr.
Neville?” shading the lamp to throw the light upon it.

 

  “I recognise it, but it is far from
flattering the original.”

 

  “O, you are hard upon it! It was done by
Ned, who made me a present of it.”

 

  “I am sorry for that, Mr. Drood.” Neville
apologises, with a real intention to apologise; “if I had known I was in the
artist's presence—”

 

  “O, a joke, sir, a mere joke,” Edwin
cuts in, with a provoking yawn. “A little humouring of Pussy's points! I'm
going to paint her gravely, one of these days, if she's good.”

 

  The air of leisurely patronage and
indifference with which this is said, as the speaker throws himself back in a
chair and clasps his hands at the back of his head, as a rest for it, is very
exasperating to the excitable and excited Neville. Jasper looks observantly
from the one to the other, slightly smiles, and turns his back to mix a jug of
mulled wine at the fire. It seems to require much mixing and compounding.

 

  “I suppose, Mr. Neville,” says Edwin,
quick to resent the indignant protest against himself in the face of young
Landless, which is fully as visible as the portrait, or the fire, or the lamp:
“I suppose that if you painted the picture of your lady love—”

 

  “I can't paint,” is the hasty
interruption.

 

  “That's your misfortune, and not your
fault. You would if you could. But if you could, I suppose you would make her
(no matter what she was in reality), Juno, Minerva, Diana, and Venus, all in
one. Eh?”

 

  “I have no lady love, and I can't say.”

 

  “If I were to try my hand,” says Edwin,
with a boyish boastfulness getting up in him, “on a portrait of Miss
Landless—in earnest, mind you; in earnest—you should see what I could do!”

 

  “My sister's consent to sit for it being
first got, I suppose? As it never will be got, I am afraid I shall never see
what you can do. I must bear the loss.”

 

  Jasper turns round from the fire, fills
a large goblet glass for Neville, fills a large goblet glass for Edwin, and
hands each his own; then fills for himself, saying:

 

  “Come, Mr. Neville, we are to drink to
my nephew, Ned. As it is his foot that is in the stirrup—metaphorically—our
stirrup-cup is to be devoted to him. Ned, my dearest fellow, my love!”

 

  Jasper sets the example of nearly
emptying his glass, and Neville follows it. Edwin Drood says, “Thank you both
very much,” and follows the double example.

 

  “Look at him,” cries Jasper, stretching
out his hand admiringly and tenderly, though rallyingly too. “See where he
lounges so easily, Mr. Neville! The world is all before him where to choose. A
life of stirring work and interest, a life of change and excitement, a life of
domestic ease and love! Look at him!”

 

  Edwin Drood's face has become quickly
and remarkably flushed with the wine; so has the face of Neville Landless.
Edwin still sits thrown back in his chair, making that rest of clasped hands
for his head.

 

  “See how little he heeds it all!” Jasper
proceeds in a bantering vein. “It is hardly worth his while to pluck the golden
fruit that hangs ripe on the tree for him. And yet consider the contrast, Mr.
Neville. You and I have no prospect of stirring work and interest, or of change
and excitement, or of domestic ease and love. You and I have no prospect
(unless you are more fortunate than I am, which may easily be), but the tedious
unchanging round of this dull place.”

 

  “Upon my soul, Jack,” says Edwin,
complacently, “I feel quite apologetic for having my way smoothed as you
describe. But you know what I know, Jack, and it may not be so very easy as it
seems, after all. May it, Pussy?” To the portrait, with a snap of his thumb and
finger. “We have got to hit it off yet; haven't we, Pussy? You know what I
mean, Jack.”

 

  His speech has become thick and
indistinct. Jasper, quiet and self-possessed, looks to Neville, as expecting
his answer or comment. When Neville speaks, HIS speech is also thick and
indistinct.

 

  “It might have been better for Mr. Drood
to have known some hardships,” he says, defiantly.

 

  “Pray,” retorts Edwin, turning merely
his eyes in that direction, “pray why might it have been better for Mr. Drood
to have known some hardships?”

 

  “Ay,” Jasper assents, with an air of
interest; “let us know why?”

 

  “Because they might have made him more
sensible,” says Neville, “of good fortune that is not by any means necessarily
the result of his own merits.”

 

  Mr. Jasper quickly looks to his nephew
for his rejoinder.

 

  “Have YOU known hardships, may I ask?”
says Edwin Drood, sitting upright.

 

  Mr. Jasper quickly looks to the other
for his retort.

 

  “I have.”

 

  “And what have they made you sensible
of?”

 

  Mr. Jasper's play of eyes between the
two holds good throughout the dialogue, to the end.

 

  “I have told you once before to-night.”

 

  “You have done nothing of the sort.”

 

  “I tell you I have. That you take a
great deal too much upon yourself.”

 

  “You added something else to that, if I
remember?”