Multimedia Mania/abacus-multimedia-mania.iso/dp/0055/00554.txt

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$Unique_ID{bob00554}
$Pretitle{}
$Title{Mystery Of Edwin Drood, The
Chapter VIII}
$Subtitle{}
$Author{Dickens, Charles}
$Affiliation{}
$Subject{neville
edwin
jasper
drood
says
hand
am
sir
upon
crisparkle}
$Date{}
$Log{}
Title:       Mystery Of Edwin Drood, The
Author:      Dickens, Charles

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 doorplate, 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 dare-say
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?' asked 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 sharp-edged 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 chimneypiece.  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?'

     'Yes, I did say something else.'

     'Say it again.'

     'I said that in the part of the world I come from, you would be called to
account for it.'

     'Only there?' cries Edwin Drood, with a contemptuous laugh.  'A long way
off, I believe?  Yes; I see!  That part of the world is at a safe distance.'

     'Say here, then,' rejoins the other, rising in a fury.  'Say anywhere!
Your vanity is intolerable, your conceit is beyond endurance; you talk as if
you were some rare and precious prize, instead of a common boaster.  You are a
common fellow, and a common boaster.'

     'Pooh, pooh,' says Edwin Drood, equally furious, but more collected; 'how
should you know?  You may know a black common fellow, or a black common
boaster, when you see him (and no doubt you have a large acquaintance that
way); but you are no judge of white men.'

     This insulting allusion to his dark skin infuriates Neville to that
violent degree, that he flings the dregs of his wine at Edwin Drood, and is in
the act of flinging the goblet after it, when his arm is caught in the nick of
time by Jasper.

     'Ned, my dear fellow!' he cries in a loud voice; 'I entreat you, I
command you, to be still!' There has been a rush of all the three, and a
clattering of glasses and overturning of chairs.  'Mr. Neville, for shame!
Give this glass to me.  Open your hand, sir.  I will have it!'

     But Neville throws him off, and pauses for an instant, in a raging
passion, with the goblet yet in his uplifted hand.  Then, he dashes it
down under the grate, with such force that the broken splinters fly out
again in a shower; and he leaves the house.

     When he first emerges into the night air, nothing around him is still
or steady; nothing around him shows like what it is; he only knows that he
stands with a bare head in the midst of a blood-red whirl, waiting to be
struggled with, and to struggle to the death.

     But, nothing happening, and the moon looking down upon him as if he
were dead after a fit of wrath, he holds his steam-hammer beating head and
heart, and staggers away.  Then, he becomes half-conscious of having heard
himself bolted and barred out, like a dangerous animal; and thinks what
shall he do?

     Some wildly passionate ideas of the river dissolve under the spell of
the moonlight on the Cathedral and the graves, and the remembrance of his
sister, and the thought of what he owes to the good man who has but that
very day won his confidence and given him his pledge.  He repairs to Minor
Canon Corner, and knocks softly at the door.

     It is Mr. Crisparkle's custom to sit up last of the early household,
very softly touching his piano and practising his favourite parts in
concerted vocal music.  The south wind that goes where it lists, by way of
Minor Canon Corner on a still night, is not more subdued than Mr.
Crisparkle at such times, regardful of the slumbers of the china
shepherdess.

     His knock is immediately answered by Mr. Crisparkle himself.  When he
opens the door, candle in hand, his cheerful face falls, and disappointed
amazement is in it.

     'Mr. Neville!  In this disorder!  Where have you been?'

     'I have been to Mr. Jasper's, sir.  With his nephew.'

     'Come in.'

     The Minor Canon props him by the elbow with a strong hand (in a
strictly scientific manner, worthy of his morning trainings), and turns
him into his own little book-room, and shuts the door.  'I have begun ill,
sir.  I have begun dreadfully ill.'

     'Too true.  You are not sober, Mr. Neville.'

     'I am afraid I am not, sir, though I can satisfy you at another time
that I have had a very little indeed to drink, and that it overcame me in
the strangest and most sudden manner.'

     'Mr. Neville, Mr. Neville,' says the Minor Canon, shaking his head
with a sorrowful smile; 'I have heard that said before.'

     'I think - my mind is much confused, but I think - it is equally true
of Mr. Jasper's nephew, sir.'

     'Very likely, is the dry rejoinder.

     'We quarrelled, sir.  He insulted me most grossly.  He had heated
that tigerish blood I told you of to-day, before then.'

     'Mr. Neville,' rejoins the Minor Canon, mildly, but firmly: 'I
request you not to speak to me with that clenched right hand.  Unclench
it, if you please.'

     'He goaded me, sir,' pursues the young man, instantly obeying,
'beyond my power of endurance.  I cannot say whether or no he meant it at
first, but he did it.  He certainly meant it at last.  In short, sir,'
with an irrepressible outburst, 'in the passion into which he lashed me, I
would have cut him down if I could, and I tried to do it.'

     'You have clenched that hand again,' is Mr. Crisparkle's quiet
commentary.

     'I beg your pardon, sir.'

     'You know your room, for I showed it you before dinner; but I will
accompany you to it once more.  Your arm, if you please.  Softly, for the
house is all a-bed.'

     Scooping his hand into the same scientific elbow-rest as before, and
backing it up with the inert strength of his arm, as skillfully as a
Police Expert, and with an apparent repose quite unattainable by novices,
Mr. Crisparkle conducts his pupil to the pleasant and orderly old room
prepared for him.  Arrived there, the young man throws himself into a
chair, and, flinging his arms upon his reading-table, rests his head upon
them with an air of wretched self-reproach.

     The gentle Minor Canon has had it in his thoughts to leave the room,
without a word.  But looking round at the door, and seeing this dejected
figure, he turns back to it, touches it with a mild hand, and says 'Good
night!' A sob is his only acknowledgement.  He might have had many a
worse; perhaps, could have had few better.

     Another soft knock at the outer door attracts his attention as he
goes downstairs.  He opens it to Mr. Jasper, holding in his hand the
pupil's hat.

     'We have had an awful scene with him,' says Jasper, in a low voice.

     'Has it been so bad as that?'

     'Murderous!'

     Mr. Crisparkle remonstrates: 'No, no, no.  Do not use such strong words.'

     'He might have laid my dear boy dead at my feet.  It is no fault of his,
that he did not.  But that I was, through the mercy of God, swift and strong
with him, he would have cut him down on my hearth.'

     The phrase smites home.  'Ah!' thinks Mr. Crisparkle, 'his own words!'

     'Seeing what I have seen to-night, and hearing what I have heard,'
adds Jasper, with great earnestness, 'I shall never know peace of mind
when there is danger of those two coming together, with no one else to
interfere.  It was horrible.  There is something of the tiger in his dark
blood.'

     'Ah!' thinks Mr. Crisparkle, 'so he said!'

     'You, my dear sir,' pursues Jasper, taking his hand, 'even you, have
accepted a dangerous charge.'

     'You need have no fear for me, Jasper,' returns Mr. Crisparkle, with
a quiet smile.  'I have none for myself.'

     'I have none for myself,' returns Jasper, with an emphasis on the
last pronoun, 'because I am not, nor am I in the way of being, the object
of his hostility.  But you may be, and my dear boy has been.  Good night!'

     Mr. Crisparkle goes in, with the hat that has so easily, so almost
imperceptibly, acquired the right to be hung up in his hall; hangs it up;
and goes thoughtfully to bed.