The Mystery of Edwin Drood, Charles Dickens [fox in socks read aloud txt] 📗
- Author: Charles Dickens
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Helena Landless kissed her, and retaining both her hands said:
“Who is Mr. Jasper?”
Rosa turned aside her head in answering: “Eddy’s uncle, and my music-master.”
“You do not love him?”
“Ugh!” She put her hands up to her face, and shook with fear or horror.
“You know that he loves you?”
“O, don’t, don’t, don’t!” cried Rosa, dropping on her knees, and clinging to her new resource. “Don’t tell me of it! He terrifies me. He haunts my thoughts, like a dreadful ghost. I feel that I am never safe from him. I feel as if he could pass in through the wall when he is spoken of.” She actually did look round, as if she dreaded to see him standing in the shadow behind her.
“Try to tell me more about it, darling.”
“Yes, I will, I will. Because you are so strong. But hold me the while, and stay with me afterwards.”
“My child! You speak as if he had threatened you in some dark way.”
“He has never spoken to me about—that. Never.”
“What has he done?”
“He has made a slave of me with his looks. He has forced me to understand him, without his saying a word; and he has forced me to keep silence, without his uttering a threat. When I play, he never moves his eyes from my hands. When I sing, he never moves his eyes from my lips. When he corrects me, and strikes a note, or a chord, or plays a passage, he himself is in the sounds, whispering that he pursues me as a lover, and commanding me to keep his secret. I avoid his eyes, but he forces me to see them without looking at them. Even when a glaze comes over them (which is sometimes the case), and he seems to wander away into a frightful sort of dream in which he threatens most, he obliges me to know it, and to know that he is sitting close at my side, more terrible to me than ever.”
“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!
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 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
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