The Mystery of Edwin Drood by Charles Dickens (red seas under red skies txt) 📕

‘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 skilfully 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, says ‘Good night!’ A sob is his only acknowledgment. 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 down-stairs. 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