The Mystery of Edwin Drood (15 page)

 

  The Reverend Septimus yielded himself up
quite as willing a victim to a nauseous medicinal herb-closet, also presided
over by the china shepherdess, as to this glorious cupboard. To what amazing
infusions of gentian, peppermint, gilliflower, sage, parsley, thyme, rue,
rosemary, and dandelion, did his courageous stomach submit itself! In what
wonderful wrappers, enclosing layers of dried leaves, would he swathe his rosy
and contented face, if his mother suspected him of a toothache! What botanical
blotches would he cheerfully stick upon his cheek, or forehead, if the dear old
lady convicted him of an imperceptible pimple there! Into this herbaceous
penitentiary, situated on an upper staircase-landing: a low and narrow
whitewashed cell, where bunches of dried leaves hung from rusty hooks in the
ceiling, and were spread out upon shelves, in company with portentous bottles:
would the Reverend Septimus submissively be led, like the highly popular lamb
who has so long and unresistingly been led to the slaughter, and there would
he, unlike that lamb, bore nobody but himself. Not even doing that much, so
that the old lady were busy and pleased, he would quietly swallow what was
given him, merely taking a corrective dip of hands and face into the great bowl
of dried rose-leaves, and into the other great bowl of dried lavender, and then
would go out, as confident in the sweetening powers of Cloisterham Weir and a
wholesome mind, as Lady Macbeth was hopeless of those of all the seas that
roll.

 

  In the present instance the good Minor
Canon took his glass of Constantia with an excellent grace, and, so supported
to his mother's satisfaction, applied himself to the remaining duties of the
day. In their orderly and punctual progress they brought round Vesper Service
and twilight. The Cathedral being very cold, he set off for a brisk trot after
service; the trot to end in a charge at his favourite fragment of ruin, which
was to be carried by storm, without a pause for breath.

 

  He carried it in a masterly manner, and,
not breathed even then, stood looking down upon the river. The river at
Cloisterham is sufficiently near the sea to throw up oftentimes a quantity of
seaweed. An unusual quantity had come in with the last tide, and this, and the
confusion of the water, and the restless dipping and flapping of the noisy
gulls, and an angry light out seaward beyond the brown-sailed barges that were
turning black, foreshadowed a stormy night. In his mind he was contrasting the
wild and noisy sea with the quiet harbour of Minor Canon Corner, when Helena
and Neville Landless passed below him. He had had the two together in his
thoughts all day, and at once climbed down to speak to them together. The
footing was rough in an uncertain light for any tread save that of a good
climber; but the Minor Canon was as good a climber as most men, and stood
beside them before many good climbers would have been half-way down.

 

  “A wild evening, Miss Landless! Do you
not find your usual walk with your brother too exposed and cold for the time of
year? Or at all events, when the sun is down, and the weather is driving in
from the sea?”

 

  Helena thought not. It was their
favourite walk. It was very retired.

 

  “It is very retired,” assented Mr.
Crisparkle, laying hold of his opportunity straightway, and walking on with
them. “It is a place of all others where one can speak without interruption, as
I wish to do. Mr. Neville, I believe you tell your sister everything that passes
between us?”

 

  “Everything, sir.”

 

  “Consequently,” said Mr. Crisparkle,
“your sister is aware that I have repeatedly urged you to make some kind of
apology for that unfortunate occurrence which befell on the night of your
arrival here.” In saying it he looked to her, and not to him; therefore it was
she, and not he, who replied:

 

  “Yes.”

 

  “I call it unfortunate, Miss Helena,”
resumed Mr. Crisparkle, “forasmuch as it certainly has engendered a prejudice
against Neville. There is a notion about, that he is a dangerously passionate
fellow, of an uncontrollable and furious temper: he is really avoided as such.”

 

  “I have no doubt he is, poor fellow,”
said Helena, with a look of proud compassion at her brother, expressing a deep
sense of his being ungenerously treated. “I should be quite sure of it, from
your saying so; but what you tell me is confirmed by suppressed hints and
references that I meet with every day.”

 

  “Now,” Mr. Crisparkle again resumed, in
a tone of mild though firm persuasion, “is not this to be regretted, and ought
it not to be amended? These are early days of Neville's in Cloisterham, and I
have no fear of his outliving such a prejudice, and proving himself to have
been misunderstood. But how much wiser to take action at once, than to trust to
uncertain time! Besides, apart from its being politic, it is right. For there
can be no question that Neville was wrong.”

 

  “He was provoked,” Helena submitted.

 

  “He was the assailant,” Mr. Crisparkle
submitted.

 

  They walked on in silence, until Helena
raised her eyes to the Minor Canon's face, and said, almost reproachfully: “O
Mr. Crisparkle, would you have Neville throw himself at young Drood's feet, or
at Mr. Jasper's, who maligns him every day? In your heart you cannot mean it.
From your heart you could not do it, if his case were yours.”

 

  “I have represented to Mr. Crisparkle,
Helena,” said Neville, with a glance of deference towards his tutor, “that if I
could do it from my heart, I would. But I cannot, and I revolt from the
pretence. You forget however, that to put the case to Mr. Crisparkle as his
own, is to suppose to have done what I did.”

 

  “I ask his pardon,” said Helena.

 

  “You see,” remarked Mr. Crisparkle,
again laying hold of his opportunity, though with a moderate and delicate
touch, “you both instinctively acknowledge that Neville did wrong. Then why
stop short, and not otherwise acknowledge it?”

 

  “Is there no difference,” asked Helena,
with a little faltering in her manner; “between submission to a generous
spirit, and submission to a base or trivial one?”

 

  Before the worthy Minor Canon was quite
ready with his argument in reference to this nice distinction, Neville struck
in:

 

  “Help me to clear myself with Mr.
Crisparkle, Helena. Help me to convince him that I cannot be the first to make
concessions without mockery and falsehood. My nature must be changed before I
can do so, and it is not changed. I am sensible of inexpressible affront, and
deliberate aggravation of inexpressible affront, and I am angry. The plain
truth is, I am still as angry when I recall that night as I was that night.”

 

  “Neville,” hinted the Minor Canon, with
a steady countenance, “you have repeated that former action of your hands,
which I so much dislike.”

 

  “I am sorry for it, sir, but it was
involuntary. I confessed that I was still as angry.”

 

  “And I confess,” said Mr. Crisparkle,
“that I hoped for better things.”

 

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, sir, but
it would be far worse to deceive you, and I should deceive you grossly if I
pretended that you had softened me in this respect. The time may come when your
powerful influence will do even that with the difficult pupil whose antecedents
you know; but it has not come yet. Is this so, and in spite of my struggles
against myself, Helena?”

 

  She, whose dark eyes were watching the
effect of what he said on Mr. Crisparkle's face, replied—to Mr. Crisparkle, not
to him: “It is so.” After a short pause, she answered the slightest look of
inquiry conceivable, in her brother's eyes, with as slight an affirmative bend
of her own head; and he went on:

 

  “I have never yet had the courage to say
to you, sir, what in full openness I ought to have said when you first talked
with me on this subject. It is not easy to say, and I have been withheld by a
fear of its seeming ridiculous, which is very strong upon me down to this last
moment, and might, but for my sister, prevent my being quite open with you even
now. —I admire Miss Bud, sir, so very much, that I cannot bear her being
treated with conceit or indifference; and even if I did not feel that I had an
injury against young Drood on my own account, I should feel that I had an
injury against him on hers.”

 

  Mr. Crisparkle, in utter amazement,
looked at Helena for corroboration, and met in her expressive face full
corroboration, and a plea for advice.

 

  “The young lady of whom you speak is, as
you know, Mr. Neville, shortly to be married,” said Mr. Crisparkle, gravely;
“therefore your admiration, if it be of that special nature which you seem to
indicate, is outrageously misplaced. Moreover, it is monstrous that you should take
upon yourself to be the young lady's champion against her chosen husband.
Besides, you have seen them only once. The young lady has become your sister's
friend; and I wonder that your sister, even on her behalf, has not checked you
in this irrational and culpable fancy.”

 

  “She has tried, sir, but uselessly.
Husband or no husband, that fellow is incapable of the feeling with which I am
inspired towards the beautiful young creature whom he treats like a doll. I say
he is as incapable of it, as he is unworthy of her. I say she is sacrificed in
being bestowed upon him. I say that I love her, and despise and hate him!” This
with a face so flushed, and a gesture so violent, that his sister crossed to
his side, and caught his arm, remonstrating, “Neville, Neville!”

 

  Thus recalled to himself, he quickly
became sensible of having lost the guard he had set upon his passionate
tendency, and covered his face with his hand, as one repentant and wretched.

 

  Mr. Crisparkle, watching him
attentively, and at the same time meditating how to proceed, walked on for some
paces in silence. Then he spoke:

 

  “Mr. Neville, Mr. Neville, I am sorely
grieved to see in you more traces of a character as sullen, angry, and wild, as
the night now closing in. They are of too serious an aspect to leave me the
resource of treating the infatuation you have disclosed, as undeserving serious
consideration. I give it very serious consideration, and I speak to you accordingly.
This feud between you and young Drood must not go on. I cannot permit it to go
on any longer, knowing what I now know from you, and you living under my roof.
Whatever prejudiced and unauthorised constructions your blind and envious wrath
may put upon his character, it is a frank, good-natured character. I know I can
trust to it for that. Now, pray observe what I am about to say. On reflection,
and on your sister's representation, I am willing to admit that, in making
peace with young Drood, you have a right to be met half-way. I will engage that
you shall be, and even that young Drood shall make the first advance. This
condition fulfilled, you will pledge me the honour of a Christian gentleman
that the quarrel is for ever at an end on your side. What may be in your heart
when you give him your hand, can only be known to the Searcher of all hearts;
but it will never go well with you, if there be any treachery there. So far, as
to that; next as to what I must again speak of as your infatuation. I
understand it to have been confided to me, and to be known to no other person
save your sister and yourself. Do I understand aright?”

 

  Helena answered in a low voice: “It is
only known to us three who are here together.”

 

  “It is not at all known to the young
lady, your friend?”

 

  “On my soul, no!”

 

  “I require you, then, to give me your
similar and solemn pledge, Mr. Neville, that it shall remain the secret it is,
and that you will take no other action whatsoever upon it than endeavouring
(and that most earnestly) to erase it from your mind. I will not tell you that
it will soon pass; I will not tell you that it is the fancy of the moment; I
will not tell you that such caprices have their rise and fall among the young
and ardent every hour; I will leave you undisturbed in the belief that it has
few parallels or none, that it will abide with you a long time, and that it
will be very difficult to conquer. So much the more weight shall I attach to
the pledge I require from you, when it is unreservedly given.”

 

  The young man twice or thrice essayed to
speak, but failed.

 

  “Let me leave you with your sister, whom
it is time you took home,” said Mr. Crisparkle. “You will find me alone in my
room by-andby.”

 

  “Pray do not leave us yet,” Helena
implored him. “Another minute.”

 

  “I should not,” said Neville, pressing
his hand upon his face, “have needed so much as another minute, if you had been
less patient with me, Mr. Crisparkle, less considerate of me, and less
unpretendingly good and true. O, if in my childhood I had known such a guide!”

 

  “Follow your guide now, Neville,”
murmured Helena, “and follow him to Heaven!”

 

  There was that in her tone which broke
the good Minor Canon's voice, or it would have repudiated her exaltation of
him. As it was, he laid a finger on his lips, and looked towards her brother.

 

  “To say that I give both pledges, Mr.
Crisparkle, out of my innermost heart, and to say that there is no treachery in
it, is to say nothing!” Thus Neville, greatly moved. “I beg your forgiveness
for my miserable lapse into a burst of passion.”

 

  “Not mine, Neville, not mine. You know
with whom forgiveness lies, as the highest attribute conceivable. Miss Helena,
you and your brother are twin children. You came into this world with the same
dispositions, and you passed your younger days together surrounded by the same
adverse circumstances. What you have overcome in yourself, can you not overcome
in him? You see the rock that lies in his course. Who but you can keep him
clear of it?”