The Mystery of Edwin Drood (23 page)

 

  “Really I don't know that I understand
the subject,” he answers. “I chose it for its weight.”

 

  “Much too heavy, Neville; MUCH too
heavy.”

 

  “To rest upon in a long walk, sir?”

 

  “Rest upon?” repeats Mr. Crisparkle,
throwing himself into pedestrian form. “You don't rest upon it; you merely balance
with it.”

 

  “I shall know better, with practice,
sir. I have not lived in a walking country, you know.”

 

  “True,” says Mr. Crisparkle. “Get into a
little training, and we will have a few score miles together. I should leave
you nowhere now. Do you come back before dinner?”

 

  “I think not, as we dine early.”

 

  Mr. Crisparkle gives him a bright nod
and a cheerful good-bye; expressing (not without intention) absolute confidence
and ease

 

  Neville repairs to the Nuns' House, and
requests that Miss Landless may be informed that her brother is there, by
appointment. He waits at the gate, not even crossing the threshold; for he is
on his parole not to put himself in Rosa's way.

 

  His sister is at least as mindful of the
obligation they have taken on themselves as he can be, and loses not a moment
in joining him. They meet affectionately, avoid lingering there, and walk
towards the upper inland country.

 

  “I am not going to tread upon forbidden
ground, Helena,” says Neville, when they have walked some distance and are
turning; “you will understand in another moment that I cannot help referring
to—what shall I say?—my infatuation.”

 

  “Had you not better avoid it, Neville?
You know that I can hear nothing.”

 

  “You can hear, my dear, what Mr.
Crisparkle has heard, and heard with approval.”

 

  “Yes; I can hear so much.”

 

  “Well, it is this. I am not only
unsettled and unhappy myself, but I am conscious of unsettling and interfering
with other people. How do I know that, but for my unfortunate presence, you,
and—and—the rest of that former party, our engaging guardian excepted, might be
dining cheerfully in Minor Canon Corner to-morrow? Indeed it probably would be
so. I can see too well that I am not high in the old lady's opinion, and it is
easy to understand what an irksome clog I must be upon the hospitalities of her
orderly house—especially at this time of year—when I must be kept asunder from
this person, and there is such a reason for my not being brought into contact
with that person, and an unfavourable reputation has preceded me with such
another person; and so on. I have put this very gently to Mr. Crisparkle, for
you know his selfdenying ways; but still I have put it. What I have laid much
greater stress upon at the same time is, that I am engaged in a miserable
struggle with myself, and that a little change and absence may enable me to
come through it the better. So, the weather being bright and hard, I am going
on a walking expedition, and intend taking myself out of everybody's way (my
own included, I hope) to-morrow morning.”

 

  “When to come back?”

 

  “In a fortnight.”

 

  “And going quite alone?”

 

  “I am much better without company, even
if there were any one but you to bear me company, my dear Helena.”

 

  “Mr. Crisparkle entirely agrees, you
say?”

 

  “Entirely. I am not sure but that at
first he was inclined to think it rather a moody scheme, and one that might do
a brooding mind harm. But we took a moonlight walk last Monday night, to talk
it over at leisure, and I represented the case to him as it really is. I showed
him that I do want to conquer myself, and that, this evening well got over, it
is surely better that I should be away from here just now, than here. I could
hardly help meeting certain people walking together here, and that could do no
good, and is certainly not the way to forget. A fortnight hence, that chance
will probably be over, for the time; and when it again arises for the last
time, why, I can again go away. Farther, I really do feel hopeful of bracing
exercise and wholesome fatigue. You know that Mr. Crisparkle allows such things
their full weight in the preservation of his own sound mind in his own sound
body, and that his just spirit is not likely to maintain one set of natural
laws for himself and another for me. He yielded to my view of the matter, when
convinced that I was honestly in earnest; and so, with his full consent, I
start to-morrow morning. Early enough to be not only out of the streets, but
out of hearing of the bells, when the good people go to church.”

 

  Helena thinks it over, and thinks well
of it. Mr. Crisparkle doing so, she would do so; but she does originally, out
of her own mind, think well of it, as a healthy project, denoting a sincere
endeavour and an active attempt at self-correction. She is inclined to pity
him, poor fellow, for going away solitary on the great Christmas festival; but
she feels it much more to the purpose to encourage him. And she does encourage
him.

 

  He will write to her?

 

  He will write to her every alternate
day, and tell her all his adventures.

 

  Does he send clothes on in advance of
him?

 

  “My dear Helena, no. Travel like a
pilgrim, with wallet and staff. My wallet—or my knapsack—is packed, and ready
for strapping on; and here is my staff!”

 

  He hands it to her; she makes the same
remark as Mr. Crisparkle, that it is very heavy; and gives it back to him,
asking what wood it is? Iron-wood.

 

  Up to this point he has been extremely
cheerful. Perhaps, the having to carry his case with her, and therefore to
present it in its brightest aspect, has roused his spirits. Perhaps, the having
done so with success, is followed by a revulsion. As the day closes in, and the
city-lights begin to spring up before them, he grows depressed.

 

  “I wish I were not going to this dinner,
Helena.”

 

  “Dear Neville, is it worth while to care
much about it? Think how soon it will be over.”

 

  “How soon it will be over!” he repeats
gloomily. “Yes. But I don't like it.”

 

  There may be a moment's awkwardness, she
cheeringly represents to him, but it can only last a moment. He is quite sure
of himself.

 

  “I wish I felt as sure of everything
else, as I feel of myself,” he answers her.

 

  “How strangely you speak, dear! What do
you mean?”

 

  “Helena, I don't know. I only know that
I don't like it. What a strange dead weight there is in the air!”

 

  She calls his attention to those
copperous clouds beyond the river, and says that the wind is rising. He
scarcely speaks again, until he takes leave of her, at the gate of the Nuns'
House. She does not immediately enter, when they have parted, but remains looking
after him along the street. Twice he passes the gatehouse, reluctant to enter.
At length, the Cathedral clock chiming one quarter, with a rapid turn he
hurries in.

 

  And so HE goes up the postern stair.

 

   

 

  Edwin Drood passes a solitary day.
Something of deeper moment than he had thought, has gone out of his life; and
in the silence of his own chamber he wept for it last night. Though the image
of Miss Landless still hovers in the background of his mind, the pretty little
affectionate creature, so much firmer and wiser than he had supposed, occupies
its stronghold. It is with some misgiving of his own unworthiness that he
thinks of her, and of what they might have been to one another, if he had been
more in earnest some time ago; if he had set a higher value on her; if, instead
of accepting his lot in life as an inheritance of course, he had studied the
right way to its appreciation and enhancement. And still, for all this, and
though there is a sharp heartache in all this, the vanity and caprice of youth
sustain that handsome figure of Miss Landless in the background of his mind.

 

  That was a curious look of Rosa's when
they parted at the gate. Did it mean that she saw below the surface of his
thoughts, and down into their twilight depths? Scarcely that, for it was a look
of astonished and keen inquiry. He decides that he cannot understand it, though
it was remarkably expressive.

 

  As he only waits for Mr. Grewgious now,
and will depart immediately after having seen him, he takes a sauntering leave
of the ancient city and its neighbourhood. He recalls the time when Rosa and he
walked here or there, mere children, full of the dignity of being engaged. Poor
children! he thinks, with a pitying sadness.

 

  Finding that his watch has stopped, he
turns into the jeweller's shop, to have it wound and set. The jeweller is knowing
on the subject of a bracelet, which he begs leave to submit, in a general and
quite aimless way. It would suit (he considers) a young bride, to perfection;
especially if of a rather diminutive style of beauty. Finding the bracelet but
coldly looked at, the jeweller invites attention to a tray of rings for
gentlemen; here is a style of ring, now, he remarks—a very chaste signet—which
gentlemen are much given to purchasing, when changing their condition. A ring
of a very responsible appearance. With the date of their wedding-day engraved
inside, several gentlemen have preferred it to any other kind of memento.

 

  The rings are as coldly viewed as the
bracelet. Edwin tells the tempter that he wears no jewellery but his watch and
chain, which were his father's; and his shirt-pin.

 

  “That I was aware of,” is the jeweller's
reply, “for Mr. Jasper dropped in for a watch-glass the other day, and, in
fact, I showed these articles to him, remarking that if he SHOULD wish to make
a present to a gentleman relative, on any particular occasion—But he said with
a smile that he had an inventory in his mind of all the jewellery his gentleman
relative ever wore; namely, his watch and chain, and his shirt-pin.” Still (the
jeweller considers) that might not apply to all times, though applying to the
present time. “Twenty minutes past two, Mr. Drood, I set your watch at. Let me
recommend you not to let it run down, sir.”

 

  Edwin takes his watch, puts it on, and
goes out, thinking: “Dear old Jack! If I were to make an extra crease in my
neckcloth, he would think it worth noticing!”

 

  He strolls about and about, to pass the
time until the dinner-hour. It somehow happens that Cloisterham seems
reproachful to him today; has fault to find with him, as if he had not used it
well; but is far more pensive with him than angry. His wonted carelessness is
replaced by a wistful looking at, and dwelling upon, all the old landmarks. He
will soon be far away, and may never see them again, he thinks. Poor youth!
Poor youth!

 

  As dusk draws on, he paces the Monks”
Vineyard. He has walked to and fro, full half an hour by the Cathedral chimes,
and it has closed in dark, before he becomes quite aware of a woman crouching
on the ground near a wicket gate in a corner. The gate commands a cross
bye-path, little used in the gloaming; and the figure must have been there all
the time, though he has but gradually and lately made it out.

 

  He strikes into that path, and walks up
to the wicket. By the light of a lamp near it, he sees that the woman is of a
haggard appearance, and that her weazen chin is resting on her hands, and that
her eyes are staring—with an unwinking, blind sort of steadfastness—before her.

 

  Always kindly, but moved to be unusually
kind this evening, and having bestowed kind words on most of the children and
aged people he has met, he at once bends down, and speaks to this woman.

 

  “Are you ill?”

 

  “No, deary,” she answers, without
looking at him, and with no departure from her strange blind stare.

 

  “Are you blind?”

 

  “No, deary.”

 

  “Are you lost, homeless, faint? What is
the matter, that you stay here in the cold so long, without moving?”

 

  By slow and stiff efforts, she appears
to contract her vision until it can rest upon him; and then a curious film
passes over her, and she begins to shake.

 

  He straightens himself, recoils a step,
and looks down at her in a dread amazement; for he seems to know her.

 

  “Good Heaven!” he thinks, next moment.
“Like Jack that night!”

 

  As he looks down at her, she looks up at
him, and whimpers: “My lungs is weakly; my lungs is dreffle bad. Poor me, poor
me, my cough is rattling dry!” and coughs in confirmation horribly.

 

  “Where do you come from?”

 

  “Come from London, deary.” (Her cough
still rending her.)

 

  “Where are you going to?”

 

  “Back to London, deary. I came here,
looking for a needle in a haystack, and I ain't found it. Look'ee, deary; give
me three-andsixpence, and don't you be afeard for me. I'll get back to London
then, and trouble no one. I'm in a business. —Ah, me! It's slack, it's slack,
and times is very bad!—but I can make a shift to live by it.”

 

  “Do you eat opium?”

 

  “Smokes it,” she replies with
difficulty, still racked by her cough. “Give me three-and-sixpence, and I'll
lay it out well, and get back. If you don't give me three-and-sixpence, don't
give me a brass farden. And if you do give me three-and-sixpence, deary, I'll
tell you something.”

 

  He counts the money from his pocket, and
puts it in her hand. She instantly clutches it tight, and rises to her feet
with a croaking laugh of satisfaction.

 

  “Bless ye! Hark'ee, dear genl'mn. What's
your Chris'en name?”

 

  “Edwin.”

 

  “Edwin, Edwin, Edwin,” she repeats,
trailing off into a drowsy repetition of the word; and then asks suddenly: “Is
the short of that name Eddy?”

 

  “It is sometimes called so,” he replies,
with the colour starting to his face.