The Mystery of Edwin Drood (55 page)

 

  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?”

 

  “Who but you, sir?” replied Helena.
“What is my influence, or my weak wisdom, compared with yours!”

 

  “You have the wisdom of Love,” returned
the Minor Canon, “and it was the highest wisdom ever known upon this earth,
remember. As to mine—but the less said of that commonplace commodity the
better. Good night!”

 

  She took the hand he offered her, and
gratefully and almost reverently raised it to her lips.

 

  “Tut!” said the Minor Canon softly, “I
am much overpaid!” and turned away.

 

  Retracing his steps towards the
Cathedral Close, he tried, as he went along in the dark, to think out the best
means of bringing to pass what he had promised to effect, and what must somehow
be done. “I shall probably be asked to marry them,” he reflected, “and I would
they were married and gone! But this presses first.”

 

  He debated principally whether he should
write to young Drood, or whether he should speak to Jasper. The consciousness
of being popular with the whole Cathedral establishment inclined him to the
latter course, and the well-timed sight of the lighted gatehouse decided him to
take it. “I will strike while the iron is hot,” he said, “and see him now.”

 

  Jasper was lying asleep on a couch
before the fire, when, having ascended the postern-stair, and received no
answer to his knock at the door, Mr. Crisparkle gently turned the handle and
looked in. Long afterwards he had cause to remember how Jasper sprang from the
couch in a delirious state between sleeping and waking, and crying out: “What
is the matter? Who did it?”

 

  “It is only I, Jasper. I am sorry to
have disturbed you.”

 

  The glare of his eyes settled down into
a look of recognition, and he moved a chair or two, to make a way to the
fireside.

 

  “I was dreaming at a great rate, and am
glad to be disturbed from an indigestive after-dinner sleep. Not to mention
that you are always welcome.”

 

  “Thank you. I am not confident,”
returned Mr. Crisparkle, as he sat himself down in the easy-chair placed for
him, “that my subject will at first sight be quite as welcome as myself; but I
am a minister of peace, and I pursue my subject in the interests of peace. In a
word, Jasper, I want to establish peace between these two young fellows.”

 

  A very perplexed expression took hold of
Mr. Jasper's face; a very perplexing expression too, for Mr. Crisparkle could
make nothing of it.

 

  “How?” was Jasper's inquiry, in a low
and slow voice, after a silence.

 

  “For the “How” I come to you. I want to
ask you to do me the great favour and service of interposing with your nephew
(I have already interposed with Mr. Neville), and getting him to write you a
short note, in his lively way, saying that he is willing to shake hands. I know
what a good-natured fellow he is, and what influence you have with him. And without
in the least defending Mr. Neville, we must all admit that he was bitterly
stung.”

 

  Jasper turned that perplexed face
towards the fire. Mr. Crisparkle continuing to observe it, found it even more
perplexing than before, inasmuch as it seemed to denote (which could hardly be)
some close internal calculation.

 

  “I know that you are not prepossessed in
Mr. Neville's favour,” the Minor Canon was going on, when Jasper stopped him:

 

  “You have cause to say so. I am not,
indeed.”

 

  “Undoubtedly; and I admit his lamentable
violence of temper, though I hope he and I will get the better of it between
us. But I have exacted a very solemn promise from him as to his future
demeanour towards your nephew, if you do kindly interpose; and I am sure he
will keep it.”

 

  “You are always responsible and
trustworthy, Mr. Crisparkle. Do you really feel sure that you can answer for
him so confidently?”

 

  “I do.”

 

  The perplexed and perplexing look
vanished.

 

  “Then you relieve my mind of a great
dread, and a heavy weight,” said Jasper; “I will do it.”

 

  Mr. Crisparkle, delighted by the
swiftness and completeness of his success, acknowledged it in the handsomest
terms.

 

  “I will do it,” repeated Jasper, “for
the comfort of having your guarantee against my vague and unfounded fears. You
will laugh—but do you keep a Diary?”

 

  “A line for a day; not more.”

 

  “A line for a day would be quite as much
as my uneventful life would need, Heaven knows,” said Jasper, taking a book
from a desk, “but that my Diary is, in fact, a Diary of Ned's life too. You
will laugh at this entry; you will guess when it was made:

 

   

 

  “Past midnight. —After what I have just
now seen, I have a morbid dread upon me of some horrible consequences resulting
to my dear boy, that I cannot reason with or in any way contend against. All my
efforts are vain. The demoniacal passion of this Neville Landless, his strength
in his fury, and his savage rage for the destruction of its object, appal me.
So profound is the impression, that twice since I have gone into my dear boy's
room, to assure myself of his sleeping safely, and not lying dead in his
blood.”

 

   

 

  “Here is another entry next morning:

 

   

 

  “Ned up and away. Light-hearted and
unsuspicious as ever. He laughed when I cautioned him, and said he was as good
a man as Neville Landless any day. I told him that might be, but he was not as
bad a man. He continued to make light of it, but I travelled with him as far as
I could, and left him most unwillingly. I am unable to shake off these dark
intangible presentiments of evil—if feelings founded upon staring facts are to
be so called.”

 

   

 

  “Again and again,” said Jasper, in
conclusion, twirling the leaves of the book before putting it by, “I have
relapsed into these moods, as other entries show. But I have now your assurance
at my back, and shall put it in my book, and make it an antidote to my black
humours.”