“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, tonight?”
“This was all; except that tonight 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 anyone. Eddy is devoted to him. But you said tonight 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!
VIII
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 doorplate, 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, tomorrow. 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 have 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 tonight. You belong, as it were, to the place, and in a manner represent it towards a stranger. Mr. Neville is a stranger, and
