The Mystery of Edwin Drood by Charles Dickens, Matthew Pearl

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 had 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 to-night.
You belong, as it were, to the place, and in a manner represent it towards a
stranger. Mr. Neville is a stranger, and you should respect the obligations of
hospitality. And, Mr.