The Mystery of Edwin Drood by Charles Dickens, Matthew Pearl Page A

over to this man; for no better reason that I know of, than his being a
friend or connexion of his, whose name was always in print and catching his
attention.”
     
  “That was lately, I suppose?”
     
  “Quite lately, sir. This stepfather of ours
was a cruel brute as well as a grinding one. It is well he died when he did, or
I might have killed him.”
     
  Mr. Crisparkle stopped short in the
moonlight and looked at his hopeful pupil in consternation.
     
  “I surprise you, sir?” he said, with a
quick change to a submissive manner.
     
  “You shock me; unspeakably shock me.”
     
  The pupil hung his head for a little
while, as they walked on, and then said: “You never saw him beat your sister. I
have seen him beat mine, more than once or twice, and I never forgot it.”
     
  “Nothing,” said Mr. Crisparkle, “not
even a beloved and beautiful sister's tears under dastardly ill-usage;” he
became less severe, in spite of himself, as his indignation rose; “could
justify those horrible expressions that you used.”
     
  “I am sorry I used them, and especially
to you, sir. I beg to recall them. But permit me to set you right on one point.
You spoke of my sister's tears. My sister would have let him tear her to
pieces, before she would have let him believe that he could make her shed a
tear.”
     
  Mr. Crisparkle reviewed those mental
notes of his, and was neither at all surprised to hear it, nor at all disposed
to question it.
     
  “Perhaps you will think it strange,
sir,”—this was said in a hesitating voice—“that I should so soon ask you to
allow me to confide in you, and to have the kindness to hear a word or two from
me in my defence?”
     
  “Defence?” Mr. Crisparkle repeated. “You
are not on your defence, Mr. Neville.”
     
  “I think I am, sir. At least I know I
should be, if you were better acquainted with my character.”
     
  “Well, Mr. Neville,” was the rejoinder.
“What if you leave me to find it out?”
     
  “Since it is your pleasure, sir,”
answered the young man, with a quick change in his manner to sullen
disappointment: “since it is your pleasure to check me in my impulse, I must
submit.”
     
  There was that in the tone of this short
speech which made the conscientious man to whom it was addressed uneasy. It
hinted to him that he might, without meaning it, turn aside a trustfulness
beneficial to a mis-shapen young mind and perhaps to his own power of directing
and improving it. They were within sight of the lights in his windows, and he
stopped.
     
  “Let us turn back and take a turn or two
up and down, Mr. Neville, or you may not have time to finish what you wish to
say to me. You are hasty in thinking that I mean to check you. Quite the
contrary. I invite your confidence.”
     
  “You have invited it, sir, without
knowing it, ever since I came here. I say “ever since,” as if I had been here a
week. The truth is, we came here (my sister and I) to quarrel with you, and
affront you, and break away again.”
     
  “Really?” said Mr. Crisparkle, at a dead
loss for anything else to say.
     
  “You see, we could not know what you
were beforehand, sir; could we?”
     
  “Clearly not,” said Mr. Crisparkle.
     
  “And having liked no one else with whom
we have ever been brought into contact, we had made up our minds not to like
you.”
     
  “Really?” said Mr. Crisparkle again.
     
  “But we do like you, sir, and we see an
unmistakable difference between your house and your reception of us, and
anything else we have ever known. This—and my happening to be alone with
you—and everything around us seeming so quiet and peaceful after Mr.
Honeythunder's departure—and Cloisterham being so old and grave and beautiful,
with the moon shining on it—these things inclined me to open my heart.”
     
  “I quite understand, Mr. Neville. And it
is salutary to listen to such