He has
already spoken feelingly to you, he has already spoken feelingly to
me, and he'll put the whole thing feelingly to Jack. That's it! I
am not a coward, Rosa, but to tell you a secret, I am a little
afraid of Jack.'
'No, no! you are not afraid of him!' cried Rosa, turning white, and
clasping her hands.
'Why, sister Rosa, sister Rosa, what do you see from the turret?'
said Edwin, rallying her. 'My dear girl!'
'You frightened me.'
'Most unintentionally, but I am as sorry as if I had meant to do
it. Could you possibly suppose for a moment, from any loose way of
speaking of mine, that I was literally afraid of the dear fond
fellow? What I mean is, that he is subject to a kind of paroxysm,
or fit--I saw him in it once--and I don't know but that so great a
surprise, coming upon him direct from me whom he is so wrapped up
in, might bring it on perhaps. Which--and this is the secret I was
going to tell you--is another reason for your guardian's making the
communication. He is so steady, precise, and exact, that he will
talk Jack's thoughts into shape, in no time: whereas with me Jack
is always impulsive and hurried, and, I may say, almost womanish.'
Rosa seemed convinced. Perhaps from her own very different point
of view of 'Jack,' she felt comforted and protected by the
interposition of Mr. Grewgious between herself and him.
And now, Edwin Drood's right hand closed again upon the ring in its
little case, and again was checked by the consideration: 'It is
certain, now, that I am to give it back to him; then why should I
tell her of it?' That pretty sympathetic nature which could be so
sorry for him in the blight of their childish hopes of happiness
together, and could so quietly find itself alone in a new world to
weave fresh wreaths of such flowers as it might prove to bear, the
old world's flowers being withered, would be grieved by those
sorrowful jewels; and to what purpose? Why should it be? They
were but a sign of broken joys and baseless projects; in their very
beauty they were (as the unlikeliest of men had said) almost a
cruel satire on the loves, hopes, plans, of humanity, which are
able to forecast nothing, and are so much brittle dust.
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