The Mystery of Edwin Drood (43 page)

 

  In the midst of Cloisterham stands the
Nuns' House: a venerable brick edifice, whose present appellation is doubtless
derived from the legend of its conventual uses. On the trim gate enclosing its
old courtyard is a resplendent brass plate flashing forth the legend: “Seminary
for Young Ladies. Miss Twinkleton.” The housefront is so old and worn, and the
brass plate is so shining and staring, that the general result has reminded
imaginative strangers of a battered old beau with a large modern eye-glass
stuck in his blind eye.

 

  Whether the nuns of yore, being of a
submissive rather than a stiff-necked generation, habitually bent their
contemplative heads to avoid collision with the beams in the low ceilings of
the many chambers of their House; whether they sat in its long low windows
telling their beads for their mortification, instead of making necklaces of
them for their adornment; whether they were ever walled up alive in odd angles
and jutting gables of the building for having some ineradicable leaven of busy
mother Nature in them which has kept the fermenting world alive ever since;
these may be matters of interest to its haunting ghosts (if any), but
constitute no item in Miss Twinkleton's half-yearly accounts. They are neither
of Miss Twinkleton's inclusive regulars, nor of her extras. The lady who
undertakes the poetical department of the establishment at so much (or so
little) a quarter has no pieces in her list of recitals bearing on such
unprofitable questions.

 

  As, in some cases of drunkenness, and in
others of animal magnetism, there are two states of consciousness which never
clash, but each of which pursues its separate course as though it were
continuous instead of broken (thus, if I hide my watch when I am drunk, I must
be drunk again before I can remember where), so Miss Twinkleton has two
distinct and separate phases of being. Every night, the moment the young ladies
have retired to rest, does Miss Twinkleton smarten up her curls a little,
brighten up her eyes a little, and become a sprightlier Miss Twinkleton than
the young ladies have ever seen. Every night, at the same hour, does Miss
Twinkleton resume the topics of the previous night, comprehending the tenderer
scandal of Cloisterham, of which she has no knowledge whatever by day, and
references to a certain season at Tunbridge Wells (airily called by Miss
Twinkleton in this state of her existence “The Wells'), notably the season
wherein a certain finished gentleman (compassionately called by Miss
Twinkleton, in this stage of her existence, “Foolish Mr. Porters') revealed a
homage of the heart, whereof Miss Twinkleton, in her scholastic state of
existence, is as ignorant as a granite pillar. Miss Twinkleton's companion in
both states of existence, and equally adaptable to either, is one Mrs. Tisher:
a deferential widow with a weak back, a chronic sigh, and a suppressed voice,
who looks after the young ladies” wardrobes, and leads them to infer that she has
seen better days. Perhaps this is the reason why it is an article of faith with
the servants, handed down from race to race, that the departed Tisher was a
hairdresser.

 

  The pet pupil of the Nuns' House is Miss
Rosa Bud, of course called Rosebud; wonderfully pretty, wonderfully childish,
wonderfully whimsical. An awkward interest (awkward because romantic) attaches
to Miss Bud in the minds of the young ladies, on account of its being known to
them that a husband has been chosen for her by will and bequest, and that her
guardian is bound down to bestow her on that husband when he comes of age. Miss
Twinkleton, in her seminarial state of existence, has combated the romantic
aspect of this destiny by affecting to shake her head over it behind Miss Bud's
dimpled shoulders, and to brood on the unhappy lot of that doomed little
victim. But with no better effect—possibly some unfelt touch of foolish Mr.
Porters has undermined the endeavour—than to evoke from the young ladies an
unanimous bedchamber cry of “O, what a pretending old thing Miss Twinkleton is,
my dear!”

 

  The Nuns' House is never in such a state
of flutter as when this allotted husband calls to see little Rosebud. (It is
unanimously understood by the young ladies that he is lawfully entitled to this
privilege, and that if Miss Twinkleton disputed it, she would be instantly
taken up and transported.) When his ring at the gatebell is expected, or takes
place, every young lady who can, under any pretence, look out of window, looks
out of window; while every young lady who is “practising,” practises out of
time; and the French class becomes so demoralised that the mark goes round as
briskly as the bottle at a convivial party in the last century.

 

  On the afternoon of the day next after
the dinner of two at the gatehouse, the bell is rung with the usual fluttering
results.

 

  “Mr. Edwin Drood to see Miss Rosa.”

 

  This is the announcement of the
parlour-maid in chief. Miss Twinkleton, with an exemplary air of melancholy on
her, turns to the sacrifice, and says, “You may go down, my dear.” Miss Bud
goes down, followed by all eyes.

 

  Mr. Edwin Drood is waiting in Miss
Twinkleton's own parlour: a dainty room, with nothing more directly scholastic
in it than a terrestrial and a celestial globe. These expressive machines imply
(to parents and guardians) that even when Miss Twinkleton retires into the
bosom of privacy, duty may at any moment compel her to become a sort of Wandering
Jewess, scouring the earth and soaring through the skies in search of knowledge
for her pupils.

 

  The last new maid, who has never seen
the young gentleman Miss Rosa is engaged to, and who is making his acquaintance
between the hinges of the open door, left open for the purpose, stumbles
guiltily down the kitchen stairs, as a charming little apparition, with its
face concealed by a little silk apron thrown over its head, glides into the
parlour.

 

  “O! IT IS so ridiculous!” says the
apparition, stopping and shrinking. “Don't, Eddy!”

 

  “Don't what, Rosa?”

 

  “Don't come any nearer, please. It IS so
absurd.”

 

  “What is absurd, Rosa?”

 

  “The whole thing is. It IS so absurd to
be an engaged orphan and it IS so absurd to have the girls and the servants
scuttling about after one, like mice in the wainscot; and it IS so absurd to be
called upon!”

 

  The apparition appears to have a thumb
in the corner of its mouth while making this complaint.

 

  “You give me an affectionate reception,
Pussy, I must say.”

 

  “Well, I will in a minute, Eddy, but I
can't just yet. How are you?” (very shortly.)

 

  “I am unable to reply that I am much the
better for seeing you, Pussy, inasmuch as I see nothing of you.”

 

  This second remonstrance brings a dark,
bright, pouting eye out from a corner of the apron; but it swiftly becomes
invisible again, as the apparition exclaims: “O good gracious! you have had
half your hair cut off!”

 

  “I should have done better to have had
my head cut off, I think,” says Edwin, rumpling the hair in question, with a
fierce glance at the looking-glass, and giving an impatient stamp. “Shall I
go?”

 

  “No; you needn't go just yet, Eddy. The
girls would all be asking questions why you went.”

 

  “Once for all, Rosa, will you uncover
that ridiculous little head of yours and give me a welcome?”

 

  The apron is pulled off the childish
head, as its wearer replies: “You're very welcome, Eddy. There! I'm sure that's
nice. Shake hands. No, I can't kiss you, because I've got an acidulated drop in
my mouth.”

 

  “Are you at all glad to see me, Pussy?”

 

  “O, yes, I'm dreadfully glad. —Go and
sit down. —Miss Twinkleton.”

 

  It is the custom of that excellent lady
when these visits occur, to appear every three minutes, either in her own
person or in that of Mrs. Tisher, and lay an offering on the shrine of
Propriety by affecting to look for some desiderated article. On the present occasion
Miss Twinkleton, gracefully gliding in and out, says in passing: “How do you
do, Mr. Drood? Very glad indeed to have the pleasure. Pray excuse me. Tweezers.
Thank you!”

 

  “I got the gloves last evening, Eddy,
and I like them very much. They are beauties.”

 

  “Well, that's something,” the affianced
replies, half grumbling. “The smallest encouragement thankfully received. And
how did you pass your birthday, Pussy?”

 

  “Delightfully! Everybody gave me a
present. And we had a feast. And we had a ball at night.”

 

  “A feast and a ball, eh? These occasions
seem to go off tolerably well without me, Pussy.”

 

  “De-lightfully!” cries Rosa, in a quite
spontaneous manner, and without the least pretence of reserve.

 

  “Hah! And what was the feast?”

 

  “Tarts, oranges, jellies, and shrimps.”

 

  “Any partners at the ball?”

 

  “We danced with one another, of course,
sir. But some of the girls made game to be their brothers. It WAS so droll!”

 

  “Did anybody make game to be—”

 

  “To be you? O dear yes!” cries Rosa,
laughing with great enjoyment. “That was the first thing done.”

 

  “I hope she did it pretty well,” says
Edwin rather doubtfully.

 

  “O, it was excellent!—I wouldn't dance
with you, you know.”

 

  Edwin scarcely seems to see the force of
this; begs to know if he may take the liberty to ask why?

 

  “Because I was so tired of you,” returns
Rosa. But she quickly adds, and pleadingly too, seeing displeasure in his face:
“Dear Eddy, you were just as tired of me, you know.”

 

  “Did I say so, Rosa?”

 

  “Say so! Do you ever say so? No, you
only showed it. O, she did it so well!” cries Rosa, in a sudden ecstasy with
her counterfeit betrothed.

 

  “It strikes me that she must be a
devilish impudent girl,” says Edwin Drood. “And so, Pussy, you have passed your
last birthday in this old house.”

 

  “Ah, yes!” Rosa clasps her hands, looks
down with a sigh, and shakes her head.

 

  “You seem to be sorry, Rosa.”

 

  “I am sorry for the poor old place.
Somehow, I feel as if it would miss me, when I am gone so far away, so young.”

 

  “Perhaps we had better stop short,
Rosa?”

 

  She looks up at him with a swift bright
look; next moment shakes her head, sighs, and looks down again.

 

  “That is to say, is it, Pussy, that we
are both resigned?”

 

  She nods her head again, and after a
short silence, quaintly bursts out with: “You know we must be married, and
married from here, Eddy, or the poor girls will be so dreadfully disappointed!”

 

  For the moment there is more of
compassion, both for her and for himself, in her affianced husband's face, than
there is of love. He checks the look, and asks: “Shall I take you out for a
walk, Rosa dear?”

 

  Rosa dear does not seem at all clear on
this point, until her face, which has been comically reflective, brightens. “O,
yes, Eddy; let us go for a walk! And I tell you what we'll do. You shall
pretend that you are engaged to somebody else, and I'll pretend that I am not
engaged to anybody, and then we shan't quarrel.”

 

  “Do you think that will prevent our
falling out, Rosa?”

 

  “I know it will. Hush! Pretend to look
out of window—Mrs. Tisher!”

 

  Through a fortuitous concourse of
accidents, the matronly Tisher heaves in sight, says, in rustling through the
room like the legendary ghost of a dowager in silken skirts: “I hope I see Mr.
Drood well; though I needn't ask, if I may judge from his complexion. I trust I
disturb no one; but there WAS a paper-knife—O, thank you, I am sure!” and disappears
with her prize.

 

  “One other thing you must do, Eddy, to
oblige me,” says Rosebud. “The moment we get into the street, you must put me
outside, and keep close to the house yourself—squeeze and graze yourself
against it.”

 

  “By all means, Rosa, if you wish it.
Might I ask why?”

 

  “O! because I don't want the girls to
see you.”

 

  “It's a fine day; but would you like me
to carry an umbrella up?”

 

  “Don't be foolish, sir. You haven't got
polished leather boots on,” pouting, with one shoulder raised.

 

  “Perhaps that might escape the notice of
the girls, even if they did see me,” remarks Edwin, looking down at his boots
with a sudden distaste for them.

 

  “Nothing escapes their notice, sir. And
then I know what would happen. Some of them would begin reflecting on me by
saying (for THEY are free) that they never will on any account engage
themselves to lovers without polished leather boots. Hark! Miss Twinkleton.
I'll ask for leave.”

 

  That discreet lady being indeed heard
without, inquiring of nobody in a blandly conversational tone as she advances:
“Eh? Indeed! Are you quite sure you saw my mother-of-pearl button-holder on the
work-table in my room?” is at once solicited for walking leave, and graciously
accords it. And soon the young couple go out of the Nuns' House, taking all
precautions against the discovery of the so vitally defective boots of Mr.
Edwin Drood: precautions, let us hope, effective for the peace of Mrs. Edwin
Drood that is to be.

 

  “Which way shall we take, Rosa?”

 

  Rosa replies: “I want to go to the
Lumps-of-Delight shop.”

 

  “To the—?”

 

  “A Turkish sweetmeat, sir. My gracious
me, don't you understand anything? Call yourself an Engineer, and not know
THAT?”

 

  “Why, how should I know it, Rosa?”

 

  “Because I am very fond of them. But O!
I forgot what we are to pretend. No, you needn't know anything about them;
never mind.”