The Mystery of Edwin Drood
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 gate-bell 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