The Mystery of Edwin Drood | Page 9

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