CHAPTER III--THE NUNS' HOUSE
For sufficient reasons, which this narrative will itself unfold as itadvances, a fictitious name must be bestowed upon the old Cathedral town.Let it stand in these pages as Cloisterham. It was once possibly knownto the Druids by another name, and certainly to the Romans by another,and to the Saxons by another, and to the Normans by another; and a namemore or less in the course of many centuries can be of little moment toits dusty chronicles.
An ancient city, Cloisterham, and no meet dwelling-place for any one withhankerings after the noisy world. A monotonous, silent city, deriving anearthy flavour throughout from its Cathedral crypt, and so abounding investiges of monastic graves, that the Cloisterham children grow smallsalad in the dust of abbots and abbesses, and make dirt-pies of nuns andfriars; while every ploughman in its outlying fields renders to oncepuissant Lord Treasurers, Archbishops, Bishops, and such-like, theattention which the Ogre in the story-book desired to render to hisunbidden visitor, and grinds their bones to make his bread.
A drowsy city, Cloisterham, whose inhabitants seem to suppose, with aninconsistency more strange than rare, that all its changes lie behind it,and that there are no more to come. A queer moral to derive fromantiquity, yet older than any traceable antiquity. So silent are thestreets of Cloisterham (though prone to echo on the smallestprovocation), that of a summer-day the sunblinds of its shops scarce dareto flap in the south wind; while the sun-browned tramps, who pass alongand stare, quicken their limp a little, that they may the sooner getbeyond the confines of its oppressive respectability. This is a feat notdifficult of achievement, seeing that the streets of Cloisterham city arelittle more than one narrow street by which you get into it and get outof it: the rest being mostly disappointing yards with pumps in them andno thoroughfare--exception made of the Cathedral-close, and a pavedQuaker settlement, in colour and general confirmation very like aQuakeress's bonnet, up in a shady corner.
In a word, a city of another and a bygone time is Cloisterham, with itshoarse Cathedral-bell, its hoarse rooks hovering about the Cathedraltower, its hoarser and less distinct rooks in the stalls far beneath.Fragments of old wall, saint's chapel, chapter-house, convent andmonastery, have got incongruously or obstructively built into many of itshouses and gardens, much as kindred jumbled notions have becomeincorporated into many of its citizens' minds. All things in it are ofthe past. Even its single pawnbroker takes in no pledges, nor has he fora long time, but offers vainly an unredeemed stock for sale, of which thecostlier articles are dim and pale old watches apparently in a slowperspiration, tarnished sugar-tongs with ineffectual legs, and oddvolumes of dismal books. The most abundant and the most agreeableevidences of progressing life in Cloisterham are the evidences ofvegetable life in many gardens; even its drooping and despondent littletheatre has its poor strip of garden, receiving the foul fiend, when heducks from its stage into the infernal regions, among scarlet-beans oroyster-shells, according to the season of the year.
In the midst of Cloisterham stands the Nuns' House: a venerable brickedifice, whose present appellation is doubtless derived from the legendof its conventual uses. On the trim gate enclosing its old courtyard isa resplendent brass plate flashing forth the legend: 'Seminary for YoungLadies. Miss Twinkleton.' The house-front is so old and worn, and thebrass plate is so shining and staring, that the general result hasreminded imaginative strangers of a battered old beau with a large moderneye-glass stuck in his blind eye.
Whether the nuns of yore, being of a submissive rather than astiff-necked generation, habitually bent their contemplative heads toavoid collision with the beams in the low ceilings of the many chambersof their House; whether they sat in its long low windows telling theirbeads for their mortification, instead of making necklaces of them fortheir adornment; whether they were ever walled up alive in odd angles andjutting gables of the building for having some ineradicable leaven ofbusy mother Nature in them which has kept the fermenting world alive eversince; these may be matters of interest to its haunting ghosts (if any),but constitute no item in Miss Twinkleton's half-yearly accounts. Theyare neither of Miss Twinkleton's inclusive regulars, nor of her extras.The lady who undertakes the poetical department of the establishment atso much (or so little) a quarter has no pieces in her list of recitalsbearing 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 ofwhich pursues its separate course as though it were continuous instead ofbroken (thus, if I hide my watch when I am drunk, I must be drunk againbefore I can remember where), so Miss Twinkleton has two distinct andseparate phases of being. Every night, the moment the young ladies haveretired to rest, does Miss Twinkleton smarten up her curls a little,brighten up her eyes a little, and become a sprightlier Miss Twinkletonthan 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 noknowledge whatever by day, and references to a certain season atTunbridge Wells (airily called by Miss Twinkleton in this state of herexistence 'The Wells'), notably the season wherein a certain finishedgentleman (compassionately called by Miss Twinkleton, in this stage ofher existence, 'Foolish Mr. Porters') revealed a homage of the heart,whereof Miss Twinkleton, in her scholastic state of existence, is asignorant as a granite pillar. Miss Twinkleton's companion in both statesof existence, and equally adaptable to either, is one Mrs. Tisher: adeferential widow with a weak back, a chronic sigh, and a suppressedvoice, who looks after the young ladies' wardrobes, and leads them toinfer that she has seen better days. Perhaps this is the reason why itis 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 calledRosebud; wonderfully pretty, wonderfully childish, wonderfully whimsical.An awkward interest (awkward because romantic) attaches to Miss Bud inthe minds of the young ladies, on account of its being known to them thata husband has been chosen for her by will and bequest, and that herguardian is bound down to bestow her on that husband when he comes ofage. Miss Twinkleton, in her seminarial state of existence, has combatedthe romantic aspect of this destiny by affecting to shake her head overit behind Miss Bud's dimpled shoulders, and to brood on the unhappy lotof that doomed little victim. But with no better effect--possibly someunfelt touch of foolish Mr. Porters has undermined the endeavour--than toevoke from the young ladies an unanimous bedchamber cry of 'O, what apretending old thing Miss Twinkleton is, my dear!'
The Nuns' House is never in such a state of flutter as when this allottedhusband calls to see little Rosebud. (It is unanimously understood bythe young ladies that he is lawfully entitled to this privilege, and thatif Miss Twinkleton disputed it, she would be instantly taken up andtransported.) When his ring at the gate-bell is expected, or takesplace, 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 thatthe mark goes round as briskly as the bottle at a convivial party in thelast century.
On the afternoon of the day next after the dinner of two at thegatehouse, 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, andsays, 'You may go down, my dear.' Miss Bud goes down, followed by alleyes.
Mr. Edwin Drood is waiting in Miss Twinkleton's own parlour: a daintyroom, with nothing more directly scholastic in it than a terrestrial anda celestial globe. These expressive machines imply (to parents andguardians) that even when Miss Twinkleton retires into the bosom ofprivacy, duty may at any moment compel her to become a sort of WanderingJewess, scouring the earth and soaring through the skies in search ofknowledge for her pup
ils.
The last new maid, who has never seen the young gentleman Miss Rosa isengaged to, and who is making his acquaintance between the hinges of theopen door, left open for the purpose, stumbles guiltily down the kitchenstairs, as a charming little apparition, with its face concealed by alittle 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 afterone, 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 whilemaking 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 acorner of the apron; but it swiftly becomes invisible again, as theapparition exclaims: 'O good gracious! you have had half your hair cutoff!'
'I should have done better to have had my head cut off, I think,' saysEdwin, rumpling the hair in question, with a fierce glance at thelooking-glass, and giving an impatient stamp. 'Shall I go?'
'No; you needn't go just yet, Eddy. The girls would all be askingquestions why you went.'
'Once for all, Rosa, will you uncover that ridiculous little head ofyours and give me a welcome?'
The apron is pulled off the childish head, as its wearer replies: 'You'revery welcome, Eddy. There! I'm sure that's nice. Shake hands. No, Ican'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, toappear 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 tolook for some desiderated article. On the present occasion MissTwinkleton, gracefully gliding in and out, says in passing: 'How do youdo, 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. Theyare beauties.'
'Well, that's something,' the affianced replies, half grumbling. 'Thesmallest encouragement thankfully received. And how did you pass yourbirthday, Pussy?'
'Delightfully! Everybody gave me a present. And we had a feast. And wehad a ball at night.'
'A feast and a ball, eh? These occasions seem to go off tolerably wellwithout me, Pussy.'
'De-lightfully!' cries Rosa, in a quite spontaneous manner, and withoutthe 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 madegame 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 maytake the liberty to ask why?
'Because I was so tired of you,' returns Rosa. But she quickly adds, andpleadingly too, seeing displeasure in his face: 'Dear Eddy, you were justas 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 sowell!' cries Rosa, in a sudden ecstasy with her counterfeit betrothed.
'It strikes me that she must be a devilish impudent girl,' says EdwinDrood. 'And so, Pussy, you have passed your last birthday in this oldhouse.'
'Ah, yes!' Rosa clasps her hands, looks down with a sigh, and shakes herhead.
'You seem to be sorry, Rosa.'
'I am sorry for the poor old place. Somehow, I feel as if it would missme, 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 herhead, 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 outwith: 'You know we must be married, and married from here, Eddy, or thepoor 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 thelook, 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, whichhas been comically reflective, brightens. 'O, yes, Eddy; let us go for awalk! And I tell you what we'll do. You shall pretend that you areengaged to somebody else, and I'll pretend that I am not engaged toanybody, 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 heavesin sight, says, in rustling through the room like the legendary ghost ofa dowager in silken skirts: 'I hope I see Mr. Drood well; though Ineedn't ask, if I may judge from his complexion. I trust I disturb noone; but there _was_ a paper-knife--O, thank you, I am sure!' anddisappears with her prize.
'One other thing you must do, Eddy, to oblige me,' says Rosebud. 'Themoment we get into the street, you must put me outside, and keep close tothe 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 seeme,' remarks Edwin, looking down at his boots with a sudden distaste forthem.
'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 withoutpolished leather boots. Hark! Miss Twinkleton. I'll ask for leave.'
That discreet lady being indeed heard without, inquiring of nobody in ablandly conversational tone as she advances: 'Eh? Indeed! Are you quitesure you saw my mother-of-pearl button-holder on the work-table in myroom?' is at once solicited for walking leave, and graciously accords it.And soon the young couple go out of the Nuns' House, taking allprecautions against the discovery of the so vitally defective boots ofMr. Edwin Drood: precautions, let us hope, effective for the peace ofMrs. 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 understandanything? 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.'
So he is gloomily borne off to the Lumps-of-Delight shop, where Rosamakes her purchase, and, after offering some to him (which he ratherindignantly declines), begins to partake of it with great zest:previously taking off and rolling up a pair of little pink gloves, likerose-leaves, and occasionally putt
ing her little pink fingers to her rosylips, to cleanse them from the Dust of Delight that comes off the Lumps.
'Now, be a good-tempered Eddy, and pretend. And so you are engaged?'
'And so I am engaged.'
'Is she nice?'
'Charming.'
'Tall?'
'Immensely tall!' Rosa being short.
'Must be gawky, I should think,' is Rosa's quiet commentary.
'I beg your pardon; not at all,' contradiction rising in him.
'What is termed a fine woman; a splendid woman.'
'Big nose, no doubt,' is the quiet commentary again.
'Not a little one, certainly,' is the quick reply, (Rosa's being a littleone.)
'Long pale nose, with a red knob in the middle. I know the sort ofnose,' says Rosa, with a satisfied nod, and tranquilly enjoying theLumps.
'You _don't_ know the sort of nose, Rosa,' with some warmth; 'becauseit's nothing of the kind.'
'Not a pale nose, Eddy?'
'No.' Determined not to assent.
'A red nose? O! I don't like red noses. However; to be sure she canalways powder it.'
'She would scorn to powder it,' says Edwin, becoming heated.
'Would she? What a stupid thing she must be! Is she stupid ineverything?'
'No; in nothing.'
After a pause, in which the whimsically wicked face has not beenunobservant of him, Rosa says:
'And this most sensible of creatures likes the idea of being carried offto Egypt; does she, Eddy?'
'Yes. She takes a sensible interest in triumphs of engineering skill:especially when they are to change the whole condition of an undevelopedcountry.'
'Lor!' says Rosa, shrugging her shoulders, with a little laugh of wonder.
'Do you object,' Edwin inquires, with a majestic turn of his eyesdownward upon the fairy figure: 'do you object, Rosa, to her feeling thatinterest?'
'Object? my dear Eddy! But really, doesn't she hate boilers and things?'
'I can answer for her not being so idiotic as to hate Boilers,' hereturns with angry emphasis; 'though I cannot answer for her views aboutThings; really not understanding what Things are meant.'
'But don't she hate Arabs, and Turks, and Fellahs, and people?'
'Certainly not.' Very firmly.
'At least she _must_ hate the Pyramids? Come, Eddy?'
'Why should she be such a little--tall, I mean--goose, as to hate thePyramids, Rosa?'
'Ah! you should hear Miss Twinkleton,' often nodding her head, and muchenjoying the Lumps, 'bore about them, and then you wouldn't ask.Tiresome old burying-grounds! Isises, and Ibises, and Cheopses, andPharaohses; who cares about them? And then there was Belzoni, orsomebody, dragged out by the legs, half-choked with bats and dust. Allthe girls say: Serve him right, and hope it hurt him, and wish he hadbeen quite choked.'
The two youthful figures, side by side, but not now arm-in-arm, wanderdiscontentedly about the old Close; and each sometimes stops and slowlyimprints a deeper footstep in the fallen leaves.
'Well!' says Edwin, after a lengthy silence. 'According to custom. Wecan't get on, Rosa.'
Rosa tosses her head, and says she don't want to get on.
'That's a pretty sentiment, Rosa, considering.'
'Considering what?'
'If I say what, you'll go wrong again.'
'_You'll_ go wrong, you mean, Eddy. Don't be ungenerous.'
'Ungenerous! I like that!'
'Then I _don't_ like that, and so I tell you plainly,' Rosa pouts.
'Now, Rosa, I put it to you. Who disparaged my profession, mydestination--'
'You are not going to be buried in the Pyramids, I hope?' she interrupts,arching her delicate eyebrows. 'You never said you were. If you are,why haven't you mentioned it to me? I can't find out your plans byinstinct.'
'Now, Rosa, you know very well what I mean, my dear.'
'Well then, why did you begin with your detestable red-nosed giantesses?And she would, she would, she would, she would, she WOULD powder it!'cries Rosa, in a little burst of comical contradictory spleen.
'Somehow or other, I never can come right in these discussions,' saysEdwin, sighing and becoming resigned.
'How is it possible, sir, that you ever can come right when you're alwayswrong? And as to Belzoni, I suppose he's dead;--I'm sure I hope heis--and how can his legs or his chokes concern you?'
'It is nearly time for your return, Rosa. We have not had a very happywalk, have we?'
'A happy walk? A detestably unhappy walk, sir. If I go up-stairs themoment I get in and cry till I can't take my dancing lesson, you areresponsible, mind!'
'Let us be friends, Rosa.'
'Ah!' cries Rosa, shaking her head and bursting into real tears, 'I wishwe _could_ be friends! It's because we can't be friends, that we try oneanother so. I am a young little thing, Eddy, to have an old heartache;but I really, really have, sometimes. Don't be angry. I know you haveone yourself too often. We should both of us have done better, if Whatis to be had been left What might have been. I am quite a little seriousthing now, and not teasing you. Let each of us forbear, this one time,on our own account, and on the other's!'
Disarmed by this glimpse of a woman's nature in the spoilt child, thoughfor an instant disposed to resent it as seeming to involve the enforcedinfliction of himself upon her, Edwin Drood stands watching her as shechildishly cries and sobs, with both hands to the handkerchief at hereyes, and then--she becoming more composed, and indeed beginning in heryoung inconstancy to laugh at herself for having been so moved--leads herto a seat hard by, under the elm-trees.
[Picture: Under the trees]
'One clear word of understanding, Pussy dear. I am not clever out of myown line--now I come to think of it, I don't know that I am particularlyclever in it--but I want to do right. There is not--there may be--Ireally don't see my way to what I want to say, but I must say it beforewe part--there is not any other young--'
'O no, Eddy! It's generous of you to ask me; but no, no, no!'
They have come very near to the Cathedral windows, and at this moment theorgan and the choir sound out sublimely. As they sit listening to thesolemn swell, the confidence of last night rises in young Edwin Drood'smind, and he thinks how unlike this music is to that discordance.
'I fancy I can distinguish Jack's voice,' is his remark in a low tone inconnection with the train of thought.
'Take me back at once, please,' urges his Affianced, quickly laying herlight hand upon his wrist. 'They will all be coming out directly; let usget away. O, what a resounding chord! But don't let us stop to listento it; let us get away!'
Her hurry is over as soon as they have passed out of the Close. They goarm-in-arm now, gravely and deliberately enough, along the oldHigh-street, to the Nuns' House. At the gate, the street being withinsight empty, Edwin bends down his face to Rosebud's.
She remonstrates, laughing, and is a childish schoolgirl again.
'Eddy, no! I'm too sticky to be kissed. But give me your hand, and I'llblow a kiss into that.'
He does so. She breathes a light breath into it and asks, retaining itand looking into it:--
'Now say, what do you see?'
'See, Rosa?'
'Why, I thought you Egyptian boys could look into a hand and see allsorts of phantoms. Can't you see a happy Future?'
For certain, neither of them sees a happy Present, as the gate opens andcloses, and one goes in, and the other goes away.