No Name

by Wilkie Collins

  She drew her arm away; hastily kissed her youngest daughter on the forehead; and at once left the room again. Even Magdalen saw that her mother was not to be coaxed into hearing or answering any more questions.

  The morning wore on, and nothing was seen of Mr Vanstone. With the reckless curiosity of her age and character, Magdalen, in defiance of Miss Garth’s prohibition and her sister’s remonstrances, determined to go to the study, and look for her father there. When she tried the door, it was locked on the inside. She said, ‘It’s only me, papa;’ and waited for the answer. ‘I’m busy now, my dear,’ was the answer. ‘Don’t disturb me.’

  Mrs Vanstone was, in another way, equally inaccessible. She remained in her own room, with the female servants about her, immersed in endless preparations for the approaching departure. The servants, little used in that family to sudden resolutions and unexpected orders, were awkward and confused in obeying directions. They ran from room to room unnecessarily, and lost time and patience in jostling each other on the stairs. If a stranger had entered the house, that day, he might have imagined that an unexpected disaster had happened in it, instead of an unexpected necessity for a journey to London. Nothing proceeded in its ordinary routine. Magdalen, who was accustomed to pass the morning at the piano, wandered restlessly about the staircases and passages, and in and out of doors when there were glimpses of fine weather. Norah, whose fondness for reading had passed into a family proverb, took up book after book from table and shelf, and laid them down again, in despair of fixing her attention. Even Miss Garth felt the all-pervading influence of the household disorganization, and sat alone by the morning-room fire, with her head shaking ominously and her work laid aside.

  ‘Family affairs?’ thought Miss Garth, pondering over Mrs Vanstone’s vague explanatory words. ‘I have lived twelve years at Combe-Raven; and these are the first family affairs which have got between the parents and the children, in all my experience. What does it mean? Change? I suppose I’m getting old. I don’t like change.’

  Chapter Two

  At ten o’clock the next morning, Norah and Magdalen stood alone in the hall at Combe-Raven, watching the departure of the carriage which took their father and mother to the London train.

  Up to the last moment, both the sisters had hoped for some explanation of that mysterious ‘family business’ to which Mrs Vanstone had so briefly alluded on the previous day. No such explanation had been offered. Even the agitation of the leave-taking, under circumstances entirely new in the home-experience of the parents and children, had not shaken the resolute discretion of Mr and Mrs Vanstone. They had gone – with the warmest testimonies of affection, with farewell embraces fervently reiterated again and again – but without dropping one word, from first to last, of the nature of their errand.

  As the grating sound of the carriage-wheels ceased suddenly at a turn in the road, the sisters looked one another in the face; each feeling, and each betraying in her own way, the dreary sense that she was openly excluded, for the first time, from the confidence of her parents. Norah’s customary reserve strengthened into sullen silence – she sat down in one of the hall chairs, and looked out frowningly through the open house-door. Magdalen, as usual when her temper was ruffled, expressed her dissatisfaction in the plainest terms. ‘I don’t care who knows it – I think we are both of us shamefully ill-used!’ With those words, the young lady followed her sister’s example, by seating herself on a hall chair, and looking aimlessly out through the open house-door.

  Almost at the same moment, Miss Garth entered the hall, from the morning-room. Her quick observation showed her the necessity for interfering to some practical purpose; and her ready good sense at once pointed the way.

  ‘Look up, both of you, if you please, and listen to me,’ said Miss Garth. ‘If we are all three to be comfortable and happy together, now we are alone, we must stick to our usual habits and go on in our regular way. There is the state of things in plain words. Accept the situation – as the French say. Here am I to set you the example. I have just ordered an excellent dinner at the customary hour. I am going to the medicine-chest, next, to physic the kitchen-maid; an unwholesome girl, whose face-ache is all stomach. In the mean time, Norah, my dear, you will find your work and your books, as usual, in the library. Magdalen, suppose you leave off tying your handkerchief into knots, and use your fingers on the keys of the piano instead? We’ll lunch at one, and take the dogs out afterwards. Be as brisk and cheerful both of you as I am. Come, rouse up directly. If I see those gloomy faces any longer, as sure as my name’s Garth, I’ll give your mother written warning, and go back to my friends by the mixed train1 at twelve-forty.’

  Concluding her address of expostulation in those terms, Miss Garth led Norah to the library door, pushed Magdalen into the morning-room, and went on her own way sternly to the regions of the medicine-chest.

  In this half-jesting, half-earnest manner, she was accustomed to maintain a sort of friendly authority over Mr Vanstone’s daughters, after her proper functions as governess had necessarily come to an end. Norah, it is needless to say, had long since ceased to be her pupil; and Magdalen had, by this time, completed her education. But Miss Garth had lived too long and too intimately under Mr Vanstone’s roof to be parted with, for any purely formal considerations; and the first hint at going away which she had thought it her duty to drop, was dismissed with such affectionate warmth of protest, that she never repeated it again, except in jest. The entire management of the household was, from that time forth, left in her hands; and to those duties she was free to add what companionable assistance she could render to Norah’s reading, and what friendly superintendence she could still exercise over Magdalen’s music. Such were the terms on which Miss Garth was now a resident in Mr Vanstone’s family.

  Towards the afternoon the weather improved. At half-past one the sun was shining brightly; and the ladies left the house, accompanied by the dogs, to set forth on their walk.

  They crossed the stream, and ascended by the little rocky pass to the hills beyond; then diverged to the left, and returned by a cross-road which led through the village of Combe-Raven.

  As they came in sight of the first cottages, they passed a man, hanging about the road, who looked attentively, first at Magdalen, then at Norah. They merely observed that he was short, that he was dressed in black, and that he was a total stranger to them – and continued their homeward walk, without thinking more about the loitering foot-passenger whom they had met on their way back.

  After they had left the village, and had entered the road which led straight to the house, Magdalen surprised Miss Garth by announcing that the stranger in black had turned, after they had passed him, and was now following them. ‘He keeps on Norah’s side of the road,’ she added, mischievously. ‘I’m not the attraction – don’t blame me.’

  Whether the man was really following them, or not, made little difference, for they were now close to the house. As they passed through the lodge-gates, Miss Garth looked round, and saw that the stranger was quickening his pace, apparently with the purpose of entering into conversation. Seeing this, she at once directed the young ladies to go on to the house with the dogs, while she herself waited for events at the gate.

  There was just time to complete this discreet arrangement, before the stranger reached the lodge. He took off his hat to Miss Garth politely, as she turned round. What did he look like, on the face of him? He looked like a clergyman in difficulties.

  Taking his portrait, from top to toe, the picture of him began with a tall hat, broadly encircled by a mourning band of crumpled crape. Below the hat was a lean, long, sallow face, deeply pitted with the small-pox, and characterized, very remarkably, by eyes of two different colours – one bilious green, one bilious brown, both sharply intelligent. His hair was iron-grey, carefully brushed round at the temples. His cheeks and chin were in the bluest bloom of smooth shaving; his nose was short Roman; his lips long, thin and supple, curled up at the corners with a mildl
y-humorous smile. His white cravat was high, stiff and dingy; the collar, higher, stiffer and dingier, projected its rigid points on either side beyond his chin. Lower down, the lithe little figure of the man was arrayed throughout in sober-shabby black. His frockcoat was buttoned tight round the waist, and left to bulge open majestically at the chest. His hands were covered with black cotton gloves, neatly darned at the fingers; his umbrella, worn down at the ferule to the last quarter of an inch, was carefully preserved, nevertheless, in an oilskin case. The front view of him was the view in which he looked oldest; meeting him face to face, he might have been estimated at fifty or more. Walking behind him, his back and shoulders were almost young enough to have passed for five-and-thirty. His manners were distinguished by a grave serenity. When he opened his lips, he spoke in a rich bass voice, with an easy flow of language, and a strict attention to the elocutionary claims of words in more than one syllable. Persuasion distilled from his mildly-curling lips; and, shabby as he was, perennial flowers of courtesy bloomed all over him from head to foot.

  ‘This is the residence of Mr Vanstone, I believe?’ he began, with a circular wave of his hand in the direction of the house. ‘Have I the honour of addressing a member of Mr Vanstone’s family?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the plain-spoken Miss Garth. ‘You are addressing Mr Vanstone’s governess.’

  The persuasive man fell back a step – admired Mr Vanstone’s governess – advanced a step again – and continued the conversation.

  ‘And the two young ladies,’ he went on, ‘the two young ladies who were walking with you, are doubtless Mr Vanstone’s daughters? I recognized the darker of the two, and the elder as I apprehend, by her likeness to her handsome mother. The younger lady –’

  ‘You are acquainted with Mrs Vanstone, I suppose?’ said Miss Garth, interrupting the stranger’s flow of language, which, all things considered, was beginning, in her opinion, to flow rather freely. The stranger acknowledged the interruption by one of his polite bows, and submerged Miss Garth in his next sentence as if nothing had happened.

  ‘The younger lady,’ he proceeded, ‘takes after her father, I presume? I assure you, her face struck me. Looking at it with my friendly interest in the family, I thought it very remarkable. I said to myself – Charming, Characteristic, Memorable. Not like her sister, not like her mother. No doubt, the image of her father?’

  Once more Miss Garth attempted to stem the man’s flow of words. It was plain that he did not know Mr Vanstone, even by sight – otherwise, he would never have committed the error of supposing that Magdalen took after her father. Did he know Mrs Vanstone any better? He had left Miss Garth’s question on that point unanswered. In the name of wonder, who was he? Powers of impudence! what did he want?

  ‘You may be a friend of the family, though I don’t remember your face,’ said Miss Garth. ‘What may your commands be, if you please? Did you come here to pay Mrs Vanstone a visit?’

  ‘I had anticipated the pleasure of communicating with Mrs Vanstone,’ answered this inveterately evasive and inveterately civil man. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Much as usual,’ said Miss Garth, feeling her resources of politeness fast failing her.

  ‘Is she at home?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Out for long?’

  ‘Gone to London with Mr Vanstone.’

  The man’s long face suddenly grew longer. His bilious brown eye looked disconcerted, and his bilious green eye followed its example. His manner became palpably anxious; and his choice of words was more carefully selected than ever.

  ‘Is Mrs Vanstone’s absence likely to extend over any very lengthened period?’ he inquired.

  ‘It will extend over three weeks,’ replied Miss Garth. ‘I think you have now asked me questions enough,’ she went on, beginning to let her temper get the better of her at last. ‘Be so good, if you please, as to mention your business and your name. If you have any message to leave for Mrs Vanstone, I shall be writing to her by to-night’s post, and I can take charge of it.’

  ‘A thousand thanks! A most valuable suggestion. Permit me to take advantage of it immediately.’

  He was not in the least affected by the severity of Miss Garth’s looks and language – he was simply relieved by her proposal, and he showed it with the most engaging sincerity. This time, his bilious green eye took the initiative, and set his bilious brown eye the example of recovered serenity. His curling lips took a new twist upwards; he tucked his umbrella briskly under his arm; and produced from the breast of his coat a large old-fashioned black pocket-book. From this he took a pencil and a card – hesitated and considered for a moment – wrote rapidly on the card – and placed it, with the politest alacrity, in Miss Garth’s hand.

  ‘I shall feel personally obliged, if you will honour me by enclosing that card in your letter,’ he said. ‘There is no necessity for my troubling you additionally with a message. My name will be quite sufficient to recall a little family matter to Mrs Vanstone, which has no doubt escaped her memory. Accept my best thanks. This has been a day of agreeable surprises to me. I have found the country hereabouts remarkably pretty; I have seen Mrs Vanstone’s two charming daughters; I have become acquainted with an honoured preceptress in Mr Vanstone’s family. I congratulate myself – I apologize for occupying your valuable time – I beg my renewed acknowledgments – I wish you good morning.’

  He raised his tall hat. His brown eye twinkled, his green eye twinkled, his curly lips smiled sweetly. In a moment, he turned on his heel. His youthful back appeared to the best advantage; his active little legs took him away trippingly in the direction of the village. One, two, three – and he reached the turn in the road. Four, five, six – and he was gone.

  Miss Garth looked down at the card in her hand, and looked up again in blank astonishment. The name and address of the clerical-looking stranger (both written in pencil) ran as follows:

  Captain Wragge. Post-office, Bristol.

  Chapter Three

  When she returned to the house, Miss Garth made no attempt to conceal her unfavourable opinion of the stranger in black. His object was, no doubt, to obtain pecuniary assistance from Mrs Vanstone. What the nature of his claim on her might be, seemed less intelligible – unless it was the claim of a poor relation. Had Mrs Vanstone ever mentioned, in the presence of her daughters, the name of Captain Wragge? Neither of them recollected to have heard it before. Had Mrs Vanstone ever referred to any poor relations who were dependent on her? On the contrary, she had mentioned of late years that she doubted having any relations at all who were still living. And yet, Captain Wragge had plainly declared that the name on his card would recall ‘a family matter’ to Mrs Vanstone’s memory. What did it mean? A false statement, on the stranger’s part, without any intelligible reason for making it? Or a second mystery, following close on the heels of the mysterious journey to London?

  All the probabilities seemed to point to some hidden connection between the ‘family affairs’ which had taken Mr and Mrs Vanstone so suddenly from home, and the ‘family matter’ associated with the name of Captain Wragge. Miss Garth’s doubts thronged back irresistibly on her mind, as she sealed her letter to Mrs Vanstone, with the captain’s card added by way of enclosure.

  By return of post the answer arrived.

  Always the earliest riser among the ladies of the house, Miss Garth was alone in the breakfast-room when the letter was brought in. Her first glance at its contents convinced her of the necessity of reading it carefully through in retirement, before any embarrassing questions could be put to her. Leaving a message with the servant requesting Norah to make the tea that morning, she went upstairs at once to the solitude and security of her own room.

  Mrs Vanstone’s letter extended to some length. The first part of it referred to Captain Wragge, and entered unreservedly into all necessary explanations relating to the man himself and to the motive which had brought him to Combe-Raven.

  It appeared from Mrs Vanstone’s statement that her mot
her had been twice married. Her mother’s first husband had been a certain Doctor Wragge – a widower with young children; and one of those children was now the unmilitary-looking captain, whose address was ‘Post-office, Bristol’. Mrs Wragge had left no family by her first husband; and had afterwards married Mrs Vanstone’s father. Of that second marriage Mrs Vanstone herself was the only issue. She had lost both her parents while she was still a young woman; and, in course of years, her mother’s family connections (who were then her nearest surviving relatives) had been one after another removed by death. She was left, at the present writing, without a relation in the world – excepting perhaps certain cousins whom she had never seen, and of whose existence even, at the present moment, she possessed no positive knowledge.

  Under these circumstances, what family claim had Captain Wragge on Mrs Vanstone?

  None whatever. As the son of her mother’s first husband, by that husband’s first wife, not even the widest stretch of courtesy could have included him at any time in the list of Mrs Vanstone’s most distant relations. Well knowing this (the letter proceeded to say), he had nevertheless persisted in forcing himself upon her as a species of family connection; and she had weakly sanctioned the intrusion, solely from the dread that he would otherwise introduce himself to Mr Vanstone’s notice, and take unblushing advantage of Mr Vanstone’s generosity. Shrinking, naturally, from allowing her husband to be annoyed, and probably cheated as well, by any person, who claimed, however preposterously, a family connection with herself, it had been her practice, for many years past, to assist the captain from her own purse, on the condition that he should never come near the house, and that he should not presume to make any application whatever to Mr Vanstone.

  Readily admitting the imprudence of this course, Mrs Vanstone further explained that she had perhaps been the more inclined to adopt it, through having been always accustomed, in her early days, to see the captain living now upon one member, and now upon another, of her mother’s family. Possessed of abilities which might have raised him to distinction, in almost any career that he could have chosen, he had nevertheless, from his youth upwards, been a disgrace to all his relatives. He had been expelled the militia regiment in which he once held a commission. He had tried one employment after another, and had discreditably failed in all. He had lived on his wits, in the lowest and basest meaning of the phrase. He had married a poor ignorant woman, who had served as a waitress at some low eating-house, who had unexpectedly come into a little money, and whose small inheritance he had mercilessly squandered to the last farthing. In plain terms, he was an incorrigible scoundrel; and he had now added one more to the list of his many misdemeanours, by impudently breaking the conditions on which Mrs Vanstone had hitherto assisted him. She had written at once to the address indicated on his card, in such terms and to such purpose as would prevent him, she hoped and believed, from ever venturing near the house again. Such were the terms in which Mrs Vanstone concluded that first part of her letter which referred exclusively to Captain Wragge.