No Name

by Wilkie Collins

  Still, Mrs Lecount determined to act with unrelenting caution to the last. That night, when the doors were closed, she privately removed the keys from the door in front and the door at the back. She then softly opened her bedroom window, and sat down by it, with her bonnet and cloak on, to prevent her taking cold. Noel Vanstone’s window was on the same side of the house as her own. If any one came in the dark to speak to him from the garden beneath, they would speak to his housekeeper as well. Prepared at all points to intercept every form of clandestine communication which stratagem could invent, Mrs Lecount watched through the quiet night. When morning came, she stole downstairs before the servant was up, restored the keys to their places, and reoccupied her position in the parlour, until Noel Vanstone made his appearance at the breakfast-table. Had he altered his mind? No. He declined posting to the railway on account of the expense; but he was as firm as ever in his resolution to go to St Crux. He desired that an inside place might be secured for him in the early coach. Suspicious to the last, Mrs Lecount sent the baker’s man to take the place. He was a public servant, and Mr Bygrave would not suspect him of performing a private errand.

  The coach called at Sea-View. Mrs Lecount saw her master established in his place, and ascertained that the other three inside seats were already occupied by strangers. She inquired of the coachman if the outside places (all of which were not yet filled up) had their full complement of passengers also. The man replied in the affirmative. He had two gentlemen to call for in the town, and the others would take their places at the inn. Mrs Lecount forthwith turned her steps towards the inn, and took up her position on the Parade opposite, from a point of view which would enable her to see the last of the coach on its departure. In ten minutes more it rattled away, full outside and in; and the housekeeper’s own eyes assured her that neither Mr Bygrave himself, nor any one belonging to North Shingles, was among the passengers.

  There was only one more precaution to take, and Mrs Lecount did not neglect it. Mr Bygrave had doubtless seen the coach call at Sea-View. He might hire a carriage and follow it to the railway, on pure speculation. Mrs Lecount remained within view of the inn (the only place at which a carriage could be obtained) for nearly an hour longer, waiting for events. Nothing happened; no carriage made its appearance; no pursuit of Noel Vanstone was now within the range of human possibility. The long, strain on Mrs Lecount’s mind relaxed at last. She left her seat on the Parade, and returned in higher spirits than usual, to perform the closing household ceremonies at Sea-View.

  She sat down alone in the parlour and drew a long breath of relief. Captain Wragge’s calculations had not deceived him. The evidence of her own senses had at last conquered the housekeeper’s incredulity, and had literally forced her into the opposite extreme of belief.

  Estimating the events of the last three days from her own experience of them; knowing (as she certainly knew) that the first idea of going to St Crux had been started by herself, and that her master had found no opportunity and shown no inclination to inform the family at North Shingles that he had accepted her proposal – Mrs Lecount was fairly compelled to acknowledge that not a fragment of foundation remained to justify the continued suspicion of treachery in her own mind. Looking at the succession of circumstances under the new light thrown on them by results, she could see nothing unaccountable – nothing contradictory anywhere. The attempt to pass off the forged pictures as originals, was in perfect harmony with the character of such a man as Mr Bygrave. Her master’s indignation at the attempt to impose on him; his plainly-expressed suspicion that Miss Bygrave was privy to it; his disappointment in the niece; his contemptuous treatment of the uncle on the Parade, his weariness of the place which had been the scene of his rash intimacy with strangers, and his readiness to quit it that morning – all commended themselves as genuine realities to the housekeeper’s mind, for one sufficient reason. Her own eyes had seen Noel Vanstone take his departure from Aldborough without leaving, or attempting to leave, a single trace behind him for the Bygraves to follow.

  Thus far the housekeeper’s conclusions led her – but no farther. She was too shrewd a woman to trust the future to chance and fortune. Her master’s variable temper might relent. Accident might, at any time, give Mr Bygrave an opportunity of repairing the error that he had committed, and of artfully regaining his lost place in Noel Vanstone’s estimation. Admitting that circumstances had at last declared themselves unmistakably in her favour, Mrs Lecount was not the less convinced that nothing would permanently assure her master’s security for the future, but the plain exposure of the conspiracy which she had striven to accomplish from the first – which she was resolved to accomplish still.

  ‘I always enjoy myself at St Crux,’ thought Mrs Lecount, opening her account-books, and sorting the tradesmen’s bills. ‘The admiral is a gentleman, the house is noble, the table is excellent. No matter! Here, at Sea-View, I stay by myself, till I have seen the inside of Miss Bygrave’s wardrobe.’

  She packed her master’s collection of curiosities in their various cases, settled the claims of the tradespeople, and superintended the covering of the furniture in the course of the day. Towards nightfall she went out, bent on investigation; and ventured into the garden at North Shingles, under cover of the darkness. She saw the light in the parlour window, and the lights in the windows of the rooms upstairs, as usual. After an instant’s hesitation she stole to the house-door, and noiselessly tried the handle from the outside. It turned the lock as she had expected, from her experience of houses at Aldborough and at other watering-places – but the door resisted her; the door was distrustfully bolted on the inside. After making that discovery, she went round to the back of the house, and ascertained that the door on that side was secured in the same manner. ‘Bolt your doors, Mr Bygrave, as fast as you like,’ said the housekeeper, stealing back again to the Parade. ‘You can’t bolt the entrance to your servant’s pocket. The best lock you have may be opened by a golden key.’

  She went back to bed. The ceaseless watching, the unrelaxing excitement of the last two days, had worn her out.

  The next morning she rose at seven o’clock. In half an hour more she saw the punctual Mr Bygrave – as she had seen him on many previous mornings, at the same time – issue from the gate of North Shingles, with his towels under his arm, and make his way to a boat that was waiting for him on the beach. Swimming was one among the many personal accomplishments of which the captain was master. He was rowed out to sea every morning, and took his bath luxuriously in the deep blue water. Mrs Lecount had already computed the time consumed in this recreation by her watch; and had discovered that a full hour usually elapsed, from the moment when he embarked on the beach to the moment when he returned.

  During that period, she had never seen any other inhabitant of North Shingles leave the house. The servant was no doubt at her work in the kitchen; Mrs Bygrave was probably still in her bed; and Miss Bygrave (if she was up at that early hour) had perhaps received directions not to venture out in her uncle’s absence. The difficulty of meeting the obstacle of Magdalen’s presence in the house, had been, for some days past, the one difficulty which all Mrs Lecount’s ingenuity had thus far proved unable to overcome.

  She sat at the window for a quarter of an hour after the captain’s boat had left the beach, with her mind hard at work, and her eyes fixed mechanically on North Shingles – she sat, considering what written excuse she could send to her master for delaying her departure from Aldborough for some days to come – when the door of the house she was watching suddenly opened; and Magdalen herself appeared in the garden. There was no mistaking her figure and her dress. She took a few steps hastily towards the gate, stopped, and pulled down the veil of her garden-hat, as if she felt the clear morning light too much for her – then hurried out on the Parade, and walked away northward, in such haste, or in such preoccupation of mind, that she went through the garden-gate without closing it after her.

  Mrs Lecount started up from her chair
, with a moment’s doubt of the evidence of her own eyes. Had the opportunity which she had been vainly plotting to produce, actually offered itself to her, of its own accord? Had the chances declared themselves at last in her favour, after steadily acting against her for so long? There was no doubt of it: in the popular phrase, ‘her luck had turned’. She snatched up her bonnet and mantilla; and made for North Shingles, without an instant’s hesitation. Mr Bygrave out at sea; Miss Bygrave away for a walk; Mrs Bygrave and the servant both at home, and both easily dealt with – the opportunity was not to be lost; the risk was well worth running!

  This time, the house-door was easily opened: no one had bolted it again, after Magdalen’s departure. Mrs Lecount closed the door softly; listened for a moment in the passage; and heard the servant noisily occupied in the kitchen with her pots and pans. ‘If my lucky star leads me straight into Miss Bygrave’s room,’ thought the housekeeper, stealing noiselessly up the stairs, ‘I may find my way to her wardrobe without disturbing anybody.’

  She tried the door nearest to the front of the house, on the right-hand side of the landing. Capricious chance had deserted her already. The lock was turned. She tried the door opposite, on her left hand. The boots ranged symmetrically in a row, and the razors on the dressing-table, told her at once that she had not found the right room yet. She returned to the right-hand side of the landing, walked down a little passage, leading to the back of the house, and tried a third door. The door opened – and the two opposite extremes of female humanity, Mrs Wragge and Mrs Lecount, stood face to face in an instant!

  ‘I beg ten thousand pardons!’ said Mrs Lecount, with the most consummate self-possession.

  ‘Lord bless us and save us!’ cried Mrs Wragge, with the most helpless amazement.

  The two exclamations were uttered in a moment; and, in that moment, Mrs Lecount took the measure of her victim. Nothing of the least importance escaped her. She noticed the Oriental Cashmere Robe lying half made, and half unpicked again, on the table; she noticed the imbecile foot of Mrs Wragge searching blindly in the neighbourhood of her chair for a lost shoe; she noticed that there was a second door in the room besides the door by which she had entered, and a second chair within easy reach, on which she might do well to seat herself in a friendly and confidential way. ‘Pray don’t resent my intrusion,’ pleaded Mrs Lecount, taking the chair. ‘Pray allow me to explain myself!’

  Speaking in her softest voice; surveying Mrs Wragge with a sweet smile on her insinuating lips, and a melting interest in her handsome black eyes, the housekeeper told her little introductory series of falsehoods, with an artless truthfulness of manner which the Father of Lies himself might have envied. She had heard from Mr Bygrave that Mrs Bygrave was a great invalid; she had constantly reproached herself, in her idle half-hours at Sea-View (where she filled the situation of Mr Noel Vanstone’s housekeeper), for not having offered her friendly services to Mrs Bygrave; she had been directed by her master (doubtless well known to Mrs Bygrave, as one of her husband’s friends, and, naturally, one of her charming niece’s admirers) to join him that day at the residence to which he had removed from Aldborough; she was obliged to leave early, but she could not reconcile it to her conscience to go, without calling to apologize for her apparent want of neighbourly consideration; she had found nobody in the house, she had not been able to make the servant hear, she had presumed (not discovering that apartment downstairs) that Mrs Bygrave’s boudoir might be on the upper story; she had thoughtlessly committed an intrusion of which she was sincerely ashamed, and she could now only trust to Mrs Bygrave’s indulgence to excuse and forgive her.

  A less elaborate apology might have served Mrs Lecount’s purpose. As soon as Mrs Wragge’s struggling perceptions had grasped the fact that her unexpected visitor was a neighbour, well known to her by repute, her whole being became absorbed in admiration of Mrs Le-count’s lady-like manners, and Mrs Lecount’s perfectly-fitting gown! ‘What a noble way she has of talking!’ thought poor Mrs Wragge, as the housekeeper reached her closing sentence. ‘And, oh my heart alive, how nicely she’s dressed!’

  ‘I see I disturb you,’ pursued Mrs Lecount, artfully availing herself of the Oriental Cashmere Robe, as a means ready at hand of reaching the end she had in view – ‘I see I disturb you, ma’am, over an occupation which, I know by experience, requires the closest attention. Dear, dear me, you are unpicking the dress again, I see, after it has been made! This is my own experience again, Mrs Bygrave. Some dresses are so obstinate! Some dresses seem to say to one, in so many words, “No! you may do what you like with me; I won’t fit!” ‘

  Mrs Wragge was greatly struck by this happy remark. She burst out laughing, and clapped her great hands in hearty approval.

  ‘That’s what this gown has been saying to me, ever since I first put the scissors into it,’ she exclaimed cheerfully. ‘T know I’ve got an awful big back – but that’s no reason. Why should a gown be weeks on hand, and then not meet behind you after all? It hangs over my Boasom like a sack – it does. Look here, ma’am, at the skirt. It won’t come right. It draggles in front, and cocks up behind. It shows my heels – and, Lord knows, I get into scrapes enough about my heels, without showing them into the bargain!’

  ‘May I ask a favour?’ inquired Mrs Lecount, confidentially. ‘May I try, Mrs Bygrave, if I can make my experience of any use to you? I think our bosoms, ma’am, are our great difficulty. Now, this bosom of yours? – Shall I say in plain words what I think? This bosom of yours is an Enormous Mistake!’

  ‘Don’t say that!’ cried Mrs Wragge, imploringly. ‘Don’t please, there’s a good soul! It’s an awful big one, I know; but it’s modelled, for all that, from one of Magdalen’s own.’

  She was far too deeply interested on the subject of the dress to notice that she had forgotten herself already, and that she had referred to Magdalen by her own name. Mrs Lecount’s sharp ears detected the mistake the instant it was committed. ‘So! so!’ she thought. ‘One discovery already. If I had ever doubted my own suspicions, here is an estimable lady who would now have set me right, – I beg your pardon,’ she proceeded, aloud, ‘did you say this was modelled from one of your niece’s dresses?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Wragge. ‘It’s as like as two peas.’

  ‘Then,’ replied Mrs Lecount, adroitly, ‘there must be some serious mistake in the making of your niece’s dress. Can you show it to me?’

  ‘Bless your heart – yes!’ cried Mrs Wragge. ‘Step this way, ma’am; and bring the gown along with you, please. It keeps sliding off, out of pure aggravation, if you lay it out on the table. There’s lots of room on the bed in here.’

  She opened the door of communication, and led the way eagerly into Magdalen’s room. As Mrs Lecount followed, she stole a look at her watch. Never before had time flown as it flew that morning! In twenty minutes more, Mr Bygrave would be back from his bath.

  ‘There!’ said Mrs Wragge, throwing open the wardrobe, and taking a dress down from one of the pegs. ‘Look there! There’s plaits on her Boasom, and plaits on mine. Six of one, and half a dozen of the other; and mine are the biggest – that’s all!’

  Mrs Lecount shook her head gravely, and entered forthwith into subtleties of disquisition on the art of dressmaking, which had the desired effect of utterly bewildering the proprietor of the Oriental Cashmere Robe, in less than three minutes.

  ‘Don’t!’ cried Mrs Wragge, imploringly. ‘Don’t go on like that! I’m miles behind you; and my head’s Buzzing already. Tell us, like a good soul, what’s to be done. You said something about the pattern just now. Perhaps I’m too big for the pattern? I can’t help it, if I am. Many’s the good cry I had, when I was a growing girl, over my own size! There’s half too much of me, ma’am – measure me along or measure me across, I don’t deny it – there’s half too much of me, any way.’

  ‘My dear madam,’ protested Mrs Lecount, ‘you do yourself a wrong! Permit me to assure you that you possess a commanding figure – a figure of
Minerva. A majestic simplicity in the form of a woman, imperatively demands a majestic simplicity in the form of that woman’s dress. The laws of costume are classical; the laws of costume must not be trifled with! Plaits for Venus – puffs for Juno – folds for Minerva. I venture to suggest a total change of pattern. Your niece has other dresses in her collection. Why may we not find a Minerva pattern among them?’

  As she said those words, she led the way back to the wardrobe.

  Mrs Wragge followed, and took the dresses out, one by one, shaking her head despondently. Silk dresses appeared, muslin dresses appeared. The one dress which remained invisible, was the dress of which Mrs Lecount was in search.