 Scene 2 Chapter 3 of No Name This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Dawn. No Name by Wilkie Collins. Scene 2 Chapter 3 Six o'clock the next morning, the light pouring in on her face awoke Magdalene in the bedroom in Rosemary Lane. She started from her deep, dreamless repose of the past night with that painful sense of bewilderment on first waking, which is familiar to all sleepers in strange beds. Nora? She called out mechanically when she opened her eyes. The next instant her mind roused itself and her senses told her the truth. She looked round the miserable room with a loathing recognition of it. The sordid contrast which the place presented to all that she had been accustomed to see in her own bed chamber, the practical abandonment implied in its scanty furniture of those elegant purities of personal habit to which she had been accustomed from her childhood, shocked that sense of bodily self-respect in Magdalene, which is a refined woman's second nature. Contemptable as the influence seemed when compared with her situation at that moment, the bare sight of the jug and basin in the corner of the room decided her first resolution when she woke. She determined, then and there, to leave Rosemary Lane. How was she to leave it? With Captain Raggy or without him? She dressed herself with a dainty shrinking from everything in the room which her hands or her clothes touched in the process and then opened the window. The autumn air felt keen and sweet and the little patch of sky that she could see was warmly bright already with new sunlight. Distant voices of bargemen on the river and the chirping of birds among the weeds which topped the old city wall were the only sounds that broke the morning silence. She sat down by the window and searched her mind for the thoughts which she had lost when weariness overcame her on the night before. The first subject to which she returned was the vagabond subject of Captain Raggy. The moral agriculturist had failed to remove her personal distrust of him cunningly as he had tried to plead against it by openly confessing the imposters he had practiced on others. He had raised her opinion of his abilities, he had amused her by his humor, he had astonished her by his assurance but he had left her original conviction that he was a rogue exactly where it was when he first met with her. If the one design then in her mind had been the design of going on the stage she would at all hazards have rejected the more than doubtful assistance of Captain Raggy on the spot. But the perilous journey on which she had now adventured herself had another end in view an end dark and distant, an end with pitfalls hidden on the way to it far other than the shallow pitfalls on the way to the stage. In the mysterious stillness of the morning her mind looked onto its second and deeper design and the despicable figure of the swindler rose before her in a new view. She tried to shut him out to feel above him and beyond him again as she had felt up to this time. After a little trifling with her dress she took from her bosom the white silk bag which her own hands had made on the farewell night at Cwm Raven. It drew together at the mouth with delicate silken strings. The first thing she took out on opening it was a lock of Frank's hair tied with a morsel of silver thread. The next was a sheet of paper containing the extracts which she had copied from her father's will and her father's letter. The last was a closely folded packet of banknotes to the value of nearly two hundred pounds the produce as Miss Garth had rightly conjectured of the sale of her jewelry and her dresses in which the servant at the boarding school had privately assisted her. She put back the notes at once without a second glance at them and then sat looking thoughtfully at the lock of hair as it lay in her lap. You were better than nothing, she said, speaking to it with a girl's fanciful tenderness. I can sit and look at you sometimes till I almost think I am looking at Frank. Am I darling? Am I darling? Her voice faltered softly and she put the lock of hair with a languid gentleness to her lips. It fell from her fingers into her bosom. A lovely tinge of color rose on her cheeks and spread downward to her neck as if it followed the falling hair. She closed her eyes and let her fair head droop softly. The world passed from her and for one enchanted moment love opened the gates of paradise to the daughter of Eve. The trivial noises in the neighboring street gathering in numbers the morning advanced forced her back to the hard realities of the passing time. She raised her head with a heavy sigh and opened her eyes once more on the mean and miserable little room. The extracts from the will in the letter, those last memorials of her father, now so closely associated with the purpose which had possession of her mind, still lay before her. The transient color faded from her face as she spread the little manuscript open on her lap. The extracts from the will stood highest on the page. They were limited to those few touching words in which the dead father begged his children's forgiveness for the stain on their birth and implored them to remember the untiring love and care by which he had striven to atone for it. The extract from the letter to Mr. Pendrell came next. She read the last melancholy sentences aloud to herself, for God's sake, come on the day when you receive this. Come and relieve me from the dreadful thought that my two darling girls are at this moment unprovided for. If anything happened to me and if my desire to do their mother justice ended through my miserable ignorance of the law and leaving Nora and Magdalene disinherited, I should not rest in my grave. Under these lines again and close at the bottom of the page was written the terrible commentary on that letter which had fallen from Mr. Pendrell's lips. Mr. Vanstone's daughters are nobody's children and the law leaves them helpless at their uncle's mercy. Helpless when those words were spoken, helpless still after all that she had resolved, after all that she had sacrificed. The assertion of her natural rights and her sisters, sanctioned by the direct expression of her father's last wishes, the recall of Frank from China, the justification of her desertion of Nora, all hung on her desperate purpose of recovering the lost inheritance at any risk from the man who had beggared and insulted his brother's children. And that man was still a shadow to her. So little did she know of him that she was even ignorant at that moment of his place of abode. She rose and paced the room with the noiseless negligent grace of a wild creature of the forest in its cage. How can I reach him in the dark? she said to herself. How can I find out? She stopped suddenly. Before the question had shaped itself to an end in her thoughts, Captain Raggy was back in her mind again. A man well used to working in the dark. A man with endless resources of audacity and cunning. A man who had hesitated no mean employment that could be offered to him if it was employment that filled his pockets. Was this the instrument for which, in its present need, her hand was waiting? Two of the necessities to be met before she could take a single step in advance were plainly present to her. The necessity of knowing more of her father's brother than she knew now. And the necessity of throwing him off his guard by concealing herself personally during the process of inquiry. Resolutely self-dependent as she was, the inevitable spy's work at the outset must be work delegated to another. In her position, was there any ready human creature within reach but the vagabond downstairs? Not one. She thought of it anxiously. She thought of it long. Not one. There the choice was, steadily confronting her. The choice of taking the rogue or of turning her back on the purpose. She paused in the middle of the room. What can he do at his worst? She said to herself, Cheat me? Well, if my money governs him for me, what then? Let him have my money. She returned mechanically to her place by the window. A moment more decided her. A moment more and she took the first fatal step downward. She determined to face the risk and try, Captain Raggy. At nine o'clock the landlady knocked at Magdalene's door and informed her, with the captain's kind compliments, that breakfast was ready. She found Mrs. Raggy alone attired in a voluminous brown Holland wrapper with a limp cape and a trimming of dingy pink ribbon. The ex-waitress at Darche's dining-rooms was absorbed in the contemplation of a large dish containing a leathery-looking substance of a mottled yellow color, profusely sprinkled with little black spots. There it is, said Mrs. Raggy. Omelette with herbs. The landlady helped me. And that's what we've made of it. Don't you ask the captain for any when he comes in? Don't. There's a good soul. It isn't nice. We had some accidents with it. It's been under the grate. It's been spilled on the stairs. It scolded the landlady's youngest boy. He went and sat on it. Bless you, it isn't half as nice as it looks. Don't you ask for any? Perhaps he won't notice if you say nothing about it. What do you think of my wrapper? I should so like to have a white one. Have you got a white one? How's it, Trim? Do tell me. The formidable entrance of the captain suspended the next question on her lips. Fortunately for Mrs. Raggy, her husband was far too anxious for the promised expression of Magdalene's decision to pay his customary attention to questions of cookery. When breakfast was over, he dismissed Mrs. Raggy and merely referred to the omelet by telling her that she had his full permission to give it to the dogs. How does my little proposal look by daylight? He asked, placing chairs for Magdalene and himself. Which is it to be? Captain Raggy, take charge of me? Or Captain Raggy, good morning. You shall hear directly, replied Magdalene. I have something to say first. I told you last night that I had another object in view besides the object of earning my living on the stage. I beg your pardon, interposed Captain Raggy. Did you say earning your living? Certainly. Both my sister and myself must depend on our exertions to gain our daily bread. What? cried the captain, starting to his feet. The daughters of my wealthy and lamented relative by marriage reduced to earn their own living? Impossible. Wildly, extravagantly impossible. He sat down again and looked at Magdalene as if she had inflicted a personal injury on him. You are not acquainted with the full extent of our misfortune, she said quietly. I will tell you what has happened before I go any further. She told him at once in the plainest terms she could find and with as few details as possible. Captain Raggy's profound bewilderment left him conscious of but one distinct result produced by the narrative on his own mind. The lawyer's offer of fifty pounds reward for the missing young lady ascended instantly to a place in his estimation which it had never occupied until that moment. Do I understand, he inquired, that you are entirely deprived of present resources? I have sold my jewelry and my dresses, said Magdalene, impatient of his mean harping on the pecuniary string. If my want of experience keeps me back in a theatre, I can afford to wait till the stage can afford to pay me. Captain Raggy mentally appraised the rings, bracelets, and necklaces, the silks, satins, and laces of the daughter of a gentleman of fortune at, say, a third of their real value. In a moment more, the fifty pounds reward suddenly sank again to the lowest depths in the deep estimation of this judicious man. Just so, he said in his most business-like manner, there is not the least fear, my dear girl, you're being kept back in a theatre if you possess present resources and if you profit by my assistance. I must accept more assistance than you have already offered. Or none, said Magdalene. I have more serious difficulties before me than the difficulty of leaving York and the difficulty of finding my way to the stage. You don't say so. I am all attention. Pray, explain yourself. She considered her next words carefully before they passed her lips. There are certain inquiries, she said, which I am interested in making. If I undertook them myself, I should excite the suspicion of the person inquired after and should learn little or nothing of what I wish to know. If the inquiries could be made by a stranger without my being seen in the matter, a service would be rendered me of much greater importance than the service you offered last night. Captain Raggy's vagabond face became gravely and deeply attentive. May I ask, he said, what the nature of the inquiries is likely to be? Magdalene hesitated. She had necessarily mentioned Michael Vanstone's name in informing the captain of the loss of her inheritance. She must inevitably mention it to him again if she employed his services. He would doubtless discover it for himself by a plain process of inference before she said many words more. Frame them as carefully as she might. Under these circumstances, was there any intelligible reason for shrinking from direct reference to Michael Vanstone? No intelligible reason. And yet she shrank. For instance, pursued Captain Raggy, are the inquiries about a man or a woman? Inquiries about an enemy or a friend? An enemy, she answered quickly. Her reply might still have kept the captain in the dark, but her eyes enlightened him. Michael Vanstone thought the wary Raggy. She looks dangerous. I'll feel my way a little further. With regard now to the person who is the object of these inquiries, he resumed, are you thoroughly clear in your own mind about what you want to know? Perfectly clear, replied Magdalene. I want to know where he lives to begin with. Yes, and after that? I want to know about his habits, about who the people are whom he associates with, about what he does with his money. She considered a little. And one thing more, she said, I want to know whether there is any woman about his house, a relation or a housekeeper who has an influence over him. Harmless enough so far, said the captain. What next? Nothing. The rest is my secret. The clouds on Captain Raggy's countenance began to clear away. He reverted with his customary precision to his customary choice of alternatives. These inquiries of hers, he thought, mean one of two things, mischief or money. If it's mischief, I'll slip through her fingers. If it's money, I'll make myself useful with a view to the future. Magdalene's vigilant eyes watched the progress of his reflection suspiciously. Captain Raggy, she said, if you want time to consider, say so plainly. I don't want a moment, replied the captain. Place your departure from York, your dramatic career and your private inquiries under my care. Here I am, unreservedly at your disposal. Say the word. Do you take me? Her heart beat fast. Her lips turned dry. But she said the word. I do. There was a pause. Magdalene sat silent, struggling with the vague dread of the future which had been roused in her mind by her own reply. Captain Raggy, on his side, apparently absorbed in the consideration of a new set of alternatives. His hands descended into his empty pockets and prophetically tested their capacity as receptacles for gold and silver. The brightness of the precious metals was in his face, the smoothness of the precious metals was in his voice as he provided himself with a new supply of words and resumed the conversation. The next question, he said, is the question of time. Do these confidential investigations of ours require immediate attention or can they wait? For the present they can wait, replied Magdalene. I wish to secure my freedom from all interference on the part of my friends before the inquiries are made. Very good. The first step toward accomplishing that object is to beat our retreat. Excuse a professional metaphor from a military man to beat our retreat from York tomorrow. I see my way plainly so far, but I am all abroad as we used to say in the militia about my marching orders afterward. The next direction we take ought to be chosen with an eye to advancing your dramatic views. I am all ready when I know what your views are. How came you to think of the theatre at all? I see the sacred fire burning in you. Tell me, who lit it? Magdalene could only answer him in one way. She could only look back at the days that were gone forever and tell him the story of her first step toward the stage at Evergreen Lodge. Captain Raggy listened with his usual politeness, but he evidently derived no satisfactory impression from what he heard. Audiences of friends were audiences whom he privately declined to trust, and the opinion of the stage manager was the opinion of a man who spoke with his fee in his pocket and his eye on a future engagement. Interesting, deeply interesting, he said when Magdalene had done, but not conclusive to a practical man. A specimen of your abilities is necessary to enlighten me. I have been on the stage myself. The comedy of the rivals is familiar to me from beginning to end. A sample is all I want. If you have not forgotten the words, a sample of Lucy and a sample of Julia. I have not forgotten the words, said Magdalene sorrowfully, and I have the little books with me in which my dialogue was written out. I have never parted with them. They remind me of a time. Her lip trembled in a pang of the heartache silenced her. Nervous, remarked the captain indulgently. Not at all a bad sign. The greatest actresses on the stage are nervous. Follow their example and get over it. Where are the parts? Oh, here they are. Very nicely written and remarkably clean. I'll give you the cues. It will all be over as the dentists say in no time. Take the back drawing room for the stage and take me for the audience. Tingle goes the bell, up runs the curtain. Order in the gallery, silence in the pit. Enter Lucy. She tried hard to control herself. She forced back the sorrow, the innocent natural human sorrow for the absent and the dead, pleading hard with her for the tears that she refused. Resolutely, with cold, clinched hands, she tried to begin. As the first familiar words passed her lips, Frank came back to her from the sea, and the face of her dead father looked at her with the smile of happy old times. The voices of her mother and her sister talked gently in the fragrant country stillness, and the garden walks at whom Raven opened once more in her view. With a faint, wailing cry, she dropped into a chair. Her head fell forward on the table, and she burst passionately into tears. Captain Raggy was on his feet in a moment. She shuddered as he came near her and waved him back vehemently with her hand. Heave me, she said. Leave me a minute by myself. The compliant Raggy, retired to the front room, looked out of the window and whistled under his breath. The family spirit again, he said, complicated by hysterics. After waiting a minute or two, he returned to make inquiries. Is there anything I can offer you? He asked. Cold water, burned feathers, smelling salts, medical assistants. Shall I summon Mrs. Raggy? Shall we put it off till tomorrow? She started up, wild and flushed with a desperate self-command in her face, with an angry resolution in her manner. No, she said, I must harden myself, and I will. Sit down again and see me act. Bravo, cried the captain. Dash at it, my beauty, and it's done. She dashed at it with a mad defiance of herself, with a raised voice and a glow-like fever in her cheeks. All the artless, girlish charm of the performance in happier and better days was gone. The native dramatic capacity that was in her came hard and bold to the surface, stripped of every softening and lurement which had once adorned it. She would have saddened and disappointed a man with any delicacy of feeling. She absolutely electrified Captain Raggy. He forgot his politeness. He forgot his long words. The essential spirit of the man's whole vagabond life burst out of him irresistibly in his first exclamation. Ooh, the devil would have thought it. She can act after all. The instant the words escaped his lips, he recovered himself and glided off into his ordinary colloquial channels. Magdalene stopped him in the middle of his first compliment. No, she said. I have forced the truth out of you for once. I want no more. Pardon me, replied the incorrigible Raggy. You want a little instruction, and I am the man to give it to you. With that answer he placed a chair for her and proceeded to explain himself. She sat down in silence. A sullen indifference began to show itself in her manner. Her cheeks turned pale again, and her eyes looked wearily vacant at the wall before her. Captain Raggy noticed these signs of heart sickness and discontent with herself after the effort she had made, and saw the importance of rousing her by speaking for once plainly and directly to the point. She had set a new value on herself in his mercenary eyes. She had suggested to him a speculation in her youth, her beauty, and her marked ability for the stage which had never entered his mind until he saw her act. The old militiaman was quick at his shifts. He and his plans had both turned right about together when Magdalen sat down to hear what he had to say. Mr. Huxtable's opinion is my opinion, he began. You are a born actress, but you must be trained before you can do anything on the stage. I am disengaged, I am competent, I have trained others, I can train you. Don't trust my word, trust my eye to my own interests. I'll make it my interest to take pains with you and to be quick about it. You shall pay me for my instructions from your prophets on the stage. Half your salary for the first year, a third of your salary for the second year, and half the sum you clear by your first benefit in a London theatre. What do you say to that? Have I made it my interest to push you, or have I not? So far as appearances went and so far as the stage went, it was plain that he had linked his interests and Magdalen's together. She briefly told him so and waited to hear more. A month or six-week study, continued the captain, will give me a reasonable idea of what you can do best. All ability runs in grooves, and your groove remains to be found. We can't find it here, for we can't keep you close prisoner for weeks together in Rosemary Lane. A quiet country place, secure from all interference and interruption, is the place we want for a month certain. Trust my knowledge of Yorkshire and consider the place found. I see no difficulties anywhere, except the difficulty of beating our retreat tomorrow. I thought your arrangements were made last night, said Magdalen. They're quite right, rejoined the captain. They were made last night, and here they are. We can't leave by railway, because the lawyer's clerk is sure to be on the lookout for you at the York Terminus. Very good. We take to the road instead, and leave in our own carriage. Where the deuce do we get it? We get it from the landlady's brother, who has a horse and shez which he lets out for hire. That shez comes to the end of Rosemary Lane at an early hour tomorrow morning. I take my wife and my niece out to show them the beauties of the neighbourhood. We have a picnic hamper with us, which marks our purpose in the public eye. You disfigure yourself in a shawl, bonnet, and veil of Mrs. Raggy's. We turn our backs on York, and away we drive on a pleasure trip for the day. You and I on the front seat, Mrs. Raggy and the hamper behind. Good again. Once on the high road, what do we do? We drive to the first station beyond York, northward, southward, or eastward, as may be hereafter determined. No lawyer's clerk is waiting for you there. You and Mrs. Raggy get out, first opening the hamper at a convenient opportunity. Instead of containing chickens and champagne, it contains a carpet bag with the things you want for the night. You take your tickets previously determined on, and I take the shares back to York. Arrived once more in this house, I collect the luggage left behind and send for the woman downstairs. Ladies so charmed with such and such a place, wrong place, of course, that they have determined to stop there, pray except the customary week's rent in place of a week's warning. Good day. Is the clerk looking for me at the York terminus? Not he. I take my ticket under his very nose. I follow you with the luggage along your line of railway, and where is the trace left of your departure? Nowhere. The ferry has vanished and the legal authorities are left in the lurch. The talk of difficulties, asked Magdalene, the difficulties seemed to be provided for. All but one, said Captain Raggy, with an ominous emphasis on the last word. The grand difficulty of humanity from the cradle to the grave. Money. He slowly winked his green eye, sighed with deep feeling and buried his insolvent hands in his unproductive pockets. What has the money wanted for, inquired Magdalene? To pay my bills, replied the Captain with a touching simplicity. Pray understand, I never was and never shall be personally desirous of paying a single farthing to any human creature on the habitable globe. I am speaking in your interest, not in mine. My interest? Certainly. You can't get safely away from York tomorrow without the shares and I can't get the shares without money. The landlady's brother will lend it if he sees his sister's bill receded and if he gets his days higher beforehand, not otherwise, allow me to put the transaction in a business light. We have agreed that I am to be remunerated for my course of dramatic instruction out of your future earnings on the stage. Very good. I merely draw on my future prospects and you, on whom those prospects depend, are naturally my banker. For mere argument's sake, estimate my share in your first year's salary at the totally inadequate value of a hundred pounds. Have that sum? Quarter that sum? How much do you want? Said Magdalene impatiently. Captain Raggy was sorely tempted to take the reward at the top of the handbills as his basis of calculation. But he felt the vast future importance of present moderation and actually wanting some twelve or thirteen pounds, he merely doubled the amount and said five and twenty. Magdalene took the little bag from her bosom and gave him the money with a contemptuous wonder at the number of words which he had wasted on her for the purpose of cheating on so small a scale. In the old days at Cum Raven, five and twenty pounds flowed from a stroke of her father's pen into the hands of anyone in the house who chose to ask for it. Captain Raggy's eyes dwelt on the little bag as the eyes of lovers dwell on their mistresses. Happy bag, he murmured as she put it back in her bosom. He rose, dived into a corner of the room, produced his neat dispatch box and solemnly unlocked it on the table between Magdalene and himself. The nature of the man, my dear girl. The nature of the man. He said, opening one of his plump little books bound in calf and vellum. A transaction has taken place between us. I must have it down in black and white. He opened the book at a blank page and wrote at the top in a fine mercantile hand. Miss Vanstone the Younger, an account with Horatio Raggy late of the Royal Militia. Detter, credit September 24th, 1846. Detter, to estimated value of H. Raggy's interest in Miss V's first year salary, say, two hundred pounds. Credit, by paid on account, twenty-five pounds. Having completed the entry and having also shown by doubling his original estimate on the debtor side that Magdalene's easy compliance with his demand on her had not been thrown away on him. The captain pressed his blotting paper over the wet ink and put away the book with the air of a man who had done a virtuous action and who was above boasting about it. Excuse me for leaving you abruptly, he said. Time is of importance. I must make sure of the shares. If Miss Raggy comes in, tell her nothing. She is not sharp enough to be trusted. If she presumes to ask questions, extinguish her immediately. You have only to be loud. Pray, take my authority into your own hands and be as loud with Miss Raggy as I am. He snatched up his tall hat, bowed, smiled, and tripped out of the room. Sensible of little else but of the relief of being alone, feeling no more distinct impression than the vague sense of some serious change having taken place in herself and her position, Magdalene let the events of the morning come and go like shadows on her mind and waited wearily for what the day might bring forth. After the lapse of some time, the door opened softly. The giant figure of Mrs. Raggy stalked into the room and stopped opposite Magdalene in solemn astonishment. Where are your things? asked Mrs. Raggy with a burst of uncontrollable anxiety. I've been upstairs looking in your drawers. Where are your nightgowns and nightcaps and your petticoats and stockings and your hairpins and bear's grease and all the rest of it? My luggage is left at the railway station, said Magdalene. Mrs. Raggy's moon face brightened dimly. The ineradicable female instinct of curiosity tried to sparkle in her faded blue eyes, flickered piteously and died out. How much luggage? she asked confidentially. The captain's gone out. Let's go and get it. Mrs. Raggy! cried a terrible voice at the door. For the first time in Magdalene's experience Mrs. Raggy was deaf to the customary stimulant. She actually ventured on a feeble remonstrance in the presence of her husband. Oh, do let her have her things! pleaded Mrs. Raggy. Oh, poor soul, do let her have her things! The captain's inexorable forefinger pointed to a corner of the room, dropped slowly as his wife retired before it and suddenly stopped at the region of her shoes. Do I hear a clapping on the floor? exclaimed Captain Raggy with an expression of horror. Yes, I do. Down at heel again. The left shoe this time. Pull it up, Mrs. Raggy! Pull it up! The shares will be here tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. He continued addressing Magdalene, we can't possibly venture on claiming your box. There is note paper. Write down a list of the necessaries you want. I will take it myself to the shop. Pay the bill for you and bring back the parcel. We must sacrifice the box. We must indeed. While her husband was addressing Magdalene, Mrs. Raggy had stolen out again from her corner and had ventured near enough to the captain to hear the words shop and parcel. She clapped her great hands together in ungovernable excitement and lost all control over herself immediately. Oh, if it's shopping, let me do it! cried Mrs. Raggy. She's going out to buy her things. Oh, let me go with her. Please let me go with her. Sit down! shouted the captain. Straight! More to the right! More still! Stop where you are! Mrs. Raggy crossed her helpless hands on her lap and melted meekly into tears. I do so like shopping! pleaded the poor creature. And I get so little of it now! Magdalene completed her list and Captain Raggy at once left the room with it. Don't let my wife bore you! he said pleasantly as he went out. Cut her short, poor soul. Cut her short! Don't cry! said Magdalene, trying to comfort Mrs. Raggy by patting her on the shoulder. When the parcel comes, you shall open it. Thank you, my dear! said Mrs. Raggy, meekly drying her eyes. Thank you kindly. Don't notice my handkerchief, please. It's such a very little one. I had a nice lot of them once with lace borders. They're all gone now. Never mind. It will comfort me to impact your things. You're very good to me. I like you. I say, you won't be angry, will you? Give us a kiss. Magdalene stooped over her pink grace and gentleness of past days and touched her faded cheek. Let me do something harmless, she thought with a pang at her heart. Oh, let me do something innocent and kind for the sake of old times. She thought her eyes moistening and silently turned away. That night no rest came to her. That night the roused forces of good and evil fought their terrible fight for her soul and left the strife between them still in suspense when morning came. As the clock of Yorkminster struck nine, she followed Mrs. Raggy to the shez and took her seat by the captain's side. In a quarter of an hour more, York was in the distance and the high road lay bright and open before them in the morning sunlight. End of third scene, chapter three. The end of the second scene. Between the second and third scenes, part one. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Lee Paquette. No name by Wilkie Collins. Between the second and third scenes, part one. Chronicle of events preserved in Captain Rags Dispatch Box. One. Chronicle for October, 1846. I have retired into the bosom of my family. We are residing in the secluded village of Ruswarp on the banks of the Esk, about two miles inland from Whitby. Our lodgings are comfortable and we possess the additional blessing of a tidy landlady. Mrs. Raggy and Miss Vanstone preceded me here in accordance with the plan I laid down for affecting our retreat from York. On the next day, I followed them alone with the luggage. On leaving the terminus, I had the satisfaction of seeing the lawyer's clerk in close confabulation with the detective officer whose advent I had prophesied. I left him in peaceable possession of the city of York and the whole surrounding neighborhood. He has returned the compliment and has left us in peaceable possession of the valley of the Esk, thirty miles away from him. Remarkable results have followed my first efforts at the cultivation of Miss Vanstone's dramatic abilities. I have discovered that she possesses extraordinary talent as a mimic. She has the flexible face, the manageable voice, and the dramatic knack which fit a woman for character parts and disguises on the stage. All she now wants is teaching and practice to make her sure of her own resources. The experience of her, thus gained, has revived an idea in my mind which originally occurred to me at one of the at-homes of the late-innibitable Charles Matthews Comedian. I was in the wine trade at the time, I remember. We imitated the vintage processes of nature in a back kitchen at Brompton and produced a dinner-shary, pale and curious, tonic in character, round in the mouth, a favorite with the court of Spain, at nineteen and six pence a dozen, bottles included. Vidae prospectus of the period. The profits of myself and partners were small. We were in advance of the taste of the age and in debt to the bottle merchant. Being at my wit's end for want of money and seeing what audiences Matthews drew, the idea occurred to me of starting an imitation of the great imitator himself in the shape of an at-home given by a woman. The one trifling obstacle in the way was the difficulty of finding the woman. From that time to this, I have hitherto failed to overcome it. I have conquered it at last. I have found the woman now. Miss Van Stone possesses youth and beauty as well as talent. Train her in the art of dramatic disguise. Provide her with appropriate dresses for different characters. Develop her accomplishments in singing and playing. Give her plenty of smart talk addressed to the audience. Advertise her as a young lady at home. Estonish the public by a dramatic entertainment which depends from first to last that young lady's own soul exertions. Commit the entire management of the thing to my care and what follows as a necessary consequence. Fame for my fair relative and a fortune for myself. I put these considerations as frankly as usual to Miss Van Stone, offering to write the entertainment to manage all the business and to share the profits. I did not forget to strengthen my case by informing her of the jealousies she would encounter and the obstacles she would meet if she went on the stage. And I wound up by a neat reference to the private inquiries which she is interested in making and to the personal independence which she is desirous of securing before she acts on her information. If you go on the stage, I said, your services will be bought by a manager and he may insist on his claims just at the time when you want to get free from him. If, on the contrary, you adopt my views, you will be your own mistress and your own manager and you can settle your course just as you like. This last consideration appeared to strike her. She took a day to consider it and when the day was over gave her consent. I had the whole transaction down in black and white immediately. Our arrangement is eminently satisfactory except in one particular. She shows a morbid distrust of writing her name at the bottom of any document which I present to her and roundly declares she will sign nothing. As long as it is her interest to provide herself with pecuniary resources for the future, she verbally engages to go on. When it ceases to be her interest, she plainly threatens to leave off at a week's notice. A difficult girl to deal with. She has found out her own value to me already. One comfort is, I have the cooking of the accounts and my fair relative shall not fill her pockets too suddenly if I can help it. My exertions in training Miss Vanstone for the coming experiment have been varied by the writing of two anonymous letters in that young lady's interests. Finding her too fidgety about arranging matters with her friends to pay proper attention to my instructions, I wrote anonymously to the lawyer who is conducting the inquiry after her, recommending him in a friendly way to give it up. The letter was enclosed to a friend of mine in London with instructions to post it at Charring Cross. A week later I sent a second letter through the same channel requesting the lawyer to inform me in writing whether he and his clients had or had not decided on taking my advice. I directed him with the close reference to the collision of interests between us to address his letter, tit for tat, post office, west strand. In a few days the answer arrived. Privately forwarded, of course, to post office Whitby by arrangement with my friend in London. The lawyer's reply was short and surly. Sir, if my advice had been followed, you and your anonymous letter would both be treated with the contempt which they deserve. But the wishes of Miss Magdalen Vanstone's elder sister have claims on my consideration which I cannot dispute. And at her entreaty, I inform you that all further proceedings on my part are withdrawn. On the express understanding that this concession is to open facilities for written communication, at least between the two sisters. A letter from the elder Miss Vanstone is enclosed in this. If I don't hear in a week's time that it has been received, I shall place the matter once more in the hands of the police. William Pendrell. A sour man, this William Pendrell. I can only say of him what an eminent nobleman once said of his sulky servant. I wouldn't have such a temper as that fellow has got for any earthly consideration that could be offered to me. As a matter of course, I looked into the letter which the lawyer enclosed before delivering it. Miss Vanstone, the elder, described herself as distracted at not hearing from her sister, as suited with a governess's situation in a private family, as going into the situation in a week's time, and as longing for a letter to comfort her before she faced the trial of undertaking her new duties. After closing the envelope again, I accompanied the delivery of the letter to Miss Vanstone the younger by a word of caution. Are you more sure of your own courage now, I said, than you were when I met you? She was ready with her answer. Captain Ragh, when you met me on the walls of York, I had not gone too far to go back. I have gone too far now. If she really feels this, and I think she does, her corresponding with her sister can do no harm. She wrote at great length the same day, cried profusely over her own epistolary composition, and was remarkably ill-tempered and snappish toward me when we met in the evening. She once experienced, poor girl. She sadly once experienced of the world. How consoling to know that I am just the man to give it her. Two. Chronicle for November. We are established at Derby. The entertainment is written, and the rehearsals are in steady progress. All difficulties are provided for, but the one eternal difficulty of money. Miss Vanstone's resources stretch easily enough to the limits of our personal wants, including Piano Forte Hire for practice and the purchase and making of the necessary dresses. But the expenses of starting the entertainment are beyond the reach of any means we possess. A theatrical friend of mine here, whom I had hoped to interest in our undertaking, proves unhappily to be at a crisis in his career. The field of human sympathy, out of which I might have raised the needful pecuniary crop, is close to me from want of time to cultivate it. I see no other resource left if we are to be ready by Christmas than to try one of the local music cellars in this town, who is said to be a speculating man. A private rehearsal at these lodgings and a bargain which will fill the pockets of a grasping stranger. Such are the sacrifices which dire necessity imposes on me at starting. Well, there is only one consolation. I'll cheat the music cellar. Three. Chronicle for December. First fortnight. The music cellar extorts my unwilling respect. He is one of the very few human beings I have met with in the course of my life who is not to be cheated. He has taken a masterly advantage of our helplessness and has imposed terms on us for performances at Derby and Nottingham with such a business like disregard of all interest but his own that, fond as I am of putting things down in black and white, I really cannot prevail upon myself to record the bargain. It is needless to say I have yielded with my best grace, sharing with my fair relative the wretched pecuniary prospects offered to us. Our turn will come. In the meantime, I cordially regret not having known the local music cellar in early life. Personally speaking, I have no cause to complain of Miss Vanstone. We have arranged that she shall regularly forward her address at the post office to her friends as we move about from place to place. Besides communicating in this way with her sister, she also reports herself to a certain Mr. Clare, residing in Somersetshire, who is to forward all letters exchanged between herself and his son. Careful inquiry has informed me that this latter individual is now in China. Having suspected from the first that there was a gentleman in the background, it is highly satisfactory to know that he recedes into the remote perspective of Asia. Long may he remain there. The trifling responsibility of finding a name for our talented Magdalene to perform under has been cast on my shoulders. She feels no interest whatever in this part of the subject. Give me any name you like, she said. I have as much right to one as to another. Make it yourself. I have readily consented to gratify her wishes. The resources of my commercial library include a list of useful names to assume, and we can choose one at five minutes' notice when the admirable man of business who now oppresses us is ready to issue his advertisements. On this point my mind is easy enough. All my anxieties center in the fair performer. I have not the least doubt she will do wonders if she is only left to herself on the first night. But if the day's post is mischievous enough to upset her by a letter from her sister, I tremble for the consequences. 4. Chronicle for December, Second Fortnight My gifted relative has made her first appearance in public and has laid the foundation of our future fortunes. On the first night the attendance was larger than I had ventured to hope. The novelty of an evening's entertainment conducted from beginning to end by the unaided exertions of a young lady see advertisement, browsed the public curiosity and the seats were moderately well filled. As good luck would have it no letter addressed to Miss Vanstone came that day. She was in full possession of herself until she got the first dress on and heard the bell ring for the music. At that critical moment she suddenly broke down. I found her alone in the waiting room sobbing and talking like a child. Oh, poor Papa! Poor Papa! Oh, my God, if he saw me now! My experience in such matters at once informed me that it was a case of Sal Volatile accompanied by sound advice. We strung her up in no time to concert pitch, set her eyes in a blaze and made her out-blush her own rouge. The curtain rose when we had got her at a red heat. She dashed at it exactly as she dashed at it in the back-drying room at Rosemary Lane. Her personal appearance settled the question of her reception before she opened her lips. She rushed full gallop through her changes of character, her songs and her dialogue, making mistakes by the dozen and never stopping to set them right, carrying the people along with her in a perfect whirlwind and never waiting for the applause. The whole thing was over twenty minutes sooner than the time we had calculated on. She carried it through to the end and fainted on the waiting-room sofa a minute after the curtain was down. The music-seller having taken leave of his senses from sheer astonishment and I having no evening costume to appear in, we sent the doctor to make the necessary apology to the public who were calling for her till the place rang again. I prompted our medical orator with a neat speech from behind the curtain and I never heard such applause from such a comparatively small audience before in my life. I felt the tribute. I felt it deeply. Fourteen years ago I scraped together the wretched means of existence in this very town by reading the newspaper with explanatory comments to the company at a public house and now here I am at the top of the tree. It is needless to say that my first proceeding was to bowl out the music-seller on the spot. He called the next morning, no doubt, with a liberal proposal for extending the engagement beyond Derby and Nottingham. My niece was described as not well enough to see him and when he asked for me, he was told I was not up. I happened to be at that moment engaged in putting the case pathetically to our gifted Magdalen. Her answer was in the highest degree satisfactory. She would permanently engage herself to nobody, least of all to a man who had taken sordid advantage of her position and mine. She would be her own mistress and share the profits with me while she wanted money and while it suited her to go on, so far so good. But the reason she added next for her flattering preference of myself was less to my taste. The music-seller is not the man whom I employ to make my inquiries, she said. You are the man. I don't like her steadily remembering those inquiries in the first bewilderment of her success. It looks ill for the future. It looks infernally ill for the future. Five. Chronicle for January 1847 She has shown the cloven foot already. I begin to be a little afraid of her. On the conclusion of the Nottingham engagement, the results of which more than equaled the results at Derby. I proposed taking the entertainment next, now we had got it into our own hands, to Newark. Miss Van Stone raised no objection until we came to the question of time. When she amazed me by stipulating for a week's delay before we appeared in public again. For what possible purpose, I asked. For the purpose of making the inquiries which I mentioned to you at York, she answered. I instantly enlarged on the danger of delay, putting all the considerations before her in every imaginable form. She remained perfectly immovable. I tried to shake her on the question of expenses. She answered by handing me over her share of the proceeds at Derby and Nottingham. And there were my expenses paid, at the rate of nearly two guineas a day. I wonder who first picked out a mule as the type of obstinacy. How little knowledge that man must have had of women. There was no help for it. I took down my instructions in black and white as usual. My first exertions were to be directed to the discovery of Mr. Michael Vanstone's address. I was also expected to find out how long he was likely to live there, and whether he had sold Coombe Raven or not. My next inquiries were to inform me of his ordinary habits of life, of what he did with his money, of who his intimate friends were, and of the sort of terms on which his son, Mr. Noel Vanstone, was now living with him. Lastly, the investigations were to end in discovering whether there was any female relative or any woman exercising domestic authority in the house, who was known to have an influence over either father or son. If my long practice in cultivating the field of human sympathy had not accustomed me to private investigations into the affairs of other people, I might have found some of these queries rather difficult to deal with in the course of a week. As it was, I gave myself all the benefit of my own experience and brought the answers back to Nottingham in a day less than the given time. Here they are in regular order for convenience of future reference. 1. Mr. Michael Vanstone is now residing at German Place Brighton and likely to remain there as he finds the air suits him. He reached London from Switzerland in September last and sold the Coombe Raven property immediately on his arrival. 2. His ordinary habits of life are secret and retired. He seldom visits or receives company. Part of his money is supposed to be in the funds and part laid out in railway investments, which have survived the panic of 1846 and are rapidly rising in value. He is said to be a bold speculator. Since his arrival in England, he has invested with great judgment in house property. He has some houses in remote parts of London and some houses in certain watering places on the East Coast, which are shown to be advancing in public repute. In all these cases, he is reported to have made remarkably good bargains. 3. It is not easy to discover who his intimate friends are. Two names only have been ascertained. The first is Admiral Bartram, supposed to have been under friendly obligations in past years to Mr. Michael Vanstone. The second is Mr. George Bartram, nephew of the admiral, and now staying on a short visit in the house at German Place. Mr. George Bartram is the son of the late Mr. Andrew Vanstone's sister. Also deceased. He is therefore a cousin of Mr. Noel Vanstone's. This last, vis Mr. Noel Vanstone, is in delicate health and is living on excellent terms with his father in German Place. 4. There is no female relative in Mr. Michael Vanstone's family circle. But there is a housekeeper who has lived in his service ever since his wife's death and who has acquired a strong influence over both father and son. She is a native of Switzerland, elderly, and a widow. Her name is Mrs. La Count. On placing these particulars in Ms. Vanstone's hands, she made no remark except to thank me. I endeavored to invite her confidence. No results, nothing but a renewal of civility and a sudden shifting to the subject of the entertainment. Very good. If she won't give me the information I want, the conclusion is obvious. I must help myself. Business considerations claim the remainder of this page. Let me return to business. Financial statement, third week in January. Place visited, new work. Performances, two. Net receipts in black and white, 25 pounds. Net receipts actually realized 32 pounds, 10 shillings. Apparent division of profits, Ms. V. 12 pounds, 10 shillings. Self, 12 pounds, 10 shillings. Actual division of profits, Ms. V. 12 pounds, 10 shillings. Self, 20 pounds, no shillings. Private surplus on the week or safe, self-presented testimonial, 7 pounds, 10 shillings. Audited, H. Ragh. Past, correct, H. Ragh. The next stronghold of British sympathy, which we take by storm, is Sheffield. We open the first week in February. Six, Chronicle for February. Practice is now given my fair relative the confidence which I predicted would come with time. Her lack of disguising her own identity in the impersonation of different characters so completely staggers her audiences that the same people come twice over to find out how she does it. It is the amiable defect of the English public never to know when they have had enough of a good thing. They actually try to encore one of her characters, an old North Country lady, modeled on that honored perceptress in the late Mr. Van Stone's family to whom I presented myself at Coombe Raven. This particular performance fairly amazes the people. I don't wonder at it. Such an extraordinary assumption of age by a girl of 19 has never been seen in public before in the whole course of my theatrical experience. I find myself writing in a lower tone than usual. I miss my own dash of humor. The fact is, I am depressed about the future. In the very height of our prosperity my perverse pupil sticks to her trumpery family quarrel. I feel myself at the mercy of the first whim in the Van Stone direction which may come into her head. I, the architect of her fortunes. Too bad. Upon my soul. Too bad. She has acted already on the inquiries which she forced me to make for her. She has written two letters to Mr. Michael Van Stone. To the first letter no answer came. To the second a reply was received. Her infernal cleverness put an obstacle I had not expected in the way of my intercepting it. Later in the day, after she had herself opened and read the answer, I laid another trap for her. It just succeeded and no more. I had half a minute to look into the envelope in her absence. It contained nothing but her own letter returned. She is not the girl to put up quietly with such an insult as this. Miss Jif will come of it. Miss Jif to Michael Van Stone which is of no earthly consequence. Miss Jif to me which is a truly serious matter. Seven. Chronicle for March. After performing at Sheffield and Manchester we have moved to Liverpool, Preston and Lancaster. Another change in this weathercock of a girl. She has written no more letters to Michael Van Stone and she has become as anxious to make money as I am myself. We are realizing large profits and we are worked to death. I don't like this change in her. She has a purpose to answer or she would not show such extraordinary eagerness to fill her purse. Nothing I can do, no cooking of accounts, no self presented testimonials can keep that purse empty. The success of the entertainment and her own sharpness in looking after her interests literally force me into a course of comparative honesty. She puts into her pocket more than a third of the profits in defiance of my most arduous exertions to prevent her. And this at my age. This after my long and successful career as a moral agriculturalist. Marks of admiration are very little things but they express my feelings and I put them in freely. End of between the second and third scenes part one. Recording by Linda Lee Paquette. Between the second and third scenes part two of No Name. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Lee Paquette. No Name by Wilkie Collins. Between the second and third scenes part two. Eight. Chronicle for April and May. We have visited seven more large towns and are now at Birmingham. Consulting my books I find that Miss Van Stone has realized by the entertainment up to this time the enormous sum of nearly 400 pounds. It is quite possible that my own profits may reach one or two miserable hundred more but I was the architect of her fortunes the publisher so to speak of her book and of anything I am underpaid. I made the above discovery on the 29th of the month anniversary of the restoration of my royal predecessor in the field of human sympathies Charles II. I had barely finished locking up my dispatch box when the ungrateful girl whose reputation I have made came into the room and told me in so many words that the business connection between us was for the present at an end. I attempt no description of my own sensations. I merely record facts. She informed me with an appearance of perfect composure that she needed rest and that she had new objects in view. She might possibly want me to assist those objects and she might possibly return to the entertainment. In either case it would be enough if we exchanged addresses at which we could write to each other in case of need. Having no desire to leave me too abruptly she would remain the next day which was Sunday and would take her departure on Monday morning. Such was her explanation in so many words. Remonstrance, as I knew by experience would be thrown away. Authority, I had none to exert. My one sensible course to take in this emergency was to find out which way my own interests pointed and to go that way without a moment's unnecessary hesitation. A very little reflection has since convinced me that she has a deep lay to scheme against Michael Vanstone in view. She is young, handsome, clever and unscrupulous. She has made money to live on and has time at her disposal to find out the weak side of an old man and she is going to attack Mr. Michael Vanstone unawares with the legitimate weapons of her sex. Is she likely to want me for such a purpose as this? Doubtful. Is she merely anxious to get rid of me on easy terms? Probable. Am I this sort of man to be treated in this way by my own pupil? Decidedly not. I am the man to see my way through a neat succession of alternatives and here they are. First alternative, to announce my compliance with her proposal, to exchange addresses with her and then to keep my eye privately on all her future movements. Second alternative, to express fond anxiety and a paternal capacity and to threaten giving the alarm to her sister and the lawyer if she persists in her design. Third alternative, to turn the information I already possess to the best account by making it a marketable commodity between Mr. Michael Vanstone and myself. At present I inclined toward the last of these three courses but my decision is far too important to be hurried. Today is only the 29th. I will suspend my chronicle of events until Monday. May 31st. My alternatives and her plans are both overthrown together. The newspaper came in as usual after breakfast. I looked it over and discovered this memorable entry among the obituary announcements of the day. On the 29th instant at Brighton Michael Vanstone Esquire, formerly of Zurich, aged 77. Ms. Vanstone was present in the room when I read those two startling lines. Her bonnet was on, her boxes were packed. She was waiting impatiently until it was time to go to the train. I handed the paper to her without a word on my side. Without a word on hers she looked where I pointed and read the news of Michael Vanstone's death. The paper dropped out of her hand and she suddenly pulled down her veil. I caught one glance at her face before she hid it from me. The effect on my mind was startling in the extreme. To put it with my customary dash of humor her face informed me that the most sensible action which Michael Vanstone Esquire, formerly of Zurich, had ever achieved in his life was the action he performed at Brighton on the 29th instant. Finding the dead silence in the room singularly unpleasant under existing circumstances I thought I would make a remark. My regard for my own interests supplied me with a subject. I mentioned the entertainment. After what has happened, I said, I presume we go on with our performances as usual. No, she answered behind the veil. We go on with my inquiries. Inquiries after a dead man. Inquiries after the dead man's son. Mr. Noel Vanstone? Yes, Mr. Noel Vanstone. Not having a veil to put down over my own face I stooped and picked up the newspaper. Her devilish determination quite upset me for the moment. I actually had to steady myself before I could speak to her again. Are the new inquiries as harmless as the old ones I asked? Quite as harmless. What am I expected to find out? I wish to know whether Mr. Noel Vanstone remains at Brighton after the funeral. And if not? If not, I shall want to know his new address wherever it may be. Yes, and what next? I wish you to find out next if all the father's money goes to the son. I began to see her drift. The word money relieved me. I felt quite on my own ground again. Anything more, I asked. Only one thing more, she answered. Make sure, if you please, whether Mrs. La Count, the housekeeper, remains or not in Mr. Noel Vanstone's service. Her voice altered a little as she mentioned Mrs. La Count's name. She is evidently sharp enough to distrust the housekeeper already. My expenses are to be paid as usual, I said. As usual. When am I expected to leave for Brighton? As soon as you can. She rose and left the room. After a momentary doubt, I decided on executing the new commission. The more private inquiries I conduct for my fair relative, the harder she will find it to get rid of hers truly, her ratio rag. There is nothing to prevent my starting for Brighton tomorrow. So, tomorrow I go. If Mr. Noel Vanstone succeeds to his father's property, he is the only human being possessed of pecuniary blessings who fails to inspire me with a feeling of unmitigated envy. Ninth. I returned yesterday with my information. Here it is, privately noted for the convenience of future reference. Mr. Noel Vanstone has left Brighton and has removed, for the purpose of transacting business in London, to one of his late father's empty houses in Vauxhall Walk, Lambeth. This singularly mean selection of a place of residence on the part of a gentleman of fortune looks as if Mr. N. V. and his money were not easily parted. Mr. Noel Vanstone has stepped into his father's shoes under the following circumstances. Mr. Michael Vanstone appears to have died, curiously enough, as Mr. Andrew Vanstone died, intestate. With this difference, however, in the two cases, that the younger brother left an informal will and the elder brother left no will at all. The hardest men have their weaknesses and Mr. Michael Vanstone's weakness seems to have been an insurmountable horror of contemplating the event of his own death. His son, his housekeeper and his lawyer had all three tried over and over again to get him to make a will and had never shaken his obstinate resolution to put off performing the only business duty he was ever known to neglect. Two doctors attended him in his last illness, warned him that he was too old a man to hope to get over it, and warned him in vain. He announced his own positive determination not to die. His last words in this world, as I succeeded in discovering from the nurse who assisted Mrs. LeCount, were... I'm getting better every minute. Send for the fly directly and take me out for a drive. The same night, death proved to be the more obstinate of the two and left his son and only child to take the property in due course of law. Nobody doubts that the result would have been the same if a will had been made. The father and son had every confidence in each other and were known to have always lived together on the most friendly terms. Mrs. LeCount remains with Mr. Noel Vanstone in the same housekeeping capacity which she filled with his father and has accompanied him to the new residence in Vauxhall Walk. She is acknowledged on all hands to have been a sufferer by the turn events have taken. If Mr. Michael Vanstone had made his will, there is no doubt she would have received a handsome legacy. She is now left dependent on Mr. Noel Vanstone's sense of gratitude and she is not at all likely, I should imagine, to let that sense fall asleep for want of a little timely jogging. Whether my fair relative's future intentions in this quarter point toward mischief or money is more than I can say yet. In either case, I venture to predict that she will find an awkward obstacle in Mrs. LeCount. So much for my information to the present date, the manner in which it was received by Ms. Vanstone showed the most ungrateful distrust of me. She confided nothing to my private ear but the expression of her best thanks. A sharp girl, a devilish sharp girl. But there is such a thing as bowling a man out once too often, especially when the name of that man happens to be ragged. Not a word more about the entertainment. Not a word more about moving from our present quarters. Very good. My right hand lays my left hand a wager. Ten to one on her opening communications with the son as she opened them with the father. Ten to one on her writing to Noel Vanstone before the month is out. Twenty first. She has written by today's post, a long letter apparently, for she put two stamps on the envelope. Private memorandum addressed to myself. Wait for the answer. Twenty second. Twenty third. Twenty fourth. Private memorandum continued. Wait for the answer. Twenty fifth. The answer has come. As an ex-military man, I have naturally employed a stratagem to get at it. The success which rewards all genuine perseverance has rewarded me, and I have got at it accordingly. The letter is written, not by Mr. Noel Vanstone, but by Mrs. LeCount. She takes the highest moral ground in a tone of spiteful politeness. Mr. Noel Vanstone's delicate health and recent bereavement prevent him from writing himself. Any more letters from Miss Vanstone will be returned unopened. Any personal application will produce an immediate appeal to the protection of the law. Mr. Noel Vanstone, having been expressly cautioned against Miss Magdalen Vanstone by his late lamented father, has not yet forgotten his father's advice. Consider it a reflection cast on the memory of the best of men to suppose that his course of action toward the Mrs. Vanstone can be other than the course of action which his father pursued. This is what he has himself instructed Mrs. LeCount to say. She has endeavored to express herself in the most conciliatory language she could select. She had tried to avoid giving unnecessary pain by addressing Miss Vanstone as a matter of courtesy by the family name, and she trusts these concessions which speak for themselves will not be thrown away. Such is the substance of the letter and so it ends. I draw two conclusions from this little document. First, that it will lead to serious results. Secondly, that Mrs. LeCount with all her politeness is a dangerous woman to deal with. I wish I saw my way safe before me. I don't see it yet. Twenty-ninth Miss Vanstone has abandoned my protection and the whole future of the dramatic entertainment has abandoned me with her. I am swindled. I, the last man under heaven who could possibly have expected to write in those disgraceful terms of myself, I am swindled. Let me chronicle the events. They exhibit me for the time being in a sadly helpless point of view. But the nature of the man prevails. I must have the events down in black and white. The announcement of her approaching departure was intimated to me yesterday. After another civil speech about the information I had procured at Brighton, she hinted that there was a necessity for pushing our inquiries a little further. I immediately offered to undertake them as before. No, she said. They are not in your way this time. They are inquiries relating to a woman and I mean to make them myself. Feeling privately convinced that this new resolution pointed straight at Mrs. LeCount, I tried a few innocent questions on the subject. She quietly declined to answer them. I asked next when she proposed to leave. She would leave on the 28th. For what destination? London. For long? Probably not. By herself? No. With me? No. With whom then? With Mrs. Ragh, if I had no objection. Good heavens, for what possible purpose? For the purpose of getting a respectable lodging which she could hardly expect to accomplish unless she was accompanied by an elderly female friend, and was I in the capacity of elderly male friend to be left out in business altogether? Impossible to say at present. Was I not even to forward any letters which might come for her at our present address? No. She would make the arrangement herself at the post office, and she would ask me, at the same time, for an address at which I could receive a letter from her, in case of necessity for future communication. Further inquiries after this last answer could lead to nothing but waste of time. I saved time by putting no more questions. It was clear to me that our present position toward each other was what our position had been previously to the event of Michael Vanstone's death. I returned, as before, to my choice of alternatives. Which way did my private interest point? Towards trusting the chance of her wanting me again? With her relatives and friends? Or towards making the information which I possessed a marketable commodity between the wealthy branch of the family and myself? The last of the three was the alternative I had chosen in the case of the father. I chose it once more in the case of the son. The train started for London nearly four hours since, and took her away in it, accompanied by Mrs. Ragh. My wife is too great a fool, poor soul, to be actively valuable in the present emergency. But she will be passively useful in keeping up Miss Vanstone's connection with me. And in consideration of that circumstance, I consent to brush my own trousers, shave my own chin, and submit to the other inconveniences of waiting on myself for a limited period. Any faint glimmerings of sense which Mrs. Ragh may have formally possessed appear to have now finally taken their leave of her. On receiving permission to go to London, she favored us immediately with two inquiries. Might she do some shopping? And might she leave the cookery book behind her? Miss Vanstone said yes to one question, and I said yes to the other. And from that moment, Mrs. Ragh has existed in a state of perpetual laughter. I am still hoarse with vainly repeated applications of vocal stimulant, and I left her in the railway carriage to my inexpressible disgust, with both shoes down at heel. Under ordinary circumstances these absurd particulars would not have dwelt on my memory. But as matters actually stand, my unfortunate wife's imbecility may, in her present position, lead to consequences which we none of us foresee. She is nothing more or less than a grown-up child, and I can plainly detect that Miss Vanstone trusts her, as she would not have trusted a sharper woman on that very account. I know children, little and big, rather better than my fair relative does, and I say, beware of all forms of human innocence when it happens to be your interest secret to yourself. Let me return to business. Here I am, at two o'clock on a fine summer's afternoon, left entirely alone to consider the safest means of approaching Mr. Noel Vanstone on my own account. My private suspicions of his miserly character produce no discouraging effect on me. I have extracted cheering pecuniary results in my time, from people quite as fond of their money as he can be. The real difficulty to contend with is the obstacle of Mrs. LeCount. If I am not mistaken, this lady merits a little serious consideration on my part. I will close my chronicle for today, and give Mrs. LeCount her due. Three o'clock. I open these pages again to record a discovery which has taken me entirely by surprise. After completing the last entry, a circumstance revived in my memory which I had noticed on escorting the ladies this morning to the railway. I then remarked that Ms. Vanstone had only taken one of her three boxes with her. And it now occurred to me that a private investigation of the luggage she had left behind might possibly be attended with beneficial results. Having, at certain periods of my life, been in the habit of cultivating friendly terms with strange locks, I found no difficulty in establishing myself on a familiar footing with Ms. Vanstone's boxes. One of the two presented nothing to interest me. The other devoted to the preservation of the costumes, articles of toilet, and other properties used in the dramatic entertainment proved to be better worth examining. For it led me straight to the discovery of one of its owner's secrets. I found all the dresses in the box complete with one remarkable exception. That exception was the dress of the old North Country Lady, the character which I have already mentioned as the best of all my pupils' disguises, and as modeled in voice and manner on her old governess, Ms. Garth. The wig, the eyebrows, the bonnet and veil. The cloak, padded inside to disfigure her back and shoulders. The paints and cosmetics used to age her face and alter her complexion were all gone. Nothing but the gown remained. A godly flowered silk, useful enough for dramatic purposes but too extravagant in color and pattern to bear inspection by daylight. The other parts of the dress are sufficiently made to pass muster. The bonnet and veil are only old-fashioned, and the cloak is of a sober grey color. But one plain inference can be drawn from such a discovery as this. As certainly as I sit here, she is going to open the campaign against Noel Vanstone and Mrs. LeCount in a character which neither of those two persons can have any possible reason for suspecting at the outset. The character of Miss Garth. What course am I to take under these circumstances? Having got your secret, what am I to do with it? These are awkward considerations. I am rather puzzled how to deal with them. It is something more than the mere fact of her choosing to disguise herself to ford her own private ends that causes my present perplexity. Hundreds of girls take fancies for disguising themselves, and hundreds of instances of it are related year after year in the public journals. But my ex-pupil is not to be confounded for one moment with the average adventurist of the newspapers. She is capable of going a long way beyond the limit of dressing herself like a man, and imitating a man's voice and manner. She has a natural gift for assuming characters which I have never seen equaled by a woman. And she has performed in public until she has felt her own power and trained her talent for disguising herself to the highest pitch. A girl who takes the sharpest people unawares by using such a capacity as this to help her own objects in private life, and who sharpens that capacity by a determination to fight everything before it up to this time is a girl who tries an experiment in deception new enough and dangerous enough to lead one way or the other to very serious results. This is my conviction founded on a large experience in the art of imposing on my fellow creatures. I say of my fair relatives enterprise what I never said or thought of it till I introduced myself to the side of her box. The chances for and against her winning the fight for her lost fortune are now so evenly balanced that I cannot for the life of me see on which side the scale inclines. All I can discern is that it will to a dead certainty turn one way or the other on the day when she passes Noel Vanstone's doors in disguise. Which way do my interest point now? Upon my honor I don't know. Five o'clock I have affected a masterly compromise. I have decided on turning myself into a jackal in both sides. By today's post I have dispatched to London an anonymous letter for Mr. Noel Vanstone. It will be forwarded to its destination by the same means which I successfully adopted to mystify Mr. Pendrell and it will reach Vauxhall Walk Lambeth by the afternoon of tomorrow at the latest. The letter is short and to the purpose. It warns Mr. Noel Vanstone in the most alarming language that he is destined to become the victim of a conspiracy and that the prime mover of it is a young lady who has already held written communication with his father and himself. It offers him the information necessary to secure his own safety on condition that he makes it worth the rider's while to run the serious personal risk which such a disclosure will entail on him. And it ends by stipulating that the answer shall be advertised in the times, shall be addressed to an unknown friend, and shall state plainly what remuneration Mr. Noel Vanstone offers for the priceless service which it is proposed to render him. Unless some unexpected complication occurs this letter places me exactly in the position which it is my present interest to occupy. If the advertisement appears and if the remuneration offered is large enough to justify me in going over to the camp of the enemy, over I go. No advertisement appears or if Mr. Noel Vanstone rates my invaluable assistance at too low a figure. Here I remain, biding my time till my fair relative wants me or till I make her want me which comes to the same thing. If the anonymous letter falls by any accident into her hands, she will find disparaging allusions in it to myself, purposely introduced to suggest that the rider is one of the persons whom I addressed while conducting her inquiries. If Mrs. La Count takes the business in hand and lays a trap for me, I decline her tempting invitation by becoming totally ignorant of the whole affair the instant any second person appears in it. Let the end come as it may. Here I am ready to profit by it. Here I am facing both ways with perfect ease and security. A moral agriculturist with his eye on two crops at once and his swindler's sickle ready for any emergency. For the next week to come the newspaper will be more interesting to me than ever. I wonder which side I shall eventually belong to. End of between the second and third scenes Part 2 Recording by Linda Lee Pickett Chapter 1 of No Name This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Linda Lee Pickett No Name by Wilkie Collins Part 2 Chapter 1 The old archipiscapal palace of Lambeth on the southern bank of the Thames with its bishops' walk and garden and its terrace fronting the river is an architectural relic of the London of former times precious to all lovers of the picturesque and the utilitarian London of the present day. This venerable structure lies the street labyrinth of Lambeth and nearly midway in that part of the maze of houses which is placed nearest to the river runs the dingy double row of buildings now as in former days known by the name of Vauxhall Walk. The network of dismal streets stretching over the surrounding neighbourhood contains a population for the most part In the thoroughfares where shops abound the sordid struggle with poverty showed itself unreservedly on the filthy pavement gathers its forces through the week and strengthening to a tumult on Saturday night sees the Sunday morning dawn in murky gaslight. Miserable women whose faces never smile haunt the butcher's shops in such London localities as these relics of the men's wages saved from the public house clutched fast in their hands with eyes that devour the meat they dare not buy with eager fingers that touch it covetously as the fingers of their richer sisters touch a precious stone. In this district as in other districts remote from the wealthy quarters of the metropolis the hideous London vagabond with the filth of the street outmatched in his speech with the mud of the street out-dirtied in his clothes lounges, lowering and brutal at the street corner and the gin shop door the public disgrace of his country the unheeded warning of social troubles that are yet to come here the loud self-assertion of modern progress which has reformed so much in manners and altered so little in men meets the flat contradiction that scatters its pretensions to the winds here while the national prosperity feasts like another belchazar on the spectacle of its own magnificence is the writing on the wall which warns the monarch money that his glory is weighed in the balance and his power found wanting situated in such a neighborhood as this a walk gains by comparison and establishes claims to respectability which no impartial observation can fail to recognize a large proportion of the walk is still composed of private houses in the scattered situations where shops appear those shops are not besieged by the crowds of more populist thoroughfares commerce is not turbulent nor is the public consumer besieged by loud invitations to buy birdfantiers have sought the congenial tranquility of the scene and pigeons coup and canaries twitter and vox hall walk secondhand carts and cabs bedsteads of a certain age detached carriage wheels for those who may want one to make up a set are all to be found here in the same repository one tributary stream the great flood of gas which illuminates London tracks its parent source to works established in this locality here the followers of John Wesley have set up a temple built before the period of Methodist conversion to the principles of architectural religion and here most striking object of all on the site where thousands of lights once sparkled where sweet sounds of music tuneful till morning dawned where the beauty and fashion of London feasted and danced through the summer seasons of a century spreads at this day an awful wilderness of mud and rubbish the deserted dead body of vox hall gardens moldering in the open air on the same day when captain rag completed the last entry in his chronicle of events a woman appeared at the window of one of the houses in vox hall walk and removed from the glass a printed paper which had been wafered to it announcing that apartments were to be let the apartments consisted of two rooms on the first floor they had just been taken for a week certain by two ladies who had paid in advance those two ladies being Magdalene and Mrs. Ragh as soon as the mistress of the house had left the room Magdalene walked to the window and cautiously looked out from it at the row of buildings opposite they were of superior pretensions in size and appearance to the other houses in the walk the date at which they had been erected was inscribed on one of them and was stated to be the year 1759 they stood back from the pavement separated from it by little strips of garden ground this peculiarity of position added to the breadth of the roadway interposing between them and the smaller houses opposite made it impossible for Magdalene to see the numbers on the doors or to observe more of anyone who might come to the windows than the bare general outline of dress and figure nevertheless there she stood anxiously fixing her eyes on one house in the row nearly opposite to her the house she had looked for before entering the lodgings the house inhabited at that moment by Noelle Vanstone and Mrs. LeCount after keeping watch at the window in silence for ten minutes or more she suddenly looked back into the room to observe the effect which her behavior might have produced on her traveling companion not the slightest cause appeared for any apprehension in that quarter Mrs. Ragh was seated at the table absorbed in the arrangement of a series of smart circulars and tempting price lists issued by advertising tradespeople and flung in at the cab windows as they left the London terminus I often heard tell-of-light reading said Mrs. Ragh restlessly shifting the positions of the circulars as a child restlessly shifts the position of her tablet looking very modest I go first I try to make sure it's comfortable I try to make sure it's comfortable I try to make sure it's comfortable I try to make sure it's comfortable I'm very slow and your teeth are sharp I am very slow no buzzing in my head, no captain to shave to-morrow. I'm all down at heel, my cap's on one side, and nobody balls at me. My heart alive here is a holiday and no mistake." Her hands began to drum on the table louder than ever, until Magdalen quieted them by presenting her with a pencil. Mrs. Ragh instantly recovered her dignity, squared her elbows on the table, and plunged into imaginary shopping for the rest of the evening. Magdalen returned to the window. She took a chair, seated herself behind the curtain, and steadily fixed her eyes once more on the house opposite. The blinds were down over the windows of the first floor and the second. The window of the room on the ground floor was uncovered and partly open, but no living creature came near it. Doors opened, and people came and went in the houses on either side. Children by the dozen poured out on the pavement to play, and invaded the little strips of garden ground to recover lost balls and shuttle-cocks. Streams of people passed backward and forward perpetually. Heavy wagons piled high with goods, lumbered along the road on their way to, or their way from, the railway station near. All the daily life of the district stirred with its ceaseless activity in every direction but one. The hours passed, and there was the house opposite still shut up, still void of any signs of human existence inside or out. The one object which had decided Magdalen on personally venturing herself in Vauxhall Walk, the object of studying the looks, manners, and habits of Mrs. Lacount and her master from a post of observation known only to herself, was thus far utterly defeated. After three hours watching at the window, she had not even discovered enough to show her that the house was inhabited at all. Shortly after six o'clock, the landlady disturbed Mrs. Ragh's studies by spreading the cloth for dinner. Magdalen placed herself at the table in a position which still enabled her to command the view from the window. Nothing happened. The dinner came to an end. Mrs. Ragh, lulled by the narcotic influence of annotating circulars and eating and drinking with an appetite sharpened by the captain's absence, withdrew to an armchair, and fell asleep in an attitude which would have caused her husband the acutest mental suffering. Seven o'clock struck. The shadows of the summer evening lengthened stealthily on the grey pavement and the brown house walls, and still the closed door opposite remained shut. Still the one window open showed nothing but the black blank of the room inside, lifeless and changeless as if that room had been a tomb. Mrs. Ragh's meek snoring deepened in tone. The evening wore on drearily. It was close on eight o'clock when an event happened at last. The street door opposite opened for the first time, and a woman appeared on the threshold. No. As she came nearer, her dress showed her to be a servant. She had a large door-key in her hand, and was evidently going out to perform an errand. Roused partly by curiosity, partly by the impulse of the moment, which urged her impetuous nature into action after the passive endurance of many hours passed. Magdalene snatched up her bonnet and determined to follow the servant to her destination, wherever it might be. The woman led her to the great thoroughfare of shop's close at hand, called Lambeth Walk. After proceeding some little distance, and looking about her with the hesitation of a person not well acquainted with the neighborhood, the servant crossed the road and entered a station or shop. Magdalene crossed the road after her and followed her in. The inevitable delay in entering the shop under these circumstances made Magdalene too late to hear what the woman asked for. The first word spoken, however, by the man behind the counter reached her ears, and informed her that the servant's object was to buy a railway guide. Do you mean a guide for this month, or a guide for July? asked the shopman, addressing his customer. Master didn't tell me which, answered the woman. All I know is he's going into the country the day after tomorrow. The day after tomorrow is the first of July, said the shopman. The guide your master wants is the guide for the new month. It won't be published till tomorrow. Engaging to call again on the next day, the servant left the shop and took the way that led back to Vauxhall Walk. Magdalene purchased the first trifle she saw on the counter and hastily returned in the same direction. The discovery she had just made was of very serious importance to her, and she felt the necessity of acting on it with as little delay as possible. On entering the front room at the lodgings, she found Mrs. Ray, just awake, lost in drowsy bewilderment, with her cap fallen off on her shoulders, and with one of her shoes missing altogether. Magdalene endeavored to persuade her that she was tired after her journey, and that her wisest proceeding would be to go to bed. Mrs. Ray was perfectly willing to profit by the suggestion, provided she could find her shoe first. In looking for the shoe, she unfortunately discovered the circulars, put by on a side table, and forthwith recovered her recollection of the earlier proceedings of the evening. Give us the pencil, said Mrs. Ray, shuffling the circulars in a violent hurry. I can't go to bed yet. I haven't half done marking down the things I want. Let's see, where did I leave off? Try Finch's feeding bottle for infants. No, there's a cross against that. The cross means I don't want it. Oh, dear, dear, I've lost the place. No, I haven't. Here it is. Here's my mark against it. Elegant cashmere robes, strictly oriental, very grand, reduced to one pound, nineteen, and six pence. Be in time, only three left. Only three? Oh, do lend us the money, and let's go and get one. Not to-night, said Magdalen. Suppose you go to bed now, and to finish the circulars tomorrow. I will put them by the bedside for you, and you can go on with them as soon as you wake the first thing in the morning. This suggestion met with Mrs. Ray's immediate approval. Magdalen took her into the next room, and put her to bed like a child, with her toys by her side. The room was so narrow, and the bed was so small, and Mrs. Ray, arrayed in the white apparel proper for the occasion, with her moon face framed round by a spacious halo of nightcap, looked so hugely and disproportionately large that Magdalen, anxious as she was, could not repress a smile on taking leave of her travelling companion for the night. Aha! cried Mrs. Ray cheerfully. We'll have that cashmere robe tomorrow. Come here, I want to whisper something to you. Just you look at me. I'm going to sleep crooked, and the captain's not here to ball at me. The front room at the lodgings contained a sofa bedstead, which the landlady arranged betimes for the night. This done, and the candles brought in, Magdalen was left alone to shape the future course as her own thoughts counseled her. The questions and answers which had passed in her presence that evening at the station or shop led plainly to the conclusion that one day more would bring Noel Vanstone's present term of residence in Vauxhall Walk to an end. Her first cautious resolution to pass many days together in unsuspected observation of the house opposite, before she ventured herself inside, was entirely frustrated by the turn events had taken. She was placed in the dilemma of running all risks headlong on the next day, or of pausing for a future opportunity which might never occur. There was no middle course open to her, until she had seen Noel Vanstone with her own eyes, and had discovered the worst there was to fear from Mrs. LeCount. Until she had achieved this double object, with the needful precaution of keeping her own identity carefully in the dark, not a step could she advance toward the accomplishment of the purpose which had brought her to London. One after another the minutes of the night passed away. One after another the thronging thoughts followed each other over her mind, and still she reached no conclusion. Still she faltered and doubted, with a hesitation new to her in her experience of herself. At last she crossed the room impatiently to seek the trivial relief of unlocking her trunk and taking from it the few things that she wanted for the night. Captain Ragn's suspicions had not misled him. There, hidden between two dresses, were the articles of costume which he had missed from her box at Birmingham. She turned them over one by one to satisfy herself that nothing she wanted had been forgotten, and returned once more to her post of observation by the window. The house opposite was dark down to the parlor. There the blind, previously raised, was now drawn over the window. The light burning behind it showed her for the first time that the room was inhabited. Her eyes brightened, and her color rose as she looked at it. There he is, she said to herself in a low, angry whisper. There he lives on our money, in the house that his father's warning has closed against me. She dropped the blind which she had raised to look out, returned to her trunk, and took from it the grey wig which was part of her dramatic costume in the character of the North Country Lady. The wig had been crumpled in packing. She put it on and went to the toilet table to comb it out. His father has warned him against Magdalen Van Stone. She said, repeating the passage in Mrs. La Count's letter, and laughing bitterly as she looked at herself in the glass. I wonder whether his father has warned him against Miss Garth. Tomorrow is sooner than I bargained for. No matter. Tomorrow shall show.