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    No Name
    No Name
    No Name
    Ebook956 pages16 hours

    No Name

    By Wilkie Collins and Otto Penzler

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    A tragic tale of family and misfortune from the author of The Woman in White

    When their beloved parents die in quick succession, Magdalen and Norah Vanstone find that their world has been torn asunder. Through a legal technicality, their father’s will renders them without a legitimate claim to their inheritance. All of their family’s money goes to their uncle, and the orphaned girls are left reeling. Reduced to utter poverty, Norah takes a job as a governess. But Magdalen is determined to win back what is rightfully theirs.
     
    In this deft and moving story, Wilkie Collins weaves a powerful narrative of justice and familial bonds.
     
    This ebook features a new introduction from Otto Penzler and has been professionally proofread to ensure accuracy and readability on all devices.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMysteriousPress.com Open Road
    Release dateAug 25, 2015
    ISBN9781504021166
    Author

    Wilkie Collins

    Hijo del paisajista William Collins, nació en Londres en 1824. Fue aprendiz en una compañía de comercio de té, estudió Derecho, hizo sus pinitos como pintor y actor y, antes de conocer a Charles Dickens en 1851, había publicado ya una bio­grafía de su padre, Memoirs of the Life of William Collins, Esq., R. A. (1848), una novela histórica, Antonina (1850), y un libro de viajes, Rambles Beyond Railways (1851). Pero el encuentro con Dickens fue decisivo para la trayectoria literaria de ambos. Ba­sil (ALBA CLÁSICA núm. VI; Alba Minus núm. 10) inició en 1852 una serie de novelas «sensacionales», llenas de misterio y violencia pero siempre dentro de un entorno de cla­se media, que, con su técnica brillante y su compleja estruc­tu­ra, obtu­vie­ron enseguida una gran repercusión: La mujer de blanco (1860), Arma­da­le (1862; ALBA CLÁSICA MAIOR núm. LXXXIV) o La Piedra Lunar (1868; ALBA CLÁSICA MAIOR núm. L), que sentó las bases del moderno relato detectivesco, fueron tan aplaudidas como imitadas. En Sin nombre (1862; ALBA CLÁSICA MAIOR núm. XI; Alba Minus núm. 19) y Marido y mujer (1870; ALBA CLÁSICA MAIOR núm. XVI; Alba Minus núm. 6), las heroínas son mujeres dramáticamente condicionadas por una arbitraria situación legal. Otras novelas suyas son La pobre señorita Finch (1871-1872; ALBA CLÁSICA núm. XXVI; Alba Minus núm. 6) y La hija de Jezabel (1880; ALBA CLÁSICA núm. CXL). Collins murió en Londres en 1889, sin haberse casado nunca pero cabeza de dos familias distintas y rigurosamente secretas.

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    Reviews for No Name

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    • 3/5
      It took me a while to get into this book, but the story picked up pace at about the 200 page mark and from that point onwards I was fairly well hooked. There were the usual outrageous coincidences which would be so frowned upon in novels written today, but it was good to read a Victorian novel with such a strong and resourceful female protagonist. Wilkie Collins hasn't got the 'brand awareness' of Dickens, but I think he was much more sympathetic to women.
    • 5/5
      I heartily recommend this book to fans of Wilkie Collins! I really enjoyed it even though it wasn't quite as good as The Woman in White or The Moonstone. I think the dénouement could have been more dramatic, but I see why Collins ended the book the way he did.
    • 4/5
      This 1862 novel has interesting events powered by the law as it existed in 1846 in Britain, where bastards had no inheritance rights unless conferred by will. This leads to two fine young women being deprived of an part in their father's ample estate. One of the girls proceeds to try to get this money by marrying the guy who has it. This sets up a tortuous path as she strives to get the money, full of twists and turns and holding the reader, if a little incredulous o the liklihood of the events, reading on until the very last page. It is fun to think of what this novel does not tell and which a modern novel would tell. For instance, not a word of the sex lives of the couple after the woman, who despises the man, succeeds in marrying him. The story goes on and on, with some things inducing incredulity, and while not as good as the best Dickens novels, does have events which make one eager to see what happens. Actually, a lot better than some modern fiction
    • 5/5
      When I turned the last page of "No Name" my first thought was " Why did I take so long to read this book?, so much time wasted!"My only Collins experience had been some years ago with "The woman in white" and I wasn't disappointed. But I don't know why I kept postponing starting this novel, which had been in my shelves for quite a long time. Maybe its lenght, maybe (in my humble opinion) the too much simplified summary plot, maybe because I thought I knew what kind of book I was going to read...Well, wasn't I mistaken!I simply loved every single page of the 726 of the novel. Not for a single moment did I feel disconnected from the story or its characters, so varied and well developed. From the so different Vanstone Sisters to the sneaky Mr Wraggle or the cunning Mrs Lecount (what a clash of titans! I loved the psychological struggle between these two characters) to the knightly hero of Mr. Kirke.The novel is divided into 8 scenes, each one of them clearly separated, taking place in different settings and with several characters which cross the path of the brave Magdalen Vanstone. The story follows the unfair situation of two sisters left orphaned by the sudden death of their parents and how they take the fateful news that leave them destitute of her parents' fortune. Sweet and innocent Norah accepts her due and starts working as a governess but her younger and spirited sister Magdalen starts planning her revenge and schemes a trap to recover their fortune, no matter the cost.Not only the thriller in itself, but also the unconventional way of presenting the facts, the battle of Magdalen's conscience between good and evil and the outcome of the story teaches a lesson which is still useful nowadays.Maybe one of the best readings this year, I think this novel should be more valued and that it should be occupying the place it deserves, among the masterpieces to be read and reread over and over again.***SPOILER***Can't help writing the last sentences of the story...It was sublime!" "Tell me the truth!" she repeated. "With my own lips?" "Yes!" she answered eagerly. "Say what you think of me, with your own lips." He stooped, and kissed her. "
    • 4/5
      This is one of the lesser-known of Collins' novels, which surprises me, as this is a cracking good read in the best 'sensation novel' tradition.Sisters Magdalen and Norah Vanstone live an idyllic life with loving parents until tragedy strikes. Their father's death is followed quickly by the death of their mother. Not only are the sisters left orphans, but - because their parents weren't actually married when the girls were born - they are not entitled to inherit any of their parents' money or possessions. The entire fortune goes to their uncle, who has had no contact with his brother for years and has no love for his nieces.Norah takes this change in her circumstances philosophically, resigned to finding work as a governess. But Magdalen cannot accept her situation. A very active and independent heroine, she sets out to exact her revenge. When she discovers that her uncle is dead, she turns her attentions to his sickly, miserly son. Magdalen is aided in her plans by Captain Wragge, a distant relation. He is a self-confessed swindler, and is a great comic character - quite as memorable as many of Dickens' grotesques, but he is also likeable because, whatever his other faults, he has a strong streak of humanity running through him.It is difficult for a modern reader to disapprove of Magdalen too much, even though what she sets out to do is questionable in the extreme. Collins shows us how her character grows, and her humanity it shown in her fondness and consideration for Captain Wragge's tall, nervous wife. The other memorable character is Mrs Lecount, the possessive housekeeper of Noel Vanstone, the man who inherits the money Magdalen believes is rightfully hers. One of the great joys of the novels is the cat-and-mouse plotting and counter-plotting that goes on between Wragge and Lecount, each trying to keep one step ahead of the other.[May 2008]
    • 3/5
      A fairly run-of-the-mill Collins, though there is nothing wrong with that! Lifted out of the ordinary by the marvellous duel between Captain Wragge and Mrs Lecount.
    • 4/5
      I got this book as a Christmas present and it turned out to be a real surprise, as I'd been vaguely under the impression that the only Collins books worth reading were Moonstone, Woman in White and (possibly) Armadale. As others have explained above, the plot revolves around the attempts by Magdalen Vanstone to put right the injustice done to herself and her sister Norah as a result of their father dying unexpectedly without having made a valid will.In his preface, Collins states (not altogether convincingly) that his primary objecitve is to study the psychology underlying Magdalen's vacillations between right and wrong. To this end, he intends to eschew his usual twists and turns and shock revelations. Well, up to a point .......The first thing to say is that the book is a real page-turner. Once past the initial scene-setting (itself very well done), it's hard to put the book down. This is helped by the fact that - unlike his friend and associate, Dickens - Collins does not really go in for copious sub-plots. As somebody else has mentioned here, the central section where Wragge and Lecounter go head to head with their rococo machinations is splendid, as well as being very funny at times.My one criticism would be that the book is fractionally too long. The cost of squeezing a couple more episodes out of the plot is that the coincidences pile up and plausibility takes a nose dive. But this is a minor quibble. This is a fine novel by a much overlooked writer.
    • 3/5
      Although a good read in that the characters were well drawn and the pace is good, it is really difficult to reconcile oneself to the plot. The fate of the sisters by the end of the book is totally unjust, as the passive and resigned sister is given all the good fortune and the artistic and rightfully angry sister is given all the punishment. Collins is basically saying that a woman's resourcefulness, ambitition and rightful indignation against injustice is a moral failing.

    Book preview

    No Name - Wilkie Collins

    CHAPTER I

    THE HANDS ON THE HALL-CLOCK pointed to half-past six in the morning. The house was a country residence in West Somersetshire, called Combe-Raven. The day was the fourth of March, and the year was eighteen hundred and forty-six.

    No sounds but the steady ticking of the clock, and the lumpish snoring of a large dog stretched on a mat outside the dining-room door, disturbed the mysterious morning stillness of hall and staircase. Who were the sleepers hidden in the upper regions? Let the house reveal its own secrets; and, one by one, as they descend the stairs from their beds, let the sleepers disclose themselves.

    As the clock pointed to a quarter to seven, the dog woke and shook himself. After waiting in vain for the footman, who was accustomed to let him out, the animal wandered restlessly from one closed door to another on the ground-floor; and, returning to his mat in great perplexity, appealed to the sleeping family with a long and melancholy howl.

    Before the last notes of the dog’s remonstrance had died away, the oaken stairs in the higher regions of the house creaked under slowly descending footsteps. In a minute more the first of the female servants made her appearance, with a dingy woolen shawl over her shoulders—for the March morning was bleak; and rheumatism and the cook were old acquaintances.

    Receiving the dog’s first cordial advances with the worst possible grace, the cook slowly opened the hall door and let the animal out. It was a wild morning. Over a spacious lawn, and behind a black plantation of firs, the rising sun rent its way upward through piles of ragged gray cloud; heavy drops of rain fell few and far between; the March wind shuddered round the corners of the house, and the wet trees swayed wearily.

    Seven o’clock struck; and the signs of domestic life began to show themselves in more rapid succession.

    The housemaid came down—tall and slim, with the state of the spring temperature written redly on her nose. The lady’s-maid followed—young, smart, plump, and sleepy. The kitchen-maid came next—afflicted with the face-ache, and making no secret of her sufferings. Last of all, the footman appeared, yawning disconsolately; the living picture of a man who felt that he had been defrauded of his fair night’s rest.

    The conversation of the servants, when they assembled before the slowly lighting kitchen fire, referred to a recent family event, and turned at starting on this question: Had Thomas, the footman, seen anything of the concert at Clifton, at which his master and the two young ladies had been present on the previous night? Yes; Thomas had heard the concert; he had been paid for to go in at the back; it was a loud concert; it was a hot concert; it was described at the top of the bills as Grand; whether it was worth traveling sixteen miles to hear by railway, with the additional hardship of going back nineteen miles by road, at half-past one in the morning—was a question which he would leave his master and the young ladies to decide; his own opinion, in the meantime, being unhesitatingly, No. Further inquiries, on the part of all the female servants in succession, elicited no additional information of any sort. Thomas could hum none of the songs, and could describe none of the ladies’ dresses. His audience, accordingly, gave him up in despair; and the kitchen small-talk flowed back into its ordinary channels, until the clock struck eight and startled the assembled servants into separating for their morning’s work.

    A quarter past eight, and nothing happened. Half-past—and more signs of life appeared from the bedroom regions. The next member of the family who came downstairs was Mr. Andrew Vanstone, the master of the house.

    Tall, stout, and upright—with bright blue eyes, and healthy, florid complexion—his brown plush shooting-jacket carelessly buttoned awry; his vixenish little Scotch terrier barking unrebuked at his heels; one hand thrust into his waistcoat pocket, and the other smacking the banisters cheerfully as he came downstairs humming a tune—Mr. Vanstone showed his character on the surface of him freely to all men. An easy, hearty, handsome, good-humored gentleman, who walked on the sunny side of the way of life, and who asked nothing better than to meet all his fellow-passengers in this world on the sunny side, too. Estimating him by years, he had turned fifty. Judging him by lightness of heart, strength of constitution, and capacity for enjoyment, he was no older than most men who have only turned thirty.

    Thomas! cried Mr. Vanstone, taking up his old felt hat and his thick walking stick from the hall table. Breakfast, this morning, at ten. The young ladies are not likely to be down earlier after the concert last night.— By-the-by, how did you like the concert yourself, eh? You thought it was grand? Quite right; so it was. Nothing but crash-bang, varied now and then by bang-crash; all the women dressed within an inch of their lives; smothering heat, blazing gas, and no room for anybody—yes, yes, Thomas; grand’s the word for it, and comfortable isn’t. With that expression of opinion, Mr. Vanstone whistled to his vixenish terrier; flourished his stick at the hall door in cheerful defiance of the rain; and set off through wind and weather for his morning walk.

    The hands, stealing their steady way round the dial of the clock, pointed to ten minutes to nine. Another member of the family appeared on the stairs—Miss Garth, the governess.

    No observant eyes could have surveyed Miss Garth without seeing at once that she was a north-countrywoman. Her hard-featured face; her masculine readiness and decision of movement; her obstinate honesty of look and manner, all proclaimed her border birth and border training. Though little more than forty years of age, her hair was quite gray; and she wore over it the plain cap of an old woman. Neither hair nor head-dress was out of harmony with her face—it looked older than her years: the hard handwriting of trouble had scored it heavily at some past time. The self-possession of her progress downstairs, and the air of habitual authority with which she looked about her, spoke well for her position in Mr. Vanstone’s family. This was evidently not one of the forlorn, persecuted, pitiably dependent order of governesses. Here was a woman who lived on ascertained and honorable terms with her employers—a woman who looked capable of sending any parents in England to the right-about, if they failed to rate her at her proper value.

    Breakfast at ten? repeated Miss Garth, when the footman had answered the bell, and had mentioned his master’s orders. "Ha! I thought what would come of that concert last night. When people who live in the country patronize public amusements, public amusements return the compliment by upsetting the family afterward for days together. You’re upset, Thomas, I can see your eyes are as red as a ferret’s, and your cravat looks as if you had slept in it. Bring the kettle at a quarter to ten—and if you don’t get better in the course of the day, come to me, and I’ll give you a dose of physic. That’s a well-meaning lad, if you only let him alone, continued Miss Garth, in soliloquy, when Thomas had retired; but he’s not strong enough for concerts twenty miles off. They wanted me to go with them last night. Yes: catch me!"

    Nine o’clock struck; and the minute-hand stole on to twenty minutes past the hour, before any more footsteps were heard on the stairs. At the end of that time, two ladies appeared, descending to the breakfast-room together—Mrs. Vanstone and her eldest daughter.

    If the personal attractions of Mrs. Vanstone, at an earlier period of life, had depended solely on her native English charms of complexion and freshness, she must have long since lost the last relics of her fairer self. But her beauty as a young woman had passed beyond the average national limits; and she still preserved the advantage of her more exceptional personal gifts. Although she was now in her forty-fourth year; although she had been tried, in bygone times, by the premature loss of more than one of her children, and by long attacks of illness which had followed those bereavements of former years—she still preserved the fair proportion and subtle delicacy of feature, once associated with the all-adorning brightness and freshness of beauty, which had left her never to return. Her eldest child, now descending the stairs by her side, was the mirror in which she could look back and see again the reflection of her own youth. There, folded thick on the daughter’s head, lay the massive dark hair, which, on the mother’s, was fast turning gray. There, in the daughter’s cheek, glowed the lovely dusky red which had faded from the mother’s to bloom again no more. Miss Vanstone had already reached the first maturity of womanhood; she had completed her six-and-twentieth year. Inheriting the dark majestic character of her mother’s beauty, she had yet hardly inherited all its charms. Though the shape of her face was the same, the features were scarcely so delicate, their proportion was scarcely so true. She was not so tall. She had the dark-brown eyes of her mother—full and soft, with the steady luster in them which Mrs. Vanstone’s eyes had lost—and yet there was less interest, less refinement and depth of feeling in her expression: it was gentle and feminine, but clouded by a certain quiet reserve, from which her mother’s face was free. If we dare to look closely enough, may we not observe that the moral force of character and the higher intellectual capacities in parents seem often to wear out mysteriously in the course of transmission to children? In these days of insidious nervous exhaustion and subtly spreading nervous malady, is it not possible that the same rule may apply, less rarely than we are willing to admit, to the bodily gifts as well?

    The mother and daughter slowly descended the stairs together—the first dressed in dark brown, with an Indian shawl thrown over her shoulders; the second more simply attired in black, with a plain collar and cuffs, and a dark orange-colored ribbon over the bosom of her dress. As they crossed the hall and entered the breakfast-room, Miss Vanstone was full of the all-absorbing subject of the last night’s concert.

    I am so sorry, mamma, you were not with us, she said. You have been so strong and so well ever since last summer—you have felt so many years younger, as you said yourself—that I am sure the exertion would not have been too much for you.

    Perhaps not, my love—but it was as well to keep on the safe side.

    Quite as well, remarked Miss Garth, appearing at the breakfast-room door. Look at Norah (good-morning, my dear)—look, I say, at Norah. A perfect wreck; a living proof of your wisdom and mine in staying at home. The vile gas, the foul air, the late hours—what can you expect? She’s not made of iron, and she suffers accordingly. No, my dear, you needn’t deny it. I see you’ve got a headache.

    Norah’s dark, handsome face brightened into a smile—then lightly clouded again with its accustomed quiet reserve.

    A very little headache; not half enough to make me regret the concert, she said, and walked away by herself to the window.

    On the far side of a garden and paddock the view overlooked a stream, some farm buildings which lay beyond, and the opening of a wooded, rocky pass (called, in Somersetshire, a Combe), which here cleft its way through the hills that closed the prospect. A winding strip of road was visible, at no great distance, amid the undulations of the open ground; and along this strip the stalwart figure of Mr. Vanstone was now easily recognizable, returning to the house from his morning walk. He flourished his stick gayly, as he observed his eldest daughter at the window. She nodded and waved her hand in return, very gracefully and prettily—but with something of old-fashioned formality in her manner, which looked strangely in so young a woman, and which seemed out of harmony with a salutation addressed to her father.

    The hall-clock struck the adjourned breakfast-hour. When the minute hand had recorded the lapse of five minutes more a door banged in the bedroom regions—a clear young voice was heard singing blithely—light, rapid footsteps pattered on the upper stairs, descended with a jump to the landing, and pattered again, faster than ever, down the lower flight. In another moment the youngest of Mr. Vanstone’s two daughters (and two only surviving children) dashed into view on the dingy old oaken stairs, with the suddenness of a flash of light; and clearing the last three steps into the hall at a jump, presented herself breathless in the breakfast-room to make the family circle complete.

    By one of those strange caprices of Nature, which science leaves still unexplained, the youngest of Mr. Vanstone’s children presented no recognizable resemblance to either of her parents. How had she come by her hair? how had she come by her eyes? Even her father and mother had asked themselves those questions, as she grew up to girlhood, and had been sorely perplexed to answer them. Her hair was of that purely light-brown hue, unmixed with flaxen, or yellow, or red—which is oftener seen on the plumage of a bird than on the head of a human being. It was soft and plentiful, and waved downward from her low forehead in regular folds—but, to some tastes, it was dull and dead, in its absolute want of glossiness, in its monotonous purity of plain light color. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were just a shade darker than her hair, and seemed made expressly for those violet-blue eyes, which assert their most irresistible charm when associated with a fair complexion. But it was here exactly that the promise of her face failed of performance in the most startling manner. The eyes, which should have been dark, were incomprehensibly and discordantly light; they were of that nearly colorless gray which, though little attractive in itself, possesses the rare compensating merit of interpreting the finest gradations of thought, the gentlest changes of feeling, the deepest trouble of passion, with a subtle transparency of expression which no darker eyes can rival. Thus quaintly self-contradictory in the upper part of her face, she was hardly less at variance with established ideas of harmony in the lower. Her lips had the true feminine delicacy of form, her cheeks the lovely roundness and smoothness of youth—but the mouth was too large and firm, the chin too square and massive for her sex and age. Her complexion partook of the pure monotony of tint which characterized her hair—it was of the same soft, warm, creamy fairness all over, without a tinge of color in the cheeks, except on occasions of unusual bodily exertion or sudden mental disturbance. The whole countenance—so remarkable in its strongly opposed characteristics—was rendered additionally striking by its extraordinary mobility. The large, electric, light-gray eyes were hardly ever in repose; all varieties of expression followed each other over the plastic, ever-changing face, with a giddy rapidity which left sober analysis far behind in the race. The girl’s exuberant vitality asserted itself all over her, from head to foot. Her figure—taller than her sister’s, taller than the average of woman’s height; instinct with such a seductive, serpentine suppleness, so lightly and playfully graceful, that its movements suggested, not unnaturally, the movements of a young cat—her figure was so perfectly developed already that no one who saw her could have supposed that she was only eighteen. She bloomed in the full physical maturity of twenty years or more—bloomed naturally and irresistibly, in right of her matchless health and strength. Here, in truth, lay the mainspring of this strangely-constituted organization. Her headlong course down the house stairs; the brisk activity of all her movements; the incessant sparkle of expression in her face; the enticing gayety which took the hearts of the quietest people by storm—even the reckless delight in bright colors which showed itself in her brilliantly striped morning dress, in her fluttering ribbons, in the large scarlet rosettes on her smart little shoes—all sprang alike from the same source; from the overflowing physical health which strengthened every muscle, braced every nerve, and set the warm young blood tingling through her veins, like the blood of a growing child.

    On her entry into the breakfast-room, she was saluted with the customary remonstrance which her flighty disregard of all punctuality habitually provoked from the long-suffering household authorities. In Miss Garth’s favorite phrase, Magdalen was born with all the senses—except a sense of order.

    Magdalen! It was a strange name to have given her? Strange, indeed; and yet, chosen under no extraordinary circumstances. The name had been borne by one of Mr. Vanstone’s sisters, who had died in early youth; and, in affectionate remembrance of her, he had called his second daughter by it—just as he had called his eldest daughter Norah, for his wife’s sake. Magdalen! Surely, the grand old Bible name—suggestive of a sad and somber dignity; recalling, in its first association, mournful ideas of penitence and seclusion—had been here, as events had turned out, inappropriately bestowed? Surely, this self-contradictory girl had perversely accomplished one contradiction more, by developing into a character which was out of all harmony with her own Christian name!

    Late again! said Mrs. Vanstone, as Magdalen breathlessly kissed her.

    Late again! chimed in Miss Garth, when Magdalen came her way next. Well? she went on, taking the girl’s chin familiarly in her hand, with a half-satirical, half-fond attention which betrayed that the youngest daughter, with all her faults, was the governess’s favorite—"Well? and what has the concert done for you? What form of suffering has dissipation inflicted on your system this morning?"

    Suffering! repeated Magdalen, recovering her breath, and the use of her tongue with it. I don’t know the meaning of the word: if there’s anything the matter with me, I’m too well. Suffering! I’m ready for another concert tonight, and a ball tomorrow, and a play the day after. Oh, cried Magdalen, dropping into a chair and crossing her hands rapturously on the table, how I do like pleasure!

    Come! that’s explicit at any rate, said Miss Garth. "I think Pope must have had you in his mind when he wrote his famous lines:

    ‘Men some to business, some to pleasure take, But every woman is at heart a rake.’

    The deuce she is! cried Mr. Vanstone, entering the room while Miss Garth was making her quotation, with the dogs at his heels. Well; live and learn. If you’re all rakes, Miss Garth, the sexes are turned topsy-turvy with a vengeance; and the men will have nothing left for it but to stop at home and darn the stockings. — Let’s have some breakfast.

    How-d’ye-do, papa? said Magdalen, taking Mr. Vanstone as boisterously round the neck as if he belonged to some larger order of Newfoundland dog, and was made to be romped with at his daughter’s convenience. I’m the rake Miss Garth means; and I want to go to another concert—or a play, if you like—or a ball, if you prefer it—or anything else in the way of amusement that puts me into a new dress, and plunges me into a crowd of people, and illuminates me with plenty of light, and sets me in a tingle of excitement all over, from head to foot. Anything will do, as long as it doesn’t send us to bed at eleven o’clock.

    Mr. Vanstone sat down composedly under his daughter’s flow of language, like a man who was well used to verbal inundation from that quarter. If I am to be allowed my choice of amusements next time, said the worthy gentleman, I think a play will suit me better than a concert. The girls enjoyed themselves amazingly, my dear, he continued, addressing his wife. More than I did, I must say. It was altogether above my mark. They played one piece of music which lasted forty minutes. It stopped three times, by-the-way; and we all thought it was done each time, and clapped our hands, rejoiced to be rid of it. But on it went again, to our great surprise and mortification, till we gave it up in despair, and all wished ourselves at Jericho. Norah, my dear! when we had crash-bang for forty minutes, with three stoppages by-the-way, what did they call it?

    A symphony, papa, replied Norah.

    Yes, you darling old Goth, a symphony by the great Beethoven! added Magdalen. How can you say you were not amused? Have you forgotten the yellow-looking foreign woman, with the unpronounceable name? Don’t you remember the faces she made when she sang? and the way she courtesied and courtesied, till she cheated the foolish people into crying encore? Look here, mamma—look here, Miss Garth!

    She snatched up an empty plate from the table, to represent a sheet of music, held it before her in the established concert-room position, and produced an imitation of the unfortunate singer’s grimaces and courtesyings, so accurately and quaintly true to the original, that her father roared with laughter; and even the footman (who came in at that moment with the post-bag) rushed out of the room again, and committed the indecorum of echoing his master audibly on the other side of the door.

    Letters, papa. I want the key, said Magdalen, passing from the imitation at the breakfast-table to the post-bag on the sideboard with the easy abruptness which characterized all her actions.

    Mr. Vanstone searched his pockets and shook his head. Though his youngest daughter might resemble him in nothing else, it was easy to see where Magdalen’s unmethodical habits came from.

    I dare say I have left it in the library, along with my other keys, said Mr. Vanstone. Go and look for it, my dear.

    You really should check Magdalen, pleaded Mrs. Vanstone, addressing her husband when her daughter had left the room. Those habits of mimicry are growing on her; and she speaks to you with a levity which it is positively shocking to hear.

    Exactly what I have said myself, till I am tired of repeating it, remarked Miss Garth. She treats Mr. Vanstone as if he was a kind of younger brother of hers.

    You are kind to us in everything else, papa; and you make kind allowances for Magdalen’s high spirits—don’t you? said the quiet Norah, taking her father’s part and her sister’s with so little show of resolution on the surface that few observers would have been sharp enough to detect the genuine substance beneath it.

    Thank you, my dear, said good-natured Mr. Vanstone. Thank you for a very pretty speech. As for Magdalen, he continued, addressing his wife and Miss Garth, she’s an unbroken filly. Let her caper and kick in the paddock to her heart’s content. Time enough to break her to harness when she gets a little older.

    The door opened, and Magdalen returned with the key. She unlocked the post-bag at the sideboard and poured out the letters in a heap. Sorting them gayly in less than a minute, she approached the breakfast-table with both hands full, and delivered the letters all round with the business-like rapidity of a London postman.

    Two for Norah, she announced, beginning with her sister. Three for Miss Garth. None for mamma. One for me. And the other six all for papa. You lazy old darling, you hate answering letters, don’t you? pursued Magdalen, dropping the postman’s character and assuming the daughter’s. "How you will grumble and fidget in the study! and how you will wish there were no such things as letters in the world! and how red your nice old bald head will get at the top with the worry of writing the answers; and how many of the answers you will leave until tomorrow after all! The Bristol Theater’s open, papa, she whispered, slyly and suddenly, in her father’s ear; I saw it in the newspaper when I went to the library to get the key. Let’s go tomorrow night!"

    While his daughter was chattering, Mr. Vanstone was mechanically sorting his letters. He turned over the first four in succession and looked carelessly at the addresses. When he came to the fifth his attention, which had hitherto wandered toward Magdalen, suddenly became fixed on the post-mark of the letter.

    Stooping over him, with her head on his shoulder, Magdalen could see the post-mark as plainly as her father saw it—NEW ORLEANS.

    An American letter, papa! she said. Who do you know at New Orleans?

    Mrs. Vanstone started, and looked eagerly at her husband the moment Magdalen spoke those words.

    Mr. Vanstone said nothing. He quietly removed his daughter’s arm from his neck, as if he wished to be free from all interruption. She returned, accordingly, to her place at the breakfast-table. Her father, with the letter in his hand, waited a little before he opened it; her mother looking at him, the while, with an eager, expectant attention which attracted Miss Garth’s notice, and Norah’s, as well as Magdalen’s.

    After a minute or more of hesitation Mr. Vanstone opened the letter.

    His face changed color the instant he read the first lines; his cheeks fading to a dull, yellow-brown hue, which would have been ashy paleness in a less florid man; and his expression becoming saddened and overclouded in a moment. Norah and Magdalen, watching anxiously, saw nothing but the change that passed over their father. Miss Garth alone observed the effect which that change produced on the attentive mistress of the house.

    It was not the effect which she, or any one, could have anticipated. Mrs. Vanstone looked excited rather than alarmed. A faint flush rose on her cheeks—her eyes brightened—she stirred the tea round and round in her cup in a restless, impatient manner which was not natural to her.

    Magdalen, in her capacity of spoiled child, was, as usual, the first to break the silence.

    "What is the matter, papa?" she asked.

    Nothing, said Mr. Vanstone, sharply, without looking up at her.

    I’m sure there must be something, persisted Magdalen. I’m sure there is bad news, papa, in that American letter.

    "There is nothing in the letter that concerns you," said Mr. Vanstone.

    It was the first direct rebuff that Magdalen had ever received from her father. She looked at him with an incredulous surprise, which would have been irresistibly absurd under less serious circumstances.

    Nothing more was said. For the first time, perhaps, in their lives, the family sat round the breakfast-table in painful silence. Mr. Vanstone’s hearty morning appetite, like his hearty morning spirits, was gone. He absently broke off some morsels of dry toast from the rack near him, absently finished his first cup of tea—then asked for a second, which he left before him untouched.

    Norah, he said, after an interval, you needn’t wait for me. Magdalen, my dear, you can go when you like.

    His daughters rose immediately; and Miss Garth considerately followed their example. When an easy-tempered man does assert himself in his family, the rarity of the demonstration invariably has its effect; and the will of that easy-tempered man is Law.

    What can have happened? whispered Norah, as they closed the breakfast-room door and crossed the hall.

    What does papa mean by being cross with Me? exclaimed Magdalen, chafing under a sense of her own injuries.

    May I ask—what right you had to pry into your father’s private affairs? retorted Miss Garth.

    Right? repeated Magdalen. I have no secrets from papa—what business has papa to have secrets from me! I consider myself insulted.

    If you considered yourself properly reproved for not minding your own business, said the plain-spoken Miss Garth, you would be a trifle nearer the truth. Ah! you are like all the rest of the girls in the present day. Not one in a hundred of you knows which end of her’s uppermost.

    The three ladies entered the morning-room; and Magdalen acknowledged Miss Garth’s reproof by banging the door.

    Half an hour passed, and neither Mr. Vanstone nor his wife left the breakfast-room. The servant, ignorant of what had happened, went in to clear the table—found his master and mistress seated close together in deep consultation—and immediately went out again. Another quarter of an hour elapsed before the breakfast-room door was opened, and the private conference of the husband and wife came to an end.

    I hear mamma in the hall, said Norah. Perhaps she is coming to tell us something.

    Mrs. Vanstone entered the morning-room as her daughter spoke. The color was deeper on her cheeks, and the brightness of half-dried tears glistened in her eyes; her step was more hasty, all her movements were quicker than usual.

    I bring news, my dears, which will surprise you, she said, addressing her daughters. Your father and I are going to London tomorrow.

    Magdalen caught her mother by the arm in speechless astonishment. Miss Garth dropped her work on her lap; even the sedate Norah started to her feet, and amazedly repeated the words, Going to London!

    Without us? added Magdalen.

    Your father and I are going alone, said Mrs. Vanstone. Perhaps, for as long as three weeks—but not longer. We are going—she hesitated—we are going on important family business. Don’t hold me, Magdalen. This is a sudden necessity—I have a great deal to do today—many things to set in order before tomorrow. There, there, my love, let me go.

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

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

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

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

    CHAPTER II

    AT TEN O’CLOCK THE NEXT morning Norah and Magdalen stood alone in the hall at Combe-Raven watching the departure of the carriage which took their father and mother to the London train.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Is she at home?

    No.

    Out for long?

    Gone to London with Mr. Vanstone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Captain Wragge. Post-office, Bristol.

    CHAPTER III

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

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

    By return of post the answer arrived.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Although the statement thus presented implied a weakness in Mrs. Vanstone’s character which Miss Garth, after many years of intimate experience, had never detected, she accepted the explanation as a matter of course; receiving it all the more readily inasmuch as it might, without impropriety, be communicated in substance to appease the irritated curiosity of the two young ladies. For this reason especially she perused the first half of the letter with an agreeable sense of relief. Far different was the impression produced on her when she advanced to the second half, and when she had read it to the end.

    The second part of the letter was devoted to the subject of the journey to London.

    Mrs. Vanstone began by referring to the long and intimate friendship which had existed between Miss Garth and herself. She now felt it due to that friendship to explain confidentially the motive which had induced her to leave home with her husband. Miss Garth had delicately refrained from showing it, but she must naturally have felt, and must still be feeling, great surprise at the mystery in which their departure had been involved; and she must doubtless have asked herself why Mrs. Vanstone should have been associated with family affairs which (in her independent position as to relatives) must necessarily concern Mr. Vanstone alone.

    Without touching on those affairs, which it was neither desirable nor necessary to do, Mrs. Vanstone then proceeded to say that she would at once set all Miss Garth’s doubts at rest, so far as they related to herself, by one plain acknowledgment. Her object in accompanying her husband to London was to see a certain celebrated physician, and to consult him privately on a very delicate and anxious matter connected with the state of her health. In plainer terms still, this anxious matter meant nothing less than the possibility that she might again become a mother.

    When the doubt had first suggested itself she had treated it as a mere delusion. The long interval that had elapsed since the birth of her last child; the serious illness which had afflicted her after the death of that child in infancy; the time of life at which she had now arrived—all inclined her to dismiss the idea as soon as it arose in her mind. It had returned again and again in spite of her. She had felt the necessity of consulting the highest medical authority; and had shrunk, at the same time, from alarming her daughters by summoning a London physician to the house. The medical opinion, sought under the circumstances already mentioned, had now been obtained. Her doubt was confirmed as a certainty; and the result, which might be expected to take place toward the end of the summer, was, at her age and with her constitutional peculiarities, a subject for serious future anxiety, to say the least of it. The physician had done his best to encourage her; but she had understood the drift of his questions more clearly than he supposed, and she knew that he looked to the future with more than ordinary doubt.

    Having disclosed these particulars, Mrs. Vanstone requested that they might be kept a secret between her correspondent and herself. She had felt unwilling to mention her suspicions to Miss Garth, until those suspicions had been confirmed—and she now recoiled, with even greater reluctance, from allowing her daughters to be in any way alarmed about her. It would be best to dismiss the subject for the present, and to wait hopefully till the summer came. In the meantime they would all, she trusted, be happily reunited on the twenty-third of the month, which Mr. Vanstone had fixed on as the day for their return. With this intimation, and with the customary messages, the letter, abruptly and confusedly, came to an end.

    For the first few minutes, a natural sympathy for Mrs. Vanstone was the only feeling of which Miss Garth was conscious after she had laid the letter down. Ere long, however, there rose obscurely on her mind a doubt which perplexed and distressed her. Was the explanation which she had just read really as satisfactory and as complete as it professed to be? Testing it plainly by facts, surely not.

    On the morning of her departure, Mrs. Vanstone had unquestionably left the house in good spirits. At her age, and in her state of health, were good spirits compatible with such an errand to a physician as the errand on which she was bent? Then, again, had that letter from New Orleans, which had necessitated Mr. Vanstone’s departure, no share in occasioning his wife’s departure as well? Why, otherwise, had she looked up so eagerly the moment her daughter mentioned the postmark. Granting the avowed motive for her journey—did not her manner, on the morning when the letter was opened, and again on the morning of departure, suggest the existence of some other motive which her letter kept concealed?

    If it was so, the conclusion that followed was a very distressing one. Mrs. Vanstone, feeling what was due to her long friendship with Miss Garth, had apparently placed the fullest confidence in her, on one subject, by way of unsuspiciously maintaining the strictest reserve toward her on another. Naturally frank and straightforward in all her own dealings, Miss Garth shrank from plainly pursuing her doubts to this result: a want of loyalty toward her tried and valued friend seemed implied in the mere dawning of it on her mind.

    She locked up the letter in her desk; roused herself resolutely to attend to the passing interests of the day; and went downstairs again to the breakfast-room. Amid many uncertainties, this at least was clear, Mr. and Mrs. Vanstone were coming back on the twenty-third of the month. Who could say what new revelations might not come back with them?

    CHAPTER IV

    NO NEW REVELATIONS CAME BACK with them: no anticipations associated with their return were realized. On the one forbidden subject of their errand in London, there was no moving either the master or the mistress of the house. Whatever their object might have been, they had to all appearance successfully accomplished it—for they both returned in perfect possession of their every-day looks and manners. Mrs. Vanstone’s spirits had subsided to their natural quiet level; Mr. Vanstone’s imperturbable cheerfulness sat as easily and indolently on him as usual. This was the one noticeable result of their journey—this, and no more. Had the household revolution run its course already? Was the secret thus far hidden impenetrably, hidden forever?

    Nothing in this world is hidden forever. The gold which has lain for centuries unsuspected in the ground, reveals itself one day on the surface. Sand turns traitor, and betrays the footstep that has passed over it; water gives back to the tell-tale surface the body that has been drowned. Fire itself leaves the confession, in ashes, of the substance consumed in it. Hate breaks its prison-secrecy in the thoughts, through the doorway of the eyes; and Love finds the Judas who betrays it by a kiss. Look where we will, the inevitable law of revelation is one of the laws of nature: the lasting preservation of a secret is a miracle which the world has never yet seen.

    How was the secret now hidden in the household at Combe-Raven doomed to disclose itself? Through what coming event in the daily lives of the father, the mother, and the daughters, was the law of revelation destined to break the fatal way to discovery? The way opened (unseen by the parents, and unsuspected by the children) through the first event that happened after Mr. and Mrs. Vanstone’s return—an event which presented, on the surface of it, no interest of greater importance than the trivial social ceremony of a morning call.

    Three days after the master and mistress of Combe-Raven had come back, the female members of the family happened to be assembled together in the morning-room. The view from the windows looked over the flower-garden and shrubbery; this last being protected at its outward extremity by a fence, and approached from the lane beyond by a wicket-gate. During an interval in the conversation, the attention of the ladies was suddenly attracted to this gate, by the sharp sound of the iron latch falling in its socket. Some one had entered the shrubbery from the lane; and Magdalen at once placed herself at the window to catch the first sight of the visitor through the trees.

    After a few minutes, the figure of a gentleman became visible, at the point where the shrubbery path joined the winding garden-walk which led to the house. Magdalen looked at him attentively, without appearing, at first, to know who he was. As he came nearer, however, she started in astonishment; and, turning quickly to her mother and sister, proclaimed the gentleman in the garden to be no other than Mr. Francis Clare.

    The visitor thus announced was the son of Mr. Vanstone’s oldest associate and nearest neighbor.

    Mr. Clare the elder inhabited an unpretending little cottage, situated just outside the shrubbery fence which marked the limit of the Combe-Raven grounds. Belonging to the younger branch of a family of great antiquity, the one inheritance of importance that he had derived from his ancestors was the possession of a magnificent library, which not only filled all the rooms in his modest little dwelling, but lined the staircases and passages as well. Mr. Clare’s books represented the one important interest of Mr. Clare’s life. He had been a widower for many years past, and made no secret of his philosophical resignation to the loss of his wife. As a father, he regarded his family of three sons in the light of a necessary domestic evil, which perpetually

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