No Name

by Wilkie Collins

  The veteran’s unmanageable eyes began to leer again in spite of him, as he concluded his harangue in these terms: the last reserves of austerity left in his face, entrenched themselves dismally round the corners of his mouth. Magdalen approached him again, and tried to speak. He solemnly motioned her back, with another dreary wave of his hand.

  ‘No carneying!’2 said old Mazey; ‘I’m bad enough already, without that. It’s my duty to make my report to his honour the admiral; and I will make it. But if you like to give the house the slip, before the burglary’s reported, and the court of inquiry begins – I’ll disgrace myself by letting you go. It’s market morning at Ossory; and Dawkes will be driving the light cart over, in a quarter of an hour’s time. Dawkes will take you, if I ask him. I know my duty – my duty is to turn the key on you, and see Dawkes damned first. But I can’t find it in my heart to be hard on a fine girl like you. It’s bred in the bone, and it wunt come out of the flesh. More shame for me, I tell you again – more shame for me!’

  The proposal thus strangely and suddenly presented to her, took Magdalen completely by surprise. She had been far too seriously shaken by the events of the night, to be capable of deciding on any subject at a moment’s notice. ‘You are very good to me, Mr Mazey,’ she said. ‘May I have a minute by myself to think?’

  ‘Yes, you may,’ replied the veteran, facing about forthwith, and leaving the room. ‘They’re all alike,’ proceeded old Mazey, with his head still running on the sex. ‘Whatever you offer ’em, they always want something more. Tall and short, native and foreign, sweethearts and wives – they’re all alike!’

  Left by herself, Magdalen reached her decision, with far less difficulty than she had anticipated.

  If she remained in the house, there were only two courses before her – to charge old Mazey with speaking under the influence of a drunken delusion, or to submit to circumstances. Though she owed to the old sailor her defeat in the very hour of success, his consideration for her at that moment, forbade the idea of defending herself at his expense – even supposing, what was in the last degree improbable, that the defence would be credited. In the second of the two cases (the case of submission to circumstances), but one result could be expected – instant dismissal; and perhaps, discovery as well. What object was to be gained by braving that degradation – by leaving the house, publicly disgraced in the eyes of the servants who had hated and distrusted her from the first? The accident which had literally snatched the Trust from her possession when she had it in her hand, was irreparable. The one apparent compensation under the disaster – in other words, the discovery that the Trust actually existed, and that George Bartram’s marriage within a given time, was one of the objects contained in it – was a compensation which could only be estimated at its true value, by placing it under the light of Mr Loscombe’s experience. Every motive of which she was conscious, was a motive which urged her to leave the house secretly, while the chance was at her disposal. She looked out into the passage, and called softly to old Mazey to come back.

  ‘I accept your offer thankfully, Mr Mazey,’ she said. ‘You don’t know what hard measure you dealt out to me, when you took that letter from my hand. But you did your duty – and I can be grateful to you for sparing me this morning, hard as you were upon me last night. I am not such a bad girl as you think me – I am not indeed.’

  Old Mazey dismissed the subject, with another dreary wave of his hand.

  ‘Let it be,’ said the veteran; ‘let it be! It makes no difference, my girl, to such an old rascal as I am. If you were fifty times worse than you are, I should let you go all the same. Put on your bonnet and shawl, and come along. I’m a disgrace to myself and a warning to others – that’s what I am. No luggage, mind! Leave all your rattle-traps behind you: to be overhauled, if necessary, at his honour the admiral’s discretion. I can be hard enough on your boxes, you young Jezabel; if I can’t be hard on onyou.’

  With those words, old Mazey led the way out of the room. ‘The less I see of her the better – especially about the waist,’ he said to himself, as he hobbled downstairs with the help of the banisters.

  The cart was standing in the back-yard, when they reached the lower regions of the house; and Dawkes (otherwise the farm-bailiff’s man) was fastening the last buckle of the horse’s harness. The hoar frost of the morning was still white in the shade. The sparkling points of it glistened brightly on the shaggy coats of Brutus and Cassius, as they idled about the yard, waiting, with steaming mouths and slowly-wagging tails, to see the cart drive off. Old Mazey went out alone, and used his influence with Dawkes, who, staring in stolid amazement, put a leather-cushion on the cart-seat for his fellow-traveller. Shivering in the sharp morning air, Magdalen waited, while the preliminaries of departure were in progress, conscious of nothing but a giddy bewilderment of thought, and a helpless suspension of feeling. The events of the night confused themselves hideously, with the trivial circumstances passing before her eyes in the court-yard. She started with the sudden terror of the night, when old Mazey reappeared to summon her out to the cart. She trembled with the helpless confusion of the night, when the veteran cast the eyes of indulgence on her for the last time, and gave her a kiss on the cheek at parting. The next minute, she felt him help her into the cart, and pat her on the back. The next, she heard him tell her in a confidential whisper that, sitting or standing, she was as straight as a poplar, either way. Then there was a pause, in which nothing was said, and nothing done; and then the driver took the reins in hand, and mounted to his place.

  She roused herself at the parting moment, and looked back. The last sight she saw at St Crux, was old Mazey wagging his head in the courtyard, with his fellow-profligates, the dogs, keeping time to him with their tails. The last words she heard, were the words in which the veteran paid his farewell tribute to her charms:

  ‘Burglary, or no burglary,’ said old Mazey, ‘she’s a fine-grown girl, if ever there was a fine one yet. What a pity! what a pity!’

  THE END OF THE SEVENTH SCENE

  BETWEEN THE SCENES

  PROGRESS OF THE STORY THROUGH THE POST

  One

  From George Bartram to Admiral Bartram

  ‘London, April 3rd, 1848

  ‘MY DEAR UNCLE,

  ‘One hasty line, to inform you of a temporary obstacle, which we neither of us anticipated when we took leave of each other at St Crux. While I was wasting the last days of the week at the Grange, the Tyrrels must have been making their arrangements for leaving London. I have just come from Portland Place. The house is shut up; and the family (Miss Vanstone, of course, included) left England yesterday, to pass the season in Paris.

  ‘Pray don’t let yourself be annoyed by this little check at starting. It is of no serious importance whatever. I have got the address at which the Tyrrels are living; and I mean to cross the Channel, after them, by the mail to-night. I shall find my opportunity in Paris, just as soon as I could have found it in London. The grass shall not grow under my feet, I promise you. For once in my life, I will take Time as fiercely by the forelock, as if I was the most impetuous man in England – and, rely on it, the moment I know the result, you shall know the result too.

  ‘Affectionately yours,

  ‘GEORGE BARTRAM’

  Two

  From George Bartram to Miss Garth

  ‘Paris, April 13th

  ‘DEAR MISS GARTH,

  ‘I have just written, with a heavy heart, to my uncle; and I think I owe it to your kind interest in me, not to omit writing next to you.

  ‘You will feel for my disappointment, I am sure, when I tell you, in the fewest and plainest words, that Miss Vanstone has refused me.

  ‘My vanity may have grievously misled me; but I confess I expected a very different result. My vanity may be misleading me still – for I must acknowledge to you privately, that I think Miss Vanstone was sorry to refuse me. The reason she gave for her decision – no doubt a sufficient reason in her estimation – did not
at the time, and does not now, seem sufficient to me. She spoke in the sweetest and kindest manner; but she firmly declared that “her family misfortunes” left her no honourable alternative, but to think of my own interests, as I had not thought of them myself – and gratefully to decline accepting my offer.

  ‘She was so painfully agitated that I could not venture to plead my own cause, as I might otherwise have pleaded it. At the first attempt I made to touch the personal question, she entreated me to spare her, and abruptly left the room. I am still ignorant whether I am to interpret the “family misfortunes” which have set up this barrier between us, as meaning the misfortune for which her parents alone are to blame – or the misfortune of her having such a woman as Mrs Noel Vanstone for her sister. In whichever of these circumstances the obstacle lies, it is no obstacle in my estimation. Can nothing remove it? Is there no hope? Forgive me for asking these questions. I cannot bear up against my bitter disappointment. Neither she, nor you, nor any one but myself, can know how I love her.

  ‘Ever most truly yours,

  ‘GEORGE BARTRAM

  ‘P.S. – I shall leave for England in a day or two, passing through London, on my way to St Crux. There are family reasons, connected with the hateful subject of money, which make me look forward, with anything but pleasure, to my next interview with my uncle. If you address your letter to Long’s Hotel, it will be sure to reach me.’

  Three

  From Miss Garth to George Bartram

  ‘Westmoreland House, April 16th

  ‘DEAR MR BARTRAM,

  ‘You only did me justice in supposing that your letter would distress me. If you had supposed that it would make me excessively angry as well, you would not have been far wrong. I have no patience with the pride and perversity of the young women of the present day.

  ‘I have heard from Norah. It is a long letter, stating the particulars in full detail. I am now going to put all the confidence in your honour and your discretion which I really feel. For your sake, and for Norah’s, I am going to let you know what the scruple really is, which has misled her into the pride and folly of refusing you. I am old enough to speak out; and I can tell you, if she had only been wise enough to let her own wishes guide her, she would have said, Yes – and gladly too.

  ‘The original cause of all the mischief, is no less a person than your worthy uncle – Admiral Bartram.

  ‘It seems that the admiral took it into his head (I suppose during your absence) to go to London by himself; and to satisfy some curiosity of his own about Norah, by calling in Portland Place, under pretence of renewing his old friendship with the Tyrrels. He came at luncheon-time, and saw Norah; and, from all I can hear, was apparently better pleased with her than he expected or wished to be when he came into the house.

  ‘So far, this is mere guess-work – but it is unluckily certain that he and Mrs Tyrrel had some talk together alone when luncheon was over. Your name was not mentioned; but when their conversation fell on Norah, you were in both their minds, of course. The admiral (doing her full justice personally) declared himself smitten with pity for her hard lot in life. The scandalous conduct of her sister must always stand (he feared) in the way of her future advantage. Who could marry her, without first making it a condition that she and her sister were to be absolute strangers to each other? And even then, the objection would remain –the serious objection to the husband’s family – of being connected by marriage with such a woman as Mrs Noel Vanstone. It was very sad; it was not the poor girl’s fault – but it was none the less true that her sister was her rock ahead in life. So he ran on, with no real ill-feeling towards Norah, but with an obstinate belief in his own prejudices, which bore the aspect of ill-feeling, and which people with more temper than judgment would be but too readily disposed to resent accordingly.

  ‘Unfortunately, Mrs Tyrrel is one of those people. She is an excellent, warm-hearted woman, with a quick temper and very little judgment; strongly attached to Norah, and heartily interested in Norah’s welfare. From all I can learn, she first resented the expression of the admiral’s opinion, in his presence, as worldly and selfish in the last degree; and then interpreted it behind his back, as a hint to discourage his nephew’s visits, which was a downright insult offered to a lady in her own house. This was foolish enough so far – but worse folly was to come.

  ‘As soon as your uncle was gone, Mrs Tyrrel, most unwisely and improperly, sent for Norah; and repeating the conversation that had taken place, warned her of the reception she might expect from the man who stood towards you in the position of a father, if she accepted an offer of marriage on your part. When I tell you that. Norah’s faithful attachment to her sister still remains unshaken, and that there lies hidden under her noble submission to the unhappy circumstances of her life, a proud susceptibility to slights of all kinds, which is deeply seated in her nature – you will understand the true motive of the refusal which has so naturally and so justly disappointed you. They are all three equally to blame in this matter. Your uncle was wrong to state his objections so roundly and inconsiderately as he did. Mrs Tyrrel was wrong to let her temper get the better of her, and to suppose herself insulted where no insult was intended. And Norah was wrong to place a scruple of pride, and a hopeless belief in her sister which no strangers can be expected to share, above the higher claims of an attachment which might have secured the happiness and the prosperity of her future life.

  ‘But the mischief has been done. The next question is – can the harm be remedied?

  ‘I hope and believe it can. My advice is this: Don’t take No for an answer. Give her time enough to reflect on what she has done, and to regret it (as I believe she will regret it) in secret – trust to my influence over her to plead your cause for you at every opportunity I can find – wait patiently for the right moment – and ask her again. Men, being accustomed to act on reflection themselves, are a great deal too apt to believe that women act on reflection too. Women do nothing of the sort. They act on impulse – and, in nine cases out of ten, they are heartily sorry for it afterwards.

  ‘In the mean while, you must help your own interests, by inducing your uncle to alter his opinion – or at least to make the concession of keeping his opinion to himself. Mrs Tyrrel has rushed to the conclusion, that the harm he has done, he did intentionally – which is as much as to say, in so many words, that he had a prophetic conviction, when he came into the house, of what she would do when he left it. My explanation of the matter is a much simpler one. I believe that the knowledge of your attachment naturally aroused his curiosity to see the object of it, and that Mrs Tyrrel’s injudicious praises of Norah irritated his objections into openly declaring themselves. Any way, your course lies equally plain before you. Use your influence over your uncle to persuade him into setting matters right again; trust my settled resolution to see Norah your wife, before six months more are over our heads; and believe me, your friend and well-wisher,

  ‘HARRIET GARTH’

  Four

  From Mrs Drake to George Bartram

  ‘St Crux, April 17th

  ‘SIR,

  ‘I direct these lines to the hotel you usually stay at in London; hoping that you may return soon enough from foreign parts to receive my letter without delay.

  ‘I am sorry to say that some unpleasant events have taken place at St Crux, since you left it, and that my honoured master, the admiral, is far from enjoying his usual good health. On both these accounts, I venture to write to you, on my own responsibility – for I think your presence is needed in the house.

  ‘Early in the month, a most regrettable circumstance took place. Our new parlour-maid was discovered by Mr Mazey, at a late hour of the night (with her master’s basket of keys in her possession), prying into the private documents kept in the east library. The girl removed herself from the house, the next morning, before we were any of us astir, and she has not been heard of since. This event has annoyed and alarmed my master very seriously; and to make matters worse,
on the day when the girl’s treacherous conduct was discovered, the admiral was seized with the first symptoms of a severe inflammatory cold. He was not himself aware, nor was any one else, how he had caught the chill. The doctor was sent for, and kept the inflammation down until the day before yesterday – when it broke out again, under circumstances which I am sure you will be sorry to hear, as I am truly sorry to write of them.

  ‘On the date I have just mentioned – I mean the fifteenth of the month – my master himself informed me that he had been dreadfully disappointed by a letter received from you, which had come in the morning from foreign parts, and had brought him bad news. He did not tell me what the news was – but I have never, in all the years I have passed in the admiral’s service, seen him so distressingly upset, and so unlike himself, as he was on that day. At night his uneasiness seemed to increase. He was in such a state of irritation, that he could not bear the sound of Mr Mazey’s hard breathing outside his door; and he laid his positive orders on the old man to go into one of the bedrooms for that night. Mr Mazey, to his own great regret, was of course obliged to obey.

  ‘Our only means of preventing the admiral from leaving his room in his sleep, if the fit unfortunately took him, being now removed, Mr Mazey and I agreed to keep watch by turns through the night – sitting with the door ajar, in one of the empty rooms near our master’s bedchamber. We could think of nothing better to do than this – knowing he would not allow us to lock him in; and not having the door-key in our possession, even if we could have ventured to secure him in his room without his permission. I kept watch for the first two hours, and then Mr Mazey took my place. After having been some little time in my own room, it occurred to me that the old man was hard of hearing, and that if his eyes grew at all heavy in the night, his ears were not to be trusted to warn him, if anything happened. I slipped on my clothes again, and went back to Mr Mazey. He was neither asleep nor awake – he was between the two. My mind misgave me, and I went on to the admiral’s room. The door was open, and the bed was empty.