No Name

No Name

by Wilkie Collins

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Overview

Magdalen Vanstone and her sister Norah learn the true meaning of social stigma in Victorian England only after the traumatic discovery that their dearly loved parents, whose sudden deaths have left them orphans, were not married at the time of their births.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9783337042875
Publisher: Bod Third Party Titles
Publication date: 04/13/2019
Pages: 284
Product dimensions: 5.83(w) x 8.27(h) x 0.64(d)

About the Author

Wilkie (William) Collins (1824-89) was a hugely successful and popular crime, mystery and suspense writer. He wrote the first full-length detective novels in English and set a mould for the genre as shown in The Moonstone and "The Woman in White."  

Mark Ford is a lecturer in English Literature at University College London. His publications include the poetry collections Landlocked and Soft Sift and he has also edited Charles Dickens' Nicholas Nickleby for Penguin Classics.

Date of Birth:

December 8, 1824

Date of Death:

September 23, 1889

Place of Birth:

London, England

Place of Death:

London, England

Education:

Studied law at Lincoln¿s Inn, London

Read an Excerpt

No Name


By Wilkie Collins

MysteriousPress.com

Copyright © 2015 Wilkie Collins
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2116-6


CHAPTER 1

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."


(Continues...)

Excerpted from No Name by Wilkie Collins. Copyright © 2015 Wilkie Collins. Excerpted by permission of MysteriousPress.com.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents

Introduction vii(15)
Note on the Text xxii(4)
Select Bibliography xxvi(2)
A Chronology of Wilkie Collins xxviii
NO NAME
1(742)
Explanatory Notes 743

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No Name 4.2 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 39 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I HAVE READ A LOT OF GOOD NOVELS ALL THESE YEARS, HOWEVER I RATE NO NAME AS THE BEST NOVEL, THE WAY THE MAIN CHARECTER TRIES TO TAKE REVENGE, AND THE WAY HER SISTER ACCEPTS LIFE AS IT COMES AND WINS IS GREAT!!!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This is an extraordinary novel peopled by remarkable women. Swindlers out-swindle each other, locales change, and the entire plot is set in motion by a train accident. It's hard to put down, all 600 pages of small print.
raemi79 More than 1 year ago
Generally loving Victorian literature, you can't go wrong with Wilkie Collins. Not as intricate as Dickens, but poignant nonetheless, No Name was entertaining and insightful. I really enjoyed it and will add it to my read again list.
Luli81 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
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. "
urduha on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
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.
peegee on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
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.
adifferentroger on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
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.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Hey guys, I'm Hero, a nook rp veteran. I'm starting a nook rp revival project to make nook rp active again. I noticed that this Clan, like the others, is inactive and i thought I could help. I have more info at the first Erin Hunter result.
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Question what does reserved mean?
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Reseved
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Yeah right *rolls eyes at him*
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Sure. Whatcha wanna talk about?
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
[Reserved]
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
*he walks in wearing a black shirt under a black leather jacket with black pants and black boots. He has his black hood up over his head with black leather gloves on*
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
She walked in quietly, glancing around the room with a faint smile. She wore a long, strapless, sparkly white ballgown and white heels. Her long, dark hair was curled loosly and her dark brown eyes blinked behind her mask.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
He nods to her, suddenly at a loss for words
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
She walked in, her dress grey and the details of her dress made up of feathers mainly, matching her mask.