The Worlds Greatest Books - Arthur Mee, J. A. Hammerton, Eds.
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"She can't have recognised me," he thought; "my voice, my accent, my
bearing, everything has changed. Poland has entered into my blood. I am
no longer Samuel, I am Larinski."
Boldly entering into the general conversation, he related with a
melancholy grace a story of the Polish insurrection, shaking his
lion-like mane of hair, and speaking with tears in his voice. It was
impossible to be more of a Larinski than he was at that moment. When he
finished, a murmur of admiration ran round the table.
"Although we are mortal enemies, Count," said the Princess Gulof, "allow
me to congratulate you. I hear you have won the hand of Mlle. Moriaz."
"Mortal enemies?" he said, in a low, troubled voice. "Why are we mortal
enemies; my dear Princess?"
"Because I am a Russian and you are a Pole," she replied. "But we shall
not have time to quarrel. I am leaving for London at seven o'clock
to-morrow morning. What is the date of your wedding?"
"If I dared hope that you would do me the honour to attend it," he said,
skilfully evading answering her question, "I might put it off until your
return from England."
"You are too kind," said the Princess. "I would not think of delaying
the happy event to which Mile. Moriaz so eagerly looks forward. What a
beautiful girl she is! I dare not ask you what is her fortune. You are,
I can see, an idealist. You do not trouble yourself with matters of
money. But oh, you poor idealists," she whispered, leaning over him with
a friendly air, "you always come to grief in the end!"
"How is that?" he said with a smile.
"You dream with your eyes open, my dear Count Larinski, and your
awakening is sometimes sudden and unpleasant."
Then, advancing her head towards her companion, her little eyes flaming
like a viper's, she whispered: "Samuel Brohl, I knew you all along. Your
dream has come to an end."
A cold sweat broke out on the forehead of the adventurer. Leaning over
the Princess, his face convulsed with hatred, he murmured:
"Samuel Brohl is not the sort of man to put up with an injury. Some
years ago, he received two letters from you. If ever he is attacked, he
will publish them."
Rising up, he made her a low bow, and took leave of Mlle. Moriaz and her
father, and left the house. At first, he was utterly downcast, and
inclined to give up the game; but as he tramped back to Paris in the
moonlight, his courage returned. He had two letters which the Princess
had written to him when she was engaged in Paris on a political mission
of great importance, and they contained some amazing indiscretions in
regard to the private lives of several august personages.
"No," he said to himself, "she will think twice before she interferes in
my affairs. I can ruin her as easily as she can ruin me."
As a matter of fact, Princess Gulof was unable to sleep all that night.
She was torn between the desire for vengeance and the fear of reprisals.
_IV.--The Partnership is Dissolved_
The next morning, after breakfast, Mlle. Moriaz was surprised to receive
a visit from Princess Gulof.
"I have come to see you about your marriage," said the Princess.
"You are very kind," replied Mlle. Moriaz, "but I do not understand...."
"You will understand in a minute," said the Princess. "There's a story I
want to tell you, and I think you will find it interesting. Fourteen
years ago I was passing through a village in Gallicia, and the bad
weather forced me to put up at a dirty inn kept by a Jew called Brohl.
This Jew had a son, Samuel, a youngster with strange green eyes and a
handsome figure. Finding that he was an intelligent lad, I paid for him
to study at the University, and later on, I kept him as my private
secretary. But about four years ago Samuel Brohl ran off with all my
jewellery."
"You were indeed badly rewarded for your kindness, Madame." interrupted
Antoinette; "but I do not see what Samuel Brohl has to do with my
marriage."
"I was going to tell you," said the Princess. "I had the pleasure of
meeting him here last night. He has got on since I lost sight of him. He
is not content with changing from a Jew into a Pole; he is now a great
nobleman. He calls himself Count Abel Larinski, and he is engaged to be
married to Mlle. Moriaz. She is now wearing a Persian bracelet he stole
from me."
"Madame," cried Antoinette, her cheeks flushing with anger, "will you
dare to tell Count Larinski, in my presence, that he is this Samuel
Brohl you speak of?"
"I have no desire to do so," said the Princess. "Indeed, I want you to
promise me never to tell him that it was I who showed him up. Wait! I
have thought of something. The middle plate of my Persian bracelet used
to open with a secret spring. Open yours and if you find my name there,
well, you will know where it came from."
"Unless you are willing to repeat in the presence of myself and Count
Larinski all that you have just said," exclaimed Antoinette haughtily,
"there is only one thing I can promise you. I shall certainly never
relate to the man to whom I have the honour to be betrothed, a single
word of the silly, wicked slanders that you have uttered."
Princess Gulof rose up brusquely, and stood for a while looking at
Antoinette in silence.
"So, you do not believe me," she said in an ironic tone, blinking her
little eyes. "You are right. Old women, you know, seldom talk sense.
Samuel Brohl never existed, and I had the pleasure of dining last night
with the most authentic of all the Larinskis. Pardon me, and accept my
best wishes for the life-long happiness of the Count and Countess."
Thereupon she made a mocking curtsey, and turned on her heels and
disappeared.
"The woman is absolutely mad," said Antoinette. "Abel will be here in a
few minutes, and he will tell me what is the matter with her. I supposed
they quarrelled last night about Poland. Oh dear, what funny old women
there are in the world!"
As she was waiting for her lover to appear, Camille Langis came to the
house. Naturally, she was not desirous of talking with her rejected
suitor at that moment, and she gave him a rather frigid welcome.
"I see you don't want me," said Camille sadly, turning away.
"Of course I want you," she said, touched by the feeling he showed. "You
are my oldest and dearest friend."
For a few minutes, they sat talking together, and Camille noticed the
strange bracelet on her wrist, and praised its curious design.
Antoinette, struck by a sudden idea, took off the Persian ornament, and
gave it to Camille, saying:
"One of these plates, I believe, opens by a secret spring. You are an
engineer, can you find this spring for me?"
"The middle plate is hollow," said Langis, tapping it with a pen-knife,
"the other two are solid gold. Oh, what a clumsy fool I am! I have
broken it open."
"Is there any writing?" said Antoinette. "Let me look."
Yes, there was a long list of dates, and at the end of the dates were
written: "Nothing, nothing, nothing, that is all. Anna Gulof."
Antoinette became deathly pale; something seemed to break in her head;
she felt that if she did not speak, her mind would give way. Yes, she
could trust Camille, but how should she begin? She felt that she was
stifling, and could not draw in enough air to keep breathing.
"What is the matter with you, dear Antoinette?" said Camille, alarmed by
her pallor and her staring eyes.
She began to speak in a low, confused and broken voice, and Camille at
first could not understand what she was saying. But at last he did so,
and his soul was then divided between an immense pity for the grief that
overwhelmed her, and a ferocious joy at the thought of the utter rout of
his successful rival. Suddenly a step was heard on the garden path.
"Here he is," said Antoinette. "No, stay in here. I will call you if I
want you. In spite of all I have said I shall never believe that he has
deceived me unless I read the lie in his very eyes."
Instead of waiting for the visitor to be shown into her room, she ran
out, and met him in the garden. He came up to her smiling, thinking that
with the departure of Princess Gulof, all danger had vanished. But when
he saw the white face and burning eyes of Antoinette, he guessed that
she knew everything. He determined, however, to try and carry it off by
sheer audacity.
"I am sorry I left so early last evening," he said, "but that mad
Russian woman, whom I took into dinner, made me almost as crazy as she
was herself. She ought to be in an asylum. But the night repaid me for
all the worries of the evening. I dreamt of the Engadine, its emerald
lakes, its pine-trees, and its edelweiss."
"I, too, had a dream last night," said Antoinette slowly. "I dreamt that
this bracelet which you gave me belonged to the mad Russian woman, and
that she had engraved her name inside it." She threw the bracelet at
him. He picked it up, and turned it round and round in his trembling
fingers, looking at the plate which had been forced open.
"Can you tell me what I ought to think of Samuel Brohl?" she asked.
The name fell on him like a mass of lead; he reeled under the blow;
then, striking his head with his two fists, he answered:
"Samuel Brohl is a man worthy of your pity. If you only knew all that he
has suffered, all he has dared to do, you could not help pitying him,
yes, and admiring him. Samuel Brohl is an unfortunate ..."
"Scoundrel," she said in a terrible voice. "Madame Brohl!"--she began to
laugh hysterically--"Madame Brohl! No, I can't become Madame Brohl. Ah!
that poor Countess Larinski."
"You did not love the man," he said bitterly; "only the Count."
"The man I loved did not tell lies," she replied.
"Yes, I lied to you," he said, panting like a hunted animal, "and I take
all the shame of it gladly. I lied because I loved you to madness; and I
lied because you are dearer to me than honour; I lied because I
despaired of touching your heart, and I did not care by what means I won
you. Why did I ever meet you? Why couldn't I have passed you by, without
you becoming the dream of my whole life? I have lied. Who would not lie
to be loved by you?"
Never had Samuel Brohl appeared so beautiful. Despair and passion
lighted up his strange green eyes with a sombre flame. He had the
sinister charm of a fallen archangel, and he fixed on Antoinette a wild,
fascinating glance, that said:
"What do my name, my deceptions and the rest, matter to you? My face at
least is not a mask, and the man who moved you, the man who won you, was
I."
Mlle. Moriaz, however, divined the thought in the eyes of Samuel Brohl.
"You are a good actor," she said between her teeth. "But it is time that
this comedy came to an end."
He threw himself on the grass at her feet, and then sprang up, and tried
to clasp her in his arms.
"Camille! Camille!" she cried, "save me from this man."
Langis darted out after Brohl, and the Jew took to his heels. Langis
would have followed him as gladly as a hound follows a fox, but he saw
Antoinette's strength had given way, and running up to her, he caught
her in his arms as she reeled, and tenderly carried her into the house.
That evening, Count Abel Larinski disappeared from the world. Samuel
Brohl rose up from his grave at Bucharest, and took the name of Kicks,
and emigrated to America some time before the marriage of Mlle. Moriaz
to M. Camille Langis was announced in the "Figaro."
* * * * *
WILKIE COLLINS
No Name
William Wilkie Collins was born in London on January 8, 1824.
From the age of eight to fifteen he resided with his parents
in Italy, and on their return to England young Collins was
apprenticed to a firm of tea-merchants, abandoning that
business four years later for the law. This profession also
failed to appeal to him, although what he learned in it proved
extremely useful to him in his literary career. His first
published book was a "Life" of his father, William Collins,
R.A., in 1847. The success of the work gave him an incentive
towards writing, and three years later he published an
historical romance, "Antonina, or The Fall of Rome." About
this time he made the acquaintance of Charles Dickens, who was
then editor of "Household Words," to which periodical he
contributed some of his most successful fiction. "No Name,"
published in 1862, depended less upon dramatic situations and
more upon analysis of character and the solution of a problem.
That he was successful in his purpose is chiefly evidenced by
the wide popularity the story received on its appearance. "The
main object of the story," he wrote in the introduction to the
first edition, "is to appeal to the reader's interest in a
subject which has been the theme of some of the greatest
writers, living and dead, but which has never been, and can
never be, exhausted, because it is a subject eternally
interesting to all mankind. A book that depicts the struggle
of a human creature under those opposing influences of Good
and Evil which we have all felt, which we have all known."
Like others of Collins' stories, "No Name" was successfully
presented on the stage. Wilkie Collins died on September 23,
1889.
_I.--Nobody's Children_
A letter from America, bearing a New Orleans stamp, had an extraordinary
effect on the spirits of the Vanstone family as they sat round the
breakfast table at Coome-Raven, in West Somersetshire.
"An American letter, papa!" exclaimed Magdalen, the youngest daughter,
looking over her father's shoulder. "Who do you know at New Orleans?"
Mrs. Vanstone, sitting propped up with cushions at the other end of the
table, started and looked eagerly at her husband. Mr. Vanstone said
nothing, but his air of preoccupation and his unusual seriousness, which
not even Magdalen's playfulness affected, proved clearly that something
was wrong. The mystery of the letter puzzled both Magdalen and her elder
sister Norah, and in particular aroused a feeling of uneasiness,
impossible to explain, in the mind of the old family friend and
governess, Miss Garth.
Though neither Mr. nor Mrs. Vanstone offered any explanation, Miss Garth
felt more than ever certain that something unusual had occurred, when,
on the following day, they announced their intention of going to London
on private business. For nearly a month they stayed away, and at the end
of that period returned without offering any account of what they had
done on their mysterious visit.
Life at Coome-Raven went on as usual in a round of pleasant
distractions. Concerts, dances, and private theatricals, in which
Magdalen cut a great figure, winning even the praise of the professional
manager, who begged her to call on him if ever she should require a real
engagement, passed the weeks rapidly by.
To Magdalen also, the return of Frank Clare, the son of a very old
friend of Mr. Vanstone's, provided an interesting interlude. As his
father put it, "Frank had turned up at home again like a bad penny, and
was now lurking after the manner of louts." Though Mr. Clare's estimate
of his son was frankly truthful, Magdalen loved him with all the
passionate warmth of her nature, and when Frank, in order to escape
being sent to a business appointment in China, proposed marriage to her,
she accepted him joyfully. She urged her father to consent to their
immediate union.
"I must consult Frank's father, of course," he said, in conclusion. "We
must not forget that Mr. Clare's consent is still wanting to settle this
matter. And as we don't know what difficulties he may raise, the sooner
I see him the better."
In a state of obvious dejection, he walked over to the house which Mr.
Clare occupied. When, after some hours, he returned once more to
Coome-Raven, he informed his daughter that Frank was to have another
year's trial in London. If he proved himself capable, he should be
rewarded at the end of that time with Magdalen's hand.
Both the girl and Frank were delighted, but Mr. Vanstone did not reflect
their good spirits. He wired to his lawyer, Mr. Pendril, to come down
from town at once to Coome-Raven. So anxious was he to see his lawyer
that he drove over to the local station and took the train to the
neighbouring junction where Mr. Pendril would have to change.
Hours went by, and he did not return. As the evening closed down a
message was brought to Miss Garth that a man wished to speak to her. She
hurried out, and found herself face to face with a porter from the
junction, who explained that there had been an accident to the down
train at 1.50.
"God help us!" exclaimed the governess. "The train Mr. Vanstone
travelled by?"
"The same. There are seven passengers badly hurt, and two------"
The next word failed on his lips; he raised his hand in the dead
silence. With eyes that opened wide in horror he pointed over Miss
Garth's shoulder. She turned to see her mistress standing on the
threshold with staring, vacant eyes. With a dreadful stillness in her
voice, she repeated the man's last words, "Seven passengers badly hurt,
and two------"
Then she sank swooning into Miss Garth's arms.
From the shock of her husband's death, Mrs. Vanstone never recovered.
Heartbroken by the death of their parents, Norah and Magdalen had yet to
learn the full extent of the tragedy. That was first made clear to Miss
Garth by the lawyer.
Mr. Andrew Vanstone in his youth had joined the army and gone to Canada.
There he had been entrapped by a woman, whom he had married--a woman so
utterly vile and unprincipled that he was forced to leave her and return
to England. Shortly afterwards his father died, and, having been
estranged from his elder son, Michael Vanstone, bequeathed all his
property to Andrew.
Andrew Vanstone passed his life in a round of vicious pleasures, but as
his better nature had almost been destroyed by a woman, so now it was
retrieved by a woman. He fell in love, told the girl of his heart the
truth about himself, and she, out of the love she bore him, determined
to pass the rest of her life by his side, and Norah and Magdalen were
the children of their union.
"Tell me," said Miss Garth, in a voice faint with emotion, as the lawyer
laid bare the sad story, "why did they go to London?"
"They went to London to be married," cried Mr. Pendril.
In the letter from New Orleans, Mr. Vanstone had heard of the death of
his wife, and he had at once taken the necessary steps to make the woman
who had so long been his wife in the eyes of God his wife in the eyes of
the law. The story would never have been known had it not been for
Frank's engagement to Magdalen. The soul of honour, Mr. Vanstone thought
it his duty to inform Mr. Clare fully regarding his relations with Mrs.
Vanstone. His old friend proved himself deeply sympathetic, and then,
being a cautious man of business, inquired what steps Mr. Vanstone had
taken to provide for his daughters. The master of Coombe-Raven replied
that he had long ago made a will leaving them all he possessed. When Mr.
Clare pointed out that his recent marriage automatically destroyed the
effect of this testament, he was greatly distressed, and, hastening
home, had at once telegraphed to Mr. Pendril to come to Coome-Raven to
draw up another will without any loss of time. His tragic death had
prevented the execution of this plan, and the inability of Mrs. Vanstone
to sign any document before she died had resulted in Norah and Magdalen
being left absolutely penniless, and the estates passing to Michael
Vanstone.
"How am I to tell them?" exclaimed Miss Garth.
"There is no need to tell them," said a voice behind her. "They know it
already. Mr. Vanstone's daughters are 'nobody's children,' and the law
leaves them helpless at their uncle's mercy!"
It was Magdalen who spoke--Magdalen, with a changeless stillness on her
white face, and an icy resignation in her steady, grey eyes. From under
the open window of the room in which Mr. Pendril had told his story this
girl of eighteen had heard every word, and never once betrayed herself.
"I understand that my late brother"--so ran Michael Vanstone's letter of
instruction to his solicitor--"has left two illegitimate children, both
of them young women who are of an age to earn their own livelihood. Be
so good as to tell them that neither you nor I have anything to do with
questions of mere sentiment. Let them understand that Providence has
restored to me the inheritance that ought always to have been mine, and
I will not invite retribution on my own head by assisting those children
to continue the imposition which their parents practised, and by helping
them to take a place in the world to which they are not entitled."
"Norah," said Magdalen, turning to her sister, "if we both live to grow
old, and if ever you forget all we owe to Michael Vanstone--come to me,
and I will remind you."
_II.--Tricked into Marriage_
By fair means or foul, Magdalen, who, with Norah, had now made her home
with Miss Garth in London, had sworn to herself that she would win back
the property of which she had been robbed by Michael Vanstone. Selling
all her jewellery and dresses, she managed to secure two hundred pounds,
and with this sum in her pocket she secretly left home. The theatrical
manager, who had offered her an engagement should she ever require it,
had moved to York, and it was to that city that Magdalen hastened.
Her absence was at once discovered, and Miss Garth resorted to every
possible means of tracing her to her destination. A reward of fifty
pounds was offered, and her mode of procedure being suspected, handbills
setting forth her appearance were posted in York. It was one of these
bills that attracted the attention of a certain Captain Wragge.
Captain Wragge was the stepson of Mrs. Vanstone's mother, and had
persisted in regarding himself as a member of her family, and, having
known of the real relationship that existed between his half-sister and
Mr. Andrew Vanstone, had obtained from the latter a small annual subsidy
as the price of his silence. A confessed rogue, the captain imagined he
saw in this handbill an opportunity of re-stocking his exhausted
exchequer.
As he wandered on the walls of York, pondering how he should act, he met
Magdalen herself, and at once greeted her as a relative. The girl would
have avoided him, but on his pointing out that unless she placed herself
under his protection she was bound to be discovered and taken back to
her friends, she consented to accompany him to his lodgings. There he
introduced her to his wife, a tall, gaunt woman with a large,
good-natured, vacant face, who lived in a state of bemused terror of her
husband, who bullied and dragooned her according to his mood.
After listening to the frank exposition of his character and his method
of living, Magdalen decided to accept Captain Wragge's assistance. On
certain terms, Wragge agreed to train her for the stage and secure her
engagements, taking a half share of any money she might earn. In return
for these profits, he agreed to carry out certain inquiries whenever she
might think it necessary. As to the nature of these inquiries, she, for
the time being, preserved silence.
Magdalen's talent for acting proved highly successful, and under the
direction of the captain she began rapidly to make a reputation for
herself, and at the end of six months she had saved between six and
seven hundred pounds. She now decided that it was time to put her plan
of retribution into execution.
At her instructions, Captain Wragge had discovered that Michael Vanstone
was dead and that his son, Noel Vanstone, had succeeded to the property,
and was now living with his father's old housekeeper, a certain Swiss
lady, the widow of a professor of science, by name Mrs. Lecount, in
Vauxhall Walk, Lambeth. The remaining information that Wragge obtained
regarding the Vanstones was to the effect that the deceased Michael had
a great friend in Admiral Bartram, whose nephew George was the son of
Mr. Andrew Vanstone's sister, and therefore the cousin of Noel Vanstone.
Having this information, Magdalen calmly informed Wragge that their
alliance, for the moment, was at an end, and taking Mrs. Wragge with
her, journeyed to London. There she obtained rooms directly opposite the
house occupied by Noel Vanstone. Disguising herself as Miss Garth and
assuming her old governess's voice and manner, she boldly visited the
house. She found Noel Vanstone a weak, avaricious coward, who was
already terrified by the letters she had written him demanding the
restitution of her fortune. He was completely at the mercy of Mrs.
Lecount.
Something about the supposed Miss Garth excited the suspicion of Mrs.
Lecount, and she deliberately set about to try and make her visitor
betray what she was convinced she was concealing.
"I would suggest," said Mrs. Lecount, "that you give a hundred pounds to
each of these unfortunate sisters."
"He will repent the insult to the last hour of his life," said Magdalen.
The instant that answer passed her lips, she would have given worlds to
recall it. Her passionate words had been uttered in her own voice. Mrs.
Lecount detected the change, and, with a view to establishing some proof
of the identity of her visitor, she secured, by a subterfuge, a thin
strip of the old-fashioned skirt which Magdalen was wearing in the
character of Miss Garth.