No Name Wilkie Collins (e book reader android TXT) đ
- Author: Wilkie Collins
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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 Garthâs favorite phrase, âMagdalen was born with all the sensesâ âexcept a sense of order.â
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. Vanstoneâs sisters, who had died in early youth; and, in affectionate remembrance of her, he had called his second daughter by itâ âjust as he had called his eldest daughter Norah, for his wifeâs sake. Magdalen! Surely, the grand old Bible nameâ âsuggestive of a sad and somber dignity; recalling, in its first association, mournful ideas of penitence and seclusionâ âhad 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!
âLate again!â said Mrs. Vanstone, as Magdalen breathlessly kissed her.
âLate again!â chimed in Miss Garth, when Magdalen came her way next. âWell?â she went on, taking the girlâs chin familiarly in her hand, with a half-satirical, half-fond attention which betrayed that the youngest daughter, with all her faults, was the governessâs favoriteâ ââWell? and what has the concert done for you? What form of suffering has dissipation inflicted on your system this morning?â
âSuffering!â repeated Magdalen, recovering her breath, and the use of her tongue with it. âI donât know the meaning of the word: if thereâs anything the matter with me, Iâm too well. Suffering! Iâm ready for another concert tonight, and a ball tomorrow, and a play the day after. Oh,â cried Magdalen, dropping into a chair and crossing her hands rapturously on the table, âhow I do like pleasure!â
âCome! thatâs explicit at any rate,â said Miss Garth. âI think Pope must have had you in his mind when he wrote his famous lines:
âââMen some to business, some to pleasure take,
But every woman is at heart a rake.âââ
âThe deuce she is!â cried Mr. Vanstone, entering the room while Miss Garth was making her quotation, with the dogs at his heels. âWell; live and learn. If youâre 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.â âLetâs have some breakfast.â
âHow-dâye-do, papa?â 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 daughterâs convenience. âIâm the rake Miss Garth means; and I want to go to another concertâ âor a play, if you likeâ âor a ball, if you prefer itâ âor 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 doesnât send us to bed at eleven oâclock.â
Mr. Vanstone sat down composedly under his daughterâs flow of language, like a man who was well used to verbal inundation from that quarter. âIf I am to be allowed my choice of amusements next time,â said the worthy gentleman, âI think a play will suit me better than a concert. The girls enjoyed themselves amazingly, my dear,â he continued, addressing his wife. âMore 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?â
âA symphony, papa,â replied Norah.
âYes, you darling old Goth, a symphony by the great Beethoven!â added Magdalen. âHow can you say you were not amused? Have you forgotten the yellow-looking foreign woman, with the unpronounceable name? Donât 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, mammaâ âlook here, Miss Garth!â
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 singerâs 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 postbag) rushed out of the room again, and committed the indecorum of echoing his master audibly on the other side of the door.
âLetters, papa. I want the key,â said Magdalen, passing from the imitation at the breakfast-table to the postbag 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
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