Volume VII (1862)

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NO NAME.
BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE WOMAN IN WHITE," &c.
THE FIRST SCENE.
COMBE-RAVEN, SOMERSETSHIRE.
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 woollen 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 grey 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 travelling 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 mean time, 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 down stairs 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 down stairs 
humming a tune—Mr. Vanstone showed his character 
on the surface of him freely to all men. 
An easy, hearty, handsome, good-humoured 
gentleman, who walked on the sunny side of the way

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DJO Christmas Selection / 'Household Notes' A Musical Miscellany.