I Say No E-Book

Wilkie Collins

• Herausgeber: Wilkie Collins
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

English novelist, credited with writing the first mystery. Wilkie (William) Collins was born in London on January 8, 1824. His father (also called William) was a landscape painter, but it seems his father had ambitions for his son outside the arts. Wilkie was first found a place in the tea trade, but displayed no aptitude for commerce. He then studied law at Lincoln's Inn, he was admitted to the bar in 1851 but didn't prosper here either. It was only when he started writing that he seemed to find his vocation. His first published work was written in memory of his father, who died in 1847. Memoirs of the Life of William Collins, Esq., R.A. was published in 1848. He started writing fiction shortly afterwards. Antonina was published in 1850 and Basil in 1852. In April 1852 Wilkie wrote a piece for Charles Dickens' weekly: Household Words. This marked the start of a professional relationship which was to last for ten years, and which left both men better writers for their aqaintence. Wilkie was immensely popular in his time, and wrote 25 novels and over 50 short stories. His most successful works were The Woman in White, No Name, Armadale, and The Moonstone. He was one of the first, and is still one of the greatest, writers of mystery fiction, and has been much imitated over the years.

Leseprobe

I Say No

Wilkie Collins

Table of Contents

Book the First — At School.

The Smuggled Supper.

Biography in the Bedroom.

The Late Mr. Brown.

Miss Ladd’s Drawing-Master.

Discoveries in the Garden.

On the Way to the Village.

“Coming Events Cast Their Shadows Before.”

Master and Pupil.

Mrs. Rook and the Locket.

Guesses at the Truth.

The Drawing-Master’s Confession.

Book the Second — In London.

Mrs. Ellmother.

Miss Letitia.

Mrs. Mosey.

Emily.

Miss Jethro.

Doctor Allday.

Miss Ladd.

Sir Jervis Redwood.

The Reverend Miles Mirabel.

Polly and Sally.

Alban Morris.

Miss Redwood.

Mr. Rook.

“J. B.”

Mother Eve.

Mentor and Telemachus.

Francine.

“Bony.”

Lady Doris.

Moira.

Book the Third — Netherwoods.

In the Gray Room.

Recollections of St. Domingo.

In the Dark.

The Treachery of the Pipe.

Change of Air.

“The Lady Wants You, Sir.”

Book the Fourth — The Country House.

Dancing.

Feigning.

Consulting.

Speechifying.

Cooking.

Sounding.

Competing.

Mischief — Making.

Pretending.

Debating.

Investigating.

Book the Fifth — The Cottage.

Emily Suffers.

Miss Ladd Advises.

The Doctor Sees.

“If i Could Find a Friend!”

The Friend is Found.

The End of the Fainting Fit.

Book the Sixth — Here and There.

Mirabel Sees His Way.

Alban Sees His Way.

Approaching the End.

Book the Seventh — The Clink.

A Council of Two.

The Accident at Belford.

Outside the Room.

Inside the Room.

Downstairs.

The Defense of Mirabel.

On the Way to London.

Book the Last — At Home Again.

Cecilia in a New Character.

Alban’s Narrative.

The True Consolation.

Postscript.

Gossip in the Studio.

Book the First

At School.

Chapter i.

The Smuggled Supper.

Outside the bedroom the night was black and still.

The small rain fell too softly to be heard in the garden; not a leaf stirred in the airless calm; the watch-dog was asleep, the cats were indoors; far or near, under the murky heaven, not a sound was stirring.

Inside the bedroom the night was black and still.

Miss Ladd knew her business as a schoolmistress too well to allow night-lights; and Miss Ladd’s young ladies were supposed to be fast asleep, in accordance with the rules of the house. Only at intervals the silence was faintly disturbed, when the restless turning of one of the girls in her bed betrayed itself by a gentle rustling between the sheets. In the long intervals of stillness, not even the softly audible breathing of young creatures asleep was to be heard.

The first sound that told of life and movement revealed the mechanical movement of the clock. Speaking from the lower regions, the tongue of Father Time told the hour before midnight.

A soft voice rose wearily near the door of the room. It counted the strokes of the clock — and reminded one of the girls of the lapse of time.

“Emily! eleven o’clock.”

There was no reply. After an interval the weary voice tried again, in louder tones:

“Emily!”

A girl, whose bed was at the inner end of the room, sighed under the heavy heat of the night — and said, in peremptory tones, “Is that Cecilia?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m getting hungry, Emily. Is the new girl asleep?”

The new girl answered promptly and spitefully, “No, she isn’t.”

Having a private object of their own in view, the five wise virgins of Miss Ladd’s first class had waited an hour, in wakeful anticipation of the falling asleep of the stranger — and it had ended in this way! A ripple of laughter ran round the room. The new girl, mortified and offended, entered her protest in plain words.

“You are treating me shamefully! You all distrust me, because I am a stranger.”

“Say we don’t understand you,” Emily answered, speaking for her schoolfellows; “and you will be nearer the truth.”

“Who expected you to understand me, when I only came here to-day? I have told you already my name is Francine de Sor. If want to know more, I’m nineteen years old, and I come from the West Indies.”

Emily still took the lead. “Why do you come here?” she asked. “Who ever heard of a girl joining a new school just before the holidays? You are nineteen years old, are you? I’m a year younger than you — and I have finished my education. The next big girl in the room is a year younger than me — and she has finished her education. What can you possibly have left to learn at your age?”

“Everything!” cried the stranger from the West Indies, with an outburst of tears. “I’m a poor ignorant creature. Your education ought to have taught you to pity me instead of making fun of me. I hate you all. For shame, for shame!”

Some of the girls laughed. One of them — the hungry girl who had counted the strokes of the clock — took Francine’s part.

“Never mind their laughing, Miss de Sor. You are quite right, you have good reason to complain of us.”

Miss de Sor dried her eyes. “Thank you — whoever you are,” she answered briskly.

“My name is Cecilia Wyvil,” the other proceeded. “It was not, perhaps, quite nice of you to say you hated us all. At the same time we have forgotten our good breeding — and the least we can do is to beg your pardon.”

This expression of generous sentiment appeared to have an irritating effect on the peremptory young person who took the lead in the room. Perhaps she disapproved of free trade in generous sentiment.

“I can tell you one thing, Cecilia,” she said; “you shan’t beat ME in generosity. Strike a light, one of you, and lay the blame on me if Miss Ladd finds us out. I mean to shake hands with the new girl — and how can I do it in the dark? Miss de Sor, my name’s Brown, and I’m queen of the bedroom. I— not Cecilia — offer our apologies if we have offended you. Cecilia is my dearest friend, but I don’t allow her to take the lead in the room. Oh, what a lovely nightgown!”

The sudden flow of candle-light had revealed Francine, sitting up in her bed, and displaying such treasures of real lace over her bosom that the queen lost all sense of royal dignity in irrepressible admiration. “Seven and sixpence,” Emily remarked, looking at her own night-gown and despising it. One after another, the girls yielded to the attraction of the wonderful lace. Slim and plump, fair and dark, they circled round the new pupil in their flowing white robes, and arrived by common consent at one and the same conclusion: “How rich her father must be!”

Favored by fortune in the matter of money, was this enviable person possessed of beauty as well?

In the disposition of the beds, Miss de Sor was placed between Cecilia on the right hand, and Emily on the left. If, by some fantastic turn of events, a man — say in the interests of propriety, a married doctor, with Miss Ladd to look after him — had been permitted to enter the room, and had been asked what he thought of the girls when he came out, he would not even have mentioned Francine. Blind to the beauties of the expensive night-gown, he would have noticed her long upper lip, her obstinate chin, her sallow complexion, her eyes placed too close together — and would have turned his attention to her nearest neighbors. On one side his languid interest would have been instantly roused by Cecilia’s glowing auburn hair, her exquisitely pure skin, and her tender blue eyes. On the other, he would have discovered a bright little creature, who would have fascinated and perplexed him at one and the same time. If he had been questioned about her by a stranger, he would have been at a loss to say positively whether she was dark or light: he would have remembered how her eyes had held him, but he would not have known of what color they were. And yet, she would have remained a vivid picture in his memory when other impressions, derived at the same time, had vanished. “There was one little witch among them, who was worth all the rest put together; and I can’t tell you why. They called her Emily. If I wasn’t a married man —” There he would have thought of his wife, and would have sighed and said no more.