No Name Wilkie Collins (e book reader android TXT) 📖

mind as if they had never taken place. The horror of the coming Monday⁠—the merciless certainty implied in the appointment of the day and hour⁠—petrified all feeling in her, and annihilated all thought. Mrs. Wragge made three separate attempts to enter on the subject of the housekeeper’s visit. The first time she might as well have addressed herself to the wind, or to the sea. The second attempt seemed likely to be more successful. Magdalen sighed, listened for a moment indifferently, and then dismissed the subject. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “The end has come all the same. I’m not angry with you. Say no more.” Later in the day, from not knowing what else to talk about, Mrs. Wragge tried again. This time Magdalen turned on her impatiently. “For God’s sake, don’t worry me about trifles! I can’t bear it.” Mrs. Wragge closed her lips on the spot, and returned to the subject no more. Magdalen, who had been kind to her at all other times, had angrily forbidden it. The captain⁠—utterly ignorant of Mrs. Lecount’s interest in the secrets of the wardrobe⁠—had never so much as approached it. All the information that he had extracted from his wife’s mental confusion, he had extracted by putting direct questions, derived purely from the resources of his own knowledge. He had insisted on plain answers, without excuses of any kind; he had carried his point as usual; and his departure the same morning had left him no chance of reopening the question, even if his irritation against his wife had permitted him to do so. There the alpaca dress hung, neglected in the dark⁠—the unnoticed, unsuspected center of dangers that were still to come.

Toward the afternoon Mrs. Wragge took courage to start a suggestion of her own⁠—she pleaded for a little turn in the fresh air.

Magdalen passively put on her hat; passively accompanied her companion along the public walk, until they reached its northward extremity. Here the beach was left solitary, and here they sat down, side by side, on the shingle. It was a bright, exhilarating day; pleasure-boats were sailing on the calm blue water; Aldborough was idling happily afloat and ashore. Mrs. Wragge recovered her spirits in the gayety of the prospect⁠—she amused herself like a child, by tossing pebbles into the sea. From time to time she stole a questioning glance at Magdalen, and saw no encouragement in her manner, no change to cordiality in her face. She sat silent on the slope of the shingle, with her elbow on her knee, and her head resting on her hand, looking out over the sea⁠—looking with rapt attention, and yet with eyes that seemed to notice nothing. Mrs. Wragge wearied of the pebbles, and lost her interest in looking at the pleasure-boats. Her great head began to nod heavily, and she dozed in the warm, drowsy air. When she woke, the pleasure-boats were far off; their sails were white specks in the distance. The idlers on the beach were thinned in number; the sun was low in the heaven; the blue sea was darker, and rippled by a breeze. Changes on sky and earth and ocean told of the waning day; change was everywhere⁠—except close at her side. There Magdalen sat, in the same position, with weary eyes that still looked over the sea, and still saw nothing.

“Oh, do speak to me!” said Mrs. Wragge.

Magdalen started, and looked about her vacantly.

“It’s late,” she said, shivering under the first sensation that reached her of the rising breeze. “Come home; you want your tea.” They walked home in silence.

“Don’t be angry with me for asking,” said Mrs. Wragge, as they sat together at the tea-table. “Are you troubled, my dear, in your mind?”

“Yes,” replied Magdalen. “Don’t notice me. My trouble will soon be over.”

She waited patiently until Mrs. Wragge had made an end of the meal, and then went upstairs to her own room.

“Monday!” she said, as she sat down at her toilet-table. “Something may happen before Monday comes!”

Her fingers wandered mechanically among the brushes and combs, the tiny bottles and cases placed on the table. She set them in order, now in one way, and now in another⁠—then on a sudden pushed them away from her in a heap. For a minute or two her hands remained idle. That interval passed, they grew restless again, and pulled the two little drawers backward and forward in their grooves. Among the objects laid in one of them was a prayerbook which had belonged to her at Combe-Raven, and which she had saved with her other relics of the past, when she and her sister had taken their farewell of home. She opened the prayerbook, after a long hesitation, at the Marriage Service, shut it again before she had read a line, and put it back hurriedly in one of the drawers. After turning the key in the locks, she rose and walked to the window. “The horrible sea!” she said, turning from it with a shudder of disgust⁠—“the lonely, dreary, horrible sea!”

She went back to the drawer, and took the prayerbook out for the second time, half opened it again at the Marriage Service, and impatiently threw it back into the drawer. This time, after turning the lock, she took the key away, walked with it in her hand to the open window, and threw it violently from her into the garden. It fell on a bed thickly planted with flowers. It was invisible; it was lost. The sense of its loss seemed to relieve her.

“Something may happen on Friday; something may happen on Saturday; something may happen on Sunday. Three days still!”

She closed the green shutters outside the window and drew the curtains to darken the room still more. Her head felt heavy; her eyes were burning hot. She threw herself on her bed, with a sullen impulse to sleep away the time. The quiet of the house helped her; the darkness of the room helped her; the stupor of mind into which she had fallen had its effect on her