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

senses; she dropped into a broken sleep. Her restless hands moved incessantly, her head tossed from side to side of the pillow, but still she slept. Ere long words fell by ones and twos from her lips; words whispered in her sleep, growing more and more continuous, more and more articulate, the longer the sleep lasted⁠—words which seemed to calm her restlessness and to hush her into deeper repose. She smiled; she was in the happy land of dreams; Frank’s name escaped her. “Do you love me, Frank?” she whispered. “Oh, my darling, say it again! say it again!”

The time passed, the room grew darker; and still she slumbered and dreamed. Toward sunset⁠—without any noise inside the house or out to account for it⁠—she started up on the bed, awake again in an instant. The drowsy obscurity of the room struck her with terror. She ran to the window, pushed open the shutters, and leaned far out into the evening air and the evening light. Her eyes devoured the trivial sights on the beach; her ears drank in the welcome murmur of the sea. Anything to deliver her from the waking impression which her dreams had left! No more darkness, no more repose. Sleep that came mercifully to others came treacherously to her. Sleep had only closed her eyes on the future, to open them on the past.

She went down again into the parlor, eager to talk⁠—no matter how idly, no matter on what trifles. The room was empty. Perhaps Mrs. Wragge had gone to her work⁠—perhaps she was too tired to talk. Magdalen took her hat from the table and went out. The sea that she had shrunk from, a few hours since, looked friendly now. How lovely it was in its cool evening blue! What a godlike joy in the happy multitude of waves leaping up to the light of heaven!

She stayed out until the night fell and the stars appeared. The night steadied her.

By slow degrees her mind recovered its balance and she looked her position unflinchingly in the face. The vain hope that accident might defeat the very end for which, of her own free will, she had ceaselessly plotted and toiled, vanished and left her; self-dissipated in its own weakness. She knew the true alternative, and faced it. On one side was the revolting ordeal of the marriage; on the other, the abandonment of her purpose. Was it too late to choose between the sacrifice of the purpose and the sacrifice of herself? Yes! too late. The backward path had closed behind her. Time that no wish could change, Time that no prayers could recall, had made her purpose a part of herself: once she had governed it; now it governed her. The more she shrank, the harder she struggled, the more mercilessly it drove her on. No other feeling in her was strong enough to master it⁠—not even the horror that was maddening her⁠—the horror of her marriage.

Toward nine o’clock she went back to the house.

“Walking again!” said Mrs. Wragge, meeting her at the door. “Come in and sit down, my dear. How tired you must be!”

Magdalen smiled, and patted Mrs. Wragge kindly on the shoulder.

“You forget how strong I am,” she said. “Nothing hurts me.”

She lit her candle and went upstairs again into her room. As she returned to the old place by her toilet-table, the vain hope in the three days of delay, the vain hope of deliverance by accident, came back to her⁠—this time in a form more tangible than the form which it had hitherto worn.

“Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Something may happen to him; something may happen to me. Something serious; something fatal. One of us may die.”

A sudden change came over her face. She shivered, though there was no cold in the air. She started, though there was no noise to alarm her.

“One of us may die. I may be the one.”

She fell into deep thought, roused herself after a while, and, opening the door, called to Mrs. Wragge to come and speak to her.

“You were right in thinking I should fatigue myself,” she said. “My walk has been a little too much for me. I feel tired, and I am going to bed. Good night.” She kissed Mrs. Wragge and softly closed the door again.

After a few turns backward and forward in the room, she abruptly opened her writing-case and began a letter to her sister. The letter grew and grew under her hands; she filled sheet after sheet of notepaper. Her heart was full of her subject: it was her own story addressed to Norah. She shed no tears; she was composed to a quiet sadness. Her pen ran smoothly on. After writing for more than two hours, she left off while the letter was still unfinished. There was no signature attached to it⁠—there was a blank space reserved, to be filled up at some other time. After putting away the case, with the sheets of writing secured inside it, she walked to the window for air, and stood there looking out.

The moon was waning over the sea. The breeze of the earlier hours had died out. On earth and ocean, the spirit of the Night brooded in a deep and awful calm.

Her head drooped low on her bosom, and all the view waned before her eyes with the waning moon. She saw no sea, no sky. Death, the Tempter, was busy at her heart. Death, the Tempter, pointed homeward, to the grave of her dead parents in Combe-Raven churchyard.

“Nineteen last birthday,” she thought. “Only nineteen!” She moved away from the window, hesitated, and then looked out again at the view. “The beautiful night!” she said, gratefully. “Oh, the beautiful night!”

She left the window and lay down on her bed. Sleep, that had come treacherously before, came mercifully now; came deep and dreamless, the image of her last waking thought⁠—the image of Death.

Early the next morning Mrs. Wragge went into Magdalen’s room, and found that she had risen betimes. She was sitting before the