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

“No!” she said, as the last morsel of the torn paper dropped from her hand. “On the way I go there is no turning back.”

She rose composedly and left the room. While descending the stairs, she met Mrs. Wragge coming up. “Going out again, my dear?” asked Mrs. Wragge. “May I go with you?”

Magdalen’s attention wandered. Instead of answering the question, she absently answered her own thoughts.

“Thousands of women marry for money,” she said. “Why shouldn’t I?”

The helpless perplexity of Mrs. Wragge’s face as she spoke those words roused her to a sense of present things. “My poor dear!” she said; “I puzzle you, don’t I? Never mind what I say⁠—all girls talk nonsense, and I’m no better than the rest of them. Come! I’ll give you a treat. You shall enjoy yourself while the captain is away. We will have a long drive by ourselves. Put on your smart bonnet, and come with me to the hotel. I’ll tell the landlady to put a nice cold dinner into a basket. You shall have all the things you like, and I’ll wait on you. When you are an old, old woman, you will remember me kindly, won’t you? You will say: ‘She wasn’t a bad girl; hundreds worse than she was live and prosper, and nobody blames them.’ There! there! go and put your bonnet on. Oh, my God, what is my heart made of! How it lives and lives, when other girls’ hearts would have died in them long ago!”

In half an hour more she and Mrs. Wragge were seated together in the carriage. One of the horses was restive at starting. “Flog him,” she cried angrily to the driver. “What are you frightened about? Flog him! Suppose the carriage was upset,” she said, turning suddenly to her companion; “and suppose I was thrown out and killed on the spot? Nonsense! don’t look at me in that way. I’m like your husband; I have a dash of humor, and I’m only joking.”

They were out the whole day. When they reached home again, it was after dark. The long succession of hours passed in the fresh air left them both with the same sense of fatigue. Again that night Magdalen slept the deep dreamless sleep of the night before. And so the Friday closed.

Her last thought at night had been the thought which had sustained her throughout the day. She had laid her head on the pillow with the same reckless resolution to submit to the coming trial which had already expressed itself in words when she and Mrs. Wragge met by accident on the stairs. When she woke on the morning of Saturday, the resolution was gone. The Friday’s thoughts⁠—the Friday’s events even⁠—were blotted out of her mind. Once again, creeping chill through the flow of her young blood, she felt the slow and deadly prompting of despair which had come to her in the waning moonlight, which had whispered to her in the awful calm.

“I saw the end as the end must be,” she said to herself, “on Thursday night. I have been wrong ever since.”

When she and her companion met that morning, she reiterated her complaint of suffering from the toothache; she repeated her refusal to allow Mrs. Wragge to procure a remedy; she left the house after breakfast, in the direction of the chemist’s shop, exactly as she had left it on the morning before.

This time she entered the shop without an instant’s hesitation.

“I have got an attack of toothache,” she said, abruptly, to an elderly man who stood behind the counter.

“May I look at the tooth, miss?”

“There is no necessity to look. It is a hollow tooth. I think I have caught cold in it.”

The chemist recommended various remedies which were in vogue fifteen years since. She declined purchasing any of them.

“I have always found laudanum relieve the pain better than anything else,” she said, trifling with the bottles on the counter, and looking at them while she spoke, instead of looking at the chemist. “Let me have some laudanum.”

“Certainly, miss. Excuse my asking the question⁠—it is only a matter of form. You are staying at Aldborough, I think?”

“Yes. I am Miss Bygrave, of North Shingles.”

The chemist bowed; and, turning to his shelves, filled an ordinary half-ounce bottle with laudanum immediately. In ascertaining his customer’s name and address beforehand, the owner of the shop had taken a precaution which was natural to a careful man, but which was by no means universal, under similar circumstances, in the state of the law at that time.

“Shall I put you up a little cotton wool with the laudanum?” he asked, after he had placed a label on the bottle, and had written a word on it in large letters.

“If you please. What have you just written on the bottle?” She put the question sharply, with something of distrust as well as curiosity in her manner.

The chemist answered the question by turning the label toward her. She saw written on it, in large letters⁠—Poison.

“I like to be on the safe side, miss,” said the old man, smiling. “Very worthy people in other respects are often sadly careless where poisons are concerned.”

She began trifling again with the bottles on the counter, and put another question, with an ill-concealed anxiety to hear the answer.

“Is there danger,” she asked, “in such a little drop of laudanum as that?”

“There is Death in it, miss,” replied the chemist, quietly.

“Death to a child, or to a person in delicate health?”

“Death to the strongest man in England, let him be who he may.”

With that answer, the chemist sealed up the bottle in its wrapping of white paper and handed the laudanum to Magdalen across the counter. She laughed as she took it from him, and paid for it.

“There will be no fear of accidents at North Shingles,” she said. “I shall keep the bottle locked up in my dressing-case. If it doesn’t relieve the pain, I must come to you again, and try some other remedy.