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

little books bound in calf and vellum. “A transaction has taken place between us. I must have it down in black and white.” He opened the book at a blank page, and wrote at the top, in a fine mercantile hand: “Miss Vanstone, the Younger: In account with Horatio Wragge, late of the Royal Militia. Dr.⁠—Cr. Sept. 24th, 1846. Dr.: To estimated value of H. Wragge’s interest in Miss V.’s first year’s salary⁠—say⁠—£200. Cr. By paid on account, £25.” Having completed the entry⁠—and having also shown, by doubling his original estimate on the Debtor side, that Magdalen’s easy compliance with his demand on her had not been thrown away on him⁠—the captain pressed his blotting-paper over the wet ink, and put away the book with the air of a man who had done a virtuous action, and who was above boasting about it.

“Excuse me for leaving you abruptly,” he said. “Time is of importance; I must make sure of the chaise. If Mrs. Wragge comes in, tell her nothing⁠—she is not sharp enough to be trusted. If she presumes to ask questions, extinguish her immediately. You have only to be loud. Pray take my authority into your own hands, and be as loud with Mrs. Wragge as I am!” He snatched up his tall hat, bowed, smiled, and tripped out of the room.

Sensible of little else but of the relief of being alone; feeling no more distinct impression than the vague sense of some serious change having taken place in herself and her position, Magdalen let the events of the morning come and go like shadows on her mind, and waited wearily for what the day might bring forth. After the lapse of some time, the door opened softly. The giant figure of Mrs. Wragge stalked into the room, and stopped opposite Magdalen in solemn astonishment.

“Where are your things?” asked Mrs. Wragge, with a burst of incontrollable anxiety. “I’ve been upstairs looking in your drawers. Where are your nightgowns and nightcaps? and your petticoats and stockings? and your hairpins and bear’s grease, and all the rest of it?”

“My luggage is left at the railway station,” said Magdalen.

Mrs. Wragge’s moon-face brightened dimly. The ineradicable female instinct of curiosity tried to sparkle in her faded blue eyes⁠—flickered piteously⁠—and died out.

“How much luggage?” she asked, confidentially. “The captain’s gone out. Let’s go and get it!”

“Mrs. Wragge!” cried a terrible voice at the door.

For the first time in Magdalen’s experience, Mrs. Wragge was deaf to the customary stimulant. She actually ventured on a feeble remonstrance in the presence of her husband.

“Oh, do let her have her things!” pleaded Mrs. Wragge. “Oh, poor soul, do let her have her things!”

The captain’s inexorable forefinger pointed to a corner of the room⁠—dropped slowly as his wife retired before it⁠—and suddenly stopped at the region of her shoes.

“Do I hear a clapping on the floor!” exclaimed Captain Wragge, with an expression of horror. “Yes; I do. Down at heel again! The left shoe this time. Pull it up, Mrs. Wragge! pull it up!⁠—The chaise will be here tomorrow morning at nine o’clock,” he continued, addressing Magdalen. “We can’t possibly venture on claiming your box. There is notepaper. Write down a list of the necessaries you want. I will take it myself to the shop, pay the bill for you, and bring back the parcel. We must sacrifice the box⁠—we must, indeed.”

While her husband was addressing Magdalen, Mrs. Wragge had stolen out again from her corner, and had ventured near enough to the captain to hear the words “shop” and “parcel.” She clapped her great hands together in ungovernable excitement, and lost all control over herself immediately.

“Oh, if it’s shopping, let me do it!” cried Mrs. Wragge. “She’s going out to buy her things! Oh, let me go with her⁠—please let me go with her!”

“Sit down!” shouted the captain. “Straight! more to the right⁠—more still. Stop where you are!”

Mrs. Wragge crossed her helpless hands on her lap, and melted meekly into tears.

“I do so like shopping,” pleaded the poor creature; “and I get so little of it now!”

Magdalen completed her list; and Captain Wragge at once left the room with it. “Don’t let my wife bore you,” he said, pleasantly, as he went out. “Cut her short, poor soul⁠—cut her short!”

“Don’t cry,” said Magdalen, trying to comfort Mrs. Wragge by patting her on the shoulder. “When the parcel comes back you shall open it.”

“Thank you, my dear,” said Mrs. Wragge, meekly, drying her eyes; “thank you kindly. Don’t notice my handkerchief, please. It’s such a very little one! I had a nice lot of them once, with lace borders. They’re all gone now. Never mind! It will comfort me to unpack your things. You’re very good to me. I like you. I say⁠—you won’t be angry, will you? Give us a kiss.”

Magdalen stooped over her with the frank grace and gentleness of past days, and touched her faded cheek. “Let me do something harmless!” she thought, with a pang at her heart⁠—“oh let me do something innocent and kind for the sake of old times!”

She felt her eyes moistening, and silently turned away.

That night no rest came to her. That night the roused forces of Good and Evil fought their terrible fight for her soul⁠—and left the strife between them still in suspense when morning came. As the clock of York Minster struck nine, she followed Mrs. Wragge to the chaise, and took her seat by the captain’s side. In a quarter of an hour more York was in the distance, and the highroad lay bright and open before them in the morning sunlight.

Between the Scenes Chronicle of Events: Preserved in Captain Wragge’s Dispatch-Box I

Chronicle for October, 1846.

I have retired into the bosom of my family. We are residing in the secluded village of Ruswarp, on the banks of the Esk, about two miles inland from Whitby. Our lodgings are comfortable, and we possess the additional blessing of a tidy landlady. Mrs. Wragge and Miss Vanstone preceded me here, in