_8 August._--Lucy was very restless all night, and I, too, couldnot sleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among thechimney-pots, it made me shudder. When a sharp puff came it seemed tobe like a distant gun. Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake; but she gotup twice and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I awoke in time,and managed to undress her without waking her, and got her back to bed.It is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as herwill is thwarted in any physical way, her intention, if there be any,disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine of herlife.
Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the harbour to seeif anything had happened in the night. There were very few people about,and though the sun was bright, and the air clear and fresh, the big,grim-looking waves, that seemed dark themselves because the foam thattopped them was like snow, forced themselves in
through the narrow mouthof the harbour--like a bullying man going through a crowd. Somehow Ifelt glad that Jonathan was not on the sea last night, but on land. But,oh, is he on land or sea? Where is he, and how? I am getting fearfullyanxious about him. If I only knew what to do, and could do anything!
_10 August._--The funeral of the poor sea-captain to-day was mosttouching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffinwas carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to thechurchyard. Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old seat, whilstthe cortege of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came downagain. We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly all theway. The poor fellow was laid to rest quite near our seat, so that westood on it when the time came and saw everything. Poor Lucy seemedmuch upset. She was restless and uneasy all the time, and I cannotbut think that her dreaming at night is telling on her. She is quiteodd in one thing: she will not admit to me that there is any causefor restlessness; or if there be, she does not understand it herself.There is an additional cause in that poor old Mr. Swales was found deadthis morning on our seat, his neck being broken. He had evidently, asthe doctor said, fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, forthere was a look of fear and horror on his face that the men said madethem shudder. Poor dear old man! Perhaps he had seen Death with hisdying eyes! Lucy is so sweet and sensitive that she feels influencesmore acutely than other people do. Just now she was quite upset by alittle thing which I did not much heed, though I am myself very fond ofanimals. One of the men who come up here often to look for the boatswas followed by his dog. The dog is always with him. They are bothquiet persons, and I never saw the man angry, nor heard the dog bark.During the service the dog would not come to its master, who was on theseat with us, but kept a few yards off, barking and howling. Its masterspoke to it gently, and then harshly, and then angrily; but it wouldneither come nor cease to make a noise. It was in a sort of fury, withits eyes savage, and all its hairs bristling out like a cat's tail whenpuss is on the war-path. Finally the man, too, got angry, and jumpeddown and kicked the dog, and then took it by the scruff of the neck andhalf dragged and half threw it on the tombstone on which the seat isfixed. The moment it touched the stone the poor thing became quiet andfell all into a tremble. It did not try to get away, but crouched down,quivering and cowering, and was in such a pitiable state of terror thatI tried, though without effect, to comfort it. Lucy was full of pity,too, but she did not attempt to touch the dog, but looked at it in anagonised sort of way. I greatly fear that she is of too supersensitivea nature to go through the world without trouble. She will be dreamingof this to-night, I am sure. The whole agglomeration of things--the shipsteered into port by a dead man; his attitude, tied to the wheel with acrucifix and beads; the touching funeral; the dog, now furious and nowin terror--will all afford material for her dreams.
I think it will be best for her to go to bed tired out physically, soI shall take her for a long walk by the cliffs to Robin Hood's Bay andback. She ought not to have much inclination for sleep-walking then.
CHAPTER VIII.
/Mina Murray's Journal./
_Same day, 11 o'clock p.m._--Oh, but I am tired! If it were not thatI have made my diary a duty I should not open it to-night. We had alovely walk. Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing, I think,to some dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field close to thelighthouse, and frightened the wits out of us. I believe we forgoteverything, except, of course, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe theslate clean and give us a fresh start. We had a capital "severe tea" atRobin Hood's Bay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a bow-windowright over the seaweed-covered rocks of the strand. I believe we shouldhave shocked the "New Woman" with our appetites. Men are more tolerant,bless them! Then we walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages torest, and with our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls. Lucywas really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as soon as wecould. The young curate came in, however, and Mrs. Westenra asked himto stay for supper. Lucy and I had both a fight for it with the dustymiller; I know it was a hard fight on my part, and I am quite heroic. Ithink that some day the bishops must get together and see about breedingup a new class of curates, who don't take supper, no matter how they maybe pressed to, and who will know when girls are tired. Lucy is asleepand breathing softly. She has more colour in her cheeks than usual, andlooks, oh, so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in love with her seeing heronly in the drawing-room, I wonder what he would say if he saw her now.Some of the "New Women" writers will some day start an idea that men andwomen should be allowed to see each other asleep before proposing oraccepting. But I suppose the New Woman won't condescend in future toaccept; she will do the proposing herself. And a nice job she will makeof it, too! There's some consolation in that. I am so happy to-night,because dear Lucy seems better. I really believe she has turned thecorner, and that we are over her troubles with dreaming. I should bequite happy if I only knew if Jonathan.... God bless and keep him.
_11 August, 3 a.m._--Diary again. No sleep now, so I may as well write.I am too agitated to sleep. We have had such an adventure, such anagonising experience. I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my diary....Suddenly I became broad awake, and sat up, with a horrible sense offear upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness around me. The room wasdark, so I could not see Lucy's bed; I stole across and felt for her.The bed was empty. I lit a match, and found that she was not in theroom. The door was shut, but not locked, as I had left it. I feared towake her mother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw onsome clothes and got ready to look for her. As I was leaving the roomit struck me that the clothes she wore might give me some clue to herdreaming intention. Dressing-gown would mean house; dress, outside.Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places. "Thank God," I saidto myself, "she cannot be far, as she is only in her nightdress." I randownstairs and looked in the sitting-room. Not there! Then I lookedin all the other open rooms of the house, with an ever-growing fearchilling my heart. Finally I came to the hall-door and found it open.It was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not caught. Thepeople of the house are careful to lock the door every night, so Ifeared that Lucy must have gone out as she was. There was no time tothink of what might happen; a vague, overmastering fear obscured alldetails. I took a big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was strikingone as I was in the Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I ranalong the North Terrace, but could see no sign of the white figurewhich I expected. At the edge of the West Cliff above the pier I lookedacross the harbour to the East Cliff, in the hope or fear--I don't knowwhich--of seeing Lucy in our favourite seat. There was a bright fullmoon, with heavy black, driving clouds, which threw the whole sceneinto a fleeting diorama of light and shade as they sailed across. For amoment or two I could see nothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscuredSt. Mary's Church and all around it. Then as the cloud passed I couldsee the ruins of the Abbey coming into view; and as the edge of a narrowband of light as sharp as a sword-cut moved along, the church and thechurchyard became gradually visible. Whatever my expectation was, it wasnot disappointed, for there, on our favourite seat, the silver light ofthe moon struck a half-reclining figure, snowy white. The coming of thecloud was too quick for me to see much, for shadow shut down on lightalmost immediately; but it seemed to me as though something dark stoodbehind the seat where the white figure shone, and bent over it. What itwas, whether man or beast, I could not tell; I did not wait to catchanother glance, but flew down the steep steps to the pier and along bythe fish-market to the bridge, which was the only way to reach the EastCliff. The town seemed as dead, for not a soul did I see; I rejoicedthat it was so, for I wanted no witness of poor Lucy's condition. Thetime and distance seemed endless, and my knees trembled and my breathcame laboured as I toiled up the endless steps to the Abbey. I musthave gone fast, and yet it seemed to me as if my feet were weightedwith lead, and as though every joint in my body were rusty. When Igot almost to the top I could see the seat and the white figure, forI was now close enough to distinguish it even through the spells ofshadow. There was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending overthe half-reclining white figure. I called in fright, "Lucy! Lucy!"and something raised a head, and from where I was I could see a whiteface and red, gleaming eyes. Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to theentrance of the churchyard. As I entered, the church was between me andthe seat, and for a minute or so I lost sight of her. When I came inview again the cloud had passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantlythat I could see Lucy half reclining with her head lying over the backof the seat. She was quite alone, and there was not a sign of any livingthing about.
When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her lipswere parted, and she was breathing--not softly, as usual with her, butin long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs full at everybreath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her sleep and pulledthe collar of her nightdress close round her throat. Whilst she did sothere came a little shudder through her, as though she felt the cold. Iflung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight round her neck,for I dreaded lest she should get some deadly chill from the night air,unclad as she was. I feared to wake her all at once, so, in order tohave my hands free that I might help her, I fastened the shawl at herthroat with a big safety-pin; but I must have been clumsy in my anxietyand pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her breathingbecame quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and moaned. When Ihad her carefully wrapped up I put my shoes on her feet, and then beganvery gently to wake her. At first she did not respond; but graduallyshe became more and more uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighingoccasionally. At last, as time was passing fast, and for many otherreasons, I wished to get her home at once, I shook her more forcibly,till finally she opened her eyes and awoke. She did not seem surprisedto see me, as, of course, she did not realise all at once where shewas. Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her bodymust have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled atwaking unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace. Shetrembled a little, and clung to me; when I told her to come at once withme home she rose without a word, with the obedience of a child. As wepassed along, the gravel hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince. Shestopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes; but I would not.However, when we got to the pathway outside the churchyard, where therewas a puddle of water remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet withmud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we went home noone, in case we should meet any one, should notice my bare feet.
Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul. Once we sawa man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a street in front ofus; but we hid in a door till he had disappeared up an opening such asthere are here, steep little closes, or "wynds," as they call them inScotland. My heart beat so loud all the time that sometimes I thoughtI should faint. I was filled with anxiety about Lucy, not only for herhealth, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her reputationin case the story should get wind. Wh
en we got in, and had washed ourfeet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, I tucked her intobed. Before falling asleep she asked--even implored--me not to say aword to any one, even her mother, about her sleep-walking adventure.I hesitated at first to promise; but on thinking of the state of hermother's health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her,and thinking, too, of how such a story might become distorted--nay,infallibly would--in case it should leak out, I thought it wiser to doso. I hope I did right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied tomy wrist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is sleepingsoundly; the reflex of the dawn is high and far over the sea....
_Same day, noon._--All goes well. Lucy slept till I woke her, and seemednot to have even changed her side. The adventure of the night does notseem to have harmed her; on the contrary, it has benefited her, for shelooks better this morning than she has done for weeks. I was sorry tonotice that my clumsiness with the safety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it mighthave been serious, for the skin of her throat was pierced. I must havepinched up a piece of loose skin and have transfixed it, for there aretwo little red points like pin-pricks, and on the band of her nightdresswas a drop of blood. When I apologised and was concerned about it, shelaughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it. Fortunately itcannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny.
_Same day, night._--We passed a happy day. The air was clear, and thesun bright and there was a cool breeze. We took our lunch to MulgraveWoods, Mrs. Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I walking by thecliff path and joining her at the gate. I felt a little sad myself,for I could not but feel how _absolutely_ happy it would have been hadJonathan been with me. But there! I must only be patient. In the eveningwe strolled in the Casino Terrace, and heard some good music by Spohrand Mackenzie, and went to bed early. Lucy seems more restful thanshe has been for some time, and fell asleep at once. I shall lock thedoor and secure the key the same as before, though I do not expect anytrouble to-night.
_12 August._--My expectations were wrong, for twice during the nightI was awakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in hersleep, to be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and wentback to bed under a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and heardthe birds chirping outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and, I wasglad to see, was even better than on the previous morning. All her oldgaiety of manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled inbeside me, and told me all about Arthur; I told her how anxious I wasabout Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she succeededsomewhat, for, though sympathy can't alter facts, it can help to makethem more bearable.
_13 August._--Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist asbefore. Again I woke in the night, and found Lucy sitting up in bed,still asleep, pointing to the window. I got up quietly, and pullingaside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant moonlight, and the softeffect of the light over the sea and sky--merged together in one great,silent mystery--was beautiful beyond words. Between me and the moonlightflitted a great bat, coming and going in great, whirling circles. Onceor twice it came quite close, but was, I suppose, frightened at seeingme, and flitted away across the harbour towards the Abbey. When Icame back from the window Lucy had lain down again, and was sleepingpeacefully. She did not stir again all night.
_14 August._--On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day. Lucy seemsto have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it is hard toget her away from it when it is time to come home for lunch or tea ordinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We were coming home fordinner, and had come to the top of the steps up from the West Pier andstopped to look at the view, as we generally do. The setting sun, lowdown in the sky, was just dropping behind Kettleness; the red light wasthrown over on the East Cliff and the old Abbey, and seemed to batheeverything in a beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a while, andsuddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself:--
"His red eyes again! They are just the same." It was such an oddexpression, coming _apropos_ of nothing, that it quite startled me. Islewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without seeming to stareat her, and saw that she was in a half-dreamy state, with an odd lookon her face that I could not quite make out; so I said nothing, butfollowed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at our seat, whereonwas a dark figure seated alone. I was a little startled myself, for itseemed for an instant as if the stranger had great eyes like burningflames; but a second look dispelled the illusion. The red sunlight wasshining on the windows of St. Mary's Church behind our seat, and asthe sun dipped there was just sufficient change in the refraction andreflection to make it appear as if the light moved. I called Lucy'sattention to the peculiar effect, and she became herself with a start,but she looked sad all the same; it may have been that she was thinkingof that terrible night up there. We never refer to it; so I saidnothing, and we went home to dinner. Lucy had a headache and went earlyto bed. I saw her asleep, and went out for a little stroll myself; Iwalked along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet sadness,for I was thinking of Jonathan. When coming home--it was then brightmoonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part of the Crescentwas in shadow, everything could be well seen--I threw a glance up atour window, and saw Lucy's head leaning out. I thought that perhaps shewas looking out for me, so I opened my handkerchief and waved it. Shedid not notice or make any movement whatever. Just then, the moonlightcrept round an angle of the building, and the light fell on the window.There distinctly was Lucy with her head lying up against the side of thewindow-sill and her eyes shut. She was fast asleep, and by her, seatedon the window-sill, was something that looked like a good-sized bird.I was afraid she might get a chill, so I ran upstairs, but as I cameinto the room she was moving back to her bed, fast asleep, and breathingheavily; she was holding her hand to her throat, as though to protect itfrom cold.
I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly; I have taken care that thedoor is locked and the window securely fastened.
She looks so sweet as she sleeps; but she is paler than is her wont,and there is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes which I do not like.I fear she is fretting about something. I wish I could find out what itis.
_15 August._--Rose later than usual. Lucy was languid and tired,and slept on after we had been called. We had a happy surprise atbreakfast. Arthur's father is better, and wants the marriage to comeoff soon. Lucy is full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad and sorryat once. Later on in the day she told me the cause. She is grieved tolose Lucy as her very own, but she is rejoiced that she is soon tohave some one to protect her. Poor dear, sweet lady! She confided tome that she has got her death-warrant. She has not told Lucy, and mademe promise secrecy; her doctor told her that within a few months, atmost, she must die, for her heart is weakening. At any time, even now,a sudden shock would be almost sure to kill her. Ah, we were wise tokeep from her the affair of the dreadful night of Lucy's sleep-walking.
_17 August._--No diary for two whole days. I have not had the heart towrite. Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our happiness.No news from Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be growing weaker, whilst hermother's hours are numbering to a close. I do not understand Lucy'sfading away as she is doing. She eats well and sleeps well, and enjoysthe fresh air; but all the time the roses in her cheeks are fading,and she gets weaker and more languid day by day; at night I hear hergasping as if for air. I keep the key of our door always fastened tomy wrist at night, but she gets up and walks about the room, and sitsat the open window. Last night I found her leaning out when I woke up,and when I tried to wake her I could not; she was in a faint. When Imanaged to restore her she was as weak as water, and cried silentlybetween long, painful struggles for breath. When I asked her how shecame to be at the window she shook her head and turned away. I trusther feeling ill may not be from that unlucky prick of the safety-pin.I looked at her throat just now as she lay asleep, and the tiny woundsseem not to have healed. They are still open, and, if anything, larger,than before, and the edges of them are faint
ly white. They are likelittle white dots with red centres. Unless they heal within a day ortwo, I shall insist on the doctor seeing about them.
_Letter, Samuel F. Billington & Son, Solicitors, Whitby, to Messrs.Carter, Paterson & Co., London._
"_17 August._
"Dear Sirs,--
"Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great NorthernRailway. Same are to be delivered to Carfax, near Purfleet, immediatelyon receipt at goods station King's Cross. The house is at present empty,but enclosed please find keys, all of which are labelled.
"You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form theconsignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of thehouse and marked 'A' on rough diagram enclosed. Your agent will easilyrecognise the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. Thegoods leave by the train at 9.30 to-night, and will be due at King'sCross at 4.30 to-morrow afternoon. As our client wishes the deliverymade as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by your having teams readyat King's Cross at the time named and forthwith conveying the goods todestination. In order to obviate any delays possible through any routinerequirements as to payment in your departments, we enclose chequeherewith for ten pounds (L10), receipt of which please acknowledge.Should the charge be less than this amount, you can return balance; ifgreater, we shall at once send cheque for difference on hearing fromyou. You are to leave the keys on coming away in the main hall of thehouse, where the proprietor may get them on his entering the house bymeans of his duplicate key.
"Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business courtesy inpressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition.
"We are, dear Sirs, "Faithfully yours, "/Samuel F. Billington & Son./"