seems better. I really believe she has turned the corner, and that
we are over her troubles with dreaming. I should be quite happy if
I only knew if Jonathan … God bless and keep him.
11 August.—Diary again. No sleep now, so I may as well write. I
am too agitated to sleep. We have had such an adventure, such an
agonizing experience. I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my
diary … Suddenly I became broad awake, and sat up, with a
horrible sense of fear upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness
around me. The room was dark, 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 the room. The door was shut, but not
locked, as I had left it. I feared to wake her mother, who has been
more than usually ill lately, so threw on some clothes and got
ready to look for her. As I was leaving the room it struck me that
the clothes she wore might give me some clue to her dreaming
intention. Dressing-gown would mean house, dress outside.
Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places. "Thank God," I
said to myself, "she cannot be far, as she is only in her
nightdress."
I ran downstairs and looked in the sitting room. Not there! Then
I looked in all the other rooms of the house, with an ever-growing
fear chilling 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. The people of the house are careful to lock the door every
night, so I feared that Lucy must have gone out as she was. There
was no time to think of what might happen. A vague over-mastering
fear obscured all details.
I took a big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was striking
one as I was in the Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I
ran along the North Terrace, but could see no sign of the white
figure which I expected. At the edge of the West Cliff above the
pier I looked across the harbour to the East Cliff, in the hope or
fear, I don't know which, of seeing Lucy in our favorite seat.fear, I don't know which, of seeing Lucy in our favorite seat.
There was a bright full moon, with heavy black, driving clouds,
which threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama of light and
shade as they sailed across. For a moment or two I could see
nothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary's Church and
all around it. Then as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of
the abbey coming into view, and as the edge of a narrow band of
light as sharp as a sword-cut moved along, the church and
churchyard became gradually visible. Whatever my expectation was,
it was not disappointed, for there, on our favorite seat, the
silver light of the moon struck a half-reclining figure, snowy
white. The coming of the cloud was too quick for me to see much,
for shadow shut down on light almost immediately, but it seemed to
me as though something dark stood behind the seat where the white
figure shone, and bent over it. What it was, whether man or beast,
I could not tell.
I did not wait to catch another glance, but flew down the steep
steps to the pier and along by the fish-market to the bridge, which
was the only way to reach the East Cliff. The town seemed as dead,
for not a soul did I see. I rejoiced that it was so, for I wanted
no witness of poor Lucy's condition. The time and distance seemed
endless, and my knees trembled and my breath came laboured as I
toiled up the endless steps to the abbey. I must have gone fast,
and yet it seemed to me as if my feet were weighted with lead, and
as though every joint in my body were rusty.
When I got almost to the top I could see the seat and the white
figure, for I was now close enough to distinguish it even through
the spells of shadow. There was undoubtedly something, long and
black, bending over the half-reclining white figure. I called in
fright, "Lucy! Lucy!" and something raised a head, and from where I
was I could see a white face and red, gleaming eyes.
Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to the entrance of theLucy did not answer, and I ran on to the entrance of the
churchyard. As I entered, the church was between me and the seat,
and for a minute or so I lost sight of her. When I came in view
again the cloud had passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly
that I could see Lucy half reclining with her head lying over the
back of the seat. She was quite alone, and there was not a sign of
any living thing about.
When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her
lips were parted, and she was breathing, not softly as usual with
her, but in long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs
full at every breath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her
sleep and pulled the collar of her nightdress close around her, as
though she felt the cold. I flung the warm shawl over her, and drew
the edges tight around 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 to have my hands free to help
her, I fastened the shawl at her throat with a big safety pin. But
I must have been clumsy in my anxiety and pinched or pricked her
with it, for by-and-by, when her breathing became quieter, she put
her hand to her throat again and moaned. When I had her carefully
wrapped up I put my shoes on her feet, and then began very gently
to wake her.
At first she did not respond, but gradually she became more and
more uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing occasionally. At
last, as time was passing fast, and for many other reasons, I
wished to get her home at once, I shook her forcibly, till finally
she opened her eyes and awoke. She did not seem surprised to see
me, as, of course, she did not realize all at once where she
was.
Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time,when her
body must have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat
appalled at waking unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not
lose her grace. She trembled a little, and clung to me. When I told