lose her grace. She trembled a little, and clung to me. When I told
her to come at once with me home, she rose without a word, with the
obedience of a child. As we passed along, the gravel hurt my feet,
and Lucy noticed me wince. She stopped and wanted to insist upon my
taking my shoes, but I would not. However, when we got to the
pathway outside the chruchyard, where there was a puddle of water,
remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet with mud, using each
foot in turn on the other, so that as we went home, no one, 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 saw a man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a
street in front of us. But we hid in a door till he had disappeared
up an opening such as there are here, steep little closes, or
`wynds', as they call them in Scotland. My heart beat so loud all
the time sometimes I thought I should faint. I was filled with
anxiety about Lucy, not only for her health, lest she should suffer
from the exposure, but for her reputation in case the story should
get wind. When we got in, and had washed our feet, and had said a
prayer of thankfulness together, I tucked her into bed. Before
falling asleep she asked, even implored, me not to say a word to
any one, even her mother, about her sleepwalking adventure.
I hesitated at first, to promise, but on thinking of the state
of her mother's health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would
fret her, and think too, of how such a story might become
distorted, nay, infallibly would, in case it should leak out, I
thought it wiser to do so. I hope I did right. I have locked the
door, and the key is tied to my wrist, so perhaps I shall not be
again disturbed. Lucy is sleeping soundly. 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
seemed not to have even changed her side. The adventure of the
night does not seem to have harmed her, on the contrary, it hasnight does not seem to have harmed her, on the contrary, it has
benefited her, for she looks better this morning than she has done
for weeks. I was sorry to notice that my clumsiness with the
safety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it might have been serious, for the
skin of her throat was pierced. I must have pinched up a piece of
loose skin and have transfixed it, for there are two little red
points like pin-pricks, and on the band of her nightdress was a
drop of blood. When I apologised and was concerned about it, she
laughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it.
Fortunately it cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny.
Same day, night.—We passed a happy day. The air was clear, and
the sun bright, and there was a cool breeze. We took our lunch to
Mulgrave Woods, Mrs. Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I
walking by the cliff-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 had Jonathan been with me. But there! I must only
be patient. In the evening we strolled in the Casino Terrace, and
heard some good music by Spohr and Mackenzie, and went to bed
early. Lucy seems more restful than she has been for some time, and
fell asleep at once. I shall lock the door and secure the key the
same as before, though I do not expect any trouble tonight.
12 August.—My expectations were wrong, for twice during the
night I was wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in
her sleep, to be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and
went back to bed under a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and
heard the birds chirping outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and
I was glad to see, was even better than on the previous morning.
All her old gaiety of manner seemed to have come back, and she came
and snuggled in beside me and told me all about Arthur. I told her
how anxious I was about Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me.
Well, she succeeded somewhat, for, though sympathy can't alter
facts, it can make them more bearable.facts, it can make them more bearable.
13 August.—Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my
wrist as before. Again I awoke in the night, and found Lucy sitting
up in bed, still asleep, pointing to the window. I got up quietly,
and pulling aside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant
moonlight, and the soft effect of the light over the sea and sky,
merged together in one great silent mystery, was beautiful beyond
words. Between me and the moonlight flitted a great bat, coming and
going in great whirling circles. Once or twice it came quite close,
but was, I suppose, frightened at seeing me, and flitted away
across the harbour towards the abbey. When I came back from the
window Lucy had lain down again, and was sleeping peacefully. She
did not stir again all night.
14 August.—On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day. Lucy
seems to have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it
is hard to get her away from it when it is time to come home for
lunch or tea or dinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We
were coming home for dinner, and had come to the top of the steps
up from the West Pier and stopped to look at the view, as we
generally do. The setting sun, low down in the sky, was just
dropping behind Kettleness. The red light was thrown over on the
East Cliff and the old abbey, and seemed to bathe everything in a
beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a while, and suddenly Lucy
murmured as if to herself …
"His red eyes again! They are just the same." It was such an odd
expression, coming apropos of nothing, that it quite startled me. I
slewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without seeming to
stare at her, and saw that she was in a half dreamy state, with an
odd look on her face that I could not quite make out, so I said
nothing, but followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at
our own seat, whereon was a dark figure seated alone. I was quite a
little startled myself, for it seemed for an instant as if the