little startled myself, for it seemed for an instant as if the
stranger had great eyes like burning flames, but a second look
dispelled the illusion. The red sunlight was shining on the windows
of St. Mary's Church behind our seat, and as the sun dipped there
was just sufficient change in the refraction and reflection to make
it appear as if the light moved. I called Lucy's attention 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 thinking of
that terrible night up there. We never refer to it, so I said
nothing, and we went home to dinner. Lucy had a headache and went
early to bed. I saw her asleep, and went out for a little stroll
myself.
I walked along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet
sadness, for I was thinking of Jonathan. When coming home, it was
then bright moonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part
of the Crescent was in shadow, everything could be well seen, I
threw a glance up at our window, and saw Lucy's head leaning out. I
opened my handkerchief and waved it. She did not notice or make any
movement whatever. Just then, the moonlight crept 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 the window sill
and her eyes shut. She was fast asleep, and by her, seated on 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 came
into the room she was moving back to her bed, fast asleep, and
breathing heavily. She was holding her hand to her throat, as
though to protect if from the cold.
I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly. I have taken care
that the door 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 it is.not like. I fear she is fretting about something. I wish I could
find out what it is.
15 August.—Rose later than usual. Lucy was languid and tired,
and slept on after we had been called. We had a happy surprise at
breakfast. Arthur's father is better, and wants the marriage to
come off soon. Lucy is full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad
and sorry at once. Later on in the day she told me the cause. She
is grieved to lose Lucy as her very own, but she is rejoiced that
she is soon to have some one to protect her. Poor dear, sweet lady!
She confided to me that she has got her death warrant. She has not
told Lucy, and made me promise secrecy. Her doctor told her that
within a few months, at most, 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 to keep 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
to write. Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our
happiness. No news from Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be growing
weaker, whilst her mother's hours are numbering to a close. I do
not understand Lucy's fading away as she is doing. She eats well
and sleeps well, and enjoys the 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 her gasping as if for air.
I keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist at night,
but she gets up and walks about the room, and sits at 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 I managed to restore her, she was weak
as water, and cried silently between long, painful struggles for
breath. When I asked her how she came to be at the window she shook
her head and turned away.
I trust her feeling ill may not be from that unlucky prick of
the safety-pin. I looked at her throat just now as she lay asleep,the safety-pin. I looked at her throat just now as she lay asleep,
and the tiny wounds seem not to have healed. They are still open,
and, if anything, larger than before, and the edges of them are
faintly white. They are like little white dots with red centres.
Unless they heal within a day or two, 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 Northern
Railway. Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near Purfleet,
immediately on 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
the consignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of
the house and marked `A' on rough diagrams enclosed. Your agent
will easily recognize the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of
the mansion. The goods leave by the train at 9:30 tonight, and will
be due at King's Cross at 4:30 tomorrow afternoon. As our client
wishes the delivery made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged
by your having teams ready at King's Cross at the time named and
forthwith conveying the goods to destination. In order to obviate
any delays possible through any routine requirements as to payment
in your departments, we enclose cheque herewith for ten pounds,
receipt of which please acknowledge. Should the charge be less than
this amount, you can return balance, if greater, we shall at once
send cheque for difference on hearing from you. You are to leave
the keys on coming away in the main hall of the house, where the
proprietor may get them on his entering the house by means of his
duplicate key.
"Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business
courtesy in pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition.
"We are, dear Sirs, "Faithfully yours, "SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON &
SON"