The Cursed Castle

chapter 7

and he said the enclosed had just been received. It is only

a line dated from Castle Dracula, and says that he is just

starting for home. That is not like Jonathan. I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy.

Then, too, Lucy, although she is so well, has lately taken

to her old habit of walking in her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it, and we have decided that I am to lock

the door of our room every night.

Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always

go out on roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs and

then get suddenly wakened and fall over with a despairing

cry that echoes all over the place.

Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy, and she

tells me that her husband, Lucy’s father, had the same habit,

that he would get up in the night and dress himself and go

out, if he were not stopped.

Lucy is to be married in the autumn, and she is already

planning out her dresses and how her house is to be arranged. I sympathise with her, for I do the same, only

Jonathan and I will start in life in a very simple way, and

shall have to try to make both ends meet.

Mr. Holmwood, he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only

son of Lord Godalming, is coming up here very shortly, as

soon as he can leave town, for his father is not very well, and

I think dear Lucy is counting the moments till he comes.

She wants to take him up in the seat on the churchyard

cliff and show him the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it is the

waiting which disturbs her. She will be all right when he arrives.

No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about him, though why I should I do not know, but I do

wish that he would write, if it were only a single line.

Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I am awakened

by her moving about the room. Fortunately, the weather is

so hot that she cannot get cold. But still, the anxiety and

the perpetually being awakened is beginning to tell on me,

and I am getting nervous and wakeful myself. Thank God,

Lucy’s health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has been suddenly

called to Ring to see his father, who has been taken seriously

ill. Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it does

not touch her looks. She is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks

are a lovely rose-pink. She has lost the anemic look which

she had. I pray it will all last.

3 August.—Another week gone by, and no news from

Jonathan, not even to Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have

heard. Oh, I do hope he is not ill. He surely would have written. I look at that last letter of his, but somehow it does not

satisfy me. It does not read like him, and yet it is his writing.

There is no mistake of that.

Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last week, but

there is an odd concentration about her which I do not understand, even in her sleep she seems to be watching me.

She tries the door, and finding it locked, goes about the

room searching for the key.

6 August.—Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting dreadful. If I only knew where to write to

or where to go to, I should feel easier. But no one has heard

a word of Jonathan since that last letter. I must only pray to God for patience.

Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well.

Last night was very threatening, and the fishermen say that

we are in for a storm. I must try to watch it and learn the

weather signs.

Today is a gray day, and the sun as I write is hidden in

thick clouds, high over Kettleness. Everything is gray except the green grass, which seems like emerald amongst it,

gray earthy rock, gray clouds, tinged with the sunburst at

the far edge, hang over the gray sea, into which the sandpoints stretch like gray figures. The sea is tumbling in over

the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar, muffled in the

sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a gray mist.

All vastness, the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and

there is a ‘brool’ over the sea that sounds like some passage of doom. Dark figures are on the beach here and there,

sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem ‘men like

trees walking’. The fishing boats are racing for home, and

rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep into the harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales.

He is making straight for me, and I can see, by the way he

lifts his hat, that he wants to talk.

I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old

man. When he sat down beside me, he said in a very gentle

way, ‘I want to say something to you, miss.’

I could see he was not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine and asked him to speak fully.

So he said, leaving his hand in mine, ‘I’m afraid, my

deary, that I must have shocked you by all the wicked things I’ve been sayin’ about the dead, and such like, for weeks past,

but I didn’t mean them, and I want ye to remember that

when I’m gone. We aud folks that be daffled, and with one

foot abaft the krok-hooal, don’t altogether like to think of it,

and we don’t want to feel scart of it, and that’s why I’ve took

to makin’ light of it, so that I’d cheer up my own heart a bit.

But, Lord love ye, miss, I ain’t afraid of dyin’, not a bit, only

I don’t want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at

hand now, for I be aud, and a hundred years is too much for

any man to expect. And I’m so nigh it that the Aud Man is

already whettin’ his scythe. Ye see, I can’t get out o’ the habit of caffin’ about it all at once. The chafts will wag as they be

used to. Some day soon the Angel of Death will sound his

trumpet for me. But don’t ye dooal an’ greet, my deary!’—

for he saw that I was crying—‘if he should come this very

night I’d not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all,

only a waitin’ for somethin’ else than what we’re doin’, and

death be all that we can rightly depend on. But I’m content,

for it’s comin’ to me, my deary, and comin’ quick. It may

be comin’ while we be lookin’ and wonderin’. Maybe it’s in

that wind out over the sea that’s bringin’ with it loss and

wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. Look! Look!’ he

cried suddenly. ‘There’s something in that wind and in the

hoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells

like death. It’s in the air. I feel it comin’. Lord, make me answer cheerful, when my call comes!’ He held up his arms

devoutly, and raised his hat. His mouth moved as though he

were praying. After a few minutes’ silence, he got up, shook

hands with me, and blessed me, and said goodbye, and hobbled off. It all touched me, and upset me very much.

I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his

spyglass under his arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he

always does, but all the time kept looking at a strange ship.

‘I can’t make her out,’ he said. ‘She’s a Russian, by the

look of her. But she’s knocking about in the queerest way.

She doesn’t know her mind a bit. She seems to see the storm

coming, but can’t decide whether to run up north in the

open, or to put in here. Look there again! She is steered

mighty strangely, for she doesn’t mind the hand on the

wheel, changes about with every puff of wind. We’ll hear

more of her before this time tomorrow.

From a correspondent.

Whitby.

One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has

just been experienced here, with results both strange and

unique. The weather had been somewhat sultry, but not to

any degree uncommon in the month of August. Saturday

evening was as fine as was ever known, and the great body

of holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits to Mulgrave

Woods, Robin Hood’s Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes,

and the various trips in the neighborhood of Whitby. The

steamers Emma and Scarborough made trips up and down

the coast, and there was an unusual amount of ‘tripping’

both to and from Whitby. The day was unusually fine till

the afternoon, when some of the gossips who frequent the

East Cliff churchyard, and from the commanding eminence

watch the wide sweep of sea visible to the north and east,

called attention to a sudden show of ‘mares tails’ high in the

sky to the northwest. The wind was then blowing from the

south-west in the mild degree which in barometrical language is ranked ‘No. 2, light breeze.’

The coastguard on duty at once made report, and one

old fisherman, who for more than half a century has kept watch on weather signs from the East Cliff, foretold in

an emphatic manner the coming of a sudden storm. The

approach of sunset was so very beautiful, so grand in its

masses of splendidly coloured clouds, that there was quite

an assemblage on the walk along the cliff in the old churchyard to enjoy the beauty. Before the sun dipped below the

black mass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western sky, its downward way was marked by myriad clouds of

every sunset colour, flame, purple, pink, green, violet, and

all the tints of gold, with here and there masses not large,

but of seemingly absolute blackness, in all sorts of shapes,

as well outlined as colossal silhouettes. The experience was

not lost on the painters, and doubtless some of the sketches

of the ‘Prelude to the Great Storm’ will grace the R. A and

R. I. walls in May next.

More than one captain made up his mind then and there

that his ‘cobble’ or his ‘mule’, as they term the different

classes of boats, would remain in the harbour till the storm

had passed. The wind fell away entirely during the evening,

and at midnight there was a dead calm, a sultry heat, and

that prevailing intensity which, on the approach of thunder,

affects persons of a sensitive nature.

There were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the

coasting steamers, which usually hug the shore so closely,

kept well to seaward, and but few fishing boats were in sight.

The only sail noticeable was a foreign schooner with all

sails set, which was seemingly going westwards. The foolhardiness or ignorance of her officers was a prolific theme

for comment whilst she remained in sight, and efforts were made to signal her to reduce sail in the face of her danger.

Before the night shut down she was seen with sails idly flapping as she gently rolled on the undulating swell of the sea.

‘As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.’

Shortly before ten o’clock the stillness of the air grew

quite oppressive, and the silence was so marked that the

bleating of a sheep inland or the barking of a dog in the

town was distinctly heard, and the band on the pier, with its

lively French air, was like a dischord in the great harmony

of nature’s silence. A little after midnight came a strange

sound from over the sea, and high overhead the air began

to carry a strange, faint, hollow booming.

Then without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity

which, at the time, seemed incredible, and even afterwards

is impossible to realize, the whole aspect of nature at once

became convulsed. The waves rose in growing fury, each

over-topping its fellow, till in a very few minutes the lately

glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring monster. Whitecrested waves beat madly on the level sands and rushed up

the shelving cliffs. Others broke over the piers, and with

their spume swept the lanthorns of the lighthouses which

rise from the end of either pier of Whitby Harbour.

The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such force

that it was with difficulty that even strong men kept their

feet, or clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. It was

found necessary to clear the entire pier from the mass of

onlookers, or else the fatalities of the night would have increased manifold. To add to the difficulties and dangers of

the time, masses of sea-fog came drifting inland. White,