The Cursed Castle

Chapter 11

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 sleep-walking 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 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.

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 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.

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, 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, 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.