Atlas Nightshade

Day 20

Of course the verdict was an open one. There is no evidence to adduce;

and whether or not the man himself committed the murders there is now

none to say. The folk here hold almost universally that the captain is

simply a hero, and he is to be given a public funeral. Already it is

arranged that his body is to be taken with a train of boats up the Esk

for a piece and then brought back to Tate Hill Pier and up the abbey

steps; for he is to be buried in the churchyard on the cliff. The owners

of more than a hundred boats have already given in their names as

wishing to follow him to the grave.

No trace has ever been found of the great dog; at which there is much

mourning, for, with public opinion in its present state, he would, I

believe, be adopted by the town. To-morrow will see the funeral; and so

will end this one more "mystery of the sea."

_Mina Murray's Journal._

_8 August._--Lucy was very restless all night, and I, too, could not

sleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among the

chimney-pots, it made me shudder. When a sharp puff came it seemed to be

like a distant gun. Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake; but she got up

twice and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I awoke in time and

managed to undress her without waking her, and got her back to bed. It

is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as her will is

thwarted in any physical way, her intention, if there be any,

disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine of her

life.

Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the harbour to see

if anything had happened in the night. There were very few people about,

and though the sun was bright, and the air clear and fresh, the big,

grim-looking waves, that seemed dark themselves because the foam that

topped them was like snow, forced themselves in through the narrow mouth

of the harbour--like a bullying man going through a crowd. Somehow I

felt glad that Jonathan was not on the sea last night, but on land. But,

oh, is he on land or sea? Where is he, and how? I am getting fearfully

anxious about him. If I only knew what to do, and could do anything!

* * * * *

_10 August._--The funeral of the poor sea-captain to-day was most

touching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffin

was carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to the

churchyard. Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old seat, whilst

the cortège of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came down

again. We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly all the way.

The poor fellow was laid to rest quite near our seat so that we stood on

it when the time came and saw everything. Poor Lucy seemed much upset.

She was restless and uneasy all the time, and I cannot but think that

her dreaming at night is telling on her. She is quite odd in one thing:

she will not admit to me that there is any cause for restlessness; or if

there be, she does not understand it herself. There is an additional

cause in that poor old Mr. Swales was found dead this morning on our

seat, his neck being broken. He had evidently, as the doctor said,

fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, for there was a look of

fear and horror on his face that the men said made them shudder. Poor

dear old man! Perhaps he had seen Death with his dying eyes! Lucy is so

sweet and sensitive that she feels influences more acutely than other

people do. Just now she was quite upset by a little thing which I did

not much heed, though I am myself very fond of animals. One of the men

who came up here often to look for the boats was followed by his dog.

The dog is always with him. They are both quiet persons, and I never saw

the man angry, nor heard the dog bark. During the service the dog would

not come to its master, who was on the seat with us, but kept a few

yards off, barking and howling. Its master spoke to it gently, and then

harshly, and then angrily; but it would neither come nor cease to make a

noise. It was in a sort of fury, with its eyes savage, and all its hairs

bristling out like a cat's tail when puss is on the war-path. Finally

the man, too, got angry, and jumped down and kicked the dog, and then

took it by the scruff of the neck and half dragged and half threw it on

the tombstone on which the seat is fixed. The moment it touched the

stone the poor thing became quiet and fell all into a tremble. It did

not try to get away, but crouched down, quivering and cowering, and was

in such a pitiable state of terror that I tried, though without effect,

to comfort it. Lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt to

touch the dog, but looked at it in an agonised sort of way. I greatly

fear that she is of too super-sensitive a nature to go through the world

without trouble. She will be dreaming of this to-night, I am sure. The

whole agglomeration of things--the ship steered into port by a dead

man; his attitude, tied to the wheel with a crucifix and beads; the

touching funeral; the dog, now furious and now in terror--will all

afford material for her dreams.

I think it will be best for her to go to bed tired out physically, so I

shall take her for a long walk by the cliffs to Robin Hood's Bay and

back. She ought not to have much inclination for sleep-walking then.

CHAPTER VIII

MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL

_Same day, 11 o'clock p. m._--Oh, but I am tired! If it were not that I

had made my diary a duty I should not open it to-night. We had a lovely

walk. Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing, I think, to some

dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field close to the lighthouse,

and frightened the wits out of us. I believe we forgot everything

except, of course, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe the slate clean

and give us a fresh start. We had a capital "severe tea" at Robin Hood's

Bay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a bow-window right over

the seaweed-covered rocks of the strand. I believe we should have

shocked the "New Woman" with our appetites. Men are more tolerant, bless

them! Then we walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages to rest,

and with our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls. Lucy was

really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as soon as we could.

The young curate came in, however, and Mrs. Westenra asked him to stay

for supper. Lucy and I had both a fight for it with the dusty miller; I

know it was a hard fight on my part, and I am quite heroic. I think that

some day the bishops must get together and see about breeding up a new

class of curates, who don't take supper, no matter how they may be

pressed to, and who will know when girls are tired. Lucy is asleep and

breathing softly. She has more colour in her cheeks than usual, and

looks, oh, so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in love with her seeing her

only in the drawing-room, I wonder what he would say if he saw her now.

Some of the "New Women" writers will some day start an idea that men and

women should be allowed to see each other asleep before proposing or

accepting. But I suppose the New Woman won't condescend in future to

accept; she will do the proposing herself. And a nice job she will make

of it, too! There's some consolation in that. I am so happy to-night,

because dear Lucy 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, 3 a. m._--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

agonising 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 open 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, overmastering 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 favourite 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 the churchyard became gradually

visible. Whatever my expectation was, it was not disappointed, for

there, on our favourite 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 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 throat. Whilst she did so

there came a little shudder through her, as though she felt the cold. I

flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight round 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 that I might 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 more forcibly,

till finally she opened her eyes and awoke. She did not seem surprised

to see me, as, of course, she did not realise 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 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 churchyard, 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.