Atlas Nightshade

Day 22

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 that 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 thinking, 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 to-night.

* * * * *

_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 help to 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 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 thought that

perhaps she was looking out for me, so 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 it from 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 as 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, 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 diagram enclosed. Your agent will easily

recognise the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. The

goods leave by the train at 9:30 to-night, and will be due at King's

Cross at 4:30 to-morrow 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 (£10), 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."_