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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.