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, 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 diagrams enclosed.