was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt to touch the dog,
but looked at it in an agonised sort of way. Ij^eatly, f par that
she is_of Jtoo super-sensitive a nature to go through the world
without trouble. She will be dreaming of this to-night, I am sure.
TEe whole agglomeration of things the ship steered into port
Cutting from «The Dailygraph» 83
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 wi 1! 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 VIH
MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL
Same day, n 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 the>
may be pressed to, and who will know when girls are tired. Luc}
is asleep and breathing softly. She has more colour in her cheek
than usual, and looks, oh, so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in lov
with her seeing her only in the drawing-room, I wonder what h
would say if he saw her now. Some of the «New Women" writer
will some day start an idea that men and women should
allowed to see each other asleep before proposing or accepting
But I suppose the New Woman won’t condescend in future t
accept; she will do the proposing herself. And a nice job she wi
make of it, too! There’s some consolation in that. I am so happ
to-night, because dear Lucy seems better. I really believe sh
has turned the corner, and that we are over her troubles wit
dreaming. I should be quite happy if I only knew if Jonathan..
God bless and keep him.
84
Mina Murray’s Journal 8$
ii 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 ad-
venture, 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
^ucy’s bed; I stole across and felt for her. The bed was empty. I
it 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
t 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 ob-
scured 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 dio-
rama 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. What-
ever 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