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
agonizing 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 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 over-mastering fear obscured all details.
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.
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 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, as though she felt the cold. I
flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight around 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 to 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 forcibly, till finally she opened her eyes and awoke.
She did not seem surprised to see me, as, of course, she did not realize 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 chruchyard, 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.
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
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 think 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 . . .