No More Learning

At times
the mist cleared, and the sea for some distance could be seen in the
glare of the lightning, which now came thick and fast, followed by such
sudden peals of thunder that the whole sky overhead seemed trembling
under the shock of the footsteps of the storm. Some of the scenes thus
revealed were of immeasurable grandeur and of absorbing interest--the
sea, running mountains high, threw skywards with each wave mighty
masses of white foam, which the tempest seemed to snatch at and whirl
away into space; here and there a fishing-boat, with a rag of sail,
running madly for shelter before the blast; now and again the white
wings of a storm-tossed sea-bird. On the summit of the East Cliff the
new searchlight was ready for experiment, but had not yet been tried.
The officers in charge of it got it into working order, and in the
pauses of the inrushing mist swept with it the surface of the sea. Once
or twice its service was most effective, as when a fishing-boat, with
gunwale under water, rushed into the harbour, able, by the guidance of
the sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against the piers.
As each boat achieved the safety of the port there was a shout of joy
from the mass of people on shore, a shout which for a moment seemed to
cleave the gale and was then swept away in its rush. Before long the
searchlight discovered some distance away a schooner with all sails
set, apparently the same vessel which had been noticed earlier in the
evening. The wind had by this time backed to the east, and there was a
shudder amongst the watchers on the cliff as they realised the terrible
danger in which she now was. Between her and the port lay the great
flat reef on which so many good ships have from time to time suffered,
and, with the wind blowing from its present quarter, it would be quite
impossible that she should fetch the entrance of the harbour. It was
now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves were so great that in
their troughs the shallows of the shore were almost visible, and the
schooner, with all sails set, was rushing with such speed that, in the
words of one old salt, "she must fetch up somewhere, if it was only in
hell. " Then came another rush of sea-fog, greater than any hitherto--a
mass of dank mist, which seemed to close on all things like a grey
pall, and left available to men only the organ of hearing, for the roar
of the tempest, and the crash of the thunder, and the booming of the
mighty bellows came through the damp oblivion even louder than before.
The rays of the searchlight were kept fixed on the harbour mouth across
the East Pier, where the shock was expected, and men waited breathless.
The wind suddenly shifted to the north-east, and the remnant of the
sea-fog melted in the blast; and then, _mirabile dictu_, between the
piers, leaping from wave to wave as it rushed at headlong speed, swept
the strange schooner before the blast, with all sail set, and gained
the safety of the harbour. The searchlight followed her, and a shudder
ran through all who saw her, for lashed to the helm was a corpse, with
drooping head, which swung horribly to and fro at each motion of the
ship. No other form could be seen on deck at all. A great awe came on
all as they realised that the ship, as if by a miracle, had found the
harbour, unsteered save by the hand of a dead man! However, all took
place more quickly than it takes to write these words. The schooner
paused not, but rushing across the harbour, pitched herself on that
accumulation of sand and gravel washed by many tides and many storms
into the south-east corner of the pier jutting under the East Cliff,
known locally as Tate Hill Pier.

There was of course a considerable concussion as the vessel drove up
on the sand heap. Every spar, rope, and stay was strained, and some of
the "top-hamper" came crashing down. But, strangest of all, the very
instant the shore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck from
below, as if shot up by the concussion, and running forward, jumped from
the bow on to the sand. Making straight for the steep cliff, where the
churchyard hangs over the laneway to the East Pier so steeply that some
of the flat tombstones--"thruff-steans" or "through-stones," as they
call them in the Whitby vernacular--actually project over where the
sustaining cliff has fallen away, it disappeared in the darkness, which
seemed intensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight.

It so happened that there was no one at the moment on Tate Hill Pier,
as all those whose houses are in close proximity were either in bed
or were out on the heights above. Thus the coastguard on duty on the
eastern side of the harbour, who at once ran down to the little pier,
was the first to climb on board. The men working the searchlight, after
scouring the entrance of the harbour without seeing anything, then
turned the light on the derelict and kept it there. The coastguard ran
aft, and when he came beside the wheel, bent over to examine it and
recoiled at once as though under some sudden emotion. This seemed to
pique the general curiosity, and quite a number of people began to run.
It is a good way round from the West Cliff by the Drawbridge to Tate
Hill Pier, but your correspondent is a fairly good runner, and came well
ahead of the crowd. When I arrived, however, I found already assembled
on the pier a crowd, whom the coastguard and police refused to allow to
come on board. By the courtesy of the chief boat-man, I was, as your
correspondent, permitted to climb on deck, and was one of a small group
who saw that dead seaman whilst actually lashed to the wheel.

It was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, or even awed, for
not often can such a sight have been seen. The man was simply fastened
by his hands, tied one over the other, to a spoke of the wheel. Between
the inner hand and the wood was a crucifix, the set of beads on which
it was fastened being around both wrists and wheel, and all kept fast
by the binding cords. The poor fellow may have been seated at one
time, but the flapping and buffeting of the sails had worked through
the rudder of the wheel and dragged him to and fro, so that the cords
with which he was tied had cut the flesh to the bone. Accurate note was
made of the state of things, and a doctor--Surgeon J. M. Caffyn, of
33, East Elliot Place--who came immediately after me, declared, after
making examination, that the man must have been dead for quite two
days. In his pocket was a bottle, carefully corked, empty save for a
little roll of paper, which proved to be the addendum to the log. The
coastguard said the man must have tied up his own hands, fastening the
knots with his teeth. The fact that a coastguard was the first on board
may save some complications, later on, in the Admiralty Court; for the
coastguards cannot claim the salvage which is the right of the first
civilian entering on a derelict. Already, however, the legal tongues are
wagging, and one young law student is loudly asserting that the rights
of the owner are already completely sacrificed, his property being held
in contravention of the statutes of mortmain, since the tiller, as
emblemship, if not proof, of delegated possession, is held in a _dead
hand_. It is needless to say that the dead steersman has been reverently
removed from the place where he held his honourable watch and ward till
death--a steadfastness as noble as that of the young Casabianca--and
placed in the mortuary to await inquest.

Already the sudden storm is passing, and its fierceness is abating; the
crowds are scattering homewards, and the sky is beginning to redden over
the Yorkshire wolds. I shall send, in time for your next issue, further
details of the derelict ship which found her way so miraculously into
harbour in the storm.

_Whitby. _

_9 August. _--The sequel to the strange arrival of the derelict in the
storm last night is almost more startling than the thing itself. It
turns out that the schooner is a Russian from Varna, and is called
the _Demeter_. She is almost entirely in ballast of silver sand, with
only a small amount of cargo--a number of great wooden boxes filled
with mould. This cargo was consigned to a Whitby solicitor, Mr. S.
F. Billington, of 7, The Crescent, who this morning went aboard and
formally took possession of the goods consigned to him. The Russian
consul, too, acting for the charter-party, took formal possession of
the ship, and paid all harbour dues, etc. Nothing is talked about here
to-day except the strange coincidence; the officials of the Board of
Trade have been most exacting in seeing that every compliance has been
made with existing regulations. As the matter is to be a "nine days'
wonder," they are evidently determined that there shall be no cause of
after complaint. A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog
which landed when the ship struck, and more than a few of the members
of the S. P. C. A. , which is very strong in Whitby, have tried to befriend
the animal. To the general disappointment, however, it was not to be
found; it seems to have disappeared entirely from the town. It may be
that it was frightened and made its way on to the moors, where it is
still hiding in terror. There are some who look with dread on such a
possibility, lest later on it should in itself become a danger, for it
is evidently a fierce brute. Early this morning a large dog, a half-bred
mastiff, belonging to a coal merchant close to Tate Hill Pier, was found
dead in the roadway opposite its master's yard. It had been fighting,
and manifestly had had a savage opponent, for its throat was torn away,
and its belly slit open as if with a savage claw.

_Later. _--By the kindness of the Board of Trade inspector, I have been
permitted to look over the log-book of the _Demeter_, which was in order
up to within three days, but contained nothing of special interest
except as to facts of missing men. The greater interest, however, is
with regard to the paper found in the bottle, which was to-day produced
at the inquest; and a more strange narrative than the two between them
unfold it has not been my lot to come across. As there is no motive
for concealment, I am permitted to use them, and accordingly send
you a rescript, simply omitting technical details of seamanship and
supercargo. It almost seems as though the captain had been seized with
some kind of mania before he had got well into blue water, and that this
had developed persistently throughout the voyage. Of course my statement
must be taken _cum grano_, since I am writing from the dictation of a
clerk of the Russian consul, who kindly translated for me, time being
short.


/Log of the "Demeter. "/

_Varna to Whitby. _

_Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I shall keep
accurate note henceforth till we land. _

On 6 July we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and boxes of earth.
At noon set sail. East wind, fresh. Crew, five hands, . . . two mates,
cook, and myself (captain).

On 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus. Boarded by Turkish Customs
officers. Backsheesh. All correct. Under way at 4 p. m.

On 12 July through Dardanelles. More Customs officers and flagboat of
guarding squadron. Backsheesh again. Work of officers thorough, but
quick. Want us off soon. At dark passed into Archipelago.

On 13 July passed Cape Matapan. Crew dissatisfied about something.
Seemed scared, but would not speak out.

On 14 July was somewhat anxious about crew. Men all steady fellows, who
sailed with me before. Mate could not make out what was wrong; they only
told him there was _something_, and crossed themselves. Mate lost temper
with one of them that day and struck him. Expected fierce quarrel, but
all was quiet.

On 16 July mate reported in the morning that one of crew, Petrofsky,
was missing. Could not account for it. Took larboard watch eight bells
last night; was relieved by Abramoff, but did not go to bunk. Men more
downcast than ever. All said they expected something of the kind, but
would not say more than that there was _something_ aboard. Mate getting
very impatient with them; feared some trouble ahead.

On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came to my cabin, and in
an awestruck way confided to me that he thought there was a strange man
aboard the ship. He said that in his watch he had been sheltering behind
the deck-house, as there was a rain-storm, when he saw a tall, thin man,
who was not like any of the crew, come up the companion-way, and go
along the deck forward, and disappear. He followed cautiously, but when
he got to bows found no one, and the hatchways were all closed. He was
in a panic of superstitious fear, and I am afraid the panic may spread.
To allay it, I shall to-day search entire ship carefully from stem to
stern.

Later in the day I got together the whole crew, and told them, as they
evidently thought there was some one in the ship, we should search from
stem to stern. First mate angry; said it was folly, and to yield to such
foolish ideas would demoralise the men; said he would engage to keep
them out of trouble with a handspike. I let him take the helm, while
the rest began thorough search, all keeping abreast, with lanterns;
we left no corner unsearched. As there were only the big wooden boxes,
there were no odd corners where a man could hide. Men much relieved when
search over, and went back to work cheerfully. First mate scowled, but
said nothing.

_22 July. _--Rough weather last three days, and all hands busy with
sails--no time to be frightened. Men seem to have forgotten their dread.
Mate cheerful again, and all on good terms. Praised men for work in bad
weather. Passed Gibraltar and out through Straits. All well.

_24 July. _--There seems some doom over this ship. Already a hand short,
and entering on the Bay of Biscay with wild weather ahead, and yet last
night another man lost--disappeared. Like the first, he came off his
watch and was not seen again. Men all in a panic of fear; sent a round
robin, asking to have double watch, as they fear to be alone. Mate
violent. Fear there will be some trouble, as either he or the men will
do some violence.

_28 July. _--Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of maelstrom,
and the wind a tempest. No sleep for any one. Men all worn out.
Hardly know how to set a watch since no one fit to go on. Second mate
volunteered to steer and watch, and let men snatch a few hours' sleep.
Wind abating; seas still terrific, but feel them less, as ship is
steadier.

_29 July. _--Another tragedy. Had single watch to-night, as crew too
tired to double. When morning watch came on deck could find no one
except steersman. Raised outcry, and all came on deck. Thorough search,
but no one found. Are now without second mate, and crew in a panic. Mate
and I agreed to go armed henceforth and wait for any sign of cause.

_30 July. _--Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England. Weather fine,
all sails set. Retired worn out; slept soundly; awaked by mate telling
me that both men on watch and steersman missing. Only self and mate and
two hands left to work ship.

_1 August. _--Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. Had hoped when in
the English Channel to be able to signal for help or get in somewhere.
Not having power to work sails, have to run before wind. Dare not lower,
as could not raise them again. We seem to be drifting to some terrible
doom. Mate now more demoralised than either of them. His stronger
nature seems to have worked inwardly against himself. Men are beyond
fear, working stolidly and patiently, with minds made up to worst. They
are Russian, he Roumanian.

_2 August, midnight. _--Woke up from few minutes' sleep by hearing a cry,
seemingly outside my port. Could see nothing in fog. Rushed on deck,
and ran against mate. Tells me heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on
watch. One more gone. Lord, help us! Mate says we must be past Straits
of Dover, as in a moment of fog lifting he saw North Foreland, just as
he heard the man cry out. If so we are now off in the North Sea, and
only God can guide us in the fog, which seems to move with us; and God
seems to have deserted us.

_3 August. _--At midnight I went to relieve the man at the wheel, but
when I got to it found no one there. The wind was steady, and as we ran
before it there was no yawing. I dared not leave it, so shouted for
the mate. After a few seconds he rushed up on deck in his flannels. He
looked wild-eyed and haggard, and I greatly fear his reason has given
way. He came close to me and whispered hoarsely, with his mouth to my
ear, as though fearing the very air might hear: "_It_ is here; I know
it, now. On the watch last night I saw It, like a man, tall and thin,
and ghastly pale. It was in the bows, and looking out. I crept behind
It, and gave It my knife; but the knife went through It, empty as the
air. " And as he spoke he took his knife and drove it savagely into
space. Then he went on: "But It is here, and I'll find it. It is in the
hold, perhaps, in one of those boxes. I'll unscrew them one by one and
see. You work the helm. " And, with a warning look and his finger on his
lip, he went below. There was springing up a choppy wind, and I could
not leave the helm. I saw him come out on deck again with a tool-chest
and a lantern, and go down the forward hatchway. He is mad, stark,
raving mad, and it's no use my trying to stop him. He can't hurt those
big boxes: they are invoiced as "clay," and to pull them about is as
harmless a thing as he can do. So here I stay, and mind the helm, and
write these notes. I can only trust in God and wait till the fog clears.
Then, if I can't steer to any harbour with the wind that is, I shall cut
down sails and lie by, and signal for help. . . .

It is nearly all over now.
Just as I was beginning to hope that the mate
would come out calmer--for I heard him knocking away at something in the
hold, and work is good for him--there came up the hatchway a sudden,
startled scream, which made my blood run cold, and up on the deck he
came as if shot from a gun--a raging madman, with his eyes rolling and
his face convulsed with fear. "Save me! save me! " he cried, and then
looked round on the blanket of fog. His horror turned to despair, and
in a steady voice he said: "You had better come too, captain, before it
is too late. _He_ is there. I know the secret now. The sea will save me
from Him, and it is all that is left! " Before I could say a word, or
move forward to seize him, he sprang on the bulwark and deliberately
threw himself into the sea. I suppose I know the secret too, now. It
was this madman who had got rid of the men one by one, and now he has
followed them himself. God help me! How am I to account for all these
horrors when I get to port? _When_ I get to port! Will that ever be?

_4 August. _--Still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce. I know there
is sunrise because I am a sailor, why else I know not. I dared not go
below, I dared not leave the helm; so here all night I stayed, and in
the dimness of the night I saw It--Him! God forgive me, but the mate was
right to jump overboard. It is better to die like a man; to die like a
sailor in blue water no man can object. But I am captain, and I must not
leave my ship. But I shall baffle this fiend or monster, for I shall
tie my hands to the wheel when my strength begins to fail, and along
with them I shall tie that which He--It! --dare not touch; and then, come
good wind or foul, I shall save my soul, and my honour as a captain. I
am growing weaker, and the night is coming on. If He can look me in the
face again, I may not have time to act. . . . If we are wrecked, mayhap
this bottle may be found, and those who find it may understand; if not,
. . . well, then all men shall know that I have been true to my trust. God
and the Blessed Virgin and the saints help a poor ignorant soul trying
to do his duty. . . .

Of course the verdict was an open one. There is no evidence to adduce;
and whether or not the man himself committed the murders there is now
none to say. The folk hold almost universally here that the captain
is simply a hero, and he is to be given a public funeral. Already it
is arranged that his body is to be taken with a train of boats up the
Esk for a piece and then brought back to Tate Hill Pier and up the
Abbey steps; for he is to be buried in the churchyard on the cliff. The
owners of more than a hundred boats have already given in their names as
wishing to follow him to the grave.

No trace has ever been found of the great dog; at which there is much
mourning, for, with public opinion in its present state, he would, I
believe, be adopted by the town. To-morrow will see the funeral; and so
will end this one more "mystery of the sea. "


/Mina Murray's Journal. /

_8 August. _--Lucy was very restless all night, and I, too, could
not sleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among the
chimney-pots, it made me shudder. When a sharp puff came it seemed to
be like a distant gun. Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake; but she got
up twice and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I awoke in time,
and managed to undress her without waking her, and got her back to bed.
It is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as her
will is thwarted in any physical way, her intention, if there be any,
disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine of her
life.

Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the harbour to see
if anything had happened in the night. There were very few people about,
and though the sun was bright, and the air clear and fresh, the big,
grim-looking waves, that seemed dark themselves because the foam that
topped them was like snow, forced themselves in through the narrow mouth
of the harbour--like a bullying man going through a crowd. Somehow I
felt glad that Jonathan was not on the sea last night, but on land. But,
oh, is he on land or sea? Where is he, and how? I am getting fearfully
anxious about him. If I only knew what to do, and could do anything!

_10 August. _--The funeral of the poor sea-captain to-day was most
touching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffin
was carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to the
churchyard. Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old seat, whilst
the cortege of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came down
again. We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly all the
way. The poor fellow was laid to rest quite near our seat, so that we
stood on it when the time came and saw everything. Poor Lucy seemed
much upset. She was restless and uneasy all the time, and I cannot
but think that her dreaming at night is telling on her. She is quite
odd in one thing: she will not admit to me that there is any cause
for restlessness; or if there be, she does not understand it herself.
There is an additional cause in that poor old Mr. Swales was found dead
this morning on our seat, his neck being broken. He had evidently, as
the doctor said, fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, for
there was a look of fear and horror on his face that the men said made
them shudder. Poor dear old man! Perhaps he had seen Death with his
dying eyes! Lucy is so sweet and sensitive that she feels influences
more acutely than other people do. Just now she was quite upset by a
little thing which I did not much heed, though I am myself very fond of
animals. One of the men who come up here often to look for the boats
was followed by his dog. The dog is always with him. They are both
quiet persons, and I never saw the man angry, nor heard the dog bark.
During the service the dog would not come to its master, who was on the
seat with us, but kept a few yards off, barking and howling. Its master
spoke to it gently, and then harshly, and then angrily; but it would
neither come nor cease to make a noise. It was in a sort of fury, with
its eyes savage, and all its hairs bristling out like a cat's tail when
puss is on the war-path. Finally the man, too, got angry, and jumped
down and kicked the dog, and then took it by the scruff of the neck and
half dragged and half threw it on the tombstone on which the seat is
fixed. The moment it touched the stone the poor thing became quiet and
fell all into a tremble. It did not try to get away, but crouched down,
quivering and cowering, and was in such a pitiable state of terror that
I tried, though without effect, to comfort it. Lucy was full of pity,
too, but she did not attempt to touch the dog, but looked at it in an
agonised sort of way. I greatly fear that she is of too supersensitive
a nature to go through the world without trouble. She will be dreaming
of this to-night, I am sure. The whole agglomeration of things--the ship
steered into port 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--will 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 VIII.

/Mina Murray's Journal. /


_Same day, 11 o'clock p. m. _--Oh, but I am tired! If it were not that
I have 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 they may
be pressed to, and who will know when girls are tired. Lucy is asleep
and breathing softly. She has more colour in her cheeks than usual, and
looks, oh, so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in love with her seeing her
only in the drawing-room, I wonder what he would say if he saw her now.
Some of the "New Women" writers will some day start an idea that men and
women should be allowed to see each other asleep before proposing or
accepting. But I suppose the New Woman won't condescend in future to
accept; she will do the proposing herself. And a nice job she will make
of it, too! There's some consolation in that. I am so happy to-night,
because dear Lucy seems better. I really believe she has turned the
corner, and that we are over her troubles with dreaming. I should be
quite happy if I only knew if Jonathan. . . . God bless and keep him.

_11 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 adventure, 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 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 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 obscured 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 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 the
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 round her throat. Whilst she did so
there came a little shudder through her, as though she felt the cold. I
flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight round 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 that I might 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 more forcibly,
till finally she opened her eyes and awoke. She did not seem surprised
to see me, as, of course, she did not realise 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 churchyard, 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.

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. . . .