MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL
11 August.--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.
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 favorite 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 churchyard became gradually visible. Whatever my
expectation was, it was not disappointed, for there, on our favorite
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.
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 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 sleepwalking
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 . . .
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