Mina
Murray's Journal14 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. |
