that I am to lock the door of our room every night. Mrs. Westenra has
got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on roofs of houses and
along the edges of cliffs and then get suddenly wakened and fall over
with a despairing cry that echoes all over the place. Poor dear, she is
naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me that her husband, Lucy s
father, had the same habit; that he would get up in the night and dress
himself and go out, if he were not stopped. Lucy is to be married in the
autumn, and she is already planning out her dresses and how her house is
to be arranged. I sympathise with her, for I do the same, only Jonathan
and I will start in life in a very simple way, and shall have to try to
make both ends meet. Mr. Holmwood--he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only
son of Lord Godalming--is coming up here very shortly--as soon as he can
leave town, for his father is not very well, and I think dear Lucy is
counting the moments till he comes. She wants to take him up to the seat
on the churchyard cliff and show him the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it
is the waiting which disturbs her; she will be all right when he
arrives.
* * * * *
_27 July._--No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about him,
though why I should I do not know; but I do wish that he would write, if
it were only a single line. Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I
am awakened by her moving about the room. Fortunately, the weather is so
hot that she cannot get cold; but still the anxiety and the perpetually
being wakened is beginning to tell on me, and I am getting nervous and
wakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy s health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has been
suddenly called to Ring to see his father, who has been taken seriously
ill. Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it does not touch
her looks; she is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks are a lovely
rose-pink. She has lost that an mic look which she had. I pray it will
all last.
* * * * *
_3 August._--Another week gone, and no news from Jonathan, not even to
Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do hope he is not ill. He
surely would have written. I look at that last letter of his, but
somehow it does not satisfy me. It does not read like him, and yet it is
his writing. There is no mistake of that. Lucy has not walked much in
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