Dracula
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 anæmic 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
her sleep the last week, but there is an odd concentration about her
which I do not understand; even in her sleep she seems to be watching
me. She tries the door, and finding it locked, goes about the room
searching for the key.
_6 August._--Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting
dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I should
feel easier; but no one has heard a word of Jonathan since that last
letter. I must only pray to God for patience. Lucy is more excitable
than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night was very threatening, and
the fishermen say that we are in for a storm. I must try to watch it and
learn the weather signs. To-day is a grey day, and the sun as I write is
hidden in thick clouds, high over Kettleness. Everything is grey--except
the green grass, which seems like emerald amongst it; grey earthy rock;
grey clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the
grey sea, into which the sand-points stretch like grey fingers. The sea
is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar,
muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a grey
mist. All is vastness; the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and
there is a “brool” over the sea that sounds like some presage of doom.
Dark figures are on the beach here and there, sometimes half shrouded in
the mist, and seem “men like trees walking.” The fishing-boats are
racing for home, and rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep into
the harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is
making straight for me, and I can see, by the way he lifts his hat, that
he wants to talk....
I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. When he sat
down beside me, he said in a very gentle way:--
“I want to say something to you, miss.” I could see he was not at ease,
so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine and asked him to speak
fully; so he said, leaving his hand in mine:--
“I’m afraid, my deary, that I must have shocked you by all the wicked
things I’ve been sayin’ about the dead, and such like, for weeks past;
but I didn’t mean them, and I want ye to remember that when I’m gone. We
aud folks that be daffled, and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal, don’t
altogether like to think of it, and we don’t want to feel scart of it;
an’ that’s why I’ve took to makin’ light of it, so that I’d cheer up my
own heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I ain’t afraid of dyin’, not a
bit; only I don’t want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at
hand now, for I be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to
expect; and I’m so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin’ his
scythe. Ye see, I can’t get out o’ the habit of caffin’ about it all at
once; the chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the Angel of
Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don’t ye dooal an’ greet, my
deary!”--for he saw that I was crying--“if he should come this very
night I’d not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all, only a
waitin’ for somethin’ else than what we’re doin’; and death be all that
we can rightly depend on. But I’m content, for it’s comin’ to me, my
deary, and comin’ quick. It may be comin’ while we be lookin’ and
wonderin’. Maybe it’s in that wind out over the sea that’s bringin’ with
it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. Look! look!” he
cried suddenly. “There’s something in that wind and in the hoast beyont
that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. It’s in the
air; I feel it comin’. Lord, make me answer cheerful when my call
comes!” He held up his arms devoutly, and raised his hat. His mouth
moved as though he were praying. After a few minutes’ silence, he got
up, shook hands with me, and blessed me, and said good-bye, and hobbled
off. It all touched me, and upset me very much.
I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spy-glass under his
arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time
kept looking at a strange ship.
“I can’t make her out,” he said; “she’s a Russian, by the look of her;
but she’s knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn’t know her mind
a bit; she seems to see the storm coming, but can’t decide whether to
run up north in the open, or to put in here. Look there again! She is
steered mighty strangely, for she doesn’t mind the hand on the wheel;
changes about with every puff of wind. We’ll hear more of her before
this time to-morrow.”
CHAPTER VII
CUTTING FROM “THE DAILYGRAPH,” 8 AUGUST
(_Pasted in Mina Murray’s Journal._)
From a Correspondent.
_Whitby_.
One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been
experienced here, with results both strange and unique. The weather had
been somewhat sultry, but not to any degree uncommon in the month of
August. Saturday evening was as fine as was ever known, and the great
body of holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits to Mulgrave Woods,
Robin Hood’s Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes, and the various trips in
the neighbourhood of Whitby. The steamers _Emma_ and _Scarborough_ made
trips up and down the coast, and there was an unusual amount of
“tripping” both to and from Whitby. The day was unusually fine till the
afternoon, when some of the gossips who frequent the East Cliff
churchyard, and from that commanding eminence watch the wide sweep of
sea visible to the north and east, called attention to a sudden show of
“mares’-tails” high in the sky to the north-west. The wind was then
blowing from the south-west in the mild degree which in barometrical
language is ranked “No. 2: light breeze.” The coastguard on duty at once
made report, and one old fisherman, who for more than half a century has
kept watch on weather signs from the East Cliff, foretold in an emphatic
manner the coming of a sudden storm. The approach of sunset was so very
beautiful, so grand in its masses of splendidly-coloured clouds, that
there was quite an assemblage on the walk along the cliff in the old
churchyard to enjoy the beauty. Before the sun dipped below the black
mass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western sky, its
downward way was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset-colour--flame,
purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of gold; with here and
there masses not large, but of seemingly absolute blackness, in all
sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal silhouettes. The
experience was not lost on the painters, and doubtless some of the
sketches of the “Prelude to the Great Storm” will grace the R. A. and R.
I. walls in May next. More than one captain made up his mind then and
there that his “cobble” or his “mule,” as they term the different
classes of boats, would remain in the harbour till the storm had passed.
The wind fell away entirely during the evening, and at midnight there
was a dead calm, a sultry heat, and that prevailing intensity which, on
the approach of thunder, affects persons of a sensitive nature. There
were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the coasting steamers,
which usually “hug” the shore so closely, kept well to seaward, and but
few fishing-boats were in sight. The only sail noticeable was a foreign
schooner with all sails set, which was seemingly going westwards. The
foolhardiness or ignorance of her officers was a prolific theme for
comment whilst she remained in sight, and efforts were made to signal
her to reduce sail in face of her danger. Before the night shut down she
was seen with sails idly flapping as she gently rolled on the undulating
swell of the sea,
“As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.”
Shortly before ten o’clock the stillness of the air grew quite
oppressive, and the silence was so marked that the bleating of a sheep
inland or the barking of a dog in the town was distinctly heard, and the
band on the pier, with its lively French air, was like a discord in the
great harmony of nature’s silence. A little after midnight came a
strange sound from over the sea, and high overhead the air began to
carry a strange, faint, hollow booming.
Then without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity which, at the
time, seemed incredible, and even afterwards is impossible to realize,
the whole aspect of nature at once became convulsed. The waves rose in
growing fury, each overtopping its fellow, till in a very few minutes
the lately glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring monster.
White-crested waves beat madly on the level sands and rushed up the
shelving cliffs; others broke over the piers, and with their spume swept
the lanthorns of the lighthouses which rise from the end of either pier
of Whitby Harbour. The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such
force that it was with difficulty that even strong men kept their feet,
or clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. It was found necessary
to clear the entire piers from the mass of onlookers, or else the
fatalities of the night would have been increased manifold. To add to
the difficulties and dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog came
drifting inland--white, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly fashion,
so dank and damp and cold that it needed but little effort of
imagination to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were
touching their living brethren with the clammy hands of death, and many
a one shuddered as the wreaths of sea-mist swept by. 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