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.She wants to take him up in the seat on the churchyard cliff and show himthe beauty of Whitby.I daresay it is the waiting which disturbs her.Shewill 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 itwere only a single line.Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I am awakened by her movingabout the room.Fortunately, the weather is so hot that she cannot getcold.But still, the anxiety and the perpetually being awakened isbeginning to tell on me, and I am getting nervous and wakeful myself.Thank God, Lucy's health keeps up.Mr.Holmwood has been suddenlycalled to Ring to see his father, who has been taken seriously ill.Lucyfrets 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 lostthe anemic look which she had.I pray it will all last.3 August.--Another week gone by, and no news from Jonathan, not evento Mr.Hawkins, from whom I have heard.Oh, I do hope he is not ill.Hesurely would have written.I look at that last letter of his, but somehow itdoes 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 oddconcentration about her which I do not understand, even in her sleep sheseems to be watching me.She tries the door, and finding it locked, goesabout the room searching for the key.6 August.--Another three days, and no news.This suspense is gettingdreadful.If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I should feeleasier.But no one has heard a word of Jonathan since that last letter.Imust only pray to God for patience.Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well.Last night wasvery threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in for a storm.I musttry to watch it and learn the weather signs.Today is a gray day,and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds, highover Kettleness.Everything is gray except the green grass, which seemslike emerald amongst it, gray earthy rock, gray clouds, tinged with thesunburst at the far edge, hang over the gray sea, into which the sandpointsstretch like gray figures.The sea is tumbling in over the shallows and thesandy flats with a roar, muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland.ThePage 61 CHAPTER 6horizon is lost in a gray mist.All vastness, the clouds are piled up likegiant rocks, and there is a `brool' over the sea that sounds like somepassage of doom.Dark figures are on the beach here and there, sometimeshalf shrouded in the mist, and seem `men like trees walking'.The fishingboats are racing for home, and rise and dip in the ground swell as theysweep 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 hishat, that he wants to talk.I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man.When he satdown beside me, he said in a very gentle way, "I want to say something toyou, miss."I could see he was not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled hand inmine and asked him to speak fully.So he said, leaving his hand in mine, "I'm afraid, my deary, that I musthave 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 toremember that when I'm gone.We aud folks that be daffled, and with onefoot abaft the krok-hooal, don't altogether like to think of it, and we don'twant to feel scart of it, and that's why I've took to makin' light of it, so thatI'd cheer up my own heart a bit.But, Lord love ye, miss, I ain't afraid ofdyin', not a bit, only I don't want to die if I can help it.My time must benigh at hand now, for I be aud, and a hundred years is too much for anyman to expect.And I'm so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin' hisscythe.Ye see, I can't get out o' the habit of caffin' about it all at once.Thechafts will wag as they be used to.Some day soon the Angel of Deathwill 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 notrefuse 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 maybe comin' while we be lookin' and wonderin'.Maybe it's in that wind outover the sea that's bringin' with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, andsad hearts.Look! Look!" he cried suddenly."There's something in thatwind and in the hoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smellslike 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 saidgoodbye, and hobbled off.It all touched me, and upset me very much.I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spyglass under hisarm.He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time keptlooking at a strange ship."I can't make her out," he said."She's a Russian, by the look of her.Butshe's knocking about in the queerest way.She doesn't know her mind aPage 62 CHAPTER 6bit.She seems to see the storm coming, but can't decide whether to run upnorth in the open, or to put in here.Look there again! She is steeredmighty strangely, for she doesn't mind the hand on the wheel, changesabout with every puff of wind.We'll hear more of her before this timetomorrow."Page 63 CHAPTER 7CHAPTER 7CHAPTER 7CHAPTER 7CHAPTER 7CUTTING 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 beenexperienced here, with results both strange and unique.The weather hadbeen somewhat sultry, but not to any degree uncommon in the month ofAugust.Saturday evening was as fine as was ever known, and the greatbody of holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits to Mulgrave Woods,Robin Hood's Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes, and the various trips inthe neighborhood of Whitby.The steamers Emma and Scarborough madetrips 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, andfrom the commanding eminence watch the wide sweep of sea visible tothe north and east, called attention to a sudden show of `mares tails' highin the sky to the northwest.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, whofor more than half a century has kept watch on weather signs from theEast Cliff, foretold in an emphatic manner the coming of a sudden storm
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