"stoker-dracula-168" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stoker Bram)

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 anaemic 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