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<HTML><HEAD><TITLE>The First Men In The Moon</TITLE>
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<H1>DRACULA</H1>
<H2>Bram Stoker</H2>
<P><STRONG>
<CENTER><A name=ai>CHAPTER 1. JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>3 May. Bistritz.-- Left Munich at 8:35 P.M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna
early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late.
Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse which I got of it from the
train and the little I could walk through the streets. I feared to go very far
from the station, as we had arrived late and would start as near the correct
time as possible.
<P>The impression I had was that we were leaving the West and entering the East;
the most western of splendid bridges over the Danube, which is here of noble
width and depth, took us among the traditions of Turkish rule.
<P>We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klausenburgh. Here I
stopped for the night at the Hotel Royale. I had for dinner, or rather supper, a
chicken done up some way with red pepper, which was very good but thirsty. (Mem.
get recipe for Mina.) I asked the waiter, and he said it was called "paprika
hendl," and that, as it was a national dish, I should be able to get it anywhere
along the Carpathians.
<P>I found my smattering of German very useful here, indeed, I don't know how I
should be able to get on without it.
<P>Having had some time at my disposal when in London, I had visited the British
Museum, and made search among the books and maps in the library regarding
Transylvania; it had struck me that some foreknowledge of the country could
hardly fail to have some importance in dealing with a nobleman of that country.
<P>I find that the district he named is in the extreme east of the country, just
on the borders of three states, Transylvania, Moldavia, and Bukovina, in the
midst of the Carpathian mountains; one of the wildest and least known portions
of Europe.
<P>I was not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality of the
Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to compare with our
own Ordance Survey Maps; but I found that Bistritz, the post town named by Count
Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I shall enter here some of my notes, as
they may refresh my memory when I talk over my travels with Mina.
<P>In the population of Transylvania there are four distinct nationalities:
Saxons in the South, and mixed with them the Wallachs, who are the descendants
of the Dacians; Magyars in the West, and Szekelys in the East and North. I am
going among the latter, who claim to be descended from Attila and the Huns. This
may be so, for when the Magyars conquered the country in the eleventh century
they found the Huns settled in it.
<P>I read that every known superstition in the world is gathered into the
horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the centre of some sort of
imaginative whirlpool; if so my stay may be very interesting. (Mem., I must ask
the Count all about them.)
<P>I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had all
sorts of queer dreams. There was a dog howling all night under my window, which
may have had something to do with it; or it may have been the paprika, for I had
to drink up all the water in my carafe, and was still thirsty. Towards morning I
slept and was wakened by the continuous knocking at my door, so I guess I must
have been sleeping soundly then.
<P>I had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge of maize flour which
they said was "mamaliga", and egg-plant stuffed with forcemeat, a very excellent
dish, which they call "impletata". (Mem., get recipe for this also.)
<P>I had to hurry breakfast, for the train started a little before eight, or
rather it ought to have done so, for after rushing to the station at 7:30 I had
to sit in the carriage for more than an hour before we began to move.
<P>It seems to me that the further east you go the more unpunctual are the
trains. What ought they to be in China?
<P>All day long we seemed to dawdle through a country which was full of beauty
of every kind. Sometimes we saw little towns or castles on the top of steep
hills such as we see in old missals; sometimes we ran by rivers and streams
which seemed from the wide stony margin on each side of them to be subject ot
great floods. It takes a lot of water, and running strong, to sweep the outside
edge of a river clear.
<P>At every station there were groups of people, sometimes crowds, and in all
sorts of attire. Some of them were just like the peasants at home or those I saw
coming through France and Germany, with short jackets, and round hats, and
home-made trousers; but others were very picturesque.
<P>The women looked pretty, except when you got near them, but they were very
clumsy about the waist. They had all full white sleeves of some kind or other,
and most of them had big belts with a lot of strips of something fluttering from
them like the dresses in a ballet, but of course there were petticoats under
them.
<P>The strangest figures we saw were the Slovaks, who were more barbarian than
the rest, with their big cow-boy hats, great baggy dirty-white trousers, white
linen shirts, and enormous heavy leather belts, nearly a foot wide, all studded
over with brass nails. They wore high boots, with their trousers tucked into
them, and had long black hair and heavy black moustaches. They are very
picturesque, but do not look prepossessing. On the stage they would be set down
at once as some old Oriental band of brigands. They are, however, I am told,
very harmless and rather wanting in natural self-assertion.
<P>It was on the dark side of twilight when we got to Bistritz, which is a very
interesting old place. Being practically on the frontier--for the Borgo Pass
leads from it into Bukovina-- it has had a very stormy existence, and it
certainly shows marks of it. Fifty years ago a series of great fires took place,
which made terrible havoc on five separate occasions. At the very beginning of
the seventeenth century it underwent a siege of three weeks and lost 13,000
people, the casualties of war proper being assisted by famine and disease.
<P>Count Dracula had directed me to go to the Golden Krone Hotel, which I found,
to my great delight, to be thoroughly old-fashioned, for of course I wanted to
see all I could of the ways of the country.
<P>I was evidently expected, for when I got near the door I faced a
cheery-looking elderly woman in the usual peasant dress-- white undergarment
with a long double apron, front, and back, of coloured stuff fitting almost too
tight for modesty. When I came close she bowed and said, "The Herr Englishman?"
<P>"Yes," I said, "Jonathan Harker."
<P>She smiled, and gave some message to an elderly man in white shirtsleeves,
who had followed her to the door.
<P>He went, but immediately returned with a letter:
<P>"My friend.--Welcome to the Carpathians. I am anxiously expecting you. Sleep
well tonight. At three tomorrow the diligence will start for Bukovina; a place
on it is kept for you. At the Borgo Pass my carriage will await you and will
bring you to me. I trust that your journey from London has been a happy one, and
that you will enjoy your stay in my beautiful land.-- Your friend, Dracula."
<P>4 May--I found that my landlord had got a letter from the Count, directing
him to secure the best place on the coach for me; but on making inquiries as to
details he seemed somewhat reticent, and pretended that he could not understand
my German.
<P>This could not be true, because up to then he had understood it perfectly; at
least, he answered my questions exactly as if he did.
<P>He and his wife, the old lady who had received me, looked at each other in a
frightened sort of way. He mumbled out that the money had been sent in a
letter,and that was all he knew. When I asked him if he knew Count Dracula, and
could tell me anything of his castle, both he and his wife crossed themselves,
and, saying that they knew nothing at all, simply refused to speak further. It
was so near the time of starting that I had no time to ask anyone else, for it
was all very mysterious and not by any means comforting.
<P>Just before I was leaving, the old lady came up to my room and said in a
hysterical way: "Must you go? Oh! Young Herr, must you go?" She was in such an
excited state that she seemed to have lost her grip of what German she knew, and
mixed it all up with some other language which I did not know at all. I was just
able to follow her by asking many questions. When I told her that I must go at
once, and that I was engaged on important business, she asked again:
<P>"Do you know what day it is?" I answered that it was the fourth of May. She
shook her head as she said again:
<P>"Oh, yes! I know that! I know that, but do you know what day it is?"
<P>On my saying that I did not understand, she went on:
<P>"It is the eve of St. George's Day. Do you not know that tonight, when the
clock strikes midnight, all the evil things in the world will have full sway? Do
you know where you are going, and what you are going to?" She was in such
evident distress that I tried to comfort her, but without effect. Finally, she
went down on her knees and implored me not to go; at least to wait a day or two
before starting.
<P>It was all very ridiculous but I did not feel comfortable. However, there was
business to be done, and I could allow nothing to interfere with it.
<P>I tried to raise her up, and said, as gravely as I could, that I thanked her,
but my duty was imperative, and that I must go.
<P>She then rose and dried her eyes, and taking a crucifix from her neck offered
it to me.
<P>I did not know what to do, for, as an English Churchman, I have been taught
to regard such things as in some measure idolatrous, and yet it seemed so
ungracious to refuse an old lady meaning so well and in such a state of mind.
<P>She saw, I suppose, the doubt in my face, for she put the rosary round my
neck and said, "For your mother's sake," and went out of the room.
<P>I am writing up this part of the diary whilst I am waiting for the coach,
which is, of course, late; and the crucifix is still round my neck.
<P>Whether it is the old lady's fear, or the many ghostly traditions of this
place, or the crucifix itself, I do not know, but I am not feeling nearly as
easy in my mind as usual.
<P>If this book should ever reach Mina before I do, let it bring my goodbye.
Here comes the coach!
<P>5 May. The Castle.--The gray of the morning has passed, and the sun is high
over the distant horizon, which seems jagged, whether with trees or hills I know
not, for it is so far off that big things and little are mixed.
<P>I am not sleepy, and, as I am not to be called till I awake, naturally I
write till sleep comes.
<P>There are many odd things to put down, and, lest who reads them may fancy
that I dined too well before I left Bistritz, let me put down my dinner exactly.
<P>I dined on what they called "robber steak"--bits of bacon, onion, and beef,
seasoned with red pepper, and strung on sticks, and roasted over the fire, in
simple style of the London cat's meat!
<P>The wine was Golden Mediasch, which produces a queer sting on the tongue,
which is, however, not disagreeable.
<P>I had only a couple of glasses of this, and nothing else.
<P>When I got on the coach, the driver had not taken his seat, and I saw him
talking to the landlady.
<P>They were evidently talking of me, for every now and then they looked at me,
and some of the people who were sitting on the bench outside the door-- came and
listened, and then looked at me, most of them pityingly. I could hear a lot of
words often repeated, queer words, for there were many nationalities in the
crowd, so I quietly got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked them out.
<P>I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them were
"Ordog"--Satan, "Pokol"--hell, "stregoica"--witch, "vrolok" and "vlkoslak"--both
mean the same thing, one being Slovak and the other Servian for something that
is either werewolf or vampire. (Mem., I must ask the Count about these
superstitions.)
<P>When we started, the crowd round the inn door, which had by this time swelled
to a considerable size, all made the sign of the cross and pointed two fingers
towards me.
<P>With some difficulty, I got a fellow passenger to tell me what they meant. He
would not answer at first, but on learning that I was English, he explained that
it was a charm or guard against the evil eye.
<P>This was not very pleasant for me, just starting for an unknown place to meet
an unknown man. But everyone seemed so kind-hearted, and so sorrowful, and so
sympathetic that I could not but be touched.
<P>I shall never forget the last glimpse which I had of the inn yard and its
crowd of picturesque figures,all crossing themselves, as they stood round the
wide archway, with its background of rich foliage of oleander and orange trees
in green tubs clustered in the centre of the yard.
<P>Then our driver, whose wide linen drawers covered the whole front of the
boxseat,--"gotza" they call them--cracked his big whip over his four small
horses, which ran abreast, and we set off on our journey.
<P>I soon lost sight and recollection of ghostly fears in the beauty of the
scene as we drove along, although had I known the language, or rather languages,
which my fellow-passengers were speaking, I might not have been able to throw
them off so easily. Before us lay a green sloping land full of forests and
woods, with here and there steep hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with
farmhouses, the blank gable end to the road. There was everywhere a bewildering
mass of fruit blossom-- apple, plum, pear, cherry. And as we drove by I could
see the green grass under the trees spangled with the fallen petals. In and out
amongst these green hills of what they call here the "Mittel Land" ran the road,
losing itself as it swept round the grassy curve, or was shut out by the
straggling ends of pine woods, which here and there ran down the hillsides like
tongues of flame. The road was rugged, but still we seemed to fly over it with a
feverish haste. I could not understand then what the haste meant, but the driver
was evidently bent on losing no time in reaching Borgo Prund. I was told that
this road is in summertime excellent, but that it had not yet been put in order
after the winter snows. In this respect it is different from the general run of
roads in the Carpathians, for it is an old tradition that they are not to be
kept in too good order. Of old the Hospadars would not repair them, lest the
Turk should think that they were preparing to bring in foreign troops, and so
hasten the war which was always really at loading point.
<P>Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty slopes of
forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians themselves. Right and left of
us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling full upon them and bringing out
all the glorious colours of this beautiful range, deep blue and purple in the
shadows of the peaks, green and brown where grass and rock mingled, and an
endless perspective of jagged rock and pointed crags, till these were themselves
lost in the distance, where the snowy peaks rose grandly. Here and there seemed
mighty rifts in the mountains, through which, as the sun began to sink, we saw
now and again the white gleam of falling water. One of my companions touched my
arm as we swept round the base of a hill and opened up the lofty, snow-covered
peak of a mountain, which seemed, as we wound on our serpentine way, to be right
before us.
<P>"Look! Isten szek!"--"God's seat!"--and he crossed himself reverently.
<P>As we wound on our endless way, and the sun sank lower and lower behind us,
the shadows of the evening began to creep round us. This was emphasized by the
fact that the snowy mountain-top still held the sunset, and seemed to glow out
with a delicate cool pink. Here and there we passed Cszeks and slovaks, all in
picturesque attire, but I noticed that goitre was painfully prevalent. By the
roadside were many crosses, and as we swept by, my companions all crossed
themselves. Here and there was a peasant man or woman kneeling before a shrine,
who did not even turn round as we approached, but seemed in the self-surrender
of devotion to have neither eyes nor ears for the outer world. There were many
things new to me. For instance, hay-ricks in the trees, and here and there very
beautiful masses of weeping birch, their white stems shining like silver through
the delicate green of the leaves.
<P>Now and again we passed a leiter-wagon--the ordinary peasants's cart--with
its long, snakelike vertebra, calculated to suit the inequalities of the road.
On this were sure to be seated quite a group of homecoming peasants, the Cszeks
with their white, and the Slovaks with their coloured sheepskins, the latter
carrying lance-fashion their long staves, with axe at end. As the evening fell
it began to get very cold, and the growing twilight seemed to merge into one
dark mistiness the gloom of the trees, oak, beech, and pine, though in the
valleys which ran deep between the spurs of the hills, as we ascended through
the Pass, the dark firs stood out here and there against the background of
late-lying snow. Sometimes, as the road was cut through the pine woods that
seemed in the darkness to be closing down upon us, great masses of greyness
which here and there bestrewed the trees, produced a peculiarly weird and solemn
effect, which carried on the thoughts and grim fancies engendered earlier in the
evening, when the falling sunset threw into strange relief the ghost-like clouds
which amongst the Carpathians seem to wind ceaselessly through the valleys.
Sometimes the hills were so steep that, despite our driver's haste, the horses
could only go slowly. I wished to get down and walk up them, as we do at home,
but the driver would not hear of it. "No, no," he said. "You must not walk here.
The dogs are too fierce." And then he added, with what he evidently meant for
grim pleasantry-- for he looked round to catch the approving smile of the
rest--"And you may have enough of such matters before you go to sleep." The only
stop he would make was a moment's pause to light his lamps.
<P>When it grew dark there seemed to be some excitement amongst the passengers,
and they kept speaking to him, one after the other, as though urging him to
further speed. He lashed the horses unmercifully with his long whip, and with
wild cries of encouragement urged them on to further exertions. Then through the
darkness I could see a sort of patch of grey light ahead of us,as though there
were a cleft in the hills. The excitement of the passengers grew greater. The
crazy coach rocked on its great leather springs, and swayed like a boat tossed
on a stormy sea. I had to hold on. The road grew more level, and we appeared to
fly along. Then the mountains seemed to come nearer to us on each side and to
frown down upon us. We were entering on the Borgo Pass. One by one several of
the passengers offered me gifts, which they pressed upon me with an earnestness
which would take no denial. These were certainly of an odd and varied kind, but
each was given in simple good faith, with a kindly word, and a blessing, and
that same strange mixture of fear-meaning movements which I had seen outside the
hotel at Bistritz-- the sign of the cross and the guard against the evil eye.
Then, as we flew along, the driver leaned forward, and on each side the
passengers, craning over the edge of the coach, peered eagerly into the
darkness. It was evident that something very exciting was either happening or
expected, but though I asked each passenger, no one would give me the slightest
explanation. This state of excitement kept on for some little time. And at last
we saw before us the Pass opening out on the eastern side. There were dark,
rolling clouds overhead, and in the air the heavy, oppressive sense of thunder.
It seemed as though the mountain range had separated two atmospheres, and that
now we had got into the thunderous one. I was now myself looking out for the
conveyance which was to take me to the Count. Each moment I expected to see the
glare of lamps through the blackness, but all was dark. The only light was the
flickering rays of our own lamps, in which the steam from our hard-driven horses
rose in a white cloud. We could see now the sandy road lying white before us,
but there was on it no sign of a vehicle. The passengers drew back with a sigh
of gladness, which seemed to mock my own disappointment. I was already thinking
what I had best do, when the driver, looking at his watch, said to the others
something which I could hardly hear, it was spoken so quietly and in so low a
tone, I thought it was "An hour less than the time." Then turning to me, he
spoke in German worse than my own.
<P>"There is no carriage here. The Herr is not expected after all. He will now
come on to Bukovina, and return tomorrow or the next day, better the next day."
Whilst he was speaking the horses began to neigh and snort and plunge wildly, so
that the driver had to hold them up. Then, amongst a chorus of screams from the
peasants and a universal crossing of themselves, a caleche, with four horses,
drove up behind us, overtook us, and drew up beside the coach. I could see from
the flash of our lamps as the rays fell on them, that the horses were coal-black
and splendid animals. They were driven by a tall man, with a long brown beard
and a great black hat, which seemed to hide his face from us. I could only see
the gleam of a pair of very bright eyes, which seemed red in the lamplight, as
he turned to us.
<P>He said to the driver, "You are early tonight, my friend."
<P>The man stammered in reply, "The English Herr was in a hurry."
<P>To which the stranger replied, "That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go
on to Bukovina. You cannot deceive me, my friend. I know too much, and my horses
are swift."
<P>As he spoke he smiled,and the lamplight fell on a hard-looking mouth, with
very red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory. One of my companions
whispered to another the line from Burger's "Lenore".
<P>"Denn die Todten reiten Schnell." ("For the dead travel fast.")
<P>The strange driver evidently heard the words, for he looked up with a
gleaming smile. The passenger turned his face away, at the same time putting out
his two fingers and crossing himself. "Give me the Herr's luggage," said the
driver, and with exceeding alacrity my bags were handed out and put in the
caleche. Then I descended from the side of the coach, as the caleche was close
alongside, the driver helping me with a hand which caught my arm in a grip of
steel. His strength must have been prodigious.
<P>Without a word he shook his reins, the horses turned, and we swept into the
darkness of the pass. As I looked back I saw the steam from the horses of the
coach by the light of the lamps,and projected against it the figures of my late
companions crossing themselves. Then the driver cracked his whip and called to
his horses, and off they swept on their way to Bukovina. As they sank into the
darkness I felt a strange chill, and a lonely feeling come over me. But a cloak
was thrown over my shoulders, and a rug across my knees, and the driver said in
excellent German--"The night is chill, mein Herr, and my master the Count bade
me take all care of you. There is a flask of slivovitz (the plum brandy of the
country) underneath the seat, if you should require it."
<P>I did not take any, but it was a comfort to know it was there all the same. I
felt a little strangely, and not a little frightened. I think had there been any
alternative I should have taken it, instead of prosecuting that unknown night
journey. The carriage went at a hard pace straight along, then we made a
complete turn and went along another straight road. It seemed to me that we were
simply going over and over the same ground again, and so I took note of some
salient point, and found that this was so. I would have liked to have asked the
driver what this all meant, but I really feared to do so, for I thought that,
placed as I was, any protest would have had no effect in case there had been an
intention to delay.
<P>By-and-by, however, as I was curious to know how time was passing, I struck a
match, and by its flame looked at my watch. It was within a few minutes of
midnight. This gave me a sort of shock, for I suppose the general superstition
about midnight was increased by my recent experiences. I waited with a sick
feeling of suspense.
<P>Then a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far down the road, a long,
agonized wailing, as if from fear. The sound was taken up by another dog, and
then another and another, till, borne on the wind which now sighed softly
through the Pass, a wild howling began, which seemed to come from all over the
country, as far as the imagination could grasp it through the gloom of the
night.
<P>At the first howl the horses began to strain and rear, but the driver spoke
to them soothingly, and they quieted down, but shivered and sweated as though
after a runaway from sudden fright. Then, far off in the distance, from the
mountains on each side of us began a louder and a sharper howling, that of
wolves, which affected both the horses and myself in the same way. For I was
minded to jump from the caleche and run, whilst they reared again and plunged
madly, so that the driver had to use all his great strength to keep them from
bolting. In a few minutes, however, my own ears got accustomed to the sound, and
the horses so far became quiet that the driver was able to descend and to stand
before them.
<P>He petted and soothed them, and whispered something in their ears, as I have
heard of horse-tamers doing, and with extraordinary effect, for under his
caresses they became quite manageable again, though they still trembled. The
driver again took his seat, and shaking his reins, started off at a great pace.
This time, after going to the far side or the Pass, he suddenly turned down a
narrow roadway which ran sharply to the right.
<P>Soon we were hemmed in with trees, which in places arched right over the
roadway till we passed as through a tunnel. And again great frowning rocks
guarded us boldly on either side. Though we were in shelter, we could hear the
rising wind, for it moaned and whistled through the rocks, and the branches of
the trees crashed together as we swept along. It grew colder and colder still,
and fine, powdery snow began to fall, so that soon we and all around us were
covered with a white blanket. The keen wind still carried the howling of the
dogs, though this grew fainter as we went on our way. The baying of the wolves
sounded nearer and nearer, as though they were closing round on us from every
side. I grew dreadfully afraid, and the horses shared my fear. The driver,
however, was not in the least disturbed. He kept turning his head to left and
right, but I could not see anything through the darkness.
<P>Suddenly, away on our left I saw a fain flickering blue flame. The driver saw
it at the same moment. He at once checked the horses, and, jumping to the
ground, disappeared into the darkness. I did not know what to do, the less as
the howling of the wolves grew closer. But while I wondered, the driver suddenly
appeared again, and without a word took his seat, and we resumed our journey. I
think I must have fallen asleep and kept dreaming of the incident, for it seemed
to be repeated endlessly, and now looking back, it is like a sort of awful
nightmare. Once the flame appeared so near the road, that even in the darkness
around us I could watch the driver's motions. He went rapidly to where the blue
flame arose, it must have been very faint, for it did not seem to illumine the
place around it at all, and gathering a few stones, formed them into some
device.
<P>Once there appeared a strange optical effect. When he stood between me and
the flame he did not obstruct it, for I could see its ghostly flicker all the
same. This startled me, but as the effect was only momentary, I took it that my
eyes deceived me straining through the darkness. Then for a time there were no
blue flames, and we sped onwards through the gloom, with the howling of the
wolves around us, as though they were following in a moving circle.
<P>At last there came a time when the driver went further afield than he had yet
gone, and during his absence, the horses began to tremble worse than ever and to
snort and scream with fright. I could not see any cause for it, for the howling
of the wolves had ceased altogether. But just then the moon, sailing through the
black clouds, appeared behind the jagged crest of a beetling, pine-clad rock,
and by its light I saw around us a ring of wolves, with white teeth and lolling
red tongues, with long, sinewy limbs and shaggy hair. They were a hundred times
more terrible in the grim silence which held them than even when they howled.
For myself, I felt a sort of paralysis of fear. It is only when a man feels
himself face to face with such horrors that he can understand their true import.
<P>All at once the wolves began to howl as though the moonlight had had some
peculiar effect on them. The horses jumped about and reared, and looked
helplessly round with eyes that rolled in a way painful to see. But the living
ring of terror encompassed them on every side, and they had perforce to remain
within it. I called to the coachman to come, for it seemed to me that our only
chance was to try to break out through the ring and to aid his approach, I
shouted and beat the side of the caleche, hoping by the noise to scare the
wolves from the side, so as to give him a chance of reaching the trap. How he
came there, I know not, but I heard his voice raised in a tone of imperious
command, and looking towards the sound, saw him stand in the roadway. As he
swept his long arms, as though brushing aside some impalpable obstacle, the
wolves fell back and back further still. Just then a heavy cloud passed across
the face of the moon, so that we were again in darkness.
<P>When I could see again the driver was climbing into the caleche, and the
wolves disappeared. This was all so strange and uncanny that a dreadful fear
came upon me, and I was afraid to speak or move. The time seemed interminable as
we swept on our way, now in almost complete darkness, for the rolling clouds
obscured the moon.
<P>We kept on ascending, with occasional periods of quick descent, but in the
main always ascending. Suddenly, I became conscious of the fact that the driver
was in the act of pulling up the horses in the courtyard of a vast ruined
castle, from whose tall black windows came no ray of light,and whose broken
battlements showed a jagged line against the sky.
<P>
<CENTER><A name=aii><STRONG>CHAPTER 2. JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
CONTINUED</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>5 May.--I must have been asleep, for certainly if I had been fully awake I
must have noticed the approach of such a remarkable place. In the gloom the
courtyard looked of considerable size, and as several dark ways led from it
under great round arches, it perhaps seemed bigger than it really is. I have not
yet been able to see it by daylight.
<P>When the caleche stopped, the driver jumped down and held out his hand to
assist me to alight. Again I could not but notice his prodigious strength. His
hand actually seemed like a steel vice that could have crushed mine if he had
chosen. Then he took my traps, and placed them on the ground beside me as I
stood close to a great door, old and studded with large iron nails, and set in a
projecting doorway of massive stone. I could see even in th e dim light that the
stone was massively carved, but that the carving had been much worn by time and
weather. As I stood, the driver jumped again into his seat and shook the reins.
The horses started forward,and trap and all disappeared down one of the dark
openings.
<P>I stood in silence where I was, for I did not know what to do. Of bell or
knocker there was no sign. Through these frowning walls and dark window openings
it was not likely that my voice could penetrate. The time I waited seemed
endless, and I felt doubts and fears crowding upon me. What sort of place had I
come to, and among what kind of people? What sort of grim adventure was it on
which I had embarked? Was this a customary incident in the life of a solicitor's
clerk sent out to explain the purchase of a London estate to a foreigner?
Solicitor's clerk! Mina would not like that. Solicitor, for just before leaving
London I got word that my examination was successful, and I am now a full-blown
solicitor! I began to rub my eyes and pinch myself to see if I were awake. It
all seemed like a horrible nightmare to me, and I expected that I should
suddenly awake, and find myself at home, with the dawn struggling in through the
windows, as I had now and again felt in the morning after a day of overwork. But
my flesh answered the pinching test, and my eyes were not to be deceived. I was
indeed awake and among the Carpathians. All I could do now was to be patient,
and to wait the coming of morning.
<P>Just as I had come to this conclusion I heard a heavy step approaching behind
the great door, and saw through the chinks the gleam of a coming light. Then
there was the sound of rattling chains and the clanking of massive bolts drawn
back. A key was turned with the loud grating noise of long disuse, and the great
door swung back.
<P>Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white moustache,
and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck of colour about him
anywhere. He held in his hand an antique silver lamp, in which the flame burned
without a chimney or globe of any kind, throwing long quivering shadows as it
flickered in the draught of the open door. The old man motioned me in with his
right hand with a courtly gesture, saying in excellent English, but with a
strange intonation.
<P>"Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own free will!" He made no
motion of stepping to meet me, but stood like a statue,as though his gesture of
welcome had fixed him into stone. The instant, however, that I had stepped over
the threshold, he moved impulsively forward, and holding out his hand grasped
mine with a strength which made me wince, an effect which was not lessened by
the fact that it seemed cold as ice, more like the hand of a dead than a living
man. Again he said.
<P>"Welcome to my house! Enter freely. Go safely, and leave something of the
happiness you bring!" The strength of the handshake was so much akin to that
which I had noticed in the driver, whose face I had not seen, that for a moment
I doubted if it were not the same person to whom I was speaking. So to make
sure, I said interrogatively, "Count Dracula?"
<P>He bowed in a courtly was as he replied, "I am Dracula, and I bid you
welcome, Mr. Harker, to my house. Come in, the night air is chill, and you must
need to eat and rest."As he was speaking, he put the lamp on a bracket on the
wall, and stepping out, took my luggage. He had carried it in before I could
forestall him. I protested, but he insisted.
<P>"Nay, sir, you are my guest. It is late, and my people are not available. Let
me see to your comfort myself."He insisted on carrying my traps along the
passage, and then up a great winding stair, and along another great passage, on
whose stone floor our steps rang heavily. At the end of this he threw open a
heavy door, and I rejoiced to see within a well-lit room in which a table was
spread for supper, and on whose mighty hearth a great fire of logs, freshly
replenished, flamed and flared.
<P>The Count halted, putting down my bags, closed the door, and crossing the
room, opened another door, which led into a small octagonal room lit by a single
lamp, and seemingly without a window of any sort. Passing through this, he
opened another door, and motioned me to enter. It was a welcome sight. For here
was a great bedroom well lighted and warmed with another log fire, also added to
but lately, for the top logs were fresh, which sent a hollow roar up the wide
chimney. The Count himself left my luggage inside and withdrew, saying, before
he closed the door.
<P>"You will need, after your journey, to refresh yourself by making your
toilet. I trust you will find all you wish. When you are ready, come into the
other room, where you will find your supper prepared."
<P>The light and warmth and the Count's courteous welcome seemed to have
dissipated all my doubts and fears. Having then reached my normal state, I
discovered that I was half famished with hunger. So making a hasty toilet, I
went into the other room.
<P>I found supper already laid out. My host, who stood on one side of the great
fireplace, leaning against the stonework, made a graceful wave of his hand to
the table, and said,
<P>"I pray you, be seated and sup how you please. You will I trust, excuse me
that I do not join you, but I have dined already, and I do not sup."
<P>I handed to him the sealed letter which Mr. Hawkins had entrusted to me. He
opened it and read it gravely. Then, with a charming smile, he handed it to me
to read. One passage of it, at least, gave me a thrill of pleasure.
<P>"I must regret that an attack of gout, from which malady I am a constant
sufferer, forbids absolutely any travelling on my part for some time to come.
But I am happy to say I can send a sufficient substitute, one in whom I have
every possible confidence. He is a young man, full of energy and talent in his
own way, and of a very faithful disposition. He is discreet and silent, and has
grown into manhood in my service. He shall be ready to attend on you when you
will during his stay, and shall take your instructions in all matters."
<P>The count himself came forward and took off the cover of a dish, and I fell
to at once on an excellent roast chicken. This, with some cheese and a salad and
a bottle of old tokay, of which I had two glasses, was my supper. During the
time I was eating it the Count asked me many question as to my journey, and I
told him by degrees all I had experienced.
<P>By this time I had finished my supper,and by my host's desire had drawn up a
chair by the fire and begun to smoke a cigar which he offered me, at the same
time excusing himself that he did not smoke. I had now an opportunity of
observing him, and found him of a very marked physiognomy.
<P>His face was a strong, a very strong, aquiline, with high bridge of the thin
nose and peculiarly arched nostrils, with lofty domed forehead, and hair growing
scantily round the temples but profusely elsewhere. His eyebrows were very
massive, almost meeting over the nose, and with bushy hair that seemed to curl
in its own profusion. The mouth, so far as I could see it under the heavy
moustache, was fixed and rather cruel-looking, with peculiarly sharp white
teeth. These protruded over the lips, whose remarkable ruddiness showed
astonishing vitality in a man of his years. For the rest, his ears were pale,
and at the tops extremely pointed. The chin was broad and strong, and the cheeks
firm though thin. The general effect was one of extraordinary pallor.
<P>Hitherto I had noticed the backs of his hands as they lay on his knees in the
firelight, and they had seemed rather white and fine. But seeing them now close
to me, I could not but notice that they were rather coarse, broad, with squat
fingers. Strange to say, there were hairs in the centre of the palm. The nails
were long and fine, and cut to a sharp point. As the Count leaned over me and
his hands touched me, I could not repress a shudder. It may have been that his
breath was rank, but a horrible feeling of nausea came over me, which, do what I
would, I could not conceal.
<P>The Count, evidently noticing it, drew back. And with a grim sort of smile,
which showed more than he had yet done his protruberant teeth, sat himself down
again on his own side of the fireplace. We were both silent for a while, and as
I looked towards the window I saw the first dim streak of the coming dawn. There
seemed a strange stillness over everything. But as I listened, I heard as if
from down below in the valley the howling of many wolves. The Count's eyes
gleamed, and he said.
<P>"Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!" Seeing, I
suppose, some expression in my face strange to him, he added, "Ah, sir, you
dwellers in the city cannot enter into the feelings of the hunter." Then he rose
and said.
<P>"But you must be tired. Your bedroom is all ready, and tomorrow you shall
sleep as late as you will. I have to be away till the afternoon, so sleep well
and dream well!" With a courteous bow, he opened for me himself the door to the
octagonal room, and I entered my bedroom.
<P>I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt. I fear. I think strange things, which
I dare not confess to my own soul. God keep me, if only for the sake of those
dear to me!
<P>7 May.--It is again early morning, but I have rested and enjoyed the last
twenty-four hours. I slept till late in the day, and awoke of my own accord.
When I had dressed myself I went into the room where we had supped, and found a
cold breakfast laid out, with coffee kept hot by the pot being placed on the
hearth. There was a card on the table, on which was written--"I have to be
absent for a while. Do not wait for me. D." I set to and enjoyed a hearty meal.
When I had done, I looked for a bell, so that I might let the servants know I
had finished, but I could not find one. There are certainly odd deficiencies in
the house, considering the extraordinary evidences of wealth which are round me.
The table service is of gold, and so beautifully wrought that it must be of
immense value. The curtains and upholstery of the chairs and sofas and the
hangings of my bed are of the costliest and most beautiful fabrics, and must
have been of fabulous value when they were made, for they are centuries old,
though in excellent order. I saw something like them in Hampton Court, but they
were worn and frayed and moth-eaten. But still in none of the rooms is there a
mirror. There is not even a toilet glass on my table, and I had to get the
little shaving glass from my bag before I could either shave or brush my hair. I
have not yet seen a servant anywhere, or heard a sound near the castle except
the howling of wolves. Some time after I had finished my meal, I do not know
whether to call it breakfast of dinner, for it was between five and six o'clock
when I had it, I looked about for something to read, for I did not like to go
about the castle until I had asked the Count's permission. There was absolutely
nothing in the room, book, newspaper, or even writing materials, so I opened
another door in the room and found a sort of library. The door opposite mine I
tried, but found locked.
<P>In the library I found, to my great delight, a vast number of English books,
whole shelves full of them, and bound volumes of magazines and newspapers. A
table in the center was littered with English magazines and newspapers, though
none of them were of very recent date. The books were of the most varied kind,
history, geography, politics, political economy, botany, geology, law, all
relating to England and English life and customs and manners. There were even
such books of reference as the London Directory, the "Red" and "Blue" books,
Whitaker's Almanac, the Army and Navy Lists, and it somehow gladdened my heart
to see it, the Law List.
<P>Whilst I was looking at the books, the door opened, and the Count entered. He
saluted me in a hearty way, and hoped that I had had a good night's rest. Then
he went on.
<P>"I am glad you found your way in here, for I am sure there is much that will
interest you. These companions," and he laid his hand on some of the books,
"have been good friends to me, and for some years past, ever since I had the
idea of going to London, have given me many, many hours of pleasure. Through
them I have come to know your great England, and to know her is to love her. I
long to go through the crowded streets of your mighty London, to be in the midst
of the whirl and rush of humanity, to share its life, its change, its death, and
all that makes it what it is. But alas! As yet I only know your tongue through
books. To you, my friend, I look that I know it to speak."
<P>"But, Count," I said, "You know and speak English thoroughly!" He bowed
gravely.
<P>"I thank you, my friend, for your all too-flattering estimate, but yet I fear
that I am but a little way on the road I would travel. True, I know the grammar
and the words, but yet I know not how to speak them.
<P>"Indeed," I said, "You speak excellently."
<P>"Not so," he answered. "Well, I know that, did I move and speak in your
London, none there are who would not know me for a stranger. That is not enough
for me. Here I am noble. I am a Boyar. The common people know me, and I am
master. But a stranger in a strange land, he is no one. Men know him not, and to
know not is to care not for. I am content if I am like the rest, so that no man
stops if he sees me, or pauses in his speaking if he hears my words, `Ha, ha! A
stranger!' I have been so long master that I would be master still, or at least
that none other should be master of me. You come to me not alone as agent of my
friend Peter Hawkins, of Exeter, to tell me all about my new estate in London.
You shall, I trust, rest here with me a while, so that by our talking I may
learn the English intonation. And I would that you tell me when I make error,
even of the smallest, in my speaking. I am sorry that I had to be away so long
today, but you will, I know forgive one who has so many important affairs in
hand."
<P>Of course I said all I could about being willing, and asked if I might come
into that room when I chose. He answered, "Yes, certainly," and added.
<P>"You may go anywhere you wish in the castle, except where the doors are
locked, where of course you will not wish to go. There is reason that all things
are as they are, and did you see with my eyes and know with my knowledge, you
would perhaps better understand." I said I was sure of this, and then he went
on.
<P>"We are in Transylvania, and Transylvania is not England. Our ways are not
your ways, and there shall be to you many strange things. Nay, from what you
have told me of your experiences already, you know something of what strange
things there may be."
<P>This led to much conversation, and as it was evident that he wanted to talk,
if only for talking's sake, I asked him many questions regarding things that had
already happened to me or come within my notice. Sometimes he sheered off the
subject, or turned the conversation by pretending not to understand, but
generally he answered all I asked most frankly. Then as time went on, and I had
got somewhat bolder, I asked him of some of the strange things of the preceding
night, as for instance, why the coachman went to the places where he had seen
the blue flames. He then explained to me that it was commonly believed that on a
certain night of the year, last night, in fact, when all evil spirits are
supposed to have unchecked sway, a blue flame is seen over any place where
treasure has been concealed.
<P>"That treasure has been hidden," he went on, "in the region through which you
came last night, there can be but little doubt. For it was the ground fought
over for centuries by the Wallachian, the Saxon, and the Turk. Why, there is
hardly a foot of soil in all this region that has not been enriched by the blood
of men, patriots or invaders. In the old days there were stirring times, when
the Austrian and the Hungarian came up in hordes, and the patriots went out to
meet them, men and women, the aged and the children too, and waited their coming
on the rocks above the passes, that they might sweep destruction on them with
their artificial avalanches. When the invader was triumphant he found but
little, for whatever there was had been sheltered in the friendly soil."
<P>"But how," said I, "can it have remained so long undiscovered, when there is
a sure index to it if men will but take the trouble to look? "The Count smiled,
and as his lips ran back over his gums, the long, sharp, canine teeth showed out
strangely. He answered.
<P>"Because your peasant is at heart a coward and a fool! Those flames only
appear on one night, and on that night no man of this land will, if he can help
it, stir without his doors. And, dear sir, even if he did he would not know what
to do. Why, even the peasant that you tell me of who marked the place of the
flame would not know where to look in daylight even for his own work. Even you
would not, I dare be sworn, be able to find these places again?"
<P>"There you are right," I said. "I know no more than the dead where even to
look for them." Then we drifted into other matters.
<P>"Come," he said at last, "tell me of London and of the house which you have
procured for me." With an apology for my remissness, I went into my own room to
get the papers from my bag. Whilst I was placing them in order I heard a
rattling of china and silver in the next room, and as I passed through, noticed
that the table had been cleared and the lamp lit, for it was by this time deep
into the dark. The lamps were also lit in the study or library, and I found the
Count lying on the sofa, reading, of all things in the world, and English
Bradshaw's Guide. When I came in he cleared the books and papers from the table,
and with him I went into plans and deeds and figures of all sorts. He was
interested in everything, and asked me a myriad questions about the place and
its surroundings. He clearly had studied beforehand all he could get on the
subject of the neighborhood, for he evidently at the end knew very much more
than I did. When I remarked this, he answered.
<P>"Well, but, my friend, is it not needful that I should? When I go there I
shall be all alone, and my friend Harker Jonathan, nay, pardon me. I fall into
my country's habit of putting your patronymic first, my friend Jonathan Harker
will not be by my side to correct and aid me. He will be in Exeter, miles away,
probably working at papers of the law with my other friend, Peter Hawkins. So!"
<P>We went thoroughly into the business of the purchase of the estate at
Purfleet. When I had told him the facts and got his signature to the necessary
papers, and had written a letter with them ready to post to Mr. Hawkins, he
began to ask me how I had come across so suitable a place. I read to him the
notes which I had made at the time, and which I inscribe here.
<P>"At Purfleet, on a byroad, I came across just such a place as seemed to be
required, and where was displayed a dilapidated notice that the place was for
sale. It was surrounded by a high wall, of ancient structure, built of heavy
stones, and has not been repaired for a large number of years. The closed gates
are of heavy old oak and iron, all eaten with rust.
<P>"The estate is called Carfax, no doubt a corruption of the old Quatre Face,
as the house is four sided, agreeing with the cardinal points of the compass. It
contains in all some twenty acres, quite surrounded by the solid stone wall
above mentioned. There are many trees on it, which make it in places gloomy, and
there is a deep, dark-looking pond or small lake, evidently fed by some springs,
as the water is clear and flows away in a fair-sized stream. The house is very
large and of all periods back, I should say, to mediaeval times, for one part is
of stone immensely thick, with only a few windows high up and heavily barred
with iron. It looks like part of a keep, and is close to an old chapel or
church. I could not enter it, as I had not the key of the door leading to it
from the house, but I have taken with my Kodak views of it from various points.
The house had been added to, but in a very straggling way, and I can only guess
at the amount of ground it covers, which must be very great. There are but few
houses close at hand, one being a very large house only recently added to and
formed into a private lunatic asylum. It is not, however, visible from the
grounds."
<P>When I had finished, he said, "I am glad that it is old and big. I myself am
of an old family, and to live in a new house would kill me. A house cannot be
made habitable in a day, and after all, how few days go to make up a century. I
rejoice also that there is a chapel of old times. We Transylvanian nobles love
not to think that our bones may lie amongst the common dead. I seek not gaiety
nor mirth, not the bright voluptuousness of much sunshine and sparkling waters
which please the young and gay. I am no longer young, and my heart, through
weary years of mourning over the dead, is attuned to mirth. Moreover, the walls
of my castle are broken. The shadows are many, and the wind breathes cold
through the broken battlements and casements. I love the shade and the shadow,
and would be alone with my thoughts when I may." Somehow his words and his look
did not seem to accord, or else it was that his cast of face made his smile look
malignant and saturnine.
<P>Presently, with an excuse, he left me, asking me to pull my papers together.
He was some little time away, and I began to look at some of the books around
me. One was an atlas, which I found opened naturally to England, as if that map
had been much used. On looking at it I found in certain places little rings
marked, and on examining these I noticed that one was near London on the east
side, manifestly where his new estate was situated. The other two were Exeter,
and Whitby on the Yorkshire coast.
<P>It was the better part of an hour when the Count returned. "Aha!" he said.
"Still at your books? Good! But you must not work always. Come! I am informed
that your supper is ready." He took my arm, and we went into the next room,
where I found an excellent supper ready on the table. The Count again excused
himself, as he had dined out on his being away from home. But he sat as on the
previous night, and chatted whilst I ate. After supper I smoked, as on the last
evening, and the Count stayed with me, chatting and asking questions on every
conceivable subject, hour after hour. I felt that it was getting very late
indeed, but I did not say anything, for I felt under obligation to meet my
host's wishes in every way. I was not sleepy, as the long sleep yesterday had
fortified me, but I could not help experiencing that chill which comes over one
at the coming of the dawn, which is like, in its way, the turn of the tide. They
say that people who are near death die generally at the change to dawn or at the
turn of the tide. Anyone who has when tired, and tied as it were to his post,
experienced this change in the atmosphere can well believe it. All at once we
heard the crow of the cock coming up with preternatural shrillness through the
clear morning air.
<P>Count Dracula, jumping to his feet, said, "Why there is the morning again!
How remiss I am to let you stay up so long. You must make your conversation
regarding my dear new country of England less interesting, so that I may not
forget how time flies by us," and with a courtly bow, he quickly left me.
<P>I went into my room and drew the curtains, but there was little to notice. My
window opened into the courtyard, all I could see was the warm grey of
quickening sky. So I pulled the curtains again, and have written of this day.
<P>8 May.--I began to fear as I wrote in this book that I was getting too
diffuse. But now I am glad that I went into detail from the first, for there is
something so strange about this place and all in it that I cannot but feel
uneasy. I wish I were safe out of it, or that I had never come. It may be that
this strange night existence is telling on me, but would that that were all! If
there were any one to talk to I could bear it, but there is no one. I have only
the Count to speak with, and he--I fear I am myself the only living soul within
the place. Let me be prosaiac so far as facts can be. It will help me to bear
up, and imagination must not run riot with me. If it does I am lost. Let me say
at once how I stand, or seem to.
<P>I only slept a few hours when I went to bed,and feeling that I could not
sleep any more, got up. I had hung my shaving glass by the window, and was just
beginning to shave. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, and heard the Count's
voice saying to me, "Good morning." I started, for it amazed me that I had not
seen him, since the reflection of the glass covered the whole room behind me. In
starting I had cut myself slightly, but did not notice it at the moment. Having
answered the Count's salutation, I turned to the glass again to see how I had
been mistaken. This time there could be no error, for the man was close to me,
and I could see him over my shoulder. But there was no reflection of him in the
mirror! The whole room behind me was displayed, but there was no sign of a man
in it, except myself.
<P>This was startling, and coming on the top of so many strange things, was
beginning to increase that vague feeling of uneasiness which I always have when
the Count is near. But at the instant I saw the the cut had bled a little, and
the blood was trickling over my chin. I laid down the razor, turning as I did so
half round to look for some sticking plaster. When the Count saw my face, his
eyes blazed with a sort of demoniac fury, and he suddenly made a grab at my
throat. I drew away and his hand touched the string of beads which held the
crucifix. It made an instant change in him, for the fury passed so quickly that
I could hardly believe that it was ever there.
<P>"Take care," he said, "take care how you cut yourself. It is more dangerous
that you think in this country." Then seizing the shaving glass, he went on,
"And this is the wretched thing that has done the mischief. It is a foul bauble
of man's vanity. Away with it!" And opening the window with one wrench of his
terrible hand, he flung out the glass, which was shattered into a thousand
pieces on the stones of the courtyard far below. Then he withdrew without a
word. It is very annoying, for I do not see how I am to shave, unless in my
watch-case or the bottom of the shaving pot, which is fortunately of metal.
<P>When I went into the dining room, breakfast was prepared, but I could not
find the Count anywhere. So I breakfasted alone. It is strange that as yet I
have not seen the Count eat or drink. He must be a very peculiar man! After
breakfast I did a little exploring in the castle. I went out on the stairs, and
found a room looking towards the South.
<P>The view was magnificent, and from where I stood there was every opportunity
of seeing it. The castle is on the very edge of a terrific precipice. A stone
falling from the window would fall a thousand feet without touching anything! As
far as the eye can reach is a sea of green tree tops, with occasionally a deep
rift where there is a chasm. Here and there are silver threads where the rivers
wind in deep gorges through the forests.
<P>But I am not in heart to describe beauty, for when I had seen the view I
explored further. Doors, doors, doors everywhere, and all locked and bolted. In
no place save from the windows in the castle walls is there an available exit.
The castle is a veritable prison, and I am a prisoner!
<P><STRONG>
<CENTER><A name=aiii>CHAPTER 3. JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
CONTINUED</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>When I found that I was a prisoner a sort of wild feeling came over me. I
rushed up and down the stairs, trying every door and peering out of every window
I could find, but after a little the conviction of my helplessness overpowered
all other feelings. When I look back after a few hours I think I must have been
mad for the time, for I behaved much as a rat does in a trap. When, however, the
conviction had come to me that I was helpless I sat down quietly, as quietly as
I have ever done anything in my life, and began to think over what was best to
be done. I am thinking still, and as yet have come to no definite conclusion. Of
one thing only am I certain. That it is no use making my ideas known to the
Count. He knows well that I am imprisoned, and as he has done it himself, and
has doubtless his own motives for it, he would only deceive me if I trusted him
fully with the facts. So far as I can see, my only plan will be to keep my
knowledge and my fears to myself, and my eyes open. I am, I know, either being
deceived, like a baby, by my own fears, or else I am in desperate straits, and
if the latter be so, I need, and shall need, all my brains to get through.
<P>I had hardly come to this conclusion when I heard the great door below shut,
and knew that the Count had returned. He did not come at once into the library,
so I went cautiously to my own room and found him making the bed. This was odd,
but only confirmed what I had all along thought, that there are no servants in
the house. When later I saw him through the chink of the hinges of the door
laying the table in the dining room, I was assured of it. For if he does himself
all these menial offices, surely it is proof that there is no one else in the
castle, it must have been the Count himself who was the driver of the coach that
brought me here. This is a terrible thought, for if so, what does it mean that
he could control the wolves, as he did, by only holding up his hand for silence?
How was it that all the people at Bistritz and on the coach had some terrible
fear for me? What meant the giving of the crucifix, of the garlic, of the wild
rose, of the mountain ash?
<P>Bless that good, good woman who hung the crucifix round my neck! For it is a
comfort and a strength to me whenever I touch it. It is odd that a thing which I
have been taught to regard with disfavour and as idolatrous should in a time of
loneliness and trouble be of help. Is it that there is something in the essence
of the thing itself, or that it is a medium, a tangible help, in conveying
memories of sympathy and comfort? Some time, if it may be, I must examine this
matter and try to make up my mind about it. In the meantime I must find out all
I can about Count Dracula,as it may help me to understand. Tonight he may talk
of himself, if I turn the conversation that way. I must be very careful,
however, not to awake his suspicion.
<P>Midnight.--I have had a long talk with the Count. I asked him a few questions
on Transylvania history, and he warmed up to the subject wonderfully. In his
speaking of things and people, and especially of battles, he spoke as if he had
been present at them all. This he afterwards explained by saying that to a Boyar
the pride of his house and name is his own pride, that their glory is his glory,
that their fate is his fate. Whenever he spoke of his house he always said "we",
and spoke almost in the plural, like a king speaking. I wish I could put down
all he said exactly as he said it, for to me it was most fascinating. It seemed
to have in it a whole history of the country. He grew excited as he spoke, and
walked about the room pulling his great white moustache and grasping anything on
which he laid his hands as though he would crush it by main strength. One thing
he said which I shall put down as nearly as I can, for it tells in its way the
story of his race.
<P>"We Szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our veins flows the blood of
many brave races who fought as the lion fights, for lordship. Here, in the
whirlpool of European races, the Ugric tribe bore down from Iceland the fighting
spirit which Thor and Wodin game them, which their Berserkers displayed to such
fell intent on the seaboards of Europe, aye, and of Asia and Africa too, till
the peoples thought that the werewolves themselves had come. Here, too, when
they came, they found the Huns, whose warlike fury had swept the earth like a
living flame, till the dying peoples held that in their veins ran the blood of
those old witches, who, expelled from Scythia had mated with the devils in the
desert. Fools, fools! What devil or what witch was ever so great as Attila,
whose blood is in these veins?" He held up his arms. "Is it a wonder that we
were a conquering race, that we were proud, that when the Magyar, the Lombard,
the Avar, the Bulgar, or the Turk poured his thousands on our frontiers, we
drove them back? Is it strange that when Arpad and his legions swept through the
Hungarian fatherland he found us here when he reached the frontier, that the
Honfoglalas was completed there? And when the Hungarian flood swept eastward,
the Szekelys were claimed as kindred by the victorious Magyars, and to us for
centuries was trusted the guarding of the frontier of Turkeyland. Aye, and more
than that, endless duty of the frontier guard, for as the Turks say, `water
sleeps, and the enemy is sleepless.' Who more gladly than we throughout the Four
Nations received the `bloody sword,' or at its warlike call flocked quicker to
the standard of the King? When was redeemed that great shame of my nation, the
shame of Cassova, when the flags of the Wallach and the Magyar went down beneath
the Crescent? Who was it but one of my own race who as Voivode crossed the
Danube and beat the Turk on his own ground? This was a Dracula indeed! Woe was
it that his own unworthy brother, when he had fallen, sold his people to the
Turk and brought the shame of slavery on them! Was it not this Dracula, indeed,
who inspired that other of his race who in a later age again and again brought
his forces over the great river into Turkeyland, who, when he was beaten back,
came again, and again, though he had to come alone from the bloody field where
his troops were being slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could ultimately
triumph! They said that he thought only of himself. Bah! What good are peasants
without a leader? Where ends the war without a brain and heart to conduct it?
Again, when, after the battle of Mohacs, we threw off the Hungarian yoke, we of
the Dracula blood were amongst their leaders, for our spirit would not brook
that we were not free. Ah, young sir, the Szekelys, and the Dracula as their
heart's blood, their brains, and their swords, can boast a record that mushroom
growths like the Hapsburgs and the Romanoffs can never reach. The warlike days
are over. Blood is too precious a thing in these days of dishonourable peace,
and the glories of the great races are as a tale that is told."
<P>It was by this time close on morning, and we went to bed. (Mem., this diary
seems horribly like the beginning of the "Arabian Nights," for everything has to
break off at cockcrow, or like the ghost of Hamlet's father.)
<P>12 May.--Let me begin with facts, bare, meager facts, verified by books and
figures, and of which there can be no doubt. I must not confuse them with
experiences which will have to rest on my own observation, or my memory of them.
Last evening when the Count came from his room he began by asking me questions
on legal matters and on the doing of certain kinds of business. I had spent the
day wearily over books, and, simply to keep my mind occupied, went over some of
the matters I had been examined in at Lincoln's Inn. There was a certain method
in the Count's inquiries, so I shall try to put them down in sequence. The
knowledge may somehow or some time be useful to me.
<P>First, he asked if a man in England might have two solicitors or more. I told
him he might have a dozen if he wished, but that it would not be wise to have
more than one solicitor engaged in one transaction, as only one could act at a
time, and that to change would be certain to militate against his interest. He
seemed thoroughly to understand, and went on to ask if there would be any
practical difficulty in having one man to attend, say, to banking, and another
to look after shipping, in case local help were needed in a place far from the
home of the banking solicitor. I asked to explain more fully, so that I might
not by any chance mislead him, so he said,
<P>"I shall illustrate. Your friend and mine, Mr. Peter Hawkins, from under the
shadow of your beautiful cathedral at Exeter, which is far from London, buys for
me through your good self my place at London. Good! Now here let me say frankly,
lest you should think it strange that I have sought the services of one so far
off from London instead of some one resident there, that my motive was that no
local interest might be served save my wish only, and as one of London residence
might, perhaps, have some purpose of himself or friend to serve, I went thus
afield to seek my agent, whose labours should be only to my interest. Now,
suppose I, who have much of affairs, wish to ship goods, say, to Newcastle, or
Durham, or Harwich, or Dover, might it not be that it could with more ease be
done by consigning to one in these ports?"
<P>I answered that certainly it would be most easy, but that we solicitors had a
system of agency one for the other, so that local work could be done locally on
instruction from any solicitor, so that the client, simply placing himself in
the hands of one man, could have his wishes carried out by him without further
trouble.
<P>"But," said he, "I could be at liberty to direct myself. Is it not so?"
<P>"Of course, " I replied, and "Such is often done by men of business, who do
not like the whole of their affairs to be known by any one person."
<P>"Good!" he said,and then went on to ask about the means of making
consignments and the forms to be gone through, and of all sorts of difficulties
which might arise, but by forethought could be guarded against. I explained all
these things to him to the best of my ability, and he certainly left me under
the impression that he would have made a wonderful solicitor, for there was
nothing that he did not think of or foresee. For a man who was never in the
country, and who did not evidently do much in the way of business, his knowledge
and acumen were wonderful. When he had satisfied himself on these points of
which he had spoken, and I had verified all as well as I could by the books
available, he suddenly stood up and said, "Have you written since your first
letter to our friend Mr. Peter Hawkins, or to any other?"
<P>It was with some bitterness in my heart that I answered that I had not, that
as yet I had not seen any opportunity of sending letters to anybody.
<P>"Then write now, my young friend," he said, laying a heavy hand on my
shoulder, "write to our friend and to any other, and say, if it will please you,
that you shall stay with me until a month from now."
<P>"Do you wish me to stay so long?" I asked, for my heart grew cold at the
thought.
<P>"I desire it much, nay I will take no refusal. When your master, employer,
what you will, engaged that someone should come on his behalf, it was understood
that my needs only were to be consulted. I have not stinted. Is it not so?"
<P>What could I do but bow acceptance? It was Mr. Hawkins' interest, not mine,
and I had to think of him, not myself, and besides, while Count Dracula was
speaking, there was that in his eyes and in his bearing which made me remember
that I was a prisoner, and that if I wished it I could have no choice. The Count
saw his victory in my bow, and his mastery in the trouble of my face, for he
began at once to use them, but in his own smooth, resistless way.
<P>"I pray you, my good young friend, that you will not discourse of things
other than business in your letters. It will doubtless please your friends to
know that you are well, and that you look forward to getting home to them. Is it
not so?" As he spoke he handed me three sheets of note paper and three
envelopes. They were all of the thinnest foreign post, and looking at them, then
at him, and noticing his quiet smile, with the sharp, canine teeth lying over
the red underlip, I understood as well as if he had spoken that I should be more
careful what I wrote, for he would be able to read it. So I determined to write
only formal notes now, but to write fully to Mr. Hawkins in secret, and also to
Mina, for to her I could write shorthand, which would puzzle the Count, if he
did see it. When I had written my two letters I sat quiet, reading a book whilst
the Count wrote several notes, referring as he wrote them to some books on his
table. Then he took up my two and placed them with his own, and put by his
writing materials, after which, the instant the door had closed behind him, I
leaned over and looked at the letters, which were face down on the table. I felt
no compunction in doing so for under the circumstances I felt that I should
protect myself in every way I could.
<P>One of the letters was directed to Samuel F. Billington, No. 7, The Crescent,
Whitby, another to Herr Leutner, Varna. The third was to Coutts & Co.,
London, and the fourth to Herren Klopstock & Billreuth, bankers, Buda Pesth.
The second and fourth were unsealed. I was just about to look at them when I saw
the door handle move. I sank back in my seat, having just had time to resume my
book before the Count, holding still another letter in his hand, entered the
room. He took up the letters on the table and stamped them carefully, and then
turning to me, said,
<P>"I trust you will forgive me, but I have much work to do in private this
evening. You will, I hope, find all things as you wish." At the door he turned,
and after a moment's pause said, "Let me advise you, my dear young friend. Nay,
let me warn you with all seriousness, that should you leave these rooms you will
not by any chance go to sleep in any other part of the castle. It is old, and
has many memories, and there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely. Be
warned! Should sleep now or ever overcome you, or be like to do, then haste to
your own chamber or to these rooms, for your rest will then be safe. But if you
be not careful in this respect, then," He finished his speech in a gruesome way,
for he motioned with his hands as if he were washing them. I quite understood.
My only doubt was as to whether any dream could be more terrible than the
unnatural, horrible net of gloom and mystery which seemed closing around me.
<P>Later.--I endorse the last words written, but this time there is no doubt in
question. I shall not fear to sleep in any place where he is not. I have placed
the crucifix over the head of my bed, I imagine that my rest is thus freer from
dreams, and there it shall remain.
<P>When he left me I went to my room. After a little while, not hearing any
sound, I came out and went up the stone stair to where I could look out towards
the South. There was some sense of freedom in the vast expanse, inaccessible
though it was to me,as compared with the narrow darkness of the courtyard.
Looking out on this, I felt that I was indeed in prison, and I seemed to want a
breath of fresh air, though it were of the night. I am beginning to feel this
nocturnal existence tell on me. It is destroying my nerve. I start at my own
shadow, and am full of all sorts of horrible imaginings. God knows that there is
ground for my terrible fear in this accursed place! I looked out over the
beautiful expanse, bathed in soft yellow moonlight till it was almost as light
as day. In the soft light the distant hills became melted, and the shadows in
the valleys and gorges of velvety blackness. The mere beauty seemed to cheer me.
There was peace and comfort in every breath I drew. As I leaned from the window
my eye was caught by something moving a storey below me, and somewhat to my
left, where I imagined, from the order of the rooms, that the windows of the
Count's own room would look out. The window at which I stood was tall and deep,
stone-mullioned, and though weatherworn, was still complete. But it was
evidently many a day since the case had been there. I drew back behind the
stonework, and looked carefully out.
<P>What I saw was the Count's head coming out from the window. I did not see the
face, but I knew the man by the neck and the movement of his back and arms. In
any case I could not mistake the hands which I had had some many opportunities
of studying. I was at first interested and somewhat amused, for it is wonderful
how small a matter will interest and amuse a man when he is a prisoner. But my
very feelings changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly
emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over the dreadful
abyss, face down with his cloak spreading out around him like great wings. At
first I could not believe my eyes. I thought it was some trick of the moonlight,
some weird effect of shadow, but I kept looking, and it could be no delusion. I
saw the fingers and toes grasp the corners of the stones, worn clear of the
mortar by the stress of years, and by thus using every projection and inequality
move downwards with considerable speed, just as a lizard moves along a wall.
<P>What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature, is it in the
semblance of man? I feel the dread of this horrible place overpowering me. I am
in fear, in awful fear, and there is no escape for me. I am encompassed about
with terrors that I dare not think of.
<P>15 May.--Once more I have seen the count go out in his lizard fashion. He
moved downwards in a sidelong way, some hundred feet down, and a good deal to
the left. He vanished into some hole or window. When his head had disappeared, I
leaned out to try and see more, but without avail. The distance was too great to
allow a proper angle of sight. I knew he had left the castle now, and thought to
use the opportunity to explore more than I had dared to do as yet. I went back
to the room, and taking a lamp, tried all the doors. They were all locked, as I
had expected, and the locks were comparatively new. But I went down the stone
stairs to the hall where I had entered originally. I found I could pull back the
bolts easily enough and unhook the great chains. But the door was locked, and
the key was gone! That key must be in the Count's room. I must watch should his
door be unlocked, so that I may get it and escape. I went on to make a thorough
examination of the various stairs and passages, and to try the doors that opened
from them. One or two small rooms near the hall were open, but there was nothing
to see in them except old furniture, dusty with age and moth-eaten. At last,
however, I found one door at the top of the stairway which, though it seemed
locked, gave a little under pressure. I tried it harder, and found that it was
not really locked, but that the resistance came from the fact that the hinges
had fallen somewhat,and the heavy door rested on the floor. Here was an
opportunity which I might not have again, so I exerted myself,and with many
efforts forced it back so that I could enter. I was now in a wing of the castle
further to the right than the rooms I knew and a storey lower down. From the
windows I could see that the suite of rooms lay along to the south of the
castle, the windows of the end room looking out both west and south. On the
latter side, as well as to the former, there was a great precipice. The castle
was built on the corner of a great rock, so that on three sides it was quite
impregnable, and great windows were placed here where sling, or bow, or culverin
could not reach, and consequently light and comfort, impossible to a position
which had to be guarded, were secured. To the west was a great valley, and then,
rising far away, great jagged mountain fastnesses, rising peak on peak, the
sheer rock studded with mountain ash and thorn, whose roots clung in cracks and
crevices and crannies of the stone. This was evidently the portion of the castle
occupied by the ladies in bygone days, for the furniture had more an air of
comfort than any I had seen.
<P>The windows were curtainless, and the yellow moonlight, flooding in through
the diamond panes, enabled one to see even colours, whilst it softened the
wealth of dust which lay over all and disguised in some measure the ravages of
time and moth. My lamp seemed to be of little effect in the brilliant moonlight,
but I was glad to have it with me, for there was a dread loneliness in the place
which chilled my heart and made my nerves tremble. Still, it was better than
living alone in the rooms which I had come to hate from the presence of the
Count, and after trying a little to school my nerves, I found a soft quietude
come over me. Here I am, sitting at a little oak table where in old times
possibly some fair lady sat to pen, with much thought and many blushes, her
ill-spelt love letter, and writing in my diary in shorthand all that has
happened since I closed it last. It is the nineteenth century up-to-date with a
vengeance. And yet, unless my senses deceive me, the old centuries had, and
have, powers of their own which mere "modernity" cannot kill.
<P>Later: The morning of 16 May.--God preserve my sanity, for to this I am
reduced. Safety and the assurance of safety are things of the past. Whilst I
live on here there is but one thing to hope for, that I may not go mad, if,
indeed, I be not mad already. If I be sane, then surely it is maddening to think
that of all the foul things that lurk in this hateful place the Count is the
least dreadful to me, that to him alone I can look for safety, even though this
be only whilst I can serve his purpose. Great God! Merciful God, let me be calm,
for out of that way lies madness indeed. I begin to get new lights on certain
things which have puzzled me. Up to now I never quite knew what Shakespeare
meant when he made Hamlet say, "My tablets! Quick, my tablets! `tis meet that I
put it down," etc., For now, feeling as though my own brain were unhinged or as
if the shock had come which must end in its undoing, I turn to my diary for
repose. The habit of entering accurately must help to soothe me.
<P>The Count's mysterious warning frightened me at the time. It frightens me
more not when I think of it, for in the future he has a fearful hold upon me. I
shall fear to doubt what he may say!
<P>When I had written in my diary and had fortunately replaced the book and pen
in my pocket I felt sleepy. The Count's warning came into my mind, but I took
pleasure in disobeying it. The sense of sleep was upon me, and with it the
obstinacy which sleep brings as outrider. The soft moonlight soothed, and the
wide expanse without gave a sense of freedom which refreshed me. I determined
not to return tonight to the gloom-haunted rooms, but to sleep here, where, of
old, ladies had sat and sung and lived sweet lives whilst their gentle breasts
were sad for their menfolk away in the midst of remorseless wars. I drew a great
couch out of its place near the corner, so that as I lay, I could look at the
lovely view to east and south,and unthinking of and uncaring for the dust,
composed myself for sleep. I suppose I must have fallen asleep. I hope so, but I
fear, for all that followed was startlingly real, so real that now sitting here
in the broad, full sunlight of the morning, I cannot in the least believe that
it was all sleep.
<P>I was not alone. The room was the same, unchanged in any way since I came
into it. I could see along the floor, in the brilliant moonlight, my own
footsteps marked where I had disturbed the long accumulation of dust. In the
moonlight opposite me were three young women, ladies by their dress and manner.
I thought at the time that I must be dreaming when I saw them, they threw no
shadow on the floor. They came close to me, and looked at me for some time, and
then whispered together. Two were dark, and had high aquiline noses, like the
Count, and great dark, piercing eyes, that seemed to be almost red when
contrasted with the pale yellow moon. The other was fair,as fair as can be, with
great masses of golden hair and eyes like pale sapphires. I seemed somehow to
know her face, and to know it in connection with some dreamy fear, but I could
not recollect at the moment how or where. All three had brilliant white teeth
that shone like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was
something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same time some
deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that they would kiss me
with those red lips. It is not good to note this down, lest some day it should
meet Mina's eyes and cause her pain, but it is the truth. They whispered
together, and then they all three laughed, such a silvery, musical laugh, but as
hard as though the sound never could have come through the softness of human
lips. It was like the intolerable, tingling sweetness of waterglasses when
played on by a cunning hand. The fair girl shook her head coquettishly, and the
other two urged her on.
<P>One said, "Go on! You are first, and we shall follow. Yours' is the right to
begin."
<P>The other added, "He is young and strong. There are kisses for us all."
<P>I lay quiet, looking out from under my eyelashes in an agony of delightful
anticipation. The fair girl advanced and bent over me till I could feel the
movement of her breath upon me. Sweet it was in one sense, honey-sweet, and sent
the same tingling through the nerves as her voice, but with a bitter underlying
the sweet, a bitter offensiveness, as one smells in blood.
<P>I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly under the
lashes. The girl went on her knees, and bent over me, simply gloating. There was
a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she
arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in
the moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as
it lapped the white sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips went
below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed to fasten on my throat. Then she
paused, and I could hear the churning sound of her tongue as it licked her teeth
and lips, and I could feel the hot breath on my neck. Then the skin of my throat
began to tingle as one's flesh does when the hand that is to tickle it
approaches nearer, nearer. I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on
the super sensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth,
just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in languorous ecstasy and
waited, waited with beating heart.
<P>But at that instant, another sensation swept through me as quick as
lightning. I was conscious of the presence of the Count, and of his being as if
lapped in a storm of fury. As my eyes opened involuntarily I saw his strong hand
grasp the slender neck of the fair woman and with giant's power draw it back,
the blue eyes transformed with fury, the white teeth champing with rage, and the
fair cheeks blazing red with passion. But the Count! Never did I imagine such
wrath and fury, even to the demons of the pit. His eyes were positively blazing.
The red light in them was lurid, as if the flames of hell fire blazed behind
them. His face was deathly pale, and the lines of it were hard like drawn wires.
The thick eyebrows that met over the nose now seemed like a heaving bar of
whitehot metal. With a fierce sweep of his arm, he hurled the woman from him,
and then motioned to the others, as though he were beating them back. It was the
same imperious gesture that I had seen used to the wolves. In a voice which,
though low and almost in a whisper seemed to cut through the air and then ring
in the room he said,
<P>"How dare you touch him, any of you? How dare you cast eyes on him when I had
forbidden it? Back, I tell you all! This man belongs to me! Beware how you
meddle with him, or you'll have to deal with me."
<P>The fair girl, with a laugh of ribald coquetry, turned to answer him. "You
yourself never loved. You never love!" On this the other women joined,and such a
mirthless, hard, soulless laughter rang through the room that it almost made me
faint to hear. It seemed like the pleasure of fiends.
<P>Then the Count turned, after looking at my face attentively, and said in a
soft whisper, "Yes, I too can love. You yourselves can tell it from the past. Is
it not so? Well, now I promise you that when I am done with him you shall kiss
him at your will. Now go! Go! I must awaken him, for there is work to be done."
<P>"Are we to have nothing tonight?" said one of them, with a low laugh, as she
pointed to the bag which he had thrown upon the floor, and which moved as though
there were some living thing within it. For answer he nodded his head. One of
the women jumped forward and opened it. If my ears did not deceive me there was
a gasp and a low wail, as of a half smothered child. The women closed round,
whilst I was aghast with horror. But as I looked, they disappeared, and with
them the dreadful bag. There was no door near them, and they could not have
passed me without my noticing. They simply seemed to fade into the rays of the
moonlight and pass out through the window, for I could see outside the dim,
shadowy forms for a moment before they entirely faded away.
<P>Then the horror overcame me,and I sank down unconscious.
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=aiv>CHAPTER 4. JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
CONTINUED</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>I awoke in my own bed. If it be that I had not dreamt, the Count must have
carried me here. I tried to satisfy myself on the subject, but could not arrive
at any unquestionable result. To be sure, there were certain small evidences,
such as that my clothes were folded and laid by in a manner which was not my
habit. My watch was still unwound, and I am rigorously accustomed to wind it the
last thing before going to bed, and many such details. But these things are no
proof, for they may have been evidences that my mind was not as usual, and, for
some cause or another, I had certainly been much upset. I must watch for proof.
Of one thing I am glad. If it was that the Count carried me here and undressed
me, he must have been hurried in his task, for my pockets are intact. I am sure
this diary would have been a mystery to him which he would not have brooked. He
would have taken or destroyed it. As I look round this room, although it has
been to me so full of fear, it is now a sort of sanctuary, for nothing can be
more dreadful than those awful women, who were, who are, waiting to suck my
blood.
<P>18 May.--I have been down to look at that room again in daylight, for I must
know the truth. When I got to the doorway at the top of the stairs I found it
closed. It had been so forcibly driven against the jamb that part of the
woodwork was splintered. I could see that the bolt of the lock had not been
shot, but the door is fastened from the inside. I fear it was no dream, and must
act on this surmise.
<P>19 May.--I am surely in the toils. Last night the Count asked me in the
sauvest tones to write three letters, one saying that my work here was nearly
done, and that I should start for home within a few days,another that I was
starting on the next morning from the time of the letter, and the third that I
had left the castle and arrived at Bistritz. I would fain have rebelled, but
felt that in the present state of things it would be madness to quarrel openly
with the Count whilst I am so absolutely in his power. And to refuse would be to
excite his suspicion and to arouse his anger. He knows that I know too much, and
that I must not live, lest I be dangerous to him. My only chance is to prolong
my opportunities. Something may occur which will give ma a chance to escape. I
saw in his eyes something of that gathering wrath which was manifest when he
hurled that fair woman from him. He explained to me that posts were few and
uncertain, and that my writing now would ensure ease of mind to my friends. And
he assured me with so much impressiveness that he would countermand the later
letters, which would be held over at Bistritz until due time in case chance
would admit of my prolonging my stay, that to oppose him would have been to
create new suspicion. I therefore pretended to fall in with his views, and asked
him what dates I should put on the letters.
<P>He calculated a minute, and then said, "The first should be June 12, the
second June 19,and the third June 29."
<P>I know now the span of my life. God help me!
<P>28 May.--There is a chance of escape, or at any rate of being able to send
word home. A band of Szgany have come to the castle, and are encamped in the
courtyard. These are gipsies. I have notes of them in my book. They are peculiar
to this part of the world, though allied to the ordinary gipsies all the world
over. There are thousands of them in Hungary and Transylvania, who are almost
outside all law. They attach themselves as a rule to some great noble or boyar,
and call themselves by his name. They are fearless and without religion, save
superstition, and they talk only their own varieties of the Romany tongue.
<P>I shall write some letters home, and shall try to get them to have them
posted. I have already spoken to them through my window to begin
acquaintanceship. They took their hats off and made obeisance and many signs,
which however, I could not understand any more than I could their spoken
language. . .
<P>I have written the letters. Mina's is in shorthand, and I simply ask Mr.
Hawkins to communicate with her. To her I have explained my situation, but
without the horrors which I may only surmise. It would shock and frighten her to
death were I to expose my heart to her. Should the letters not carry, then the
Count shall not yet know my secret or the extent of my knowledge. . .
<P>I have given the letters. I threw them through the bars of my window with a
gold piece, and made what signs I could to have them posted. The man who took
them pressed them to his heart and bowed, and then put them in his cap. I could
do no more. I stole back to the study, and began to read. As the Count did not
come in, I have written here. . .
<P>The Count has come. He sat down beside me, and said in his smoothest voice as
he opened two letters, "The Szgany has given me these, of which, though I know
not whence they come, I shall, of course, take care. See!"--He must have looked
at it.--"One is from you, and to my friend Peter Hawkins. The other,"--here he
caught sight of the strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and the dark look
came into his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly,--"The other is a vile thing,
an outrage upon friendship and hospitality! It is not signed. Well! So it cannot
matter to us."And he calmly held letter and envelope in the flame of the lamp
till they were consumed.
<P>Then he went on, "The letter to Hawkins, that I shall, of course send on,
since it is yours. Your letters are sacred to me. Your pardon, my friend, that
unknowingly I did break the seal. Will you not cover it again?" He held out the
letter to me, and with a courteous bow handed me a clean envelope.
<P>I could only redirect it and hand it to him in silence. When he went out of
the room I could hear the key turn softly. A minute later I went over and tried
it, and the door was locked.
<P>When, an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into the room, his coming
awakened me, for I had gone to sleep on the sofa. He was very courteous and very
cheery in his manner, and seeing that I had been sleeping, he said, "So, my
friend, you are tired? Get to bed. There is the surest rest. I may not have the
pleasure of talk tonight, since there are many labours to me, but you will
sleep, I pray."
<P>I passed to my room and went to bed, and, strange to say, slept without
dreaming. Despair has its own calms.
<P>31 May.--This morning when I woke I thought I would provide myself with some
papers and envelopes from my bag and keep them in my pocket, so that I might
write in case I should get an opportunity, but again a surprise, again a shock!
<P>Every scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes, my memoranda,
relating to railways and travel, my letter of credit, in fact all that might be
useful to me were I once outside the castle. I sat and pondered awhile, and then
some thought occurred to me, and I made search of my portmanteau and in the
wardrobe where I had placed my clothes.
<P>The suit in which I had travelled was gone, and also my overcoat and rug. I
could find no trace of them anywhere. This looked like some new scheme of
villainy. . .
<P>17 June.--This morning, as I was sitting on the edge of my bed cudgelling my
brains, I heard without a crackling of whips and pounding and scraping of
horses' feet up the rocky path beyond the courtyard. With joy I hurried to the
window, and saw drive into the yard two great leiter-wagons, each drawn by eight
sturdy horses, and at the head of each pair a Slovak, with his wide hat, great
nail-studded belt, dirty sheepskin, and high boots. They had also their long
staves in hand. I ran to the door, intending to descend and try and join them
through the main hall, as I thought that way might be opened for them. Again a
shock, my door was fastened on the outside.
<P>Then I ran to the window and cried to them. They looked up at me stupidly and
pointed, but just then the "hetman" of the Szgany came out, and seeing them
pointing to my window, said something, at which they laughed.
<P>Henceforth no effort of mine, no piteous cry or agonized entreaty, would make
them even look at me. They resolutely turned away. The leiter-wagons contained
great, square boxes, with handles of thick rope. These were evidently empty by
the ease with which the Slovaks handled them, and by their resonance as they
were roughly moved.
<P>When they were all unloaded and packed in a great heap in one corner of the
yard, the Slovaks were given some money by the Szgany, and spitting on it for
luck, lazily went each to his horse's head. Shortly afterwards, I heard the
crackling of their whips die away in the distance.
<P>24 June.--Last night the Count left me early, and locked himself into his own
room. As soon as I dared I ran up the winding stair, and looked out of the
window, which opened South. I thought I would watch for the Count, for there is
something going on. The Szgany are quartered somewhere in the castle and are
doing work of some kind. I know it, for now and then, I hear a far-away muffled
sound as of mattock and spade, and, whatever it is, it must be the end of some
ruthless villainy.
<P>I had been at the window somewhat less than half an hour, when I saw
something coming out of the Count's window. I drew back and watched carefully,
and saw the whole man emerge. It was a new shock to me to find that he had on
the suit of clothes which I had worn whilst travelling here, and slung over his
shoulder the terrible bag which I had seen the women take away. There could be
no doubt as to his quest, and in my garb, too! This, then, is his new scheme of
evil, that he will allow others to see me, as they think, so that he may both
leave evidence that I have been seen in the towns or villages posting my own
letters, and that any wickedness which he may do shall by the local people be
attributed to me.
<P>It makes me rage to think that this can go on, and whilst I am shut up here,
a veritable prisoner, but without that protection of the law which is even a
criminal's right and consolation.
<P>I thought I would watch for the Count's return, and for a long time sat
doggedly at the window. Then I began to notice that there were some quaint
little specks floating in the rays of the moonlight. They were like the tiniest
grains of dust,and they whirled round and gathered in clusters in a nebulous
sort of way. I watched them with a sense of soothing, and a sort of calm stole
over me. I leaned back in the embrasure in a more comfortable position, so that
I could enjoy more fully the aerial gambolling.
<P>Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs somewhere far
below in the valley, which was hidden from my sight. Louder it seemed to ring in
my ears, and the floating moats of dust to take new shapes to the sound as they
danced in the moonlight. I felt myself struggling to awake to some call of my
instincts. Nay, my very soul was struggling, and my half-remembered
sensibilities were striving to answer the call. I was becoming hypnotised!
<P>Quicker and quicker danced the dust. The moonbeams seemed to quiver as they
went by me into the mass of gloom beyond. More and more they gathered till they
seemed to take dim phantom shapes. And then I started, broad awake and in full
possession of my senses, and ran screaming from the place.
<P>The phantom shapes, which were becoming gradually materialised from the
moonbeams, were those three ghostly women to whom I was doomed.
<P>I fled, and felt somewhat safer in my own room, where there was no moonlight,
and where the lamp was burning brightly.
<P>When a couple of hours had passed I heard something stirring in the Count's
room, something like a sharp wail quickly suppressed. And then there was
silence, deep, awful silence, which chilled me. With a beating heart, I tried
the door, but I was locked in my prison, and could do nothing. I sat down and
simply cried.
<P>As I sat I heard a sound in the courtyard without, the agonised cry of a
woman. I rushed to the window, and throwing it up, peered between the bars.
<P>There, indeed, was a woman with dishevelled hair, holding her hands over her
heart as one distressed with running. She was leaning against the corner of the
gateway. When she saw my face at the window she threw herself forward, and
shouted in a voice laden with menace, "Monster, give me my child!"
<P>She threw herself on her knees,and raising up her hands, cried the same words
in tones which wrung my heart. Then she tore her hair and beat her breast, and
abandoned herself to all the violences of extravagant emotion. Finally, she
threw herself forward, and though I could not see her, I could hear the beating
of her naked hands against the door.
<P>Somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard the voice of the
Count calling in his harsh, metallic whisper. His call seemed to be answered
from far and wide by the howling of wolves. Before many minutes had passed a
pack of them poured, like a pent-up dam when liberated, through the wide
entrance into the courtyard.
<P>There was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the wolves was but short.
Before long they streamed away singly, licking their lips.
<P>I could not pity her, for I knew now what had become of her child, and she
was better dead.
<P>What shall I do? What can I do? How can I escape from this dreadful thing of
night, gloom, and fear?
<P>25 June.--No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet and dear
to his heart and eye the morning can be. When the sun grew so high this morning
that it struck the top of the great gateway opposite my window, the high spot
which it touched seemed to me as if the dove from the ark had lighted there. My
fear fell from me as if it had been a vaporous garment which dissolved in the
warmth.
<P>I must take action of some sort whilst the courage of the day is upon me.
Last night one of my post-dated letters went to post, the first of that fatal
series which is to blot out the very traces of my existence from the earth.
<P>Let me not think of it. Action!
<P>It has always been at night-time that I have been molested or threatened, or
in some way in danger or in fear. I have not yet seen the Count in the daylight.
Can it be that he sleeps when others wake, that he may be awake whilst they
sleep? If I could only get into his room! But there is no possible way. The door
is always locked, no way for me.
<P>Yes, there is a way, if one dares to take it. Where his body has gone why may
not another body go? I have seen him myself crawl from his window. Why should
not I imitate him, and go in by his window? The chances are desperate, but my
need is more desperate still. I shall risk it. At the worst it can only be
death, and a man's death is not a calf's, and the dreaded Hereafter may still be
open to me. God help me in my task! Goodbye, Mina, if I fail. Goodbye, my
faithful friend and second father. Goodbye, all, and last of all Mina!
<P>Same day, later.--I have made the effort, and God helping me, have come
safely back to this room. I must put down every detail in order. I went whilst
my courage was fresh straight to the window on the south side, and at once got
outside on this side. The stones are big and roughly cut, and the mortar has by
process of time been washed away between them. I took off my boots, and ventured
out on the desperate way. I looked down once, so as to make sure that a sudden
glimpse of the awful depth would not overcome me, but after that kept my eyes
away from it. I know pretty well the direction and distance of the Count's
window, and made for it as well as I could, having regard to the opportunities
available. I did not feel dizzy, I suppose I was too excited, and the time
seemed ridiculously short till I found myself standing on the window sill and
trying to raise up the sash. I was filled with agitation, however, when I bent
down and slid feet foremost in through the window. Then I looked around for the
Count, but with surprise and gladness, made a discovery. The room was empty! It
was barely furnished with odd things, which seemed to have never been used.
<P>The furniture was something the same style as that in the south rooms, and
was covered with dust. I looked for the key, but it was not in the lock, and I
could not find it anywhere. The only thing I found was a great heap of gold in
one corner, gold of all kinds, Roman, and British, and Austrian,and
Hungarian,and Greek and Turkish money, covered with a film of dust, as though it
had lain long in the ground. None of it that I noticed was less than three
hundred years old. There were also chains and ornaments, some jewelled, but all
of them old and stained.
<P>At one corner of the room was a heavy door. I tried it, for, since I could
not find the key of the room or the key of the outer door, which was the main
object of my search, I must make further examination, or all my efforts would be
in vain. It was open, and led through a stone passage to a circular stairway,
which went steeply down.
<P>I descended, minding carefully where I went for the stairs were dark, being
only lit by loopholes in the heavy masonry. At the bottom there was a dark,
tunnel-like passage, through which came a deathly, sickly odour, the odour of
old earth newly turned. As I went through the passage the smell grew closer and
heavier. At last I pulled open a heavy door which stood ajar, and found myself
in an old ruined chapel, which had evidently been used as a graveyard. The roof
was broken, and in two places were steps leading to vaults, but the ground had
recently been dug over, and the earth placed in great wooden boxes, manifestly
those which had been brought by the Slovaks.
<P>There was nobody about, and I made a search over every inch of the ground, so
as not to lose a chance. I went down even into the vaults, where the dim light
struggled,although to do so was a dread to my very soul. Into two of these I
went, but saw nothing except fragments of old coffins and piles of dust. In the
third, however, I made a discovery.
<P>There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on a pile
of newly dug earth, lay the Count! He was either dead or asleep. I could not say
which, for eyes were open and stony, but without the glassiness of death,and the
cheeks had the warmth of life through all their pallor. The lips were as red as
ever. But there was no sign of movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the
heart.
<P>I bent over him, and tried to find any sign of life, but in vain. He could
not have lain there long, for the earthy smell would have passed away in a few
hours. By the side of the box was its cover, pierced with holes here and there.
I thought he might have the keys on him, but when I went to search I saw the
dead eyes, and in them dead though they were, such a look of hate, though
unconscious of me or my presence, that I fled from the place, and leaving the
Count's room by the window, crawled again up the castle wall. Regaining my room,
I threw myself panting upon the bed and tried to think.
<P>29 June.--Today is the date of my last letter, and the Count has taken steps
to prove that it was genuine, for again I saw him leave the castle by the same
window, and in my clothes. As he went down the wall, lizard fashion, I wished I
had a gun or some lethal weapon, that I might destroy him. But I fear that no
weapon wrought along by man's hand would have any effect on him. I dared not
wait to see him return, for I feared to see those weird sisters. I came back to
the library, and read there till I fell asleep.
<P>I was awakened by the Count, who looked at me as grimly as a man could look
as he said, "Tomorrow, my friend, we must part. You return to your beautiful
England, I to some work which may have such an end that we may never meet. Your
letter home has been despatched. Tomorrow I shall not be here, but all shall be
ready for your journey. In the morning come the Szgany, who have some labours of
their own here, and also come some Slovaks. When they have gone, my carriage
shall come for you, and shall bear you to the Borgo Pass to meet the diligence
from Bukovina to Bistritz. But I am in hopes that I shall see more of you at
Castle Dracula."
<P>I suspected him, and determined to test his sincerity. Sincerity! It seems
like a profanation of the word to write it in connection with such a monster, so
I asked him point-blank, "Why may I not go tonight?"
<P>"Because, dear sir, my coachman and horses are away on a mission."
<P>"But I would walk with pleasure. I want to get away at once."
<P>He smiled, such a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I knew there was some
trick behind his smoothness. He said, "And your baggage?"
<P>"I do not care about it. I can send for it some other time."
<P>The Count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy which made me rub my
eyes, it seemed so real, "You English have a saying which is close to my heart,
for its spirit is that which rules our boyars, `Welcome the coming, speed the
parting guest.' Come with me, my dear young friend. Not an hour shall you wait
in my house against your will, though sad am I at your going,and that you so
suddenly desire it. Come!" With a stately gravity, he, with the lamp, preceded
me down the stairs and along the hall. Suddenly he stopped. "Hark!"
<P>Close at hand came the howling of many wolves. It was almost as if the sound
sprang up at the rising of his hand, just as the music of a great orchestra
seems to leap under the baton of the conductor. After a pause of a moment, he
proceeded, in his stately way, to the door, drew back the ponderous bolts,
unhooked the heavy chains, and began to draw it open.
<P>To my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked. Suspiciously, I looked
all round, but could see no key of any kind.
<P>As the door began to open, the howling of the wolves without grew louder and
angrier. Their red jaws, with champing teeth, and their blunt-clawed feet as
they leaped, came in through the opening door. I knew than that to struggle at
the moment against the Count was useless. With such allies as these at his
command, I could do nothing.
<P>But still the door continued slowly to open, and only the Count's body stood
in the gap. Suddenly it struck me that this might be the moment and means of my
doom. I was to be given to the wolves, and at my own instigation. There was a
diabolical wickedness in the idea great enough for the Count, and as the last
chance I cried out, "Shut the door! I shall wait till morning." And I covered my
face with my hands to hide my tears of bitter disappointment.
<P>With one sweep of his powerful arm, the Count threw the door shut, and the
great bolts clanged and echoed through the hall as they shot back into their
places.
<P>In silence we returned to the library, and after a minute or two I went to my
own room. The last I saw of Count Dracula was his kissing his hand to me, with a
red light of triumph in his eyes, and with a smile that Judas in hell might be
proud of.
<P>When I was in my room and about to lie down, I thought I heard a whispering
at my door. I went to it softly and listened. Unless my ears deceived me, I
heard the voice of the Count.
<P>"Back! Back to your own place! Your time is not yet come. Wait! Have
patience! Tonight is mine. Tomorrow night is yours!"
<P>There was a low, sweet ripple of laughter, and in a rage I threw open the
door, and saw without the three terrible women licking their lips. As I
appeared, they all joined in a horrible laugh, and ran away.
<P>I came back to my room and threw myself on my knees. It is then so near the
end? Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Lord, help me, and those to whom I am dear!
<P>30 June.--These may be the last words I ever write in this diary. I slept
till just before the dawn, and when I woke threw myself on my knees, for I
determined that if Death came he should find me ready.
<P>At last I felt that subtle change in the air, and knew that the morning had
come. Then came the welcome cockcrow, and I felt that I was safe. With a glad
heart, I opened the door and ran down the hall. I had seen that the door was
unlocked, and now escape was before me. With hands that trembled with eagerness,
I unhooked the chains and threw back the massive bolts.
<P>But the door would not move. Despair seized me. I pulled and pulled at the
door, and shook it till, massive as it was, it rattled in its casement. I could
see the bolt shot. It had been locked after I left the Count.
<P>Then a wild desire took me to obtain the key at any risk,and I determined
then and there to scale the wall again, and gain the Count's room. He might kill
me, but death now seemed the happier choice of evils. Without a pause I rushed
up to the east window, and scrambled down the wall,as before, into the Count's
room. It was empty, but that was as I expected. I could not see a key anywhere,
but the heap of gold remained. I went through the door in the corner and down
the winding stair and along the dark passage to the old chapel. I knew now well
enough where to find the monster I sought.
<P>The great box was in the same place, close against the wall, but the lid was
laid on it, not fastened down, but with the nails ready in their places to be
hammered home.
<P>I knew I must reach the body for the key, so I raised the lid, and laid it
back against the wall. And then I saw something which filled my very soul with
horror. There lay the Count, but looking as if his youth had been half restored.
For the white hair and moustache were changed to dark iron-grey. The cheeks were
fuller, and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath. The mouth was redder than
ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the corners
of the mouth and ran down over the chin and neck. Even the deep, burning eyes
seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath were
bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature were simply gorged with blood.
He lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his repletion.
<P>I shuddered as I bent over to touch him,and every sense in me revolted at the
contact, but I had to search, or I was lost. The coming night might see my own
body a banquet in a similar war to those horrid three. I felt all over the body,
but no sign could I find of the key. Then I stopped and looked at the Count.
There was a mocking smile on the bloated face which seemed to drive me mad. This
was the being I was helping to transfer to London, where, perhaps, for centuries
to come he might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate his lust for blood, and
create a new and ever-widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the helpless.
<P>The very thought drove me mad. A terrible desire came upon me to rid the
world of such a monster. There was no lethal weapon at hand, but I seized a
shovel which the workmen had been using to fill the cases, and lifting it high,
struck, with the edge downward, at the hateful face. But as I did so the head
turned, and the eyes fell upon me, with all their blaze of basilisk horror. The
sight seemed to paralyze me, and the shovel turned in my hand and glanced from
the face, merely making a deep gash above the forehead. The shovel fell from my
hand across the box,and as I pulled it away the flange of the blade caught the
edge of the lid which fell over again, and hid the horrid thing from my sight.
The last glimpse I had was of the bloated face, blood-stained and fixed with a
grin of malice which would have held its own in the nethermost hell.
<P>I thought and thought what should be my next move, but my brain seemed on
fire,and I waited with a despairing feeling growing over me. As I waited I heard
in the distance a gipsy song sung by merry voices coming closer, and through
their song the rolling of heavy wheels and the cracking of whips. The Szgany and
the Slovaks of whom the Count had spoken were coming. With a last look around
and at the box which contained the vile body, I ran from the place and gained
the Count's room, determined to rush out at the moment the door should be
opened. With strained ears, I listened, and heard downstairs the grinding of the
key in the great lock and the falling back of the heavy door. There must have
been some other means of entry, or some one had a key for one of the locked
doors.
<P>Then there came the sound of many feet tramping and dying away in some
passage which sent up a clanging echo. I turned to run down again towards the
vault, where I might find the new entrance, but at the moment there seemed to
come a violent puff of wind, and the door to the winding stair blew to with a
shock that set the dust from the lintels flying. When I ran to push it open, I
found that it was hopelessly fast. I was again a prisoner, and the net of doom
was closing round me more closely.
<P>As I write there is in the passage below a sound of many tramping feet and
the crash of weights being set down heavily, doubtless the boxes, with their
freight of earth. There was a sound of hammering. It is the box being nailed
down. Now I can hear the heavy feet tramping again along the hall, with with
many other idle feet coming behind them.
<P>The door is shut, the chains rattle. There is a grinding of the key in the
lock. I can hear the key withdrawn, then another door opens and shuts. I hear
the creaking of lock and bolt.
<P>Hark! In the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of heavy wheels, the
crack of whips, and the chorus of the Szgany as they pass into the distance.
<P>I am alone in the castle with those horrible women. Faugh! Mina is a woman,
and there is nought in common. They are devils of the Pit!
<P>I shall not remain alone with them. I shall try to scale the castle wall
farther than I have yet attempted. I shall take some of the gold with me, lest I
want it later. I may find a way from this dreadful place.
<P>And then away for home! Away to the quickest and nearest train! Away from the
cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his children still walk
with earthly feet!
<P>At least God's mercy is better than that of those monsters, and the precipice
is steep and high. At its foot a man may sleep, as a man. Goodbye, all. Mina!
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=av>CHAPTER 5. LETTER FROM MISS MINA MURRAY TO MISS LUCY
WESTENRA</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>9 May.
<P>My dearest Lucy,
<P>Forgive my long delay in writing, but I have been simply overwhelmed with
work. The life of an assistant schoolmistress is sometimes trying. I am longing
to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our
castles in the air. I have been working very hard lately, because I want to keep
up with Jonathan's studies, and I have been practicing shorthand very
assiduously. When we are married I shall be able to be useful to Jonathan, and
if I can stenograph well enough I can take down what he wants to say in this way
and write it out for him on the typewriter, at which also I am practicing very
hard.
<P>He and I sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is keeping a
stenographic journal of his travels abroad. When I am with you I shall keep a
diary in the same way. I don't mean one of those
two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner diaries, but a sort of
journal which I can write in whenever I feel inclined.
<P>I do not suppose there will be much of interest to other people, but it is
not intended for them. I may show it to Jonathan some day if there is in it
anything worth sharing, but it is really an exercise book. I shall try to do
what I see lady journalists do, interviewing and writing descriptions and trying
to remember conversations. I am told that, with a little practice, one can
remember all that goes on or that one hears said during a day.
<P>However, we shall see. I will tell you of my little plans when we meet. I
have just had a few hurried lines from Jonathan from Transylvania. He is well,
and will be returning in about a week. I am longing to hear all his news. It
must be nice to see strange countries. I wonder if we, I mean Jonathan and I,
shall ever see them together. There is the ten o'clock bell ringing. Goodbye.
<P>Your loving
<P>Mina
<P>Tell me all the news when you write. You have not told me anything for a long
time. I hear rumours, and especially of a tall, handsome, curly-haired man.???
<P><STRONG>LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY</STRONG>
<P>17, Chatham Street
<P>Wednesday
<P>My dearest Mina,
<P>I must say you tax me very unfairly with being a bad correspondent. I wrote
you twice since we parted, and your last letter was only your second. Besides, I
have nothing to tell you. There is really nothing to interest you.
<P>Town is very pleasant just now, and we go a great deal to picture-galleries
and for walks and rides in the park. As to the tall, curly-haired man, I suppose
it was the one who was with me at the last Pop. Someone has evidently been
telling tales.
<P>That was Mr. Holmwood. He often comes to see us, and he and Mamma get on very
well together, they have so many things to talk about in common.
<P>We met some time ago a man that would just do for you, if you were not
already engaged to Jonathan. He is an excellant parti, being handsome, well off,
and of good birth. He is a doctor and really clever. Just fancy! He is only
nine-and twenty, and he has an immense lunatic asylum all under his own care.
Mr. Holmwood introduced him to me, and he called here to see us, and often comes
now. I think he is one of the most resolute men I ever saw, and yet the most
calm. He seems absolutely imperturbable. I can fancy what a wonderful power he
must have over his patients. He has a curious habit of looking one straight in
the face, as if trying to read one's thoughts. He tries this on very much with
me, but I flatter myself he has got a tough nut to crack. I know that from my
glass.
<P>Do you ever try to read your own face? I do, and I can tell you it is not a
bad study, and gives you more trouble than you can well fancy if you have never
tried it.
<P>He say that I afford him a curious psychological study, and I humbly think I
do. I do not, as you know, take sufficient interest in dress to be able to
describe the new fashions. Dress is a bore. That is slang again, but never mind.
Arthur says that every day.
<P>There, it is all out, Mina, we have told all our secrets to each other since
we were children. We have slept together and eaten together, and laughed and
cried together, and now, though I have spoken, I would like to speak more. Oh,
Mina, couldn't you guess? I love him. I am blushing as I write, for although I
think he loves me, he has not told me so in words. But, oh, Mina, I love him. I
love him! There, that does me good.
<P>I wish I were with you, dear, sitting by the fire undressing, as we used to
sit, and I would try to tell you what I feel. I do not know how I am writing
this even to you. I am afraid to stop, or I should tear up the letter, and I
don't want to stop, for I do so want to tell you all. Let me hear from you at
once, and tell me all that you think about it. Mina, pray for my happiness.
<P>Lucy
<P>P.S.--I need not tell you this is a secret. Goodnight again. L.
<P><STRONG>LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY</STRONG>
<P>24 May
<P>My dearest Mina,
<P>Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter. It was so nice to
be able to tell you and to have your sympathy.
<P>My dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old proverbs are. Here am
I, who shall be twenty in September, and yet I never had a proposal till today,
not a real proposal, and today I had three. Just fancy! Three proposals in one
day! Isn't it awful! I feel sorry, really and truly sorry, for two of the poor
fellows. Oh, Mina, I am so happy that I don't know what to do with myself. And
three proposals! But, for goodness' sake, don't tell any of the girls, or they
would be getting all sorts of extravagant ideas, and imagining themselves
injured and slighted if in their very first day at home they did not get six at
least. Some girls are so vain! You and I, Mina dear, who are engaged and are
going to settle down soon soberly into old married women, can despise vanity.
Well, I must tell you about the three, but you must keep it a secret, dear, from
every one except, of course, Jonathan. You will tell him, because I would, if I
were in your place, certainly tell Arthur. A woman ought to tell her husband
everything. Don't you think so, dear? And I must be fair. Men like women,
certainly their wives, to be quite as fair as they are. And women, I am afraid,
are not always quite as fair as they should be.
<P>Well, my dear, number One came just before lunch. I told you of him, Dr. John
Seward, the lunatic asylum man, with the strong jaw and the good forehead. He
was very cool outwardly, but was nervous all the same. He had evidently been
schooling himself as to all sorts of little things, and remembered them, but he
almost managed to sit down on his silk hat, which men don't generally do when
they are cool, and then when he wanted to appear at ease he kept playing with a
lancet in a way that made me nearly scream. He spoke to me, Mina, very
straightfordwardly. He told me how dear I was to him, though he had known me so
little, and what his life would be with me to help and cheer him. He was going
to tell me how unhappy he would be if I did not care for him, but when he saw me
cry he said he was a brute and would not add to my present trouble. Then he
broke off and asked if I could love him in time, and when I shook my head his
hands trembled, and then with some hesitation he asked me if I cared already for
any one else. He put it very nicely, saying that he did not want to wring my
confidence from me, but only to know, because if a woman's heart was free a man
might have hope. And then, Mina, I felt a sort of duty to tell him that there
was some one. I only told him that much, and then he stood up, and he looked
very strong and very grave as he took both my hands in his and said he hoped I
would be happy, and that If I ever wanted a friend I must count him one of my
best.
<P>Oh, Mina dear, I can't help crying, and you must excuse this letter being all
blotted. Being proposed to is all very nice and all that sort of thing, but it
isn't at all a happy thing when you have to see a poor fellow, whom you know
loves you honestly, going away and looking all broken hearted, and to know that,
no matter what he may say at the moment, you are passing out of his life. My
dear, I must stop here at present, I feel so miserable, though I am so happy.
<P>Evening.
<P>Arthur has just gone, and I feel in better spirits than when I left off, so I
can go on telling you about the day.
<P>Well, my dear, number Two came after lunch. He is such a nice fellow,and
American from Texas, and he looks so young and so fresh that it seems almost
impossible that he has been to so many places and has such adventures. I
sympathize with poor Desdemona when she had such a stream poured in her ear,
even by a black man. I suppose that we women are such cowards that we think a
man will save us from fears, and we marry him. I know now what I would do if I
were a man and wanted to make a girl love me. No, I don't, for there was Mr.
Morris telling us his stories, and Arthur never told any, and yet. . .
<P>My dear, I am somewhat previous. Mr. Quincy P. Morris found me alone. It
seems that a man always does find a girl alone. No, he doesn't, for Arthur tried
twice to make a chance, and I helping him all I could, I am not ashamed to say
it now. I must tell you beforehand that Mr. Morris doesn't always speak slang,
that is to say, he never does so to strangers or before them, for he is really
well educated and has exquisite manners, but he found out that it amused me to
hear him talk American slang,and whenever I was present, and there was no one to
be shocked, he said such funny things. I am afraid, my dear, he has to invent it
all, for it fits exactly into whatever else he has to say. But this is a way
slang has. I do not know myself if I shall ever speak slang. I do not know if
Arthur likes it, as I have never heard him use any as yet.
<P>Well, Mr. Morris sat down beside me and looked as happy and jolly as he
could, but I could see all the same that he was very nervous. He took my hand in
his, and said ever so sweetly. . .
<P>"Miss Lucy, I know I ain't good enough to regulate the fixin's of your little
shoes, but I guess if you wait till you find a man that is you will go join them
seven young women with the lamps when you quit. Won't you just hitch up
alongside of me and let us go down the long road together, driving in double
harness?"
<P>Well, he did look so hood humoured and so jolly that it didn't seem half so
hard to refuse him as it did poor Dr. Seward. So I said, as lightly as I could,
that I did not know anything of hitching, and that I wasn't broken to harness at
all yet. Then he said that he had spoken in a light manner, and he hoped that if
he had made a mistake in doing so on so grave, so momentous, and occasion for
him, I would forgive him. He really did look serious when he was saying it, and
I couldn't help feeling a sort of exultation that he was number Two in one day.
And then, my dear, before I could say a word he began pouring out a perfect
torrent of love-making, laying his very heart and soul at my feet. He looked so
earnest over it that I shall never again think that a man must be playful
always, and never earnest, because he is merry at times. I suppose he saw
something in my face which checked him, for he suddenly stopped,and said with a
sort of manly fervour that I could have loved him for if I had been free. . .
<P>"Lucy, you are an honest hearted girl, I know. I should not be here speaking
to you as I am now if I did not believe you clean grit, right through to the
very depths of your soul. Tell me, like one good fellow to another, is there any
one else that you care for? And if there is I'll never trouble you a hair's
breadth again, but will be, if you will let me, a very faithful friend."
<P>My dear Mina, why are men so noble when we women are so little worthy of
them? Here was I almost making fun of this great hearted, true gentleman. I
burst into tears, I am afraid, my dear, you will think this a very sloppy letter
in more ways than one, and I really felt very badly.
<P>Why can't they let a girl marry three men, or as many as want her, and save
all this trouble? But this is heresy, and I must not say it. I am glad to say
that, though I was crying, I was able to look into Mr. Morris' brave eyes, and I
told him out straight. . .
<P>"Yes, there is some one I love, though he has not told me yet that he even
loves me." I was right to speak to him so frankly, for quite a light came into
his face, and he put out both his hands and took mine, I think I put them into
his, and said in a hearty way. . .
<P>"That's my brave girl. It's better worth being late for a chance of winning
you than being in time for any other girl in the world. Don't cry, my dear. If
it's for me, I'm a hard nut to crack, and I take it standing up. If that other
fellow doesn't know his happiness, well, he'd better look for it soon, or he'll
have to deal with me. Little girl, your honesty and pluck have made me a friend,
and that's rarer than a lover, it's more selfish anyhow. My dear, I'm going to
have a pretty lonely walk between this and Kingdom Come. Won't you give me one
kiss? It'll be something to keep off the darkness now and then. You can, you
know, if you like, for that other good fellow, or you could not love him, hasn't
spoken yet."
<P>That quite won me, Mina, for it was brave and sweet of him, and noble too, to
a rival, wasn't it? And he so sad, so I leant over and kissed him.
<P>He stood up with my two hands in his, and as he looked down into my face, I
am afraid I was blushing very much, he said, "Little girl, I hold your hand, and
you've kissed me, and if these things don't make us friends nothing ever will.
Thank you for your sweet honesty to me, and goodbye."
<P>He wrung my hand, and taking up his hat, went straight out of the room
without looking back, without a tear or a quiver or a pause, and I am crying
like a baby.
<P>Oh, why must a man like that be made unhappy when there are lots of girls
about who would worship the very ground he trod on? I know I would if I were
free, only I don't want to be free My dear, this quite upset me, and I feel I
cannot write of happiness just at once, after telling you of it,and I don't wish
to tell of the number Three until it can be all happy. Ever your loving. . .
<P>Lucy
<P>P.S.--Oh, about number Three, I needn't tell you of number Three, need I?
Besides, it was all so confused. It seemed only a moment from his coming into
the room till both his arms were round me, and he was kissing me. I am very,
very happy, and I don't know what I have done to deserve it. I must only try in
the future to show that I am not ungrateful to God for all His goodness to me in
sending to me such a lover, such a husband, and such a friend.
<P>Goodbye.
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY (Kept in phonograph)</STRONG>
<P>25 May.--Ebb tide in appetite today. Cannot eat, cannot rest, so diary
instead. since my rebuff of yesterday I have a sort of empty feeling. Nothing in
the world seems of sufficient importance to be worth the doing. As I knew that
the only cure for this sort of thing was work, I went amongst the patients. I
picked out one who has afforded me a study of much interest. He is so quaint
that I am determined to understand him as well as I can. Today I seemed to get
nearer than ever before to the heart of his mystery.
<P>I questioned him more fully than I had ever done, with a view to making
myself master of the facts of his hallucination. In my manner of doing it there
was, I now see, something of cruelty. I seemed to wish to keep him to the point
of his madness, a thing which I avoid with the patients as I would the mouth of
hell.
<P>(Mem., Under what circumstances would I not avoid the pit of hell?) Omnia
Romae venalia sunt. Hell has its price! If there be anything behind this
instinct it will be valuable to trace it afterwards accurately, so I had better
commence to do so, therefore. . .
<P>R. M, Renfield, age 59. Sanguine temperament, great physical strength,
morbidly excitable, periods of gloom, ending in some fixed idea which I cannot
make out. I presume that the sanguine temperament itself and the disturbing
influence end in a mentally-accomplished finish, a possibly dangerous man,
probably dangerous if unselfish. In selfish men caution is as secure an armour
for their foes as for themselves. What I think of on this point is, when self is
the fixed point the centripetal force is balanced with the centrifugal. When
duty, a cause, etc., is the fixed point, the latter force is paramount, and only
accident of a series of accidents can balance it.
<P><STRONG>LETTER, QUINCEY P. MORRIS TO HON. ARTHUR HOLMOOD</STRONG>
<P>25 May.
<P>My dear Art,
<P>We've told yarns by the campfire in the prairies, and dressed one another's
wounds after trying a landing at the Marquesas, and drunk healths on the shore
of Titicaca. There are more yarns to be told,and other wounds to be healed, and
another health to be drunk. Won't you let this be at my campfire tomorrow night?
I have no hesitation in asking you, as I know a certain lady is engaged to a
certain dinner party, and that you are free. There will only be one other, our
old pal at the Korea, Jack Seward. He's coming, too, and we both want to mingle
our weeps over the wine cup, and to drink a health with all our hearts to the
happiest man in all the wide world, who has won the noblest heart that God has
made and best worth winning. We promise you a hearty welcome, and a loving
greeting, and a health as true as your own right hand. We shall both swear to
leave you at home if you drink too deep to a certain pair of eyes. Come!
<P>Yours, as ever and always,
<P>Quincey P. Morris
<P><STRONG>TELEGRAM FROM ARTHUR HOLMWOOD TO QUINCEY P. MORRIS</STRONG>
<P>26 May
<P>Count me in every time. I bear messages which will make both your ears
tingle.
<P>Art
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=avi>CHAPTER 6. MINA MURRAY'S
JOURNAL</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>24 July. Whitby.--Lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter and lovlier
than ever, and we drove up to the house at the Crescent in which they have
rooms. This is a lovely place. The little river, the Esk, runs through a deep
valley, which broadens out as it comes near the harbour. A great viaduct runs
across, with high piers, through which the view seems somehow further away than
it really is. The valley is beautifully green, and it is so steep that when you
are on the high land on either side you look right across it, unless you are
near enough to see down. The houses of the old town-- the side away from us, are
all red-roofed, and seem piled up one over the other anyhow, like the pictures
we see of Nuremberg. Right over the town is the ruin of Whitby Abbey, which was
sacked by the Danes, and which is the scene of part of "Marmion," where the girl
was built up in the wall. It is a most noble ruin, of immense size, and full of
beautiful and romantic bits. There is a legend that a white lady is seen in one
of the windows. Between it and the town there is another church, the parish one,
round which is a big graveyard, all full of tombstones. This is to my mind the
nicest spot in Whitby, for it lies right over the town, and has a full view of
the harbour and all up the bay to where the headland called Kettleness stretches
out into the sea. It descends so steeply over the harbour that part of the bank
has fallen away, and some of the graves have been destroyed.
<P>In one place part of the stonework of the graves stretches out over the sandy
pathway far below. There are walks, with seats beside them, through the
churchyard, and people go and sit there all day long looking at the beautiful
view and enjoying the breeze.
<P>I shall come and sit here often myself and work. Indeed, I am writing now,
with my book on my knee, and listening to the talk of three old men who are
sitting beside me. They seem to do nothing all day but sit here and talk.
<P>The harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one long granite wall
stretching out into the sea, with a curve outwards at the end of it, in the
middle of which is a lighthouse. A heavy seawall runs along outside of it. On
the near side, the seawall makes an elbow crooked inversely, and its end too has
a lighthouse. Between the two piers there is a narrow opening into the harbour,
which then suddenly widens.
<P>It is nice at high water, but when the tide is out it shoals away to
nothing,and there is merely the stream of the Esk, running between banks of
sand, with rocks here and there. Outside the harbour on this side there rises
for about half a mile a great reef, the sharp of which runs straight out from
behind the south lighthouse. At the end of it is a buoy with a bell, which
swings in bad weather, and sends in a mournful sound on the wind.
<P>They have a legend here that when a ship is lost bells are heard out at sea.
I must ask the old man about this. He is coming this way. . .
<P>He is a funny old man. He must be awfully old, for his face is gnarled and
twisted like the bark of a tree. He tells me that he is nearly a hundred, and
that he was a sailor in the Greenland fishing fleet when Waterloo was fought. He
is, I am afraid, a very sceptical person, for when I asked him about the bells
at sea and the White Lady at the abbey he said very brusquely,
<P>"I wouldn't fash masel' about them, miss. Them things be all wore out. Mind,
I don't say that they never was, but I do say that they wasn't in my time. They
be all very well for comers and trippers, an' the like, but not for a nice young
lady like you. Them feet-folks from York and Leeds that be always eatin'cured
herrin's and drinkin' tea an' lookin' out to buy cheap jet would creed aught. I
wonder masel' who'd be bothered tellin' lies to them, even the newspapers, which
is full of fool-talk."
<P>I thought he would be a good person to learn interesting things from, so I
asked him if he would mind telling me something about the whale fishing in the
old days. He was just settling himself to begin when the clock struck six,
whereupon he laboured to get up, and said,
<P>"I must gang ageeanwards home now, miss. My grand-daughter doesn't like to be
kept waitin' when the tea is ready, for it takes me time to crammle aboon the
grees, for there be a many of `em, and miss, I lack belly-timber sairly by the
clock."
<P>He hobbled away, and I could see him hurrying, as well as he could, down the
steps. The steps are a great feature on the place. They lead from the town to
the church, there are hundreds of them, I do not know how many, and they wind up
in a delicate curve. The slope is so gentle that a horse could easily walk up
and down them.
<P>I think they must originally have had something to do with the abbey. I shall
go home too. Lucy went out, visiting with her mother, and as they were only duty
calls, I did not go.
<P>1 August.--I came up here an hour ago with Lucy, and we had a most
interesting talk with my old friend and the two others who always come and join
him. He is evidently the Sir Oracle of them,and I should think must have been in
his time a most dictatorial person.
<P>He will not admit anything, and down faces everybody. If he can't out-argue
them he bullies them,and then takes their silence for agreement with his views.
<P>Lucy was looking sweetly pretty in her white lawn frock. She has got a
beautiful colour since she has been here.
<P>I noticed that the old men did not lose any time in coming and sitting near
her when we sat down. She is so sweet with old people, I think they all fell in
love with her on the spot. Even my old man succumbed and did not contradict her,
but gave me double share instead. I got him on the subject of the legends , and
he went off at once into a sort of sermon. I must try to remember it and put it
down.
<P>"It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel, that's what it be and nowt
else. These bans an' wafts an' boh-ghosts an' bar-guests an' bogles an' all
anent them is only fit to set bairns an' dizzy women a'belderin'. They be nowt
but air-blebs. They, an' all grims an' signs an' warnin's, be all invented by
parsons an' illsome berk-bodies an' railway touters to skeer an' scunner
hafflin's, an' to get folks to do somethin' that they don't other incline to. It
makes me ireful to think o' them. Why, it's them that, not content with printin'
lies on paper an' preachin' them ou t of pulpits, does want to be cuttin' them
on the tombstones. Look here all around you in what airt ye will. All them
steans, holdin' up their heads as well as they can out of their pride, is acant,
simply tumblin' down with the weight o' the lies wrote on them, `Here lies the
body' or `Sacred to the memory' wrote on all of them, an' yet in nigh half of
them there bean't no bodies at all, an' the memories of them bean't cared a
pinch of snuff about, much less sacred. Lies all of them, nothin' but lies of
one kind or another! My gog, but it'll be a quare scowderment at the Day of
Judgment when they come tumblin' up in their death-sarks, all jouped together
an' trying' to drag their tombsteans with them to prove how good they was, some
of them trimmlin' an' dithering, with their hands that dozzened an' slippery
from lyin' in the sea that they can't even keep their gurp o' them."
<P>I could see from the old fellow's self-satisfied air and the way in which he
looked round for the approval of his cronies that he was "showing off," so I put
in a word to keep him going.
<P>"Oh, Mr. Swales, you can't be serious. Surely these tombstones are not all
wrong?"
<P>"Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin' where they make out
the people too good, for there be folk that do think a balm-bowl be like the
sea, if only it be their own. The whole thing be only lies. Now look you here.
You come here a stranger, an' you see this kirkgarth."
<P>I nodded, for I thought it better to assent, though I did not quite
understand his dialect. I knew it had something to do with the church.
<P>He went on, "And you consate that all these steans be aboon folk that be
haped here, snod an' snog?" I assented again. "Then that be just where the lie
comes in. Why, there be scores of these laybeds that be toom as old Dun's
`baccabox on Friday night."
<P>He nudged one of his companions, and they all laughed. "And, my gog! How
could they be otherwise? Look at that one, the aftest abaft the bier-bank, read
it!"
<P>I went over and read, "Edward Spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by pirates
off the coast of Andres, April, 1854, age 30." When I came back Mr. Swales went
on,
<P>"Who brought him home, I wonder, to hap him here? Murdered off the coast of
Andres! An' you consated his body lay under! Why, I could name ye a dozen whose
bones lie in the Greenland seas above," he pointed northwards, "or where the
currants may have drifted them. There be the steans around ye. Ye can, with your
young eyes, read the small print of the lies from here. This Braithwaite Lowery,
I knew his father, lost in the Lively off Greenland in `20, or Andrew Woodhouse,
drowned in the same seas in 1777, or John Paxton, drowned off Cape Farewell a
year later, or old John Rawlings, whose grandfather sailed with me, drowned in
the Gulf of Finland in `50. Do ye think that all these men will have to make a
rush to Whitby when the trumpet sounds? I have me antherums aboot it! I tell ye
that when they got here they'd be jommlin' and jostlin' one another that way
that it `ud be like a fight up on the ice in the old days, when we'd be at one
another from daylight to dark, an' tryin' to tie up our cuts by the aurora
borealis." This was evidently local pleasantry, for the old man cackled over it,
and his cronies joined in with gusto.
<P>"But," I said, "surely you are not quite correct, for you start on the
assumption that all the poor people, or their spirits, will have to take their
tombstones with them on the Day of Judgment. Do you think that will be really
necessary?"
<P>"Well, what else be they tombstones for? Answer me that, miss!"
<P>"To please their relatives, I suppose."
<P>"To please their relatives, you suppose!" This he said with intense scorn.
"How will it pleasure their relatives to know that lies is wrote over them, and
that everybody in the place knows that they be lies?"
<P>He pointed to a stone at our feet which had been laid down as a slab, on
which the seat was rested, close to the edge of the cliff. "Read the lies on
that thruff-stone," he said.
<P>The letters were upside down to me from where I sat, but Lucy was more
opposite to them, so she leant over and read, "Sacred to the memory of George
Canon, who died, in the hope of a glorious resurrection, on July 29,1873,
falling from the rocks at Kettleness. This tomb was erected by his sorrowing
mother to her dearly beloved son.`He was the only son of his mother, and she was
a widow.' Really, Mr. Swales, I don't see anything very funny in that!" She
spoke her comment very gravely and somewhat severely.
<P>"Ye don't see aught funny! Ha-ha! But that's because ye don't gawm the
sorrowin'mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was acrewk'd, a regular
lamiter he was, an' he hated her so that he committed suicide in order that she
mightn't get an insurance she put on his life. He blew nigh the top of his head
off with an old musket that they had for scarin' crows with. `twarn't for crows
then, for it brought the clegs and the dowps to him. That's the way he fell off
the rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, I've often heard him say
masel' that he hoped he'd go to hell, for his mother was so pious that she'd be
sure to go to heaven, an' he didn't want to addle where she was. Now isn't that
stean at any rate," he hammered it with his stick as he spoke, "a pack of lies?
And won't it make Gabriel keckle when Geordie comes pantin' ut the grees with
the tompstean balanced on his hump, and asks to be took as evidence!"
<P>I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conversation as she said,
rising up, "Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my favorite seat, and I
cannot leave it, and now I find I must go on sitting over the grave of a
suicide."
<P>"That won't harm ye, my pretty, an' it may make poor Geordie gladsome to have
so trim a lass sittin' on his lap. That won't hurt ye. Why, I've sat here off
an' on for nigh twenty years past, an' it hasn't done me no harm. Don't ye fash
about them as lies under ye, or that doesn' lie there either! It'll be time for
ye to be getting scart when ye see the tombsteans all run away with, and the
place as bare as a stubble-field. There's the clock, and'I must gang. My service
to ye, ladies!" And off he hobbled.
<P>Lucy and I sat awhile, and it was all so beautiful before us that we took
hands as we sat, and she told me all over again about Arthur and their coming
marriage. That made me just a little heart-sick, for I haven't heard from
Jonathan for a whole month.
<P>The same day. I came up here alone, for I am very sad. There was no letter
for me. I hope there cannot be anything the matter with Jonathan. The clock has
just struck nine. I see the lights scattered all over the town, sometimes in
rows where the streets are, and sometimes singly. They run right up the Esk and
die away in the curve of the valley. To my left the view is cut off by a black
line of roof of the old house next to the abbey. The sheep and lambs are
bleating in the fields away behind me, and there is a clatter of donkeys' hoofs
up the paved road below. The band on the pier is playing a harsh waltz in good
time, and further along the quay there is a Salvation Army meeting in a back
street. Neither of the bands hears the other, but up here I hear and see them
both. I wonder where Jonathan is and if he is thinking of me! I wish he were
here.
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>5 June.--The case of Renfield grows more interesting the more I get to
understand the man. He has certain qualities very largely developed,
selfishness, secrecy, and purpose.
<P>I wish I could get at what is the object of the latter. He seems to have some
settled scheme of his own, but what it is I do not know. His redeeming quality
is a love of animals, though, indeed, he has such curious turns in it that I
sometimes imagine he is only abnormally cruel. His pets are of odd sorts.
<P>Just now his hobby is catching flies. He has at present such a quantity that
I have had myself to expostulate. To my astonishment, he did not break out into
a fury, as I expected, but took the matter in simple seriousness. He thought for
a moment, and then said, "May I have three days? I shall clear them away." Of
course, I said that would do. I must watch him.
<P>18 June.--He has turned his mind now to spiders,and has got several very big
fellows in a box. He keeps feeding them his flies, and the number of the latter
is becoming sensibly diminished, although he has used half his food in
attracting more flies from outside to his room.
<P>1 July.--His spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as his flies, and
today I told him that he must get rid of them.
<P>He looked very sad at this, so I said that he must some of them, at all
events. He cheerfully acquiesced in this, and I gave him the same time as before
for reduction.
<P>He disgusted me much while with him, for when a horrid blowfly, bloated with
some carrion food, buzzed into the room, he caught it, held it exultantly for a
few moments between his finger and thumb, and before I knew what he was going to
do, put it in his mouth and ate it.
<P>I scolded him for it, but he argued quietly that it was very good and very
wholesome, that it was life, strong life, and gave life to him. This gave me an
idea, or the rudiment of one. I must watch how he gets rid of his spiders.
<P>He has evidently some deep problem in his mind, for he keeps a little
notebook in which he is always jotting down something. whole pages of it are
filled with masses of figures, generally single numbers added up in batches, and
then the totals added in batches again, as though he were focussing some
account, as the auditors put it.
<P>8 July.--There is a method in his madness,and the rudimentary idea in my mind
is growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and then, oh, unconscious cerebration,
you will have to give the wall to your conscious brother.
<P>I kept away from my friend for a few days, so that I might notice if there
were any change. Things remain as they were except that he has parted with some
of his pets and got a new one.
<P>He has managed to get a sparrow, and has already partially tamed it. His
means of taming is simple, for already the spiders have diminshed. Those that do
remain, however, are well fed, for he still brings in the flies by tempting them
with his food.
<P>19 July--We are progressing. My friend has now a whole colony of sparrows,
and his flies and spiders are almost obliterated. When I came in he ran to me
and said he wanted to ask me a great favour, a very, very great favour. And as
he spoke, he fawned on me like a dog.
<P>I asked him what it was, and he said, with a sort of rapture in his voice and
bearing, "A kitten, a nice, little, sleek playful kitten, that I can play with,
and teach, and feed, and feed, and feed!"
<P>I was not unprepared for this request, for I had noticed how his pets went on
increasing in size and vivacity, but I did not care that his pretty family of
tame sparrows should be wiped out in the same manner as the flies and spiders.
So I said I would see about it, and asked him if he would not rather have a cat
than a kitten.
<P>His eagerness betrayed him as he answered, "Oh, yes, I would like a cat! I
only asked for a kitten lest you should refuse me a cat. No one would refuse me
a kitten, would they?"
<P>I shook my head, and said that at present I feared it would not be possible,
but that I would see about it. His face fell, and I could see a warning of
danger in it, for there was a sudden fierce, sidelong look which meant killing.
The man is an undeveloped homicidal maniac. I shall test him with his present
craving and see how it will work out, then I shall know more.
<P>10 pm.--I have visited him again and found him sitting in a corner brooding.
When I came in he threw himself on his knees before me and implored me to let
him have a cat, that his salvation depended upon it.
<P>I was firm, however, and told him that he could not have it, whereupon he
went without a word, and sat down, gnawing his fingers, in the corner where I
had found him. I shall see him in the morning early.
<P>20 July.--Visited Renfield very early, before attendant went his rounds.
Found him up and humming a tune. He was spreading out his sugar, which he had
saved, in the window, and was manifestly beginning his fly catching again, and
beginning it cheerfully and with a good grace.
<P>I looked around for his birds,and not seeing them,asked him where they were.
He replied, without turning round, that they had all flown away. There were a
few feathers about the room and on his pillow a drop of blood. I said nothing,
but went and told the keeper to report to me if there were anything odd about
him during the day.
<P>11 am.--The attendant has just been to see me to say that Renfield has been
very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of feathers. "My belief is, doctor," he
said, "that he has eaten his birds, and that he just took and ate them raw!"
<P>11 pm.--I gave Renfield a strong opiate tonight, enough to make even him
sleep, and took away his pocketbook to look at it. The thought that has been
buzzing about my brain lately is complete, and the theory proved.
<P>My homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. I shall have to invent a new
classification for him, and call him a zoophagous (life-eating) maniac. What he
desires is to absorb as many lives as he can, and he has laid himself out to
achieve it in a cumulative way. He gave many flies to one spider and many
spiders to one bird, and then wanted a cat to eat the many birds. What would
have been his later steps?
<P>It would almost be worth while to complete the experiment. It might be done
if there were only a sufficient cause. Men sneered at vivisection, and yet look
at its results today! Why not advance science in its most difficult and vital
aspect, the knowledge of the brain?
<P>Had I even the secret of one such mind, did I hold the key to the fancy of
even one lunatic, I might advance my own branch of science to a pitch compared
with which Burdon-Sanderson's physiology or Ferrier's brain knowledge would be
as nothing. If only there were a sufficient cause! I must not think too much of
this, or I may be tempted. A good cause might turn the scale with me, for may
not I too be of an exceptional brain, congenitally?
<P>How well the man reasoned. Lunatics always do within their own scope. I
wonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at only one. He has closed the
account most accurately, and today begun a new record. How many of us begin a
new record with each day of our lives?
<P>To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new hope, and
that truly I began a new record. So it shall be until the Great Recorder sums me
up and closes my ledger account with a balance to profit or loss.
<P>Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be angry with my friend
whose happiness is yours, but I must only wait on hopeless and work. Work! Work!
<P>If I could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there, a good,
unselfish cause to make me work, that would be indeed happiness.
<P><STRONG>MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>26 July.--I am anxious,and it soothes me to express myself here. It is like
whispering to one's self and listening at the same time. And there is also
something about the shorthand symbols that makes it different from writing. I am
unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan. I had not heard from Jonathan for some
time, and was very concerned, but yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so
kind, sent me a letter from him. I had written asking him if he had heard, and
he said the enclosed had just been received. It is only a line dated from Castle
Dracula, and says that he is just starting for home. That is not like Jonathan.
I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy.
<P>Then, too, Lucy , although she is so well, has lately taken to her old habit
of walking in her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it, and we have
decided that I am to lock the door of our room every night.
<P>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.
<P>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.
<P>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.
<P>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.
<P>She wants to take him up in 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.
<P>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.
<P>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 awakened 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 the anemic look which she had. I pray it will all last.
<P>3 August.--Another week gone by, 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.
<P>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.
<P>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.
<P>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.
<P>Today is a gray day,and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds, high
over Kettleness. Everything is gray except the green grass, which seems like
emerald amongst it, gray earthy rock, gray clouds, tinged with the sunburst at
the far edge, hang over the gray sea, into which the sandpoints stretch like
gray figures. 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 gray
mist. All vastness, the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and there is a
`brool' over the sea that sounds like some passage 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.
<P>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."
<P>I could see he was not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine
and asked him to speak fully.
<P>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, and 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 goodbye, and
hobbled off. It all touched me, and upset me very much.
<P>I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spyglass under his arm.
He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time kept looking at
a strange ship.
<P>"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 tomorrow."
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=avii>CHAPTER 7. CUTTING FROM "THE DAILYGRAPH," 8
AUGUST</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P><STRONG>(PASTED IN MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL)</STRONG>
<P>From a correspondent.
<P>Whitby.
<P>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 neighborhood 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 the 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 northwest. The wind was then blowing from the south-west in the mild
degree which in barometrical language is ranked `No. 2, light breeze.'
<P>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 was 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.
<P>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.
<P>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 the 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.
<P>"As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean."
<P>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 dischord 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.
<P>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
over-topping 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.
<P>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 pier from the mass
of onlookers, or else the fatalities of the night would have 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 at the wreaths of sea-mist swept
by.
<P>At times the mist cleared, and the sea for some distance could be seen in the
glare of the lightning, which came thick and fast, followed by such peals of
thunder that the whole sky overhead seemed trembling under the shock of the
footsteps of the storm.
<P>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 seabird. 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 the pauses of onrushing mist swept with it the
surface of the sea. Once or twice its service was most effective, as when a
fishing boat, with gunwale under water, rushed into the harbour, able, by the
guidance of the sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against the
piers. As each boat achieved the safety of the port there was a shout of joy
from the mass of people on the shore,a shout which for a moment seemed to cleave
the gale and was then swept away in its rush.
<P>Before long the searchlight discovered some distance away a schooner with all
sails set, apparently the same vessel which had been noticed earlier in the
evening. The wind had by this time backed to the east, and there was a shudder
amongst the watchers on the cliff as they realized the terrible danger in which
she now was.
<P>Between her and the port lay the great flat reef on which so many good ships
have from time to time suffered, and, with the wind blowing from its present
quarter, it would be quite impossible that she should fetch the entrance of the
harbour.
<P>It was now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves were so great that in
their troughs the shallows of the shore were almost visible, and the schooner,
with all sails set, was rushing with such speed that, in the words of one old
salt, "she must fetch up somewhere, if it was only in hell". Then came another
rush of sea-fog, greater than any hitherto, a mass of dank mist, which seemed to
close on all things like a gray pall, and left available to men only the organ
of hearing, for the roar of the tempest, and the crash of the thunder, and the
booming of the mighty billows came through the damp oblivion even louder than
before. The rays of the searchlight were kept fixed on the harbour mouth across
the East Pier, where the shock was expected, and men waited breathless.
<P>The wind suddenly shifted to the northeast, and the remnant of the sea fog
melted in the blast. And then, mirabile dictu, between the piers, leaping from
wave to wave as it rushed at headlong speed, swept the strange schooner before
the blast, with all sail set, and gained the safety of the harbour. The
searchlight followed her, and a shudder ran through all who saw her, for lashed
to the helm was a corpse, with drooping head, which swung horribly to and fro at
each motion of the ship. No other form could be seen on the deck at all.
<P>A great awe came on all as they realised that the ship, as if by a miracle,
had found the harbour, unsteered save by the hand of a dead man! However, all
took place more quickly than it takes to write these words. The schooner paused
not, but rushing across the harbour, pitched herself on that accumulation of
sand and gravel washed by many tides and many storms into the southeast corner
of the pier jutting under the East Cliff, known locally as Tate Hill Pier.
<P>There was of course a considerable concussion as the vessel drove up on the
sand heap. Every spar, rope, and stay was strained,and some of the `top-hammer'
came crashing down. But, strangest of all, the very instant the shore was
touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck from below,as if shot up by the
concussion, and running forward, jumped from the bow on the sand.
<P>Making straight for the steep cliff, where the churchyard hangs over the
laneway to the East Pier so steeply that some of the flat tombstones,
thruffsteans or through-stones, as they call them in Whitby vernacular, actually
project over where the sustaining cliff has fallen away, it disappeared in the
darkness, which seemed intensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight.
<P>It so happened that there was no one at the moment on Tate Hill Pier, as all
those whose houses are in close proximity were either in bed or were out on the
heights above. Thus the coastguard on duty on the eastern side of the harbour,
who at once ran down to the little pier, was the first to climb aboard. The men
working the searchlight, after scouring the entrance of the harbour without
seeing anything, then turned the light on the derelict and kept it there. The
coastguard ran aft, and when he came beside the wheel, bent over to examine
it,and recoiled at once as though under some sudden emotion. This seemed to
pique general curiosity, and quite a number of people began to run.
<P>It is a good way round from the West Cliff by the Draw-bridge to Tate Hill
Pier, but your correspondent is a fairly good runner, and came well ahead of the
crowd. When I arrived, however, I found already assembled on the pier a crowd,
whom the coastguard and police refused to allow to come on board. By the
courtesy of the chief boatman, I was, as your correspondent, permitted to climb
on deck, and was one of a small group who saw the dead seaman whilst actually
lashed to the wheel.
<P>It was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, or even awed, for not
often can such a sight have been seen. The man was simply fastened by his hands,
tied one over the other, to a spoke of the wheel. Between the inner hand and the
wood was a crucifix, the set of beads on which it was fastened being around both
wrists and wheel, and all kept fast by the binding cords. The poor fellow may
have been seated at one time, but the flapping and buffeting of the sails had
worked through the rudder of the wheel and had dragged him to and fro, so that
the cords with which he was tied had cut the flesh to the bone.
<P>Accurate note was made of the state of things, and a doctor, Surgeon J. M.
Caffyn, of 33, East Elliot Place, who came immediately after me, declared, after
making examination, that the man must have been dead for quite two days.
<P>In his pocket was a bottle, carefully corked, empty save for a little roll of
paper, which proved to be the addendum to the log.
<P>The coastguard said the man must have tied up his own hands, fastening the
knots with his teeth. The fact that a coastguard was the first on board may save
some complications later on, in the Admiralty Court, for coastguards cannot
claim the salvage which is the right of the first civilian entering on a
derelict. Already, however, the legal tongues are wagging, and one young law
student is loudly asserting that the rights of the owner are already completely
sacrificed, his property being held in contravention of the statues of mortmain,
since the tiller, as emblemship, if not proof, of delegated possession, is held
in a dead hand.
<P>It is needless to say that the dead steersman has been reverently removed
from the place where he held his honourable watch and ward till death, a
steadfastness as noble as that of the young Casabianca, and placed in the
mortuary to await inquest.
<P>Already the sudden storm is passing,and its fierceness is abating. Crowds are
scattering backward, and the sky is beginning to redden over the Yorkshire
wolds.
<P>I shall send, in time for your next issue, further details of the derelict
ship which found her way so miraculously into harbour in the storm.
<P>9 August.--The sequel to the strange arrival of the derelict in the storm
last night is almost more startling than the thing itself. It turns out that the
schooner is Russian from Varna, and is called the Demeter. She is almost
entirely in ballast of silver sand, with only a small amount of cargo, a number
of great wooden boxes filled with mould.
<P>This cargo was consigned to a Whitby solicitor, Mr. S.F. Billington, of 7,
The Crescent, who this morning went aboard and took formal possession of the
goods consigned to him.
<P>The Russian consul, too, acting for the charter-party, took formal possession
of the ship, and paid all harbour dues, etc.
<P>Nothing is talked about here today except the strange coincidence. The
officials of the Board of Trade have been most exacting in seeing that every
compliance has been made with existing regulations. As the matter is to be a
`nine days wonder', they are evidently determined that there shall be no cause
of other complaint.
<P>A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog which landed when the
ship struck, and more than a few of the members of the S.P.C.A., which is very
strong in Whitby, have tried to befriend the animal. To the general
disappointment, however, it was not to be found. It seems to have disappeared
entirely from the town. It may be that it was frightened and made its way on to
the moors, where it is still hiding in terror.
<P>There are some who look with dread on such a possibility, lest later on it
should in itself become a danger, for it is evidently a fierce brute. Early this
morning a large dog, a half-bred mastiff belonging to a coal merchant close to
Tate Hill Pier, was found dead in the roadway opposite its master's yard. It had
been fighting, and manifestly had had a savage opponent, for its throat was torn
away, and its belly was slit open as if with a savage claw.
<P>Later.--By the kindness of the Board of Trade inspector, I have been
permitted to look over the log book of the Demeter, which was in order up to
within three days, but contained nothing of special interest except as to facts
of missing men. The greatest interest, however, is with regard to the paper
found in the bottle, which was today produced at the inquest. And a more strange
narrative than the two between them unfold it has not been my lot to come
across.
<P>As there is no motive for concealment, I am permitted to use them, and
accordingly send you a transcript, simply omitting technical details of
seamanship and supercargo. It almost seems as though the captain had been seized
with some kind of mania before he had got well into blue water, and that this
had developed persistently throughout the voyage. Of course my statement must be
taken cum grano, since I am writing from the dictation of a clerk of the Russian
consul, who kindly translated for me, time being short.
<P>LOG OF THE "DEMETER" Varna to Whitby
<P>Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I shall keep accurate note
henceforth till we land.
<P>On 6 July we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and boxes of earth. At
noon set sail. East wind, fresh. Crew, five hands. . .two mates, cook, and
myself, (captain).
<P>On 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus. Boarded by Turkish Customs officers.
Backsheesh. All correct. Under way at 4 p. m.
<P>On 12 July through Dardanelles. More Customs officers and flagboat of
guarding squadron. Backsheesh again. Work of officers thorough, but quick. Want
us off soon. At dark passed into Archipelago.
<P>On 13 July passed Cape Matapan. Crew dissatisfied about something. Seemed
scared, but would not speak out.
<P>On 14 July was somewhat anxious about crew. Men all steady fellows, who
sailed with me before. Mate could not make out what was wrong. They only told
him there was SOMETHING, and crossed themselves. Mate lost temper with one of
them that day and struck him. Expected fierce quarrel, but all was quiet.
<P>On 16 July mate reported in the morning that one of the crew, Petrofsky, was
missing. Could not account for it. Took larboard watch eight bells last night,
was relieved by Amramoff, but did not go to bunk. Men more downcast than ever.
All said they expected something of the kind, but would not say more than there
was SOMETHING aboard. Mate getting very impatient with them. Feared some trouble
ahead.
<P>On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came to my cabin, and in an
awestruck way confided to me that he thought there was a strange man aboard the
ship. He said that in his watch he had been sheltering behind the deckhouse, as
there was a rain storm, when he saw a tall, thin man, who was not like any of
the crew, come up the companionway, and go along the deck forward and disappear.
He followed cautiously, but when he got to bows found no one, and the hatchways
were all closed. He was in a panic of superstitious fear, and I am afraid the
panic may spread. To allay it, I shall today search the entire ship carefully
from stem to stern.
<P>Later in the day I got together the whole crew, and told them, as they
evidently thought there was some one in the ship, we would search from stem to
stern. First mate angry, said it was folly, and to yield to such foolish ideas
would demoralise the men, said he would engage to keep them out of trouble with
the handspike. I let him take the helm, while the rest began a thorough search,
all keeping abreast, with lanterns. We left no corner unsearched. As there were
only the big wooden boxes, there were no odd corners where a man could hide. Men
much relieved when search over, and went back to work cheerfully. First mate
scowled, but said nothing.
<P>22 July.--Rough weather last three days, and all hands busy with sails, no
time to be frightened. Men seem to have forgotten their dread. Mate cheerful
again, and all on good terms. Praised men for work in bad weather. Passed
Gibraltar and out through Straits. All well.
<P>24 July.--There seems some doom over this ship. Already a hand short, and
entering the Bay of Biscay with wild weather ahead, and yet last night another
man lost, disappeared. Like the first, he came off his watch and was not seen
again. Men all in a panic of fear, sent a round robin, asking to have double
watch, as they fear to be alone. Mate angry. Fear there will be some trouble, as
either he or the men will do some violence.
<P>28 July.--Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of malestrom, and the
wind a tempest. No sleep for any one. Men all worn out. Hardly know how to set a
watch, since no one fit to go on. Second mate volunteered to steer and watch,
and let men snatch a few hours sleep. Wind abating, seas still terrific, but
feel them less, as ship is steadier.
<P>29 July.--Another tragedy. Had single watch tonight, as crew too tired to
double. When morning watch came on deck could find no one except steersman.
Raised outcry, and all came on deck. Thorough search, but no one found. Are now
without second mate, and crew in a panic. Mate and I agreed to go armed
henceforth and wait for any sign of cause.
<P>30 July.--Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England. Weather fine, all
sails set. Retired worn out, slept soundly, awakened by mate telling me that
both man of watch and steersman missing. Only self and mate and two hands left
to work ship.
<P>1 August.--Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. Had hoped when in the
English Channel to be able to signal for help or get in somewhere. Not having
power to work sails, have to run before wind. Dare not lower, as could not raise
them again. We seem to be drifting to some terrible doom. Mate now more
demoralised than either of men. His stronger nature seems to have worked
inwardly against himself. Men are beyond fear, working stolidly and patiently,
with minds made up to worst. They are Russian, he Roumanian.
<P>2 August, midnight.--Woke up from few minutes sleep by hearing a cry,
seemingly outside my port. Could see nothing in fog. Rushed on deck, and ran
against mate. Tells me he heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on watch. One
more gone. Lord, help us! Mate says we must be past Straits of Dover, as in a
moment of fog lifting he saw North Foreland, just as he heard the man cry out.
If so we are now off in the North Sea, and only God can guide us in the fog,
which seems to move with us, and God seems to have deserted us.
<P>3 August.--At midnight I went to relieve the man at the wheel and when I got
to it found no one there. The wind was steady, and as we ran before it there was
no yawing. I dared not leave it, so shouted for the mate. After a few seconds,
he rushed up on deck in his flannels. He looked wild-eyed and haggard, and I
greatly fear his reason has given way. He came close to me and whispered
hoarsely, with his mouth to my ear, as though fearing the very air might hear.
"It is here. I know it now. On the watch last night I saw It, like a man, tall
and thin, and ghastly pale. It was in the bows, and looking out. I crept behind
It, and gave it my knife, but the knife went through It, empty as the air." And
as he spoke he took the knife and drove it savagely into space. Then he went on,
"But It is here, and I'll find It. It is in the hold, perhaps in one of those
boxes. I'll unscrew them one by one and see. You work the helm." And with a
warning look and his finger on his lip, he went below. There was springing up a
choppy wind, and I could not leave the helm. I saw him come out on deck again
with a tool chest and lantern, and go down the forward hatchway. He is mad,
stark, raving mad, and it's no use my trying to stop him. He can't hurt those
big boxes, they are invoiced as clay, and to pull them about is as harmless a
thing as he can do. So here I stay and mind the helm, and write these notes. I
can only trust in God and wait till the fog clears. Then, if I can't steer to
any harbour with the wind that is, I shall cut down sails, and lie by, and
signal for help. . .
<P>It is nearly all over now. Just as I was beginning to hope that the mate
would come out calmer, for I heard him knocking away at something in the hold,
and work is good for him, there came up the hatchway a sudden, startled scream,
which made my blood run cold, and up on the deck he came as if shot from a gun,
a raging madman, with his eyes rolling and his face convulsed with fear. "Save
me! Save me!" he cried, and then looked round on the blanket of fog. His horror
turned to despair, and in a steady voice he said, "You had better come too,
captain, before it is too late. He is there! I know the secret now. The sea will
save me from Him, and it is all that is left!" Before I could say a word, or
move forward to seize him, he sprang on the bulwark and deliberately threw
himself into the sea. I suppose I know the secret too, now. It was this madman
who had got rid of the men one by one, and now he has followed them himself. God
help me! How am I to account for all these horrors when I get to port? When I
get to port! Will that ever be?
<P>4 August.--Still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce, I know there is
sunrise because I am a sailor, why else I know not. I dared not go below, I
dared not leave the helm, so here all night I stayed, and in the dimness of the
night I saw it, Him! God, forgive me, but the mate was right to jump overboard.
It was better to die like a man. To die like a sailor in blue water, no man can
object. But I am captain, and I must not leave my ship. But I shall baffle this
fiend or monster, for I shall tie my hands to the wheel when my strength begins
to fail, and along with them I shall tie that which He, It, dare not touch. And
then, come good wind or foul, I shall save my soul, and my honour as a captain.
I am growing weaker, and the night is coming on. If He can look me in the face
again, I may not have time to act. . . If we are wrecked, mayhap this bottle may
be found, and those who find it may understand. If not. . .well, then all men
shall know that I have been true to my trust. God and the Blessed Virgin and the
Saints help a poor ignorant soul trying to do his duty. . .
<P>Of course the verdict was an open one. There is no evidence to adduce, and
whether or not the man himself committed the murders there is now none to say.
The folk here hold almost universally that the captain is simply a hero, and he
is to be given a public funeral. Already it is arranged that his body is to be
taken with a train of boats up the Esk for a piece and then brought back to Tate
Hill Pier and up the abbey steps, for he is to be buried in the churchyard on
the cliff. The owners of more than a hundred boats have already given in their
names as wishing to follow him to the grave.
<P>No trace has ever been found of the great dog, at which there is much
mourning, for, with public opinion in its present state, he would, I believe, be
adopted by the town. Tomorrow will see the funeral, and so will end this one
more `mystery of the sea'.
<P><STRONG>MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>8 August.--Lucy was very restless all night, and I too, could not sleep. The
storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among the chimney pots, it made me
shudder. When a sharp puff came it seemed to be like a distant gun. Strangely
enough, Lucy did not wake, but she got up twice and dressed herself.
Fortunately, each time I awoke in time and managed to undress her without waking
her, and got her back to bed. It is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking,
for as soon as her will is thwarted in any physical way, her intention, if there
be any, disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine of her
life.
<P>Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the harbour to see if
anything had happened in the night. There were very few people about, and though
the sun was bright, and the air clear and fresh, the big, grim-looking waves,
that seemed dark themselves because the foam that topped them was like snow,
forced themselves in through the mouth of the harbour, like a bullying man going
through a crowd. Somehow I felt glad that Jonathan was not on the sea last
night, but on land. But, oh, is he on land or sea? Where is he, and how? I am
getting fearfully anxious about him. If I only knew what to do, and could do
anything!
<P>10 August.--The funeral of the poor sea captain today was most touching.
Every boat in the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffin was carried by
captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to the churchyard. Lucy came with
me, and we went early to our old seat, whilst the cortege of boats went up the
river to the Viaduct and came down again. We had a lovely view, and saw the
procession nearly all the way. The poor fellow was laid to rest near our seat so
that we stood on it, when the time came and saw everything.
<P>Poor Lucy seemed much upset. She was restless and uneasy all the time, and I
cannot but think that her dreaming at night is telling on her. She is quite odd
in one thing. She will not admit to me that there is any cause for restlessness,
or if there be, she does not understand it herself.
<P>There is an additional cause in that poor Mr. Swales was found dead this
morning on our seat, his neck being broken. He had evidently, as the doctor
said, fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, for there was a look of
fear and horror on his face that the men said made them shudder. Poor dear old
man!
<P>Lucy is so sweet and sensitive that she feels influences more acutely than
other people do. Just now she was quite upset by a little thing which I did not
much heed, though I am myself very fond of animals.
<P>One of the men who came up here often to look for the boats was followed by
his dog. The dog is always with him. They are both quiet persons, and I never
saw the man angry, nor heard the dog bark. During the service the dog would not
come to its master, who was on the seat with us, but kept a few yards off,
barking and howling. Its master spoke to it gently, and then harshly, and then
angrily. But it would neither come nor cease to make a noise. It was in a fury,
with its eyes savage, and all its hair bristling out like a cat's tail when puss
is on the war path.
<P>Finally the man too got angry, and jumped down and kicked the dog, and then
took it by the scruff of the neck and half dragged and half threw it on the
tombstone on which the seat is fixed. The moment it touched the stone the poor
thing began to tremble. It did not try to get away, but crouched down, quivering
and cowering, and was in such a pitiable state of terror that I tried, though
without effect, to comfort it.
<P>Lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt to touch the dog, but
looked at it in an agonised sort of way. I greatly fear that she is of too super
sensitive a nature to go through the world without trouble. She will be dreaming
of this tonight, I am sure. The whole agglomeration of things, the ship steered
into port by a dead man, his attitude, tied to the wheel with a crucifix and
beads, the touching funeral, the dog, now furious and now in terror, will all
afford material for her dreams.
<P>I think it will be best for her to go to bed tired out physically, so I shall
take her for a long walk by the cliffs to Robin Hood's Bay and back. She ought
not to have much inclination for sleep-walking then.
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=aviii>CHAPTER 8. MINA MURRAY'S
JOURNAL</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>Same day, 11 o'clock P.M.--Oh, but I am tired! If it were not that I had made
my diary a duty I should not open it tonight. We had a lovely walk. Lucy, after
a while, was in gay spirits, owing, I think, to some dear cows who came nosing
towards us in a field close to the lighthouse, and frightened the wits out of
us. I believe we forgot everything, except of course, personal fear, and it
seemed to wipe the slate clean and give us a fresh start. We had a capital
`severe tea' at Robin Hood's Bay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a bow
window right over the seaweed-covered rocks of the strand. I believe we should
have shocked the `New Woman' with our appetites. Men are more tolerant, bless
them! Then we walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages to rest, and with
our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls.
<P>Lucy was really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as soon as we
could. The young curate came in, however, and Mrs. Westenra asked him to stay
for supper. Lucy and I had both a fight for it with the dusty miller. I know it
was a hard fight on my part, and I am quite heroic. I think that some day the
bishops must get together and see about breeding up a new class of curates, who
don't take supper, no matter how hard they may be pressed to, and who will know
when girls are tired.
<P>Lucy is asleep and breathing softly. She has more color in her cheeks than
usual, and looks, oh so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in love with her seeing her
only in the drawing room, I wonder what he would say if he saw her now. Some of
the `New Women' writers will some day start an idea that men and women should be
allowed to see each other asleep before proposing or accepting. But I suppose
the `New Woman' won't condescend in future to accept. She will do the proposing
herself. And a nice job she will make of it too! There's some consolation in
that. I am so happy tonight, because dear Lucy seems better. I really believe
she has turned the corner, and that we are over her troubles with dreaming. I
should be quite happy if I only knew if Jonathan. . .God bless and keep him.
<P>11 August.--Diary again. No sleep now, so I may as well write. I am too
agitated to sleep. We have had such an adventure, such an agonizing experience.
I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my diary. . . Suddenly I became broad
awake, and sat up, with a horrible sense of fear upon me, and of some feeling of
emptiness around me. The room was dark, so I could not see Lucy's bed. I stole
across and felt for her. The bed was empty. I lit a match and found that she was
not in the room. The door was shut, but not locked, as I had left it. I feared
to wake her mother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw on some
clothes and got ready to look for her. As I was leaving the room it struck me
that the clothes she wore might give me some clue to her dreaming intention.
Dressing-gown would mean house, dress outside. Dressing-gown and dress were both
in their places. "Thank God," I said to myself, "she cannot be far, as she is
only in her nightdress."
<P>I ran downstairs and looked in the sitting room. Not there! Then I looked in
all the other rooms of the house, with an ever-growing fear chilling my heart.
Finally, I came to the hall door and found it open. It was not wide open, but
the catch of the lock had not caught. The people of the house are careful to
lock the door every night, so I feared that Lucy must have gone out as she was.
There was no time to think of what might happen. A vague over-mastering fear
obscured all details.
<P>I took a big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was striking one as I was in
the Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I ran along the North Terrace,
but could see no sign of the white figure which I expected. At the edge of the
West Cliff above the pier I looked across the harbour to the East Cliff, in the
hope or fear, I don't know which, of seeing Lucy in our favorite seat.
<P>There was a bright full moon, with heavy black, driving clouds, which threw
the whole scene into a fleeting diorama of light and shade as they sailed
across. For a moment or two I could see nothing, as the shadow of a cloud
obscured St. Mary's Church and all around it. Then as the cloud passed I could
see the ruins of the abbey coming into view, and as the edge of a narrow band of
light as sharp as a sword-cut moved along, the church and churchyard became
gradually visible. Whatever my expectation was, it was not disappointed, for
there, on our favorite seat, the silver light of the moon struck a
half-reclining figure, snowy white. The coming of the cloud was too quick for me
to see much, for shadow shut down on light almost immediately, but it seemed to
me as though something dark stood behind the seat where the white figure shone,
and bent over it. What it was, whether man or beast, I could not tell.
<P>I did not wait to catch another glance, but flew down the steep steps to the
pier and along by the fish-market to the bridge, which was the only way to reach
the East Cliff. The town seemed as dead, for not a soul did I see. I rejoiced
that it was so, for I wanted no witness of poor Lucy's condition. The time and
distance seemed endless, and my knees trembled and my breath came laboured as I
toiled up the endless steps to the abbey. I must have gone fast, and yet it
seemed to me as if my feet were weighted with lead, and as though every joint in
my body were rusty.
<P>When I got almost to the top I could see the seat and the white figure, for I
was now close enough to distinguish it even through the spells of shadow. There
was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over the half-reclining white
figure. I called in fright, "Lucy! Lucy!" and something raised a head, and from
where I was I could see a white face and red, gleaming eyes.
<P>Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to the entrance of the churchyard. As I
entered, the church was between me and the seat, and for a minute or so I lost
sight of her. When I came in view again the cloud had passed, and the moonlight
struck so brilliantly that I could see Lucy half reclining with her head lying
over the back of the seat. She was quite alone, and there was not a sign of any
living thing about.
<P>When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her lips were
parted, and she was breathing, not softly as usual with her, but in long, heavy
gasps, as though striving to get her lungs full at every breath. As I came
close, she put up her hand in her sleep and pulled the collar of her nightdress
close around her, as though she felt the cold. I flung the warm shawl over her,
and drew the edges tight around her neck, for I dreaded lest she should get some
deadly chill from the night air, unclad as she was. I feared to wake her all at
once, so, in order to have my hands free to help her, I fastened the shawl at
her throat with a big safety pin. But I must have been clumsy in my anxiety and
pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her breathing became
quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and moaned. When I had her
carefully wrapped up I put my shoes on her feet, and then began very gently to
wake her.
<P>At first she did not respond, but gradually she became more and more uneasy
in her sleep, moaning and sighing occasionally. At last, as time was passing
fast, and for many other reasons, I wished to get her home at once, I shook her
forcibly, till finally she opened her eyes and awoke. She did not seem surprised
to see me, as, of course, she did not realize all at once where she was.
<P>Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her body must have
been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled at waking unclad in a
churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace. She trembled a little, and
clung to me. When I told her to come at once with me home, she rose without a
word, with the obedience of a child. As we passed along, the gravel hurt my
feet, and Lucy noticed me wince. She stopped and wanted to insist upon my taking
my shoes, but I would not. However, when we got to the pathway outside the
chruchyard, where there was a puddle of water, remaining from the storm, I
daubed my feet with mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we
went home, no one, in case we should meet any one, should notice my bare feet.
<P>Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul. Once we saw a
man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a street in front of us. But we
hid in a door till he had disappeared up an opening such as there are here,
steep little closes, or `wynds', as they call them in Scotland. My heart beat so
loud all the time sometimes I thought I should faint. I was filled with anxiety
about Lucy, not only for her health, lest she should suffer from the exposure,
but for her reputation in case the story should get wind. When we got in, and
had washed our feet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, I tucked
her into bed. Before falling asleep she asked, even implored, me not to say a
word to any one, even her mother, about her sleep-walking adventure.
<P>I hesitated at first, to promise, but on thinking of the state of her
mother's health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her, and think
too, of how such a story might become distorted, nay, infallibly would, in case
it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do so. I hope I did right. I have
locked the door, and the key is tied to my wrist, so perhaps I shall not be
again disturbed. Lucy is sleeping soundly. The reflex of the dawn is high and
far over the sea. . .
<P>Same day, noon.--All goes well. Lucy slept till I woke her and seemed not to
have even changed her side. The adventure of the night does not seem to have
harmed her, on the contrary, it has benefited her, for she looks better this
morning than she has done for weeks. I was sorry to notice that my clumsiness
with the safety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it might have been serious, for the skin
of her throat was pierced. I must have pinched up a piece of loose skin and have
transfixed it, for there are two little red points like pin-pricks, and on the
band of her nightdress was a drop of blood. When I apologised and was concerned
about it, she laughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it.
Fortunately it cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny.
<P>Same day, night.--We passed a happy day. The air was clear, and the sun
bright, and there was a cool breeze. We took our lunch to Mulgrave Woods, Mrs.
Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I walking by the cliff-path and
joining her at the gate. I felt a little sad myself, for I could not but feel
how absolutely happy it would have been had Jonathan been with me. But there! I
must only be patient. In the evening we strolled in the Casino Terrace, and
heard some good music by Spohr and Mackenzie, and went to bed early. Lucy seems
more restful than she has been for some time, and fell asleep at once. I shall
lock the door and secure the key the same as before, though I do not expect any
trouble tonight.
<P>12 August.--My expectations were wrong, for twice during the night I was
wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in her sleep, to be a little
impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bed under a sort of
protest. I woke with the dawn, and heard the birds chirping outside of the
window. Lucy woke, too, and I was glad to see, was even better than on the
previous morning. All her old gaiety of manner seemed to have come back, and she
came and snuggled in beside me and told me all about Arthur. I told her how
anxious I was about Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she
succeeded somewhat, for, though sympathy can't alter facts, it can make them
more bearable.
<P>13 August.--Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist as before.
Again I awoke in the night, and found Lucy sitting up in bed, still asleep,
pointing to the window. I got up quietly, and pulling aside the blind, looked
out. It was brilliant moonlight, and the soft effect of the light over the sea
and sky, merged together in one great silent mystery, was beautiful beyond
words. Between me and the moonlight flitted a great bat, coming and going in
great whirling circles. Once or twice it came quite close, but was, I suppose,
frightened at seeing me, and flitted away across the harbour towards the abbey.
When I came back from the window Lucy had lain down again, and was sleeping
peacefully. She did not stir again all night.
<P>14 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. . .
<P>"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.
<P>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.
<P>I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly. I have taken care that the door
is locked and the window securely fastened.
<P>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.
<P>15 August.--Rose later than usual. Lucy was languid and tired, and slept on
after we had been called. We had a happy surprise at breakfast. Arthur's father
is better, and wants the marriage to come off soon. Lucy is full of quiet joy,
and her mother is glad and sorry at once. Later on in the day she told me the
cause. She is grieved to lose Lucy as her very own, but she is rejoiced that she
is soon to have some one to protect her. Poor dear, sweet lady! She confided to
me that she has got her death warrant. She has not told Lucy, and made me
promise secrecy. Her doctor told her that within a few months, at most, she must
die, for her heart is weakening. At any time, even now, a sudden shock would be
almost sure to kill her. Ah, we were wise to keep from her the affair of the
dreadful night of Lucy's sleep-walking.
<P>17 August.--No diary for two whole days. I have not had the heart to write.
Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our happiness. No news from
Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be growing weaker, whilst her mother's hours are
numbering to a close. I do not understand Lucy's fading away as she is doing.
She eats well and sleeps well, and enjoys the fresh air, but all the time the
roses in her cheeks are fading, and she gets weaker and more languid day by day.
At night I hear her gasping as if for air.
<P>I keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist at night, but she gets
up and walks about the room, and sits at the open window. Last night I found her
leaning out when I woke up, and when I tried to wake her I could not.
<P>She was in a faint. When I managed to restore her, she was weak as water, and
cried silently between long, painful struggles for breath. When I asked her how
she came to be at the window she shook her head and turned away.
<P>I trust her feeling ill may not be from that unlucky prick of the safety-pin.
I looked at her throat just now as she lay asleep, and the tiny wounds seem not
to have healed. They are still open, and, if anything, larger than before, and
the edges of them are faintly white. They are like little white dots with red
centres. Unless they heal within a day or two, I shall insist on the doctor
seeing about them.
<P>LETTER, SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON, SOLICITORS WHITBY, TO MESSRS. CARTER,
PATERSON & CO., LONDON.
<P>17 August
<P>"Dear Sirs,--"Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great Northern
Railway. Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near Purfleet, immediately on
receipt at goods station King's Cross. The house is at present empty, but
enclosed please find keys, all of which are labelled.
<P>"You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form the
consignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of the house and
marked `A' on rough diagrams enclosed. Your agent will easily recognize the
locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. The goods leave by the
train at 9:30 tonight, and will be due at King's Cross at 4:30 tomorrow
afternoon. As our client wishes the delivery made as soon as possible, we shall
be obliged by your having teams ready at King's Cross at the time named and
forthwith conveying the goods to destination. In order to obviate any delays
possible through any routine requirements as to payment in your departments, we
enclose cheque herewith for ten pounds, receipt of which please acknowledge.
Should the charge be less than this amount, you can return balance, if greater,
we shall at once send cheque for difference on hearing from you. You are to
leave the keys on coming away in the main hall of the house, where the
proprietor may get them on his entering the house by means of his duplicate key.
<P>"Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business courtesy in pressing
you in all ways to use the utmost expedition.
<P>"We are, dear Sirs, "Faithfully yours, "SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON"
<P>LETTER, MESSRS. CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON, TO MESSRS. BILLINGTON
& SON, WHITBY.
<P>21 August.
<P>"Dear Sirs,--"We beg to acknowledge 10 pounds received and to return cheque
of 1 pound, 17s, 9d, amount of overplus, as shown in receipted account herewith.
Goods are delivered in exact accordance with instructions, and keys left in
parcel in main hall, as directed.
<P>"We are, dear Sirs, "Yours respectfully, "Pro CARTER, PATERSON & CO."
<P><STRONG>MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL.</STRONG>
<P>18 August.--I am happy today, and write sitting on the seat in the
churchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last night she slept well all night,
and did not disturb me once.
<P>The roses seem coming back already to her cheeks, though she is still sadly
pale and wan-looking. If she were in any way anemic I could understand it, but
she is not. She is in gay spirits and full of life and cheerfulness. All the
morbid reticence seems to have passed from her, and she has just reminded me, as
if I needed any reminding, of that night, and that it was here, on this very
seat, I found her asleep.
<P>As she told me she tapped playfully with the heel of her boot on the stone
slab and said,
<P>"My poor little feet didn't make much noise then! I daresay poor old Mr.
Swales would have told me that it was because I didn't want to wake up Geordie."
<P>As she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her if she had dreamed at
all that night.
<P>Before she answered, that sweet, puckered look came into her forehead, which
Arthur, I call him Arthur from her habit, says he loves, and indeed, I don't
wonder that he does. Then she went on in a half-dreaming kind of way, as if
trying to recall it to herself.
<P>"I didn't quite dream, but it all seemed to be real. I only wanted to be here
in this spot. I don't know why, for I was afraid of something, I don't know
what. I remember, though I suppose I was asleep, passing through the streets and
over the bridge. A fish leaped as I went by, and I leaned over to look at it,
and I heard a lot of dogs howling. The whole town seemed as if it must be full
of dogs all howling at once, as I went up the steps. Then I had a vague memory
of something long and dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and
something very sweet and very bitter all around me at once. And then I seemed
sinking into deep green water, and there was a singing in my ears, as I have
heard there is to drowning men, and then everything seemed passing away from me.
My soul seemed to go out from my body and float about the air. I seem to
remember that once the West Lighthouse was right under me, and then there was a
sort of agonizing feeling, as if I were in an earthquake, and I came back and
found you shaking my body. I saw you do it before I felt you."
<P>Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I listened to
her breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and thought it better not to keep her
mind on the subject, so we drifted on to another subject, and Lucy was like her
old self again. When we got home the fresh breeze had braced her up, and her
pale cheeks were really more rosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we
all spent a very happy evening together.
<P>19 August.--Joy, joy, joy! Although not all joy. At last, news of Jonathan.
The dear fellow has been ill, that is why he did not write. I am not afraid to
think it or to say it, now that I know. Mr. Hawkins sent me on the letter, and
wrote himself, oh so kindly. I am to leave in the morning and go over to
Jonathan, and to help to nurse him if necessary, and to bring him home. Mr.
Hawkins says it would not be a bad thing if we were to be married out there. I
have cried over the good Sister's letter till I can feel it wet against my
bosom, where it lies. It is of Jonathan, and must be near my heart, for he is in
my heart. My journey is all mapped out, and my luggage ready. I am only taking
one change of dress. Lucy will bring my trunk to London and keep it till I send
for it, for it may be that. . .I must write no more. I must keep it to say to
Jonathan, my husband. The letter that he has seen and touched must comfort me
till we meet.
<P><STRONG>LETTER, SISTER AGATHA, HOSPITAL OF ST. JOSEPH AND STE.</STRONG>
<STRONG>MARY BUDA-PESTH, TO MISS WILLHELMINA MURRAY</STRONG>
<P>12 August,
<P>"Dear Madam.
<P>"I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is himself not strong enough
to write, though progressing well, thanks to God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary.
He has been under our care for nearly six weeks, suffering from a violent brain
fever. He wishes me to convey his love, and to say that by this post I write for
him to Mr. Peter Hawkins, Exeter, to say, with his dutiful respects, that he is
sorry for his delay, and that all of his work is completed. He will require some
few weeks' rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but will then return. He wishes
me to say that he has not sufficient money with him, and that he would like to
pay for his staying here, so that others who need shall not be wanting for belp.
<P>Believe me,
<P>Yours, with sympathy
<P>and all blessings. Sister Agatha"
<P>"P.S.--My patient being asleep, I open this to let you know something more.
He has told me all about you, and that you are shortly to be his wife. All
blessings to you both! He has had some fearful shock, so says our doctor, and in
his delirium his ravings have been dreadful, of wolves and poison and blood, of
ghosts and demons, and I fear to say of what. Be careful of him always that
there may be nothing to excite him of this kind for a long time to come. The
traces of such an illness as his do not lightly die away. We should have written
long ago, but we knew nothing of his friends, and there was nothing on him,
nothing that anyone could understand. He came in the train from Klausenburg, and
the guard was told by the station master there that he rushed into the station
shouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from his violent demeanor that he was
English, they gave him a ticket for the furthest station on the way thither that
the train reached.
<P>"Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all hearts by his sweetness
and gentleness. He is truly getting on well, and I have no doubt will in a few
weeks be all himself. But be careful of him for safety's sake. There are, I pray
God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary, many, many, happy years for you both."
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>19 Agust.--Strange and sudden change in Renfield last night. About eight
o'clock he began to get excited and sniff about as a dog does when setting. The
attendant was struck by his manner, and knowing my interest in him, encouraged
him to talk. He is usually respectful to the attendant and at times servile, but
tonight, the man tells me, he was quite haughty. Would not condescend to talk
with him at all.
<P>All he would say was, "I don't want to talk to you. You don't count now. The
master is at hand."
<P>The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania which has
seized him. If so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong man with homicidal
and religious mania at once might be dangerous. The combination is a dreadful
one.
<P>At Nine o'clock I visited him myself. His attitude to me was the same as that
to the attendant. In his sublime self-feeling the difference between myself and
the attendant seemed to him as nothing. It looks like religious mania, and he
will soon think that he himself is God.
<P>These infinitesimal distinctions between man and man are too paltry for an
Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give themselves away! The real God taketh
heed lest a sparrow fall. But the God created from human vanity sees no
difference between an eagle and a sparrow. Oh, if men only knew!
<P>For half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in greater and greater
degree. I did not pretend to be watching him, but I kept strict observation all
the same. All at once that shifty look came into his eyes which we always see
when a madman has seized an idea, and with it the shifty movement of the head
and back which asylum attendants come to know so well. He became quite quiet,
and went and sat on the edge of his bed resignedly, and looked into space with
lack-luster eyes.
<P>I thought I would find out if his apathy were real or only assumed, and tried
to lead him to talk of his pets, a theme which had never failed to excite his
attention.
<P>At first he made no reply, but at length said testily, "Bother them all! I
don't care a pin about them."
<P>"What" I said. "You don't mean to tell me you don't care about spiders?"
(Spiders at present are his hobby and the notebook is filling up with columns of
small figures.)
<P>To this he answered enigmatically, "The Bride maidens rejoice the eyes that
wait the coming of the bride. But when the bride draweth nigh, then the maidens
shine not to the eyes that are filled."
<P>He would not explain himself, but remained obstinately seated on his bed all
the time I remained with him.
<P>I am weary tonight and low in spirits. I cannot but think of Lucy, and how
different things might have been. If I don't sleep at once, chloral, the modern
Morpheus! I must be careful not to let it grow into a habit. No, I shall take
none tonight! I have thought of Lucy, and I shall not dishonour her by mixing
the two. If need by, tonight shall be sleepless.
<P>Later.--Glad I made the resolution, gladder that I kept to it. I had lain
tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice, when the night
watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that Renfield had escaped. I
threw on my clothes and ran down at once. My patient is too dangerous a person
to be roaming about. Those ideas of his might work out dangerously with
strangers.
<P>The attendant was waiting for me. He said he had seen him not ten minutes
before, seemingly asleep in his bed, when he had looked through the observation
trap in the door. His attention was called by the sound of the window being
wrenched out. He ran back and saw his feet disappear through the window, and had
at once sent up for me. He was only in his night gear, and cannot be far off.
<P>The attendant thought it would be more useful to watch where he should go
than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst getting out of the
building by the door. He is a bulky man, and couldn't get through the window.
<P>I am thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feet foremost, and as we were
only a few feet above ground landed unhurt.
<P>The attendant told me the patient had gone to the left, and had taken a
straight line, so I ran as quickly as I could. As I got through the belt of
trees I saw a white figure scale the high wall which separates our grounds from
those of the deserted house.
<P>I ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four men immediately
and follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case our friend might be dangerous.
I got a ladder myself, and crossing the wall, dropped down on the other side. I
could see Renfield's figure just disappearing behind the angle of the house, so
I ran after him. On the far side of the house I found him pressed close against
the old iron-bound oak door of the chapel.
<P>He was talking, apparently to some one, but I was afraid to go near enough to
hear what he was saying, les t I might frighten him, and he should run off.
<P>Chasing an errant swarm of bees is nothing to following a naked lunatic, when
the fit of escaping is upon him! After a few minutes, however, I could see that
he did not take note of anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearer to
him, the more so as my men had now crossed the wall and were closing him in. I
heard him say. . .
<P>"I am here to do your bidding, Master. I am your slave, and you will reward
me, for I shall be faithful. I have worshipped you long and afar off. Now that
you are near, I await your commands, and you will not pass me by, will you, dear
Master, in your distribution of good things?"
<P>He is a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the loaves and fishes even
when he believes his is in a real Presence. His manias make a startling
combination. When we closed in on him he fought like a tiger. He is immensely
strong, for he was more like a wild beast than a man.
<P>I never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before, and I hope I shall
not again. It is a mercy that we have found out his strength and his danger in
good time. With strength and determination like his, he might have done wild
work before he was caged.
<P>He is safe now, at any rate. Jack Sheppard himself couldn't get free from the
strait waistcoat that keeps him restrained, and he's chained to the wall in the
padded room.
<P>His cries are at times awful, but the silences that follow are more deadly
still, for he means murder in every turn and movement.
<P>Just now he spoke coherent words for the first time. "I shall be patient,
Master. It is coming, coming, coming!"
<P>So I took the hint, and came too. I was too excited to sleep, but this diary
has quieted me, and I feel I shall get some sleep tonight.
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=aix>CHAPTER 9. LETTER, MINA HARKER TO LUCY
WESTENRA</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>Buda-Pesth, 24 August.
<P>"My dearest Lucy,
<P>"I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened since we parted at
the railway station at Whitby.
<P>"Well, my dear, I got to Hull all right, and caught the boat to Hamburg, and
then the train on here. I feel that I can hardly recall anything of the journey,
except that I knew I was coming to Jonathan, and that as I should have to do
some nursing, I had better get all the sleep I could. I found my dear one, oh,
so thin and pale and weak-looking. All the resolution has gone out of his dear
eyes, and that quiet dignity which I told you was in his face has vanished. He
is only a wreck of himself, and he does not remember anything that has happened
to him for a long time past. At least, he wants me to believe so, and I shall
never ask.
<P>"He has had some terrible shock, and I fear it might tax his poor brain if he
were to try to recall it. Sister Agatha, who is a good creature and a born
nurse, tells me that he wanted her to tell me what they were, but she would only
cross herself, and say she would never tell. That the ravings of the sick were
the secrets of God, and that if a nurse through her vocation should hear them,
she should respect her trust..
<P>"She is a sweet, good soul, and the next day, when she saw I was troubled,
she opened up the subject my poor dear raved about, added, `I can tell you this
much, my dear. That it was not about anything which he has done wrong himself,
and you, as his wife to be, have no cause to be concerned. He has not forgotten
you or what he owes to you. His fear was of great and terrible things, which no
mortal can treat of.'
<P>"I do believe the dear soul thought I might be jealous lest my poor dear
should have fallen in love with any other girl. The idea of my being jealous
about Jonathan! And yet, my dear, let me whisper, I felt a thrill of joy through
me when I knew that no other woman was a cause for trouble. I am now sitting by
his bedside, where I can see his face while he sleeps. He is waking!
<P>"When he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to get something from
the pocket. I asked Sister Agatha, and she brought all his things. I saw amongst
them was his notebook, and was was going to ask him to let me look at it, for I
knew that I might find some clue to his trouble, but I suppose he must have seen
my wish in my eyes, for he sent me over to the window, saying he wanted to be
quite alone for a moment.
<P>"Then he called me back, and he said to me very solemnly, `Wilhelmina', I
knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for he has never called me by that name
since he asked me to marry him, `You know, dear, my ideas of the trust between
husband and wife. There should be no secret, no concealment. I have had a great
shock, and when I try to think of what it is I feel my head spin round, and I do
not know if it was real of the dreaming of a madman. You know I had brain fever,
and that is to be mad. The secret is here, and I do not want to know it. I want
to take up my life here, with our marriage.' For, my dear, we had decided to be
married as soon as the formalities are complete. `Are you willing, Wilhelmina,
to share my ignorance? Here is the book. Take it and keep it, read it if you
will, but never let me know unless, indeed, some solemn duty should come upon me
to go back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake, sane or mad, recorded here.' He
fell back exhausted, and I put the book under his pillow, and kissed him. have
asked Sister Agatha to beg the Superior to let our wedding be this afternoon,
and am waiting her reply. . ."
<P>"She has come and told me that the Chaplain of the English mission church has
been sent for. We are to be married in an hour, or as soon after as Jonathan
awakes."
<P>"Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but very, very happy.
Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all was ready, and he sat up in bed,
propped up with pillows. He answered his `I will' firmly and strong. I could
hardly speak. My heart was so full that even those words seemed to choke me.
<P>"The dear sisters were so kind. Please, God, I shall never, never forget
them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities I have taken upon me. I must tell
you of my wedding present. When the chaplain and the sisters had left me alone
with my husband-- oh, Lucy, it is the first time I have written the words `my
husband'-- left me alone with my husband, I took the book from under his pillow,
and wrapped it up in white paper, and tied it with a little bit of pale blue
ribbon which was round my neck, and sealed it over the knot with sealing wax,
and for my seal I used my wedding ring. Then I kissed it and showed it to my
husband, and told him that I would keep it so, and then it would be an outward
and visible sign for us all our lives that we trusted each other, that I would
never open it unless it were for his own dear sake or for the sake of some stern
duty. Then he took my hand in his, and oh, Lucy, it was the first time he took
his wifes' hand, and said that it was the dearest thing in all the wide world,
and that he would go through all the past again to win it, if need be. The poor
dear meant to have said a part of the past, but he cannot think of time yet, and
I shall not wonder if at first he mixes up not only the month, but the year.
<P>"Well, my dear, could I say? I could only tell him that I was the happiest
woman in all the wide world, and that I had nothing to give him except myself,
my life, and my trust, and that with these went my love and duty for all the
days of my life. And, my dear, when he kissed me, and drew me to him with his
poor weak hands, it was like a solemn pledge between us.
<P>"Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is not only because it is
all sweet to me, but because you have been, and are, very dear to me. It was my
privilege to be your friend and guide when you came from the schoolroom to
prepare for the world of life. I want you to see now, and with the eyes of a
very happy wife, whither duty has led me, so that in your own married life you
too may be all happy, as I am. My dear, please Almighty God, your life may be
all it promises, a long day of sunshine, with no harsh wind, no forgetting duty,
no distrust. I must not wish you no pain, for that can never be, but I do hope
you will be always as happy as I am now. Goodbye, my dear. I shall post this at
once, and perhaps, write you very soon again. I must stop, for Jonathan is
waking. I must attend my husband!
<P>"Your ever-loving "Mina Harker."
<P><STRONG>LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA HARKER.</STRONG>
<P>Whitby, 30 August.
<P>"My dearest Mina,
<P>"Oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you soon be in your own home
with your husband. I wish you were coming home soon enough to stay with us here.
The strong air would soon restore Jonathan. It has quite restored me. I have an
appetite like a cormorant, am full of life, and sleep well. You will be glad to
know that I have quite given up walking in my sleep. I think I have not stirred
out of my bed for a week, that is when I once got into it at night. Arthur says
I am getting fat. By the way, I forgot to tell you that Arthur is here. We have
such walks and drives, and rides, and rowing, and tennis, and fishing together,
and I love him more than ever. He tells me that he loves me more, but I doubt
that, for at first he told me that he couldn't love me more than he did then.
But this is nonsense. There he is, calling to me. So no more just at present
from your loving,
<P>"Lucy.
<P>"P.S.--Mother sends her love. She seems better, poor dear.
<P>"P.P.S.--We are to be married on 28 September."
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARDS DIARY</STRONG>
<P>20 August.--The case of Renfield grows even more interesting. He has now so
far quieted that there are spells of cessation from his passion. For the first
week after his attack he was perpetually violent. Then one night, just as the
moon rose, he grew quiet, and kept murmuring to himself. "Now I can wait. Now I
can wait."
<P>The attendant came to tell me, so I ran down at once to have a look at him.
He was still in the strait waistcoat and in the padded room, but the suffused
look had gone from his face, and his eyes had something of their old pleading. I
might almost say, cringing, softness. I was satisfied with his present
condition, and directed him to be relieved. The attendants hesitated, but
finally carried out my wishes without protest.
<P>It was a strange thing that the patient had humour enough to see their
distrust, for, coming close to me, he said in a whisper, all the while looking
furtively at them, "They think I could hurt you! Fancy me hurting you! The
fools!"
<P>It was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself disassociated even
in the mind of this poor madman from the others, but all the same I do not
follow his thought. Am I to take it that I have anything in common with him, so
that we are, as it were, to stand together. Or has he to gain from me some good
so stupendous that my well being is needful to Him? I must find out later on.
Tonight he will not speak. Even the offer of a kitten or even a full-grown cat
will not tempt him.
<P>He will only say, "I don't take any stock in cats. I have more to think of
now, and I can wait. I can wait."
<P>After a while I left him. The attendant tells me that he was quiet until just
before dawn, and that then he began to get uneasy, and at length violent, until
at last he fell into a paroxysm which exhausted him so that he swooned into a
sort of coma.
<P>. . . Three nights has the same thing happened, violent all day then quiet
from moonrise to sunrise. I wish I could get some clue to the cause. It would
almost seem as if there was some influence which came and went. Happy thought!
We shall tonight play sane wits against mad ones. He escaped before without our
help. Tonight he shall escape with it. We shall give him a chance, and have the
men ready to follow in case they are required.
<P>23 August.--"The expected always happens." How well Disraeli knew life. Our
bird when he found the cage open would not fly, so all our subtle arrangements
were for nought. At any rate, we have proved one thing, that the spells of
quietness last a reasonable time. We shall in future be able to ease his bonds
for a few hours each day. I have given orders to the night attendant merely to
shut him in the padded room, when once he is quiet, until the hour before
sunrise. The poor soul's body will enjoy the relief even if his mind cannot
appreciate it. Hark! The unexpected again! I am called. The patient has once
more escaped.
<P>Later.--Another night adventure. Renfield artfully waited until the attendant
was entering the room to inspect. Then he dashed out past him and flew down the
passage. I sent word for the attendants to follow. Again he went into the
grounds of the deserted house, and we found him in the same place, pressed
against the old chapel door. When he saw me he became furious, and had not the
attendants seized him in time, he would have tried to kill me. As we sere
holding him a strange thing happened. He suddenly redoubled his efforts, and
then as suddenly grew calm. I looked round instinctively, but could see nothing.
Then I caught the patient's eye and followed it, but could trace nothing as it
looked into the moonlight sky, except a big bat, which was flapping its silent
and ghostly way to the west. Bats usually wheel about, but this one seemed to go
straight on, as if it knew where it was bound for or had some intention of its
own.
<P>The patient grew calmer every instant, and presently said, "You needn't tie
me. I shall go quietly!" Without trouble, we came back to the house. I feel
there is something ominous in his calm, and shall not forget this night.
<P><STRONG>LUCY WESTENRA'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>Hillingham, 24 August.--I must imitate Mina, and keep writing things down.
Then we can have long talks when we do meet. I wonder when it will be. I wish
she were with me again, for I feel so unhappy. Last night I seemed to be
dreaming again just as I was at Whitby. Perhaps it is the change of air, or
getting home again. It is all dark and horrid to me, for I can remember nothing.
But I am full of vague fear, and I feel so weak and worn out. When Arthur came
to lunch he looked quite grieved when he saw me, and I hadn't the spirit to try
to be cheerful. I wonder if I could sleep in mother's room tonight. I shall make
an excuse to try.
<P>25 August.--Another bad night. Mother did not seem to take to my proposal.
She seems not too well herself, and doubtless she fears to worry me. I tried to
keep awake, and succeeded for a while, but when the clock struck twelve it waked
me from a doze, so I must have been falling asleep. There was a sort of
scratching or flapping at the window, but I did not mind it, and as I remember
no more, I suppose I must have fallen asleep. More bad dreams. I wish I could
remember them. This morning I am horribly weak. My face is ghastly pale, and my
throat pains me. It must be something wrong with my lungs, for I don't seem to
be getting air enough. I shall try to cheer up when Arthur comes, or else I know
he will be miserable to see me so.
<P><STRONG>LETTER, ARTHUR TO DR. SEWARD</STRONG>
<P>"Albemarle Hotel, 31 August "My dear Jack,
<P>"I want you to do me a favour. Lucy is ill, that is she has no special
disease, but she looks awful, and is getting worse every day. I have asked her
if there is any cause, I not dare to ask her mother, for to disturb the poor
lady's mind about her daughter in her present state of health would be fatal.
Mrs. Westenra has confided to me that her doom is spoken, disease of the heart,
though poor Lucy does not know it yet. I am sure that there is something preying
on my dear girl's mind. I am almost distracted when I think of her. To look at
her gives me a pang. I told her I should ask you to see her, and though she
demurred at first, I know why, old fellow, she finally consented. It will be a
painful task for you, I know, old friend, but it is for her sake, and I must not
hesitate to ask, or you to act. You are to come to lunch at Hillingham tomorrow,
two o'clock, so as not to arouse any suspicion in Mrs. Westenra, and after lunch
Lucy will take an opportunity of being alone with you. I am filled with anxiety,
and want to consult with you alone as soon as I can after you have seen her. Do
not fail!
<P>"Arthur."
<P><STRONG>TELEGRAM, ARTHUR HOLMWOOD TO SEWARD</STRONG>
<P>1 September
<P>"Am summoned to see my father, who is worse. Am writing. Write me fully by
tonight's post to Ring. Wire me if necessary."
<P><STRONG>LETTER FROM DR. SEWARD TO ARTHUR HOLMWOOD</STRONG>
<P>2 September
<P>"My dear old fellow,
<P>"With regard to Miss Westenra's health I hasten to let you know at once that
in my opinion there is not any functal disturbance or any malady that I know of.
At the same time, I am not by any means satisfied with her appearance. She is
woefully different from what she was when I saw her last. Of course you must
bear in mind that I did not have full opportunity of examination such as I
should wish. Our very friendship makes a little difficulty which not even
medical science or custom can bridge over. I had better tell you exactly what
happened, leaving you to draw, in a measure, your own conclusions. I shall then
say what I have done and propose doing.
<P>"I found Miss Westenra in seemingly gay spirits. Her mother was present, and
in a few seconds I made up my mind that she was trying all she knew to mislead
her mother and prevent her from being anxious. I have no doubt she guesses, if
she does not know, what need of caution there is.
<P>"We lunched alone, and as we all exerted ourselves to be cheerful, we got, as
some kind of reward for our labours, some real cheerfulness amongst us. Then
Mrs. Westenra went to lie down, and Lucy was left with me. We went into her
boudoir, and till we got there her gaiety remained, for the servants were coming
and going.
<P>"As soon as the door was closed, however, the mask fell from her face, and
she sank down into a chair with a great sigh, and hid her eyes with her hand.
When I saw that her high spirits had failed, I at once took advantage of her
reaction to make a diagnosis.
<P>"She said to me very sweetly, `I cannot tell you how I loathe talking about
myself.' I reminded her that a doctor's confidence was sacred, but that you were
grievously anxious about her. She caught on to my meaning at once, and settled
that matter in a word. `Tell Arthur everything you choose. I do not care for
myself, but for him!' So I am quite free.
<P>"I could easily see that she was somewhat bloodless, but I could not see the
usual anemic signs, and by the chance , I was able to test the actual quality of
her blood, for in opening a window which was stiff a cord gave way, and she cut
her hand slightly with broken glass. It was a slight matter in itself, but it
gave me an evident chance, and I secured a few drops of the blood and have
analysed them.
<P>"The qualitative analysis give a quite normal condition, and shows, I should
infer, in itself a vigorous state of health. In other physical matters I was
quite satisfied that there is no need for anxiety, but as there must be a cause
somewhere, I have come to the conclusion that it must be something mental.
<P>"She complains of difficulty breathing satisfactorily at times, and of heavy,
lethargic sleep, with dreams that frighten her, but regarding which she can
remember nothing. She says that as a child, she used to walk in her sleep, and
that when in Whitby the habit came back, and that once she walked out in the
night and went to East Cliff, where Miss Murray found her. But she assures me
that of late the habit has not returned.
<P>"I am in doubt, and so have done the best thing I know of. I have written to
my old friend and master, Professor Van Helsing, of Amsterdam, who knows as much
about obscure diseases as any one in the world. I have asked him to come over,
and as you told me that all things were to be at your charge, I have mentioned
to him who you are and your relations to Miss Westenra. This, my dear fellow, is
in obedience to your wishes, for I am only too proud and happy to do anything I
can for her.
<P>"Van Helsing would, I know, do anything for me for a personal reason, so no
matter on what ground he comes, we must accept his wishes. He is a seemingly
arbitrary man, this is because he knows what he is talking about better than any
one else. He is a philosopher and a metaphysician, and one of the most advanced
scientists of his day, and he has, I believe, an absolutely open mind. This,
with an iron nerve, a temper of the ice-brook, and indomitable resolution,
self-command, and toleration exalted from virtues to blessings, and the
kindliest and truest heart that beats, these form his equipment for the noble
work that he is doing for mankind, work both in theory and practice, for his
views are as wide as his all-embracing sympathy. I tell you these facts that you
may know why I have such confidence in him. I have asked him to come at once. I
shall see Miss Westenra tomorrow again. She is to meet me at the Stores, so that
I may not alarm her mother by too early a repetition of my call.
<P>"Yours always."
<P>John Seward
<P>LETTER, ABRAHAM VAN HELSING, MD, DPh, D. LiT, ETC, ETC, TO DR. SEWARD
<P>2 September.
<P>"My good Friend,
<P>"When I received your letter I am already coming to you. By good fortune I
can leave just at once, without wrong to any of those who have trusted me. Were
fortune other, then it were bad for those who have trusted, for I come to my
friend when he call me to aid those he holds dear. Tell your friend that when
that time you suck from my wound so swiftly the poison of the gangrene from that
knife that our other friend, too nervous, let slip, you did more for him when he
wants my aids and you call for them than all his great fortune could do. But it
is pleasure added to do for him, your friend, it is to you that I come. Have
near at hand, and please it so arrange that we may see the young lady not too
late on tomorrow, for it is likely that I may have to return here that night.
But if need be I shall come again in three days, and stay longer if it must.
Till then goodbye, my friend John.
<P>"Van Helsing."
<P><STRONG>LETTER, DR. SEWARD TO HON. ARTHUR HOLMWOOD</STRONG>
<P>3 September
<P>"My dear Art,
<P>"Van Helsing has come and gone. He came on with me to Hillingham, and found
that, by Lucy's discretion, her mother was lunching out, so that we were alone
with her.
<P>"Van Helsing made a very careful examination of the patient. He is to report
to me, and I shall advise you, for of course I was not present all the time. He
is, I fear, much concerned, but says he must think. When I told him of our
friendship and how you trust to me in the matter, he said, `You must tell him
all you think. Tell him him what I think, if you can guess it, if you will. Nay,
I am not jesting. This is no jest, but life and death, perhaps more.' I asked
what he meant by that, for he was very serious. This was when we had come back
to town, and he was having a cup of tea before starting on his return to
Amsterdam. He would not give me any further clue. You must not be angry with me,
Art, because his very reticence means that all his brains are working for her
good. He will speak plainly enough when the time comes, be sure. So I told him I
would simply write an account of our visit, just as if I were doing a
descriptive special article for THE DAILY TELEGRAPH. He seemed not to notice,
but remarked that the smuts of London were not quite so bad as they used to be
when he was a student here. I am to get his report tomorrow if he can possibly
make it. In any case I am to have a letter.
<P>"Well, as to the visit, Lucy was more cheerful than on the day I first saw
her, and certainly looked better. She had lost something of the ghastly look
that so upset you, and her breathing was normal. She was very sweet to the
Professor (as she always is), and tried to make him feel at ease, though I could
see the poor girl was making a hard struggle for it.
<P>"I believe Van Helsing saw it, too, for I saw the quick look under his bushy
brows that I knew of old. Then he began to chat of all things except ourselves
and diseases and with such an infinite geniality that I could see poor Lucy's
pretense of animation merge into reality. Then, without any seeming change, he
brought the conversation gently round to his visit, and sauvely said,
<P>"`My dear young miss, I have the so great pleasure because you are so much
beloved. That is much, my dear, even were there that which I do not see. They
told me you were down in the spirit, and that you were of a ghastly pale. To
them I say "Pouf!" ' And he snapped his fingers at me and went on. `But you and
I shall show them how wrong they are. How can he', and he pointed at me with the
same look and gesture as that with which he pointed me out in his class, on, or
rather after, a particular occasion which he never fails to remind me of, `know
anything of a young ladies? He has his madmen to play with, and to bring them
back to happiness, and to those that love them. It is much to do, and, oh, but
there are rewards in that we can bestow such happiness. But the young ladies! He
has no wife nor daughter, and the young do not tell themselves to the young, but
to the old, like me, who have known so many sorrows and the causes of them. So,
my dear, we will send him away to smoke the cigarette in the garden, whiles you
and I have little talk all to ourselves.' I took the hint, and strolled about,
and presently the professor came to the window and called me in. He looked
grave, but said, ` I have made careful examination, but there is no functional
cause. With you I agree that there has been much blood lost, it has been but is
not. But the conditions of her are in no way anemic. I have asked her to send me
her maid, that I may ask just one or two questions, that so I may not chance to
miss nothing. I know well what she will say. And yet there is cause. There is
always cause for everything. I must go back home and think. You must send me the
telegram every day, and if there be cause I shall come again. The disease, for
not to be well is a disease, interest me, and the sweet, young dear, she
interest me too. She charm me, and for her, if not for you or disease, I come.'
<P>"As I tell you, he would not say a word more, even when we were alone. And so
now, Art, you know all I know. I shall keep stern watch. I trust your poor
father is rallying. It must be a terrible thing to you, my dear old fellow, to
be placed in such a position between two people who are both so dear to you. I
know your idea of duty to your father, and you are right to stick to it. But if
need be, I shall send you word to come at once to Lucy, so do not be
over-anxious unless you hear from me."
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>4 September.--Zoophagous patient still keeps up our interest in him. He had
only one outburst and that was yesterday at an unusual time. Just before the
stroke of noon he began to grow restless. The attendant knew the symptoms, and
at once summoned aid. Fortunately the men came at a run, and were just in time,
for at the stroke of noon he became so violent that it took all their strength
to hold him. In about five minutes, however, he began to get more quiet, and
finally sank into a sort of melancholy, in which state he has remained up to
now. The attendant tells me that his screams whilst in the paroxysm were really
appalling. I found my hands full when I got in, attending to some of the other
patients who were frightened by him. Indeed, I can quite understand the effect,
for the sounds disturbed even me, though I was some distance away. It is now
after the dinner hour of the asylum, and as yet my patient sits in a corner
brooding, with a dull, sullen, woe-begone look in his face, which seems rather
to indicate than to show something directly. I cannot quite understand it.
<P>Later.--Another change in my patient. At five o'clock I looked in on him, and
found him seemingly as happy and contented as he used to be. He was catching
flies and eating them, and was keeping note of his capture by making nailmarks
on the edge of the door between the ridges of padding. When he saw me, he came
over and apologized for his bad conduct, and asked me in a very humble, cringing
way to be led back to his own room, and to have his notebook again. I thought it
well to humour him, so he is back in his room with the window open. He has the
sugar of his tea spread out on the window sill, and is reaping quite a harvest
of flies. He is not now eating them, but putting them into a box, as of old, and
is already examining the corners of his room to find a spider. I tried to get
him to talk about the past few days, for any clue to his thoughts would be of
immense help to me, but he would not rise. For a moment or two he looked very
sad, and said in a sort of far away voice, as though saying it rather to himself
than to me.
<P>"All over! All over! He has deserted me. No hope for me now unless I do it
myself!" Then suddenly turning to me in a resolute way, he said, "Doctor, won't
you be very good to me and let me have a little more sugar? I think it would be
very good for me."
<P>"And the flies?" I said.
<P>"Yes! The flies like it, too, and I like the flies, therefore I like it."And
there are people who know so little as to think that madmen do not argue. I
procured him a double supply, and left him as happy a man as, I suppose, any in
the world. I wish I could fathom his mind.
<P>Midnight.--Another change in him. I had been to see Miss Westenra, whom I
found much better, and had just returned, and was standing at our own gate
looking at the sunset, when once more I heard him yelling. As his room is on
this side of the house, I could hear it better than in the morning. It was a
shock to me to turn from the wonderful smoky beauty of a sunset over London,
with its lurid lights and inky shadows and all the marvellous tints that come on
foul clouds even as on foul water, and to realize all the grim sternness of my
own cold stone building, with its wealth of breathing misery, and my own
desolate heart to endure it all. I reached him just as the sun was going down,
and from his window saw the red disc sink. As it sank he became less and less
frenzied, and just as it dipped he slid from the hands that held him, an inert
mass, on the floor. It is wonderful, however, what intellectual recuperative
power lunatics have, for within a few minutes he stood up quite calmly and
looked around him. I signalled to the attendants not to hold him, for I was
anxious to see what he would do. He went straight over to the window and brushed
out the crumbs of sugar. Then he took his fly box, and emptied it outside, and
threw away the box. Then he shut the window, and crossing over, sat down on his
bed. All this surprised me, so I asked him, "Are you going to keep flies any
more?"
<P>"No," said he. "I am sick of all that rubbish!" He certainly is a wonderfully
interesting study. I wish I could get some glimpse of his mind or of the cause
of his sudden passion. Stop. There may be a clue after all, if we can find why
today his paroxysms came on at high noon and at sunset. Can it be that there is
a malign influence of the sun at periods which affects certain natures, as at
times the moon does others? We shall see.
<P><STRONG>TELEGRAM. SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM</STRONG>
<P>"4 September.--Patient still better today."
<P><STRONG>TELEGRAM, SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM</STRONG>
<P>"5 September.--Patient greatly improved. Good appetite, sleeps naturally,
good spirits, color coming back."
<P><STRONG>TELEGRAM, SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM</STRONG>
<P>"6 September.--Terrible change for the worse. Come at once. Do not lose an
hour. I hold over telegram to Holmwood till have seen you."
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=ax>CHAPTER 10. LETTER, DR. SEWARD TO HON. ARTHUR
HOLMWOOD</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>6 September
<P>"My dear Art,
<P>"My news today is not so good. Lucy this morning had gone back a bit. There
is, however, one good thing which has arisen from it. Mrs. Westenra was
naturally anxious concerning Lucy, and has consulted me professionally about
her. I took advantage of the opportunity, and told her that my old master, Van
Helsing, the great specialist, was coming to stay with me, and that I would put
her in his charge conjointly with myself. So now we can come and go without
alarming her unduly, for a shock to her would mean sudden death, and this, in
Lucy's weak condition, might be disastrous to her. We are hedged in with
difficulties, all of us, my poor fellow, but, please God, we shall come through
them all right. If any need I shall write, so that, if you do not hear from me,
take it for granted that I am simply waiting for news, In haste,
<P>"Yours ever,"
<P>John Seward
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>7 September.--The first thing Van Helsing said to me when we met at Liverpool
Street was, "Have you said anything to our young friend, to lover of her?"
<P>"No," I said. "I waited till I had seen you, as I said in my telegram. I
wrote him a letter simply telling him that you were coming, as Miss Westenra was
not so well, and that I should let him know if need be."
<P>"Right, my friend," he said. "Quite right! Better he not know as yet. Perhaps
he will never know. I pray so, but if it be needed, then he shall know all. And,
my good friend John, let me caution you. You deal with the madmen. All men are
mad in some way or the other, and inasmuch as you deal discreetly with your
madmen, so deal with God's madmen too, the rest of the world. You tell not your
madmen what you do nor why you do it. You tell them not what you think. So you
shall keep knowledge in its place, where it may rest, where it may gather its
kind around it and breed. You and I shall keep as yet what we know here, and
here." He touched me on the heart and on the forehead, and then touched himself
the same way. "I have for myself thoughts at the present. Later I shall unfold
to you."
<P>"Why not now?" I asked. "It may do some good. We may arrive at some
decision."He looked at me and said, "My friend John, when the corn is grown,
even before it has ripened, while the milk of its mother earth is in him, and
the sunshine has not yet begun to paint him with his gold, the husbandman he
pull the ear and rub him between his rough hands, and blow away the green chaff,
and say to you, 'Look! He's good corn, he will make a good crop when the time
comes.' "
<P>I did not see the application and told him so. For reply he reached over and
took my ear in his hand and pulled it playfully, as he used long ago to do at
lectures, and said, "The good husbandman tell you so then because he knows, but
not till then. But you do not find the good husbandman dig up his planted corn
to see if he grow. That is for the children who play at husbandry, and not for
those who take it as of the work of their life. See you now, friend John? I have
sown my corn, and Nature has her work to do in making it sprout, if he sprout at
all, there's some promise, and I wait till the ear begins to swell." He broke
off, for he evidently saw that I understood. Then he went on gravely, "You were
always a careful student, and your case book was ever more full than the rest.
And I trust that good habit have not fail. Remember, my friend, that knowledge
is stronger than memory, and we should not trust the weaker. Even if you have
not kept the good practice, let me tell you that this case of our dear miss is
one that may be, mind, I say may be, of such interest to us and others that all
the rest may not make him kick the beam, as your people say. Take then good note
of it. Nothing is too small. I counsel you, put down in record even your doubts
and surmises. Hereafter it may be of interest to you to see how true you guess.
We learn from failure, not from success!"
<P>When I described Lucy's symptoms, the same as before, but infinitely more
marked, he looked very grave, but said nothing. He took with him a bag in which
were many instruments and drugs, "the ghastly paraphernalia of our beneficial
trade," as he once called, in one of his lectures, the equipment of a professor
of the healing craft.
<P>When we were shown in, Mrs. Westenra met us. She was alarmed, but not nearly
so much as I expected to find her. Nature in one of her beneficient moods has
ordained that even death has some antidote to its own terrors. Here, in a case
where any shock may prove fatal, matters are so ordered that, from some cause or
other, the things not personal, even the terrible change in her daughter to whom
she is so attached, do not seem to reach her. It is something like the way dame
Nature gathers round a foreign body an envelope of some insensitive tissue which
can protect from evil that which it would otherwise harm by contact. If this be
an ordered selfishness, then we should pause before we condemn any one for the
vice of egoism, for there may be deeper root for its causes than we have
knowledge of.
<P>I used my knowledge of this phase of spiritual pathology, and set down a rule
that she should not be present with Lucy, or think of her illness more than was
absolutely required. She assented readily, so readily that I saw again the hand
of Nature fighting for life. Van Helsing and I were shown up to Lucy's room. If
I was shocked when I saw her yesterday, I was horrified when I saw her today.
<P>She was ghastly, chalkily pale. The red seemed to have gone even from her
lips and gums, and the bones of her face stood out prominently. Her breathing
was painful to see or hear. Van Helsing's face grew set as marble, and his
eyebrows converged till they almost touched over his nose. Lucy lay motionless,
and did not seem to have strength to speak, so for a while we were all silent.
Then Van Helsing beckoned to me, and we went gently out of the room. The instant
we had closed the door he stepped quickly along the passage to the next door,
which was open. Then he pulled me quickly in with him and closed the door. "My
god!" he said. "This is dreadful. There is not time to be lost. She will die for
sheer want of blood to keep the heart's action as it should be. There must be a
transfusion of blood at once. Is it you or me?"
<P>"I am younger and stronger, Professor. It must be me."
<P>"Then get ready at once. I will bring up my bag. I am prepared."
<P>I went downstairs with him, and as we were going there was a knock at the
hall door. When we reached the hall, the maid had just opened the door, and
Arthur was stepping quickly in. He rushed up to me, saying in an eager whisper,
<P>"Jack, I was so anxious. I read between the lines of your letter, and have
been in an agony. The dad was better, so I ran down here to see for myself. Is
not that gentleman Dr. Van Helsing? I am so thankful to you, sir, for coming."
<P>When first the Professor's eye had lit upon him, he had been angry at his
interruption at such a time, but now, as he took in his stalwart proportions and
recognized the strong young manhood which seemed to emanate from him, his eyes
gleamed. Without a pause he said to him as he held out his hand,
<P>"Sir, you have come in time. You are the lover of our dear miss. She is bad,
very, very bad. Nay, my child, do not go like that."For he suddenly grew pale
and sat down in a chair almost fainting. "You are to help her. You can do more
than any that live, and your courage is your best help."
<P>"What can I do?" asked Arthur hoarsely. "Tell me, and I shall do it. My life
is hers' and I would give the last drop of blood in my body for her."
<P>The Professor has a strongly humorous side, and I could from old knowledge
detect a trace of its origin in his answer.
<P>"My young sir, I do not ask so much as that, not the last!"
<P>"What shall I do?" There was fire in his eyes, and his open nostrils quivered
with intent. Van Helsing slapped him on the shoulder.
<P>"Come!" he said. "You are a man, and it is a man we want. You are better than
me, better than my friend John." Arthur looked bewildered, and the Professor
went on by explaining in a kindly way.
<P>"Young miss is bad, very bad. She wants blood, and blood she must have or
die. My friend John and I have consulted, and we are about to perform what we
call transfusion of blood, to transfer from full veins of one to the empty veins
which pine for him. John was to give his blood, as he is the more young and
strong than me."--Here Arthur took my hand and wrung it hard in silence.--"But
now you are here, you are more good than us, old or young, who toil much in the
world of thought. Our nerves are not so calm and our blood so bright than
yours!"
<P>Arthur turned to him and said, "If you only knew how gladly I would die for
her you would understand. . ." He stopped with a sort of choke in his voice.
<P>"Good boy!" said Van Helsing. "In the not-so-far-off you will be happy that
you have done all for her you love. Come now and be silent. You shall kiss her
once before it is done, but then you must go, and you must leave at my sign. Say
no word to Madame. You know how it is with her. There must be no shock, any
knowledge of this would be one. Come!"
<P>We all went up to Lucy's room. Arthur by direction remained outside. Lucy
turned her head and looked at us, but said nothing. She was not asleep, but she
was simply too weak to make the effort. Her eyes spoke to us, that was all.
<P>Van Helsing took some things from his bag and laid them on a little table out
of sight. Then he mixed a narcotic, and coming over to the bed, said cheerily,
"Now, little miss, here is your medicine. Drink it off, like a good child. See,
I lift you so that to swallow is easy. Yes." She had made the effort with
success.
<P>It astonished me how long the drug took to act. This, in fact, marked the
extent of her weakness. The time seemed endless until sleep began to flicker in
her eyelids. At last, however, the narcotic began to manifest its potency, and
she fell into a deep sleep. When the Professor was satisfied, he called Arthur
into the room, and bade him strip off his coat. Then he added, "You may take
that one little kiss whiles I bring over the table. Friend John, help to me!" So
neither of us looked whilst he bent over her.
<P>Van Helsing, turning to me, said, "He is so young and strong, and of blood so
pure that we need not defibrinate it."
<P>Then with swiftness, but with absolute method, Van Helsing performed the
operation. As the transfusion went on, something like life seemed to come back
to poor Lucy's cheeks, and through Arthur's growing pallor the joy of his face
seemed absolutely to shine. After a bit I began to grow anxious, for the loss of
blood was telling on Arthur, strong man as he was. It gave me an idea of what a
terrible strain Lucy's system must have undergone that what weakened Arthur only
partially restored her.
<P>But the Professor's face was set, and he stood watch in hand, and with his
eyes fixed now on the patient and now on Arthur. I could hear my own heart beat.
Presently, he said in a soft voice, "Do not stir an instant. It is enough. You
attend him. I will look to her."
<P>When all was over, I could see how much Arthur was weakened. I dressed the
wound and took his arm to bring him away, when Van Helsing spoke without turning
round, the man seems to have eyes in the back of his head, "The brave lover, I
think, deserve another kiss, which he shall have presently." And as he had now
finished his operation, he adjusted the pillow to the patient's head. As he did
so the narrow black velvet band which she seems always to wear round her throat,
buckled with an old diamond buckle which her lover had given her, was dragged a
little up, and showed a red mark on her throat.
<P>Arthur did not notice it, but I could hear the deep hiss of indrawn breath
which is one of Van Helsing's ways of betraying emotion. He said nothing at the
moment, but turned to me, saying, "Now take down our brave young lover, give him
of the port wine, and let him lie down a while. He must then go home and rest,
sleep much and eat much, that he may be recruited of what he has so given to his
love. He must not stay here. Hold a moment! I may take it, sir, that you are
anxious of result. Then bring it with you, that in all ways the operation is
successful. You have saved her life this time, and you can go home and rest easy
in mind that all that can be is. I shall tell her all when she is well. She
shall love you none the less for what you have done. Goodbye."
<P>When Arthur had gone I went back to the room. Lucy was sleeping gently, but
her breathing was stronger. I could see the counterpane move as her breast
heaved. By the bedside sat Van Helsing, looking at her intently. The velvet band
again covered the red mark. I asked the Professor in a whisper, "What do you
make of that mark on her throat?"
<P>"What do you make of it?"
<P>"I have not examined it yet," I answered, and then and there proceeded to
loose the band. Just over the external jugular vein there were two punctures,
not large, but not wholesome looking. There was no sign of disease, but the
edges were white and worn looking, as if by some trituration. It at once
occurred to me that that this wound, or whatever it was, might be the means of
that manifest loss of blood. But I abandoned the idea as soon as it formed, for
such a thing could not be. The whole bed would have been drenched to a scarlet
with the blood which the girl must have lost to leave such a pallor as she had
before the transfusion.
<P>"Well?" said Van Helsing.
<P>"Well," said I. "I can make nothing of it."
<P>The Professor stood up. "I must go back to Amsterdam tonight," he said "There
are books and things there which I want. You must remain here all night, and you
must not let your sight pass from her."
<P>"Shall I have a nurse?" I asked.
<P>"We are the best nurses, you and I. You keep watch all night. See that she is
well fed, and that nothing disturbs her. You must not sleep all the night. Later
on we can sleep, you and I. I shall be back as soon as possible. And then we may
begin."
<P>"May begin?" I said. "What on earth do you mean?"
<P>"We shall see!" he answered, as he hurried out. He came back a moment later
and put his head inside the door and said with a warning finger held up,
"Remember, she is your charge. If you leave her, and harm befall, you shall not
sleep easy hereafter!"
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY--CONTINUED</STRONG>
<P>8 September.--I sat up all night with Lucy. The opiate worked itself off
towards dusk, and she waked naturally. She looked a different being from what
she had been before the operation. Her spirits even were good, and she was full
of a happy vivacity, but I could see evidences of the absolute prostration which
she had undergone. When I told Mrs. Westenra that Dr. Van Helsing had directed
that I should sit up with her, she almost pooh-poohed the idea, pointing out her
daughter's renewed strength and excellent spirits. I was firm, however, and made
preparations for my long vigil. When her maid had prepared her for the night I
came in, having in the meantime had supper, and took a seat by the bedside.
<P>She did not in any way make objection, but looked at me gratefully whenever I
caught her eye. After a long spell she seemed sinking off to sleep, but with an
effort seemed to pull herself together and shook it off. It was apparent that
she did not want to sleep, so I tackled the subject at once.
<P>"You do not want to sleep?"
<P>"No. I am afraid."
<P>"Afraid to go to sleep! Why so? It is the boon we all crave for."
<P>"Ah, not if you were like me, if sleep was to you a presage of horror!"
<P>"A presage of horror! What on earth do you mean?"
<P>"I don't know. Oh, I don't know. And that is what is so terrible. All this
weakness comes to me in sleep, until I dread the very thought."
<P>"But, my dear girl, you may sleep tonight. I am here watching you, and I can
promise that nothing will happen."
<P>"Ah, I can trust you!" she said.
<P>I seized the opportunity, and said, "I promise that if I see any evidence of
bad dreams I will wake you at once."
<P>"You will? Oh, will you really? How good you are to me. Then I will sleep!"
And almost at the word she gave a deep sigh of relief, and sank back, asleep.
<P>All night long I watched by her. She never stirred, but slept on and on in a
deep, tranquil, life-giving, health-giving sleep. Her lips were slightly parted,
and her breast rose and fell with the regularity of a pendulum. There was a
smile on her face, and it was evident that no bad dreams had come to disturb her
peace of mind.
<P>In the early morning her maid came, and I left her in her care and took
myself back home, for I was anxious about many things. I sent a short wire to
Van Helsing and to Arthur, telling them of the excellent result of the
operation. My own work, with its manifold arrears, took me all day to clear off.
It was dark when I was able to inquire about my zoophagous patient. The report
was good. He had been quite quiet for the past day and night. A telegram came
from Van Helsing at Amsterdam whilst I was at dinner, suggesting that I should
be at Hillingham tonight, as it might be well to be at hand, and stating that he
was leaving by the night mail and would join me early in the morning.
<P>9 September.--I was pretty tired and worn out when I got to Hillingham. For
two nights I had hardly had a wink of sleep, and my brain was beginning to feel
that numbness which marks cerebral exhaustion. Lucy was up and in cheerful
spirits. When she shook hands with me she looked sharply in my face and said,
<P>"No sitting up tonight for you. You are worn out. I am quite well again.
Indeed, I am, and if there is to be any sitting up, it is I who will sit up with
you."
<P>I would not argue the point, but went and had my supper. Lucy came with me,
and, enlivened by her charming presence, I made an excellent meal, and had a
couple of glasses of the more than excellent port. Then Lucy took me upstairs,
and showed me a room next her own, where a cozy fire was burning.
<P>"Now," she said. "You must stay here. I shall leave this door open and my
door too. You can lie on the sofa for I know that nothing would induce any of
you doctors to go to bed whilst there is a patient above the horizon. If I want
anything I shall call out, and you can come to me at once."
<P>I could not but acquiesce, for I was dog tired, and could not have sat up had
I tried. So, on her renewing her promise to call me if she should want anything,
I lay on the sofa, and forgot all about everything.
<P><STRONG>LUCY WESTENRA'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>9 September.--I feel so happy tonight. I have been so miserably weak, that to
be able to think and move about is like feeling sunshine after a long spell of
east wind out of a steel sky. Somehow Arthur feels very, very close to me. I
seem to feel his presence warm about me. I suppose it is that sickness and
weakness are selfish things and turn our inner eyes and sympathy on ourselves,
whilst health and strength give love rein, and in thought and feeling he can
wander where he wills. I know where my thoughts are. If only Arthur knew! My
dear, my dear, your ears must tingle as you sleep, as mine do waking. Oh, the
blissful rest of last night! How I slept, with that dear, good Dr. Seward
watching me. And tonight I shall not fear to sleep, since he is close at hand
and within call. Thank everybody for being so good to me. Thank God! Goodnight
Arthur.
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>10 September.--I was conscious of the Professor's hand on my head, and
started awake all in a second. That is one of the things that we learn in an
asylum, at any rate.
<P>"And how is our patient?"
<P>"Well, when I left her, or rather when she left me," I answered.
<P>"Come, let us see," he said. And together we went into the room.
<P>The blind was down, and I went over to raise it gently, whilst Van Helsing
stepped, with his soft, cat-like tread, over to the bed.
<P>As I raised the blind, and the morning sunlight flooded the room, I heard the
Professor's low hiss of inspiration, and knowing its rarity, a deadly fear shot
through my heart. As I passed over he moved back, and his exclamation of horror,
"Gott in Himmel!" needed no enforcement from his agonized face. He raised his
hand and pointed to the bed, and his iron face was drawn and ashen white. I felt
my knees begin to tremble.
<P>There on the bed, seemingly in a swoon, lay poor Lucy, more horribly white
and wan-looking than ever. Even the lips were white, and the gums seemed to have
shrunken back from the teeth, as we sometimes see in a corpse after a prolonged
illness.
<P>Van Helsing raised his foot to stamp in anger, but the instinct of his life
and all the long years of habit stood to him, and he put it down again softly.
<P>"Quick!" he said. "Bring the brandy."
<P>I flew to the dining room, and returned with the decanter. He wetted the poor
white lips with it, and together we rubbed palm and wrist and heart. He felt her
heart, and after a few moments of agonizing suspense said,
<P>"It is not too late. It beats, though but feebly. All our work is undone. We
must begin again. There is no young Arthur here now. I have to call on you
yourself this time, friend John." As he spoke, he was dipping into his bag, and
producing the instruments of transfusion. I had taken off my coat and rolled up
my shirt sleeve. There was no possibility of an opiate just at present, and no
need of one. and so, without a moment's delay, we began the operation.
<P>After a time, it did not seem a short time either, for the draining away of
one's blood, no matter how willingly it be given, is a terrible feeling, Van
Helsing held up a warning finger. "Do not stir," he said. "But I fear that with
growing strength she may wake, and that would make danger, oh, so much danger.
But I shall precaution take. I shall give hypodermic injection of morphia." He
proceeded then, swiftly and deftly, to carry out his intent.
<P>The effect on Lucy was not bad, for the faint seemed to merge subtly into the
narcotic sleep. It was with a feeling of personal pride that I could see a faint
tinge of color steal back into the pallid cheeks and lips. No man knows, till he
experiences it, what it is to feel his own lifeblood drawn away into the veins
of the woman he loves.
<P>The Professor watched me critically. "That will do," he said. "Already?" I
remonstrated. "You took a great deal more from Art." To which he smiled a sad
sort of smile as he replied,
<P>"He is her lover, her fiance. You have work, much work to do for her and for
others, and the present will suffice.
<P>When we stopped the operation, he attended to Lucy, whilst I applied digital
pressure to my own incision. I laid down, while I waited his leisure to attend
to me, for I felt faint and a little sick. By and by he bound up my wound, and
sent me downstairs to get a glass of wine for myself. As I was leaving the room,
he came after me, and half whispered.
<P>"Mind, nothing must be said of this. If our young lover should turn up
unexpected, as before, no word to him. It would at once frighten him and
enjealous him, too. There must be none. So!"
<P>When I came back he looked at me carefully, and then said, "You are not much
the worse. Go into the room, and lie on your sofa, and rest awhile, then have
much breakfast and come here to me."
<P>I followed out his orders, for I knew how right and wise they were. I had
done my part, and now my next duty was to keep up my strength. I felt very weak,
and in the weakness lost something of the amazement at what had occurred. I fell
asleep on the sofa, however, wondering over and over again how Lucy had made
such a retrograde movement, and how she could have been drained of so much blood
with no sign any where to show for it. I think I must have continued my wonder
in my dreams, for, sleeping and waking my thoughts always came back to the
little punctures in her throat and the ragged, exhausted appearance of their
edges, tiny though they were.
<P>Lucy slept well into the day, and when she woke she was fairly well and
strong, though not nearly so much so as the day before. When Van Helsing had
seen her, he went out for a walk, leaving me in charge, with strict injunctions
that I was not to leave her for a moment. I could hear his voice in the hall,
asking the way to the nearest telegraph office.
<P>Lucy chatted with me freely, and seemed quite unconscious that anything had
happened. I tried to keep her amused and interested. When her mother came up to
see her, she did not seem to notice any change whatever, but said to me
gratefully,
<P>"We owe you so much, Dr. Seward, for all you have done, but you really must
now take care not to overwork yourself. You are looking pale yourself. You want
a wife to nurse and look after you a bit, that you do!" As she spoke, Lucy
turned crimson, though it was only momentarily, for her poor wasted veins could
not stand for long an unwonted drain to the head. The reaction came in excessive
pallor as she turned imploring eyes on me. I smiled and nodded, and laid my
finger on my lips. With a sigh, she sank back amid her pillows.
<P>Van Helsing returned in a couple of hours, and presently said to me. "Now you
go home, and eat much and drink enough. Make yourself strong. I stay here
tonight, and I shall sit up with little miss myself. You and I must watch the
case, and we must have none other to know. I have grave reasons. No, do not ask
the. Think what you will. Do not fear to think even the most not-improbable.
Goodnight."
<P>In the hall two of the maids came to me, and asked if they or either of them
might not sit up with Miss Lucy. They implored me to let them, and when I said
it was Dr. Van Helsing's wish that either he or I should sit up, they asked me
quite piteously to intercede with the`foreign gentleman'. I was much touched by
their kindness. Perhaps it is because I am weak at present, and perhaps because
it was on Lucy's account, that their devotion was manifested. For over and over
again have I seen similar instances of woman's kindness. I got back here in time
for a late dinner, went my rounds, all well, and set this down whilst waiting
for sleep. It is coming.
<P>11 September.--This afternoon I went over to Hillingham. Found Van Helsing in
excellent spirits, and Lucy much better. Shortly after I had arrived, a big
parcel from abroad came for the Professor. He opened it with much impressment,
assumed, of course, and showed a great bundle of white flowers.
<P>"These are for you, Miss Lucy," he said.
<P>"For me? Oh, Dr. Van Helsing!"
<P>"Yes, my dear, but not for you to play with. These are medicines." Here Lucy
made a wry face. "Nay, but they are not to take in a decoction or in nauseous
form, so you need not snub that so charming nose, or I shall point out to my
friend Arthur what woes he may have to endure in seeing so much beauty that he
so loves so much distort. Aha, my pretty miss, that bring the so nice nose all
straight again. This is medicinal, but you do not know how. I put him in your
window, I make pretty wreath, and hang him round your neck, so you sleep well.
Oh, yes! They, like the lotus flower, make your trouble forgotten. It smell so
like the waters of Lethe, and of that fountain of youth that the Conquistadores
sought for in the Floridas, and find him all too late."
<P>Whilst he was speaking, Lucy had been examining the flowers and smelling
them. Now she threw them down saying, with half laughter, and half disgust,
<P>"Oh, Professor, I believe you are only putting up a joke on me. Why, these
flowers are only common garlic."
<P>To my surprise, Van Helsing rose up and said with all his sternness, his iron
jaw set and his bushy eyebrows meeting,
<P>"No trifling with me! I never jest! There is grim purpose in what I do, and I
warn you that you do not thwart me. Take care, for the sake of others if not for
your own." Then seeing poor Lucy scared, as she might well be, he went on more
gently, "Oh, little miss, my dear, do not fear me. I only do for your good, but
there is much virtue to you in those so common flowers. See, I place them myself
in your room. I make myself the wreath that you are to wear. But hush! No
telling to others that make so inquisitive questions. We must obey, and silence
is a part of obedience, and obedience is to bring you strong and well into
loving arms that wait for you. Now sit still a while. Come with me, friend John,
and you shall help me deck the room with my garlic, which is all the war from
Haarlem, where my friend Vanderpool raise herb in his glass houses all the year.
I had to telegraph yesterday, or they would not have been here."
<P>We went into the room, taking the flowers with us. The Professor's actions
were certainly odd and not to be found in any pharmacopeia that I ever heard of.
First he fastened up the windows and latched them securely. Next, taking a
handful of the flowers, he rubbed them all over the sashes, as though to ensure
that every whiff of air that might get in would be laden with the garlic smell.
Then with the wisp he rubbed all over the jamb of the door, above, below, and at
each side, and round the fireplace in the same way. It all seemed grotesque to
me, and presently I said, "Well, Professor, I know you always have a reason for
what you do, but this certainly puzzles me. It is well we have no sceptic here,
or he would say that you were working some spell to keep out an evil spirit."
<P>"Perhaps I am!" He answered quietly as he began to make the wreath which Lucy
was to wear round her neck.
<P>We then waited whilst Lucy made her toilet for the night, and when she was in
bed he came and himself fixed the wreath of garlic round her neck. The last
words he said to her were,
<P>"Take care you do not disturb it, and even if the room feel close, do not
tonight open the window or the door."
<P>"I promise," said Lucy. "And thank you both a thousand times for all your
kindness to me! Oh, what have I done to be blessed with such friends?"
<P>As we left the house in my fly, which was waiting, Van Helsing said, "Tonight
I can sleep in peace, and sleep I want, two nights of travel, much reading in
the day between, and much anxiety on the day to follow, and a night to sit up,
without to wink. Tomorrow in the morning early you call for me, and we come
together to see our pretty miss, so much more strong for my `spell' which I have
work. Ho, ho!"
<P>He seemed so confident that I, remembering my own confidence two nights
before and with the baneful result, felt awe and vague terror. It must have been
my weakness that made me hesitate to tell it to my friend, but I felt it all the
more, like unshed tears.
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=axi>CHAPTER 11. LUCY WESTENRA'S
DIARY</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>12 September.--How good they all are to me. I quite love that dear Dr. Van
Helsing. I wonder why he was so anxious about these flowers. He positively
frightened me, he was so fierce. And yet he must have been right, for I feel
comfort from them already. Somehow, I do not dread being alone tonight, and I
can go to sleep without fear. I shall not mind any flapping outside the window.
Oh, the terrible struggle that I have had against sleep so often of late, the
pain of sleeplessness, or the pain of the fear of sleep, and with such unknown
horrors as it has for me! How blessed are some people, whose lives have no
fears, no dreads, to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings
nothing but sweet dreams. Well, here I am tonight, hoping for sleep, and lying
like Ophelia in the play, with`virgin crants and maiden strewments.' I never
liked garlic before, but tonight it is delightful! There is peace in its smell.
I feel sleep coming already. Goodnight, everybody.
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>13 September.--Called at the Berkeley and found Van Helsing, as usual, up to
time. The carriage ordered from the hotel was waiting. The Professor took his
bag, which he always brings with him now.
<P>Let all be put down exactly. Van Helsing and I arrived at Hillingham at eight
o'clock. It was a lovely morning. The bright sunshine and all the fresh feeling
of early autumn seemed like the completion of nature's annual work. The leaves
were turning to all kinds of beautiful colors, but had not yet begun to drop
from the trees. When we entered we met Mrs. Westenra coming out of the morning
room. She is always an early riser. She greeted us warmly and said,
<P>"You will be glad to know that Lucy is better. The dear child is still
asleep. I looked into her room and saw her, but did not go in, lest I should
disturb her." The Professor smiled, and looked quite jubilant. He rubbed his
hands together, and said, "Aha! I thought I had diagnosed the case. My treatment
is working."
<P>To which she replied, "You must not take all the credit to yourself, doctor.
Lucy's state this morning is due in part to me."
<P>"How do you mean, ma'am?" asked the Professor.
<P>"Well, I was anxious about the dear child in the night, and went into her
room. She was sleeping soundly, so soundly that even my coming did not wake her.
But the room was awfully stuffy. There were a lot of those horrible,
strong-smelling flowers about everywhere, and she had actually a bunch of them
round her neck. I feared that the heavy odor would be too much for the dear
child in her weak state, so I took them all away and opened a bit of the window
to let in a little fresh air. You will be pleased with her, I am sure."
<P>She moved off into her boudoir, where she usually breakfasted early. As she
had spoken, I watched the Professor's face, and saw it turn ashen gray. He had
been able to retain his self-command whilst the poor lady was present, for he
knew her state and how mischievous a shock would be. He actually smiled on her
as he held open the door for her to pass into her room. But the instant she had
disappeared he pulled me, suddenly and forcibly, into the dining room and closed
the door.
<P>Then, for the first time in my life, I saw Van Helsing break down. He raised
his hands over his head in a sort of mute despair, and then beat his palms
together in a helpless way. Finally he sat down on a chair, and putting his
hands before his face, began to sob, with loud, dry sobs that seemed to come
from the very racking of his heart.
<P>Then he raised his arms again, as though appealing to the whole universe.
"God! God! God!" he said. "What have we done, what has this poor thing done,
that we are so sore beset? Is there fate amongst us still, send down from the
pagan world of old, that such things must be, and in such way? This poor mother,
all unknowing, and all for the best as she think, does such thing as lose her
daughter body and soul, and we must not tell her, we must not even warn her, or
she die, then both die. Oh, how we are beset! How are all the powers of the
devils against us!"
<P>Suddenly he jumped to his feet. "Come," he said."come, we must see and act.
Devils or no devils, or all the devils at once, it matters not. We must fight
him all the same." He went to the hall door for his bag, and together we went up
to Lucy's room.
<P>Once again I drew up the blind, whilst Van Helsing went towards the bed. This
time he did not start as he looked on the poor face with the same awful, waxen
pallor as before. He wore a look of stern sadness and infinite pity.
<P>"As I expected," he murmured, with that hissing inspiration of his which
meant so much. Without a word he went and locked the door, and then began to set
out on the little table the instruments for yet another operation of transfusion
of blood. I had long ago recognized the necessity, and begun to take off my
coat, but he stopped me with a warning hand. "No!" he said. "Today you must
operate. I shall provide. You are weakened already." As he spoke he took off his
coat and rolled up his shirtsleeve.
<P>Again the operation. Again the narcotic. Again some return of color to the
ashy cheeks, and the regular breathing of healthy sleep. This time I watched
whilst Van Helsing recruited himself and rested.
<P>Presently he took an opportunity of telling Mrs. Westenra that she must not
remove anything from Lucy's room without consulting him. That the flowers were
of medicinal value, and that the breathing of their odor was a part of the
system of cure. Then he took over the care of the case himself, saying that he
would watch this night and the next, and would send me word when to come.
<P>After another hour Lucy waked from her sleep, fresh and bright and seemingly
not much the worse for her terrible ordeal.
<P>What does it all mean? I am beginning to wonder if my long habit of life
amongst the insane is beginning to tell upon my own brain.
<P><STRONG>LUCY WESTENRA'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>17 September.--Four days and nights of peace. I am getting so strong again
that I hardly know myself. It is as if I had passed through some long nightmare,
and had just awakened to see the beautiful sunshine and feel the fresh air of
the morning around me. I have a dim half remembrance of long, anxious times of
waiting and fearing, darkness in which there was not even the pain of hope to
make present distress more poignant. And then long spells of oblivion, and the
rising back to life as a diver coming up through a great press of water. Since,
however, Dr. Van Helsing has been with me, all this bad dreaming seems to have
passed away. The noises that used to frighten me out of my wits, the flapping
against the windows, the distant voices which seemed so close to me, the harsh
sounds that came from I know not where and commanded me to do I know not what,
have all ceased. I go to bed now without any fear of sleep. I do not even try to
keep awake. I have grown quite fond of the garlic, and a boxful arrives for me
every day from Haarlem. Tonight Dr. Van Helsing is going away, as he has to be
for a day in Amsterdam. But I need not be watched. I am well enough to be left
alone.
<P>Thank God for Mother's sake, and dear Arthur's, and for all our friends who
have been so kind! I shall not even feel the change, for last night Dr. Van
Helsing slept in his chair a lot of the time. I found him asleep twice when I
awoke. But I did not fear to go to sleep again, although the boughs or bats or
something flapped almost angrily against the window panes.
<P>THE PALL MALL GAZETTE 18 September.
<P><STRONG>THE ESCAPED WOLF PERILOUS ADVENTURE OF OUR INTERVIEWER</STRONG>
<P><STRONG>INTERVIEW WITH THE KEEPER IN THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS</STRONG>
<P>After many inquiries and almost as many refusals, and perpetually using the
words `PALL MALL GAZETTE ' as a sort of talisman, I managed to find the keeper
of the section of the Zoological Gardens in which the wold department is
included. Thomas Bilder lives in one of the cottages in the enclosure behind the
elephant house, and was just sitting down to his tea when I found him. Thomas
and his wife are hospitable folk, elderly, and without children, and if the
specimen I enjoyed of their hospitality be of the average kind, their lives must
be pretty comfortable. The keeper would not enter on what he called business
until the supper was over, and we were all satisfied. Then when the table was
cleared, and he had lit his pipe, he said,
<P>"Now, Sir, you can go on and arsk me what you want. You'll excoose me
refoosin' to talk of perfeshunal subjucts afore meals. I gives the wolves and
the jackals and the hyenas in all our section their tea afore I begins to arsk
them questions."
<P>"How do you mean, ask them questions?" I queried, wishful to get him into a
talkative humor.
<P>" `Ittin' of them over the `ead with a pole is one way. Scratchin' of their
ears in another, when gents as is flush wants a bit of a show-orf to their gals.
I don't so much mind the fust, the `ittin of the pole part afore I chucks in
their dinner, but I waits till they've `ad their sherry and kawffee, so to
speak, afore I tries on with the ear scratchin'. Mind you," he added
philosophically, "there's a deal of the same nature in us as in them theer
animiles. Here's you a-comin' and arskin' of me questions about my business, and
I that grump-like that only for your bloomin' `arf-quid I'd `a' seen you blowed
fust `fore I'd answer. Not even when you arsked me sarcastic like if I'd like
you to arsk the Superintendent if you might arsk me questions. Without offence
did I tell yer to go to `ell?"
<P>"You did."
<P>"An' when you said you'd report me for usin' obscene language that was
`ittin' me over the `ead. But the `arf-quid made that all right. I weren't
a-goin' to fight, so I waited for the food, and did with my `owl as the wolves
and lions and tigers does. But, lor' love yer `art, now that the old `ooman has
stuck a chunk of her tea-cake in me, an' rinsed me out with her bloomin' old
teapot, and I've lit hup, you may scratch my ears for all you're worth, and
won't even get a growl out of me. Drive along with your questions. I know what
yer a-comin' at, that `ere escaped wolf."
<P>"Exactly. I want you to give me your view of it. Just tell me how it
happened, and when I know the facts I'll get you to say what you consider was
the cause of it, and how you think the whole affair will end."
<P>"All right, guv'nor. This `ere is about the `ole story. That`ere wolf what we
called Bersicker was one of three gray ones that came from Norway to Jamrach's,
which we bought off him four years ago. He was a nice well-behaved wolf, that
never gave no trouble to talk of. I'm more surprised at `im for wantin' to get
out nor any other animile in the place. But, there, you can't trust wolves no
more nor women."
<P>"Don't you mind him, Sir!" broke in Mrs. Tom, with a cheery laugh. " `E's got
mindin' the animiles so long that blest if he ain't like a old wolf `isself! But
there ain't no `arm in `im."
<P>"Well, Sir, it was about two hours after feedin' yesterday when I first hear
my disturbance. I was makin' up a litter in the monkey house for a young puma
which is ill. But when I heard the yelpin' and `owlin' I kem away straight.
There was Bersicker a-tearin' like a mad thing at the bars as if he wanted to
get out. There wasn't much people about that day, and close at hand was only one
man, a tall, thin chap, with a `ook nose and a pointed beard, with a few white
hairs runnin' through it. He had a `ard, cold look and red eyes, and I took a
sort of mislike to him, for it seemed as if it was `im as they was hirritated
at. He `ad white kid gloves on `is `ands, and he pointed out the animiles to me
and says, `Keeper, these wolves seem upset at something.'
<P>"`Maybe it's you,' says I, for I did not like the airs as he give `isself. He
didn't get angry, as I `oped he would, but he smiled a kind of insolent smile,
with a mouth full of white, sharp teeth. `Oh no, they wouldn't like me,' `e
says.
<P>" `Ow yes, they would,' says I, a-imitatin'of him.`They always like a bone or
two to clean their teeth on about tea time, which you `as a bagful.'
<P>"Well, it was a odd thing, but when the animiles see us a-talkin' they lay
down, and when I went over to Bersicker he let me stroke his ears same as ever.
That there man kem over, and blessed but if he didn't put in his hand and stroke
the old wolf's ears too!
<P>" `Tyke care,' says I. `Bersicker is quick.'
<P>" `Never mind,' he says. I'm used to `em!'
<P>" `Are you in the business yourself?" I says, tyking off my `at, for a man
what trades in wolves, anceterer, is a good friend to keepers.
<P>" `Nom' says he, `not exactly in the business, but I `ave made pets of
several.' and with that he lifts his `at as perlite as a lord, and walks away.
Old Bersicker kep' a-lookin' arter `im till `e was out of sight, and then went
and lay down in a corner and wouldn't come hout the `ole hevening. Well, larst
night, so soon as the moon was hup, the wolves here all began a-`owling. There
warn't nothing for them to `owl at. There warn't no one near, except some one
that was evidently a-callin' a dog somewheres out back of the gardings in the
Park road. Once or twice I went out to see that all was right, and it was, and
then the `owling stopped. Just before twelve o'clock I just took a look round
afore turnin' in, an', bust me, but when I kem opposite to old Bersicker's cage
I see the rails broken and twisted about and the cage empty. And that's all I
know for certing."
<P>"Did any one else see anything?"
<P>"One of our gard`ners was a-comin' `ome about that time from a `armony, when
he sees a big gray dog comin' out through the garding `edges. At least, so he
says, but I don't give much for it myself, for if he did `e never said a word
about it to his missis when `e got `ome, and it was only after the escape of the
wolf was made known, and we had been up all night a-huntin' of the Park for
Bersicker, that he remembered seein' anything. My own belief was that the
`armony `ad got into his `ead."
<P>"Now, Mr. Bilder, can you account in any way for the escape of the wolf?"
<P>"Well, Sir," he said, with a suspicious sort of modesty, "I think I can, but
I don't know as `ow you'd be satisfied with the theory."
<P>"Certainly I shall. If a man like you, who knows the animals from experience,
can't hazard a good guess at any rate, who is even to try?"
<P>"well then, Sir, I accounts for it this way. It seems to me that `ere wolf
escaped--simply because he wanted to get out."
<P>From the hearty way that both Thomas and his wife laughed at the joke I could
see that it had done service before, and that the whole explanation was simply
an elaborate sell. I couldn't cope in badinage with the worthy Thomas, but I
thought I knew a surer way to his heart, so I said, "Now, Mr. Bilder, we'll
consider that first half-sovereign worked off, and this brother of his is
waiting to be claimed when you've told me what you think will happen."
<P>"Right y`are, Sir," he said briskly. "Ye`ll excoose me, I know, for
a-chaffin' of ye, but the old woman her winked at me, which was as much as
telling me to go on."
<P>"Well, I never!" said the old lady.
<P>"My opinion is this. That `ere wolf is a`idin' of, somewheres. The gard`ner
wot didn't remember said he was a-gallopin' northward faster than a horse could
go, but I don't believe him, for, yer see, Sir, wolves don't gallop no more nor
dogs does, they not bein' built that way. Wolves is fine things in a storybook,
and I dessay when they gets in packs and does be chivyin' somethin' that's more
afeared than they is they can make a devil of a noise and chop it up, whatever
it is. But, Lor' bless you, in real life a wolf is only a low creature, not half
so clever or bold as a good dog, and not half a quarter so much fight in `im.
This one ain't been used to fightin' or even to providin' for hisself, and more
like he's somewhere round the Park a'hidin' an' a'shiverin' of, and if he thinks
at all, wonderin' where he is to get his breakfast from. Or maybe he's got down
some area and is in a coal cellar. My eye, won't some cook get a rum start when
she sees his green eyes a-shinin' at her out of the dark! If he can't get food
he's bound to look for it, and mayhap he may chance to light on a butcher's shop
in time. If he doesn't, and some nursemaid goes out walkin' or orf with a
soldier, leavin' of the hinfant in the perambulator-- well, then I shouldn't be
surprised if the census is one babby the less. That's all."
<P>I was handing him the half-sovereign, when something came bobbing up against
the window, and Mr. Bilder's face doubled its natural length with surprise.
<P>"God bless me!" he said. "If there ain't old Bersicker come back by `isself!"
<P>He went to the door and opened it, a most unnecessary proceeding it seemed to
me. I have always thought that a wild animal never looks so well as when some
obstacle of pronounced durability is between us. A personal experience has
intensified rather than diminished that idea.
<P>After all, however, there is nothing like custom, for neither Bilder nor his
wife thought any more of the wolf than I should of a dog. The animal itself was
a peaceful and well-behaved as that father of all picture-wolves, Red Riding
Hood's quondam friend, whilst moving her confidence in masquerade.
<P>The whole scene was a unutterable mixture of comedy and pathos. The wicked
wolf that for a half a day had paralyzed London and set all the children in town
shivering in their shoes, was there in a sort of penitent mood, and was received
and petted like a sort of vulpine prodigal son. Old Bilder examined him all over
with most tender solicitude, and when he had finished with his penitent said,
<P>"There, I knew the poor old chap would get into some kind of trouble. Didn't
I say it all along? Here's his head all cut and full of broken glass. `E's been
a-gettin' over some bloomin' wall or other. It's a shyme that people are allowed
to top their walls with broken bottles. This `ere's what comes of it. Come
along, Bersicker."
<P>He took the wolf and locked him up in a cage, with a piece of meat that
satisfied, in quantity at any rate, the elementary conditions of the fatted
calf, and went off to report.
<P>I came off too, to report the only exclusive information that is given today
regarding the strange escapade at the Zoo.
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>17 September.--I was engaged after dinner in my study posting up my books,
which, through press of other work and the many visits to Lucy, had fallen sadly
into arrear. Suddenly the door was burst open, and in rushed my patient, with
his face distorted with passion. I was thunderstruck, for such a thing as a
patient getting of his own accord into the Superintendent's study is almost
unknown.
<P>Without an instant's notice he made straight at me. He had a dinner knife in
his hand, and as I saw he was dangerous, I tried to keep the table between us.
He was too quick and too strong for me, however, for before I could get my
balance he had struck at me and cut my left wrist rather severely.
<P>Before he could strike again, however, I got in my right hand and he was
sprawling on his back on the floor. My wrist bled freely, and quite a little
pool trickled on to the carpet. I saw that my friend was not intent on further
effort, and occupied myself binding up my wrist, keeping a wary eye on the
prostrate figure all the time. When the attendants rushed in, and we turned our
attention to him, his employment positively sickened me. He was lying on his
belly on the floor licking up, like a dog, the blood which had fallen from my
wounded wrist. He was easily secured, and to my surprise, went with the
attendants quite placidly, simply repeating over and over again, "The blood is
the life! The blood is the life!"
<P>I cannot afford to lose blood just at present. I have lost too much of late
for my physical good, and then the prolonged strain of Lucy's illness and its
horrible phases is telling on me. I am over excited and weary, and I need rest,
rest, rest. Happily Van Helsing has not summoned me, so I need not forego my
sleep. Tonight I could not well do without it.
<P><STRONG>TELEGRAM, VAN HELSING, ANTWERP, TO SEWARD, CARFAX</STRONG>
<P>(Sent to Carfax, Sussex, as no county given, delivered late by twenty-two
hours.)
<P>17 September.--Do not fail to be at Hilllingham tonight. If not watching all
the time, frequently visit and see that flowers are as placed, very important,
do not fail. Shall be with you as soon as possible after arrival.
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>18 September.--Just off train to London. The arrival of Van Helsing's
telegram filled me with dismay. A whole night lost, and I know by bitter
experience what may happen in a night. Of course it is possible that all may be
well, but what may have happened? Surely there is some horrible doom hanging
over us that every possible accident should thwart us in all we try to do. I
shall take this cylinder with me, and then I can complete my entry on Lucy's
phonograph.
<P><STRONG>MEMORANDUM LEFT BY LUCY WESTENRA</STRONG>
<P>17 September, Night.--I write this and leave it to be seen, so that no one
may by any chance get into trouble through me. This is an exact record of what
took place tonight. I feel I am dying of weakness, and have barely strength to
write, but it must be done if I die in the doing.
<P>I went to bed as usual, taking care that the flowers were placed as Dr. Van
Helsing directed, and soon fell asleep.
<P>I was waked by the flapping at the window, which had begun after that
sleep-walking on the cliff at Whitby when Mina saved me, and which now I know so
well. I was not afraid, but I did wish that Dr. Seward was in the next room, as
Dr. Van Helsing said he would be, so that I might have called him. I tried to
sleep, but I could not. Then there came to me the old fear of sleep, and I
determined to keep awake. Perversely sleep would try to come then when I did not
want it. So, as I feared to be alone, I opened my door and called out. "Is there
anybody there?" There was no answer. I was afraid to wake mother, and so closed
my door again. Then outside in the shrubbery I heard a sort of howl like a
dog's, but more fierce and deeper. I went to the window and looked out, but
could see nothing, except a big bat, which had evidently been buffeting its
wings against the window. So I went back to bed again, but determined not to go
to sleep. Presently the door opened, and mother looked in. Seeing by my moving
that I was not asleep, she came in and sat by me. She said to me even more
sweetly and softly than her wont,
<P>"I was uneasy about you, darling, and came in to see that you were all
right."
<P>I feared she might catch cold sitting there, and asked her to come in and
sleep with me, so she came into bed, and lay down beside me. She did not take
off her dressing gown, for she said she would only stay a while and then go back
to her own bed. As she lay there in my arms, and I in hers the flapping and
buffeting came to the window again. She was startled and a little frightened,
and cried out, "What is that?"
<P>I tried to pacify her, and at last succeeded, and she lay quiet. But I could
hear her poor dear heart still beating terribly. After a while there was the
howl again out in the shrubbery, and shortly after there was a crash at the
window, and a lot of broken glass was hurled on the floor. The window blind blew
back with the wind that rushed in, and in the aperture of the broken panes there
was the head of a great, gaunt gray wolf.
<P>Mother cried out in a fright, and struggled up into a sitting posture, and
clutched wildly at anything that would help her. Amongst other things, she
clutched the wreath of flowers that Dr. Van Helsing insisted on my wearing round
my neck, and tore it away from me. For a second or two she sat up, pointing at
the wolf, and there was a strange and horrible gurgling in her throat. Then she
fell over, as if struck with lightning, and her head hit my forehead and made me
dizzy for a moment or two.
<P>The room and all round seemed to spin round. I kept my eyes fixed on the
window, but the wolf drew his head back, and a whole myriad of little specks
seems to come blowing in through the broken window, and wheeling and circling
round like the pillar of dust that travellers describe when there is a simoon in
the desert. I tried to stir, but there was some spell upon me, and dear Mother's
poor body, which seemed to grow cold already, for her dear heart had ceased to
beat, weighed me down, and I remembered no more for a while.
<P>The time did not seem long, but very, very awful, till I recovered
consciousness again. Somewhere near, a passing bell was tolling. The dogs all
round the neighborhood were howling, and in our shrubbery, seemingly just
outside, a nightingale was singing. I was dazed and stupid with pain and terror
and weakness, but the sound of the nightingale seemed like the voice of my dead
mother come back to comfort me. The sounds seemed to have awakened the maids,
too, for I could hear their bare feet pattering outside my door. I called to
them, and they came in, and when they saw what had happened, and what it was
that lay over me on the bed, they screamed out. The wind rushed in through the
broken window, and the door slammed to. They lifted off the body of my dear
mother, and laid her, covered up with a sheet, on the bed after I had got up.
They were all so frightened and nervous that I directed them to go to the dining
room and each have a glass of wine. The door flew open for an instant and closed
again. The maids shrieked, and then went in a body to the dining room, and I
laid what flowers I had on my dear mother's breast. When they were there I
remembered what Dr. Van Helsing had told me, but I didn't like to remove them,
and besides, I would have some of the servants to sit up with me now. I was
surprised that the maids did not come back. I called them, but got no answer, so
I went to the dining room to look for them.
<P>My heart sank when I saw what had happened. They all four lay helpless on the
floor, breathing heavily. The decanter of sherry was on the table half full, but
there was a queer, acrid smell about. I was suspicious, and examined the
decanter. It smelt of laudanum, and looking on the sideboard, I found that the
bottle which Mother's doctor uses for her-- oh! did use--was empty. What am I to
do? What am I to do? I am back in the room with Mother. I cannot leave her, and
I am alone, save for the sleeping servants, whom some one has drugged. Alone
with the dead! I dare not go out, for I can hear the low howl of the wolf
through the broken window.
<P>The air seems full of specks, floating and circling in the draught from the
window, and the lights burn blue and dim. What am I to do? God shield me from
harm this night! I shall hide this paper in my breast, where they shall find it
when they come to lay me out. My dear mother gone! It is time that I go too.
Goodbye, dear Arthur, if I should not survive this night. God keep you, dear,
and God help me!
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=axii>CHAPTER 12. DR. SEWARD'S
DIARY</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>18 September.--I drove at once to Hillingham and arrived early. Keeping my
cab at the gate, I went up the avenue alone. I knocked gently and rang as
quietly as possible, for I feared to disturb Lucy or her mother, and hoped to
only bring a servant to the door. After a while, finding no response, I knocked
and rang again, still no answer. I cursed the laziness of the servants that they
should lie abed at such an hour, for it was now ten o'clock, and so rang and
knocked again, but more impatiently, but still without response. Hitherto I had
blamed only the servants, but now a terrible fear began to assail me. Was this
desolation but another link in the chain of doom which seemed drawing tight
round us? Was it indeed a house of death to which I had come, too late? I know
that minutes, even seconds of delay, might mean hours of danger to Lucy, if she
had had again one of those frightful relapses, and I went round the house to try
if I could find by chance an entry anywhere.
<P>I could find no means of ingress. Every window and door was fastened and
locked, and I returned baffled to the porch. As I did so, I heard the rapid
pit-pat of a swiftly driven horse's feet. They stopped at the gate, and a few
seconds later I met Van Helsing running up the avenue. When he saw me, he gasped
out, "Then it was you, and just arrived. How is she? Are we too late? Did you
not get my telegram?"
<P>I answered as quickly and coherently as I could that I had only got his
telegram early in the morning, and had not a minute in coming here, and that I
could not make any one in the house hear me. He paused and raised his hat as he
said solemnly, "Then I fear we are too late. God's will be done!"
<P>With his usual recuperative energy, he went on, "Come. If there be no way
open to get in, we must make one. Time is all in all to us now."
<P>We went round to the back of the house, where there was a kitchen window. The
Professor took a small surgical saw from his case, and handing it to me, pointed
to the iron bars which guarded the window. I attacked them at once and had very
soon cut through three of them. Then with a long, thin knife we pushed back the
fastening of the sashes and opened the window. I helped the Professor in, and
followed him. There was no one in the kitchen or in the servants' rooms, which
were close at hand. We tried all the rooms as we went along, and in the dining
room, dimly lit by rays of light through the shutters, found four servant women
lying on the floor. There was no need to think them dead, for their stertorous
breathing and the acrid smell of laudanum in the room left no doubt as to their
condition.
<P>Van Helsing and I looked at each other, and as we moved away he said, "We can
attend to them later."Then we ascended to Lucy's room. For an instant or two we
paused at the door to listen, but there was no sound that we could hear. With
white faces and trembling hands, we opened the door gently, and entered the
room.
<P>How shall I describe what we saw? On the bed lay two women, Lucy and her
mother. The latter lay farthest in, and she was covered with a white sheet, the
edge of which had been blown back by the drought through the broken window,
showing the drawn, white, face, with a look of terror fixed upon it. By her side
lay Lucy, with face white and still more drawn. The flowers which had been round
her neck we found upon her mother's bosom, and her throat was bare, showing the
two little wounds which we had noticed before, but looking horribly white and
mangled. Without a word the Professor bent over the bed, his head almost
touching poor Lucy's breast. Then he gave a quick turn of his head, as of one
who listens, and leaping to his feet, he cried out to me, "It is not yet too
late! Quick! Quick! Bring the brandy!"
<P>I flew downstairs and returned with it, taking care to smell and taste it,
lest it, too, were drugged like the decanter of sherry which I found on the
table. The maids were still breathing, but more restlessly, and I fancied that
the narcotic was wearing off. I did not stay to make sure, but returned to Van
Helsing. He rubbed the brandy, as on another occasion, on her lips and gums and
on her wrists and the palms of her hands. He said to me, "I can do this, all
that can be at the present. You go wake those maids. Flick them in the face with
a wet towel, and flick them hard. Make them get heat and fire and a warm bath.
This poor soul is nearly as cold as that beside her. She will need be heated
before we can do anything more."
<P>I went at once, and found little difficulty in waking three of the women. The
fourth was only a young girl, and the drug had evidently affected her more
strongly so I lifted her on the sofa and let her sleep.
<P>The others were dazed at first, but as remembrance came back to them they
cried and sobbed in a hysterical manner. I was stern with them, however, and
would not let them talk. I told them that one life was bad enough to lose, and
if they delayed they would sacrifice Miss Lucy. So, sobbing and crying they went
about their way, half clad as they were, and prepared fire and water.
Fortunately, the kitchen and boiler fires were still alive, and there was no
lack of hot water. We got a bath and carried Lucy out as she was and placed her
in it. Whilst we were busy chafing her limbs there was a knock at the hall door.
One of the maids ran off, hurried on some more clothes, and opened it. Then she
returned and whispered to us that there was a gentleman who had come with a
message from Mr. Holmwood. I bade her simply tell him that he must wait, for we
could see no one now. She went away with the message, and, engrossed with our
work, I clean forgot all about him.
<P>I never saw in all my experience the Professor work in such deadly earnest. I
knew, as he knew, that it was a stand-up fight with death, and in a pause told
him so. He answered me in a way that I did not understand, but with the sternest
look that his face could wear.
<P>"If that were all, I would stop here where we are now, and let her fade away
into peace, for I see no light in life over her horizon." He went on with his
work with, if possible, renewed and more frenzied vigour.
<P>Presently we both began to be conscious that the heat was beginning to be of
some effect. Lucy's heart beat a trifle more audibly to the stethoscope, and her
lungs had a perceptible movement. Van Helsing's face almost beamed, and as we
lifted her from the bath and rolled her in a hot sheet to dry her he said to me,
"The first gain is ours! Check to the King!"
<P>We took Lucy into another room, which had by now been prepared, and laid her
in bed and forced a few drops of brandy down her throat. I noticed that Van
Helsing tied a soft silk handkerchief round her throat. She was still
unconscious, and was quite as bad as, if not worse than, we had ever seen her.
<P>Van Helsing called in one of the women, and told her to stay with her and not
to take her eyes off her till we returned, and then beckoned me out of the room.
<P>"We must consult as to what is to be done," he said as we descended the
stairs. In the hall he opened the dining room door, and we passed in, he closing
the door carefully behind him. The shutters had been opened, but the blinds were
already down, with that obedience to the etiquette of death which the British
woman of the lower classes always rigidly observes. The room was, therefore,
dimly dark. It was, however, light enough for our purposes. Van Helsing's
sternness was somewhat relieved by a look of perplexity. He was evidently
torturing his mind about something, so I waited for an instant, and he spoke.
<P>"What are we to do now? Where are we to turn for help? We must have another
transfusion of blood, and that soon, or that poor girl's life won't be worth an
hour's purchase. You are exhausted already. I am exhausted too. I fear to trust
those women, even if they would have courage to submit. What are we to do for
some one who will open his veins for her?"
<P>"What's the matter with me, anyhow?"
<P>The voice came from the sofa across the room, and its tones brought relief
and joy to my heart, for they were those of Quincey Morris.
<P>Van Helsing started angrily at the first sound, but his face softened and a
glad look came into his eyes as I cried out, "Quincey Morris!" and rushed
towards him with outstretched hands.
<P>"What brought you her?" I cried as our hands met.
<P>"I guess Art is the cause."
<P>He handed me a telegram.--`Have not heard from Seward for three days, and am
terribly anxious. Cannot leave. Father still in same condition. Send me word how
Lucy is. Do not delay.--Holmwood.'
<P>"I think I came just in the nick of time. You know you have only to tell me
what to do."
<P>Van Helsing strode forward, and took his hand, looking him straight in the
eyes as he said, "A brave man's blood is the best thing on this earth when a
woman is in trouble. You're a man and no mistake. Well, the devil may work
against us for all he's worth, but God sends us men when we want them."
<P>Once again we went through that ghastly operation. I have not the heart to go
through with the details. Lucy had got a terrible shock and it told on her more
than before, for though plenty of blood went into her veins, her body did not
respond to the treatment as well as on the other occasions. Her struggle back
into life was something frightful to see and hear. However, the action of both
heart and lungs improved, and Van Helsing made a sub-cutaneous injection of
morphia, as before, and with good effect. Her faint became a profound slumber.
The Professor watched whilst I went downstairs with Quincey Morris, and sent one
of the maids to pay off one of the cabmen who were waiting.
<P>I left Quincey lying down after having a glass of wine, and told the cook to
get ready a good breakfast. Then a thought struck me, and I went back to the
room where Lucy now was. When I came softly in, I found Van Helsing with a sheet
or two of note paper in his hand. He had evidently read it, and was thinking it
over as he sat with his hand to his brow. There was a look of grim satisfaction
in his face, as of one who has had a doubt solved. He handed me the paper saying
only, "It dropped from Lucy's breast when we carried her to the bath."
<P>When I had read it, I stook looking at the Professor, and after a pause asked
him, "In God's name, what does it all mean? Was she, or is she, mad, or what
sort of horrible danger is it?" I was so bewildered that I did not know what to
say more. Van Helsing put out his hand and took the paper, saying,
<P>"Do not trouble about it now. Forget if for the present. You shall know and
understand it all in good time, but it will be later. And now what is it that
you came to me to say?" This brought me back to fact, and I was all myself
again.
<P>"I came to speak about the certificate of death. If we do not act properly
and wisely, there may be an inquest, and that paper would have to be produced. I
am in hopes that we need have no inquest, for if we had it would surely kill
poor Lucy, if nothing else did. I know, and you know, and the other doctor who
attended her knows, that Mrs. Westenra had disease of the heart, and we can
certify that she died of it. Let us fill up the certificate at once, and I shall
take it myself to the registrar and go on to the undertaker."
<P>"Good, oh my friend John! Well thought of! Truly Miss Lucy, if she be sad in
the foes that beset her, is at least happy in the friends thatlove her. One,
two, three, all open their veins for her, besides one old man. Ah, yes, I know,
friend John. I am not blind! I love you all the more for it! Now go."
<P>In the hall I met Quincey Morris, with a telegram for Arthur telling him that
Mrs. Westenra was dead, that Lucy also had been ill, but was now going on
better, and that Van Helsing and I were with her. I told him where I was going,
and he hurried me out, but as I was going said,
<P>"When you come back, Jack, may I have two words with you all to ourselves?" I
nodded in reply and went out. I found no difficulty about the registration, and
arranged with the local undertaker to come up in the evening to measure for the
coffin and to make arrangements.
<P>When I got back Quincey was waiting for me. I told him I would see him as
soon as I knew about Lucy, and went up to her room. She was still sleeping, and
the Professor seemingly had not moved from his seat at her side. From his
putting his finger to his lips, I gathered that he expected her to wake before
long and was afraid of fore-stalling nature. So I went down to Quincey and took
him into the breakfast room, where the blinds were not drawn down, and which was
a little more cheerful, or rather less cheerless, than the other rooms.
<P>When we were alone, he said to me, "Jack Seward, I don't want to shove myself
in anywhere where I've no right to be, but this is no ordinary case. You know I
loved that girl and wanted to marry her, but although that's all past and gone,
I can't help feeling anxious about her all the same. What is it that's wrong
with her? The Dutchman, and a fine old fellow is is, I can see that, said that
time you two came into the room, that you must have another transfusion of
blood, and that both you and he were exhausted. Now I know well that you medical
men speak in camera, and that a man must not expect to know what they consult
about in private. But this is no common matter, and whatever it is, I have done
my part. Is not that so?"
<P>"That's so," I said, and he went on.
<P>"I take it that both you and Van Helsing had done already what I did today.
Is not that so?"
<P>"That's so."
<P>"And I guess Art was in it too. When I saw him four days ago down at his own
place he looked queer. I have not seen anything pulled down so quick since I was
on the Pampas and had a mare that I was fond of go to grass all in a night. One
of those big bats that they call vampires had got at her in the night, and what
with his gorge and the vein left open, there wasn't enough blood in her to let
her stand up, and I had to put a bullet through her as she lay. Jack, if you may
tell me without betraying confidence, Arthur was the first, is not that so?"
<P>As he spoke the poor fellow looked terribly anxious. He was in a torture of
suspense regarding the woman he loved, and his utter ignorance of the terrible
mystery which seemed to surround her intensified his pain. His very heart was
bleeding, and it took all the manhood of him, and there was a royal lot of it,
too, to keep him from breaking down. I paused before answering, for I felt that
I must not betray anything which the Professor wished kept secret, but already
he knew so much, and guessed so much, that there could be no reason for not
answering, so I answered in the same phrase.
<P>"That's so."
<P>"And how long has this been going on?"
<P>"About ten days."
<P>"Ten days! Then I guess, Jack Seward, that that poor pretty creature that we
all love has had put into her veins within that time the blood of four strong
men. Man alive, her whole body wouldn't hold it." Then coming close to me, he
spoke in a fierce half-whisper. "What took it out?"
<P>I shook my head. "That," I said, "is the crux. Van Helsing is simply frantic
about it, and I am at my wits' end. I can't even hazard a guess. There has been
a series of little circumstances which have thrown out all our calculations as
to Lucy being properly watched. But these shall not occur again. Here we stay
until all be well, or ill."
<P>Quincey held out his hand. "Count me in," he said. "You and the Dutchman will
tell me what to do, and I'll do it."
<P>When she woke late in the afternoon, Lucy's first movement was to feel in her
breast, and to my surprise, produced the paper which Van Helsing had given me to
read. The careful Professor had replaced it where it had come from, lest on
waking she should be alarmed. Her eyes then lit on Van Helsing and on me too,
and gladdened. Then she looked round the room, and seeing where she was,
shuddered. She gave a loud cry, and put her poor thin hands before her pale
face.
<P>We both understood what was meant, that she had realized to the full her
mother's death. So we tried what we could to comfort her. Doubtless sympathy
eased her somewhat, but she was very low in thought and spirit, and wept
silently and weakly for a long time. We told her that either or both of us would
now remain with her all the time, and that seemed to comfort her. Towards dusk
she fell into a doze. Here a very odd thing occurred. Whilst still asleep she
took the paper from her breast and tore it in two. Van Helsing stepped over and
took the pieces from her. All the same, however, she went on with the action of
tearing, as though the material were still in her hands. Finally she lifted her
hands and opened them as though scattering the fragments. Van Helsing seemed
surprised, and his brows gathered as if in thought, but he said nothing.
<P>19 September.--All last night she slept fitfully, being always afraid to
sleep, and something weaker when she woke from it. The Professor and I took in
turns to watch, and we never left her for a moment unattended. Quincey Morris
said nothing about his intention, but I knew that all night long he patrolled
round and round the house.
<P>When the day came, its searching light showed the ravages in poor Lucy's
strength. She was hardly able to turn her head, and the little nourishment which
she could take seemed to do her no good. At times she slept, and both Van
Helsing and I noticed the difference in her, between sleeping and waking. Whilst
asleep she looked stronger, although more haggard, and her breathing was softer.
Her open mouth showed the pale gums drawn back from the teeth, which looked
positively longer and sharper than usual. When she woke the softness of her eyes
evidently changed the expression, for she looked her own self, although a dying
one. In the afternoon she asked for Arthur, and we telegraphed for him. Quincey
went off to meet him at the station.
<P>When he arrived it was nearly six o'clock, and the sun was setting full and
warm, and the red light streamed in through the window and gave more color to
the pale cheeks. When he saw her, Arthur was simply choking with emotion, and
none of us could speak. In the hours that had passed, the fits of sleep, or the
comatose condition that passed for it, had grown more frequent, so that the
pauses when conversation was possible were shortened. Arthur's presence,
however, seemed to act as a stimulant. She rallied a little, and spoke to him
more brightly than she had done since we arrived. He too pulled himself
together, and spoke as cheerily as he could, so that the best was made of
everything.
<P>It is now nearly one o'clock, and he and Van Helsing are sitting with her. I
am to relieve them in a quarter of an hour, and I am entering this on Lucy's
phonograph. Until six o'clock they are to try to rest. I fear that tomorrow will
end our watching, for the shock has been too great. The poor child cannot rally.
God help us all.
<P><STRONG>LETTER MINA HARKER TO LUCY WESTENRA</STRONG>
<P>(Unopened by her)
<P>17 September
<P>My dearest Lucy,
<P>"It seems an age since I heard from you, or indeed since I wrote. You will
pardon me, I know, for all my faults when you have read all my budget of news.
Well, I got my husband back all right. When we arrived at Exeter there was a
carriage waiting for us, and in it, though he had an attack of gout, Mr.
Hawkins. He took us to his house, where there were rooms for us all nice and
comfortable, and we dined together. After dinner Mr. Hawkins said,
<P>" `My dears, I want to drink your health and prosperity, and may every
blessing attend you both. I know you both from children, and have, with love and
pride, seen you grow up. Now I want you to make your home here with me. I have
left to me neither chick nor child. All are gone, and in my will I have left you
everything.' I cried, Lucy dear, as Jonathan and the old man clasped hands. Our
evening was a very, very happy one.
<P>"So here we are, installed in this beautiful old house, and from both my
bedroom and the drawing room I can see the great elms of the cathedral close,
with their great black stems standing out against the old yellow stone of the
cathedral, and I can hear the rooks overhead cawing and cawing and chattering
and chattering and gossiping all day, after the manner of rooks--and humans. I
am busy, I need not tell you, arranging things and housekeeping. Jonathan and
Mr. Hawkins are busy all day, for now that Jonathan is a partner, Mr. Hawkins
wants to tell him all about the clients.
<P>"How is your dear mother getting on? I wish I could run up to town for a day
or two to see you, dear, but I, dare not go yet, with so much on my shoulders,
and Jonathan wants looking after still. He is beginning to put some flesh on his
bones again, but he was terribly weakened by the long illness. Even now he
sometimes starts out of his sleep in a sudden way and awakes all trembling until
I can coax him back to his usual placidity. However, thank God, these occasions
grow less frequent as the days go on, and they will in time pass away
altogether, I trust. And now I have told you my news, let me ask yours. When are
you to be married, and where, and who is to perform the ceremony, and what are
you to wear, and is it to be a public or private wedding? Tell me all about it,
dear, tell me all about everything, for there is nothing which interests you
which will not be dear to me. Jonathan asks me to send his `respectful duty',
but I do not think that is good enough from the junior partner of the important
firm Hawkins & Harker. And so, as you love me, and he loves me, and I love
you with all the moods and tenses of the verb, I send you simply his `love'
instead. Goodbye, my dearest Lucy, and blessings on you." Yours, Mina Harker
<P><STRONG>REPORT FROM PATRICK HENNESSEY, MD, MRCSLK, QCPI, ETC, ETC, TO JOHN
SEWARD, MD</STRONG>
<P>20 September
<P>My dear Sir:
<P>"In accordance with your wishes, I enclose report of the conditions of
everything left in my charge. With regard to patient, Renfield, there is more to
say. He has had another outbreak, which might have had a dreadful ending, but
which, as it fortunately happened, was unattended with any unhappy results. This
afternoon a carrier's cart with two men made a call at the empty house whose
grounds abut on ours, the house to which, you will remember, the patient twice
ran away. The men stopped at our gate to ask the porter their way, as they were
strangers.
<P>"I was myself looking out of the study window, having a smoke after dinner,
and saw one of them come up to the house. As he passed the window of Renfield's
room, the patient began to rate him from within, and called him all the foul
names he could lay his tongue to. The man, who seemed a decent fellow enough,
contented himself by telling him to `shut up for a foul-mouthed beggar', whereon
our man accused him of robbing him and wanting to murder him and said that he
would hinder him if he were to swing for it. I opened the window and signed to
the man not to notice, so he contented himself after looking the place over and
making up his mind as to what kind of place he had got to by saying, `Lor' bless
yer, sir, I wouldn't mind what was said to me in a bloomin' madhouse. I pity ye
and the guv'nor for havin' to live in the house with a wild beast like that.'
<P>"Then he asked his way civilly enough, and I told him where the gate of the
empty house was. He went away followed by threats and curses and revilings from
our man. I went down to see if I could make out any cause for his anger, since
he is usually such a well-behaved man, and except his violent fits nothing of
the kind had ever occurred. I found him, to my astonishment, quite composed and
most genial in his manner. I tried to get him to talk of the incident, but he
blandly asked me questions as to what I meant, and led me to believe that he was
completely oblivious of the affair. It was, I am sorry to say, however, only
another instance of his cunning, for within half an hour I heard of him again.
This time he had broken out through the window of his room, and was running down
the avenue. I called to the attendants to follow me, and ran after him, for I
feared he was intent on some mischief. My fear was justified when I saw the same
cart which had passed before coming down the road, having on it some great
wooden boxes. The men were wiping their foreheads, and were flushed in the face,
as if with violent exercise. Before I could get up to him, the patient rushed at
them, and pulling one of them off the cart, began to knock his head against the
ground. If I had not seized him just at the moment, I believe he would have
killed the man there and then. The other fellow jumped down and struck him over
the head with the butt end of his heavy whip. It was a horrible blow, but he did
not seem to mind it, but seized him also, and struggled with the three of us,
pulling us to and fro as if we were kittens. You know I am no lightweight, and
the others were both burly men. At first he was silent in his fighting, but as
we began to master him, and the attendants were putting a strait waistcoat on
him, he began to shout, `I'll frustrate them! They shan't rob me! They shan't
murder me by inches! I'll fight for my Lord and Master!'and all sorts of similar
incoherent ravings. It was with very considerable difficulty that they got him
back to the house and put him in the padded room. One of the attendants, Hardy,
had a finger broken. However, I set it all right, and he is going on well.
<P>"The two carriers were at first loud in their threats of actions for damages,
and promised to rain all the penalties of the law on us. Their threats were,
however, mingled with some sort of indirect apology for the defeat of the two of
them by a feeble madman. They said that if it had not been for the way their
strength had been spent in carrying and raising the heavy boxes to the cart they
would have made short work of him. They gave as another reason for their defeat
the extraordinary state of drouth to which they had been reduced by the dusty
nature of their occupation and the reprehensible distance from the scene of
their labors of any place of public entertainment. I quite understood their
drift, and after a stiff glass of strong grog, or rather more of the same, and
with each a sovereign in hand, they made light of the attack, and swore that
they would encounter a worse madman any day for the pleasure of meeting so
`bloomin' good a bloke' as your correspondent. I took their names and addresses,
in case they might be needed. They are as follows: Jack Smollet, of Dudding's
Rents, King George's Road, Great Walworth, and Thomas Snelling, Peter Farley's
Row, Guide Court, Bethnal Green. They are both in the employment of Harris &
Sons, Moving and Shipment Company, Orange Master's Yard, Soho.
<P>"I shall report to you any matter of interest occurring here, and shall wire
you at once if there is anything of importance.
<P>"Believe me, dear Sir,
<P>"Yours faithfully,
<P>"Patrick Hennessey."
<P>LETTER, MINA HARKER TO LUCY WESTENRA (Unopened by her)
<P>18 September
<P>"My dearest Lucy,
<P>"Such a sad blow has befallen us. Mr. Hawkins has died very suddenly. Some
may not think it so sad for us, but we had both come to so love him that it
really seems as though we had lost a father. I never knew either father or
mother, so that the dear old man's death is a real blow to me. Jonathan is
greatly distressed. It is not only that he feels sorrow, deep sorrow, for the
dear, good man who has befriended him all his life, and now at the end has
treated him like his own son and left him a fortune which to people of our
modest bringing up is wealth beyond the dream of avarice, but Jonathan feels it
on another account. He says the amount of responsibility which it puts upon him
makes him nervous. He begins to doubt himself. I try to cheer him up, and my
belief in him helps him to have a belief in himself. But it is here that the
grave shock that he experienced tells upon him the most. Oh, it is too hard that
a sweet, simple, noble, strong nature such as his, a nature which enabled him by
our dear, good friend's aid to rise from clerk to master in a few years, should
be so injured that the very essence of its strength is gone. Forgive me, dear,
if I worry you with my troubles in the midst of your own happiness, but Lucy
dear, I must tell someone, for the strain of keeping up a brave and cheerful
appearance to Jonathan tries me, and I have no one here that I can confide in. I
dread coming up to London, as we must do that day after tomorrow, for poor Mr.
Hawkins left in his will that he was to be buried in the grave with his father.
As there are no relations at all, Jonathan will have to be chief mourner. I
shall try to run over to see you, dearest, if only for a few minutes. Forgive me
for troubling you. With all blessings,
<P>"Your loving
<P>Mina Harker"
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD' DIARY</STRONG>
<P>20 September.--Only resolution and habit can let me make an entry tonight. I
am too miserable, too low spirited, too sick of the world and all in it,
including life itself, that I would not care if I heard this moment the flapping
of the wings of the angel of death. And he has been flapping those grim wings to
some purpose of late, Lucy's mother and Arthur's father, and now. . . Let me get
on with my work.
<P>I duly relieved Van Helsing in his watch over Lucy. We wanted Arthur to go to
rest also, but he refused at first. It was only when I told him that we should
want him to help us during the day, and that we must not all break down for want
of rest, lest Lucy should suffer, that he agreed to go.
<P>Van Helsing was very kind to him. "Come, my child," he said. "Come with me.
You are sick and weak, and have had much sorrow and much mental pain, as well as
that tax on your strength that we know of. You must not be alone, for to be
alone is to be full of fears and alarms. Come to the drawing room, where there
is a big fire, and there are two sofas. You shall lie on one, and I on the
other, and our sympathy will be comfort to each other, even though we do not
speak, and even if we sleep."
<P>Arthur went off with him, casting back a longing look on Lucy's face, which
lay in her pillow, almost whiter than the lawn. She lay quite still, and I
looked around the room to see that all was as it should be. I could see that the
Professor had carried out in this room, as in the other, his purpose of using
the garlic. The whole of the window sashes reeked with it, and round Lucy's
neck, over the silk handkerchief which Van Helsing made her keep on, was a rough
chaplet of the same odorous flowers.
<P>Lucy was breathing somewhat stertorously, and her face was at its worst, for
the open mouth showed the pale gums. Her teeth, in the dim, uncertain light,
seemed longer and sharper than they had been in the morning. In particular, by
some trick of the light, the canine teeth looked longer and sharper than the
rest.
<P>I sat down beside her, and presently she moved uneasily. At the same moment
there came a sort of dull flapping or buffeting at the window. I went over to it
softly, and peeped out by the corner of the blind. There was a full moonlight,
and I could see that the noise was made by a great bat, which wheeled around,
doubtless attracted by the light, although so dim, and every now and again
struck the window with its wings. When I came back to my seat, I found that Lucy
had moved slightly, and had torn away the garlic flowers from her throat. I
replaced them as well as I could, and sat watching her.
<P>Presently she woke, and I gave her food, as Van Helsing had prescribed. She
took but a little, and that languidly. There did not seem to be with her now the
unconscious struggle for life and strength that had hitherto so marked her
illness. It struck me as curious that the moment she became conscious she
pressed the garlic flowers close to her. It was certainly odd that whenever she
got into that lethargic state, with the stertorous breathing, she put the
flowers from her, but that when she waked she clutched them close, There was no
possibility of making amy mistake about this, for in the long hours that
followed, she had many spells of sleeping and waking and repeated both actions
many times.
<P>At six o'clock Van Helsing came to relieve me. Arthur had then fallen into a
doze, and he mercifully let him sleep on. When he saw Lucy's face I could hear
the sissing indraw of breath, and he said to me in a sharp whisper."Draw up the
blind. I want light!" Then he bent down, and, with his face almost touching
Lucy's, examined her carefully. He removed the flowers and lifted the silk
handkerchief from her throat. As he did so he started back and I could hear his
ejaculation, "Mein Gott!" as it was smothered in his throat. I bent over and
looked, too, and as I noticed some queer chill came over me. The wounds on the
throat had absolutely disappeared.
<P>For fully five minutes Van Helsing stood looking at her, with his face at its
sternest. Then he turned to me and said calmly, "She is dying. It will not be
long now. It will be much difference, mark me, whether she dies conscious or in
her sleep. Wake that poor boy, and let him come and see the last. He trusts us,
and we have promised him."
<P>I went to the dining room and waked him. He was dazed for a moment, but when
he saw the sunlight streaming in through the edges of the shutters he thought he
was late, and expressed his fear. I assured him that Lucy was still asleep, but
told him as gently as i could that both Van Helsing and I feared that the end
was near. He covered his face with his hands, and slid down on his knees by the
sofa, where he remained, perhaps a minute, with his head buried, praying, whilst
his shoulders shook with grief. I took him by the hand and raised him up.
"Come," I said, "my dear old fellow, summon all your fortitude. It will be best
and easiest for her."
<P>When we came into Lucy's room I could see that Van Helsing had, with his
usual forethought, been putting matters straight and making everything look as
pleasing as possible. He had even brushed Lucy's hair, so that it lay on the
pillow in its usual sunny ripples. When we came into the room she opened her
eyes, and seeing him, whispered softly, "Arthur! Oh, my love, I am so glad you
have come!"
<P>He was stooping to kiss her, when Van Helsing motioned him back. "No," he
whispered, "not yet! Hold her hand, it will comfort her more."
<P>So Arthur took her hand and knelt beside her, and she looked her best, with
all the soft lines matching the angelic beauty of her eyes. Then gradually her
eyes closed, and she sank to sleep. For a little bit her breast heaved softly,
and her breath came and went like a tired child's.
<P>And then insensibly there came the strange change which I had noticed in the
night. Her breathing grew stertorous, the mouth opened, and the pale gums, drawn
back, made the teeth look longer and sharper than ever. In a sort of
sleep-waking, vague, unconscious way she opened her eyes, which were now dull
and hard at once, and said in a soft, voluptuous voice, such as I had never
heard from her lips, "Arthur! Oh, my love, I am so glad you have come! Kiss me!"
<P>Arthur bent eagerly over to kiss her, but at that instant Van Helsing, who,
like me, had been startled by her voice, swooped upon him, and catching him by
the neck with both hands, dragged him back with a fury of strength which I never
thought he could have possessed, and actually hurled him almost across the room.
<P>"Not on your life!" he said, "not for your living soul and hers!" And he
stood between them like a lion at bay.
<P>Arthur was so taken aback that he did not for a moment know what to do or
say, and before any impulse of violence could seize him he realized the place
and the occasion, and stood silent, waiting.
<P>I kept my eyes fixed on Lucy, as did Van Helsing, and we saw a spasm as of
rage flit like a shadow over her face. The sharp teeth clamped together. Then
her eyes closed, and she breathed heavily.
<P>Very shortly after she opened her eyes in all their softness, and putting out
her poor, pale, thin hand, took Van Helsing's great brown one, drawing it close
to her, she kissed it. "My true friend," she said, in a faint voice, but with
untellable pathos, "My true friend, and his! Oh, guard him, and give me peace!"
<P>"I swear it!" he said solemnly, kneeling beside her and holding up his hand,
as one who registers an oath. Then he turned to Arthur, and said to him, "Come,
my child, take her hand in yours, and kiss her on the forehead, and only once."
<P>Their eyes met instead of their lips, and so they parted. Lucy's eyes closed,
and Van Helsing, who had been watching closely, took Arthur's arm, and drew him
away.
<P>And then Lucy's breathing became stertorous again, and all at once it ceased.
<P>"It is all over," said Van Helsing. "She is dead!"
<P>I took Arthur by the arm, and led him away to the drawing room, where he sat
down, and covered his face with his hands, sobbing in a way that nearly broke me
down to see.
<P>I went back to the room, and found Van Helsing looking at poor Lucy, and his
face was sterner than eve. Some change had come over her body. Death had given
back part of her beauty, for her brow and cheeks had recovered some of their
flowing lines. Even the lips had lost their deadly pallor. It was as if the
blood, no longer needed for the working of the heart, had gone to make the
harshness of death as little rude as might be.
<P>"We thought her dying whilst she slept, And sleeping when she died."
<P>I stood beside Van Helsing, and said, "Ah well, poor girl, there is peace for
her at last. It is the end!"
<P>He turned to me, and said with grave solemnity, "Not so, alas! Not so. It is
only the beginning!"
<P>When I asked him what he meant, he only shook his head and answered, "We can
do nothing as yet. Wait and see."
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=axiii>CHAPTER 13. DR. SEWARD'S
DIARY--cont.</A></CENTER></STRONG>
<P>The funeral was arranged for the next succeeding day, so that Lucy and her
mother might be buried together. I attended to all the ghastly formalities, and
the urbane undertaker proved that his staff was afflicted, or blessed, with
something of his own obsequious suavity. Even the woman who performed the last
offices for the dead remarked to me, in a confidential, brother-professional
way, when she had come out from the death chamber,
<P>"She makes a very beautiful corpse, sir. It's quite a privilege to attend on
her. It's not too much to say that she will do credit to our establishment!"
<P>I noticed that Van Helsing never kept far away. This was possible from the
disordered state of things in the household. There were no relatives at hand,
and as Arthur had to be back the next day to attend at his father's funeral, we
were unable to notify any one who should have been bidden. Under the
circumstances, Van Helsing and I took it upon ourselves to examine papers, etc.
He insisted upon looking over Lucy's papers himself. I asked him why, for I
feared that he, being a foreigner, might not be quite aware of English legal
requirements, and so might in ignorance make some unnecessary trouble.
<P>He answered me, "I know, I know. You forget that I am a lawyer as well as a
doctor. But this is not altogether for the law. You knew that, when you avoided
the coroner. I have more than him to avoid. There may be papers more, such as
this."
<P>As he spoke he took from his pocket book the memorandum which had been in
Lucy's breast, and which she had torn in her sleep.
<P>"When you find anything of the solicitor who is for the late Mrs. Westenra,
seal all her papers, and write him tonight. For me, I watch here in the room and
in Miss Lucy's old room all night, and I myself search for what may be. It is
not well that her very thoughts go into the hands of strangers."
<P>I went on with my part of the work, and in another half hour had found the
name and address of Mrs. Westenra's solicitor and had written to him. All the
poor lady's papers were in order. Explicit directions regarding the place of
burial were given. I had hardly sealed the letter, when, to my surprise, Van
Helsing walked into the room, saying,
<P>"Can I help you friend John? I am free, and if I may, my service is to you."
<P>"Have you got what you looked for?" I asked.
<P>To which he replied, "I did not look for any specific thing. I only hoped to
find, and find I have, all that there was, only some letters and a few
memoranda, and a diary new begun. But I have them here, and we shall for the
present say nothing of them. I shall see that poor lad tomorrow evening, and,
with his sanction, I shall use some."
<P>When we had finished the work in hand, he said to me, "And now, friend John,
I think we may to bed. We want sleep, both you and I, and rest to recuperate.
Tomorrow we shall have much to do, but for the tonight there is no need of us.
Alas!"
<P>Before turning in we went to look at poor Lucy. The undertaker had certainly
done his work well, for the room was turned into a small chapelle ardente. There
was a wilderness of beautiful white flowers, and death was made as little
repulsive as might be. The end of the winding sheet was laid over the face. When
the Professor bent over and turned it gently back, we both started at the beauty
before us. The tall wax candles showing a sufficient light to note it well. All
Lucy's loveliness had come back to her in death, and the hours that had passed,
instead of leaving traces of `decay's effacing fingers', had but restored the
beauty of life, till positively I could not believe my eyes that I was looking
at a corpse.
<P>The Professor looked sternly grave. He had not loved her as I had, and there
was no need for tears in his eyes. He said to me, "Remain till I return," and
left the room. He came back with a handful of wild garlic from the box waiting
in the hall, but which had not been opened, and placed the flowers amongst the
others on and around the bed. Then he took from his neck, inside his collar, a
little gold crucifix, and placed it over the mouth. He restored the sheet to its
place, and we came away.
<P>I was undressing in my own room, when, with a premonitory tap at the door, he
entered, and at once began to speak.
<P>"Tomorrow I want you to bring me, before night, a set of post-mortem knives."
<P>"Must we make an autopsy?" I asked.
<P>"Yes and no. I want to operate, but not what you think. Let me tell you now,
but not a word to another. I want to cut off her head and take out her heart.
Ah! You a surgeon, and so shocked! You, whom I have seen with no tremble of hand
or heart, do operations of life and death that make the rest shudder. Oh, but I
must not forget, my dear friend John, that you loved her, and I have not
forgotten it for is I that shall operate, and you must not help. I would like to
do it tonight, but for Arthur I must not. He will be free after his father's
funeral tomorrow, and he will want to see her, to see it. Then, when she is
coffined ready for the next day, you and I shall come when all sleep. We shall
unscrew the coffin lid, and shall do our operation, and then replace all, so
that none know, save we alone."
<P>"But why do it at all? The girl is dead. Why mutilate her poor body without
need? And if there is no necessity for a post-mortem and nothing to gain by it,
no good to her, to us, to science, to human knowledge, why do it? Without such
it is monstrous."
<P>For answer he put his hand on my shoulder, and said, with infinite
tenderness, "Friend John, I pity your poor bleeding heart, and I love you the
more because it does so bleed. If I could, I would take on myself the burden
that you do bear. But there are things that you know not, but that you shall
know, and bless me for knowing, though they are not pleasant things. John, my
child, you have been my friend now many years, and yet did you ever know me to
do any without good cause? I may err, I am but man, but I believe in all I do.
Was it not for these causes that you send for me when the great trouble came?
Yes! Were you not amazed, nay horrified, when I would not let Arthur kiss his
love, though she was dying, and snatched him away by all my strength? Yes! And
yet you saw how she thanked me, with her so beautiful dying eyes, her voice,
too, so weak, and she kiss my rough old hand and bless me? Yes! And did you not
hear me swear promise to her, that so she closed her eyes grateful? Yes!
<P>"Well, I have good reason now for all I want to do. You have for many years
trust me. You have believe me weeks past, when there be things so strange that
you might have well doubt. Believe me yet a little, friend John. If you trust me
not, then I must tell what I think, and that is not perhaps well. And if I work,
as work I shall, no matter trust or no trust, without my friend trust in me, I
work with heavy heart and feel, oh so lonely when I want all help and courage
that may be!" He paused a moment and went on solemnly, "Friend John, there are
strange and terrible days before us. Let us not be two, but one, that so we work
to a good end. Will you not have faith in me?"
<P>I took his hand, and promised him. I held my door open as he went away, and
watched him go to his room and close the door. As I stood without moving, I saw
one of the maids pass silently along the passage, she had her back to me, so did
not see me, and go into the room where Lucy lay. The sight touched me. Devotion
is so rare, and we are so grateful to those who show it unasked to those we
love. Here was a poor girl putting aside the terrors which she naturally had of
death to go watch alone by the bier of the mistress whom she loved, so that the
poor clay might not be lonely till laid to eternal rest.
<P>I must have slept long and soundly, for it was broad daylight when Van
Helsing waked me by coming into my room. He came over to my bedside and said,
"You need not trouble about the knives. We shall not do it."
<P>"Why not?" I asked. For his solemnity of the night before had greatly
impressed me.
<P>"Because," he said sternly, "it is too late, or too early. See!" Here he held
up the little golden crucifix.
<P>"This was stolen in the night."
<P>"How stolen, "I asked in wonder, "since you have it now?"
<P>"Because I get it back from the worthless wretch who stole it, from the woman
who robbed the dead and the living. Her punishment will surely come, but not
through me. She knew not altogether what she did, and thus unknowing, she only
stole. Now we must wait." He went away on the word, leaving me with a new
mystery to think of, a new puzzle to grapple with.
<P>The forenoon was a dreary time, but at noon the solicitor came, Mr. Marquand,
of Wholeman, Sons, Marquand & Lidderdale. He was very genial and very
appreciative of what we had done, and took off our hands all cares as to
details. During lunch he told us that Mrs. Westenra had for some time expected
sudden death from her heart, and had put her affairs in absolute order. He
informed us that, with the exception of a certain entailed property of Lucy's
father which now, in default of direct issue, went back to a distant branch of
the family, the whole estate, real and personal, was left absolutely to Arthur
Holmwood. When he had told us so much he went on,
<P>"Frankly we did our best to prevent such a testamentary disposition, and
pointed out certain contingencies that might leave her daughter either penniless
or not so free as she should be to act regarding a matrimonial alliance. Indeed,
we pressed the matter so far that we almost came into collision, for she asked
us if we were or were not prepared to carry out her wishes. Of course, we had
then no alternative but to accept. We were right in principle, and ninety-nine
times out of a hundred we should have proved, by the logic of events, the
accuracy of our judgment.
<P>"Frankly, however, I must admit that in this case any other form of
disposition would have rendered impossible the carrying out of her wishes. For
by her predeceasing her daughter the latter would have come into possession of
the property, and, even had she only survived her mother by five minutes, her
property would, in case there were no will, and a will was a practical
impossibility in such a case, have been treated at her decease as under
intestacy. In which case Lord Godalming, though so dear a friend, would have had
no claim in the world. And the inheritors, being remote, would not be likely to
abandon their just rights, for sentimental reasons regarding an entire stranger.
I assure you, my dear sirs, I am rejoiced at the result, perfectly rejoiced."
<P>He was a good fellow, but his rejoicing at the one little part, in which he
was officially interested, of so great a tragedy, was an object-lesson in the
limitations of sympathetic understanding.
<P>He did not remain long, but said he would look in later in the day and see
Lord Godalming. His coming, however, had been a certain comfort to us, since it
assured us that we should not have to dread hostile criticism as to any of our
acts. Arthur was expected at five o'clock, so a little before that time we
visited the death chamber. It was so in very truth, for now both mother and
daughter lay in it. The undertaker, true to his craft, had made the best display
he could of his goods, and there was a mortuary air about the place that lowered
our spirits at once.
<P>Van Helsing ordered the former arrangement to be adhered to, explaining that,
as Lord Godalming was coming very soon, it would be less harrowing to his
feelings to see all that was left of his fiancee quite alone.
<P>The undertaker seemed shocked at his own stupidity and exerted himself to
restore things to the condition in which we left them the night before, so that
when Arthur came such shocks to his feelings as we could avoid were saved.
<P>Poor fellow! He looked desperately sad and broken. Even his stalwart manhood
seemed to have shrunk somewhat under the strain of his much-tried emotions. He
had, I knew, been very genuinely and devotedly attached to his father, and to
lose him, and at such a time, was a bitter blow to him. With me he was warm as
ever, and to Van Helsing he was sweetly courteous. But I could not help seeing
that there was some constraint with him. The professor noticed it too, and
motioned me to bring him upstairs. I did so, and left him at the door of the
room, as I felt he would like to be quite alone with her, but he took my arm and
led me in, saying huskily,
<P>"You loved her too, old fellow. She told me all about it, and there was no
friend had a closer place in her heart than you. I don't know how to thank you
for all you have done for her. I can't think yet. . ."
<P>Here he suddenly broke down, and threw his arms round my shoulders and laid
his head on my breast, crying, "Oh, Jack! Jack! What shall I do? The whole of
life seems gone from me all at once, and there is nothing in the wide world for
me to live for."
<P>I comforted him as well as I could. In such cases men do not need much
expression. A grip of the hand, the tightening of an arm over the shoulder, a
sob in unison, are expressions of sympathy dear to a man's heart. I stood still
and silent till his sobs died away, and then I said softly to him, "Come and
look at her."
<P>Together we moved over to the bed, and I lifted the lawn from her face. God!
How beautiful she was. Every hour seemed to be enhancing her loveliness. It
frightened and amazed me somewhat. And as for Arthur, he fell to trembling, and
finally was shaken with doubt as with an ague. At last, after a long pause, he
said to me in a faint whisper, "Jack, is she really dead?"
<P>I assured him sadly that it was so, and went on to suggest, for I felt that
such a horrible doubt should not have life for a moment longer than I could
help, that it often happened that after death faces become softened and even
resolved into their youthful beauty, that this was especially so when death had
been preceded by any acute or prolonged suffering. I seemed to quite do away
with any doubt, and after kneeling beside the couch for a while and looking at
her lovingly and long, he turned aside. I told him that that must be goodbye, as
the coffin had to be prepared, so he went back and took her dead hand in his and
kissed it, and bent over and kissed her forehead. He came away, fondly looking
back over his shoulder at her as he came.
<P>I left him in the drawing room, and told Van Helsing that he had said
goodbye, so the latter went to the kitchen to tell the undertaker's men to
proceed with the preperations and to screw up the coffin. When he came out of
the room again I told him of Arthur's question, and he replied, "I am not
surprised. Just now I doubted for a moment myself!"
<P>We all dined together, and I could see that poor Art was trying to make the
best of things. Van Helsing had been silent all dinner time, but when we had lit
our cigars he said, "Lord. . ., but Arthur interrupted him.
<P>"No, no, not that, for God's sake! Not yet at any rate. Forgive me, sir. I
did not mean to speak offensively. It is only because my loss is so recent."
<P>The Professor answered very sweetly, "I only used that name because I was in
doubt. I must not call you `Mr.' and I have grown to love you, yes, my dear boy,
to love you, as Arthur."
<P>Arthur held out his hand, and took the old man's warmly. "Call me what you
will," he said. "I hope I may always have the title of a friend. And let me say
that I am at a loss for words to thank you for your goodness to my poor dear."
He paused a moment, and went on, "I know that she understood your goodness even
better than I do. And if I was rude or in any way wanting at that time you acted
so, you remember,"-- the Professor nodded--"You must forgive me."
<P>He answered with a grave kindness, "I know it was hard for you to quite trust
me then, for to trust such violence needs to understand, and I take it that you
do not, that you cannot, trust me now, for you do not yet understand. And there
may be more times when I shall want you to trust when you cannot, and may not,
and must not yet understand. But the time will come when your trust shall be
whole and complete in me, and when you shall understand as though the sunlight
himself shone through. Then you shall bless me from first to last for your own
sake, and for the sake of others, and for her dear sake to whom I swore to
protect."
<P>"And indeed, indeed, sir," said Arthur warmly. "I shall in all ways trust
you. I know and believe you have a very noble heart, and you are Jack's friend,
and you were hers. You shall do what you like."
<P>The Professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as though about to speak,
and finally said, "May I ask you something now?"
<P>"Certainly."
<P>"You know that Mrs. Westenra left you all her property?"
<P>"No, poor dear. I never thought of it."
<P>"And as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with it as you will. I want
you to give me permission to read all Miss Lucy's papers and letters. Believe
me, it is no idle curiosity. I have a motive of which, be sure, she would have
approved. I have them all here. I took them before we knew that all was yours,
so that no strange hand might touch them, no strange eye look through words into
her soul. I shall keep them, if I may. Even you may not see them yet, but I
shall keep them safe. No word shall be lost, and in the good time I shall give
them back to you. It is a hard thing that I ask, but you will do it, will you
not, for Lucy's sake?"
<P>Arthur spoke out heartily, like his old self, "Dr. Van Helsing, you may do
what you will. I feel that in saying this I am doing what my dear one would have
approved. I shall not trouble you with questions till the time comes."
<P>The old Professor stood up as he said solemnly, "And you are right. There
will be pain for us all, but it will not be all pain, nor will this pain be the
last. We and you too, you most of all, dear boy, will have to pass through the
bitter water before we reach the sweet. But we must be brave of heart and
unselfish, and do our duty, and all will be well!"
<P>I slept on a sofa in Arthur's room that night. Van Helsing did not go to bed
at all. He went to and fro, as if patroling the house, and was never out of
sight of the room where Lucy lay in her coffin, strewn with the wild garlic
flowers, which sent through the odor of lily and rose, a heavy, overpowering
smell into the night.
<P><STRONG>MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>22 September.--In the train to Exeter. Jonathan sleeping. It seems only
yesterday that the last entry was made, and yet how much between then, in Whitby
and all the world before me, Jonathan away and no news of him, and now, married
to Jonathan, Jonathan a solicitor, a partner, rich, master of his business, Mr.
Hawkins dead and buried, and Jonathan with another attack that may harm him.
Some day he may ask me about it. Down it all goes. I am rusty in my shorthand,
see what unexpected prosperity does for us, so it may be as well to freshen it
up again with an exercise anyhow.
<P>The service was very simple and very solemn. There were only ourselves and
the servants there, one or two old friends of his from Exeter, his London agent,
and a gentleman representing Sir John Paxton, the President of the Incorporated
Law Society. Jonathan and I stood hand in hand, and we felt that our best and
dearest friend was gone from us.
<P>We came back to town quietly, taking a bus to Hyde Park Corner. Jonathan
thought it would interest me to go into the Row for a while, so we sat down. But
there were very few people there, and it was sad-looking and desolate to see so
many empty chairs. It made us think of the empty chair at home. So we got up and
walked down Piccadilly. Jonathan was holding me by the arm, the way he used to
in the old days before I went to school. I felt it very improper, for you can't
go on for some years teaching etiquette and decorum to other girls without the
pedantry of it biting into yourself a bit. But it was Jonathan, and he was my
husband, and we didn't know anybody who saw us, and we didn't care if they did,
so on we walked. I was looking at a very beautiful girl, in a big cart-wheel
hat, sitting in a victoria outside Guiliano's, when I felt Jonathan clutch my
arm so tight that he hurt me, and he said under his breath, "My God!"
<P>I am always anxious about Jonathan, for I fear that some nervous fit may
upset him again. So I turned to him quickly, and asked him what it was that
disturbed him.
<P>He was very pale, and his eyes seemed bulging out as, half in terror and half
in amazement, he gazed at a tall, thin man, with a beaky nose and black
moustache and pointed beard, who was also observing the pretty girl. He was
looking at her so hard that he did not see either of us, and so I had a good
view of him. His face was not a good face. It was hard, and cruel, and sensual,
and big white teeth, that looked all the whiter because his lips were so red,
were pointed like an animal's. Jonathan kept staring at him, till I was afraid
he would notice. I feared he might take it ill, he looked so fierce and nasty. I
asked Jonathan why he was disturbed, and he answered, evidently thinking that I
knew as much about it as he did, "Do you see who it is?"
<P>"No, dear," I said. "I don't know him, who is it?" His answer seemed to shock
and thrill me, for it was said as if he did not know that it was me, Mina, to
whom he was speaking. "It is the man himself!"
<P>The poor dear was evidently terrified at something, very greatly terrified. I
do believe that if he had not had me to lean on and to support him he would have
sunk down. He kept staring. A man came out of the shop with a small parcel, and
gave it to the lady, who then drove off. Th e dark man kept his eyes fixed on
her, and when the carriage moved up Piccadilly he followed in the same
direction, and hailed a hansom. Jonathan kept looking after him, and said, as if
to himself,
<P>"I believe it is the Count, but he has grown young. My God, if this be so!
Oh, my God! My God! If only I knew! If only I knew!" He was distressing himself
so much that I feared to keep his mind on the subject by asking him any
questions, so I remained silent. I drew away quietly, and he, holding my arm,
came easily. We walked a little further, and then went in and sat for a while in
the Green Park. It was a hot day for autumn, and there was a comfortable seat in
a shady place. After a few minutes' staring at nothing, Jonathan's eyes closed,
and he went quickly into a sleep, with his head on my shoulder. I thought it was
the best thing for him, so did not disturb him. In about twenty minutes he woke
up, and said to me quite cheerfully,
<P>"Why, Mina, have I been asleep! Oh, do forgive me for being so rude. Come,
and we'll have a cup of tea somewhere."
<P>He had evidently forgotten all about the dark stranger, as in his illness he
had forgotten all that this episode had reminded him of. I don't like this
lapsing into forgetfulness. It may make or continue some injury to the brain. I
must not ask him, for fear I shall do more harm than good, but I must somehow
learn the facts of his journey abroad. The time is come, I fear, when I must
open the parcel, and know what is written. Oh, Jonathan, you will, I know,
forgive me if I do wrong, but it is for your own dear sake.
<P>Later.--A sad homecoming in every way, the house empty of the dear soul who
was so good to us. Jonathan still pale and dizzy under a slight relapse of his
malady, and now a telegram from Van Helsing, whoever he may be. "You will be
grieved to hear that Mrs. Westenra died five days ago, and that Lucy died the
day before yesterday. They were both buried today."
<P>Oh, what a wealth of sorrow in a few words! Poor Mrs. Westenra! Poor Lucy!
Gone, gone, never to return to us! And poor, poor Arthur, to have lost such a
sweetness out of his life! God help us all to bear our troubles.
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY-CONT.</STRONG>
<P>22 September.--It is all over. Arthur has gone back to Ring, and has taken
Quincey Morris with him. What a fine fellow is Quincey! I believe in my heart of
hearts that he suffered as much about Lucy's death as any of us, but he bore
himself through it like a moral Viking. If America can go on breeding men like
that, she will be a power in the world indeed. Van Helsing is lying down, having
a rest preparatory to his journey. He goes to Amsterdam tonight, but says he
returns tomorrow night, that he only wants to make some arrangements which can
only be made personally. He is to stop with me then, if he can. He says he has
work to do in London which may take him some time. Poor old fellow! I fear that
the strain of the past week has broken down even his iron strength. All the time
of the burial he was, I could see, putting some terrible restraint on himself.
When it was all over, we were standing beside Arthur, who, poor fellow, was
speaking of his part in the operation where his blood had been transfused to his
Lucy's veins. I could see Van Helsing's face grow white and purple by turns.
Arthur was saying that he felt since then as if they two had been really
married, and that she was his wife in the sight of God. None of us said a word
of the other operations, and none of us ever shall. Arthur and Quincey went away
together to the station, and Van Helsing and I came on here. The moment we were
alone in the carriage he gave way to a regular fit of hysterics. He has denied
to me since that it was hysterics, and insisted that it was only his sense of
humor asserting itself under very terrible conditions. He laughed till he cried,
and I had to draw down the blinds lest any one should see us and misjudge. And
then he cried, till he laughed again, and laughed and cried together, just as a
woman does. I tried to be stern with him, as one is to a woman under the
circumstances, but it had no effect. Men and women are so different in
manifestations of nervous strength or weakness! Then when his face grew grave
and stern again I asked him why his mirth, and why at such a time. His reply was
in a way characteristic of him, for it was logical and forceful and mysterious.
He said,
<P>"Ah, you don't comprehend, friend John. Do not think that I am not sad,
though I laugh. See, I have cried even when the laugh did choke me. But no more
think that I am all sorry when I cry, for the laugh he come just the same. Keep
it always with you that laughter who knock at your door and say, `May I come
in?' is not true laughter. No! He is a king, and he come when and how he like.
He ask no person, he choose no time of suitability. He say, `I am here.' Behold,
in example I grieve my heart out for that so sweet young girl. I give my blood
for her, though I am old and worn. I give my time, my skill, my sleep. I let my
other sufferers want that she may have all. And yet I can laugh at her very
grave, laugh when the clay from the spade of the sexton drop upon her coffin and
say `Thud, thud!' to my heart, till it send back the blood from my cheek. My
heart bleed for that poor boy, that dear boy, so of the age of mine own boy had
I been so blessed that he live, and with his hair and eyes the same.
<P>"There, you know now why I love him so. And yet when he say things that touch
my husband-heart to the quick, and make my father-heart yearn to him as to no
other man, not even you, friend John, for we are more level in experiences than
father and son, yet even at such a moment King Laugh he come to me and shout and
bellow in my ear,`Here I am! Here I am!' till the blood come dance back and
bring some of the sunshine that he carry with him to my cheek. Oh, friend John,
it is a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and
troubles. And yet when King Laugh come, he make them all dance to the tune he
play. Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and tears that burn as
they fall, all dance together to the music that he make with that smileless
mouth of him. And believe me, friend John, that he is good to come, and kind.
Ah, we men and women are like ropes drawn tight with strain that pull us
different ways. Then tears come, and like the rain on the ropes, they brace us
up, until perhaps the strain become too great, and we break. But King Laugh he
come like the sunshine, and he ease off the strain again, and we bear to go on
with our labor, what it may be."
<P>I did not like to wound him by pretending not to see his idea, but as I did
not yet understand the cause of his laughter, I asked him. As he answered me his
face grew stern, and he said in quite a different tone,
<P>"Oh, it was the grim irony of it all, this so lovely lady garlanded with
flowers, that looked so fair as life, till one by one we wondered if she were
truly dead, she laid in that so fine marble house in that lonely churchyard,
where rest so many of her kin, laid there with the mother who loved her, and
whom she loved, and that sacred bell going "Toll! Toll! Toll!' so sad and slow,
and those holy men, with the white garments of the angel, pretending to read
books, and yet all the time their eyes never on the page, and all of us with the
bowed head. And all for what? She is dead, so! Is it not?"
<P>"Well, for the life of me, Professor," I said, "I can't see anything to laugh
at in all that. Why, your expression makes it a harder puzzle than before. But
even if the burial service was comic, what about poor Art and his trouble? Why
his heart was simply breaking."
<P>"Just so. Said he not that the transfusion of his blood to her veins had made
her truly his bride?"
<P>"Yes, and it was a sweet and comforting idea for him."
<P>"Quite so. But there was a difficulty, friend John. If so that, then what
about the others? Ho, ho! Then this so sweet maid is a polyandrist, and me, with
my poor wife dead to me, but alive by Church's law, though no wits, all gone,
even I, who am faithful husband to this now-no-wife, am bigamist."
<P>"I don't see where the joke comes in there either!" I said, and I did not
feel particularly pleased with him for saying such things. He laid his hand on
my arm, and said,
<P>"Friend John, forgive me if I pain. I showed not my feeling to others when it
would wound, but only to you, my old friend, whom I can trust. If you could have
looked into my heart then when I want to laugh, if you could have done so when
the laugh arrived, if you could do so now, when King Laugh have pack up his
crown, and all that is to him, for he go far, far away from me, and for a long,
long time, maybe you would perhaps pity me the most of all."
<P>I was touched by the tenderness of his tone, and asked why.
<P>"Because I know!"
<P>And now we are all scattered, and for many a long day loneliness will sit
over our roofs with brooding wings. Lucy lies in the tomb of her kin, a lordly
death house in a lonely churchyard, away from teeming London, where the air is
fresh, and the sun rises over Hampstead Hill, and where wild flowers grow of
their own accord.
<P>So I can finish this diary, and God only knows if I shall ever begin another.
If I do, or if I even open this again, it will be to deal with different people
and different themes, for here at the end, where the romance of my life is told,
ere I go back to take up the thread of my life-work, I say sadly and without
hope, "FINIS".
<P><STRONG>THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE, 25 SEPTEMBER A HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY</STRONG>
<P>The neighborhood of Hampstead is just at present exercised with a series of
events which seem to run on lines parallel to those of what was known to the
writers of headlines and "The Kensington Horror," or "The Stabbing Woman," or
"The Woman in Black." During the past two or three days several cases have
occurred of young children straying from home or neglecting to return from their
playing on the Heath. In all these cases the children were too young to give any
properly intelligible account of themselves, but the consensus of their excuses
is that they had been with a "bloofer lady." It has always been late in the
evening when they have been missed, and on two occasions the children have not
been found until early in the following morning. It is generally supposed in the
neighborhood that, as the first child missed gave as his reason for being away
that a "bloofer lady" had asked him to come for a walk, the others had picked up
the phrase and used it as occasion served. This is the more natural as the
favorite game of the little ones at present is luring each other away by wiles.
A correspondent writes us that to see some of the tiny tots pretending to be
the"bloofer lady" is supremely funny. Some of our caricaturists might, he says,
take a lesson in the irony of grotesque by comparing the reality and the
picture. It is only in accordance with general principles of human nature that
the "bloofer lady" should be the popular role at these al fresco performances.
Our correspondent naively says that even Ellen Terry could not be so winningly
attractive as some of these grubby-faced little children pretend, and even
imagine themselves, to be.
<P>There is, however, possibly a serious side to the question, for some of the
children, indeed all who have been missed at night, have been slightly torn or
wounded in the throat. The wounds seem such as might be made by a rat or a small
dog, and although of not much importance individually, would tend to show that
whatever animal inflicts them has a system or method of its own. The police of
the division have been instructed to keep a sharp lookout for straying children,
especially when very young, in and around Hampstead Heath, and for any stray dog
which may be about.
<P><STRONG>THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE, 25 SEPTEMBER EXTRA SPECIAL</STRONG>
<P><STRONG>THE HAMPSTEAD HORROR</STRONG>
<P><STRONG>ANOTHER CHILD INJURED</STRONG>
<P><STRONG>THE "BLOOFER LADY"</STRONG>
<P>We have just received intelligence that another child, missed last night, was
only discovered late in the morning under a furze bush at the Shooter's Hill
side of Hampstead Heath, which is perhaps, less frequented than the other parts.
It has the same tiny wound in the throat as has been noticed in other cases. It
was terribly weak, and looked quite emaciated. It too, when partially restored,
had the common story to tell of being lured away by the "bloofer lady".
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=axiv>CHAPTER 14. MINA HARKER'S
JOURNAL</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>23 September.--Jonathan is better after a bad night. I am so glad that he has
plenty of work to do, for that keeps his mind off the terrible things, and oh, I
am rejoiced that he is not now weighed down with the responsibility of his new
position. I knew he would be true to himself, and now how proud I am to see my
Jonathan rising to the height of his advancement and keeping pace in all ways
with the duties that come upon him. He will be away all day till late, for he
said he could not lunch at home. My household work is done, so I shall take his
foreign journal, and lock myself up in my room and read it.
<P>24 September.--I hadn't the heart to write last night, that terrible record
of Jonathan's upset me so. Poor dear! How he must have suffered, whether it be
true or only imagination. I wonder if there is any truth in it at all. Did he
get his brain fever, and then write all those terrible things, or had he some
cause for it all? I suppose I shall never know, for I dare not open the subject
to him. And yet that man we saw yesterday! He seemed quite certain of him, poor
fellow! I suppose it was the funeral upset him and sent his mind back on some
train of thought.
<P>He believes it all himself. I remember how on our wedding day he said "Unless
some solemn duty come upon me to go back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake,
mad or sane. . ." There seems to be through it all some thread of continuity.
That fearful Count was coming to London. If it should be, and he came to London,
with its teeming millions. . .There may be a solemn duty, and if it come we must
not shrink from it. I shall be prepared. I shall get my typewriter this very
hour and begin transcribing. Then we shall be ready for other eyes if required.
And if it be wanted, then, perhaps, if I am ready, poor Jonathan may not be
upset, for I can speak for him and never let him be troubled or worried with it
at all. If ever Jonathan quite gets over the nervousness he may want to tell me
of it all, and I can ask him questions and find out things, and see how I may
comfort him.
<P><STRONG>LETTER, VAN HELSING TO MRS. HARKER</STRONG>
<P>24 September
<P>(Confidence)
<P>"Dear Madam,
<P>"I pray you to pardon my writing, in that I am so far friend as that I sent
to you sad news of Miss Lucy Westenra's death. By the kindness of Lord
Godalming, I am empowered to read her letters and papers, for I am deeply
concerned about certain matters vitally important. In them I find some letters
from you, which show how great friends you were and how you love her. Oh, Madam
Mina, by that love, I implore you, help me. It is for others' good that I ask,
to redress great wrong, and to lift much and terrible troubles, that may be more
great than you can know. May it be that I see you? You can trust me. I am friend
of Dr. John Seward and of Lord Godalming (that was Arthur of Miss Lucy). I must
keep it private for the present from all. I should come to Exeter to see you at
once if you tell me I am privilege to come, and where and when. I implore your
pardon, Madam. I have read your letters to poor Lucy, and know how good you are
and how your husband suffer. So I pray you, if it may be, enlighten him not,
least it may harm. Again your pardon, and forgive me.
<P><STRONG>"VAN HELSING"</STRONG>
<P><STRONG>TELEGRAM, MRS. HARKER TO VAN HELSING</STRONG>
<P>25 September.--Come today by quarter past ten train if you can catch it. Can
see you any time you call. "WILHELMINA HARKER"
<P><STRONG>MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>25 September.--I cannot help feeling terribly excited as the time draws near
for the visit of Dr. Van Helsing, for somehow I expect that it will throw some
light upon Jonathan's sad experience, and as he attended poor dear Lucy in her
last illness, he can tell me all about her. That is the reason of his coming. It
is concerning Lucy and her sleep-walking, and not about Jonathan. Then I shall
never know the real truth now! How silly I am. That awful journal gets hold of
my imagination and tinges everything with something of its own color. Of course
it is about Lucy. That habit came back to the poor dear, and that awful night on
the cliff must have made her ill. I had almost forgotten in my own affairs how
ill she was afterwards. She must have told him of her sleep-walking adventure on
the cliff, and that I knew all about it, and now he wants me to tell him what I
know, so that he may understand. I hope I did right in not saying anything of it
to Mrs. Westenra. I should never forgive myself if any act of mine, were it even
a negative one, brought harm on poor dear Lucy. I hope too, Dr. Van Helsing will
not blame me. I have had so much trouble and anxiety of late that I feel I
cannot bear more just at present.
<P>I suppose a cry does us all good at times, clears the air as other rain does.
Perhaps it was reading the journal yesterday that upset me, and then Jonathan
went away this morning to stay away from me a whole day and night, the first
time we have been parted since our marriage. I do hope the dear fellow will take
care of himself, and that nothing will occur to upset him. It is two o'clock,
and the doctor will be here soon now. I shall say nothing of Jonathan's journal
unless he asks me. I am so glad I have typewritten out my own journal, so that,
in case he asks about Lucy, I can hand it to him. It will save much questioning.
<P>Later.--He has come and gone. Oh, what a strange meeting, and how it all
makes my head whirl round. I feel like one in a dream. Can it be all possible,
or even a part of it? If I had not read Jonathan's journal first, I should never
have accepted even a possibility. Poor, poor, dear Jonathan! How he must have
suffered. Please the good God, all this may not upset him again. I shall try to
save him from it. But it may be even a consolation and a help to him, terrible
though it be and awful in its consequences, to know for certain that his eyes
and ears and brain did not deceive him, and that it is all true. It may be that
it is the doubt which haunts him, that when the doubt is removed, no matter
which, waking or dreaming, may prove the truth, he will be more satisfied and
better able to bear the shock. Dr. Van Helsing must be a good man as well as a
clever one if he is Arthur's friend and Dr. Seward's, and if they brought him
all the way from Holland to look after Lucy. I feel from having seen him that he
is good and kind and of a noble nature. When he comes tomorrow I shall ask him
about Jonathan. And then, please God, all this sorrow and anxiety may lead to a
good end. I used to think I would like to practice interviewing. Jonathan's
friend on "The Exeter News" told him that memory is everything in such work,
that you must be able to put down exactly almost every word spoken, even if you
had to refine some of it afterwards. Here was a rare interview. I shall try to
record it verbatim.
<P>It was half-past two o'clock when the knock came. I took my courage a deux
mains and waited. In a few minutes Mary opened the door, and announced "Dr. Van
Helsing".
<P>I rose and bowed, and he came towards me, a man of medium weight, strongly
built, with his shoulders set back over a broad, deep chest and a neck well
balanced on the trunk as the head is on the neck. The poise of the head strikes
me at once as indicative of thought and power. The head is noble, well-sized,
broad, and large behind the ears. The face, clean-shaven, shows a hard, square
chin, a large resolute, mobile mouth, a good-sized nose, rather straight, but
with quick, sensitive nostrils, that seem to broaden as the big bushy brows come
down and the mouth tightens. The forehead is broad and fine, rising at first
almost straight and then sloping back above two bumps or ridges wide apart, such
a forehead that the reddish hair cannot possibly tumble over it, but falls
naturally back and to the sides. Big, dark blue eyes are set widely apart, and
are quick and tender or stern with the man's moods. He said to me,
<P>"Mrs. Harker, is it not?" I bowed assent.
<P>"That was Miss Mina Murray?" Again I assented.
<P>"It is Mina Murray that I came to see that was friend of that poor dear child
Lucy Westenra. Madam Mina, it is on account of the dead that I come."
<P>"Sir," I said, "you could have no better claim on me than that you were a
friend and helper of Lucy Westenra."And I held out my hand. He took it and said
tenderly,
<P>"Oh, Madam Mina, I know that the friend of that poor little girl must be
good, but I had yet to learn. . ." He finished his speech with a courtly bow. I
asked him what it was that he wanted to see me about, so he at once began.
<P>"I have read your letters to Miss Lucy. Forgive me, but I had to begin to
inquire somewhere, and there was none to ask. I know that you were with her at
Whitby. She sometimes kept a diary, you need not look surprised, Madam Mina. It
was begun after you had left, and was an imitation of you, and in that diary she
traces by inference certain things to a sleep-walking in which she puts down
that you saved her. In great perplexity then I come to you, and ask you out of
your so much kindness to tell me all of it that you can remember."
<P>"I can tell you, I think, Dr. Van Helsing, all about it."
<P>"Ah, then you have good memory for facts, for details? It is not always so
with young ladies."
<P>"No, doctor, but I wrote it all down at the time. I can show it to you if you
like."
<P>"Oh, Madam Mina, I well be grateful. You will do me much favor."
<P>I could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit, I suppose it is
some taste of the original apple that remains still in our mouths, so I handed
him the shorthand diary. He took it with a grateful bow, and said, "May I read
it?"
<P>"If you wish," I answered as demurely as I could. He opened it, and for an
instant his face fell. Then he stood up and bowed.
<P>"Oh, you so clever woman!" he said. "I knew long that Mr. Jonathan was a man
of much thankfulness, but see, his wife have all the good things. And will you
not so much honor me and so help me as to read it for me? Alas! I know not the
shorthand."
<P>By this time my little joke was over, and I was almost ashamed. So I took the
typewritten copy from my work basket and handed it to him.
<P>"Forgive me," I said. "I could not help it, but I had been thinking that it
was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you might not have time to
wait, not on my account, but because I know your time must be precious, I have
written it out on the typewriter for you."
<P>He took it and his eyes glistened. "You are so good," he said. "And may I
read it now? I may want to ask you some things when I have read."
<P>"By all means," I said. "read it over whilst I order lunch, and then you can
ask me questions whilst we eat."
<P>He bowed and settled himself in a chair with his back to the light, and
became so absorbed in the papers, whilst I went to see after lunch chiefly in
order that he might not be disturbed. When I came back, I found him walking
hurriedly up and down the room, his face all ablaze with excitement. He rushed
up to me and took me by both hands.
<P>"Oh, Madam Mina," he said, "how can I say what I owe to you? This paper is as
sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I am dazed, I am dazzled, with so much light,
and yet clouds roll in behind the light every time. But that you do not, cannot
comprehend. Oh, but I am grateful to you, you so clever woman. Madame," he said
this very solemnly, "if ever Abraham Van Helsing can do anything for you or
yours, I trust you will let me know. It will be pleasure and delight if I may
serve you as a friend, as a friend, but all I have ever learned, all I can ever
do, shall be for you and those you love. There are darknesses in life, and there
are lights. You are one of the lights. You will have a happy life and a good
life, and your husband will be blessed in you."
<P>"But, doctor, you praise me too much, and you do not know me."
<P>"Not know you, I, who am old, and who have studied all my life men and women,
I who have made my specialty the brain and all that belongs to him and all that
follow from him! And I have read your diary that you have so goodly written for
me, and which breathes out truth in every line. I, who have read your so sweet
letter to poor Lucy of your marriage and your trust, not know you! Oh, Madam
Mina, good women tell all their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute,
such things that angels can read. And we men who wish to know have in us
something of angels' eyes. Your husband is noble nature, and you are noble too,
for you trust, and trust cannot be where there is mean nature. And your husband,
tell me of him. Is he quite well? Is all that fever gone, and is he strong and
hearty?"
<P>I saw here an opening to ask him about Jonathan, so I said, "He was almost
recovered, but he has been greatly upset by Mr. Hawkins death."
<P>He interrupted, "Oh, yes. I know. I know. I have read your last two letters."
<P>I went on, "I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on Thursday
last he had a sort of shock."
<P>"A shock, and after brain fever so soon! That is not good. What kind of shock
was it?"
<P>"He thought he saw some one who recalled something terrible, something which
led to his brain fever." And here the whole thing seemed to overwhelm me in a
rush. The pity for Jonathan, the horror which he experienced, the whole fearful
mystery of his diary, and the fear that has been brooding over me ever since,
all came in a tumult. I suppose I was hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees
and held up my hands to him, and implored him to make my husband well again. He
took my hands and raised me up, and made me sit on the sofa, and sat by me. He
held my hand in his, and said to me with, oh, such infinite sweetness,
<P>"My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that I have not had
much time for friendships, but since I have been summoned to here by my friend
John Seward I have known so many good people and seen such nobility that I feel
more than ever, and it has grown with my advancing years, the loneliness of my
life. Believe me, then, that I come here full of respect for you, and you have
given me hope, hope, not in what I am seeking of, but that there are good women
still left to make life happy, good women, whose lives and whose truths may make
good lesson for the children that are to be. I am glad, glad, that I may here be
of some use to you. For if your husband suffer, he suffer within the range of my
study and experience. I promise you that I will gladly do all for him that I
can, all to make his life strong and manly, and your life a happy one. Now you
must eat. You are overwrought and perhaps over-anxious. Husband Jonathan would
not like to see you so pale, and what he like not where he love, is not to his
good. Therefore for his sake you must eat and smile. You have told me about
Lucy, and so now we shall not speak of it, lest it distress. I shall stay in
Exeter tonight, for I want to think much over what you have told me, and when I
have thought I will ask you questions, if I may. And then too, you will tell me
of husband Jonathan's trouble so far as you can, but not yet. You must eat now,
afterwards you shall tell me all."
<P>After lunch, when we went back to the drawing room, he said to me, "And now
tell me all about him."
<P>When it came to speaking to this great learned man, I began to fear that he
would think me a weak fool, and Jonathan a madman, that journal is all so
strange, and I hesitated to go on. But he was so sweet and kind, and he had
promised to help, and I trusted him, so I said,
<P>"Dr. Van Helsing, what I have to tell you is so queer that you must not laugh
at me or at my husband. I have been since yesterday in a sort of fever of doubt.
You must be kind to me, and not think me foolish that I have even half believed
some very strange things."
<P>He reassured me by his manner as well as his words when he said, "Oh, my
dear, if you only know how strange is the matter regarding which I am here, it
is you who would laugh. I have learned not to think little of any one's belief,
no matter how strange it may be. I have tried to keep an open mind, and it is
not the ordinary things of life that could close it, but the strange things, the
extraordinary things, the things that make one doubt if they be mad or sane."
<P>"Thank you, thank you a thousand times! You have taken a weight off my mind.
If you will let me, I shall give you a paper to read. It is long, but I have
typewritten it out. It will tell you my trouble and Jonathan's. It is the copy
of his journal when abroad, and all that happened. I dare not say anything of
it. You will read for yourself and judge. And then when I see you, perhaps, you
will be very kind and tell me what you think."
<P>"I promise," he said as I gave him the papers. "I shall in the morning, as
soon as I can, come to see you and your husband, if I may."
<P>"Jonathan will be here at half-past eleven, and you must come to lunch with
us and see him then. You could catch the quick 3:34 train, which will leave you
at Paddington before eight." He was surprised at my knowledge of the trains
offhand, but he does not know that I have made up all the trains to and from
Exeter, so that I may help Jonathan in case he is in a hurry.
<P>So he took the papers with him and went away, and I sit here thinking,
thinking I don't know what.
<P>LETTER (by hand), VAN HELSING TO MRS. HARKER
<P>25 September, 6 o'clock
<P>"Dear Madam Mina,
<P>"I have read your husband's so wonderful diary. You may sleep without doubt.
Strange and terrible as it is, it is true! I will pledge my life on it. It may
be worse for others, but for him and you there is no dread. He is a noble
fellow, and let me tell you from experience of men, that one who would do as he
did in going down that wall and to that room, aye, and going a second time, is
not one to be injured in permanence by a shock. His brain and his heart are all
right, this I swear, before I have even seen him, so be at rest. I shall have
much to ask him of other things. I am blessed that today I come to see you, for
I have learn all at once so much that again I am dazzled, dazzled more than
ever, and I must think.
<P>"Yours the most faithful,
<P>"Abraham Van Helsing."
<P><STRONG>LETTER, MRS. HARKER TO VAN HELSING</STRONG>
<P>25 September, 6:30 P.M.
<P>"My dear Dr. Van Helsing,
<P>"A thousand thanks for your kind letter, which has taken a great weight off
my mind. And yet, if it be true, what terrible things there are in the world,
and what an awful thing if that man, that monster, be really in London! I fear
to think. I have this moment, whilst writing, had a wire from Jonathan, saying
that he leaves by the 6:25 tonight from Launceston and will be here at 10:18, so
that I shall have no fear tonight. Will you, therefore, instead of lunching with
us, please come to breakfast at eight o'clock, if this be not too early for you?
You can get away, if you are in a hurry, by the 10:30 train, which will bring
you to Paddington by 2:35. Do not answer this, as I shall take it that, if I do
not hear, you will come to breakfast.
<P>"Believe me,
<P>"Your faithful and grateful friend,
<P>"Mina Harker."
<P><STRONG>JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>26 September.--I thought never to write in this diary again, but the time has
come. When I got home last night Mina had supper ready, and when we had supped
she told me of Van Helsing's visit, and of her having given him the two diaries
copied out, and of how anxious she has been about me. She showed me in the
doctor's letter that all I wrote down was true. It seems to have made a new man
of me. It was the doubt as to the reality of the whole thing that knocked me
over. I felt impotent, and in the dark, and distrustful. But, now that I know, I
am not afraid, even of the Count. He has succeeded after all, then, in his
design in getting to London, and it was he I saw. He has got younger, and how?
Van Helsing is the man to unmask him and hunt him out, if he is anything like
what Mina says. We sat late, and talked it over. Mina is dressing, and I shall
call at the hotel in a few minutes and bring him over.
<P>He was, I think, surprised to see me. When I came into the room whee he was,
and introduced myself, he took me by the shoulder, and turned my face round to
the light, and said, after a sharp scrutiny,
<P>"But Madam Mina told me you were ill, that you had had a shock."
<P>It was so funny to hear my wife called `Madam Mina' by this kindly,
strong-faced old man. I smiled, and said, "I was ill, I have had a shock, but
you have cured me already."
<P>"And how?"
<P>"By your letter to Mina last night. I was in doubt, and then everything took
a hue of unreality, and I did not know what to trust, even the evidence of my
own senses. Not knowing what to trust, I did not know what to do, and so had
only to keep on working in what had hitherto been the groove of my life. The
groove ceased to avail me, and I mistrusted myself. Doctor, you don't know what
it is to doubt everything, even yourself. No, you don't, you couldn't with
eyebrows like yours."
<P>He seemed pleased, and laughed as he said, "So! You are a physiognomist. I
learn more here with each hour. I am with so much pleasure coming to you to
breakfast, and, oh, sir, you will pardon praise from an old man, but you are
blessed in your wife."
<P>I would listen to him go on praising Mina for a day, so I simply nodded and
stood silent.
<P>"She is one of God's women, fashioned by His own hand to show us men and
other women that there is a heaven where we can enter, and that its light can be
here on earth. So true, so sweet, so noble, so little an egoist, and that, let
me tell you, is much in this age, so sceptical and selfish. And you, sir. . . I
have read all the letters to poor Miss Lucy, and some of them speak of you, so I
know you since some days from the knowing of others, but I have seen your true
self since last night. You will give me your hand, will you not? And let us be
friends for all our lives."
<P>We shook hands, and he was so earnest and so kind that it made me quite
choky.
<P>"and now," he said, "may I ask you for some more help? I have a great task to
do, and at the beginning it is to know. You can help me here. Can you tell me
what went before your going to Transylvania? Later on I may ask more help, and
of a different kind, but at first this will do."
<P>"Look here, Sir," I said, "does what you have to do concern the Count?"
<P>"It does," he said solemnly."
<P>"Then I am with you heart and soul. As you go by the 10:30 train, you will
not have time to read them, but I shall get the bundle of papers. You can take
them with you and read them in the train."
<P>After breakfast I saw him to the station. When we were parting he said,
"Perhaps you will come to town if I send for you, and take Madam Mina too."
<P>"We shall both come when you will," I said.
<P>I had got him the morning papers and the London papers of the previous night,
and while we were talking at the carriage window, waiting for the train to
start, he was turning them over. His eyes suddenly seemed to catch something in
one of them, "The Westminster Gazette", I knew it by the color, and he grew
quite white. He read something intently, groaning to himself, "Mein Gott! Mein
Gott! So soon! So soon!" I do not think he remembered me at the moment. Just
then the whistle blew, and the train moved off. This recalled him to himself,
and he leaned out of the window and waved his hand, calling out, "Love to Madam
Mina. I shall write so soon as ever I can."
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>26 September.--Truly there is no such thing as finality. Not a week since I
said "Finis," and yet here I am starting fresh again, or rather going on with
the record. Until this afternoon I had no cause to think of what is done.
Renfield had become, to all intents, as sane as he ever was. He was already well
ahead with his fly business, and he had just started in the spider line also, so
he had not been of any trouble to me. I had a letter from Arthur, written on
Sunday, and from it I gather that he is bearing up wonderfully well. Quincey
Morris is with him, and that is much of a help, for he himself is a bubbling
well of good spirits. Quincey wrote me a line too, and from him I hear that
Arthur is beginning to recover something of his old buoyancy, so as to them all
my mind is at rest. As for myself, I was settling down to my work with the
enthusiasm which I used to have for it, so that I might fairly have said that
the wound which poor Lucy left on me was becoming cicatrised.
<P>Everything is, however, now reopened, and what is to be the end God only
knows. I have an idea that Van Helsing thinks he knows, too, but he will only
let out enough at a time to whet curiosity. He went to Exeter yesterday, and
stayed there all night. Today he came back, and almost bounded into the room at
about half-past five o'clock, and thrust last night's "Westminster Gazette" into
my hand.
<P>"What do you think of that?" he asked as he stood back and folded his arms.
<P>I looked over the paper, for I really did not know what he meant, but he took
it from me and pointed out a paragraph about children being decoyed away at
Hampstead. It did not convey much to me, until I reached a passage where it
described small puncture wounds on their throats. An idea struck me, and I
looked up.
<P>"Well?" he said.
<P>"It is like poor Lucy's."
<P>"And what do you make of it?"
<P>"Simply that there is some cause in common. Whatever it was that injured her
has injured them." I did not quite understand his answer.
<P>"That is true indirectly, but not directly."
<P>"How do you mean, Professor?" I asked. I was a little inclined to take his
seriousness lightly, for, after all, four days of rest and freedom from burning,
harrowing, anxiety does help to restore one's spirits, but when I saw his face,
it sobered me. Never, even in the midst of our despair about poor Lucy, had he
looked more stern.
<P>"Tell me!" I said. "I can hazard no opinion. I do not know what to think, and
I have no data on which to found a conjecture."
<P>"Do you mean to tell me, friend John, that you have no suspicion as to what
poor Lucy died of, not after all the hints given, not only by events, but by
me?"
<P>"Of nervous prostration following a great loss or waste of blood."
<P>"And how was the blood lost or wasted?" I shook my head.
<P>He stepped over and sat down beside me, and went on, "You are a clever man,
friend John. You reason well, and your wit is bold, but you are too prejudiced.
You do not let your eyes see nor your ears hear, and that which is outside your
daily life is not of account to you. Do you not think that there are things
which you cannot understand, and yet which are, that some people see things that
others cannot? But there are things old and new which must not be contemplated
by men's eyes, because they know, or think they know, some things which other
men have told them. Ah, it is the fault of our science that it wants to explain
all, and if it explain not, then it says there is nothing to explain. But yet we
see around us every day the growth of new beliefs, which think themselves new,
and which are yet but the old, which pretend to be young, like the fine ladies
at the opera. I suppose now you do not believe in corporeal transference. No?
Nor in materialization. No? Nor in astral bodies. No? Nor in the reading of
thought. No? Nor in hypnotism. . ."
<P>"Yes," I said. "Charcot has proved that pretty well."
<P>He smiled as he went on, "Then you are satisfied as to it. Yes? And of course
then you understand how it act, and can follow the mind of the great Charcot,
alas that he is no more, into the very soul of the patient that he influence.
No? Then, friend John, am I to take it that you simply accept fact, and are
satisfied to let from premise to conclusion be a blank? No? Then tell me, for I
am a student of the brain, how you accept hypnotism and reject the thought
reading. Let me tell you, my friend, that there are things done today in
electrical science which would have been deemed unholy by the very man who
discovered electricity, who would themselves not so long before been burned as
wizards. There are always mysteries in life. Why was it that Methuselah lived
nine hundred years, and `Old Parr'one hundred and sixty-nine, and yet that poor
Lucy, with four men's blood in her poor veins, could not live even one day? For,
had she live one more day, we could save her. Do you know all the mystery of
life and death? Do you know the altogether of comparative anatomy and can say
wherefore the qualities of brutes are in some men, and not in others? Can you
tell me why, when other spiders die small and soon, that one great spider lived
for centuries in the tower of the old Spanish church and grew and grew, till, on
descending, he could drink the oil of all the church lamps? Can you tell me why
in the Pampas, ay and elsewhere, there are bats that come out at night and open
the veins of cattle and horses and suck dry their veins, how in some islands of
the Western seas there are bats which hang on the trees all day, and those who
have seen describe as like giant nuts or pods, and that when the sailors sleep
on the deck, because that it is hot, flit down on them and then, and then in the
morning are found dead men, white as even Miss Lucy was?"
<P>"Good God, Professor!" I said, starting up. "Do you mean to tell me that Lucy
was bitten by such a bat, and that such a thing is here in London in the
nineteenth century?"
<P>He waved his hand for silence, and went on, "Can you tell me why the tortoise
lives more long than generations of men, why the elephant goes on and on till he
have sees dynasties, and why the parrot never die only of bite of cat of dog or
other complaint? Can you tell me why men believe in all ages and places that
there are men and women who cannot die? We all know, because science has vouched
for the fact, that there have been toads shut up in rocks for thousands of
years, shut in one so small hole that only hold him since the youth of the
world. Can you tell me how the Indian fakir can make himself to die and have
been buried, and his grave sealed and corn sowed on it, and the corn reaped and
be cut and sown and reaped and cut again, and then men come and take away the
unbroken seal and that there lie the Indian fakir, not dead, but that rise up
and walk amongst them as before?"
<P>Here I interrupted him. I was getting bewildered. He so crowded on my mind
his list of nature's eccentricities and possible impossibilities that my
imagination was getting fired. I had a dim idea that he was teaching me some
lesson, as long ago he used to do in his study at Amsterdam. But he used them to
tell me the thing, so that I could have the object of thought in mind all the
time. But now I was without his help, yet I wanted to follow him, so I said,
<P>"Professor, let me be your pet student again. Tell me the thesis, so that I
may apply your knowledge as you go on. At present I am going in my mind from
point to point as a madman, and not a sane one, follows an idea. I feel like a
novice lumbering through a bog in a midst, jumping from one tussock to another
in the mere blind effort to move on without knowing where I am going."
<P>"That is a good image," he said. "Well, I shall tell you. My thesis is this,
I want you to believe."
<P>"To believe what?"
<P>"To believe in things that you cannot. Let me illustrate. I heard once of an
American who so defined faith, `that faculty which enables us to believe things
which we know to be untrue.' For one, I follow that man. He meant that we shall
have an open mind, and not let a little bit of truth check the rush of the big
truth, like a small rock does a railway truck. We get the small truth first.
Good! We keep him, and we value him, but all the same we must not let him think
himself all the truth in the universe."
<P>"Then you want me not to let some previous conviction inure the receptivity
of my mind with regard to some strange matter. Do I read your lesson aright?"
<P>"Ah, you are my favorite pupil still. It is worth to teach you. Now that you
are willing to understand, you have taken the first step to understand. You
think then that those so small holes in the children's throats were made by the
same that made the holes in Miss Lucy?"
<P>"I suppose so."
<P>He stood up and said solemnly, "Then you are wrong. Oh, would it were so! But
alas! No. It is worse, far, far worse."
<P>"In God's name, Professor Van Helsing, what do you mean?" I cried.
<P>He threw himself with a despairing gesture into a chair, and placed his
elbows on the table, covering his face with his hands as he spoke.
<P>"They were made by Miss Lucy!"
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=axv>CHAPTER 15. DR. SEWARD'S
DIARY-cont.</A></CENTER></STRONG>
<P>For a while sheer anger mastered me. It was as if he had during her life
struck Lucy on the face. I smote the table hard and rose up as I said to him,
"Dr. Van Helsing, are you mad?"
<P>He raised his head and looked at me, and somehow the tenderness of his face
calmed me at once. "Would I were!" he said. "Madness were easy to bear compared
with truth like this. Oh, my friend, whey, think you, did I go so far round, why
take so long to tell so simple a thing? Was it because I hate you and have hated
you all my life? Was it because I wished to give you pain? Was it that I wanted,
no so late, revenge for that time when you saved my life, and from a fearful
death? Ah no!"
<P>"Forgive me," said I.
<P>He went on, "My friend, it was because I wished to be gentle in the breaking
to you, for I know you have loved that so sweet lady. But even yet I do not
expect you to believe. It is so hard to accept at once any abstract truth, that
we may doubt such to be possible when we have always believed the `no' of it. It
is more hard still to accept so sad a concrete truth, and of such a one as Miss
Lucy. Tonight I go to prove it. Dare you come with me?"
<P>This staggered me. A man does not like to prove such a truth, Byron excepted
from the catagory, jealousy.
<P>"And prove the very truth he most abhorred."
<P>He saw my hesitation, and spoke, "The logic is simple, no madman's logic this
time, jumping from tussock to tussock in a misty bog. If it not be true, then
proof will be relief. At worst it will not harm. If it be true! Ah, there is the
dread. Yet every dread should help my cause, for in it is some need of belief.
Come, I tell you what I propose. First, that we go off now and see that child in
the hospital. Dr. Vincent, of the North Hospital, where the papers say the child
is, is a friend of mine, and I think of yours since you were in class at
Amsterdam. He will let two scientists see his case, if he will not let two
friends. We shall tell him nothing, but only that we wish to learn. And then. .
."
<P>"And then?"
<P>He took a key from his pocket and held it up. "And then we spend the night,
you and I, in the churchyard where Lucy lies. This is the key that lock the
tomb. I had it from the coffin man to give to Arthur."
<P>My heart sank within me, for I felt that there was some fearful ordeal before
us. I could do nothing, however, so I plucked up what heart I could and said
that we had better hasten, as the afternoon was passing.
<P>We found the child awake. It had had a sleep and taken some food, and
altogether was going on well. Dr, Vincent took the bandage from its throat, and
showed us the punctures. There was no mistaking the similarity to those which
had been on Lucy's throat. They were smaller, and the edges looked fresher, that
was all. We asked Vincent to what he attributed them, and he replied that it
must have been a bite of some animal, perhaps a rat, but for his own part, he
was inclined to think it was one of the bats which are so numerous on the
northern heights of London. "Out of so many harmless ones," he said, "there may
be some wild specimen from the South of a more malignant species. Some sailor
may have brought one home, and it managed to escape, or even from the Zoological
Gardens a young one may have got loose, or one be bred there from a vampire.
These things do occur, you, know. Only ten days ago a wolf got out, and was, I
believe, traced up in this direction. For a week after, the children were
playing nothing but Red Riding Hood on the Heath and in every alley in the place
until this `bloofer lady' scare came along, since then it has been quite a gala
time with them. Even this poor little mite, when he woke up today, asked the
nurse if he might go away. When she asked him why he wanted to go, he said he
wanted to play with the `bloofer lady'."
<P>"I hope," said Van Helsing, "that when you are sending the child home you
will caution its parents to keep strict watch over it. These fancies to stray
are most dangerous, and if the child were to remain out another night, it would
probably be fatal. But in any case I suppose you will not let it away for some
days?"
<P>"Certainly not, not for a week at least, longer if the wound is not healed."
<P>Our visit to the hospital took more time than we had reckoned on, and the sun
had dipped before we came out. When Van Helsing saw how dark it was, he said,
<P>"There is not hurry. It is more late than I thought. Come, let us seek
somewhere that we may eat, and then we shall go on our way."
<P>We dined at `Jack Straw's Castle' along with a little crowd of bicyclists and
others who were genially noisy. About ten o'clock we started from the inn. It
was then very dark, and the scattered lamps made the darkness greater when we
were once outside their individual radius. The Professor had evidently noted the
road we were to go, for he went on unhesitatingly, but, as for me, I was in
quite a mixup as to locality. As we went further, we met fewer and fewer people,
till at last we were somewhat surprised when we met even the patrol of horse
police going their usual suburban round. At last we reached the wall of the
churchyard, which we climbed over. With some little difficulty, for it was very
dark, and the whole place seemed so strange to us, we found the Westenra tomb.
The Professor took the key, opened the creaky door, and standing back, politely,
but quite unconsciously, motioned me to precede him. There was a delicious irony
in the offer, in the courtliness of giving preference on such a ghastly
occasion. My companion followed me quickly, and cautiously drew the door to,
after carefully ascertaining that the lock was a falling, and not a spring one.
In the latter case we should have been in a bad plight. Then he fumbled in his
bag, and taking out a matchbox and a piece of candle, proceeded to make a light.
The tomb in the daytime, and when wreathed with fresh flowers, had looked grim
and gruesome enough, but now, some days afterwards, when the flowers hung lank
and dead, their whites turning to rust and their greens to browns, when the
spider and the beetle had resumed their accustomed dominance, when the
time-discolored stone, and dust-encrusted mortar, and rusty, dank iron, and
tarnished brass, and clouded silver-plating gave back the feeble glimmer of a
candle, the effect was more miserable and sordid than could have been imagined.
It conveyed irresistibly the idea that life, animal life, was not the only thing
which could pass away.
<P>Van Helsing went about his work systematically. Holding his candle so that he
could read the coffin plates, and so holding it that the sperm dropped in white
patches which congealed as they touched the metal, he made assurance of Lucy's
coffin. Another search in his bag, and he took out a turnscrew.
<P>"What are you going to do?" I asked.
<P>"To open the coffin. You shall yet be convinced."
<P>Straightway he began taking out the screws, and finally lifted off the lid,
showing the casing of lead beneath. The sight was almost too much for me. It
seemed to be as much an affront to the dead as it would have been to have
stripped off her clothing in her sleep whilst living. I actually took hold of
his hand to stop him.
<P>He only said, "You shall see, "and again fumbling in his bag took out a tiny
fret saw. Striking the turnscrew through the lead with a swift downward stab,
which made me wince, he made a small hole, which was, however, big enough to
admit the point of the saw. I had expected a rush of gas from the week-old
corpse. We doctors, who have had to study our dangers, have to become accustomed
to such things, and I drew back towards the door. But the Professor never
stopped for a moment. He sawed down a couple of feet along one side of the lead
coffin, and then across, and down the other side. Taking the edge of the loose
flange, he bent it back towards the foot of the coffin, and holding up the
candle into the aperture, motioned to me to look.
<P>I drew near and looked. The coffin was empty. It was certainly a surprise to
me, and gave me a considerable shock, but Van Helsing was unmoved. He was now
more sure than ever of his ground, and so emboldened to proceed in his task."Are
you satisfied now, friend John?" he asked.
<P>I felt all the dogged argumentativeness of my nature awake within me as I
answered him, "I am satisfied that Lucy's body is not in that coffin, but that
only proves one thing."
<P>"And what is that, friend John?"
<P>"That it is not there."
<P>"That is good logic," he said, "so far as it goes. But how do you, how can
you, account for it not being there?"
<P>"Perhaps a body-snatcher," I suggested. "Some of the undertaker's people may
have stolen it." I felt that I was speaking folly, and yet it was the only real
cause which I could suggest.
<P>The Professor sighed. "Ah well!" he said," we must have more proof. Come with
me."
<P>He put on the coffin lid again, gathered up all his things and placed them in
the bag, blew out the light, and placed the candle also in the bag. We opened
the door, and went out. Behind us he closed the door and locked it. He handed me
the key, saying, "Will you keep it? You had better be assured."
<P>I laughed, it was not a very cheerful laugh, I am bound to say, as I motioned
him to keep it. "A key is nothing," I said, "thee are many duplicates, and
anyhow it is not difficult to pick a lock of this kind."
<P>He said nothing, but put the key in his pocket. Then he told me to watch at
one side of the churchyard whilst he would watch at the other.
<P>I took up my place behind a yew tree, and I saw his dark figure move until
the intervening headstones and trees hid it from my sight.
<P>It was a lonely vigil. Just after I had taken my place I heard a distant
clock strike twelve, and in time came one and two. I was chilled and unnerved,
and angry with the Professor for taking me on such an errand and with myself for
coming. I was too cold and too sleepy to be keenly observant, and not sleepy
enough to betray my trust, so altogether I had a dreary, miserable time.
<P>Suddenly, as I turned round, I thought I saw something like a white streak,
moving between two dark yew trees at the side of the churchyard farthest from
the tomb. At the same time a dark mass moved from the Professor's side of the
ground, and hurriedly went towards it. Then I too moved, but I had to go round
headstones and railed-off tombs, and I stumbled over graves. The sky was
overcast, and somewhere far off an early cock crew. A little ways off, beyond a
line of scattered juniper trees, which marked the pathway to the church, a white
dim figure flitted in the direction of the tomb. The tomb itself was hidden by
trees, and I could not see where the figure had disappeared. I heard the rustle
of actual movement where I had first seen the white figure, and coming over,
found the Professor holding in his arms a tiny child. When he saw me he held it
out to me, and said, "Are you satisfied now?"
<P>"No," I said, in a way that I felt was aggressive.
<P>"Do you not see the child?"
<P>"Yes, it is a child, but who brought it here? And is it wounded?"
<P>"We shall see," said the Professor, and with one impulse we took our way out
of the churchyard, he carrying the sleeping child.
<P>When we had got some little distance away, we went into a clump of trees, and
struck a match, and looked at the child's throat. It was without a scratch or
scar of any kind.
<P>"Was I right?" I asked triumphantly.
<P>"We were just in time," said the Professor thankfully.
<P>We had now to decide what we were to do with the child, and so consulted
about it. If we were to take it to a police station we should have to give some
account of our movements during the night. At least, we should have had to make
some statement as to how we had come to find the child. So finally we decided
that we would take it to the Heath, and when we heard a policeman coming, would
leave it where he could not fail to find it. We would then seek our way home as
quickly as we could. All fell out well. At the edge of Hampstead Heath we heard
a policeman's heavy tramp, and laying the child on the pathway, we waited and
watched until he saw it as he flashed his lantern to and fro. We heard his
exclamation of astonishment, and then we went away silently. By good chance we
got a cab near the `Spainiards,' and drove to town.
<P>I cannot sleep, so I make this entry. But I must try to get a few hours'
sleep, as Van Helsing is to call for me at noon. He insists that I go with him
on another expedition.
<P>27 September.--It was two o'clock before we found a suitable opportunity for
our attempt. The funeral held at noon was all completed, and the last stragglers
of the mourners had taken themselves lazily away, when, looking carefully from
behind a clump of alder trees, we saw the sexton lock the gate after him. We
knew that we were safe till morning did we desire it, but the Professor told me
that we should not want more than an hour at most. Again I felt that horrid
sense of the reality of things, in which any effort of imagination seemed out of
place, and I realized distinctly the perils of the law which we were incurring
in our unhallowed work. Besides, I felt it was all so useless. Outrageous as it
was to open a leaden coffin, to see if a woman dead nearly a week were really
dead, it now seemed the height of folly to open the tomb again, when we knew,
from the evidence of our own eyesight, that the coffin was empty. I shrugged my
shoulders, however, and rested silent, for Van Helsing had a way of going on his
own road, no matter who remonstrated. He took the key, opened the vault, and
again courteously motioned me to precede. The place was not so gruesome as last
night, but oh, how unutterably mean looking when the sunshine streamed in. Van
Helsing walked over to Lucy's coffin, and I followed. He bent over and again
forced back the leaden flange, and a shock of surprise and dismay shot through
me.
<P>There lay Lucy, seemingly just as we had seen her the night before her
funeral. She was, if possible, more radiantly beautiful than ever, and I could
not believe that she was dead. The lips were red, nay redder than before, and on
the cheeks was a delicate bloom.
<P>"Is this a juggle?" I said to him.
<P>"Are you convinced now?" said the Professor, in response, and as he spoke he
put over his hand, and in a way that made me shudder, pulled back the dead lips
and showed the white teeth. "See," he went on, "they are even sharper than
before. With this and this," and he touched one of the canine teeth and that
below it, "the little children can be bitten. Are you of belief now, friend
John?"
<P>Once more argumentative hostility woke within me. I could not accept such an
overwhelming idea as he suggested. So, with an attempt to argue of which I was
even at the moment ashamed, I said, "She may have been placed here since last
night."
<P>"Indeed? That is so, and by whom?"
<P>"I do not know. Someone has done it."
<P>"And yet she has been dead one week. Most peoples in that time would not look
so."
<P>I had no answer for this, so was silent. Van Helsing did not seem to notice
my silence. At any rate, he showed neither chagrin nor triumph. He was looking
intently at the face of the dead woman, raising the eyelids and looking at the
eyes, and once more opening the lips and examining the teeth. Then he turned to
me and said,
<P>"Here, there is one thing which is different from all recorded. Here is some
dual life that is not as the common. She was bitten by the vampire when she was
in a trance, sleep-walking, oh, you start. You do not know that, friend John,
but you shall know it later, and in trance could he best come to take more
blood. In trance she dies, and in trance she is UnDead, too. So it is that she
differ from all other. Usually when the UnDead sleep at home," as he spoke he
made a comprehensive sweep of his arm to designate what to a vampire was `home',
"their face show what they are, but this so sweet that was when she not UnDead
she go back to the nothings of the common dead. There is no malign there, see,
and so it make hard that I must kill her in her sleep."
<P>This turned my blood cold, and it began to dawn upon me that I was accepting
Van Helsing's theories. But if she were really dead, what was there of terror in
the idea of killing her?
<P>He looked up at me, and evidently saw the change in my face, for he said
almost joyously, "Ah, you believe now?"
<P>I answered, "Do not press me too hard all at once. I am willing to accept.
How will you do this bloody work?"
<P>"I shall cut off her head and fill her mouth with garlic, and I shall drive a
stake through her body."
<P>It made me shudder to think of so mutilating the body of the woman whom I had
loved. And yet the feeling was not so strong as I had expected. I was, in fact,
beginning to shudder at the presence of this being, this UnDead, as Van Helsing
called it, and to loathe it. Is it possible that love is all subjective, or all
objective?
<P>I waited a considerable time for Van Helsing to begin, but he stood as if
wrapped in thought. Presently he closed the catch of his bag with a snap, and
said,
<P>"I have been thinking, and have made up my mind as to what is best. If I did
simply follow my inclining I would do now, at this moment, what is to be done.
But there are other things to follow, and things that are thousand times more
difficult in that them we do not know. This is simple. She have yet no life
taken, though that is of time, and to act now would be to take danger from her
forever. But then we may have to want Arthur, and how shall we tell him of this?
If you, who saw the wounds on Lucy's throat, and saw the wounds so similar on
the child's at the hospital, if you, who saw the coffin empty last night and
full today with a woman who have not change only to be more rose and more
beautiful in a whole week, after she die, if you know of this and know of the
white figure last night that brought the child to the churchyard, and yet of
your own senses you did not believe, how then, can I expect Arthur, who know
none of those things, to believe?
<P>"He doubted me when I took him from her kiss when she was dying. I know he
has forgiven me because in some mistaken idea I have done things that prevent
him say goodbye as he ought, and he may think that in some more mistaken idea
this woman was buried alive, and that in most mistake of all we have killed her.
He will then argue back that it is we, mistaken ones, that have killed her by
our ideas, and so he will be much unhappy always. Yet he never can be sure, and
that is the worst of all. And he will sometimes think that she he loved was
buried alive, and that will paint his dreams with horrors of what she must have
suffered, and again, he will think that we may be right, and that his so beloved
was, after all, an UnDead. No! I told him once, and since then I learn much.
Now, since I know it is all true, a hundred thousand times more do I know that
he must pass through the bitter waters to reach the sweet. He, poor fellow, must
have one hour that will make the very face of heaven grow black to him, then we
can act for good all round and send him peace. My mind is made up. Let us go.
You return home for tonight to your asylum, and see that all be well. As for me,
I shall spend the night here in this churchyard in my own way. Tomorrow night
you will come to me to the Berkeley Hotel at ten of the clock. I shall send for
Arthur to come too, and also that so fine young man of America that gave his
blood. Later we shall all have work to do. I come with you so far as Piccadilly
and there dine, for I must be back here before the sun set."
<P>So we locked the tomb and came away, and got over the wall of the churchyard,
which was not much of a task, and drove back to Piccadilly.
<P><STRONG>NOTE LEFT BY VAN HELSING IN HIS PORTMANTEAU, BERKELEY HOTEL DIRECTED
TO</STRONG> JOHN SEWARD, M. D. (Not Delivered)
<P>27 September
<P>"Friend John,
<P>"I write this in case anything should happen. I go alone to watch in that
churchyard. It pleases me that the UnDead, Miss Lucy, shall not leave tonight,
that so on the morrow night she may be more eager. Therefore I shall fix some
things she like not, garlic and a crucifix, and so seal up the door of the tomb.
She is young as UnDead, and will heed. Moreover, these are only to prevent her
coming out. They may not prevail on her wanting to get in, for then the UnDead
is desperate, and must find the line of least resistance, whatsoever it may be.
I shall be at hand all the night from sunset till after sunrise, and if there be
aught that may be learned I shall learn it. For Miss Lucy or from her, I have no
fear, but that other to whom is there that she is UnDead, he have not the power
to seek her tomb and find shelter. He is cunning, as I know from Mr. Jonathan
and from the way that all along he have fooled us when he played with us for
Miss Lucy's life, and we lost, and in many ways the UnDead are strong. He have
always the strength in his hand of twenty men, even we four who gave our
strength to Miss Lucy it also is all to him. Besides, he can summon his wolf and
I know not what. So if it be that he came thither on this night he shall find
me. But none other shall, until it be too late. But it may be that he will not
attempt the place. There is no reason why he should. His hunting ground is more
full of game than the churchyard where the UnDead woman sleeps, and the one old
man watch.
<P>"Therefore I write this in case. . .Take the papers that are with this, the
diaries of Harker and the rest, and read them, and then find this great UnDead,
and cut off his head and burn his heart or drive a stake through it, so that the
world may rest from him.
<P>"If it be so, farewell.
<P><STRONG>"VAN HELSING."</STRONG>
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>28 September.--It is wonderful what a good night's sleep will do for one.
Yesterday I was almost willing to accept Van Helsing's monstrous ideas, but now
they seem to start out lurid before me as outrages on common sense. I have no
doubt that he believes it all. I wonder if his mind can have become in any way
unhinged. Surely there must be some rational explanation of all these mysterious
things. Is it possible that the Professor can have done it himself? He is so
abnormally clever that if he went off his head he would carry out his intent
with regard to some fixed idea in a wonderful way. I am loathe to think it, and
indeed it would be almost as great a marvel as the other to find that Van
Helsing was mad, but anyhow I shall watch him carefully. I may get some light on
the mystery.
<P>29 September.--Last night, at a little before ten o'clock, Arthur and Quincey
came into Van Helsing's room. He told us all what he wanted us to do, but
especially addressing himself to Arthur, as if all our wills were centered in
his. He began by saying that he hoped we would all come with him too, "for," he
said, "there is a grave duty to be done there. You were doubtless surprised at
my letter?" This query was directly addressed to Lord Godalming.
<P>"I was. It rather upset me for a bit. There has been so much trouble around
my house of late that I could do without any more. I have been curious, too, as
to what you mean.
<P>"Quincey and I talked it over, but the more we talked, the more puzzled we
got, till now I can say for myself that I'm about up a tree as to any meaning
about anything."
<P>"Me too," said Quincey Morris laconically.
<P>"Oh," said the Professor, "then you are nearer the beginning, both of you,
than friend John here, who has to go a long way back before he can even get so
far as to begin."
<P>It was evident that he recognized my return to my old doubting frame of mind
without my saying a word. Then, turning to the other two, he said with intense
gravity,
<P>"I want your permission to do what I think good this night. It is, I know,
much to ask, and when you know what it is I propose to do you will know, and
only then how much. Therefore may I ask that you promise me in the dark, so that
afterwards, though you may be angry with me for a time, I must not disguise from
myself the possibility that such may be, you shall not blame yourselves for
anything."
<P>"That's frank anyhow," broke in Quincey. "I'll answer for the Professor. I
don't quite see his drift, but I swear he's honest, and that's good enough for
me."
<P>"I thank you, Sir," said Van Helsing proudly. "I have done myself the honor
of counting you one trusting friend, and such endorsement is dear to me." He
held out a hand, which Quincey took.
<P>Then Arthur spoke out, "Dr. Van Helsing, I don't quite like to `buy a pig in
a poke', as they say in Scotland, and if it be anything in which my honour as a
gentleman or my faith as a Christian is concerned, I cannot make such a promise.
If you can assure me that what you intend does not violate either of these two,
then I give my consent at once, though for the life of me, I cannot understand
what you are driving at."
<P>"I accept your limitation," said Van Helsing, "and all I ask of you is that
if you feel it necessary to condemn any act of mine, you will first consider it
well and be satisfied that it does not violate your reservations."
<P>"Agreed!" said Arthur. "That is only fair. And now that the pourparlers are
over, may I ask what it is we are to do?"
<P>"I want you to come with me, and to come in secret, to the churchyard at
Kingstead."
<P>Arthur's face fell as he said in an amazed sort of way,
<P>"Where poor Lucy is buried?"
<P>The Professor bowed.
<P>Arthur went on, "And when there?"
<P>"To enter the tomb!"
<P>Arthur stood up. "Professor, are you in earnest, or is it some monstrous
joke? Pardon me, I see that you are in earnest." He sat down again, but I could
see that he sat firmly and proudly, as one who is on his dignity. There was
silence until he asked again, "And when in the tomb?"
<P>"To open the coffin."
<P>"This is too much!" he said, angrily rising again. "I am willing to be
patient in all things that are reasonable, but in this, this desecration of the
grave, of one who. . ." He fairly choked with indignation.
<P>The Professor looked pityingly at him."If I could spare you one pang, my poor
friend," he said, "God knows I would. But this night our feet must tread in
thorny paths, or later, and for ever, the feet you love must walk in paths of
flame!"
<P>Arthur looked up with set white face and said, "Take care, sir, take care!"
<P>"Would it not be well to hear what I have to say?" said Van Helsing. "And
then you will at least know the limit of my purpose. Shall I go on?"
<P>"That's fair enough," broke in Morris.
<P>After a pause Van Helsing went on, evidently with an effort, "Miss Lucy is
dead, is it not so? Yes! Then there can be no wrong to her. But if she be not
dead. . ."
<P>Arthur jumped to his feet, "Good God!" he cried. "What do you mean? Has there
been any mistake, has she been buried alive?" He groaned in anguish that not
even hope could soften.
<P>"I did not say she was alive, my child. I did not think it. I go no further
than to say that she might be UnDead."
<P>"UnDead! Not alive! What do you mean? Is this all a nightmare, or what is
it?"
<P>"There are mysteries which men can only guess at, which age by age they may
solve only in part. Believe me, we are now on the verge of one. But I have not
done. May I cut off the head of dead Miss Lucy?"
<P>"Heavens and earth, no!" cried Arthur in a storm of passion. "Not for the
wide world will I consent to any mutilation of her dead body. Dr. Van Helsing,
you try me too far. What have I done to you that you should torture me so? What
did that poor, sweet girl do that you should want to cast such dishonor on her
grave? Are you mad, that you speak of such things, or am I mad to listen to
them? Don't dare think more of such a desecration. I shall not give my consent
to anything you do. I have a duty to do in protecting her grave from outrage,
and by God, I shall do it!"
<P>Van Helsing rose up from where he had all the time been seated, and said,
gravely and sternly, "My Lord Godalming, I too, have a duty to do, a duty to
others, a duty to you, a duty to the dead, and by God, I shall do it! All I ask
you now is that you come with me, that you look and listen, and if when later I
make the same request you do not be more eager for its fulfillment even than I
am, then, I shall do my duty, whatever it may seem to me. And then, to follow
your Lordship's wishes I shall hold myself at your disposal to render an account
to you, when and where you will." His voice broke a little, and he went on with
a voice full of pity.
<P>"But I beseech you, do not go forth in anger with me. In a long life of acts
which were often not pleasant to do, and which sometimes did wring my heart, I
have never had so heavy a task as now. Believe me that if the time comes for you
to change your mind towards me, one look from you will wipe away all this so sad
hour, for I would do what a man can to save you from sorrow. Just think. For why
should I give myself so much labor and so much of sorrow? I have come here from
my own land to do what I can of good, at the first to please my friend John, and
then to help a sweet young lady, whom too, I come to love. For her, I am ashamed
to say so much, but I say it in kindness, I gave what you gave, the blood of my
veins. I gave it, I who was not, like you, her lover, but only her physician and
her friend. I gave her my nights and days, before death, after death, and if my
death can do her good even now, when she is the dead UnDead, she shall have it
freely." He said this with a very grave, sweet pride, and Arthur was much
affected by it.
<P>He took the old man's hand and said in a broken voice, "Oh, it is hard to
think of it, and I cannot understand, but at least I shall go with you and
wait."
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=axvi>CHAPTER 16. DR SEWARD'S
DIARY-cont.</A></CENTER></STRONG>
<P>It was just a quarter before twelve o'clock when we got into the churchyard
over the low wall. The night was dark with occasional gleams of moonlight
between the dents of the heavy clouds that scudded across the sky. We all kept
somehow close together, with Van Helsing slightly in front as he led the way.
When we had come close to the tomb I looked well at Arthur, for I feared the
proximity to a place laden with so sorrowful a memory would upset him, but he
bore himself well. I took it that the very mystery of the proceeding was in some
way a counteractant to his grief. The Professor unlocked the door, and seeing a
natural hesitation amongst us for various reasons, solved the difficulty by
entering first himself. The rest of us followed, and he closed the door. He then
lit a dark lantern and pointed to a coffin. Arthur stepped forward hesitatingly.
Van Helsing said to me, "You were with me here yesterday. Was the body of Miss
Lucy in that coffin?"
<P>"It was."
<P>The Professor turned to the rest saying, "You hear, and yet there is no one
who does not believe with me.'
<P>He took his screwdriver and again took off the lid of the coffin. Arthur
looked on, very pale but silent. When the lid was removed he stepped forward. He
evidently did not know that there was a leaden coffin, or at any rate, had not
thought of it. When he saw the rent in the lead, the blood rushed to his face
for an instant, but as quickly fell away again, so that he remained of a ghastly
whiteness. He was still silent. Van Helsing forced back the leaden flange, and
we all looked in and recoiled.
<P>The coffin was empty!
<P>For several minutes no one spoke a word. The silence was broken by Quincey
Morris, "Professor, I answered for you. Your word is all I want. I wouldn't ask
such a thing ordinarily, I wouldn't so dishonor you as to imply a doubt, but
this is a mystery that goes beyond any honor or dishonor. Is this your doing?"
<P>"I swear to you by all that I hold sacred that I have not removed or touched
her. What happened was this. Two nights ago my friend Seward and I came here,
with good purpose, believe me. I opened that coffin, which was then sealed up,
and we found it as now, empty. We then waited, and saw something white come
through the trees. The next day we came here in daytime and she lay there. Did
she not, friend John?
<P>"Yes."
<P>"That night we were just in time. One more so small child was missing, and we
find it, thank God, unharmed amongst the graves. Yesterday I came here before
sundown, for at sundown the UnDead can move. I waited here all night till the
sun rose, but I saw nothing. It was most probable that it was because I had laid
over the clamps of those doors garlic, which the UnDead cannot bear, and other
things which they shun. Last night there was no exodus, so tonight before the
sundown I took away my garlic and other things. And so it is we find this coffin
empty. But bear with me. So far there is much that is strange. Wait you with me
outside, unseen and unheard, and things much stranger are yet to be. So," here
he shut the dark slide of his lantern, "now to the outside." He opened the door,
and we filed out, he coming last and locking the door behind him.
<P>Oh! But it seemed fresh and pure in the night air after the terror of that
vault. How sweet it was to see the clouds race by, and the passing gleams of the
moonlight between the scudding clouds crossing and passing, like the gladness
and sorrow of a man's life. How sweet it was to breathe the fresh air, that had
no taint of death and decay. How humanizing to see the red lighting of the sky
beyond the hill, and to hear far away the muffled roar that marks the life of a
great city. Each in his own way was solemn and overcome. Arthur was silent, and
was, I could see, striving to grasp the purpose and the inner meaning of the
mystery. I was myself tolerably patient, and half inclined again to throw aside
doubt and to accept Van Helsing's conclusions. Quincey Morris was phlegmatic in
the way of a man who accepts all things, and accepts them in the spirit of cool
bravery, with hazard of all he has at stake. Not being able to smoke, he cut
himself a good-sized plug of tobacco and began to chew. As to Van Helsing, he
was employed in a definite way. First he took from his bag a mass of what looked
like thin, wafer-like biscuit, which was carefully rolled up in a white napkin.
Next he took out a double handful of some whitish stuff, like dough or putty. He
crumbled the wafer up fine and worked it into the mass between his hands. This
he then took, and rolling it into thin strips, began to lay them into the
crevices between the door and its setting in the tomb. I was somewhat puzzled at
this, and being close, asked him what it was that he was doing. Arthur and
Quincey drew near also, as they too were curious.
<P>He answered, "I am closing the tomb so that the UnDead may not enter."
<P>"And is that stuff you have there going to do it?"
<P>"It Is."
<P>"What is that which you are using?" This time the question was by Arthur. Van
Helsing reverently lifted his hat as he answered.
<P>"The Host. I brought it from Amsterdam. I have an Indulgence."
<P>It was an answer that appalled the most sceptical of us, and we felt
individually that in the presence of such earnest purpose as the Professor's, a
purpose which could thus use the to him most sacred of things, it was impossible
to distrust. In respectful silence we took the places assigned to us close round
the tomb, but hidden from the sight of any one approaching. I pitied the others,
especially Arthur. I had myself been apprenticed by my former visits to this
watching horror, and yet I, who had up to an hour ago repudiated the proofs,
felt my heart sink within me. Never did tombs look so ghastly white. Never did
cypress, or yew, or juniper so seem the embodiment of funeral gloom. Never did
tree or grass wave or rustle so ominously. Never did bough creak so
mysteriously, and never did the far-away howling of dogs send such a woeful
presage through the night.
<P>There was a long spell of silence, big, aching, void, and then from the
Professor a keen "S-s-s-s!" He pointed, and far down the avenue of yews we saw a
white figure advance, a dim white figure, which held something dark at its
breast. The figure stopped, and at the moment a ray of moonlight fell upon the
masses of driving clouds, and showed in startling prominence a dark-haired
woman, dressed in the cerements of the grave. We could not see the face, for it
was bent down over what we saw to be a fair-haired child. There was a pause and
a sharp little cry, such as a child gives in sleep, or a dog as it lies before
the fire and dreams. We were starting forward, but the Professor's warning hand,
seen by us as he stood behind a yew tree, kept us back. And then as we looked
the white figure moved forwards again. It was now near enough for us to see
clearly, and the moonlight still held. My own heart grew cold as ice, and I
could hear the gasp of Arthur, as we recognized the features of Lucy Westenra.
Lucy Westenra, but yet how changed. The sweetness was turned to adamantine,
heartless cruelty, and the purity to voluptuous wantonness.
<P>Van Helsing stepped out, and obedient to his gesture, we all advanced too.
The four of us ranged in a line before the door of the tomb. Van Helsing raised
his lantern and drew the slide. By the concentrated light that fell on Lucy's
face we could see that the lips were crimson with fresh blood, and that the
stream had trickled over her chin and stained the purity of her lawn death robe.
<P>We shuddered with horror. I could see by the tremulous light that even Van
Helsing's iron nerve had failed. Arthur was next to me, and if I had not seized
his arm and held him up, he would have fallen.
<P>When Lucy, I call the thing that was before us Lucy because it bore her
shape, saw us she drew back with an angry snarl, such as a cat gives when taken
unawares, then her eyes ranged over us. Lucy's eyes in form and color, but
Lucy's eyes unclean and full of hell fire, instead of the pure, gentle orbs we
knew. At that moment the remnant of my love passed into hate and loathing. Had
she then to be killed, I could have done it with savage delight. As she looked,
her eyes blazed with unholy light, and the face became wreathed with a
voluptuous smile. Oh, God, how it made me shudder to see it! With a careless
motion, she flung to the ground, callous as a devil, the child that up to now
she had clutched strenuously to her breast, growling over it as a dog growls
over a bone. The child gave a sharp cry, and lay there moaning. There was a
cold-bloodedness in the act which wrung a groan from Arthur. When she advanced
to him with outstretched arms and a wanton smile he fell back and hid his face
in his hands.
<P>She still advanced, however, and with a languorous, voluptuous grace, said,
"Come to me, Arthur. Leave these others and come to me. My arms are hungry for
you. Come, and we can rest together. Come, my husband, come!"
<P>There was something diabolically sweet in her tones, something of the
tinkling of glass when struck, which rang through the brains even of us who
heard the words addressed to another.
<P>As for Arthur, he seemed under a spell, moving his hands from his face, he
opened wide his arms. She was leaping for them, when Van Helsing sprang forward
and held between them his little golden crucifix. She recoiled from it, and,
with a suddenly distorted face, full of rage, dashed past him as if to enter the
tomb.
<P>When within a foot or two of the door, however, she stopped, as if arrested
by some irresistible force. Then she turned, and her face was shown in the clear
burst of moonlight and by the lamp, which had now no quiver from Van Helsing's
nerves. Never did I see such baffled malice on a face, and never, I trust, shall
such ever be seen again by mortal eyes. The beautiful color became livid, the
eyes seemed to throw out sparks of hell fire, the brows were wrinkled as though
the folds of flesh were the coils of Medusa's snakes, and the lovely,
blood-stained mouth grew to an open square, as in the passion masks of the
Greeks and Japanese. If ever a face meant death, if looks could kill, we saw it
at that moment.
<P>And so for full half a minute, which seemed an eternity, se remained between
the lifted crucifix and the sacred closing of her means of entry.
<P>Van Helsing broke the silence by asking Arthur, "Answer me, oh my friend! Am
I to proceed in my work?"
<P>"Do as you will, friend. Do as you will. There can be no horror like this
ever any more." And he groaned in spirit.
<P>Quincey and I simultaneously moved towards him, and took his arms. We could
hear the click of the closing lantern as Van Helsing held it down. Coming close
to the tomb, he began to remove from the chinks some of the sacred emblem which
he had placed there. We all looked on with horrified amazement as we saw, when
he stood back, the woman, with a corporeal body as real at that moment as our
own, pass through the interstice where scarce a knife blade could have gone. We
all felt a glad sense of relief when we saw the Professor calmly restoring the
strings of putty to the edges of the door.
<P>When this was done, he lifted the child and said, "Come now, my friends. We
can do no more till tomorrow. There is a funeral at noon, so here we shall all
come before long after that. The friends of the dead will all be gone by two,
and when the sexton locks the gate we shall remain. Then there is more to do,
but not like this of tonight. As for this little one, he is not much harmed, and
by tomorrow night he shall be well. We shall leave him where the police will
find him, as on the other night, and then to home."
<P>Coming close to Arthur, he said, "My friend Arthur, you have had a sore
trial, but after, when you look back, you will see how it was necessary. You are
now in the bitter waters, my child. By this time tomorrow you will, please God,
have passed them, and have drunk of the sweet waters. So do not mourn over-much.
Till then I shall not ask you to forgive me."
<P>Arthur and Quincey came home with me, and we tried to cheer each other on the
way. We had left behind the child in safety, and were tired. So we all slept
with more or less reality of sleep.
<P>29 September, night.--A little before twelve o'clock we three, Arthur,
Quincey Morris, and myself, called for the Professor. It was odd to notice that
by common consent we had all put on black clothes. Of course, Arthur wore black,
for he was in deep mourning, but the rest of us wore it by instinct. We got to
the graveyard by half-past one, and strolled about, keeping out of official
observation, so that when the gravediggers had completed their task and the
sexton under the belief that every one had gone, had locked the gate, we had the
place all to ourselves. Van Helsing, instead of his little black bag, had with
him a long leather one, something like a cricketing bag. It was manifestly of
fair weight.
<P>When we were alone and had heard the last of the footsteps die out up the
road, we silently, and as if by ordered intention, followed the Professor to the
tomb. He unlocked the door, and we entered, closing it behind us. Then he took
from his bag the lantern, which he lit, and also two wax candles, which, when
lighted, he stuck by melting their own ends, on other coffins, so that they
might give light sufficient to work by. When he again lifted the lid off Lucy's
coffin we all looked, Arthur trembling like an aspen, and saw that the corpse
lay there in all its death beauty. But there was no love in my own heart,
nothing but loathing for the foul Thing which had taken Lucy's shape without her
soul. I could see even Arthur's face grow hard as he looked. Presently he said
to Van Helsing, "Is this really Lucy's body, or only a demon in her shape?"
<P>"It is her body, and yet not it. But wait a while, and you shall see her as
she was, and is."
<P>She seemed like a nightmare of Lucy as she lay there, the pointed teeth, the
blood stained, voluptuous mouth, which made one shudder to see, the whole carnal
and unspirited appearance, seeming like a devilish mockery of Lucy's sweet
purity. Van Helsing, with his usual methodicalness, began taking the various
contents from his bag and placing them ready for use. First he took out a
soldering iron and some plumbing solder, and then small oil lamp, which gave
out, when lit in a corner of the tomb, gas which burned at a fierce heat with a
blue flame, then his operating knives, which he placed to hand, and last a round
wooden stake, some two and a half or three inches thick and about three feet
long. One end of it was hardened by charring in the fire, and was sharpened to a
fine point. With this stake came a heavy hammer, such as in households is used
in the coal cellar for breaking the lumps. To me, a doctor's preperations for
work of any kind are stimulating and bracing, but the effect of these things on
both Arthur and Quincey was to cause them a sort of consternation. They both,
however, kept their courage, and remained silent and quiet.
<P>When all was ready, Van Helsing said, "Before we do anything, let me tell you
this. It is out of the lore and experience of the ancients and of all those who
have studied the powers of the UnDead. When they become such, there comes with
the change the curse of immortality. They cannot die, but must go on age after
age adding new victims and multiplying the evils of the world. For all that die
from the preying of the Undead become themselves Undead, and prey on their kind.
And so the circle goes on ever widening, like as the ripples from a stone thrown
in the water. Friend Arthur, if you had met that kiss which you know of before
poor Lucy die, or again, last night when you open your arms to her, you would in
time, when you had died, have become nosferatu, as they call it in Eastern
europe, and would for all time make more of those Un-Deads that so have filled
us with horror. The career of this so unhappy dear lady is but just begun. Those
children whose blood she sucked are not as yet so much the worse, but if she
lives on, UnDead, more and more they lose their blood and by her power over them
they come to her, and so she draw their blood with that so wicked mouth. But if
she die in truth, then all cease. The tiny wounds of the throats disappear, and
they go back to their play unknowing ever of what has been. But of the most
blessed of all, when this now UnDead be made to rest as true dead, then the soul
of the poor lady whom we love shall again be free. Instead of working wickedness
by night and growing more debased in the assimilating of it by day, she shall
take her place with the other Angels. So that, my friend, it will be a blessed
hand for her that shall strike the blow that sets her free. To this I am
willing, but is there none amongst us who has a better right? Will it be no joy
to think of hereafter in the silence of the night when sleep is not, `It was my
hand that sent her to the stars. It was the hand of him that loved her best, the
hand that of all she would herself have chosen, had it been to her to choose?'
Tell me if there be such a one amongst us?"
<P>We all looked at Arthur. He saw too, what we all did, the infinite kindness
which suggested that his should be the hand which would restore Lucy to us as a
holy, and not an unholy, memory. He stepped forward and said bravely, though his
hand trembled, and his face was as pale as snow, "My true friend, from the
bottom of my broken heart I thank you. Tell me what I am to do, and I shall not
falter!"
<P>Van Helsing laid a hand on his shoulder, and said, "Brave lad! A moment's
courage, and it is done. This stake must be driven through her. It well be a
fearful ordeal, be not deceived in that, but it will be only a short time, and
you will then rejoice more than your pain was great. From this grim tomb you
will emerge as though you tread on air. But you must not falter when once you
have begun. Only think that we, your true friends, are round you, and that we
pray for you all the time."
<P>"Go on," said Arthur hoarsely."Tell me what I am to do."
<P>"Take this stake in your left hand, ready to place to the point over the
heart, and the hammer in your right. Then when we begin our prayer for the dead,
I shall read him, I have here the book, and the others shall follow, strike in
God's name, that so all may be well with the dead that we love and that the
UnDead pass away."
<P>Arthur took the stake and the hammer, and when once his mind was set on
action his hands never trembled nor even quivered. Van Helsing opened his missal
and began to read, and Quincey and I followed as well as we could.
<P>Arthur placed the point over the heart, and as I looked I could see its dint
in the white flesh. Then he struck with all his might.
<P>The thing in the coffin writhed, and a hideous, blood-curdling screech came
from the opened red lips. The body shook and quivered and twisted in wild
contortions. The sharp white champed together till the lips were cut, and the
mouth was smeared with a crimson foam. But Arthur never faltered. He looked like
a figure of Thor as his untrembling arm rose and fell, driving deeper and deeper
the mercy-bearing stake, whilst the blood from the pierced heart welled and
spurted up around it. His face was set, and high duty seemed to shine through
it. The sight of it gave us courage so that our voices seemed to ring through
the little vault.
<P>And then the writhing and quivering of the body became less, and the teeth
seemed to champ, and the face to quiver. Finally it lay still. The terrible task
was over.
<P>The hammer fell from Arthur's hand. He reeled and would have fallen had we
not caught him. The great drops of sweat sprang from his forehead, and his
breath came in broken gasps. It had indeed been an awful strain on him, and had
he not been forced to his task by more than human considerations he could never
have gone through with it. For a few minutes we were so taken up with him that
we did not look towards the coffin. When we did, however, a murmur of startled
surprise ran from one to the other of us. We gazed so eagerly that Arthur rose,
for he had been seated on the ground, and came and looked too, and then a glad
strange light broke over his face and dispelled altogether the gloom of horror
that lay upon it.
<P>There, in the coffin lay no longer the foul Thing that we has so dreaded and
grown to hate that the work of her destruction was yielded as a privilege to the
one best entitled to it, but Lucy as we had seen her in life, with her face of
unequalled sweetness and purity. True that there were there, as we had seen them
in life, the traces of care and pain and waste. But these were all dear to us,
for they marked her truth to what we knew. One and all we felt that the holy
calm that lay like sunshine over the wasted face and form was only an earthly
token and symbol of the calm that was to reign for ever.
<P>Van Helsing came and laid his hand on Arthur's shoulder, and said to him,
"And now, Arthur my friend, dear lad, am I not forgiven?"
<P>The reaction of the terrible strain came as he took the old man's hand in
his, and raising it to his lips, pressed it, and said, "Forgiven! God bless you
that you have given my dear one her soul again, and me peace." He put his hands
on the Professor's shoulder, and laying his head on his breast, cried for a
while silently, whilst we stood unmoving.
<P>When he raised his head Van Helsing said to him, "And now, my child, you may
kiss her. Kiss her dead lips if you will, as she would have you to, if for her
to choose. For she is not a grinning devil now, not any more a foul Thing for
all eternity. No longer she is the devil's UnDead. She is God's true dead, whose
soul is with Him!"
<P>Arthur bent and kissed her, and then we sent him and Quincey out of the tomb.
The Professor and I sawed the top off the stake, leaving the point of it in the
body. Then we cut off the head and filled the mouth with garlic. We soldered up
the leaden coffin, screwed on the coffin lid, and gathering up our belongings,
came away. When the Professor locked the door he gave the key to Arthur.
<P>Outside the air was sweet, the sun shone, and the birds sang, and it seemed
as if all nature were tuned to a different pitch. There was gladness and mirth
and peace everywhere, for we were at rest ourselves on one account, and we were
glad, though it was with a tempered joy.
<P>Before we moved away Van Helsing said, "Now, my friends, one step or our work
is done, one the most harrowing to ourselves. But there remains a greater task,
to find out the author of all this or sorrow and to stamp him out. I have clues
which we can follow, but it is a long task, and a difficult one, and there is
danger in it, and pain. Shall you not all help me? We have learned to believe,
all of us, is it not so? And since so, do we not see our duty? Yes! And do we
not promise to go on to the bitter end?"
<P>Each in turn, we took his hand, and the promise was made. Then said the
Professor as we moved off, "Two nights hence you shall meet with me and dine
together at seven of the clock with friend John. I shall entreat two others, two
that you know not as yet, and I shall be ready to all our work show and our
plans unfold. Friend John, you come with me home, for I have much to consult you
about, and you can help me. Tonight I leave for Amsterdam, but shall return
tomorrow night. And then begins our great quest. But first I shall have much to
say, so that you may know what to do and to dread. Then our promise shall be
made to each other anew. For there is a terrible task before us, and once our
feet are on the ploughshare we must not draw back."
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=axvii>CHAPTER 17. DR. SEWARD'S
DIARY-cont.</A></CENTER></STRONG>
<P>When we arrived at the Berkely Hotel, Van Helsing found a telegram waiting
for him.
<P>"Am coming up by train. Jonathan at Whitby. Important news. Mina Harker."
<P>The Professor was delighted. "Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina," he said, "pearl
among women! She arrive, but I cannot stay. She must go to your house, friend
John. You must meet her at the station. Telegraph her en route so that she may
be prepared."
<P>When the wire was dispatched he had a cup of tea. Over it he told me of a
diary kept by Jonathan Harker when abroad, and gave me a typewritten copy of it,
as also of Mrs. Harker's diary at Whitby. "Take these," he said, "and study them
well. When I have returned you will be master of all the facts, and we can then
better enter on our inquisition. Keep them safe, for there is in them much of
treasure. You will need all your faith, even you who have had such an experience
as that of today. What is here told," he laid his hand heavily and gravely on
the packet of papers as he spoke, "may be the beginning of the end to you and me
and many another, or it may sound the knell of the UnDead who walk the earth.
Read all, I pray you, with the open mind, and if you can add in any way to the
story here told do so, for it is all important. You have kept a diary of all
these so strange things, is it not so? Yes! Then we shall go through all these
together when we meet." He then made ready for his departure and shortly drove
off to Liverpool Street. I took my way to Paddington, where I arrived about
fifteen minutes before the train came in.
<P>The crowd melted away, after the bustling fashion common to arrival
platforms, and I was beginning to feel uneasy, lest I might miss my guest, when
a sweet-faced, dainty looking girl stepped up to me, and after a quick glance
said, "Dr. Seward, is it not?"
<P>"And you are Mrs. Harker!" I answered at once, whereupon she held out her
hand.
<P>"I knew you from the description of poor dear Lucy, but. . ." She stopped
suddenly, and a quick blush overspread her face.
<P>The blush that rose to my own cheeks somehow set us both at ease, for it was
a tacit answer to her own. I got her luggage, which included a typewriter, and
we took the Underground to Fenchurch Street, after I had sent a wire to my
housekeeper to have a sitting room and a bedroom prepared at once for Mrs.
Harker.
<P>In due time we arrived. She knew, of course, that the place was a lunatic
asylum, but I could see that she was unable to repress a shudder when we
entered.
<P>She told me that, if she might, she would come presently to my study, as she
had much to say. So here I am finishing my entry in my phonograph diary whilst I
await her. As yet I have not had the chance of looking at the papers which Van
Helsing left with me, though they lie open before me. I must get her interested
in something, so that I may have an opportunity of reading them. She does not
know how precious time is, or what a task we have in hand. I must be careful not
to frighten her. Here she is!
<P><STRONG>MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>29 September.--After I had tidied myself, I went down to Dr. Seward's study.
At the door I paused a moment, for I thought I heard him talking with some one.
As, however, he had pressed me to be quick, I knocked at the door, and on his
calling out, "Come in," I entered.
<P>To my intense surprise, there was no one with him. He was quite alone, and on
the table opposite him was what I knew at once from the description to be a
phonograph. I had never seen one, and was much interested.
<P>"I hope I did not keep you waiting," I said, "but I stayed at the door as I
heard you talking, and thought there was someone with you."
<P>"Oh," he replied with a smile, "I was only entering my diary."
<P>"Your diary?" I asked him in surprise.
<P>"Yes," he answered. "I keep it in this." As he spoke he laid his hand on the
phonograph. I felt quite excited over it, and blurted out, "Why, this beats even
shorthand! May I hear it say something?"
<P>"Certainly," he replied with alacrity, and stood up to put it in train for
speaking. Then he paused, and a troubled look overspread his face.
<P>"The fact is," he began awkwardly."I only keep my diary in it, and as it is
entirely, almost entirely, about my cases it may be awkward, that is, I mean. .
." He stopped, and I tried to help him out of his embarrassment.
<P>"You helped to attend dear Lucy at the end. Let me hear how she died, for all
that I know of her, I shall be very grateful. She was very, very dear to me."
<P>To my surprise, he answered, with a horrorstruck look in his face, "Tell you
of her death? Not for the wide world!"
<P>"Why not?" I asked, for some grave, terrible feeling was coming over me.
<P>Again he paused, and I could see that he was trying to invent an excuse. At
length, he stammered out, "You see, I do not know how to pick out any particular
part of the diary."
<P>Even while he was speaking an idea dawned upon him, and he said with
unconscious simplicity, in a different voice, and with the naivete of a child,
"that's quite true, upon my honor. Honest Indian!"
<P>I could not but smile, at which he grimaced."I gave myself away that time!"
he said. "But do you know that, although I have kept the diary for months past,
it never once struck me how I was going to find any particular part of it in
case I wanted to look it up?"
<P>By this time my mind was made up that the diary of a doctor who attended Lucy
might have something to add to the sum of our knowledge of that terrible Being,
and I said boldly, "Then, Dr. Seward, you had better let me copy it out for you
on my typewriter."
<P>He grew to a positively deathly pallor as he said, "No! No! No! For all the
world. I wouldn't let you know that terrible story.!"
<P>Then it was terrible. My intuition was right! For a moment, I thought, and as
my eyes ranged the room, unconsciously looking for something or some opportunity
to aid me, they lit on a great batch of typewriting on the table. His eyes
caught the look in mine, and without his thinking, followed their direction. As
they saw the parcel he realized my meaning.
<P>"You do not know me," I said. "When you have read those papers, my own diary
and my husband's also, which I have typed, you will know me better. I have not
faltered in giving every thought of my own heart in this cause. But, of course,
you do not know me, yet, and I must not expect you to trust me so far."
<P>He is certainly a man of noble nature. Poor dear Lucy was right about him. He
stood up and opened a large drawer, in which were arranged in order a number of
hollow cylinders of metal covered with dark wax, and said,
<P>"You are quite right. I did not trust you because I did not know you. But I
know you now, and let me say that I should have known you long ago. I know that
Lucy told you of me. She told me of you too. May I make the only atonement in my
power? Take the cylinders and hear them. The first half-dozen of them are
personal to me, and they will not horrify you. Then you will know me better.
Dinner will by then be ready. In the meantime I shall read over some of these
documents, and shall be better able to understand certain things."
<P>He carried the phonograph himself up to my sitting room and adjusted it for
me. Now I shall learn something pleasant, I am sure. For it will tell me the
other side of a true love episode of which I know one side already.
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>29 September.--I was so absorbed in that wonderful diary of Jonathan Harker
and that other of his wife that I let the time run on without thinking. Mrs.
Harker was not down when the maid came to announce dinner, so I said, "She is
possibly tired. Let dinner wait an hour," and I went on with my work. I had just
finished Mrs. Harker's diary, when she came in. She looked sweetly pretty, but
very sad, and her eyes were flushed with crying. This somehow moved me much. Of
late I have had cause for tears, God knows! But the relief of them was denied
me, and now the sight of those sweet eyes, brightened by recent tears, went
straight to my heart. So I said as gently as I could, "I greatly fear I have
distressed you."
<P>"Oh, no, not distressed me," she replied. "But I have been more touched than
I can say by your grief. That is a wonderful machine, but it is cruelly true. It
told me, in its very tones, the anguish of your heart. It was like a soul crying
out to Almighty God. No one must hear them spoken ever again! See, I have tried
to be useful. I have copied out the words on my typewriter, and none other need
now hear your heart beat, as I did."
<P>"No one need ever know, shall ever know," I said in a low voice. She laid her
hand on mine and said very gravely, "Ah, but they must!"
<P>"Must! but why?" I asked.
<P>"Because it is a part of the terrible story, a part of poor Lucy's death and
all that led to it. Because in the struggle which we have before us to rid the
earth of this terrible monster we must have all the knowledge and all the help
which we can get. I think that the cylinders which you gave me contained more
than you intended me to know. But I can see that there are in your record many
lights to this dark mystery. You will let me help, will you not? I know all up
to a certain point, and I see already, though your diary only took me to 7
September, how poor Lucy was beset, and how her terrible doom was being wrought
out. Jonathan and I have been working day and night since Professor Van Helsing
saw us. He is gone to Whitby to get more information, and he will be here
tomorrow to help us. We need have no secrets amongst us. Working together and
with absolute trust, we can surely be stronger than if some of us were in the
dark."
<P>She looked at me so appealingly, and at the same time manifested such courage
and resolution in her bearing, that I gave in at once to her wishes. "You
shall," I said, "do as you like in the matter. God forgive me if I do wrong!
There are terrible things yet to learn of. But if you have so far traveled on
the road to poor Lucy's death, you will not be content, I know, to remain in the
dark. Nay, the end, the very end, may give you a gleam of peace. Come, there is
dinner. We must keep one another strong for what is before us. We have a cruel
and dreadful task. When you have eaten you shall learn the rest, and I shall
answer any questions you ask, if there be anything which you do not understand,
though it was apparent to us who were present."
<P><STRONG>MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>29 September.--After dinner I came with Dr. Seward to his study. He brought
back the phonograph from my room, and I took a chair, and arranged the
phonograph so that I could touch it without getting up, and showed me how to
stop it in case I should want to pause. Then he very thoughtfully took a chair,
with his back to me, so that I might be as free as possible, and began to read.
I put the forked metal to my ears and listened.
<P>When the terrible story of Lucy's death, and all that followed, was done, I
lay back in my chair powerless. Fortunately I am not of a fainting disposition.
When Dr. Seward saw me he jumped up with a horrified exclamation, and hurriedly
taking a case bottle from the cupboard, gave me some brandy, which in a few
minutes somewhat restored me. My brain was all in a whirl, and only that there
came through all the multitude of horrors, the holy ray of light that my dear
Lucy was at last at peace, I do not think I could have borne it without making a
scene. It is all so wild and mysterious, and strange that if I had not known
Jonathan's experience in Transylvania I could not have believed. As it was, I
didn't know what to believe, and so got out of my difficulty by attending to
something else. I took the cover off my typewriter, and said to Dr. Seward,
<P>"Let me write this all out now. We must be ready for Dr. Van Helsing when he
comes. I have sent a telegram to Jonathan to come on here when he arrives in
London from Whitby. In this matter dates are everything, and I think that if we
get all of our material ready, and have every item put in chronological order,
we shall have done much.
<P>"You tell me that Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris are coming too. Let us be
able to tell them when they come."
<P>He accordingly set the phonograph at a slow pace, and I began to typewrite
from the beginning of the seventeenth cylinder. I used manifold, and so took
three copies of the diary, just as I had done with the rest. It was late when I
got through, but Dr. Seward went about his work of going his round of the
patients. When he had finished he came back and sat near me, reading, so that I
did not feel too lonely whilst I worked. How good and thoughtful he is. The
world seems full of good men, even if there are monsters in it.
<P>Before I left him I remembered what Jonathan put in his diary of the
Professor's perturbation at reading something in an evening paper at the station
at Exeter, so, seeing that Dr. Seward keeps his newspapers, I borrowed the files
of `The Westminster Gazette' and `The Pall Mall Gazette' and took them to my
room. I remember how much the `Dailygraph' and `The Whitby Gazette', of which I
had made cuttings, had helped us to understand the terrible events at Whitby
when Count Dracula landed, so I shall look through the evening papers since
then, and perhaps I shall get some new light. I am not sleepy, and the work will
help to keep me quiet.
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>30 September.--Mr. Harker arrived at nine o'clock. He got his wife's wire
just before starting. He is uncommonly clever, if one can judge from his face,
and full of energy. If this journal be true, and judging by one's own wonderful
experiences, it must be, he is also a man of great nerve. That going down to the
vault a second time was a remarkable piece of daring. After reading his account
of it I was prepared to meet a good specimen of manhood, but hardly the quiet,
businesslike gentleman who came here today.
<P>LATER.--After lunch Harker and his wife went back to their own room, and as I
passed a while ago I heard the click of the typewriter. They are hard at it.
Mrs. Harker says that knitting together in chronological order every scrap of
evidence they have. Harker has got the letters between the consignee of the
boxes at Whitby and the carriers in London who took charge of them. He is now
reading his wife's transcript of my diary. I wonder what they make out of it.
Here it is. . .
<P>Strange that it never struck me that the very next house might be the Count's
hiding place! Goodness knows that we had enough clues from the conduct of the
patient Renfield! The bundle of letters relating to the purchase of the house
were with the transcript. Oh, if we had only had them earlier we might have
saved poor Lucy! Stop! That way madness lies! Harker has gone back, and is again
collecting material. He says that by dinner time they will be able to show a
whole connected narrative. He thinks that in the meantime I should see Renfield,
as hitherto he has been a sort of index to the coming and going of the Count. I
hardly see this yet, but when I get at the dates I suppose I shall. What a good
thing that Mrs. Harker put my cylinders into type! We never could have found the
dates otherwise.
<P>I found Renfield sitting placidly in his room with his hands folded, smiling
benignly. At the moment he seemed as sane as any one I ever saw. I sat down and
talked with him on a lot of subjects, all of which he treated naturally. He
then, of his own accord, spoke of going home, a subject he has never mentioned
to my knowledge during his sojourn here. In fact, he spoke quite confidently of
getting his discharge at once. I believe that, had I not had the chat with
Harker and read the letters and the dates of his outbursts, I should have been
prepared to sign for him after a brief time of observation. As it is, I am
darkly suspicious. All those out-breaks were in some way linked with the
proximity of the Count. What then does this absolute content mean? Can it be
that his instinct is satisfied as to the vampire's ultimate triumph? Stay. He is
himself zoophagous, and in his wild ravings outside the chapel door of the
deserted house he always spoke of `master'. This all seems confirmation of our
idea. However, after a while I came away. My friend is just a little too sane at
present to make it safe to probe him too deep with questions. He might begin to
think, and then. . .So I came away. I mistrust these quiet moods of of his, so I
have given the attendant a hint to look closely after him, and to have a strait
waistcoat ready in case of need.
<P><STRONG>JOHNATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>29 September, in train to London.--When I received Mr. Billington's courteous
message that he would give me any information in his power I thought it best to
go down to Whitby and make, on the spot, such inquiries as I wanted. It was now
my object to trace that horrid cargo of the Count's to its place in London.
Later, we may be able to deal with it. Billington junior, a nice lad, met me at
the station, and brought me to his father's house, where they had decided that I
must spend the night. They are hospitable, with true Yorkshire hospitality, give
a guest everything and leave him to do as he likes. They all knew that I was
busy, and that my stay was short, and Mr. Billington had ready in his office all
the papers concerning the consignment of boxes. It gave me almost a turn to see
again one of the letters which I had seen on the Count's table before I knew of
his diabolical plans. Everything had been carefully thought out, and done
systematically and with precision. He seemed to have been prepared for every
obstacle which might be placed by accident in the way of his intentions being
carried out. To use and Americanism, he had `taken no chances', and the absolute
accuracy with which his instructions were fulfilled was simply the logical
result of his care. I saw the invoice, and took note of it.`Fifty cases of
common earth, to be used for experimental purposes'. Also the copy of the letter
to Carter Paterson, and their reply. Of both these I got copies. This was all
the information Mr. Billington could give me, so I went down to the port and saw
the coastguards, the Customs Officers and the harbor master, who kindly put me
in communication with the men who had actually received the boxes. Their tally
was exact with the list, and they had nothing to add to the simple description
`fifty cases of common earth', except that the boxes were `main and mortal
heavy', and that shifting them was dry work. One of them added that it was hard
lines that there wasn't any gentleman `such like as like yourself, squire', to
show some sort of appreciation of their efforts in a liquid form. Another put in
a rider that the thirst then generated was such that even the time which had
elapsed had not completely allayed it. Needless to add, I took care before
leaving to lift, forever and adequately, this source of reproach.
<P>30 September.--The station master was good enough to give me a line to his
old companion the station master at King's Cross, so that when I arrived there
in the morning I was able to ask him about the arrival of the boxes. He, too put
me at once in communication with the proper officials, and I saw that their
tally was correct with the original invoice. The opportunities of acquiring an
abnormal thirst had been here limited. A noble use of them had, however, been
made, and again I was compelled to deal with the result in ex post facto manner.
<P>From thence I went to Carter Paterson's central office, where I met with the
utmost courtesy. They looked up the transaction in their day book and letter
book, and at once telephoned to their King's Cross office for more details. By
good fortune, the men who did the teaming were waiting for work, and the
official at once sent them over, sending also by one of them the way-bill and
all the papers connected with the delivery of the boxes at Carfax. Here again I
found the tally agreeing exactly. The carriers' men were able to supplement the
paucity of the written words with a few more details. These were, I shortly
found, connected almost solely with the dusty nature of the job, and the
consequent thirst engendered in the operators. On my affording an opportunity,
through the medium of the currency of the realm, of the allaying, at a later
period, this beneficial evil, one of the men remarked,
<P>"That `ere `ouse, guv'nor, is the rummiest I ever was in. Blyme! But it ain't
been touched sence a hundred years. There was dust that thick in the place that
you might have slep' on it without `urtin' of yer bones. An' the place was that
neglected that yer might `ave smelled ole Jerusalem in it. But the old chapel,
that took the cike, that did! Me and my mate, we thort we wouldn't never git out
quick enough. Lor', I wouldn't take less nor a quid a moment to stay there arter
dark."
<P>Having been in the house, I could well believe him, but if he knew what I
know, he would, I think have raised his terms.
<P>Of one thing I am now satisfied. That all those boxes which arrived at Whitby
from Varna in the Demeter were safely deposited in the old chapel at Carfax.
There should be fifty of them there, unless any have since been removed, as from
Dr. Seward's diary I fear.
<P>Later.--Mina and I have worked all day, and we have put all the papers into
order.
<P><STRONG>MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>30 September.--I am so glad that I hardly know how to contain myself. It is,
I suppose, the reaction from the haunting fear which I have had, that this
terrible affair and the reopening of his old wound might act detrimentally on
Jonathan. I saw him leave for Whitby with as brave a face as could, but I was
sick with apprehension. The effort has, however, done him good. He was never so
resolute, never so strong, never so full of volcanic energy, as at present. It
is just as that dear, good Professor Van Helsing said, he is true grit, and he
improves under strain that would kill a weaker nature. He came back full of life
and hope and determination. We have got everything in order for tonight. I feel
myself quite wild with excitement. I suppose one ought to pity anything so
hunted as the Count. That is just it. This thing is not human, not even a beast.
To read Dr. Seward's account of poor Lucy's death, and what followed, is enough
to dry up the springs of pity in one's heart.
<P>Later.--Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris arrived earlier than we expected. Dr.
Seward was out on business, and had taken Jonathan with him, so I had to see
them. It was to me a painful meeting, for it brought back all poor dear Lucy's
hopes of only a few months ago. Of course they had heard Lucy speak of me, and
it seemed that Dr. Van Helsing, too, had been quite `blowing my trumpet', as Mr.
Morris expressed it. Poor fellows, neither of them is aware that I know all
about the proposals they made to Lucy. They did not quite know what to say or
do, as they were ignorant of the amount of my knowledge. So they had to keep on
neutral subjects. However, I thought the matter over, and came to the conclusion
that the best thing I could do would be to post them on affairs right up to
date. I knew from Dr. Seward's diary that they had been at Lucy's death, her
real death, and that I need not fear to betray any secret before the time. So I
told them, as well as I could, that I had read all the papers and diaries, and
that my husband and I, having typewritten them, had just finished putting them
in order. I gave them each a copy to read in the library. When Lord Godalming
got his and turned it over, it does make a pretty good pile, he said, "Did you
write all this, Mrs. Harker?"
<P>I nodded, and he went on.
<P>"I don't quite see the drift of it, but you people are all so good and kind,
and have been working so earnestly and so energetically, that all I can do is to
accept your ideas blindfold and try to help you. I have had one lesson already
in accepting facts that should make a man humble to the last hour of his life.
Besides, I know you loved my Lucy. . ."
<P>Here he turned away and covered his face with his hands. I could hear the
tears in his voice. Mr. Morris, with instinctive delicacy, just laid a hand for
a moment on his shoulder, and then walked quietly out of the room. I suppose
there is something in a woman's nature that makes a man free to break down
before her and express his feelings on the tender or emotional side without
feeling it derogatory to his manhood. For when Lord Godalming found himself
alone with me he sat down on the sofa and gave way utterly and openly. I sat
down beside him and took his hand. I hope he didn't think it forward of me, and
that if her ever thinks of it afterwards he never will have such a thought.
There I wrong him. I know he never will. He is too true a gentleman. I said to
him, for I could see that his heart was breaking, "I loved dear Lucy, and I know
what she was to you, and what you were to her. She and I were like sisters, and
now she is gone, will you not let me be like a sister to you in your trouble? I
know what sorrows you have had, though I cannot measure the depth of them. If
sympathy and pity can help in your affliction, won't you let me be of some
little service, for Lucy's sake?"
<P>In an instant the poor dear fellow was overwhelmed with grief. It seemed to
me that all that he had of late been suffering in silence found a vent at once.
He grew quite hysterical, and raising his open hands, beat his palms together in
a perfect agony of grief. He stood up and then sat down again, and the tears
rained down his cheeks. I felt an infinite pity for him, and opened my arms
unthinkingly. With a sob he laid his head on my shoulder and cried like a
wearied child, whilst he shook with emotion.
<P>We women have something of the mother in us that makes us rise above smaller
matters when the mother spirit is invoked. I felt this big sorrowing man's head
resting on me, as though it were that of a baby that some day may lie on my
bosom, and I stroked his hair as though he were my own child. I never thought at
the time how strange it all was.
<P>After a little bit his sobs ceased, and he raised himself with an apology,
though he made no disguise of his emotion. He told me that for days and nights
past, weary days and sleepless nights, he had been unable to speak with any one,
as a man must speak in his time of sorrow. There was no woman whose sympathy
could be given to him, or with whom, owing to the terrible circumstance with
which his sorrow was surrounded, he could speak freely.
<P>"I know now how I suffered," he said, as he dried his eyes, "but I do not
know even yet, and none other can ever know, how much your sweet sympathy has
been to me today. I shall know better in time, and believe me that, though I am
not ungrateful now, my gratitude will grow with my understanding. You will let
me be like a brother, will you not, for all our lives, for dear Lucy's sake?"
<P>"For dear Lucy's sake," I said as we clasped hands."Ay, and for your own
sake," he added, "for if a man's esteem and gratitude are ever worth the
winning, you have won mine today. If ever the future should bring to you a time
when you need a man's help, believe me, you will not call in vain. God grant
that no such time may ever come to you to break the sunshine of your life, but
if it should ever come, promise me that you will let me know."
<P>He was so earnest, and his sorrow was so fresh, that I felt it would comfort
him, so I said, "I promise."
<P>As I came along the corridor I say Mr. Morris looking out of a window. He
turned as he heard my footsteps. "How is Art?" he said. Then noticing my red
eyes, he went on, "Ah, I see you have been comforting him. Poor old fellow! He
needs it. No one but a woman can help a man when he is in trouble of the heart,
and he had no one to comfort him."
<P>He bore his own trouble so bravely that my heart bled for him. I saw the
manuscript in his hand, and I knew that when he read it he would realize how
much I knew, so I said to him, "I wish I could comfort all who suffer from the
heart. Will you let me be your friend, and will you come to me for comfort if
you need it? You will know later why I speak."
<P>He saw that I was in earnest, and stooping, took my hand, and raising it to
his lips, kissed it. It seemed but poor comfort to so brave and unselfish a
soul, and impulsively I bent over and kissed him. The tears rose in his eyes,
and there was a momentary choking in his throat. He said quite calmly, "Little
girl, you will never forget that true hearted kindness, so long as ever you
live!" Then he went into the study to his friend.
<P>"Little girl!" The very words he had used to Lucy, and, oh, but he proved
himself a friend.
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=axviii>CHAPTER 18. DR. SEWARD'S
DIARY</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>30 September.--I got home at five o'clock, and found that Godalming and
Morris had not only arrived, but had already studied the transcript of the
various diaries and letters which Harker had not yet returned from his visit to
the carriers' men, of whom Dr. Hennessey had written to me. Mrs. Harker gave us
a cup of tea, and I can honestly say that, for the first time since I have lived
in it, this old house seemed like home. When we had finished, Mrs. Harker said,
<P>"Dr. Seward, may I ask a favor? I want to see your patient, Mr. Renfield. Do
let me see him. What you have said of him in your diary interests me so much!"
<P>She looked so appealing and so pretty that I could not refuse her, and there
was no possible reason why I should, so I took her with me. When I went into the
room, I told the man that a lady would like to see him, to which he simply
answered, "Why?"
<P>"She is going through the house, and wants to see every one in it," I
answered.
<P>"Oh, very well," he said, "let her come in, by all means, but just wait a
minute till I tidy up the place."
<P>His method of tidying was peculiar, he simply swallowed all the flies and
spiders in the boxes before I could stop him. It was quite evident that he
feared, or was jealous of, some interference. When he had got through his
disgusting task, he said cheerfully, "Let the lady come in," and sat down on the
edge of his bed with his head down, but with his eyelids raised so that he could
see her as she entered. For a moment I thought that he might have some homicidal
intent. I remembered how quiet he had been just before he attacked me in my own
study, and I took care to stand where I could seize him at once if he attempted
to make a spring at her.
<P>She came into the room with an easy gracefulness which would at once command
the respect of any lunatic, for easiness is one of the qualities mad people most
respect. She walked over to him, smiling pleasantly, and held out her hand.
<P>"Good evening, Mr. Renfield," said she. "You see, I know you, for Dr. Seward
has told me of you." He made no immediate reply, but eyed her all over intently
with a set frown on his face. This look gave way to one of wonder, which merged
in doubt, then to my intense astonishment he said, "You're not the girl the
doctor wanted to marry, are you? You can't be, you know, for she's dead."
<P>Mrs. Harker smiled sweetly as she replied, "Oh no! I have a husband of my
own, to whom I was married before I ever saw Dr. Seward, or he me. I am Mrs.
Harker."
<P>"Then what are you doing here?"
<P>"My husband and I are staying on a visit with Dr. Seward."
<P>"Then don't stay."
<P>"But why not?"
<P>I thought that this style of conversation might not be pleasant to Mrs.
Harker, any more than it was to me, so I joined in, "How did you know I wanted
to marry anyone?"
<P>His reply was simply contemptuous, given in a pause in which he turned his
eyes from Mrs. Harker to me, instantly turning them back again, "What an asinine
question!"
<P>"I don't see that at all, Mr. Renfield," said Mrs. Harker, at once
championing me.
<P>He replied to her with as much courtesy and respect as he had shown contempt
to me, "You will, of course, understand, Mrs. Harker, that when a man is so
loved and honored as our host is, everything regarding him is of interest in our
little community. Dr. Seward is loved not only by his household and his friends,
but even by his patients, who, being some of them hardly in mental equilibrium,
are apt to distort causes and effects. Since I myself have been an inmate of a
lunatic asylum, I cannot but notice that the sophistic tendencies of some of its
inmates lean towards the errors of non causa and ignoratio elenche."
<P>I positively opened my eyes at this new development. Here was my own pet
lunatic, the most pronounced of his type that I had ever met with, talking
elemental philosophy, and with the manner of a polished gentleman. I wonder if
it was Mrs. Harker's presence which had touched some chord in his memory. If
this new phase was spontaneous, or in any way due to her unconscious influence,
she must have some rare gift or power.
<P>We continued to talk for some time, and seeing that he was seemingly quite
reasonable, she ventured, looking at me questioningly as she began, to lead him
to his favorite topic. I was again astonished, for he addressed himself to the
question with the impartiality of the completest sanity. He even took himself as
an example when he mentioned certain things.
<P>"Why, I myself am an instance of a man who had a strange belief. Indeed, it
was no wonder that my friends were alarmed, and insisted on my being put under
control. I used to fancy that life was a positive and perpetual entity, and that
by consuming a multitude of live things, no matter how low in the scale of
creation, one might indefinitely prolong life. At times I held the belief so
strongly that I actually tried to take human life. The doctor here will bear me
out that on one occasion I tried to kill him for the purpose of strengthening my
vital powers by the assimilation with my own body of his life through the medium
of his blood, relying of course, upon the Scriptural phrase, `For the blood is
the life.' Though, indeed, the vendor of a certain nostrum has vulgarized the
truism to the very point of contempt. Isn't that true, doctor?"
<P>I nodded assent, for I was so amazed that I hardly knew what to either think
or say, it was hard to imagine that I had seen him eat up his spiders and flies
not five minutes before. Looking at my watch, I saw that I should go to the
station to meet Van Helsing, so I told Mrs. Harker that it was time to leave.
<P>She came at once, after saying pleasantly to Mr. Renfield, "Goodbye, and I
hope I may see you often, under auspices pleasanter to yourself."
<P>To which, to my astonishment, he replied, "Goodbye, my dear. I pray God I may
never see your sweet face again. May He bless and keep you!"
<P>When I went to the station to meet Van Helsing I left the boys behind me.
Poor Art seemed more cheerful than he has been since Lucy first took ill, and
Quincey is more like his own bright self than he has been for many a long day.
<P>Van Helsing stepped from the carriage with the eager nimbleness of a boy. He
saw me at once, and rushed up to me, saying, "Ah, friend John, how goes all?
Well? So! I have been busy, for I come here to stay if need be. All affairs are
settled with me, and I have much to tell. Madam Mina is with you? Yes. And her
so fine husband? And Arthur and my friend Quincey, they are with you, too?
Good!"
<P>As I drove to the house I told him of what had passed, and of how my own
diary had come to be of some use through Mrs. Harker's suggestion, at which the
Professor interrupted me.
<P>"Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina! She has man's brain, a brain that a man
should have were he much gifted, and a woman's heart. The good God fashioned her
for a purpose, believe me, when He made that so good combination. Friend John,
up to now fortune has made that woman of help to us, after tonight she must not
have to do with this so terrible affair. It is not good that she run a risk so
great. We men are determined, nay, are we not pledged, to destroy this monster?
But it is no part for a woman. Even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her
in so much and so many horrors and hereafter she may suffer, both in waking,
from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams. And, besides, she is young woman
and not so long married, there may be other things to think of some time, if not
now. You tell me she has wrote all, then she must consult with us, but tomorrow
she say goodbye to this work, and we go alone."
<P>I agreed heartily with him, and then I told him what we had found in his
absence, that the house which Dracula had bought was the very next one to my
own. He was amazed, and a great concern seemed to come on him.
<P>"Oh that we had known it before!" he said, "for then we might have reached
him in time to save poor Lucy. However, `the milk that is spilt cries not out
afterwards,'as you say. We shall not think of that, but go on our way to the
end." Then he fell into a silence that lasted till we entered my own gateway.
Before we went to prepare for dinner he said to Mrs. Harker, "I am told, Madam
Mina, by my friend John that you and your husband have put up in exact order all
things that have been, up to this moment."
<P>"Not up to this moment, Professor," she said impulsively, "but up to this
morning."
<P>"But why not up to now? We have seen hitherto how good light all the little
things have made. We have told our secrets, and yet no one who has told is the
worse for it."
<P>Mrs. Harker began to blush, and taking a paper from her pockets, she said,
"Dr. Van Helsing, will you read this, and tell me if it must go in. It is my
record of today. I too have seen the need of putting down at present everything,
however trivial, but there is little in this except what is personal. Must it go
in?"
<P>The Professor read it over gravely, and handed it back, saying, "It need not
go in if you do not wish it, but I pray that it may. It can but make your
husband love you the more, and all us, your friends, more honor you, as well as
more esteem and love." She took it back with another blush and a bright smile.
<P>And so now, up to this very hour, all the records we have are complete and in
order. The Professor took away one copy to study after dinner, and before our
meeting, which is fixed for nine o'clock. The rest of us have already read
everything, so when we meet in the study we shall all be informed as to facts,
and can arrange our plan of battle with this terrible and mysterious enemy.
<P><STRONG>MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>30 September.--When we met in Dr. Seward's study two hours after dinner,
which had been at six o'clock, we unconsciously formed a sort of board or
committee. Professor Van Helsing took the head of the table, to which Dr. Seward
motioned him as he came into the room. He made me sit next to him on his right,
and asked me to act as secretary. Jonathan sat next to me. Opposite us were Lord
Godalming, Dr. Seward, and Mr. Morris, Lord Godalming being next the Professor,
and Dr. Seward in the center.
<P>The Professor said, "I may, I suppose, take it that we are all acquainted
with the facts that are in these papers." We all expressed assent, and he went
on, "Then it were, I think, good that I tell you something of the kind of enemy
with which we have to deal. I shall then make known to you something of the
history of this man, which has been ascertained for me. So we then can discuss
how we shall act, and can take our measure according.
<P>"There are such beings as vampires, some of us have evidence that they exist.
Even had we not the proof of our own unhappy experience, the teachings and the
records of the past give proof enough for sane peoples. I admit that at the
first I was sceptic. Were it not that through long years I have trained myself
to keep an open mind, I could not have believed until such time as that fact
thunder on my ear.`See! See! I prove, I prove.' Alas! Had I known at first what
now I know, nay, had I even guess at him, one so precious life had been spared
to many of us who did love her. But that is gone, and we must so work, that
other poor souls perish not, whilst we can save. The nosferatu do not die like
the bee when he sting once. He is only stronger, and being stronger, have yet
more power to work evil. This vampire which is amongst us is of himself so
strong in person as twenty men, he is of cunning more than mortal, for his
cunning be the growth of ages, he have still the aids of necromancy, which is,
as his etymology imply, the divination by the dead, and all the dead that he can
come nigh to are for him at command, he is brute, and more than brute, he is
devil in callous, and the heart of him is not, he can, within his range, direct
the elements, the storm, the fog, the thunder, he can command all the meaner
things, the rat, and the owl, and the bat, the moth, and the fox, and the wolf,
he can grow and become small, and he can at times vanish and come unknown. How
then are we to begin our strike to destroy him? How shall we find his where, and
having found it, how can we destroy? My friends, this is much, it is a terrible
task that we undertake, and there may be consequence to make the brave shudder.
For if we fail in this our fight he must surely win, and then where end we? Life
is nothings, I heed him not. But to fail here, is not mere life or death. It is
that we become as him, that we henceforward become foul things of the night like
him, without heart or conscience, preying on the bodies and the souls of those
we love best. To us forever are the gates of heaven shut, for who shall open
them to us again? We go on for all time abhorred by all, a blot on the face of
God's sunshine, an arrow in the side of Him who died for man. But we are face to
face with duty, and in such case must we shrink? For me, I say no, but then I am
old, and life, with his sunshine, his fair places, his song of birds, his music
and his love, lie far behind. You others are young. Some have seen sorrow, but
there are fair days yet in store. What say you?"
<P>Whilst he was speaking, Jonathan had taken my hand. I feared, oh so much,
that the appalling nature of our danger was overcoming him when I saw his hand
stretch out, but it was life to me to feel its touch, so strong, so self
reliant, so resolute. A brave man's hand can speak for itself, it does not even
need a woman's love to hear its music.
<P>When the Professor had done speaking my husband looked in my eyes, and I in
his, there was no need for speaking between us.
<P>"I answer for Mina and myself," he said.
<P>"Count me in, Professor," said Mr. Quincey Morris, laconically as usual.
<P>"I am with you," said Lord Godalming, "for Lucy's sake, if for no other
reason."
<P>Dr. Seward simply nodded.
<P>The Professor stood up and, after laying his golden crucifix on the table,
held out his hand on either side. I took his right hand, and Lord Godalming his
left, Jonathan held my right with his left and stretched across to Mr. Morris.
So as we all took hands our solemn compact was made. I felt my heart icy cold,
but it did not even occur to me to draw back. We resumed our places, and Dr. Van
Helsing went on with a sort of cheerfulness which showed that the serious work
had begun. It was to be taken as gravely, and in as businesslike a way, as any
other transaction of life.
<P>"Well, you know what we have to contend against, but we too, are not without
strength. We have on our side power of combination, a power denied to the
vampire kind, we have sources of science, we are free to act and think, and the
hours of the day and the night are ours equally. In fact, so far as our powers
extend, they are unfettered, and we are free to use them. We have self devotion
in a cause and an end to achieve which is not a selfish one. These things are
much.
<P>"Now let us see how far the general powers arrayed against us are restrict,
and how the individual cannot. In fine, let us consider the limitations of the
vampire in general, and of this one in particular.
<P>"All we have to go upon are traditions and superstitions. These do not at the
first appear much, when the matter is one of life and death, nay of more than
either life or death. Yet must we be satisfied, in the first place because we
have to be, no other means is at our control, and secondly, because, after all
these things, tradition and superstition, are everything. Does not the belief in
vampires rest for others, though not, alas! for us, on them! A year ago which of
us would have received such a possibility, in the midst of our scientific,
sceptical, matter-of-fact nineteenth century? We even scouted a belief that we
saw justified under our very eyes. Take it, then, that the vampire, and the
belief in his limitations and his cure, rest for the moment on the same base.
For, let me tell you, he is known everywhere that men have been. In old Greece,
in old Rome, he flourish in Germany all over, in France, in India, even in the
Chermosese, and in China, so far from us in all ways, there even is he, and the
peoples for him at this day. He have follow the wake of the berserker Icelander,
the devil-begotten Hun, the Slav, the Saxon, the Magyar.
<P>"So far, then, we have all we may act upon, and let me tell you that very
much of the beliefs are justified by what we have seen in our own so unhappy
experience. The vampire live on, and cannot die by mere passing of the time, he
can flourish when that he can fatten on the blood of the living. Even more, we
have seen amongst us that he can even grow younger, that his vital faculties
grow strenuous, and seem as though they refresh themselves when his special
pabulum is plenty.
<P>"But he cannot flourish without this diet, he eat not as others. Even friend
Jonathan, who lived with him for weeks, did never see him eat, never! He throws
no shadow, he make in the mirror no reflect, as again Jonathan observe. He has
the strength of many of his hand, witness again Jonathan when he shut the door
against the wolves, and when he help him from the diligence too. He can
transform himself to wolf, as we gather from the ship arrival in Whitby, when he
tear open the dog, he can be as bat, as Madam Mina saw him on the window at
Whitby, and as friend John saw him fly from this so near house, and as my friend
Quincey saw him at the window of Miss Lucy.
<P>"He can come in mist which he create, that noble ship's captain proved him of
this, but, from what we know, the distance he can make this mist is limited, and
it can only be round himself.
<P>"He come on moonlight rays as elemental dust, as again Jonathan saw those
sisters in the castle of Dracula. He become so small, we ourselves saw Miss
Lucy, ere she was at peace, slip through a hairbreadth space at the tomb door.
He can, when once he find his way, come out from anything or into anything, no
matter how close it be bound or even fused up with fire, solder you call it. He
can see in the dark, no small power this, in a world which is one half shut from
the light. Ah, but hear me through.
<P>"He can do all these things, yet he is not free. Nay, he is even more
prisoner than the slave of the galley, than the madman in his cell. He cannot go
where he lists, he who is not of nature has yet to obey some of nature's laws,
why we know not. He may not enter anywhere at the first, unless there be some
one of the household who bid him to come, though afterwards he can come as he
please. His power ceases, as does that of all evil things, at the coming of the
day.
<P>"Only at certain times can he have limited freedom. If he be not at the place
whither he is bound, he can only change himself at noon or at exact sunrise or
sunset. These things we are told, and in this record of ours we have proof by
inference. Thus, whereas he can do as he will within his limit, when he have his
earth-home, his coffin-home, his hell-home, the place unhallowed, as we saw when
he went to the grave of the suicide at Whitby, still at other time he can only
change when the time come. It is said, too, that he can only pass running water
at the slack or the flood of the tide. Then there are things which so afflict
him that he has no power, as the garlic that we know of, and as for things
sacred, as this symbol, my crucifix, that was amongst us even now when we
resolve, to them he is nothing, but in their presence he take his place far off
and silent with respect. There are others, too, which I shall tell you of, lest
in our seeking we may need them.
<P>"The branch of wild rose on his coffin keep him that he move not from it, a
sacred bullet fired into the coffin kill him so that he be true dead, and as for
the stake through him, we know already of its peace, or the cut off head that
giveth rest. We have seen it with our eyes.
<P>"Thus when we find the habitation of this man-that-was, we can confine him to
his coffin and destroy him, if we obey what we know. But he is clever. I have
asked my friend Arminius, of Buda-Pesth University, to make his record, and from
all the means that are, he tell me of what he has been. He must, indeed, have
been that Voivode Dracula who won his name against the Turk, over the great
river on the very frontier of Turkeyland. If it be so, then was he no common
man, for in that time, and for centuries after, he was spoken of as the
cleverest and the most cunning, as well as the bravest of the sons of the `land
beyond the forest.' That mighty brain and that iron resolution went with him to
his grave, and are even now arrayed against us. The Draculas were, says
Arminius, a great and noble race, though now and again were scions who were held
by their coevals to have had dealings with the Evil One. They learned his
secrets in the Scholomance, amongst the mountains over Lake Hermanstadt, where
the devil claims the tenth scholar as his due. In the records are such words as
`stregoica' witch, `ordog' and `pokol' Satan and hell, and in one manuscript
this very Dracula is spoken of as `wampyr,'which we all understand too well.
There have been from the loins of this very one great men and good women, and
their graves make sacred the earth where alone this foulness can dwell. For it
is not the least of its terrors that this evil thing is rooted deep in all good,
in soil barren of holy memories it cannot rest."
<P>Whilst they were talking Mr. Morris was looking steadily at the window, and
he now got up quietly, and went out of the room. There was a little pause, and
then the Professor went on.
<P>"And now we must settle what we do. We have here much data, and we must
proceed to lay out our campaign. We know from the inquiry of Jonathan that from
the castle to Whitby came fifty boxes of earth, all of which were delivered at
Carfax, we also know that at least some of these boxes have been removed. It
seems to me, that our first step should be to ascertain whether all the rest
remain in the house beyond that wall where we look today, or whether any more
have been removed. If the latter, we must trace. . ."
<P>Here we were interrupted in a very startling way. Outside the house came the
sound of a pistol shot, the glass of the window was shattered with a bullet,
which ricochetting from the top of the embrasure, struck the far wall of the
room. I am afraid I am at heart a coward, for I shrieked out. The men all jumped
to their feet, Lord Godalming flew over to the window and threw up the sash. As
he did so we heard Mr. Morris' voice without, "Sorry! I fear I have alarmed you.
I shall come in and tell you about it."
<P>A minute later he came in and said, "It was an idiotic thing of me to do, and
I ask your pardon, Mrs. Harker, most sincerely, I fear I must have frightened
you terribly. But the fact is that whilst the Professor was talking there came a
big bat and sat on the window sill. I have got such a horror of the damned
brutes from recent events that I cannot stand them, and I went out to have a
shot, as I have been doing of late of evenings, whenever I have seen one. You
used to laugh at me for it then, Art."
<P>"Did you hit it?" asked Dr. Van Helsing.
<P>"I don't know, I fancy not, for it flew away into the wood." Without saying
any more he took his seat, and the Professor began to resume his statement.
<P>"We must trace each of these boxes, and when we are ready, we must either
capture or kill this monster in his lair, or we must, so to speak, sterilize the
earth, so that no more he can seek safety in it. Thus in the end we may find him
in his form of man between the hours of noon and sunset, and so engage with him
when he is at his most weak.
<P>"And now for you, Madam Mina, this night is the end until all be well. You
are too precious to us to have such risk. When we part tonight, you no more must
question. We shall tell you all in good time. We are men and are able to bear,
but you must be our star and our hope, and we shall act all the more free that
you are not in the danger, such as we are."
<P>All the men, even Jonathan, seemed relieved, but it did not seem to me good
that they should brave danger and, perhaps lessen their safety, strength being
the best safety, through care of me, but their minds were made up, and though it
was a bitter pill for me to swallow, I could say nothing, save to accept their
chivalrous care of me.
<P>Mr. Morris resumed the discussion, "As there is no time to lose, I vote we
have a look at his house right now. Time is everything with him, and swift
action on our part may save another victim."
<P>I own that my heart began to fail me when the time for action came so close,
but I did not say anything, for I had a greater fear that if I appeared as a
drag or a hindrance to their work, they might even leave me out of their
counsels altogether. They have now gone off to Carfax, with means to get into
the house.
<P>Manlike, they had told me to go to bed and sleep, as if a woman can sleep
when those she loves are in danger! I shall lie down, and pretend to sleep, lest
Jonathan have added anxiety about me when he returns.
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>1 October, 4 A.M.--Just as we were about to leave the house, an urgent
message was brought to me from Renfield to know if I would see him at once, as
he had something of the utmost importance to say to me. I told the messenger to
say that I would attend to his wishes in the morning, I was busy just at the
moment.
<P>The attendant added, "He seems very importunate, sir. I have never seen him
so eager. I don't know but what, if you don't see him soon, he will have one of
his violent fits." I knew the man would not have said this without some cause,
so I said, "All right, I'll go now," and I asked the others to wait a few
minutes for me, as I had to go and see my patient.
<P>"Take me with you, friend John," said the Professor."His case in your diary
interest me much, and it had bearing, too, now and again on our case. I should
much like to see him, and especial when his mind is disturbed."
<P>"May I come also?" asked Lord Godalming.
<P>"Me too?" said Quincey Morris. "May I come?" said Harker. I nodded, and we
all went down the passage together.
<P>We found him in a state of considerable excitement, but far more rational in
his speech and manner than I had ever seen him. There was an unusual
understanding of himself, which was unlike anything I had ever met with in a
lunatic, and he took it for granted that his reasons would prevail with others
entirely sane. We all five went into the room, but none of the others at first
said anything. His request was that I would at once release him from the asylum
and send him home. This he backed up with arguments regarding his complete
recovery, and adduced his own existing sanity.
<P>"I appeal to your friends, "he said, "they will, perhaps, not mind sitting in
judgement on my case. By the way, you have not introduced me."
<P>I was so much astonished, that the oddness of introducing a madman in an
asylum did not strike me at the moment, and besides, there was a certain dignity
in the man's manner, so much of the habit of equality, that I at once made the
introduction, "Lord Godalming, Professor Van Helsing, Mr. Quincey Morris, of
Texas, Mr. Jonathan Harker, Mr. Renfield."
<P>He shook hands with each of them, saying in turn, "Lord Godalming, I had the
honor of seconding your father at the Windham, I grieve to know, by your holding
the title, that he is no more. He was a man loved and honored by all who knew
him, and in his youth was, I have heard, the inventor of a burnt rum punch, much
patronized on Derby night. Mr. Morris, you should be proud of your great state.
Its reception into the Union was a precedent which may have far-reaching effects
hereafter, when the Pole and the Tropics may hold alliance to the Stars and
Stripes. The power of Treaty may yet prove a vast engine of enlargement, when
the Monroe doctrine takes its true place as a political fable. What shall any
man say of his pleasure at meeting Van Helsing? Sir, I make no apology for
dropping all forms of conventional prefix. When an individual has revolutionized
therapeutics by his discovery of the continuous evolution of brain matter,
conventional forms are unfitting, since they would seem to limit him to one of a
class. You, gentlemen, who by nationality, by heredity, or by the possession of
natural gifts, are fitted to hold your respective places in the moving world, I
take to witness that I am as sane as at least the majority of men who are in
full possession of their liberties. And I am sure that you, Dr. Seward,
humanitarian and medico-jurist as well as scientist, will deem it a moral duty
to deal with me as one to be considered as under exceptional circumstances."He
made this last appeal with a courtly air of conviction which was not without its
own charm.
<P>I think we were all staggered. For my own part, I was under the conviction,
despite my knowledge of the man's character and history, that his reason had
been restored, and I felt under a strong impulse to tell him that I was
satisfied as to his sanity, and would see about the necessary formalities for
his release in the morning. I thought it better to wait, however, before making
so grave a statement, for of old I knew the sudden changes to which this
particular patient was liable. So I contented myself with making a general
statement that he appeared to be improving very rapidly, that I would have a
longer chat with him in the morning, and would then see what I could do in the
direction of meeting his wishes.
<P>This did not at all satisfy him, for he said quickly, "But I fear, Dr.
Seward, that you hardly apprehend my wish. I desire to go at once, here, now,
this very hour, this very moment, if I may. Time presses, and in our implied
agreement with the old scytheman it is of the essence of the contract. I am sure
it is only necessary to put before so admirable a practitioner as Dr. Seward so
simple, yet so momentous a wish, to ensure its fulfilment."
<P>He looked at me keenly, and seeing the negative in my face, turned to the
others, and scrutinized them closely. Not meeting any sufficient response, he
went on, "Is it possible that I have erred in my supposition?"
<P>"You have," I said frankly, but at the same time, as I felt, brutally.
<P>There was a considerable pause, and then he said slowly, "Then I suppose I
must only shift my ground of request. Let me ask for this concession, boon,
privilege, what you will. I am content to implore in such a case, not on
personal grounds, but for the sake of others. I am not at liberty to give you
the whole of my reasons, but you may, I assure you, take it from me that they
are good ones, sound and unselfish, and spring from the highest sense of duty.
<P>"Could you look, sir, into my heart, you would approve to the full the
sentiments which animate me. Nay, more, you would count me amongst the best and
truest of your friends."
<P>Again he looked at us all keenly. I had a growing conviction that this sudden
change of his entire intellectual method was but yet another phase of his
madness, and so determined to let him go on a little longer, knowing from
experience that he would, like all lunatics, give himself away in the end. Van
Helsing was gazing at him with a look of utmost intensity, his bushy eyebrows
almost meeting with the fixed concentration of his look. He said to Renfield in
a tone which did not surprise me at the time, but only when I thought of it
afterwards, for it was as of one addressing an equal, "Can you not tell frankly
your real reason for wishing to be free tonight? I will undertake that if you
will satisfy even me, a stranger, without prejudice, and with the habit of
keeping an open mind, Dr. Seward will give you, at his own risk and on his own
responsibility, the privilege you seek."
<P>He shook his head sadly, and with a look of poignant regret on his face. The
Professor went on, "Come, sir, bethink yourself. You claim the privilege of
reason in the highest degree, since you seek to impress us with your complete
reasonableness. You do this, whose sanity we have reason to doubt, since you are
not yet released from medical treatment for this very defect. If you will not
help us in our effort to choose the wisest course, how can we perform the duty
which you yourself put upon us? Be wise, and help us, and if we can we shall aid
you to achieve your wish."
<P>He still shook his head as he said, "Dr. Van Helsing, I have nothing to say.
Your argument is complete, and if I were free to speak I should not hesitate a
moment, but I am not my own master in the matter. I can only ask you to trust
me. If I am refused, the responsibility does not rest with me."
<P>I thought it was now time to end the scene, which was becoming too comically
grave, so I went towards the door, simply saying, "Come, my friends, we have
work to do. Goodnight."
<P>As, however, I got near the door, a new change came over the patient. He
moved towards me so quickly that for the moment I feared that he was about to
make another homicidal attack. My fears, however, were groundless, for he held
up his two hands imploringly, and made his petition in a moving manner. As he
saw that the very excess of his emotion was militating against him, by restoring
us more to our old relations, he became still more demonstrative. I glanced at
Van Helsing, and saw my conviction reflected in his eyes, so I became a little
more fixed in my manner, if not more stern, and motioned to him that his efforts
were unavailing. I had previously seen something of the same constantly growing
excitement in him when he had to make some request of which at the time he had
thought much, such for instance, as when he wanted a cat, and I was prepared to
see the collapse into the same sullen acquiescence on this occasion.
<P>My expectation was not realized, for when he found that his appeal would not
be successful, he got into quite a frantic condition. He threw himself on his
knees, and held up his hands, wringing them in plaintive supplication, and
poured forth a torrent of entreaty, with the tears rolling down his cheeks, and
his whole face and form expressive of the deepest emotion.
<P>"Let me entreat you, Dr. Seward, oh, let me implore you, to let me out of
this house at once. Send me away how you will and where you will, send keepers
with me with whips and chains, let them take me in a strait waistcoat, manacled
and leg-ironed, even to gaol, but let me go out of this. You don't know what you
do by keeping me here. I am speaking from the depths of my heart, of my very
soul. You don't know whom you wrong, or how, and I may not tell. Woe is me! I
may not tell. By all you hold sacred, by all you hold dear, by your love that is
lost, by your hope that lives, for the sake of the Almighty, take me out of this
and save my soul from guilt! Can't you hear me, man? Can't you understand? Will
you never learn? Don't you know that I am sane and earnest now, that I am no
lunatic in a mad fit, but a sane man fighting for his soul? Oh, hear me! Hear
me! Let me go, let me go, let me go!"
<P>I thought that the longer this went on the wilder he would get, and so would
bring on a fit, so I took him by the hand and raised him up.
<P>"Come," I said sternly, "no more of this, we have had quite enough already.
Get to your bed and try to behave more discreetly."
<P>He suddenly stopped and looked at me intently for several moments. Then,
without a word, he rose and moving over, sat down on the side of the bed. The
collapse had come, as on former occasions, just as I had expected.
<P>When I was leaving the room, last of our party, he said to me in a quiet,
well-bred voice, "You will, I trust, Dr. Seward, do me the justice to bear in
mind, later on, that I did what I could to convince you tonight."
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=axix>CHAPTER 19. JONATHAN HARKER'S
JOURNAL</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>1 October, 5 A.M.--I went with the party to the search with an easy mind, for
I think I never saw Mina so absolutely strong and well. I am so glad that she
consented to hold back and let us men do the work. Somehow, it was a dread to me
that she was in this fearful business at all, but now that her work is done, and
that it is due to her energy and brains and foresight that the whole story is
put together in such a way that every point tells, she may well feel that her
part is finished, and that she can henceforth leave the rest to us. We were, I
think, all a little upset by the scene with Mr. Renfield. When we came away from
his room we were silent till we got back to the study.
<P>Then Mr. Morris said to Dr. Seward, "Say, Jack, if that man wasn't attempting
a bluff, he is about the sanest lunatic I ever saw. I'm not sure, but I believe
that he had some serious purpose, and if he had, it was pretty rough on him not
to get a chance."
<P>Lord Godalming and I were silent, but Dr. Van Helsing added, "Friend John,
you know more lunatics than I do, and I'm glad of it, for I fear that if it had
been to me to decide I would before that last hysterical outburst have given him
free. But we live and learn, and in our present task we must take no chance, as
my friend Quincey would say. All is best as they are."
<P>Dr. Seward seemed to answer them both in a dreamy kind of way, "I don't know
but that I agree with you. If that man had been an ordinary lunatic I would have
taken my chance of trusting him, but he seems so mixed up with the Count in an
indexy kind of way that I am afraid of doing anything wrong by helping his fads.
I can't forget how he prayed with almost equal fervor for a cat, and then tried
to tear my throat out with his teeth. Besides, he called the Count `lord and
master', and he may want to get out to help him in some diabolical way. That
horrid thing has the wolves and the rats and his own kind to help him, so I
suppose he isn't above trying to use a respectable lunatic. He certainly did
seem earnest, though. I only hope we have done what is best. These things, in
conjunction with the wild work we have in hand, help to unnerve a man."
<P>The Professor stepped over, and laying his hand on his shoulder, said in his
grave, kindly way, "Friend John, have no fear. We are trying to do our duty in a
very sad and terrible case, we can only do as we deem best. What else have we to
hope for, except the pity of the good God?"
<P>Lord Godalming had slipped away for a few minutes, but now he returned. He
held up a little silver whistle, as he remarked, "That old place may be full of
rats, and if so, I've got an antidote on call."
<P>Having passed the wall, we took our way to the house, taking care to keep in
the shadows of the trees on the lawn when the moonlight shone out. When we got
to the porch the Professor opened his bag and took out a lot of things, which he
laid on the step, sorting them into four little groups, evidently one for each.
Then he spoke.
<P>"My friends, we are going into a terrible danger, and we need arms of many
kinds. Our enemy is not merely spiritual. Remember that he has the strength of
twenty men, and that, though our necks or our windpipes are of the common kind,
and therefore breakable or crushable, his are not amenable to mere strength. A
stronger man, or a body of men more strong in all than him, can at certain times
hold him, but they cannot hurt him as we can be hurt by him. We must, therefore,
guard ourselves from his touch. Keep this near your heart." As he spoke he
lifted a little silver crucifix and held it out to me, I being nearest to him,
"put these flowers round your neck," here he handed to me a wreath of withered
garlic blossoms, "for other enemies more mundane, this revolver and this knife,
and for aid in all, these so small electric lamps, which you can fasten to your
breast, and for all, and above all at the last, this, which we must not
desecrate needless."
<P>This was a portion of Sacred Wafer, which he put in an envelope and handed to
me. Each of the others was similarly equipped.
<P>"Now," he said, "friend John, where are the skeleton keys? If so that we can
open the door, we need not break house by the window, as before at Miss Lucy's."
<P>Dr. Seward tried one or two skeleton keys, his mechanical dexterity as a
surgeon standing him in good stead. Presently he got one to suit, after a little
play back and forward the bolt yielded, and with a rusty clang, shot back. We
pressed on the door, the rusty hinges creaked, and it slowly opened. It was
startlingly like the image conveyed to me in Dr. Seward's diary of the opening
of Miss Westenra's tomb, I fancy that the same idea seemed to strike the others,
for with one accord they shrank back. The Professor was the first to move
forward, and stepped into the open door.
<P>"In manus tuas, Domine!"he said, crossing himself as he passed over the
threshold. We closed the door behind us, lest when we should have lit our lamps
we should possibly attract attention from the road. The Professor carefully
tried the lock, lest we might not be able to open it from within should we be in
a hurry making our exit. Then we all lit our lamps and proceeded on our search.
<P>The light from the tiny lamps fell in all sorts of odd forms, as the rays
crossed each other, or the opacity of our bodies threw great shadows. I could
not for my life get away from the feeling that there was someone else amongst
us. I suppose it was the recollection, so powerfully brought home to me by the
grim surroundings, of that terrible experience in Transylvania. I think the
feeling was common to us all, for I noticed that the others kept looking over
their shoulders at every sound and every new shadow, just as I felt myself
doing.
<P>The whole place was thick with dust. The floor was seemingly inches deep,
except where there were recent footsteps, in which on holding down my lamp I
could see marks of hobnails where the dust was cracked. The walls were fluffy
and heavy with dust, and in the corners were masses of spider's webs, whereon
the dust had gathered till they looked like old tattered rags as the weight had
torn them partly down. On a table in the hall was a great bunch of keys, with a
time-yellowed label on each. They had been used several times, for on the table
were several similar rents in the blanket of dust, similar to that exposed when
the Professor lifted them.
<P>He turned to me and said, "You know this place, Jonathan. You have copied
maps of it, and you know it at least more than we do. Which is the way to the
chapel?"
<P>I had an idea of its direction, though on my former visit I had not been able
to get admission to it, so I led the way, and after a few wrong turnings found
myself opposite a low, arched oaken door, ribbed with iron bands.
<P>"This is the spot," said the Professor as he turned his lamp on a small map
of the house, copied from the file of my original correspondence regarding the
purchase. With a little trouble we found the key on the bunch and opened the
door. We were prepared for some unpleasantness, for as we were opening the door
a faint, malodorous air seemed to exhale through the gaps, but none of us ever
expected such an odor as we encountered. None of the others had met the Count at
all at close quarters, and when I had seen him he was either in the fasting
stage of his existence in his rooms or, when he was bloated with fresh blood, in
a ruined building open to the air, but here the place was small and close, and
the long disuse had made the air stagnant and foul. There was an earthy smell,
as of some dry miasma, which came through the fouler air. But as to the odor
itself, how shall I describe it? It was not alone that it was composed of all
the ills of mortality and with the pungent, acrid smell of blood, but it seemed
as though corruption had become itself corrupt. Faugh! It sickens me to think of
it. Every breath exhaled by that monster seemed to have clung to the place and
intensified its loathsomeness.
<P>Under ordinary circumstances such a stench would have brought our enterprise
to an end, but this was no ordinary case, and the high and terrible purpose in
which we were involved gave us a strength which rose above merely physical
considerations. After the involuntary shrinking consequent on the first nauseous
whiff, we one and all set about our work as though that loathsome place were a
garden of roses.
<P>We made an accurate examination of the place, the Professor saying as we
began, "The first thing is to see how many of the boxes are left, we must then
examine every hole and corner and cranny and see if we cannot get some clue as
to what has become of the rest."
<P>A glance was sufficient to show how many remained, for the great earth chests
were bulky, and there was no mistaking them.
<P>There were only twenty-nine left out of the fifty! Once I got a fright, for,
seeing Lord Godalming suddenly turn and look out of the vaulted door into the
dark passage beyond, I looked too, and for an instant my heart stood still.
Somewhere, looking out from the shadow, I seemed to see the high lights of the
Count's evil face, the ridge of the nose, the red eyes, the red lips, the awful
pallor. It was only for a moment, for, as Lord Godalming said, "I thought I saw
a face, but it was only the shadows," and resumed his inquiry, I turned my lamp
in the direction, and stepped into the passage. There was no sign of anyone, and
as there were no corners, no doors, no aperture of any kind, but only the solid
walls of the passage, there could be no hiding place even for him. I took it
that fear had helped imagination, and said nothing.
<P>A few minutes later I saw Morris step suddenly back from a corner, which he
was examining. We all followed his movements with our eyes, for undoubtedly some
nervousness was growing on us, and we saw a whole mass of phosphorescence, which
twinkled like stars. We all instinctively drew back. The whole place was
becoming alive with rats.
<P>For a moment or two we stood appalled, all save Lord Godalming, who was
seemingly prepared for such an emergency. Rushing over to the great iron-bound
oaken door, which Dr. Seward had described from the outside, and which I had
seen myself, he turned the key in the lock, drew the huge bolts, and swung the
door open. Then, taking his little silver whistle from his pocket, he blew a
low, shrill call. It was answered from behind Dr. Seward's house by the yelping
of dogs, and after about a minute three terriers came dashing round the corner
of the house. Unconsciously we had all moved towards the door, and as we moved I
noticed that the dust had been much disturbed. The boxes which had been taken
out had been brought this way. But even in the minute that had elapsed the
number of the rats had vastly increased. They seemed to swarm over the place all
at once, till the lamplight, shining on their moving dark bodies and glittering,
baleful eyes, made the place look like a bank of earth set with fireflies. The
dogs dashed on, but at the threshold suddenly stopped and snarled, and then,
simultaneously lifting their noses, began to howl in most lugubrious fashion.
The rats were multiplying in thousands, and we moved out.
<P>Lord Godalming lifted one of the dogs, and carrying him in, placed him on the
floor. The instant his feet touched the ground he seemed to recover his courage,
and rushed at his natural enemies. They fled before him so fast that before he
had shaken the life out of a score, the other dogs, who had by now been lifted
in the same manner, had but small prey ere the whole mass had vanished.
<P>With their going it seemed as if some evil presence had departed, for the
dogs frisked about and barked merrily as they made sudden darts at their
prostrate foes, and turned them over and over and tossed them in the air with
vicious shakes. We all seemed to find our spirits rise. Whether it was the
purifying of the deadly atmosphere by the opening of the chapel door, or the
relief which we experienced by finding ourselves in the open I know not, but
most certainly the shadow of dread seemed to slip from us like a robe, and the
occasion of our coming lost something of its grim significance, though we did
not slacken a whit in our resolution. We closed the outer door and barred and
locked it, and bringing the dogs with us, began our search of the house. We
found nothing throughout except dust in extraordinary proportions, and all
untouched save for my own footsteps when I had made my first visit. Never once
did the dogs exhibit any symptom of uneasiness, and even when we returned to the
chapel they frisked about as though they had been rabbit hunting in a summer
wood.
<P>The morning was quickening in the east when we emerged from the front. Dr.
Van Helsing had taken the key of the hall door from the bunch, and locked the
door in orthodox fashion, putting the key into his pocket when he had done.
<P>"So far," he said, "our night has been eminently successful. No harm has come
to us such as I feared might be and yet we have ascertained how many boxes are
missing. More than all do I rejoice that this, our first, and perhaps our most
difficult and dangerous, step has been accomplished without the bringing
thereinto our most sweet Madam Mina or troubling her waking or sleeping thoughts
with sights and sounds and smells of horror which she might never forget. One
lesson, too, we have learned, if it be allowable to argue a particulari, that
the brute beasts which are to the Count's command are yet themselves not
amenable to his spiritual power, for look, these rats that would come to his
call, just as from his castle top he summon the wolves to your going and to that
poor mother's cry, though they come to him, they run pell-mell from the so
little dogs of my friend Arthur. We have other matters before us, other dangers,
other fears, and that monster. . .He has not used his power over the brute world
for the only or the last time tonight. So be it that he has gone elsewhere.
Good! It has given us opportunity to cry `check'in some ways in this chess game,
which we play for the stake of human souls. And now let us go home. The dawn is
close at hand, and we have reason to be content with our first night's work. It
may be ordained that we have many nights and days to follow, if full of peril,
but we must go on, and from no danger shall we shrink."
<P>The house was silent when we got back, save for some poor creature who was
screaming away in one of the distant wards, and a low, moaning sound from
Renfield's room. The poor wretch was doubtless torturing himself, after the
manner of the insane, with needless thoughts of pain.
<P>I came tiptoe into our own room, and found Mina asleep, breathing so softly
that I had to put my ear down to hear it. She looks paler than usual. I hope the
meeting tonight has not upset her. I am truly thankful that she is to be left
out of our future work, and even of our deliberations. It is too great a strain
for a woman to bear. I did not think so at first, but I know better now.
Therefore I am glad that it is settled. There may be things which would frighten
her to hear, and yet to conceal them from her might be worse than to tell her if
once she suspected that there was any concealment. Henceforth our work is to be
a sealed book to her, till at least such time as we can tell her that all is
finished, and the earth free from a monster of the nether world. I daresay it
will be difficult to begin to keep silence after such confidence as ours, but I
must be resolute, and tomorrow I shall keep dark over tonight's doings, and
shall refuse to speak of anything that has happened. I rest on the sofa, so as
not to disturb her.
<P>1 October, later.--I suppose it was natural that we should have all overslept
ourselves, for the day was a busy one, and the night had no rest at all. Even
Mina must have felt its exhaustion, for though I slept till the sun was high, I
was awake before her, and had to call two or three times before she awoke.
Indeed, she was so sound asleep that for a few seconds she did not recognize me,
but looked at me with a sort of blank terror, as one looks who has been waked
out of a bad dream. She complained a little of being tired, and I let her rest
till later in the day. We now know of twenty-one boxes having been removed, and
if it be that several were taken in any of these removals we may be able to
trace them all. Such will, of course, immensely simplify our labor, and the
sooner the matter is attended to the better. I shall look up Thomas Snelling
today.
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>1 October.--It was towards noon when I was awakened by the Professor walking
into my room. He was more jolly and cheerful than usual, and it is quite evident
that last night's work has helped to take some of the brooding weight off his
mind.
<P>After going over the adventure of the night he suddenly said, "Your patient
interests me much. May it be that with you I visit him this morning? Or if that
you are too occupy, I can go alone if it may be. It is a new experience to me to
find a lunatic who talk philosophy, and reason so sound."
<P>I had some work to do which pressed, so I told him that if he would go alone
I would be glad, as then I should not have to keep him waiting, so I called an
attendant and gave him the necessary instructions. Before the Professor left the
room I cautioned him against getting any false impression from my patient.
<P>"But," he answered, "I want him to talk of himself and of his delusion as to
consuming live things. He said to Madam Mina, as I see in your diary of
yesterday, that he had once had such a belief. Why do you smile, friend John?"
<P>"Excuse me," I said, "but the answer is here." I laid my hand on the
typewritten matter."When our sane and learned lunatic made that very statement
of how he used to consume life, his mouth was actually nauseous with the flies
and spiders which he had eaten just before Mrs. Harker entered the room."
<P>Van Helsing smiled in turn. "Good!" he said. "Your memory is true, friend
John. I should have remembered. And yet it is this very obliquity of thought and
memory which makes mental disease such a fascinating study. Perhaps I may gain
more knowledge out of the folly of this madman than I shall from the teaching of
the most wise. Who knows?"
<P>I went on with my work, and before long was through that in hand. It seemed
that the time had been very short indeed, but there was Van Helsing back in the
study.
<P>"Do I interrupt?" he asked politely as he stood at the door.
<P>"Not at all," I answered. "Come in. My work is finished, and I am free. I can
go with you now, if you like."
<P>"It is needless, I have seen him!"
<P>"Well?"
<P>"I fear that he does not appraise me at much. Our interview was short. When I
entered his room he was sitting on a stool in the center, with his elbows on his
knees, and his face was the picture of sullen discontent. I spoke to him as
cheerfully as I could, and with such a measure of respect as I could assume. He
made no reply whatever. 'Don't you know me?' I asked. His answer was not
reassuring. "I know you well enough, you are the old fool Van Helsing. I wish
you would take yourself and your idiotic brain theories somewhere else. Damn all
thick-headed Dutchmen!' Not a word more would he say, but sat in his implacable
sullenness as indifferent to me as though I had not been in the room at all.
Thus departed for this time my chance of much learning from this so clever
lunatic, so I shall go, if I may, and cheer myself with a few happy words with
that sweet soul Madam Mina. Friend John, it does rejoice me unspeakable that she
is no more to be pained, no more to be worried with our terrible things. Though
we shall much miss her help, it is better so."
<P>"I agree with you with all my heart," I answered earnestly, for I did not
want him to weaken in this matter. "Mrs. Harker is better out of it. Things are
quite bad enough for us, all men of the world, and who have been in many tight
places in our time, but it is no place for a woman, and if she had remained in
touch with the affair, it would in time infallibly have wrecked her."
<P>So Van Helsing has gone to confer with Mrs. Harker and Harker, Quincey and
Art are all out following up the clues as to the earth boxes. I shall finish my
round of work and we shall meet tonight.
<P><STRONG>MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>1 October.--It is strange to me to be kept in the dark as I am today, after
Jonathan's full confidence for so many years, to see him manifestly avoid
certain matters, and those the most vital of all. This morning I slept late
after the fatigues of yesterday, and though Jonathan was late too, he was the
earlier. He spoke to me before he went out, never more sweetly or tenderly, but
he never mentioned a word of what had happened in the visit to the Count's
house. And yet he must have known how terribly anxious I was. Poor dear fellow!
I suppose it must have distressed him even more than it did me. They all agreed
that it was best that I should not be drawn further into this awful work, and I
acquiesced. But to think that he keeps anything from me! And now I am crying
like a silly fool, when I know it comes from my husband's great love and from
the good, good wishes of those other strong men.
<P>That has done me good. Well, some day Jonathan will tell me all. And lest it
should ever be that he should think for a moment that I kept anything from him,
I still keep my journal as usual. Then if he has feared of my trust I shall show
it to him, with every thought of my heart put down for his dear eyes to read. I
feel strangely sad and low-spirited today. I suppose it is the reaction from the
terrible excitement.
<P>Last night I went to bed when the men had gone, simply because they told me
to. I didn't feel sleepy, and I did feel full of devouring anxiety. I kept
thinking over everything that has been ever since Jonathan came to see me in
London, and it all seems like a horrible tragedy, with fate pressing on
relentlessly to some destined end. Everything that one does seems, no matter how
right it me be, to bring on the very thing which is most to be deplored. If I
hadn't gone to Whitby, perhaps poor dear Lucy would be with us now. She hadn't
taken to visiting the churchyard till I came, and if she hadn't come there in
the day time with me she wouldn't have walked in her sleep. And if she hadn't
gone there at night and asleep, that monster couldn't have destroyed her as he
did. Oh, why did I ever go to Whitby? There now, crying again! I wonder what has
come over me today. I must hide it from Jonathan, for if he knew that I had been
crying twice in one morning. . .I, who never cried on my own account, and whom
he has never caused to shed a tear, the dear fellow would fret his heart out. I
shall put a bold face on, and if I do feel weepy, he shall never see it. I
suppose it is just one of the lessons that we poor women have to learn. . .
<P>I can't quite remember how I fell asleep last night. I remember hearing the
sudden barking of the dogs and a lot of queer sounds, like praying on a very
tumultuous scale, from Mr. Renfield's room, which is somewhere under this. And
then there was silence over everything, silence so profound that it startled me,
and I got up and looked out of the window. All was dark and silent, the black
shadows thrown by the moonlight seeming full of a silent mystery of their own.
Not a thing seemed to be stirring, but all to be grim and fixed as death or
fate, so that a thin streak of white mist, that crept with almost imperceptible
slowness across the grass towards the house, seemed to have a sentience and a
vitality of its own. I think that the digression of my thoughts must have done
me good, for when I got back to bed I found a lethargy creeping over me. I lay a
while, but could not quite sleep, so I got out and looked out of the window
again. The mist was spreading, and was now close up to the house, so that I
could see it lying thick against the wall, as though it were stealing up to the
windows. The poor man was more loud than ever, and though I could not
distinguish a word he said, I could in some way recognize in his tones some
passionate entreaty on his part. Then there was the sound of a struggle, and I
knew that the attendants were dealing with him. I was so frightened that I crept
into bed, and pulled the clothes over my head, putting my fingers in my ears. I
was not then a bit sleepy, at least so I thought, but I must have fallen asleep,
for except dreams, I do not remember anything until the morning, when Jonathan
woke me. I think that it took me an effort and a little time to realize where I
was, and that it was Jonathan who was bending over me. My dream was very
peculiar, and was almost typical of the way that waking thoughts become merged
in, or continued in, dreams.
<P>I thought that I was asleep, and waiting for Jonathan to come back. I was
very anxious about him, and I was powerless to act, my feet, and my hands, and
my brain were weighted, so that nothing could proceed at the usual pace. And so
I slept uneasily and thought. Then it began to dawn upon me that the air was
heavy, and dank, and cold. I put back the clothes from my face, and found, to my
surprise, that all was dim around. The gaslight which I had left lit for
Jonathan, but turned down, came only like a tiny red spark through the fog,
which had evidently grown thicker and poured into the room. Then it occurred to
me that I had shut the window before I had come to bed. I would have got out to
make certain on the point, but some leaden lethargy seemed to chain my limbs and
even my will. I lay still and endured, that was all. I closed my eyes, but could
still see through my eyelids. (It is wonderful what tricks our dreams play us,
and how conveniently we can imagine.) The mist grew thicker and thicker and I
could see now how it came in, for I could see it like smoke, or with the white
energy of boiling water, pouring in, not through the window, but through the
joinings of the door. It got thicker and thicker, till it seemed as if it became
concentrated into a sort of pillar of cloud in the room, through the top of
which I could see the light of the gas shining like a red eye. Things began to
whirl through my brain just as the cloudy column was now whirling in the room,
and through it all came the scriptural words "a pillar of cloud by day and of
fire by night." Was it indeed such spiritual guidance that was coming to me in
my sleep? But the pillar was composed of both the day and the night guiding, for
the fire was in the red eye, which at the thought gat a new fascination for me,
till, as I looked, the fire divided, and seemed to shine on me through the fog
like two red eyes, such as Lucy told me of in her momentary mental wandering
when, on the cliff, the dying sunlight struck the windows of St. Mary's Church.
Suddenly the horror burst upon me that it was thus that Jonathan had seen those
awful women growing into reality through the whirling mist in the moonlight, and
in my dream I must have fainted, for all became black darkness. The last
conscious effort which imagination made was to show me a livid white face
bending over me out of the mist.
<P>I must be careful of such dreams, for they would unseat one's reason if there
were too much of them. I would get Dr. Van Helsing or Dr. Seward to prescribe
something for me which would make me sleep, only that I fear to alarm them. Such
a dream at the present time would become woven into their fears for me. Tonight
I shall strive hard to sleep naturally. If I do not, I shall tomorrow night get
them to give me a dose of chloral, that cannot hurt me for once, and it will
give me a good night's sleep. Last night tired me more than if I had not slept
at all.
<P>2 October 10 P.M.--Last night I slept, but did not dream. I must have slept
soundly, for I was not waked by Jonathan coming to bed, but the sleep has not
refreshed me, for today I feel terribly weak and spiritless. I spent all
yesterday trying to read, or lying down dozing. In the afternoon, Mr. Renfield
asked if he might see me. Poor man, he was very gentle, and when I came away he
kissed my hand and bade God bless me. Some way it affected me much. I am crying
when I think of him. This is a new weakness, of which I must be careful.
Jonathan would be miserable if he knew I had been crying. He and the others were
out till dinner time, and they all came in tired. I did what I could to brighten
them up, and I suppose that the effort did me good, for I forgot how tired I
was. After dinner they sent me to bed, and all went off to smoke together, as
they said, but I knew that they wanted to tell each other of what had occurred
to each during the day. I could see from Jonathan's manner that he had something
important to communicate. I was not so sleepy as I should have been, so before
they went I asked Dr. Seward to give me a little opiate of some kind, as I had
not slept well the night before. He very kindly made me up a sleeping draught,
which he gave to me, telling me that it would do me no harm, as it was very
mild. . .I have taken it, and am waiting for sleep, which still keeps aloof. I
hope I have not done wrong, for as sleep begins to flirt with me, a new fear
comes, that I may have been foolish in thus depriving myself of the power of
waking. I might want it. Here comes sleep. Goodnight.
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=axx>CHAPTER 20. JONATHAN HARKER'S
JOURNAL</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>1 October, evening.--I found Thomas Snelling in his house at Bethnal Green,
but unhappily he was not in a condition to remember anything. The very prospect
of beer which my expected coming had opened to him had proved too much, and he
had begun too early on his expected debauch. I learned, however, from his wife,
who seemed a decent, poor soul, that he was only the assistant of Smollet, who
of the two mates was the responsible person. So off I drove to Walworth, and
found Mr. Joseph Smollet at home and in his shirtsleeves, taking a late tea out
of a saucer. He is a decent, intelligent fellow, distinctly a good, reliable
type of workman, and with a headpiece of his own. He remembered all about the
incident of the boxes, and from a wonderful dog-eared notebook, which he
produced from some mysterious receptacle about the seat of his trousers, and
which had hieroglyphical entries in thick, half-obliterated pencil, he gave me
the destinations of the boxes. There were, he said, six in the cartload which he
took from Carfax and left at 197 Chicksand Street, Mile End New Town, and
another six which he deposited at Jamaica Lane, Bermondsey. If then the Count
meant to scatter these ghastly refuges of his over London, these places were
chosen as the first of delivery, so that later he might distribute more fully.
The systematic manner in which this was done made me think that he could not
mean to confine himself to two sides of London. He was now fixed on the far east
on the northern shore, on the east of the southern shore, and on the south. The
north and west were surely never meant to be left out of his diabolical scheme,
let alone the City itself and the very heart of fashionable London in the
south-west and west. I went back to Smollet, and asked him if he could tell us
if any other boxes had been taken from Carfax.
<P>He replied, "Well guv'nor, you've treated me very 'an'some", I had given him
half a sovereign, "an I'll tell yer all I know. I heard a man by the name of
Bloxam say four nights ago in the 'Are an' 'Ounds, in Pincher's Alley, as 'ow he
an' his mate 'ad 'ad a rare dusty job in a old 'ouse at Purfleet. There ain't a
many such jobs as this 'ere, an' I'm thinkin' that maybe Sam Bloxam could tell
ye summut."
<P>I asked if he could tell me where to find him. I told him that if he could
get me the address it would be worth another half sovereign to him. So he gulped
down the rest of his tea and stood up, saying that he was going to begin the
search then and there.
<P>At the door he stopped, and said, "Look 'ere, guv'nor, there ain't no sense
in me a keepin' you 'ere. I may find Sam soon, or I mayn't, but anyhow he ain't
like to be in a way to tell ye much tonight. Sam is a rare one when he starts on
the booze. If you can give me a envelope with a stamp on it, and put yer address
on it, I'll find out where Sam is to be found and post it ye tonight. But ye'd
better be up arter 'im soon in the mornin', never mind the booze the night
afore."
<P>This was all practical, so one of the children went off with a penny to buy
an envelope and a sheet of paper, and to keep the change. When she came back, I
addressed the envelope and stamped it, and when Smollet had again faithfully
promised to post the address when found, I took my way to home. We're on the
track anyhow. I am tired tonight, and I want to sleep. Mina is fast asleep, and
looks a little too pale. Her eyes look as though she had been crying. Poor dear,
I've no doubt it frets her to be kept in the dark, and it may make her doubly
anxious about me and the others. But it is best as it is. It is better to be
disappointed and worried in such a way now than to have her nerve broken. The
doctors were quite right to insist on her being kept out of this dreadful
business. I must be firm, for on me this particular burden of silence must rest.
I shall not ever enter on the subject with her under any circumstances. Indeed,
It may not be a hard task, after all, for she herself has become reticent on the
subject, and has not spoken of the Count or his doings ever since we told her of
our decision.
<P>2 October, evening--A long and trying and exciting day. By the first post I
got my directed envelope with a dirty scrap of paper enclosed, on which was
written with a carpenter's pencil in a sprawling hand, "Sam Bloxam, Korkrans, 4
Poters Cort, Bartel Street, Walworth. Arsk for the depite."
<P>I got the letter in bed, and rose without waking Mina. She looked heavy and
sleepy and pale, and far from well. I determined not to wake her, but that when
I should return from this new search, I would arrange for her going back to
Exeter. I think she would be happier in our own home, with her daily tasks to
interest her, than in being here amongst us and in ignorance. I only saw Dr.
Seward for a moment, and told him where I was off to, promising to come back and
tell the rest so soon as I should have found out anything. I drove to Walworth
and found, with some difficulty, Potter's Court. Mr. Smollet's spelling misled
me, as I asked for Poter's Court instead of Potter's Court. However, when I had
found the court, I had no difficulty in discovering Corcoran's lodging house.
<P>When I asked the man who came to the door for the "depite," he shook his
head, and said, "I dunno 'im. There ain't no such a person 'ere. I never 'eard
of 'im in all my bloomin' days. Don't believe there ain't nobody of that kind
livin' 'ere or anywheres."
<P>I took out Smollet's letter, and as I read it it seemed to me that the lesson
of the spelling of the name of the court might guide me. "What are you?" I
asked.
<P>"I'm the depity," he answered.
<P>I saw at once that I was on the right track. Phonetic spelling had again
misled me. A half crown tip put the deputy's knowledge at my disposal, and I
learned that Mr. Bloxam, who had slept off the remains of his beer on the
previous night at Corcoran's, had left for his work at Poplar at five o'clock
that morning. He could not tell me where the place of work was situated, but he
had a vague idea that it was some kind of a "new-fangled ware'us," and with this
slender clue I had to start for Poplar. It was twelve o'clock before I got any
satisfactory hint of such a building, and this I got at a coffee shop, where
some workmen were having their dinner. One of them suggested that there was
being erected at Cross Angel Street a new "cold storage" building, and as this
suited the condition of a "new-fangled ware'us," I at once drove to it. An
interview with a surly gatekeeper and a surlier foreman, both of whom were
appeased with the coin of the realm, put me on the track of Bloxam. He was sent
for on my suggestion that I was willing to pay his days wages to his foreman for
the privilege of asking him a few questions on a private matter. He was a smart
enough fellow, though rough of speech and bearing. When I had promised to pay
for his information and given him an earnest, he told me that he had made two
journeys between Carfax and a house in Piccadilly, and had taken from this house
to the latter nine great boxes, "main heavy ones," with a horse and cart hired
by him for this purpose.
<P>I asked him if he could tell me the number of the house in Piccadilly, to
which he replied, "Well, guv'nor, I forgits the number, but it was only a few
door from a big white church, or somethink of the kind, not long built. It was a
dusty old 'ouse, too, though nothin' to the dustiness of the 'ouse we tooked the
bloomin' boxes from."
<P>"How did you get in if both houses were empty?"
<P>"There was the old party what engaged me a waitin' in the 'ouse at Purfleet.
He 'elped me to lift the boxes and put them in the dray. Curse me, but he was
the strongest chap I ever struck, an' him a old feller, with a white moustache,
one that thin you would think he couldn't throw a shadder."
<P>How this phrase thrilled through me!
<P>"Why, 'e took up 'is end o' the boxes like they was pounds of tea, and me a
puffin' an' a blowin' afore I could upend mine anyhow, an' I'm no chicken,
neither."
<P>"How did you get into the house in Piccadilly?" I asked.
<P>"He was there too. He must 'a started off and got there afore me, for when I
rung of the bell he kem an' opened the door 'isself an' 'elped me carry the
boxes into the 'all."
<P>"The whole nine?" I asked.
<P>"Yus, there was five in the first load an' four in the second. It was main
dry work, an' I don't so well remember 'ow I got 'ome."
<P>I interrupted him, "Were the boxes left in the hall?"
<P>"Yus, it was a big 'all, an' there was nothin' else in it."
<P>I made one more attempt to further matters. "You didn't have any key?"
<P>"Never used no key nor nothink. The old gent, he opened the door 'isself an'
shut it again when I druv off. I don't remember the last time, but that was the
beer."
<P>"And you can't remember the number of the house?"
<P>"No, sir. But ye needn't have no difficulty about that. It's a 'igh 'un with
a stone front with a bow on it, an' 'igh steps up to the door. I know them
steps, 'avin' 'ad to carry the boxes up with three loafers what come round to
earn a copper. The old gent give them shillin's, an' they seein' they got so
much, they wanted more. But 'e took one of them by the shoulder and was like to
throw 'im down the steps, till the lot of them went away cussin'."
<P>I thought that with this description I could find the house, so having paid
my friend for his information, I started off for Piccadilly. I had gained a new
painful experience. The Count could, it was evident, handle the earth boxes
himself. If so, time was precious, for now that he had achieved a certain amount
of distribution, he could, by choosing his own time, complete the task
unobserved. At Piccadilly Circus I discharged my cab, and walked westward.
Beyond the Junior Constitutional I came across the house described and was
satisfied that this was the next of the lairs arranged by Dracula. The house
looked as though it had been long untenanted. The windows were encrusted with
dust, and the shutters were up. All the framework was black with time, and from
the iron the paint had mostly scaled away. It was evident that up to lately
there had been a large notice board in front of the balcony. It had, however,
been roughly torn away, the uprights which had supported it still remaining.
Behind the rails of the balcony I saw there were some loose boards, whose raw
edges looked white. I would have given a good deal to have been able to see the
notice board intact, as it would, perhaps, have given some clue to the ownership
of the house. I remembered my experience of the investigation and purchase of
Carfax, and I could not but feel that I could find the former owner there might
be some means discovered of gaining access to the house.
<P>There was at present nothing to be learned from the Piccadilly side, and
nothing could be done, so I went around to the back to see if anything could be
gathered from this quarter. The mews were active, the Piccadilly houses being
mostly in occupation. I asked one or two of the grooms and helpers whom I saw
around if they could tell me anything about the empty house. One of them said
that he heard it had lately been taken, but he couldn't say from whom. He told
me, however, that up to very lately there had been a notice board of "For Sale"
up, and that perhaps Mitchell, Sons, & Candy the house agents could tell me
something, as he thought he remembered seeing the name of that firm on the
board. I did not wish to seem too eager, or to let my informant know or guess
too much, so thanking him in the usual manner, I strolled away. It was now
growing dusk, and the autumn night was closing in, so I did not lose any time.
Having learned the address of Mitchell, Sons, & Candy from a directory at
the Berkeley, I was soon at their office in Sackville Street.
<P>The gentleman who saw me was particularly suave in manner, but
uncommunicative in equal proportion. Having once told me that the Piccadilly
house, which throughout our interview he called a "mansion," was sold, he
considered my business as concluded. When I asked who had purchased it, he
opened his eyes a thought wider, and paused a few seconds before replying, "It
is sold, sir."
<P>"Pardon me," I said, with equal politeness, "but I have a special reason for
wishing to know who purchased it."
<P>Again he paused longer, and raised his eyebrows still more. "It is sold,
sir," was again his laconic reply.
<P>"Surely," I said, "you do not mind letting me know so much."
<P>"But I do mind," he answered. "The affairs of their clients are absolutely
safe in the hands of Mitchell, Sons, & Candy."
<P>This was manifestly a prig of the first water, and there was no use arguing
with him. I thought I had best meet him on his own ground, so I said, "Your
clients, sir, are happy in having so resolute a guardian of their confidence. I
am myself a professional man."
<P>Here I handed him my card. "In this instance I am not prompted by curiosity,
I act on the part of Lord Godalming, who wishes to know something of the
property which was, he understood, lately for sale."
<P>These words put a different complexion on affairs. He said, "I would like to
oblige you if I could, Mr. Harker, and especially would I like to oblige his
lordship. We once carried out a small matter of renting some chambers for him
when he was the Honorable Arthur Holmwood. If you will let me have his
lordship's address I will consult the House on the subject, and will, in any
case, communicate with his lordship by tonight's post. It will be a pleasure if
we can so far deviate from our rules as to give the required information to his
lordship."
<P>I wanted to secure a friend, and not to make an enemy, so I thanked him, gave
the address at Dr. Seward's and came away. It was now dark, and I was tired and
hungry. I got a cup of tea at the Aerated Bread Company and came down to
Purfleet by the next train.
<P>I found all the others at home. Mina was looking tired and pale, but she made
a gallant effort to be bright and cheerful. It wrung my heart to think that I
had had to keep anything from her and so caused her inquietude. Thank God, this
will be the last night of her looking on at our conferences, and feeling the
sting of our not showing our confidence. It took all my courage to hold to the
wise resolution of keeping her out of our grim task. She seems somehow more
reconciled, or else the very subject seems to have become repugnant to her, for
when any accidental allusion is made she actually shudders. I am glad we made
our resolution in time, as with such a feeling as this, our growing knowledge
would be torture to her.
<P>I could not tell the others of the day's discovery till we were alone, so
after dinner, followed by a little music to save appearances even amongst
ourselves, I took Mina to her room and left her to go to bed. The dear girl was
more affectionate with me than ever, and clung to me as though she would detain
me, but there was much to be talked of and I came away. Thank God, the ceasing
of telling things has made no difference between us.
<P>When I came down again I found the others all gathered round the fire in the
study. In the train I had written my diary so far, and simply read it off to
them as the best means of letting them get abreast of my own information.
<P>When I had finished Van Helsing said, "This has been a great day's work,
friend Jonathan. Doubtless we are on the track of the missing boxes. If we find
them all in that house, then our work is near the end. But if there be some
missing, we must search until we find them. Then shall we make our final coup,
and hunt the wretch to his real death."
<P>We all sat silent awhile and all at once Mr. Morris spoke, "Say! How are we
going to get into that house?"
<P>"We got into the other," answered Lord Godalming quickly.
<P>"But, Art, this is different. We broke house at Carfax, but we had night and
a walled park to protect us. It will be a mighty different thing to commit
burglary in Piccadilly, either by day or night. I confess I don't see how we are
going to get in unless that agency duck can find us a key of some sort."
<P>Lord Godalming's brows contracted, and he stood up and walked about the room.
By-and-by he stopped and said, turning from one to another of us, "Quincey's
head is level. This burglary business is getting serious. We got off once all
right, but we have now a rare job on hand. Unless we can find the Count's key
basket."
<P>As nothing could well be done before morning, and as it would be at least
advisable to wait till Lord Godalming should hear from Mitchell's, we decided
not to take any active step before breakfast time. For a good while we sat and
smoked, discussing the matter in its various lights and bearings. I took the
opportunity of bringing this diary right up to the moment. I am very sleepy and
shall go to bed. . .
<P>Just a line. Mina sleeps soundly and her breathing is regular. Her forehead
is puckered up into little wrinkles, as though she thinks even in her sleep. She
is still too pale, but does not look so haggard as she did this morning.
Tomorrow will, I hope, mend all this. She will be herself at home in Exeter. Oh,
but I am sleepy!
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>1 October.--I am puzzled afresh about Renfield. His moods change so rapidly
that I find it difficult to keep touch of them, and as they always mean
something more than his own well-being, they form a more than interesting study.
This morning, when I went to see him after his repulse of Van Helsing, his
manner was that of a man commanding destiny. He was, in fact, commanding
destiny, subjectively. He did not really care for any of the things of mere
earth, he was in the clouds and looked down on all the weaknesses and wants of
us poor mortals.
<P>I thought I would improve the occasion and learn something, so I asked him,
"What about the flies these times?"
<P>He smiled on me in quite a superior sort of way, such a smile as would have
become the face of Malvolio, as he answered me, "The fly, my dear sir, has one
striking feature. It's wings are typical of the aerial powers of the psychic
faculties. The ancients did well when they typified the soul as a butterfly!"
<P>I thought I would push his analogy to its utmost logically, so I said
quickly, "Oh, it is a soul you are after now, is it?"
<P>His madness foiled his reason, and a puzzled look spread over his face as,
shaking his head with a decision which I had but seldom seen in him.
<P>He said, "Oh, no, oh no! I want no souls. Life is all I want." Here he
brightened up. "I am pretty indifferent about it at present. Life is all right.
I have all I want. You must get a new patient, doctor, if you wish to study
zoophagy!"
<P>This puzzled me a little, so I drew him on. "Then you command life. You are a
god, I suppose?"
<P>He smiled with an ineffably benign superiority. "Oh no! Far be it from me to
arrogate to myself the attributes of the Deity. I am not even concerned in His
especially spiritual doings. If I may state my intellectual position I am, so
far as concerns things purely terrestrial, somewhat in the position which Enoch
occupied spiritually!"
<P>This was a poser to me. I could not at the moment recall Enoch's
appositeness, so I had to ask a simple question, though I felt that by so doing
I was lowering myself in the eyes of the lunatic. "And why with Enoch?"
<P>"Because he walked with God."
<P>I could not see the analogy, but did not like to admit it, so I harked back
to what he had denied. "So you don't care about life and you don't want souls.
Why not?" I put my question quickly and somewhat sternly, on purpose to
disconcert him.
<P>The effort succeeded, for an instant he unconsciously relapsed into his old
servile manner, bent low before me, and actually fawned upon me as he replied.
"I don't want any souls, indeed, indeed! I don't. I couldn't use them if I had
them. They would be no manner of use to me. I couldn't eat them or. . ."
<P>He suddenly stopped and the old cunning look spread over his face, like a
wind sweep on the surface of the water.
<P>"And doctor, as to life, what is it after all? When you've got all you
require, and you know that you will never want, that is all. I have friends,
good friends, like you, Dr. Seward."This was said with a leer of inexpressible
cunning. "I know that I shall never lack the means of life!"
<P>I think that through the cloudiness of his insanity he saw some antagonism in
me, for he at once fell back on the last refuge of such as he, a dogged silence.
After a short time I saw that for the present it was useless to speak to him. He
was sulky, and so I came away.
<P>Later in the day he sent for me. Ordinarily I would not have come without
special reason, but just at present I am so interested in him that I would
gladly make an effort. Besides, I am glad to have anything to help pass the
time. Harker is out, following up clues, and so are Lord Godalming and Quincey.
Van Helsing sits in my study poring over the record prepared by the Harkers. He
seems to think that by accurate knowledge of all details he will light up on
some clue. He does not wish to be disturbed in the work, without cause. I would
have taken him with me to see the patient, only I thought that after his last
repulse he might not care to go again. There was also another reason. Renfield
might not speak so freely before a third person as when he and I were alone.
<P>I found him sitting in the middle of the floor on his stool, a pose which is
generally indicative of some mental energy on his part. When I came in, he said
at once, as though the question had been waiting on his lips. "What about
souls?"
<P>It was evident then that my surmise had been correct. Unconscious cerebration
was doing its work, even with the lunatic. I determined to have the matter out.
<P>"What about them yourself?" I asked.
<P>He did not reply for a moment but looked all around him, and up and down, as
though he expected to find some inspiration for an answer.
<P>"I don't want any souls!" He said in a feeble, apologetic way. The matter
seemed preying on his mind, and so I determined to use it, to "be cruel only to
be kind." So I said, "You like life, and you want life?"
<P>"Oh yes! But that is all right. You needn't worry about that!"
<P>"But," I asked, "how are we to get the life without getting the soul also?"
<P>This seemed to puzzle him, so I followed it up, "A nice time you'll have some
time when you're flying out here, with the souls of thousands of flies and
spiders and birds and cats buzzing and twittering and moaning all around you.
You've got their lives, you know, and you must put up with their souls!"
<P>Something seemed to affect his imagination, for he put his fingers to his
ears and shut his eyes, screwing them up tightly just as a small boy does when
his face is being soaped. There was something pathetic in it that touched me. It
also gave me a lesson, for it seemed that before me was a child, only a child,
though the features were worn, and the stubble on the jaws was white. It was
evident that he was undergoing some process of mental disturbance, and knowing
how his past moods had interpreted things seemingly foreign to himself, I
thought I would enter into his mind as well as I could and go with him
<P>The first step was to restore confidence, so I asked him, speaking pretty
loud so that he would hear me through his closed ears, "Would you like some
sugar to get your flies around again?"
<P>He seemed to wake up all at once, and shook his head. With a laugh he
replied, "Not much! Flies are poor things, after all!" After a pause he added,
"But I don't want their souls buzzing round me, all the same."
<P>"Or spiders?" I went on.
<P>"Blow spiders! What's the use of spiders? There isn't anything in them to eat
or. . ." He stopped suddenly as though reminded of a forbidden topic.
<P>"So, so!" I thought to myself, "this is the second time he has suddenly
stopped at the word `drink'. What does it mean?"
<P>Renfield seemed himself aware of having made a lapse, for he hurried on, as
though to distract my attention from it, "I don't take any stock at all in such
matters. `Rats and mice and such small deer,' as Shakespeare has it, `chicken
feed of the larder' they might be called. I'm past all that sort of nonsense.
You might as well ask a man to eat molecules with a pair of chopsticks, as to
try to interest me about the less carnivora, when I know of what is before me."
<P>"I see," I said."You want big things that you can make your teeth meet in?
How would you like to breakfast on an elephant?"
<P>"What ridiculous nonsense you are talking?" He was getting too wide awake, so
I thought I would press him hard.
<P>"I wonder," I said reflectively, "what an elephant's soul is like!"
<P>The effect I desired was obtained, for he at once fell from his high-horse
and became a child again.
<P>"I don't want an elephant's soul, or any soul at all!" he said. For a few
moments he sat despondently. Suddenly he jumped to his feet, with his eyes
blazing and all the signs of intense cerebral excitement. "To hell with you and
your souls!" he shouted. "Why do you plague me about souls? Haven't I got enough
to worry, and pain, to distract me already, without thinking of souls?"
<P>He looked so hostile that I thought he was in for another homicidal fit, so I
blew my whistle.
<P>The instant, however, that I did so he became calm, and said apologetically,
"Forgive me, Doctor. I forgot myself. You do not need any help. I am so worried
in my mind that I am apt to be irritable. If you only knew the problem I have to
face, and that I am working out, you would pity, and tolerate, and pardon me.
Pray do not put me in a strait waistcoat. I want to think and I cannot think
freely when my body is confined. I am sure you will understand!"
<P>He had evidently self-control, so when the attendants came I told them not to
mind, and they withdrew. Renfield watched them go. When the door was closed he
said with considerable dignity and sweetness, "Dr. Seward, you have been very
considerate towards me. Believe me that I am very, very grateful to you!"
<P>I thought it well to leave him in this mood, and so I came away. There is
certainly something to ponder over in this man's state. Several points seem to
make what the American interviewer calls "a story," if one could only get them
in proper order. Here they are:
<P>Will not mention "drinking."
<P>Fears the thought of being burdened with the "soul" of anything.
<P>Has no dread of wanting "life" in the future.
<P>Despises the meaner forms of life altogether, though he dreads being haunted
by their souls.
<P>Logically all these things point one way! He has assurance of some kind that
he will acquire some higher life.
<P>He dreads the consequence, the burden of a soul. Then it is a human life he
looks to!
<P>And the assurance. . .?
<P>Merciful God! The Count has been to him, and there is some new scheme of
terror afoot!
<P>Later.--I went after my round to Van Helsing and told him my suspicion. He
grew very grave, and after thinking the matter over for a while asked me to take
him to Renfield. I did so. As we came to the door we heard the lunatic within
singing gaily, as he used to do in the time which now seems so long ago.
<P>When we entered we saw with amazement that he had spread out his sugar as of
old. The flies, lethargic with the autumn, were beginning to buzz into the room.
We tried to make him talk of the subject of our previous conversation, but he
would not attend. He went on with his singing, just as though we had not been
present. He had got a scrap of paper and was folding it into a notebook. We had
to come away as ignorant as we went in.
<P>His is a curious case indeed. We must watch him tonight.
<P>LETTER, MITCHELL, SONS & CANDY TO LORD GODALMING.
<P>"1 October.
<P>"My Lord,
<P>"We are at all times only too happy to meet your wishes. We beg, with regard
to the desire of your Lordship, expressed by Mr. Harker on your behalf, to
supply the following information concerning the sale and purchase of No. 347,
Piccadilly. The original vendors are the executors of the late Mr. Archibald
Winter-Suffield. The purchaser is a foreign nobleman, Count de Ville, who
effected the purchase himself paying the purchase money in notes `over the
counter,' if your Lordship will pardon us using so vulgar an expression. Beyond
this we know nothing whatever of him.
<P>"We are, my Lord,
<P>"Your Lordship's humble servants,
<P>"MITCHELL, SONS & CANDY."
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>2 October.--I placed a man in the corridor last night, and told him to make
an accurate note of any sound he might hear from Renfield's room, and gave him
instructions that if there should be anything strange he was to call me. After
dinner, when we had all gathered round the fire in the study, Mrs. Harker having
gone to bed, we discussed the attempts and discoveries of the day. Harker was
the only one who had any result, and we are in great hopes that his clue may be
an important one.
<P>Before going to bed I went round to the patient's room and looked in through
the observation trap. He was sleeping soundly, his heart rose and fell with
regular respiration.
<P>This morning the man on duty reported to me that a little after midnight he
was restless and kept saying his prayers somewhat loudly. I asked him if that
was all. He replied that it was all he heard. There was something about his
manner, so suspicious that I asked him point blank if he had been asleep. He
denied sleep, but admitted to having "dozed" for a while. It is too bad that men
cannot be trusted unless they are watched.
<P>Today Harker is out following up his clue, and Art and Quincey are looking
after horses. Godalming thinks that it will be well to have horses always in
readiness, for when we get the information which we seek there will be no time
to lose. We must sterilize all the imported earth between sunrise and sunset. We
shall thus catch the Count at his weakest, and without a refuge to fly to. Van
Helsing is off to the British Museum looking up some authorities on ancient
medicine. The old physicians took account of things which their followers do not
accept, and the Professor is searching for witch and demon cures which may be
useful to us later.
<P>I sometimes think we must be all mad and that we shall wake to sanity in
strait waistcoats.
<P>Later.--We have met again. We seem at last to be on the track, and our work
of tomorrow may be the beginning of the end. I wonder if Renfield's quiet has
anything to do with this. His moods have so followed the doings of the Count,
that the coming destruction of the monster may be carried to him some subtle
way. If we could only get some hint as to what passed in his mind, between the
time of my argument with him today and his resumption of fly-catching, it might
afford us a valuable clue. He is now seemingly quiet for a spell. . . Is he?
That wild yell seemed to come from his room. . .
<P>The attendant came bursting into my room and told me that Renfield had
somehow met with some accident. He had heard him yell, and when he went to him
found him lying on his face on the floor, all covered with blood. I must go at
once. . .
<P>
<CENTER><A name=axxi><STRONG><A name=axxi>CHAPTER 21. DR. SEWARD'S
DIARY</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>3 October.--Let me put down with exactness all that happened, as well as I
can remember, since last I made an entry. Not a detail that I can recall must be
forgotten. In all calmness I must proceed.
<P>When I came to Renfield's room I found him lying on the floor on his left
side in a glittering pool of blood. When I went to move him, it became at once
apparent that he had received some terrible injuries. There seemed none of the
unity of purpose between the parts of the body which marks even lethargic
sanity. As the face was exposed I could see that it was horribly bruised, as
though it had been beaten against the floor. Indeed it was from the face wounds
that the pool of blood originated.
<P>The attendant who was kneeling beside the body said to me as we turned him
over, "I think, sir, his back is broken. See, both his right arm and leg and the
whole side of his face are paralysed." How such a thing could have happened
puzzled the attendant beyond measure. He seemed quite bewildered, and his brows
were gathered in as he said, "I can't understand the two things. He could mark
his face like that by beating his own head on the floor. I saw a young woman do
it once at the Eversfield Asylum before anyone could lay hands on her. And I
suppose he might have broken his neck by falling out of bed, if he got in an
awkward kink. But for the life of me I can't imagine how the two things
occurred. If his back was broke, he couldn't beat his head, and if his face was
like that before the fall out of bed, there would be marks of it."
<P>I said to him, "Go to Dr. Van Helsing, and ask him to kindly come here at
once. I want him without an instant's delay."
<P>The man ran off, and within a few minutes the Professor, in his dressing gown
and slippers, appeared. When he saw Renfield on the ground, he looked keenly at
him a moment, and then turned to me. I think he recognized my thought in my
eyes, for he said very quietly, manifestly for the ears of the attendant, "Ah, a
sad accident! He will need very careful watching, and much attention. I shall
stay with you myself, but I shall first dress myself. If you will remain I shall
in a few minutes join you."
<P>The patient was now breathing stertorously and it was easy to see that he had
suffered some terrible injury.
<P>Van Helsing returned with extraordinary celerity, bearing with him a surgical
case. He had evidently been thinking and had his mind made up, for almost before
he looked at the patient, he whispered to me, "Send the attendant away. We must
be alone with him when he becomes conscious, after the operation."
<P>I said, "I think that will do now, Simmons. We have done all that we can at
present. You had better go your round, and Dr. Van Helsing will operate. Let me
know instantly if there be anything unusual anywhere."
<P>The man withdrew, and we went into a strict examination of the patient. The
wounds of the face were superficial. The real injury was a depressed fracture of
the skull, extending right up through the motor area.
<P>The Professor thought a moment and said, "We must reduce the pressure and get
back to normal conditions, as far as can be. The rapidity of the suffusion shows
the terrible nature of his injury. The whole motor area seems affected. The
suffusion of the brain will increase quickly, so we must trephine at once or it
may be too late."
<P>As he was speaking there was a soft tapping at the door. I went over and
opened it and found in the corridor without, Arthur and Quincey in pajamas and
slippers, the former spoke, "I heard your man call up Dr. Van Helsing and tell
him of an accident. So I woke Quincey or rather called for him as he was not
asleep. Things are moving too quickly and too strangely for sound sleep for any
of us these times. I've been thinking that tomorrow night will not see things as
they have been. We'll have to look back, and forward a little more than we have
done. May we come in?"
<P>I nodded, and held the door open till they had entered, then I closed it
again. When Quincey saw the attitude and state of the patient, and noted the
horrible pool on the floor, he said softly, "My God! What has happened to him?
Poor, poor devil!"
<P>I told him briefly, and added that we expected he would recover consciousness
after the operation, for a short time, at all events. He went at once and sat
down on the edge of the bed, with Godalming beside him. We all watched in
patience.
<P>"We shall wait," said Van Helsing, "just long enough to fix the best spot for
trephining, so that we may most quickly and perfectly remove the blood clot, for
it is evident that the haemorrhage is increasing."
<P>The minutes during which we waited passed with fearful slowness. I had a
horrible sinking in my heart, and from Van Helsing's face I gathered that he
felt some fear or apprehension as to what was to come. I dreaded the words
Renfield might speak. I was positively afraid to think. But the conviction of
what was coming was on me, as I have read of men who have heard the death watch.
The poor man's breathing came in uncertain gasps. Each instant he seemed as
though he would open his eyes and speak, but then would follow a prolonged
stertorous breath, and he would relapse into a more fixed insensibility. Inured
as I was to sick beds and death, this suspense grew and grew upon me. I could
almost hear the beating of my own heart, and the blood surging through my
temples sounded like blows from a hammer. The silence finally became agonizing.
I looked at my companions, one after another, and saw from their flushed faces
and damp brows that they were enduring equal torture. There was a nervous
suspense over us all, as though overhead some dread bell would peal out
powerfully when we should least expect it.
<P>At last there came a time when it was evident that the patient was sinking
fast. He might die at any moment. I looked up at the Professor and caught his
eyes fixed on mine. His face was sternly set as he spoke, "There is no time to
lose. His words may be worth many lives. I have been thinking so, as I stood
here. It may be there is a soul at stake! We shall operate just above the ear."
<P>Without another word he made the operation. For a few moments the breathing
continued to be stertorous. Then there came a breath so prolonged that it seemed
as though it would tear open his chest. Suddenly his eyes opened, and became
fixed in a wild, helpless stare. This was continued for a few moments, then it
was softened into a glad surprise, and from his lips came a sigh of relief. He
moved convulsively, and as he did so, said, "I'll be quiet, Doctor. Tell them to
take off the strait waistcoat. I have had a terrible dream, and it has left me
so weak that I cannot move. What's wrong with my face? It feels all swollen, and
it smarts dreadfully."
<P>He tried to turn his head, but even with the effort his eyes seemed to grow
glassy again so I gently put it back. Then Van Helsing said in a quiet grave
tone, "Tell us your dream, Mr. Renfield."
<P>As he heard the voice his face brightened, through its mutilation, and he
said, "That is Dr. Van Helsing. How good it is of you to be here. Give me some
water, my lips are dry, and I shall try to tell you. I dreamed". . .
<P>He stopped and seemed fainting. I called quietly to Quincey, "The brandy, it
is in my study, quick!" He flew and returned with a glass, the decanter of
brandy and a carafe of water. We moistened the parched lips, and the patient
quickly revived.
<P>It seemed, however, that his poor injured brain had been working in the
interval, for when he was quite conscious, he looked at me piercingly with an
agonized confusion which I shall never forget, and said, "I must not deceive
myself. It was no dream, but all a grim reality." Then his eyes roved round the
room. As they caught sight of the two figures sitting patiently on the edge of
the bed he went on, "If I were not sure already, I would know from them."
<P>For an instant his eyes closed, not with pain or sleep but voluntarily, as
though he were bringing all his faculties to bear. When he opened them he said,
hurriedly, and with more energy than he had yet displayed, "Quick, Doctor,
quick, I am dying! I feel that I have but a few minutes, and then I must go back
to death, or worse! Wet my lips with brandy again. I have something that I must
say before I die. Or before my poor crushed brain dies anyhow. Thank you! It was
that night after you left me, when I implored you to let me go away. I couldn't
speak then, for I felt my tongue was tied. But I was as sane then, except in
that way, as I am now. I was in an agony of despair for a long time after you
left me, it seemed hours. Then there came a sudden peace to me. My brain seemed
to become cool again, and I realized where I was. I heard the dogs bark behind
our house, but not where He was!"
<P>As he spoke, Van Helsing's eyes never blinked, but his hand came out and met
mine and gripped it hard. He did not, however, betray himself. He nodded
slightly and said, "Go on," in a low voice.
<P>Renfield proceeded. "He came up to the window in the mist, as I had seen him
often before, but he was solid then, not a ghost, and his eyes were fierce like
a man's when angry. He was laughing with his red mouth, the sharp white teeth
glinted in the moonlight when he turned to look back over the belt of trees, to
where the dogs were barking. I wouldn't ask him to come in at first, though I
knew he wanted to, just as he had wanted all along. Then he began promising me
things, not in words but by doing them."
<P>He was interrupted by a word from the Professor, "How?"
<P>"By making them happen. Just as he used to send in the flies when the sun was
shining. Great big fat ones with steel and sapphire on their wings. And big
moths, in the night, with skull and cross-bones on their backs."
<P>Van Helsing nodded to him as he whispered to me unconsciously, "The
Acherontia Atropos of the Sphinges, what you call the `Death's-head Moth'?"
<P>The patient went on without stopping, "Then he began to whisper.`Rats, rats,
rats! Hundreds, thousands, millions of them, and every one a life. And dogs to
eat them, and cats too. All lives! All red blood, with years of life in it, and
not merely buzzing flies!' I laughed at him, for I wanted to see what he could
do. Then the dogs howled, away beyond the dark trees in His house. He beckoned
me to the window. I got up and looked out, and He raised his hands, and seemed
to call out without using any words. A dark mass spread over the grass, coming
on like the shape of a flame of fire. And then He moved the mist to the right
and left, and I could see that there were thousands of rats with their eyes
blazing red, like His only smaller. He held up his hand, and they all stopped,
and I thought he seemed to be saying, `All these lives will I give you, ay, and
many more and greater, through countless ages, if you will fall down and worship
me!' And then a red cloud, like the color of blood, seemed to close over my
eyes, and before I knew what I was doing, I found myself opening the sash and
saying to Him, `Come in, Lord and Master!' The rats were all gone, but He slid
into the room through the sash, though it was only open an inch wide, just as
the Moon herself has often come in through the tiniest crack and has stood
before me in all her size and splendor."
<P>His voice was weaker, so I moistened his lips with the brandy again, and he
continued, but it seemed as though his memory had gone on working in the
interval for his story was further advanced. I was about to call him back to the
point, but Van Helsing whispered to me, "Let him go on. Do not interrupt him. He
cannot go back, and maybe could not proceed at all if once he lost the thread of
his thought."
<P>He proceeded, "All day I waited to hear from him, but he did not send me
anything, not even a blowfly, and when the moon got up I was pretty angry with
him. When he did slide in through the window, though it was shut, and did not
even knock, I got mad with him. He sneered at me, and his white face looked out
of the mist with his red eyes gleaming, and he went on as though he owned the
whole place, and I was no one. He didn't even smell the same as he went by me. I
couldn't hold him. I thought that, somehow, Mrs. Harker had come into the room."
<P>The two men sitting on the bed stood up and came over, standing behind him so
that he could not see them, but where they could hear better. They were both
silent, but the Professor started and quivered. His face, however, grew grimmer
and sterner still. Renfield went on without noticing, "When Mrs. Harker came in
to see me this afternoon she wasn't the same. It was like tea after the teapot
has been watered." Here we all moved, but no one said a word.
<P>He went on, "I didn't know that she was here till she spoke, and she didn't
look the same. I don't care for the pale people. I like them with lots of blood
in them, and hers all seemed to have run out. I didn't think of it at the time,
but when she went away I began to think, and it made me mad to know that He had
been taking the life out of her." I could feel that the rest quivered, as I did.
But we remained otherwise still. "So when He came tonight I was ready for Him. I
saw the mist stealing in, and I grabbed it tight. I had heard that madmen have
unnatural strength. And as I knew I was a madman, at times anyhow, I resolved to
use my power. Ay, and He felt it too, for He had to come out of the mist to
struggle with me. I held tight, and I thought I was going to win, for I didn't
mean Him to take any more of her life, till I saw His eyes. They burned into me,
and my strength became like water. He slipped through it, and when I tried to
cling to Him, He raised me up and flung me down. There was a red cloud before
me, and a noise like thunder, and the mist seemed to steal away under the door."
<P>His voice was becoming fainter and his breath more stertorous. Van Helsing
stood up instinctively.
<P>"We know the worst now," he said. "He is here, and we know his purpose. It
may not be too late. Let us be armed, the same as we were the other night, but
lose no time, there is not an instant to spare."
<P>There was no need to put our fear, nay our conviction, into words, we shared
them in common. We all hurried and took from our rooms the same things that we
had when we entered the Count's house. The Professor had his ready, and as we
met in the corridor he pointed to them significantly as he said, "They never
leave me, and they shall not till this unhappy business is over. Be wise also,
my friends. It is no common enemy that we deal with Alas! Alas! That dear Madam
Mina should suffer!" He stopped, his voice was breaking, and I do not know if
rage or terror predominated in my own heart.
<P>Outside the Harkers' door we paused. Art and Quincey held back, and the
latter said, "Should we disturb her?"
<P>"We must," said Van Helsing grimly. "If the door be locked, I shall break it
in."
<P>"May it not frighten her terribly? It is unusual to break into a lady's
room!"
<P>Van Helsing said solemnly, "You are always right. But this is life and death.
All chambers are alike to the doctor. And even were they not they are all as one
to me tonight. Friend John, when I turn the handle, if the door does not open,
do you put your shoulder down and shove. And you too, my friends. Now!"
<P>He turned the handle as he spoke, but the door did not yield. We threw
ourselves against it. With a crash it burst open, and we almost fell headlong
into the room. The Professor did actually fall, and I saw across him as he
gathered himself up from hands and knees. What I saw appalled me. I felt my hair
rise like bristles on the back of my neck, and my heart seemed to stand still.
<P>The moonlight was so bright that through the thick yellow blind the room was
light enough to see. On the bed beside the window lay Jonathan Harker, his face
flushed and breathing heavily as though in a stupor. Kneeling on the near edge
of the bed facing outwards was the white-clad figure of his wife. By her side
stood a tall, thin man, clad in black. His face was turned from us, but the
instant we saw we all recognized the Count, in every way, even to the scar on
his forehead. With his left hand he held both Mrs. Harker's hands, keeping them
away with her arms at full tension. His right hand gripped her by the back of
the neck, forcing her face down on his bosom. Her white nightdress was smeared
with blood, and a thin stream trickled down the man's bare chest which was shown
by his torn-open dress. The attitude of the two had a terrible resemblance to a
child forcing a kitten's nose into a saucer of milk to compel it to drink. As we
burst into the room, the Count turned his face, and the hellish look that I had
heard described seemed to leap into it. His eyes flamed red with devilish
passion. The great nostrils of the white aquiline nose opened wide and quivered
at the edge, and the white sharp teeth, behind the full lips of the blood
dripping mouth, clamped together like those of a wild beast. With a wrench,
which threw his victim back upon the bed as though hurled from a height, he
turned and sprang at us. But by this time the Professor had gained his feet, and
was holding towards him the envelope which contained the Sacred Wafer. The Count
suddenly stopped, just as poor Lucy had done outside the tomb, and cowered back.
Further and further back he cowered, as we, lifting our crucifixes, advanced.
The moonlight suddenly failed, as a great black cloud sailed across the sky. And
when the gaslight sprang up under Quincey's match, we saw nothing but a faint
vapor. This, as we looked, trailed under the door, which with the recoil from
its bursting open, had swung back to its old position. Van Helsing, Art, and I
moved forward to Mrs. Harker, who by this time had drawn her breath and with it
had given a scream so wild, so ear-piercing, so despairing that it seems to me
now that it will ring in my ears till my dying day. For a few seconds she lay in
her helpless attitude and disarray. Her face was ghastly, with a pallor which
was accentuated by the blood which smeared her lips and cheeks and chin. From
her throat trickled a thin stream of blood. Her eyes were mad with terror. Then
she put before her face her poor crushed hands, which bore on their whiteness
the red mark of the Count's terrible grip, and from behind them came a low
desolate wail which made the terrible scream seem only the quick expression of
an endless grief. Van Helsing stepped forward and drew the coverlet gently over
her body, whilst Art, after looking at her face for an instant despairingly, ran
out of the room.
<P>Van Helsing whispered to me, "Jonathan is in a stupor such as we know the
Vampire can produce. We can do nothing with poor Madam Mina for a few moments
till she recovers herself. I must wake him!"
<P>He dipped the end of a towel in cold water and with it began to flick him on
the face, his wife all the while holding her face between her hands and sobbing
in a way that was heart breaking to hear. I raised the blind, and looked out of
the window. There was much moonshine, and as I looked I could see Quincey Morris
run across the lawn and hide himself in the shadow of a great yew tree. It
puzzled me to think why he was doing this. But at the instant I heard Harker's
quick exclamation as he woke to partial consciousness, and turned to the bed. On
his face, as there might well be, was a look of wild amazement. He seemed dazed
for a few seconds, and then full consciousness seemed to burst upon him all at
once, and he started up.
<P>His wife was aroused by the quick movement, and turned to him with her arms
stretched out, as though to embrace him. Instantly, however, she drew them in
again, and putting her elbows together, held her hands before her face, and
shuddered till the bed beneath her shook.
<P>"In God's name what does this mean?" Harker cried out. "Dr. Seward, Dr. Van
Helsing, what is it? What has happened? What is wrong? Mina, dear what is it?
What does that blood mean? My God, my God! Has it come to this!" And, raising
himself to his knees, he beat his hands wildly together."Good God help us! Help
her! Oh, help her!"
<P>With a quick movement he jumped from bed, and began to pull on his clothes,
all the man in him awake at the need for instant exertion. "What has happened?
Tell me all about it!" he cried without pausing. "Dr. Van Helsing you love Mina,
I know. Oh, do something to save her. It cannot have gone too far yet. Guard her
while I look for him!"
<P>His wife, through her terror and horror and distress, saw some sure danger to
him. Instantly forgetting her own grief, she seized hold of him and cried out.
<P>"No! No! Jonathan, you must not leave me. I have suffered enough tonight, God
knows, without the dread of his harming you. You must stay with me. Stay with
these friends who will watch over you!" Her expression became frantic as she
spoke. And, he yielding to her, she pulled him down sitting on the bedside, and
clung to him fiercely.
<P>Van Helsing and I tried to calm them both. The Professor held up his golden
crucifix, and said with wonderful calmness, "Do not fear, my dear. We are here,
and whilst this is close to you no foul thing can approach. You are safe for
tonight, and we must be calm and take counsel together."
<P>She shuddered and was silent, holding down her head on her husband's breast.
When she raised it, his white nightrobe was stained with blood where her lips
had touched, and where the thin open wound in the neck had sent forth drops. The
instant she saw it she drew back, with a low wail, and whispered, amidst choking
sobs.
<P>"Unclean, unclean! I must touch him or kiss him no more. Oh, that it should
be that it is I who am now his worst enemy, and whom he may have most cause to
fear."
<P>To this he spoke out resolutely, "Nonsense, Mina. It is a shame to me to hear
such a word. I would not hear it of you. And I shall not hear it from you. May
God judge me by my deserts, and punish me with more bitter suffering than even
this hour, if by any act or will of mine anything ever come between us!"
<P>He put out his arms and folded her to his breast. And for a while she lay
there sobbing. He looked at us over her bowed head, with eyes that blinked
damply above his quivering nostrils. His mouth was set as steel.
<P>After a while her sobs became less frequent and more faint, and then he said
to me, speaking with a studied calmness which I felt tried his nervous power to
the utmost.
<P>"And now, Dr. Seward, tell me all about it. Too well I know the broad fact.
Tell me all that has been."
<P>I told him exactly what had happened and he listened with seeming
impassiveness, but his nostrils twitched and his eyes blazed as I told how the
ruthless hands of the Count had held his wife in that terrible and horrid
position, with her mouth to the open wound in his breast. It interested me, even
at that moment, to see that whilst the face of white set passion worked
convulsively over the bowed head, the hands tenderly and lovingly stroked the
ruffled hair. Just as I had finished, Quincey and Godalming knocked at the door.
They entered in obedience to our summons. Van Helsing looked at me
questioningly. I understood him to mean if we were to take advantage of their
coming to divert if possible the thoughts of the unhappy husband and wife from
each other and from themselves. So on nodding acquiescence to him he asked them
what they had seen or done. To which Lord Godalming answered.
<P>"I could not see him anywhere in the passage, or in any of our rooms. I
looked in the study but, though he had been there, he had gone. He had, however.
. ." He stopped suddenly, looking at the poor drooping figure on the bed.
<P>Van Helsing said gravely, "Go on, friend Arthur. We want here no more
concealments. Our hope now is in knowing all. Tell freely!"
<P>So Art went on, "He had been there, and though it could only have been for a
few seconds, he made rare hay of the place. All the manuscript had been burned,
and the blue flames were flickering amongst the white ashes. The cylinders of
your phonograph too were thrown on the fire, and the wax had helped the flames."
<P>Here I interrupted. "Thank God there is the other copy in the safe!"
<P>His face lit for a moment, but fell again as he went on. "I ran downstairs
then, but could see no sign of him. I looked into Renfield's room, but there was
no trace there except. . ." Again he paused.
<P>"Go on," said Harker hoarsely. So he bowed his head and moistening his lips
with his tongue, added, "except that the poor fellow is dead."
<P>Mrs. Harker raised her head, looking from one to the other of us she said
solemnly, "God's will be done!"
<P>I could not but feel that Art was keeping back something. But, as I took it
that it was with a purpose, I said nothing.
<P>Van Helsing turned to Morris and asked, "And you, friend Quincey, have you
any to tell?"
<P>"A little," he answered. "It may be much eventually, but at present I can't
say. I thought it well to know if possible where the Count would go when he left
the house. I did not see him, but I saw a bat rise from Renfield's window, and
flap westward. I expected to see him in some shape go back to Carfax, but he
evidently sought some other lair. He will not be back tonight, for the sky is
reddening in the east, and the dawn is close. We must work tomorrow!"
<P>He said the latter words through his shut teeth. For a space of perhaps a
couple of minutes there was silence, and I could fancy that I could hear the
sound of our hearts beating.
<P>Then Van Helsing said, placing his hand tenderly on Mrs. Harker's head, "And
now, Madam Mina, poor dear, dear, Madam Mina, tell us exactly what happened. God
knows that I do not want that you be pained, but it is need that we know all.
For now more than ever has all work to be done quick and sharp, and in deadly
earnest. The day is close to us that must end all, if it may be so, and now is
the chance that we may live and learn."
<P>The poor dear lady shivered, and I could see the tension of her nerves as she
clasped her husband closer to her and bent her head lower and lower still on his
breast. Then she raised her head proudly, and held out one hand to Van Helsing
who took it in his, and after stooping and kissing it reverently, held it fast.
The other hand was locked in that of her husband, who held his other arm thrown
round her protectingly. After a pause in which she was evidently ordering her
thoughts, she began.
<P>"I took the sleeping draught which you had so kindly given me, but for a long
time it did not act. I seemed to become more wakeful, and myriads of horrible
fancies began to crowd in upon my mind. All of them connected with death, and
vampires, with blood, and pain, and trouble." Her husband involuntarily groaned
as she turned to him and said lovingly, "Do not fret, dear. You must be brave
and strong, and help me through the horrible task. If you only knew what an
effort it is to me to tell of this fearful thing at all, you would understand
how much I need your help. Well, I saw I must try to help the medicine to its
work with my will, if it was to do me any good, so I resolutely set myself to
sleep. Sure enough sleep must soon have come to me, for I remember no more.
Jonathan coming in had not waked me, for he lay by my side when next I remember.
There was in the room the same thin white mist that I had before noticed. But I
forget now if you know of this. You will find it in my diary which I shall show
you later. I felt the same vague terror which had come to me before and the same
sense of some presence. I turned to wake Jonathan, but found that he slept so
soundly that it seemed as if it was he who had taken the sleeping draught, and
not I. I tried, but I could not wake him. This caused me a great fear, and I
looked around terrified. Then indeed, my heart sank within me. Beside the bed,
as if he had stepped out of the mist, or rather as if the mist had turned into
his figure, for it had entirely disappeared, stood a tall, thin man, all in
black. I knew him at once from the description of the others. The waxen face,
the high aquiline nose, on which the light fell in a thin white line, the parted
red lips, with the sharp white teeth showing between, and the red eyes that I
had seemed to see in the sunset on the windows of St. Mary's Church at Witby. I
knew, too, the red scar on his forehead where Jonathan had struck him. For an
instant my heart stood still, and I would have screamed out, only that I was
paralyzed. In the pause he spoke in a sort of keen, cutting whisper, pointing as
he spoke to Jonathan.
<P>"`Silence! If you make a sound I shall take him and dash his brains out
before your very eyes.' I was appalled and was too bewildered to do or say
anything. With a mocking smile, he placed one hand upon my shoulder and, holding
me tight, bared my throat with the other, saying as he did so, `First, a little
refreshment to reward my exertions. You may as well be quiet. It is not the
first time, or the second, that your veins have appeased my thirst!' I was
bewildered, and strangely enough, I did not want to hinder him. I suppose it is
a part of the horrible curse that such is, when his touch is on his victim. And
oh, my God, my God, pity me! He placed his reeking lips upon my throat!" Her
husband groaned again. She clasped his hand harder, and looked at him pityingly,
as if he were the injured one, and went on.
<P>"I felt my strength fading away, and I was in a half swoon. How long this
horrible thing lasted I know not, but it seemed that a long time must have
passed before he took his foul, awful, sneering mouth away. I saw it drip with
the fresh blood!"The remembrance seemed for a while to overpower her, and she
drooped and would have sunk down but for her husband's sustaining arm. With a
great effort she recovered herself and went on.
<P>"Then he spoke to me mockingly, `And so you, like the others, would play your
brains against mine. You would help these men to hunt me and frustrate me in my
design! You know now, and they know in part already, and will know in full
before long, what it is to cross my path. They should have kept their energies
for use closer to home. Whilst they played wits against me, against me who
commanded nations, and intrigued for them, and fought for them, hundreds of
years before they were born, I was countermining them. And you, their best
beloved one, are now to me, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, kin of my kin,
my bountiful wine-press for a while, and shall be later on my companion and my
helper. You shall be avenged in turn, for not one of them but shall minister to
your needs. But as yet you are to be punished for what you have done. You have
aided in thwarting me. Now you shall come to my call. When my brain says "Come!"
to you, you shall cross land or sea to do my bidding. And to that end this!'
<P>With that he pulled open his shirt, and with his long sharp nails opened a
vein in his breast. When the blood began to spurt out, he took my hands in one
of his, holding them tight, and with the other seized my neck and pressed my
mouth to the wound, so that I must either suffocate or swallow some to the. .
.Oh, my God! My God! What have I done? What have I done to deserve such a fate,
I who have tried to walk in meekness and righteousness all my days. God pity me!
Look down on a poor soul in worse than mortal peril. And in mercy pity those to
whom she is dear!" Then she began to rub her lips as though to cleanse them from
pollution.
<P>As she was telling her terrible story, the eastern sky began to quicken, and
everything became more and more clear. Harker was still and quiet. But over his
face, as the awful narrative went on, came a grey look which deepened and
deepened in the morning light, till when the first red streak of the coming dawn
shot up, the flesh stood darkly out against the whitening hair.
<P>We have arranged that one of us is to stay within call of the unhappy pair
till we can meet together and arrange about taking action.
<P>Of this I am sure. The sun rises today on no more miserable house in all the
great round of its daily course.
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=axxii>CHAPTER 22. JONATHAN HARKER'S
JOURNAL</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>3 October.--As I must do something or go mad, I write this diary. It is now
six o'clock, and we are to meet in the study in half an hour and take something
to eat, for Dr. Van Helsing and Dr. Seward are agreed that if we do not eat we
cannot work our best. Our best will be, God knows, required today. I must keep
writing at every chance, for I dare not stop to think. All, big and little, must
go down. Perhaps at the end the little things may teach us most. The teaching,
big or little, could not have landed Mina or me anywhere worse than we are
today. However, we must trust and hope. Poor Mina told me just now, with the
tears running down her dear cheeks, that it is in trouble and trial that our
faith is tested. That we must keep on trusting, and that God will aid us up to
the end. The end! Oh my God! What end?. . . To work! To work!
<P>When Dr. Van Helsing and Dr. Seward had come back from seeing poor Renfield,
we went gravely into what was to be done. First, Dr. Seward told us that when he
and Dr. Van Helsing had gone down to the room below they had found Renfield
lying on the floor, all in a heap. His face was all bruised and crushed in, and
the bones of the neck were broken.
<P>Dr. Seward asked the attendant who was on duty in the passage if he had heard
anything. He said that he had been sitting down, he confessed to half dozing,
when he heard loud voices in the room, and then Renfield had called out loudly
several times, "God! God! God!" After that there was a sound of falling, and
when he entered the room he found him lying on the floor, face down, just as the
doctors had seen him. Van Helsing asked if he had heard "voices" or "a voice,"
and he said he could not say. That at first it had seemed to him as if there
were two, but as there was no one in the room it could have been only one. He
could swear to it, if required, that the word "God" was spoken by the patient.
<P>Dr. Seward said to us, when we were alone, that he did not wish to go into
the matter. The question of an inquest had to be considered, and it would never
do to put forward the truth, as no one would believe it. As it was, he thought
that on the attendant's evidence he could give a certificate of death by
misadventure in falling from bed. In case the coroner should demand it, there
would be a formal inquest, necessarily to the same result.
<P>When the question began to be discussed as to what should be our next step,
the very first thing we decided was that Mina should be in full confidence. That
nothing of any sort, no matter how painful, should be kept from her. She herself
agreed as to its wisdom, and it was pitiful to see her so brave and yet so
sorrowful, and in such a depth of despair.
<P>"There must be no concealment," she said. "Alas! We have had too much
already. And besides there is nothing in all the world that can give me more
pain than I have already endured, than I suffer now! Whatever may happen, it
must be of new hope or of new courage to me!"
<P>Van Helsing was looking at her fixedly as she spoke, and said, suddenly but
quietly, "But dear Madam Mina, are you not afraid. Not for yourself, but for
others from yourself, after what has happened?"
<P>Her face grew set in its lines, but her eyes shone with the devotion of a
martyr as she answered, "Ah no! For my mind is made up!"
<P>"To what?" he asked gently, whilst we were all very still, for each in our
own way we had a sort of vague idea of what she meant.
<P>Her answer came with direct simplicity, as though she was simply stating a
fact, "Because if I find in myself, and I shall watch keenly for it, a sign of
harm to any that I love, I shall die!"
<P>"You would not kill yourself?" he asked, hoarsely.
<P>"I would. If there were no friend who loved me, who would save me such a
pain, and so desperate an effort!" She looked at him meaningly as she spoke.
<P>He was sitting down, but now he rose and came close to her and put his hand
on her head as he said solemnly. "My child, there is such an one if it were for
your good. For myself I could hold it in my account with God to find such an
euthanasia for you, even at this moment if it were best. Nay, were it safe! But
my child. . ."
<P>For a moment he seemed choked, and a great sob rose in his throat. He gulped
it down and went on, "There are here some who would stand between you and death.
You must not die. You must not die by any hand, but least of all your own. Until
the other, who has fouled your sweet life, is true dead you must not die. For if
he is still with the quick Undead, your death would make you even as he is. No,
you must live! You must struggle and strive to live, though death would seem a
boon unspeakable. You must fight Death himself, though he come to you in pain or
in joy. By the day, or the night, in safety or in peril! On your living soul I
charge you that you do not die. Nay, nor think of death, till this great evil be
past."
<P>The poor dear grew white as death, and shook and shivered, as I have seen a
quicksand shake and shiver at the incoming of the tide. We were all silent. We
could do nothing. At length she grew more calm and turning to him said sweetly,
but oh so sorrowfully, as she held out her hand, "I promise you, my dear friend,
that if God will let me live, I shall strive to do so. Till, if it may be in His
good time, this horror may have passed away from me."
<P>She was so good and brave that we all felt that our hearts were strengthened
to work and endure for her, and we began to discuss what we were to do. I told
her that she was to have all the papers in the safe, and all the papers or
diaries and phonographs we might hereafter use, and was to keep the record as
she had done before. She was pleased with the prospect of anything to do, if
"pleased" could be used in connection with so grim an interest.
<P>As usual Van Helsing had thought ahead of everyone else, and was prepared
with an exact ordering of our work.
<P>"It is perhaps well," he said, "that at our meeting after our visit to Carfax
we decided not to do anything with the earth boxes that lay there. Had we done
so, the Count must have guessed our purpose, and would doubtless have taken
measures in advance to frustrate such an effort with regard to the others. But
now he does not know our intentions. Nay, more, in all probability, he does not
know that such a power exists to us as can sterilize his lairs, so that he
cannot use them as of old.
<P>"We are now so much further advanced in our knowledge as to their disposition
that, when we have examined the house in Piccadilly, we may track the very last
of them. Today then, is ours, and in it rests our hope. The sun that rose on our
sorrow this morning guards us in its course. Until it sets tonight, that monster
must retain whatever form he now has. He is confined within the limitations of
his earthly envelope. He cannot melt into thin air nor disappear through cracks
or chinks or crannies. If he go through a doorway, he must open the door like a
mortal. And so we have this day to hunt out all his lairs and sterilize them. So
we shall, if we have not yet catch him and destroy him, drive him to bay in some
place where the catching and the destroying shall be, in time, sure."
<P>Here I started up for I could not contain myself at the thought that the
minutes and seconds so preciously laden with Mina's life and happiness were
flying from us, since whilst we talked action was impossible. But Van Helsing
held up his hand warningly.
<P>"Nay, friend Jonathan," he said, "in this, the quickest way home is the
longest way, so your proverb say. We shall all act and act with desperate quick,
when the time has come. But think, in all probable the key of the situation is
in that house in Piccadilly. The Count may have many houses which he has bought.
Of them he will have deeds of purchase, keys and other things. He will have
paper that he write on. He will have his book of cheques. There are many
belongings that he must have somewhere. Why not in this place so central, so
quiet, where he come and go by the front or the back at all hours, when in the
very vast of the traffic there is none to notice. We shall go there and search
that house. And when we learn what it holds, then we do what our friend Arthur
call, in his phrases of hunt `stop the earths' and so we run down our old fox,
so? Is it not?"
<P>"Then let us come at once," I cried, "we are wasting the precious, precious
time!"
<P>The Professor did not move, but simply said, "And how are we to get into that
house in Piccadilly?"
<P>"Any way!" I cried. "We shall break in if need be."
<P>"And your police? Where will they be, and what will they say?"
<P>I was staggered, but I knew that if he wished to delay he had a good reason
for it. So I said, as quietly as I could, "Don't wait more than need be. You
know, I am sure, what torture I am in."
<P>"Ah, my child, that I do. And indeed there is no wish of me to add to your
anguish. But just think, what can we do, until all the world be at movement.
Then will come our time. I have thought and thought, and it seems to me that the
simplest way is the best of all. Now we wish to get into the house, but we have
no key. Is it not so?" I nodded.
<P>"Now suppose that you were, in truth, the owner of that house, and could not
still get in. And think there was to you no conscience of the housebreaker, what
would you do?"
<P>"I should get a respectable locksmith, and set him to work to pick the lock
for me."
<P>"And your police, they would interfere, would they not?"
<P>"Oh no! Not if they knew the man was properly employed."
<P>"Then," he looked at me as keenly as he spoke, "all that is in doubt is the
conscience of the employer, and the belief of your policemen as to whether or
not that employer has a good conscience or a bad one. Your police must indeed be
zealous men and clever, oh so clever, in reading the heart, that they trouble
themselves in such matter. No, no, my friend Jonathan, you go take the lock off
a hundred empty houses in this your London, or of any city in the world, and if
you do it as such things are rightly done, and at the time such things are
rightly done, no one will interfere. I have read of a gentleman who owned a so
fine house in London, and when he went for months of summer to Switzerland and
lock up his house, some burglar come and broke window at back and got in. Then
he went and made open the shutters in front and walk out and in through the
door, before the very eyes of the police. Then he have an auction in that house,
and advertise it, and put up big notice. And when the day come he sell off by a
great auctioneer all the goods of that other man who own them. Then he go to a
builder, and he sell him that house, making an agreement that he pull it down
and take all away within a certain time. And your police and other authority
help him all they can. And when that owner come back from his holiday in
Switzerland he find only an empty hole where his house had been. This was all
done en regle, and in our work we shall be en regle too. We shall not go so
early that the policemen who have then little to think of, shall deem it
strange. But we shall go after ten o'clock, when there are many about, and such
things would be done were we indeed owners of the house."
<P>I could not but see how right he was and the terrible despair of Mina's face
became relaxed in thought. There was hope in such good counsel.
<P>Van Helsing went on, "When once within that house we may find more clues. At
any rate some of us can remain there whilst the rest find the other places where
there be more earth boxes, at Bermondsey and Mile End."
<P>Lord Godalming stood up. "I can be of some use here," he said. "I shall wire
to my people to have horses and carriages where they will be most convenient."
<P>"Look here, old fellow," said Morris, "it is a capital idea to have all ready
in case we want to go horse backing, but don't you think that one of your snappy
carriages with its heraldic adornments in a byway of Walworth or Mile End would
attract too much attention for our purpose? It seems to me that we ought to take
cabs when we go south or east. And even leave them somewhere near the
neighborhood we are going to."
<P>"Friend Quincey is right!" said the Professor. "His head is what you call in
plane with the horizon. It is a difficult thing that we go to do, and we do not
want no peoples to watch us if so it may."
<P>Mina took a growing interest in everything and I was rejoiced to see that the
exigency of affairs was helping her to forget for a time the terrible experience
of the night. She was very, very pale, almost ghastly, and so thin that her lips
were drawn away, showing her teeth in somewhat of prominence. I did not mention
this last, lest it should give her needless pain, but it made my blood run cold
in my veins to think of what had occurred with poor Lucy when the Count had
sucked her blood. As yet there was no sign of the teeth growing sharper, but the
time as yet was short, and there was time for fear.
<P>When we came to the discussion of the sequence of our efforts and of the
disposition of our forces, there were new sources of doubt. It was finally
agreed that before starting for Piccadilly we should destroy the Count's lair
close at hand. In case he should find it out too soon, we should thus be still
ahead of him in our work of destruction. And his presence in his purely material
shape, and at his weakest, might give us some new clue.
<P>A s to the disposal of forces, it was suggested by the Professor that, after
our visit to Carfax, we should all enter the house in Piccadilly. That the two
doctors and I should remain there, whilst Lord Godalming and Quincey found the
lairs at Walworth and Mile End and destroyed them. It was possible, if not
likely, the Professor urged, that the Count might appear in Piccadilly during
the day, and that if so we might be able to cope with him then and there. At any
rate, we might be able to follow him in force. To this plan I strenuously
objected, and so far as my going was concerned, for I said that I intended to
stay and protect Mina. I thought that my mind was made up on the subject, but
Mina would not listen to my objection. She said that there might be some law
matter in which I could be useful. That amongst the Count's papers might be some
clue which I could understand out of my experience in Transylvania. And that, as
it was, all the strength we could muster was required to cope with the Count's
extraordinary power. I had to give in, for Mina's resolution was fixed. She said
that it was the last hope for her that we should all work together.
<P>"As for me," she said, "I have no fear. Things have been as bad as they can
be. And whatever may happen must have in it some element of hope or comfort. Go,
my husband! God can, if He wishes it, guard me as well alone as with any one
present."
<P>So I started up crying out, "Then in God's name let us come at once, for we
are losing time. The Count may come to Piccadilly earlier than we think."
<P>"Not so!" said Van Helsing, holding up his hand.
<P>"But why?" I asked.
<P>"Do you forget," he said, with actually a smile, "that last night he
banqueted heavily, and will sleep late?"
<P>Did I forget! Shall I ever. . .can I ever! Can any of us ever forget that
terrible scene! Mina struggled hard to keep her brave countenance, but the pain
overmastered her and she put her hands before her face, and shuddered whilst she
moaned. Van Helsing had not intended to recall her frightful experience. He had
simply lost sight of her and her part in the affair in his intellectual effort.
<P>When it struck him what he said, he was horrified at his thoughtlessness and
tried to comfort her.
<P>"Oh, Madam Mina," he said, "dear, dear, Madam Mina, alas! That I of all who
so reverence you should have said anything so forgetful. These stupid old lips
of mine and this stupid old head do not deserve so, but you will forget it, will
you not?" He bent low beside her as he spoke.
<P>She took his hand, and looking at him through her tears, said hoarsely, "No,
I shall not forget, for it is well that I remember. And with it I have so much
in memory of you that is sweet, that I take it all together. Now, you must all
be going soon. Breakfast is ready, and we must all eat that we may be strong."
<P>Breakfast was a strange meal to us all. We tried to be cheerful and encourage
each other, and Mina was the brightest and most cheerful of us. When it was
over, Van Helsing stood up and said, "Now, my dear friends, we go forth to our
terrible enterprise. Are we all armed, as we were on that night when first we
visited our enemy's lair. Armed against ghostly as well as carnal attack?"
<P>We all assured him.
<P>"Then it is well. Now, Madam Mina, you are in any case quite safe here until
the sunset. And before then we shall return. . .if. . .We shall return! But
before we go let me see you armed against personal attack. I have myself, since
you came down, prepared your chamber by the placing of things of which we know,
so that He may not enter. Now let me guard yourself. On your forehead I touch
this piece of Sacred Wafer in the name of the Father, the Son, and. . .
<P>There was a fearful scream which almost froze our hearts to hear. As he had
placed the Wafer on Mina's forehead, it had seared it. . .had burned into the
flesh as though it had been a piece of whitehot metal. My poor darling's brain
had told her the significance of the fact as quickly as her nerves received the
pain of it, and the two so overwhelmed her that her overwrought nature had its
voice in that dreadful scream.
<P>But the words to her thought came quickly. The echo of the scream had not
ceased to ring on the air when there came the reaction, and she sank on her
knees on the floor in an agony of abasement. Pulling her beautiful hair over her
face, as the leper of old his mantle, she wailed out.
<P>"Unclean! Unclean! Even the Almighty shuns my polluted flesh! I must bear
this mark of shame upon my forehead until the Judgement Day."
<P>They all paused. I had thrown myself beside her in an agony of helpless
grief, and putting my arms around held her tight. For a few minutes our
sorrowful hearts beat together, whilst the friends around us turned away their
eyes that ran tears silently. Then Van Helsing turned and said gravely. So
gravely that I could not help feeling that he was in some way inspired, and was
stating things outside himself.
<P>"It may be that you may have to bear that mark till God himself see fit, as
He most surely shall, on the Judgement Day, to redress all wrongs of the earth
and of His children that He has placed thereon. And oh, Madam Mina, my dear, my
dear, may we who love you be there to see, when that red scar, the sign of God's
knowledge of what has been, shall pass away, and leave your forehead as pure as
the heart we know. For so surely as we live, that scar shall pass away when God
sees right to lift the burden that is hard upon us. Till then we bear our Cross,
as His Son did in obedience to His Will. It may be that we are chosen
instruments of His good pleasure, and that we ascend to His bidding as that
other through stripes and shame. Through tears and blood. Through doubts and
fear, and all that makes the difference between God and man."
<P>There was hope in his words, and comfort. And they made for resignation. Mina
and I both felt so, and simultaneously we each took one of the old man's hands
and bent over and kissed it. Then without a word we all knelt down together, and
all holding hands, swore to be true to each other. We men pledged ourselves to
raise the veil of sorrow from the head of her whom, each in his own way, we
loved. And we prayed for help and guidance in the terrible task which lay before
us. It was then time to start. So I said farewell to Mina, a parting which
neither of us shall forget to our dying day, and we set out.
<P>To one thing I have made up my mind. If we find out that Mina must be a
vampire in the end, then she shall not go into that unknown and terrible land
alone. I suppose it is thus that in old times one vampire meant many. Just as
their hideous bodies could only rest in sacred earth, so the holiest love was
the recruiting sergeant for their ghastly ranks.
<P>We entered Carfax without trouble and found all things the same as on the
first occasion. It was hard to believe that amongst so prosaic surroundings of
neglect and dust and decay there was any ground for such fear as already we
knew. Had not our minds been made up, and had there not been terrible memories
to spur us on, we could hardly have proceeded with our task. We found no papers,
or any sign of use in the house. And in the old chapel the great boxes looked
just as we had seen them last.
<P>Dr. Van Helsing said to us solemnly as we stood before him, "And now, my
friends, we have a duty here to do. We must sterilize this earth, so sacred of
holy memories, that he has brought from a far distant land for such fell use. He
has chosen this earth because it has been holy. Thus we defeat him with his own
weapon, for we make it more holy still. It was sanctified to such use of man,
now we sanctify it to God."
<P>As he spoke he took from his bag a screwdriver and a wrench, and very soon
the top of one of the cases was thrown open. The earth smelled musty and close,
but we did not somehow seem to mind, for our attention was concentrated on the
Professor. Taking from his box a piece of the Scared Wafer he laid it reverently
on the earth, and then shutting down the lid began to screw it home, we aiding
him as he worked.
<P>One by one we treated in the same way each of the great boxes, and left them
as we had found them to all appearance. But in each was a portion of the Host.
When we closed the door behind us, the Professor said solemnly, "So much is
already done. It may be that with all the others we can be so successful, then
the sunset of this evening may shine of Madam Mina's forehead all white as ivory
and with no stain!"
<P>As we passed across the lawn on our way to the station to catch our train we
could see the front of the asylum. I looked eagerly, and in the window of my own
room saw Mina. I waved my hand to her, and nodded to tell that our work there
was successfully accomplished. She nodded in reply to show that she understood.
The last I saw, she was waving her hand in farewell. It was with a heavy heart
that we sought the station and just caught the train, which was steaming in as
we reached the platform. I have written this in the train.
<P>Piccadilly, 12:30 o'clock.--Just before we reached Fenchurch Street Lord
Godalming said to me, "Quincey and I will find a locksmith. You had better not
come with us in case there should be any difficulty. For under the circumstances
it wouldn't seem so bad for us to break into an empty house. But you are a
solicitor and the Incorporated Law Society might tell you that you should have
known better."
<P>I demurred as to my not sharing any danger even of odium, but he went on,
"Besides, it will attract less attention if there are not too many of us. My
title will make it all right with the locksmith, and with any policeman that may
come along. You had better go with Jack and the Professor and stay in the Green
Park. Somewhere in sight of the house, and when you see the door opened and the
smith has gone away, do you all come across. We shall be on the lookout for you,
and shall let you in."
<P>"The advice is good!" said Van Helsing, so we said no more. Godalming and
Morris hurried off in a cab, we following in another. At the corner of Arlington
Street our contingent got out and strolled into the Green Park. My heart beat as
I saw the house on which so much of our hope was centered, looming up grim and
silent in its deserted condition amongst its more lively and spruce-looking
neighbors. We sat down on a bench within good view , and began to smoke cigars
so as to attract as little attention as possible. The minutes seemed to pass
with leaden feet as we waited for the coming of the others.
<P>At length we saw a four-wheeler drive up. Out of it, in leisurely fashion,
got Lord Godalming and Morris. And down from the box descended a thick-set
working man with his rush-woven basket of tools. Morris paid the cabman, who
touched his hat and drove away. Together the two ascended the steps, and Lord
Godalming pointed out what he wanted done. The workman took off his coat
leisurely and hung it on one of the spikes of the rail, saying something to a
policeman who just then sauntered along. The policeman nodded acquiescence, and
the man kneeling down placed his bag beside him. After searching through it, he
took out a selection of tools which he proceeded to lay beside him in orderly
fashion. Then he stood up, looked in the keyhole, blew into it, and turning to
his employers, made some remark. Lord Godalming smiled, and the man lifted a
good sized bunch of keys. Selecting one of them, he began to probe the lock, as
if feeling his way with it. After fumbling about for a bit he tried a second,
and then a third. All at once the door opened under a slight push from him, and
he and the two others entered the hall. We sat still. My own cigar burnt
furiously, but Van Helsing's went cold altogether. We waited patiently as we saw
the workman come out and bring his bag. Then he held the door partly open,
steadying it with his knees, whilst he fitted a key to the lock. This he finally
handed to Lord Godalming, who took out his purse and gave him something. The man
touched his hat, took his bag, put on his coat and departed. Not a soul took the
slightest notice of the whole transaction.
<P>When the man had fairly gone, we three crossed the street and knocked at the
door. It was immediately opened by Quincey Morris, beside whom stood Lord
Godalming lighting a cigar.
<P>"The place smells so vilely," said the latter as we came in. It did indeed
smell vilely. Like the old chapel at Carfax. And with our previous experience it
was plain to us that the Count had been using the place pretty freely. We moved
to explore the house, all keeping together in case of attack, for we knew we had
a strong and wily enemy to deal with, and as yet we did not know whether the
Count might not be in the house.
<P>In the dining room, which lay at the back of the hall, we found eight boxes
of earth. Eight boxes only out of the nine which we sought! Our work was not
over, and would never be until we should have found the missing box.
<P>First we opened the shutters of the window which looked out across a narrow
stone flagged yard at the blank face of a stable, pointed to look like the front
of a miniature house. There were no windows in it, so we were not afraid of
being overlooked. We did not lose any time in examining the chests. With the
tools which we had brought with us we opened them, one by one, and treated them
as we had treated those others in the old chapel. It was evident to us that the
Count was not at present in the house, and we proceeded to search for any of his
effects.
<P>After a cursory glance at the rest of the rooms, from basement to attic, we
came to the conclusion that the dining room contained any effects which might
belong to the Count. And so we proceeded to minutely examine them. They lay in a
sort of orderly disorder on the great dining room table.
<P>There were title deeds of the Piccadilly house in a great bundle, deeds of
the purchase of the houses at Mile End and Bermondsey, notepaper, envelopes, and
pens and ink. All were covered up in thin wrapping paper to keep them from the
dust. There were also a clothes brush, a brush and comb, and a jug and basin.
The latter containing dirty water which was reddened as if with blood. Last of
all was a little heap of keys of all sorts and sizes, probably those belonging
to the other houses.
<P>When we had examined this last find, Lord Godalming and Quincey Morris taking
accurate notes of the various addresses of the houses in the East and the South,
took with them the keys in a great bunch, and set out to destroy the boxes in
these places. The rest of us are, with what patience we can, waiting their
return, or the coming of the Count.
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=axxiii>CHAPTER 23. DR. SEWARD'S
DIARY</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>3 October.--The time seemed teribly long whilst we were waiting for the
coming of Godalming and Quincey Morris. The Professor tried to keep our minds
active by using them all the time. I could see his beneficent purpose, by the
side glances which he threw from time to time at Harker. The poor fellow is
overwhelmed in a misery that is appalling to see. Last night he was a frank,
happy-looking man, with strong, youthful face, full of energy, and with dark
brown hair. Today he is a drawn, haggard old man, whose white hair matches well
with the hollow burning eyes and grief-written lines of his face. His energy is
still intact. In fact, he is like a living flame. This may yet be his salvation,
for if all go well, it will tide him over the despairing period. He will then,
in a kind of way, wake again to the realities o f life. Poor fellow, I thought
my own trouble was bad enough, but his. . .!
<P>The Professor knows this well enough, and is doing his best to keep his mind
active. What he has been saying was, under the circumstances, of absorbing
interest. So well as I can remember, here it is:
<P>"I have studied, over and over again since they came into my hands, all the
papers relating to this monster, and the more I have studied, the greater seems
the necessity to utterly stamp him out. All through there are signs of his
advance. Not only of his power, but of his knowledge of it. As I learned from
the researches of my friend Arminius of Buda-Pesth, he was in life a most
wonderful man. Soldier, statesman, and alchemist. Which latter was the highest
development of the science knowledge of his time. He had a mighty brain, a
learning beyond compare, and a heart that knew no fear and no remorse. He dared
even to attend the Scholomance, and there was no branch of knowledge of his time
that he did not essay.
<P>"Well, in him the brain powers survived the physical death. Though it would
seem that memory was not all complete. In some faculties of mind he has been,
and is, only a child. But he is growing, and some things that were childish at
the first are now of man's stature. He is experimenting, and doing it well. And
if it had not been that we have crossed his path he would be yet, he may be yet
if we fail, the father or furtherer of a new order of beings, whose road must
lead through Death, not Life."
<P>Harker groaned and said, "And this is all arrayed against my darling! But how
is he experimenting? The knowledge may help us to defeat him!"
<P>"He has all along, since his coming, been trying his power, slowly but
surely. That big child-brain of his is working. Well for us, it is as yet, a
child-brain. For had he dared, at the first, to attempt certain things he would
long ago have been beyond our power. However, he means to succeed, and a man who
has centuries before him can afford to wait and to go slow. Festina lente may
well be his motto."
<P>"I fail to understand," said Harker wearily. "Oh, do be more plain to me!
Perhaps grief and trouble are dulling my brain."
<P>The Professor laid his hand tenderly on his shoulder as he spoke, "Ah, my
child, I will be plain. Do you not see how, of late, this monster has been
creeping into knowledge experimentally. How he has been making use of the
zoophagous patient to effect his entry into friend John's home. For your
Vampire, though in all afterwards he can come when and how he will, must at the
first make entry only when asked thereto by an inmate. But these are not his
most important experiments. Do we not see how at the first all these so great
boxes were moved by others. He knew not then but that must be so. But all the
time that so great child-brain of his was growing, and he began to consider
whether he might not himself move the box. So he began to help. And then, when
he found that this be all right, he try to move them all alone. And so he
progress, and he scatter these graves of him. And none but he know where they
are hidden.
<P>"He may have intend to bury them deep in the ground. So that only he use them
in the night, or at such time as he can change his form, they do him equal well,
and none may know these are his hiding place! But, my child, do not despair,
this knowledge came to him just too late! Already all of his lairs but one be
sterilize as for him. And before the sunset this shall be so. Then he have no
place where he can move and hide. I delayed this morning that so we might be
sure. Is there not more at stake for us than for him? Then why not be more
careful than him? By my clock it is one hour and already, if all be well, friend
Arthur and Quincey are on their way to us. Today is our day, and we must go
sure, if slow, and lose no chance. See! There are five of us when those absent
ones return."
<P>Whilst we were speaking we were startled by a knock at the hall door, the
double postman's knock of the telegraph boy. We all moved out to the hall with
one impulse, and Van Helsing, holding up his hand to us to keep silence, stepped
to the door and opened it. The boy handed in a dispatch. The Professor closed
the door again, and after looking at the direction, opened it and read aloud.
<P>"Look out for D. He has just now, 12:45, come from Carfax hurriedly and
hastened towards the South. He seems to be going the round and may want to see
you: Mina."
<P>There was a pause, broken by Jonathan Harker's voice, "Now, God be thanked,
we shall soon meet!"
<P>Van Helsing turned to him quickly and said, "God will act in His own way and
time. Do not fear, and do not rejoice as yet. For what we wish for at the moment
may be our own undoings."
<P>"I care for nothing now," he answered hotly, "except to wipe out this brute
from the face of creation. I would sell my soul to do it!"
<P>"Oh, hush, hush, my child!" said Van Helsing. "God does not purchase souls in
this wise, and the Devil, though he may purchase, does not keep faith. But God
is merciful and just, and knows your pain and your devotion to that dear Madam
Mina. Think you, how her pain would be doubled, did she but hear your wild
words. Do not fear any of us, we are all devoted to this cause, and today shall
see the end. The time is coming for action. Today this Vampire is limit to the
powers of man, and till sunset he may not change. It will take him time to
arrive here, see it is twenty minutes past one, and there are yet some times
before he can hither come, be he never so quick. What we must hope for is that
my Lord Arthur and Quincey arrive first."
<P>About half an hour after we had received Mrs. Harker's telegram, there came a
quiet, resolute knock at the hall door. It was just an ordinary knock, such as
is given hourly by thousands of gentlemen, but it made the Professor's heart and
mine beat loudly. We looked at each other, and together moved out into the hall.
We each held ready to use our various armaments, the spiritual in the left hand,
the mortal in the right. Van Helsing pulled back the latch, and holding the door
half open, stood back, having both hands ready for action. The gladness of our
hearts must have shown upon our faces when on the step, close to the door, we
saw Lord Godalming and Quincey Morris. They came quickly in and closed the door
behind them, the former saying, as they moved along the hall.
<P>"It is all right. We found both places. Six boxes in each and we destroyed
them all."
<P>"Destroyed?" asked the Professor.
<P>"For him!" We were silent for a minute, and then Quincey said, "There's
nothing to do but to wait here. If, however, he doesn't turn up by five o'clock,
we must start off. For it won't do to leave Mrs. Harker alone after sunset."
<P>"He will be here before long now,' said Van Helsing, who had been consulting
his pocketbook. "Nota bene, in Madam's telegram he went south from Carfax. That
means he went to cross the river, and he could only do so at slack of tide,
which should be something before one o'clock. That he went south has a meaning
for us. He is as yet only suspicious, and he went from Carfax first to the place
where he would suspect interference least. You must have been at Bermondsey only
a short time before him. That he is not here already shows that he went to Mile
End next. This took him some time, for he would then have to be carried over the
river in some way. Believe me, my friends, we shall not have long to wait now.
We should have ready some plan of attack, so that we may throw away no chance.
Hush, there is no time now. Have all your arms! Be ready!" He held up a warning
hand as he spoke, for we all could hear a key softly inserted in the lock of the
hall door.
<P>I could not but admire, even at such a moment, the way in which a dominant
spirit asserted itself. In all our hunting parties and adventures in different
parts of the world, Quincey Morris had always been the one to arrange the plan
of action, and Arthur and I had been accustomed to obey him implicitly. Now, the
old habit seemed to be renewed instinctively. With a swift glance around the
room, he at once laid out our plan of attack, and without speaking a word, with
a gesture, placed us each in position. Van Helsing, Harker, and I were just
behind the door, so that when it was opened the Professor could guard it whilst
we two stepped between the incomer and the door. Godalming behind and Quincey in
front stood just out of sight ready to move in front of the window. We waited in
a suspense that made the seconds pass with nightmare slowness. The slow, careful
steps came along the hall. The Count was evidently prepared for some surprise,
at least he feared it.
<P>Suddenly with a single bound he leaped into the room. Winning a way past us
before any of us could raise a hand to stay him. There was something so
pantherlike in the movement, something so unhuman, that it seemed to sober us
all from the shock of his coming. The first to act was Harker, who with a quick
movement, threw himself before the door leading into the room in the front of
the house. As the Count saw us, a horrible sort of snarl passed over his face,
showing the eyeteeth long and pointed. But the evil smile as quickly passed into
a cold stare of lion-like disdain. His expression again changed as, with a
single impulse, we all advanced upon him. It was a pity that we had not some
better organized plan of attack, for even at the moment I wondered what we were
to do. I did not myself know whether our lethal weapons would avail us anything.
<P>Harker evidently meant to try the matter, for he had ready his great Kukri
knife and made a fierce and sudden cut at him. The blow was a powerful one. Only
the diabolical quickness of the Count's leap back saved him. A second less and
the trenchant blade had shorn through his coat, making a wide gap whence a
bundle of bank notes and a stream of gold fell out. The expression of the
Count's face was so hellish, that for a moment I feared for Harker, though I saw
him throw the terrible knife aloft again for another stroke. Instinctively I
moved forward with a protective impulse, holding the Crucifix and Wafer in my
left hand. I felt a mighty power fly along my arm, and it was without surprise
that I saw the monster cower back before a similar movement made spontaneously
by each one of us. It would be impossible to describe the expression of hate and
baffled malignity, of anger and hellish rage, which came over the Count's face.
His waxen hue became greenish-yellow by the contrast of his burning eyes, and
the red scar on the forehead showed on the pallid skin like a palpitating wound.
The next instant, with a sinuous dive he swept under Harker's arm, ere his blow
could fall, and grasping a handful of the money from the floor, dashed across
the room, threw himself at the window. Amid the crash and glitter of the falling
glass, he tumbled into the flagged area below. Through the sound of the
shivering glass I could hear the "ting" of the gold, as some of the sovereigns
fell on the flagging.
<P>We ran over and saw him spring unhurt from the ground. He, rushing up the
steps, crossed the flagged yard, and pushed open the stable door. There he
turned and spoke to us.
<P>"You think to baffle me, you with your pale faces all in a row, like sheep in
a butcher's. You shall be sorry yet, each one of you! You think you have left me
without a place to rest, but I have more. My revenge is just begun! I spread it
over centuries, and time is on my side. Your girls that you all love are mine
already. And through them you and others shall yet be mine, my creatures, to do
my bidding and to be my jackals when I want to feed. Bah!"
<P>With a contemptuous sneer, he passed quickly through the door, and we heard
the rusty bolt creak as he fastened it behind him. A door beyond opened and
shut. The first of us to speak was the Professor. Realizing the difficulty of
following him through the stable, we moved toward the hall.
<P>"We have learnt something. . .much! Notwithstanding his brave words, he fears
us. He fears time, he fears want! For if not, why he hurry so? His very tone
betray him, or my ears deceive. Why take that money? You follow quick. You are
hunters of the wild beast, and understand it so. For me, I make sure that
nothing here may be of use to him, if so that he returns."
<P>As he spoke he put the money remaining in his pocket, took the title deeds in
the bundle as Harker had left them, and swept the remaining things into the open
fireplace, where he set fire to them with a match.
<P>Godalming and Morris had rushed out into the yard, and Harker had lowered
himself from the window to follow the Count. He had, however, bolted the stable
door, and by the time they had forced it open there was no sign of him. Van
Helsing and I tried to make inquiry at the back of the house. But the mews was
deserted and no one had seen him depart.
<P>It was now late in the afternoon, and sunset was not far off. We had to
recognize that our game was up. With heavy hearts we agreed with the Professor
when he said, "Let us go back to Madam Mina. Poor, poor dear Madam Mina. All we
can do just now is done, and we can there, at least, protect her. But we need
not despair. There is but one more earth box, and we must try to find it. When
that is done all may yet be well."
<P>I could see that he spoke as bravely as he could to comfort Harker. The poor
fellow was quite broken down, now and again he gave a low groan which he could
not suppress. He was thinking of his wife.
<P>With sad hearts we came back to my house, where we found Mrs. Harker waiting
us, with an appearance of cheerfulness which did honor to her bravery and
unselfishness. When she saw our faces, her own became as pale as death. For a
second or two her eyes were closed as if she were in secret prayer.
<P>And then she said cheerfully, "I can never thank you all enough. Oh, my poor
darling!"
<P>As she spoke, she took her husband's grey head in her hands and kissed it.
<P>"Lay your poor head here and rest it. All will yet be well, dear! God will
protect us if He so will it in His good intent." The poor fellow groaned. There
was no place for words in his sublime misery.
<P>We had a sort of perfunctory supper together, and I think it cheered us all
up somewhat. It was, perhaps, the mere animal heat of food to hungry people, for
none of us had eaten anything since breakfast, or the sense of companionship may
have helped us, but anyhow we were all less miserable, and saw the morrow as not
altogether without hope.
<P>True to our promise, we told Mrs. Harker everything which had passed. And
although she grew snowy white at times when danger had seemed to threaten her
husband, and red at others when his devotion to her was manifested she listened
bravely and with calmness. When we came to the part where Harker had rushed at
the Count so recklessly, she clung to her husband's arm, and held it tight as
though her clinging could protect him from any harm that might come. She said
nothing, however, till the narration was all done, and matters had been brought
up to the present time.
<P>Then without letting go her husband's hand she stood up amongst us and spoke.
Oh, that I could give any idea of the scene. Of that sweet, sweet, good, good
woman in all the radiant beauty of her youth and animation, with the red scar on
her forehead, of which she was conscious, and which we saw with grinding of our
teeth, remembering whence and how it came. Her loving kindness against our grim
hate. Her tender faith against all our fears and doubting. And we, knowing that
so far as symbols went, she with all her goodness and purity and faith, was
outcast from God.
<P>"Jonathan," she said, and the word sounded like music on her lips it was so
full of love and tenderness, "Jonathan dear, and you all my true, true friends,
I want you to bear something in mind through all this dreadful time. I know that
you must fight. That you must destroy even as you destroyed the false Lucy so
that the true Lucy might live hereafter. But it is not a work of hate. That poor
soul who has wrought all this misery is the saddest case of all. Just think what
will be his joy when he, too, is destroyed in his worser part that his better
part may have spiritual immortality. You must be pitiful to him, too, though it
may not hold your hands from his destruction."
<P>As she spoke I could see her husband's face darken and draw together, as
though the passion in him were shriveling his being to its core. Instinctively
the clasp on his wife's hand grew closer, till his knuckles looked white. She
did not flinch from the pain which I knew she must have suffered, but looked at
him with eyes that were more appealing than ever.
<P>As she stopped speaking he leaped to his feet, almost tearing his hand from
hers as he spoke.
<P>"May God give him into my hand just for long enough to destroy that earthly
life of him which we are aiming at. If beyond it I could send his soul forever
and ever to burning hell I would do it!"
<P>"Oh, hush! Oh, hush in the name of the good God. Don't say such things,
Jonathan, my husband, or you will crush me with fear and horror. Just think, my
dear. . .I have been thinking all this long, long day of it. . .that. . .
perhaps. . .some day. . . I, too, may need such pity, and that some other like
you, and with equal cause for anger, may deny it to me! Oh, my husband! My
husband, indeed I would have spared you such a thought had there been another
way. But I pray that God may not have treasured your wild words, except as the
heart-broken wail of a very loving and sorely stricken man. Oh, God, let these
poor white hairs go in evidence of what he has suffered, who all his life has
done no wrong, and on whom so many sorrows have come."
<P>We men were all in tears now. There was no resisting them, and we wept
openly. She wept, too, to see that her sweeter counsels had prevailed. Her
husband flung himself on his knees beside her, and putting his arms round her,
hid his face in the folds of her dress. Van Helsing beckoned to us and we stole
out of the room, leaving the two loving hearts alone with their God.
<P>Before they retired the Professor fixed up the room against any coming of the
Vampire, and assured Mrs. Harker that she might rest in peace. She tried to
school herself to the belief, and manifestly for her husband's sake, tried to
seem content. It was a brave struggle, and was, I think and believe, not without
its reward. Van Helsing had placed at hand a bell which either of them was to
sound in case of any emergency. When they had retired, Quincey, Godalming, and I
arranged that we should sit up, dividing the night between us, and watch over
the safety of the poor stricken lady. The first watch falls to Quincey, so the
rest of us shall be off to bed as soon as we can.
<P>Godalming has already turned in, for his is the second watch. Now that my
work is done I, too, shall go to bed.
<P><STRONG>JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>3-4 October, close to midnight.--I thought yesterday would never end. There
was over me a yearning for sleep, in some sort of blind belief that to wake
would be to find things changed, and that any change must now be for the better.
Before we parted, we discussed what our next step was to be, but we could arrive
at no result. All we knew was that one earth box remained, and that the Count
alone knew where it was. If he chooses to lie hidden, he may baffle us for
years. And in the meantime, the thought is too horrible, I dare not think of it
even now. This I know, that if ever there was a woman who was all perfection,
that one is my poor wronged darling. I loved her a thousand times more for her
sweet pity of last night, a pity that made my own hate of the monster seem
despicable. Surely God will not permit the world to be the poorer by the loss of
such a creature. This is hope to me. We are all drifting reefwards now, and
faith is our only anchor. Thank God! Mina is sleeping, and sleeping without
dreams. I fear what her dreams might be like, with such terrible memories to
ground them in. She has not been so calm, within my seeing, since the sunset.
Then, for a while, there came over her face a repose which was like spring after
the blasts of March. I thought at the time that it was the softness of the red
sunset on her face, but somehow now I think it has a deeper meaning. I am not
sleepy myself, though I am weary. . .weary to death. However, I must try to
sleep. For there is tomorrow to think of, and there is no rest for me until. . .
<P>Later--I must have fallen asleep, for I was awakened by Mina, who was sitting
up in bed, with a startled look on her face. I could see easily, for we did not
leave the room in darkness. She had placed a warning hand over my mouth, and now
she whispered in my ear, "Hush! There is someone in the corridor!" I got up
softly, and crossing the room, gently opened the door.
<P>Just outside, stretched on a mattress, lay Mr. Morris, wide awake. He raised
a warning hand for silence as he whispered to me, "Hush! Go back to bed. It is
all right. One of us will be here all night. We don't mean to take any chances!"
<P>His look and gesture forbade discussion, so I came back and told Mina. She
sighed and positively a shadow of a smile stole over her poor, pale face as she
put her arms round me and said softly, "Oh, thank God for good brave men!" With
a sigh she sank back again to sleep. I write this now as I am not sleepy, though
I must try again.
<P>4 October, morning.--Once again during the night I was wakened by Mina. This
time we had all had a good sleep, for the grey of the coming dawn was making the
windows into sharp oblongs, and the gas flame was like a speck rather than a
disc of light.
<P>She said to me hurriedly, "Go, call the Professor. I want to see him at
once."
<P>"Why?" I asked.
<P>"I have an idea. I suppose it must have come in the night, and matured
without my knowing it. He must hypnotize me before the dawn, and then I shall be
able to speak. Go quick, dearest, the time is getting close."
<P>I went to the door. Dr. Seward was resting on the mattress, and seeing me, he
sprang to his feet.
<P>"Is anything wrong?" he asked, in alarm.
<P>"No," I replied. "But Mina wants to see Dr. Van Helsing at once."
<P>"I will go," he said, and hurried into the Professor's room.
<P>Two or three minutes later Van Helsing was in the room in his dressing gown,
and Mr. Morris and Lord Godalming were with Dr. Seward at the door asking
questions. When the Professor saw Mina a smile, a positive smile ousted the
anxiety of his face.
<P>He rubbed his hands as he said, "Oh, my dear Madam Mina, this is indeed a
change. See! Friend Jonathan, we have got our dear Madam Mina, as of old, back
to us today!" Then turning to her, he said cheerfully, "And what am I to do for
you? For at this hour you do not want me for nothing."
<P>"I want you to hypnotize me!" she said. "Do it before the dawn, for I feel
that then I can speak, and speak freely. Be quick, for the time is short!"
Without a word he motioned her to sit up in bed.
<P>Looking fixedly at her, he commenced to make passes in front of her, from
over the top of her head downward, with each hand in turn. Mina gazed at him
fixedly for a few minutes, during which my own heart beat like a trip hammer,
for I felt that some crisis was at hand. Gradually her eyes closed, and she sat,
stock still. Only by the gentle heaving of her bosom could one know that she was
alive. The Professor made a few more passes and then stopped, and I could see
that his forehead was covered with great beads of perspiration. Mina opened her
eyes, but she did not seem the same woman. There was a far-away look in her
eyes, and her voice had a sad dreaminess which was new to me. Raising his hand
to impose silence, the Professor motioned to me to bring the others in. They
came on tiptoe, closing the door behind them, and stood at the foot of the bed,
looking on. Mina appeared not to see them. The stillness was broken by Van
Helsing's voice speaking in a low level tone which would not break the current
of her thoughts.
<P>"Where are you?" The answer came in a neutral way.
<P>"I do not know. Sleep has no place it can call its own." For several minutes
there was silence. Mina sat rigid, and the Professor stood staring at her
fixedly.
<P>The rest of us hardly dared to breathe. The room was growing lighter. Without
taking his eyes from Mina's face, Dr. Van Helsing motioned me to pull up the
blind. I did so, and the day seemed just upon us. A red streak shot up, and a
rosy light seemed to diffuse itself through the room. On the instant the
Professor spoke again.
<P>"Where are you now?"
<P>The answer came dreamily, but with intention. It were as though she were
interpreting something. I have heard her use the same tone when reading her
shorthand notes.
<P>"I do not know. It is all strange to me!"
<P>"What do you see?"
<P>"I can see nothing. It is all dark."
<P>"What do you hear?" I could detect the strain in the Professor's patient
voice.
<P>"The lapping of water. It is gurgling by, and little waves leap. I can hear
them on the outside."
<P>"Then you are on a ship?'"
<P>We all looked at each other, trying to glean something each from the other.
We were afraid to think.
<P>The answer came quick, "Oh, yes!"
<P>"What else do you hear?"
<P>"The sound of men stamping overhead as they run about. There is the creaking
of a chain, and the loud tinkle as the check of the capstan falls into the
ratchet."
<P>"What are you doing?"
<P>"I am still, oh so still. It is like death!" The voice faded away into a deep
breath as of one sleeping, and the open eyes closed again.
<P>By this time the sun had risen, and we were all in the full light of day. Dr.
Van Helsing placed his hands on Mina's shoulders, and laid her head down softly
on her pillow. She lay like a sleeping child for a few moments, and then, with a
long sigh, awoke and stared in wonder to see us all around her.
<P>"Have I been talking in my sleep?" was all she said. She seemed, however, to
know the situation without telling, though she was eager to know what she had
told. The Professor repeated the conversation, and she said, "Then there is not
a moment to lose. It may not be yet too late!"
<P>Mr. Morris and Lord Godalming started for the door but the Professor's calm
voice called them back.
<P>"Stay, my friends. That ship, wherever it was, was weighing anchor at the
moment in your so great Port of London. Which of them is it that you seek? God
be thanked that we have once again a clue, though whither it may lead us we know
not. We have been blind somewhat. Blind after the manner of men, since we can
look back we see what we might have seen looking forward if we had been able to
see what we might have seen! Alas, but that sentence is a puddle, is it not? We
can know now what was in the Count's mind, when he seize that money, though
Jonathan's so fierce knife put him in the danger that even he dread. He meant
escape. Hear me, ESCAPE! He saw that with but one earth box left, and a pack of
men following like dogs after a fox, this London was no place for him. He have
take his last earth box on board a ship, and he leave the land. He think to
escape, but no! We follow him. Tally Ho! As friend Arthur would say when he put
on his red frock! Our old fox is wily. Oh! So wily, and we must follow with
wile. I, too, am wily and I think his mind in a little while. In meantime we may
rest and in peace, for there are between us which he do not want to pass, and
which he could not if he would. Unless the ship were to touch the land, and then
only at full or slack tide. See, and the sun is just rose, and all day to sunset
is us. Let us take bath, and dress, and have breakfast which we all need, and
which we can eat comfortably since he be not in the same land with us."
<P>Mina looked at him appealingly as she asked, "But why need we seek him
further, when he is gone away from us?"
<P>He took her hand and patted it as he replied, "Ask me nothing as yet. When we
have breakfast, then I answer all questions." He would say no more, and we
separated to dress.
<P>After breakfast Mina repeated her question. He looked at her gravely for a
minute and then said sorrowfully, "Because my dear, dear Madam Mina, now more
than ever must we find him even if we have to follow him to the jaws of Hell!"
<P>She grew paler as she asked faintly, "Why?"
<P>"Because," he answered solemnly, "he can live for centuries, and you are but
mortal woman. Time is now to be dreaded, since once he put that mark upon your
throat."
<P>I was just in time to catch her as she fell forward in a faint.
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=axxiv>CHAPTER 24. DR. SEWARD'S PHONOGRAPH
DIARY</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P><STRONG>SPOKEN BY VAN HELSING</STRONG>
<P>This to Jonathan Harker.
<P>You are to stay with your dear Madam Mina. We shall go to make our search, if
I can call it so, for it is not search but knowing, and we seek confirmation
only. But do you stay and take care of her today. This is your best and most
holiest office. This day nothing can find him here.
<P>Let me tell you that so you will know what we four know already, for I have
tell them. He, our enemy, have gone away. He have gone back to his Castle in
Transylvania. I know it so well, as if a great hand of fire wrote it on the
wall. He have prepare for this in some way, and that last earth box was ready to
ship somewheres. For this he took the money. For this he hurry at the last, lest
we catch him before the sun go down. It was his last hope, save that he might
hide in the tomb that he think poor Miss Lucy, being as he thought like him,
keep open to him. But there was not of time. When that fail he make straight for
his last resource, his last earth-work I might say did I wish double entente. He
is clever, oh so clever! He know that his game here was finish. And so he decide
he go back home. He find ship going by the route he came, and he go in it.
<P>We go off now to find what ship, and whither bound. When we have discover
that, we come back and tell you all. Then we will comfort you and poor Madam
Mina with new hope. For it will be hope when you think it over, that all is not
lost. This very creature that we pursue, he take hundreds of years to get so far
as London. And yet in one day, when we know of the disposal of him we drive him
out. He is finite, though he is powerful to do much harm and suffers not as we
do. But we are strong, each in our purpose, and we are all more strong together.
Take heart afresh, dear husband of Madam Mina. This battle is but begun and in
the end we shall win. So sure as that God sits on high to watch over His
children. Therefore be of much comfort till we return.
<P><STRONG>VAN HELSING.</STRONG>
<P><STRONG>JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>4 October.--When I read to Mina, Van Helsing's message in the phonograph, the
poor girl brightened up considerably. Already the certainty that the Count is
out of the country has given her comfort. And comfort is strength to her. For my
own part, now that his horrible danger is not face to face with us, it seems
almost impossible to believe in it. Even my own terrible experiences in Castle
Dracula seem like a long forgotten dream. Here in the crisp autumn air in the
bright sunlight.
<P>Alas! How can I disbelieve! In the midst of my thought my eye fell on the red
scar on my poor darling's white forehead. Whilst that lasts, there can be no
disbelief. Mina and I fear to be idle, so we have been over all the diaries
again and again. Somehow, although the reality seem greater each time, the pain
and the fear seem less. There is something of a guiding purpose manifest
throughout, which is comforting. Mina says that perhaps we are the instruments
of ultimate good. It may be! I shall try to think as she does. We have never
spoken to each other yet of the future. It is better to wait till we see the
Professor and the others after their investigations.
<P>The day is running by more quickly than I ever thought a day could run for me
again. It is now three o'clock.
<P><STRONG>MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>5 October, 5 P.M.--Our meeting for report. Present: Professor Van Helsing,
Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, Mr. Quincey Morris, Jonathan Harker, Mina Harker.
<P>Dr. Van Helsing described what steps were taken during the day to discover on
what boat and whither bound Count Dracula made his escape.
<P>"As I knew that he wanted to get back to Transylvania, I felt sure that he
must go by the Danube mouth, or by somewhere in the Black Sea, since by that way
he come. It was a dreary blank that was before us. Omme Ignotum pro magnifico.
And so with heavy hearts we start to find what ships leave for the Black Sea
last night. He was in sailing ship, since Madam Mina tell of sails being set.
These not so important as to go in your list of the shipping in the Times, and
so we go, by suggestion of Lord Godalming, to your Lloyd's, where are note of
all ships that sail, however so small. There we find that only one Black Sea
bound ship go out with the tide. She is the Czarina Catherine, and she sail from
Doolittle's Wharf for Varna, and thence to other ports and up the Danube. `So!'
said I, `this is the ship whereon is the Count.' So off we go to Doolittle's
Wharf, and there we find a man in an office. From him we inquire o f the goings
of the Czarina Catherine. He swear much, and he red face and loud of voice, but
he good fellow all the same. And when Quincey give him something from his pocket
which crackle as he roll it up, and put it in a so small bag which he have hid
deep in his clothing, he still better fellow and humble servant to us. He come
with us, and ask many men who are rough and hot. These be better fellows too
when they have been no more thirsty. They say much of blood and bloom, and of
others which I comprehend not, though I guess what they mean. But nevertheless
they tell us all things which we want to know.
<P>"They make known to us among them, how last afternoon at about five o'clock
comes a man so hurry. A tall man, thin and pale, with high nose and teeth so
white, and eyes that seem to be burning. That he be all in black, except that he
have a hat of straw which suit not him or the time. That he scatter his money in
making quick inquiry as to what ship sails for the Black Sea and for where. Some
took him to the office and then to the ship, where he will not go aboard but
halt at shore end of gangplank, and ask that the captain come to him. The
captain come, when told that he will be pay well, and though he swear much at
the first he agree to term. Then the thin man go and some one tell him where
horse and cart can be hired. He go there and soon he come again, himself driving
cart on which a great box. This he himself lift down, though it take several to
put it on truck for the ship. He give much talk to captain as to how and where
his box is to be place. But the captain like it not and swear at him in many
tongues, and tell him that if he like he can come and see where it shall be. But
he say `no,' that he come not yet, for that he have much to do. Whereupon the
captain tell him that he had better be quick, with blood, for that his ship will
leave the place, of blood, before the turn of the tide, with blood. Then the
thin man smile and say that of course he must go when he think fit, but he will
be surprise if he go quite so soon. The captain swear again, polyglot, and the
thin man make him bow, and thank him, and say that he will so far intrude on his
kindness as to come aboard before the sailing. Final the captain, more red than
ever, and in more tongues, tell him that he doesn't want no Frenchmen, with
bloom upon them and also with blood, in his ship, with blood on her also. And
so, after asking where he might purchase ship forms, he departed.
<P>"No one knew where he went `or bloomin' well cared' as they said, for they
had something else to think of, well with blood again. For it soon became
apparent to all that the Czarina Catherine would not sail as was expected. A
thin mist began to creep up from the river, and it grew, and grew. Till soon a
dense fog enveloped the ship and all around her. The captain swore polyglot,
very polyglot, polyglot with bloom and blood, but he could do nothing. The water
rose and rose, and he began to fear that he would lose the tide altogether. He
was in no friendly mood, when just at full tide, the thin man came up the
gangplank again and asked to see where his box had been stowed. Then the captain
replied that he wished that he and his box, old and with much bloom and blood,
were in hell. But the thin man did not be offend, and went down with the mate
and saw where it was place, and came up and stood awhile on deck in fog. He must
have come off by himself, for none notice him. Indeed they thought not of him,
for soon the fog begin to melt away, and all was clear again. My friends of the
thirst and the language that was of bloom and blood laughed, as they told how
the captain's swears exceeded even his usual polyglot, and was more than ever
full of picturesque, when on questioning other mariners who were on movement up
and down the river that hour, he found that few of them had seen any of fog at
all, except where it lay round the wharf. However, the ship went out on the ebb
tide, and was doubtless by morning far down the river mouth. She was then, when
they told us, well out to sea.
<P>"And so, my dear Madam Mina, it is that we have to rest for a time, for our
enemy is on the sea, with the fog at his command, on his way to the Danube
mouth. To sail a ship takes time, go she never so quick. And when we start to go
on land more quick, and we meet him there. Our best hope is to come on him when
in the box between sunrise and sunset. For then he can make no struggle, and we
may deal with him as we should. There are days for us, in which we can make
ready our plan. We know all about where he go. For we have seen the owner of the
ship, who have shown us invoices and all papers that can be. The box we seek is
to be landed in Varna, and to be given to an agent, one Ristics who will there
present his credentials. And so our merchant friend will have done his part.
When he ask if there be any wrong, for that so, he can telegraph and have
inquiry made at Varna, we say `no,' for what is to be done is not for police or
of the customs. It must be done by us alone and in our own way."
<P>When Dr. Van Helsing had done speaking, I asked him if he were certain that
the Count had remained on board the ship. He replied, "We have the best proof of
that, your own evidence, when in the hypnotic trance this morning."
<P>I asked him again if it were really necessary that they should pursue the
Count, for oh! I dread Jonathan leaving me, and I know that he would surely go
if the others went. He answered in growing passion, at first quietly. As he went
on, however, he grew more angry and more forceful, till in the end we could not
but see wherein was at least some of that personal dominance which made him so
long a master amongst men.
<P>"Yes, it is necessary, necessary, necessary! For your sake in the first, and
then for the sake of humanity. This monster has done much harm already, in the
narrow scope where he find himself, and in the short time when as yet he was
only as a body groping his so small measure in darkness and not knowing. All
this have I told these others. You, my dear Madam Mina, will learn it in the
phonograph of my friend John, or in that of your husband. I have told them how
the measure of leaving his own barren land, barren of peoples, and coming to a
new land where life of man teems till they are like the multitude of standing
corn, was the work of centuries. Were another of the Undead, like him, to try to
do what he has done, perhaps not all the centuries of the world that have been,
or that will be, could aid him. With this one, all the forces of nature that are
occult and deep and strong must have worked together in some wonderous way. The
very place, where he have been alive, Undead for all these centuries, is full of
strangeness of the geologic and chemical world. There are deep caverns and
fissures that reach none know whither. There have been volcanoes, some of whose
openings still send out waters of strange properties, and gases that kill or
make to vivify. Doubtless, there is something magnetic or electric in some of
these combinations of occult forces which work for physical life in strange way,
and in himself were from the first some great qualities. In a hard and warlike
time he was celebrate that he have more iron nerve, more subtle brain, more
braver heart, than any man. In him some vital principle have in strange way
found their utmost. And as his body keep strong and grow and thrive, so his
brain grow too. All this without that diabolic aid which is surely to him. For
it have to yield to the powers that come from, and are, symbolic of good. And
now this is what he is to us. He have infect you, oh forgive me, my dear, that I
must say such, but it is for good of you that I speak. He infect you in such
wise, that even if he do no more, you have only to live, to live in your own
old, sweet way, and so in time, death, which is of man's common lot and with
God's sanction, shall make you like to him. This must not be! We have sworn
together that it must not. Thus are we ministers of God's own wish. That the
world, and men for whom His Son die, will not be given over to monsters, whose
very existence would defame Him. He have allowed us to redeem one soul already,
and we go out as the old knights of the Cross to redeem more. Like them we shall
travel towards the sunrise. And like them, if we fall, we fall in good cause."
<P>He paused and I said, "But will not the Count take his rebuff wisely? Since
he has been driven from England, will he not avoid it, as a tiger does the
village from which he has been hunted?"
<P>"Aha!" he said, "your simile of the tiger good, for me, and I shall adopt
him. Your maneater, as they of India call the tiger who has once tasted blood of
the human, care no more for the other prey, but prowl unceasing till he get him.
This that we hunt from our village is a tiger, too, a maneater, and he never
cease to prowl. Nay, in himself he is not one to retire and stay afar. In his
life, his living life, he go over the Turkey frontier and attack his enemy on
his own ground. He be beaten back, but did he stay? No! He come again, and
again, and again. Look at his persistence and endurance. With the child-brain
that was to him he have long since conceive the idea of coming to a great city.
What does he do? He find out the place of all the world most of promise for him.
Then he deliberately set himself down to prepare for the task. He find in
patience just how is his strength, and what are his powers. He study new
tongues. He learn new social life, new environment of old ways, the politics,
the law, the finance, the science, the habit of a new land and a new people who
have come to be since he was. His glimpse that he have had, whet his appetite
only and enkeen his desire. Nay, it help him to grow as to his brain. For it all
prove to him how right he was at the first in his surmises. He have done this
alone, all alone! From a ruin tomb in a forgotten land. What more may he not do
when the greater world of thought is open to him. He that can smile at death, as
we know him. Who can flourish in the midst of diseases that kill off whole
peoples. Oh! If such an one was to come from God, and not the Devil, what a
force for good might he not be in this old world of ours. But we are pledged to
set the world free. Our toil must be in silence, and our efforts all in secret.
For in this enlightened age, when men believe not even what they see, the
doubting of wise men would be his greatest strength. It would be at once his
sheath and his armor, and his weapons to destroy us, his enemies, who are
willing to peril even our own souls for the safety of one we love. For the good
of mankind, and for the honor and glory of God."
<P>After a general discussion it was determined that for tonight nothing be
definitely settled. That we should all sleep on the facts, and try to think out
the proper conclusions. Tomorrow, at breakfast, we are to meet again, and after
making our conclusions known to one another, we shall decide on some definite
cause of action. . .
<P>I feel a wonderful peace and rest tonight. It is as if some haunting presence
were removed from me. Perhaps. . .
<P>My surmise was not finished, could not be, for I caught sight in the mirror
of the red mark upon my forehead, and I knew that I was still unclean.
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>5 October.--We all arose early, and I think that sleep did much for each and
all of us. When we met at early breakfast there was more general cheerfulness
than any of us had ever expected to experience again.
<P>It is really wonderful how much resilience there is in human nature. Let any
obstructing cause, no matter what, be removed in any way, even by death, and we
fly back to first principles of hope and enjoyment. More than once as we sat
around the table, my eyes opened in wonder whether the whole of the past days
had not been a dream. It was only when I caught sight of the red blotch on Mrs.
Harker's forehead that I was brought back to reality. Even now, when I am
gravely revolving the matter, it is almost impossible to realize that the cause
of all our trouble is still existent. Even Mrs. Harker seems to lose sight of
her trouble for whole spells. It is only now and again, when something recalls
it to her mind, that she thinks of her terrible scar. We are to meet here in my
study in half an hour and decide on our course of action. I see only one
immediate difficulty, I know it by instinct rather than reason. We shall all
have to speak frankly. And yet I fear that in some mysterious way poor Mrs.
Harker's tongue is tied. I know that she forms conclusions of her own, and from
all that has been I can guess how brilliant and how true they must be. But she
will not, or cannot, give them utterance. I have mentioned this to Van Helsing,
and he and I are to talk it over when we are alone. I suppose it is some of that
horrid poison which has got into her veins beginning to work. The Count had his
own purposes when he gave her what Van Helsing called "the Vampire's baptism of
blood." Well, there may be a poison that distills itself out of good things. In
an age when the existence of ptomaines is a mystery we should not wonder at
anything! One thing I know, that if my instinct be true regarding poor Mrs.
Harker's silences, then there is a terrible difficulty, an unknown danger, in
the work before us. The same power that compels her silence may compel her
speech. I dare not think further, for so I should in my thoughts dishonor a
noble woman!
<P>Later.--When the Professor came in, we talked over the state of things. I
could see that he had something on his mind, which he wanted to say, but felt
some hesitancy about broaching the subject. After beating about the bush a
little, he said, "Friend John, there is something that you and I must talk of
alone, just at the first at any rate. Later, we may have to take the others into
our confidence."
<P>Then he stopped, so I waited. He went on, "Madam Mina, our poor, dear Madam
Mina is changing."
<P>A cold shiver ran through me to find my worst fears thus endorsed. Van
Helsing continued.
<P>"With the sad experience of Miss Lucy, we must this time be warned before
things go too far. Our task is now in reality more difficult than ever, and this
new trouble makes every hour of the direst importance. I can see the
characteristics of the vampire coming in her face. It is now but very, very
slight. But it is to be seen if we have eyes to notice without prejudge. Her
teeth are sharper, and at times her eyes are more hard. But these are not all,
there is to her the silence now often, as so it was with Miss Lucy. She did not
speak, even when she wrote that which she wished to be known later. Now my fear
is this. If it be that she can, by our hypnotic trance, tell what the Count see
and hear, is it not more true that he who have hypnotize her first, and who have
drink of her very blood and make her drink of his, should if he will, compel her
mind to disclose to him that which she know?"
<P>I nodded acquiescence. He went on, "Then, what we must do is to prevent this.
We must keep her ignorant of our intent, and so she cannot tell what she know
not. This is a painful task! Oh, so painful that it heartbreak me to think of
it, but it must be. When today we meet, I must tell her that for reason which we
will not to speak she must not more be of our council, but be simply guarded by
us."
<P>He wiped his forehead, which had broken out in profuse perspiration at the
thought of the pain which he might have to inflict upon the poor soul already so
tortured. I knew that it would be some sort of comfort to him if I told him that
I also had come to the same conclusion. For at any rate it would take away the
pain of doubt. I told him, and the effect was as I expected.
<P>It is now close to the time of our general gathering. Van Helsing has gone
away to prepare for the meeting, and his painful part of it. I really believe
his purpose is to be able to pray alone.
<P>Later.--At the very outset of our meeting a great personal relief was
experienced by both Van Helsing and myself. Mrs. Harker had sent a message by
her husband to say that she would not join us at present, as she thought it
better that we should be free to discuss our movements without her presence to
embarrass us. The Professor and I looked at each other for an instant, and
somehow we both seemed relieved. For my own part, I thought that if Mrs. Harker
realized the danger herself, it was much pain as well as much danger averted.
Under the circumstances we agreed, by a questioning look and answer, with finger
on lip, to preserve silence in our suspicions, until we should have been able to
confer alone again. We went at once into our Plan of Campaign.
<P>Van Helsing roughly put the facts before us first, "The Czarina Catherine
left the Thames yesterday morning. It will take her at the quickest speed she
has ever made at least three weeks to reach Varna. But we can travel overland to
the same place in three days. Now, if we allow for two days less for the ship's
voyage, owing to such weather influences as we know that the Count can bring to
bear, and if we allow a whole day and night for any delays which may occur to
us, then we have a margin of nearly two weeks.
<P>"Thus, in order to be quite safe, we must leave here on 17th at latest. Then
we shall at any rate be in Varna a day before the ship arrives, and able to make
such preparations as may be necessary. Of course we shall all go armed, armed
against evil things, spiritual as well as physical."
<P>Here Quincey Morris added, "I understand that the Count comes from a wolf
country, and it may be that he shall get there before us. I propose that we add
Winchesters to our armament. I have a kind of belief in a Winchester when there
is any trouble of that sort around. Do you remember, Art, when we had the pack
after us at Tobolsk? What wouldn't we have given then for a repeater apiece!"
<P>"Good!" said Van Helsing, "Winchesters it shall be. Quincey's head is level
at times, but most so when there is to hunt, metaphor be more dishonor to
science than wolves be of danger to man. In the meantime we can do nothing here.
And as I think that Varna is not familiar to any of us, why not go there more
soon? It is as long to wait here as there. Tonight and tomorrow we can get
ready, and then if all be well, we four can set out on our journey."
<P>"We four?" said Harker interrogatively, looking from one to another of us.
<P>"Of course!" answered the Professor quickly. "You must remain to take care of
your so sweet wife!"
<P>Harker was silent for awhile and then said in a hollow voice, "Let us talk of
that part of it in the morning. I want to consult with Mina."
<P>I thought that now was the time for Van Helsing to warn him not to disclose
our plan to her, but he took no notice. I looked at him significantly and
coughed. For answer he put his finger to his lips and turned away.
<P><STRONG>JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>October, afternoon.--For some time after our meeting this morning I could not
think. The new phases of things leave my mind in a state of wonder which allows
no room for active thought. Mina's determination not to take any part in the
discussion set me thinking. And as I could not argue the matter with her, I
could only guess. I am as far as ever from a solution now. The way the others
received it, too puzzled me. The last time we talked of the subject we agreed
that there was to be no more concealment of anything amongst us. Mina is
sleeping now, calmly and sweetly like a little child. Her lips are curved and
her face beams with happiness. Thank God, there are such moments still for her.
<P>Later.--How strange it all is. I sat watching Mina's happy sleep, and I came
as near to being happy myself as I suppose I shall ever be. As the evening drew
on, and the earth took its shadows from the sun sinking lower, the silence of
the room grew more and more solemn to me.
<P>All at once Mina opened her eyes, and looking at me tenderly said, "Jonathan,
I want you to promise me something on your word of honor. A promise made to me,
but made holily in God's hearing, and not to be broken though I should go down
on my knees and implore you with bitter tears. Quick, you must make it to me at
once."
<P>"Mina," I said, "a promise like that, I cannot make at once. I may have no
right to make it."
<P>"But, dear one," she said, with such spiritual intensity that her eyes were
like pole stars, "it is I who wish it. And it is not for myself. You can ask Dr.
Van Helsing if I am not right. If he disagrees you may do as you will. Nay, more
if you all agree, later you are absolved from the promise."
<P>"I promise!"I said, and for a moment she looked supremely happy. Though to me
all happiness for her was denied by the red scar on her forehead.
<P>She said, "Promise me that you will not tell me anything of the plans formed
for the campaign against the Count. Not by word, or inference, or implication,
not at any time whilst this remains to me!" And she solemnly pointed to the
scar. I saw that she was in earnest, and said solemnly, "I promise!" and as I
said it I felt that from that instant a door had been shut between us.
<P>Later, midnight.--Mina has been bright and cheerful all the evening. So much
so that all the rest seemed to take courage, as if infected somewhat with her
gaiety. As a result even I myself felt as if the pall of gloom which weighs us
down were somewhat lifted. We all retired early. Mina is now sleeping like a
little child. It is wonderful thing that her faculty of sleep remains to her in
the midst of her terrible trouble. Thank God for it, for then at least she can
forget her care. Perhaps her example may affect me as her gaiety did tonight. I
shall try it. Oh! For a dreamless sleep.
<P>6 October, morning.--Another surprise. Mina woke me early, about the same
time as yesterday, and asked me to bring Dr. Van Helsing. I thought that it was
another occassion for hypnotism, and without question went for the Professor. He
had evidently expected some such call, for I found him dressed in his room. His
door was ajar, so that he could hear the opening of the door of our room. He
came at once. As he passed into the room, he asked Mina if the others might
come, too.
<P>"No," she said quite simply, "it will not be necessary. You can tell them
just as well. I must go with you on your journey."
<P>Dr. Van Helsing was as startled as I was. After a moment's pause he asked,
"But why?"
<P>"You must take me with you. I am safer with you, and you shall be safer,
too."
<P>"But why, dear Madam Mina? You know that your safety is our solemnest duty.
We go into danger, to which you are, or may be, more liable than any of us from.
. .from circumstances. . .things that have been." He paused embarrassed.
<P>As she replied, she raised her finger and pointed to her forehead. "I know.
That is why I must go. I can tell you now, whilst the sun is coming up. I may
not be able again. I know that when the Count wills me I must go. I know that if
he tells me to come in secret, I must by wile. By any device to hoodwink, even
Jonathan." God saw the look that she turned on me as she spoke, and if there be
indeed a Recording Angel that look is noted to her ever-lasting honor. I could
only clasp her hand. I could not speak. My emotion was too great for even the
relief of tears.
<P>She went on. "You men are brave and strong. You are strong in your numbers,
for you can defy that which would break down the human endurance of one who had
to guard alone. Besides, I may be of service, since you can hypnotize me and so
learn that which even I myself do not know."
<P>Dr. Van Helsing said gravely, "Madam Mina, you are, as always, most wise. You
shall with us come. And together we shall do that which we go forth to achieve."
<P>When he had spoken, Mina's long spell of silence made me look at her. She had
fallen back on her pillow asleep. She did not even wake when I had pulled up the
blind and let in the sunlight which flooded the room. Van Helsing motioned to me
to come with him quietly. We went to his room, and within a minute Lord
Godalming, Dr. Seward, and Mr. Morris were with us also.
<P>He told them what Mina had said, and went on. "In the morning we shall leave
for Varna. We have now to deal with a new factor, Madam Mina. Oh, but her soul
is true. It is to her an agony to tell us so much as she has done. But it is
most right, and we are warned in time. There must be no chance lost, and in
Varna we must be ready to act the instant when that ship arrives."
<P>"What shall we do exactly?" asked Mr. Morris laconically.
<P>The Professor paused before replying, "We shall at the first board that ship.
Then, when we have identified the box, we shall place a branch of the wild rose
on it. This we shall fasten, for when it is there none can emerge, so that at
least says the superstition. And to superstition must we trust at the first. It
was man's faith in the early, and it have its root in faith still. Then, when we
get the opportunity that we seek, when none are near to see, we shall open the
box, and. . .and all will be well."
<P>"I shall not wait for any opportunity," said Morris. "When I see the box I
shall open it and destroy the monster, though there were a thousand men looking
on, and if I am to be wiped out for it the next moment!" I grasped his hand
instinctively and found it as firm as a piece of steel. I think he understood my
look. I hope he did.
<P>"Good boy," said Dr. Van Helsing. "Brave boy. Quincey is all man. God bless
him for it. My child, believe me none of us shall lag behind or pause from any
fear. I do but say what we may do. . .what we must do. But, indeed, indeed we
cannot say what we may do. There are so many things which may happen, and their
ways and their ends are so various that until the moment we may not say. We
shall all be armed, in all ways. And when the time for the end has come, our
effort shall not be lack. Now let us today put all our affairs in order. Let all
things which touch on others dear to us, and who on us depend, be complete. For
none of us can tell what, or when, or how, the end may be. As for me, my own
affairs are regulate, and as I have nothing else to do, I shall go make
arrangements for the travel. I shall have all tickets and so forth for our
journey."
<P>There was nothing further to be said, and we parted. I shall now settle up
all my affairs of earth, and be ready for whatever may come.
<P>Later.--It is done. My will is made, and all complete. Mina if she survive is
my sole heir. If it should not be so, then the others who have been so good to
us shall have remainder.
<P>It is now drawing towards the sunset. Mina's uneasiness calls my attention to
it. I am sure that there is something on her mind which the time of exact sunset
will reveal. These occasions are becoming harrowing times for us all. For each
sunrise and sunset opens up some new danger, some new pain, which however, may
in God's will be means to a good end. I write all these things in the diary
since my darling must not hear them now. But if it may be that she can see them
again, they shall be ready. She is calling to me.
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=axxv>CHAPTER 25. DR SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>11 October, Evening.--Jonathan Harker has asked me to note this, as he says
he is hardly equal to the task, and he wants an exact record kept.
<P>I think that none of us were surprised when we were asked to see Mrs. Harker
a little before the time of sunset. We have of late come to understand that
sunrise and sunset are to her times of peculiar freedom. When her old self can
be manifest without any controlling force subduing or restraining her, or
inciting her to action. This mood or condition begins some half hour or more
before actual sunrise or sunset, and lasts till either the sun is high, or
whilst the clouds are still aglow with the rays streaming above the horizon. At
first there is a sort of negative condition, as if some tie were loosened, and
then the absolute freedom quickly follows. When, however, the freedom ceases the
change back or relapse comes quickly, preceeded only by a spell of warning
silence.
<P>Tonight, when we met, she was somewhat constrained, and bore all the signs of
an internal struggle. I put it down myself to her making a violent effort at the
earliest instant she could do so.
<P>A very few minutes, however, gave her complete control of herself. Then,
motioning her husband to sit beside her on the sofa where she was half
reclining, she made the rest of us bring chairs up close.
<P>Taking her husband's hand in hers, she began, "We are all here together in
freedom, for perhaps the last time! I know that you will always be with me to
the end." This was to her husband whose hand had, as we could see, tightened
upon her. "In the morning we go out upon our task, and God alone knows what may
be in store for any of us. You are going to be so good to me to take me with
you. I know that all that brave earnest men can do for a poor weak woman, whose
soul perhaps is lost, no, no, not yet, but is at any rate at stake, you will do.
But you must remember that I am not as you are. There is a poison in my blood,
in my soul, which may destroy me, which must destroy me, unless some relief
comes to us. Oh, my friends, you know as well as I do, that my soul is at stake.
And though I know there is one way out for me, you must not and I must not take
it!" She looked appealingly to us all in turn, beginning and ending with her
husband.
<P>"What is that way?" asked Van Helsing in a hoarse voice. "What is that way,
which we must not, may not, take?"
<P>"That I may die now, either by my own hand or that of another, before the
greater evil is entirely wrought. I know, and you know, that were I once dead
you could and would set free my immortal spirit, even as you did my poor Lucy's.
Were death, or the fear of death, the only thing that stood in the way I would
not shrink to die here now, amidst the friends who love me. But death is not
all. I cannot believe that to die in such a case, when there is hope before us
and a bitter task to be done, is God's will. Therefore, I on my part, give up
here the certainty of eternal rest, and go out into the dark where may be the
blackest things that the world or the nether world holds!"
<P>We were all silent, for we knew instinctively that this was only a prelude.
The faces of the others were set, and Harker's grew ashen grey. Perhaps, he
guessed better than any of us what was coming.
<P>She continued, "This is what I can give into the hotch-pot." I could not but
note the quaint legal phrase which she used in such a place, and with all
seriousness. "What will each of you give? Your lives I know," she went on
quickly, "that is easy for brave men. Your lives are God's, and you can give
them back to Him, but what will you give to me?" She looked again questionly,
but this time avoided her husband's face. Quincey seemed to understand, he
nodded, and her face lit up. "Then I shall tell you plainly what I want, for
there must be no doubtful matter in this connection between us now. You must
promise me, one and all, even you, my beloved husband, that should the time
come, you will kill me."
<P>"What is that time?" The voice was Quincey's, but it was low and strained.
<P>"When you shall be convinced that I am so changed that it is better that I
die that I may live. When I am thus dead in the flesh, then you will, without a
moment's delay, drive a stake through me and cut off my head, or do whatever
else may be wanting to give me rest!"
<P>Quincey was the first to rise after the pause. He knelt down before her and
taking her hand in his said solemnly, "I'm only a rough fellow, who hasn't,
perhaps, lived as a man should to win such a distinction, but I swear to you by
all that I hold sacred and dear that, should the time ever come, I shall not
flinch from the duty that you have set us. And I promise you, too, that I shall
make all certain, for if I am only doubtful I shall take it that the time has
come!"
<P>"My true friend!" was all she could say amid her fast-falling tears, as
bending over, she kissed his hand.
<P>"I swear the same, my dear Madam Mina!"said Van Helsing. "And I!" said Lord
Godalming, each of them in turn kneeling to her to take the oath. I followed,
myself.
<P>Then her husband turned to her wan-eyed and with a greenish pallor which
subdued the snowy whiteness of his hair, and asked, "And must I, too, make such
a promise, oh, my wife?"
<P>"You too, my dearest," she said, with infinite yearning of pity in her voice
and eyes. "You must not shrink. You are nearest and dearest and all the world to
me. Our souls are knit into one, for all life and all time. Think, dear, that
there have been times when brave men have killed their wives and their
womenkind, to keep them from falling into the hands of the enemy. Their hands
did not falter any the more because those that they loved implored them to slay
them. It is men's duty towards those whom they love, in such times of sore
trial! And oh, my dear, if it is to be that I must meet death at any hand, let
it be at the hand of him that loves me best. Dr. Van Helsing, I have not
forgotten your mercy in poor Lucy's case to him who loved." She stopped with a
flying blush, and changed her phrase, "to him who had best right to give her
peace. If that time shall come again, I look to you to make it a happy memory of
my husband's life that it was his loving hand which set me free from the awful
thrall upon me."
<P>"Again I swear!" came the Professor's resonant voice.
<P>Mrs. Harker smiled, positively smiled, as with a sigh of relief she leaned
back and said, "And now one word of warning, a warning which you must never
forget. This time, if it ever come, may come quickly and unexpectedly, and in
such case you must lose no time in using your opportunity. At such a time I
myself might be. . .nay! If the time ever come, shall be, leagued with your
enemy against you.
<P>"One more request," she became very solemn as she said this, "it is not vital
and necessary like the other, but I want you to do one thing for me, if you
will."
<P>We all acquiesced, but no one spoke. There was no need to speak.
<P>"I want you to read the Burial Service." She was interrupted by a deep groan
from her husband. Taking his hand in hers, she held it over her heart, and
continued. "You must read it over me some day. Whatever may be the issue of all
this fearful state of things, it will be a sweet thought to all or some of us.
You, my dearest, will I hope read it, for then it will be in your voice in my
memory forever, come what may!"
<P>"But oh, my dear one," he pleaded, "death is afar off from you."
<P>"Nay," she said, holding up a warning hand. "I am deeper in death at this
moment than if the weight of an earthly grave lay heavy upon me!"
<P>"Oh, my wife, must I read it?" he said, before he began.
<P>"It would comfort me, my husband!" was all she said, and he began to read
when she had got the book ready.
<P>How can I, how could anyone, tell of that strange scene, its solemnity, its
gloom, its sadness, its horror, and withal, its sweetness. Even a sceptic, who
can see nothing but a travesty of bitter truth in anything holy or emotional,
would have been melted to the heart had he seen that little group of loving and
devoted friends kneeling round that stricken and sorrowing lady. Or heard the
tender passion of her husband's voice, as in tones so broken and emotional that
often he had to pause, he read the simple and beautiful service from the Burial
of the Dead. I cannot go on. . . words. . .and v-voices. . .f-fail m-me!
<P>She was right in her instinct. Strange as it was, bizarre as it may hereafter
seem even to us who felt its potent influence at the time, it comforted us much.
And the silence, which showed Mrs. Harker's coming relapse from her freedom of
soul, did not seem so full of despair to any of us as we had dreaded.
<P><STRONG>JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>15 October, Varna.--We left Charing Cross on the morning of the 12th, got to
Paris the same night, and took the places secured for us in the Orient Express.
We traveled night and day, arriving here at about five o'clock. Lord Godalming
went to the Consulate to see if any telegram had arrived for him, whilst the
rest of us came on to this hotel, "the Odessus." The journey may have had
incidents. I was, however, too eager to get on, to care for them. Until the
Czarina Catherine comes into port there will be no interest for me in anything
in the wide world. Thank God! Mina is well, and looks to be getting stronger.
Her color is coming back. She sleeps a great deal. Throughout the journey she
slept nearly all the time. Before sunrise and sunset, however, she is very
wakeful and alert. And it has become a habit for Van Helsing to hypnotize her at
such times. At first, some effort was needed, and he had to make many passes.
But now, she seems to yield at once, as if by habit, and scarcely any action is
needed. He seems to have power at these particular moments to simply will, and
her thoughts obey him. He always asks her what she can see and hear.
<P>She answers to the first, "Nothing, all is dark."
<P>And to the second, "I can hear the waves lapping against the ship, and the
water rushing by. Canvas and cordage strain and masts and yards creak. The wind
is high. . .I can hear it in the shrouds, and the bow throws back the foam."
<P>It is evident that the Czarina Catherine is still at sea, hastening on her
way to Varna. Lord Godalming has just returned. He had four telegrams, one each
day since we started, and all to the same effect. That the Czarina Catherine had
not been reported to Lloyd's from anywhere. He had arranged before leaving
London that his agent should send him every day a telegram saying if the ship
had been reported. He was to have a message even if she were not reported, so
that he might be sure that there was a watch being kept at the other end of the
wire.
<P>We had dinner and went to bed early. Tomorrow we are to see the Vice Consul,
and to arrange, if we can, about getting on board the ship as soon as she
arrives. Van Helsing says that our chance will be to get on the boat between
sunrise and sunset. The Count, even if he takes the form of a bat, cannot cross
the running water of his own volition, and so cannot leave the ship. As he dare
not change to man's form without suspicion, which he evidently wishes to avoid,
he must remain in the box. If, then, we can come on board after sunrise, he is
at our mercy, for we can open the box and make sure of him, as we did of poor
Lucy, before he wakes. What mercy he shall get from us all will not count for
much. We think that we shall not have much trouble with officials or the seamen.
Thank God! This is the country where bribery can do anything, and we are well
supplied with money. We have only to make sure that the ship cannot come into
port between sunset and sunrise without our being warned, and we shall be safe.
Judge Moneybag will settle this case, I think!
<P>16 October.--Mina's report still the same. Lapping waves and rushing water,
darkness and favoring winds. We are evidently in good time, and when we hear of
the Czarina Catherine we shall be ready. As she must pass the Dardanelles we are
sure to have some report.
<P>17 October.--Everything is pretty well fixed now, I think, to welcome the
Count on his return from his tour. Godalming told the shippers that he fancied
that the box sent aboard might contain something stolen from a friend of his,
and got a half consent that he might open it at his own risk. The owner gave him
a paper telling the Captain to give him every facility in doing whatever he
chose on board the ship, and also a similar authorization to his agent at Varna.
We have seen the agent, who was much impressed with Godalming's kindly manner to
him, and we are all satisfied that whatever he can do to aid our wishes will be
done.
<P>We have already arranged what to do in case we get the box open. If the Count
is there, Van Helsing and Seward will cut off his head at once and drive a stake
through his heart. Morris and Godalming and I shall prevent interference, even
if we have to use the arms which we shall have ready. The Professor says that if
we can so treat the Count's body, it will soon after fall into dust. In such
case there would be no evidence against us, in case any suspicion of murder were
aroused. But even if it were not, we should stand or fall by our act, and
perhaps some day this very script may be evidence to come between some of us and
a rope. For myself, I should take the chance only too thankfully if it were to
come. We mean to leave no stone unturned to carry out our intent. We have
arranged with certain officials that the instant the Czarina Catherine is seen,
we are to be informed by a special messenger.
<P>24 October.--A whole week of waiting. Daily telegrams to Godalming, but only
the same story. "Not yet reported." Mina's morning and evening hypnotic answer
is unvaried. Lapping waves, rushing water, and creaking masts.
<P><STRONG>TELEGRAM, OCTOBER 24TH RUFUS SMITH, LLOYD'S, LONDON, TO LORD
GODALMING, CARE OF</STRONG>
<P><STRONG>H. B. M. VICE CONSUL, VARNA</STRONG>
<P>"Czarina Catherine reported this morning from Dardanelles."
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>25 October.--How I miss my phonograph! To write a diary with a pen is irksome
to me! But Van Helsing says I must. We were all wild with excitement yesterday
when Godalming got his telegram from Lloyd's. I know now what men feel in battle
when the call to action is heard. Mrs. Harker, alone of our party, did not show
any signs of emotion. After all, it is not strange that she did not, for we took
special care not to let her know anything about it, and we all tried not to show
any excitement when we were in her presence. In old days she would, I am sure,
have noticed, no matter how we might have tried to conceal it. But in this way
she is greatly changed during the past three weeks. The lethargy grows upon her,
and though she seems strong and well, and is getting back some of her color, Van
Helsing and I are not satisfied. We talk of her often. We have not, however,
said a word to the others. It would break poor Harker's heart, certainly his
nerve, if he knew that we had even a suspicion on the subject. Van Helsing
examines, he tells me, her teeth very carefully, whilst she is in the hypnotic
condition, for he says that so long as they do not begin to sharpen there is no
active danger of a change in her. If this change should come, it would be
necessary to take steps! We both know what those steps would have to be, though
we do not mention our thoughts to each other. We should neither of us shrink
from the task, awful though it be to contemplate. "Euthanasia" is an excellent
and a comforting word! I am grateful to whoever invented it.
<P>It is only about 24 hours' sail from the Dardanelles to here, at the rate the
Czarina Catherine has come from London. She should therefore arrive some time in
the morning, but as she cannot possibly get in before noon, we are all about to
retire early. We shall get up at one o'clock, so as to be ready.
<P>25 October, Noon.--No news yet of the ship's arrival. Mrs. Harker's hypnotic
report this morning was the same as usual, so it is possible that we may get
news at any moment. We men are all in a fever of excitement, except Harker, who
is calm. His hands are cold as ice, and an hour ago I found him whetting the
edge of the great Ghoorka knife which he now always carries with him. It will be
a bad lookout for the Count if the edge of that "Kukri" ever touches his throat,
driven by that stern, ice-cold hand!
<P>Van Helsing and I were a little alarmed about Mrs. Harker today. About noon
she got into a sort of lethargy which we did not like. Although we kept silence
to the others, we were neither of us happy about it. She had been restless all
the morning, so that we were at first glad to know that she was sleeping. When,
however, her husband mentioned casually that she was sleeping so soundly that he
could not wake her, we went to her room to see for ourselves. She was breathing
naturally and looked so well and peaceful that we agreed that the sleep was
better for her than anything else. Poor girl, she has so much to forget that it
is no wonder that sleep, if it brings oblivion to her, does her good.
<P>Later.--Our opinion was justified, for when after a refreshing sleep of some
hours she woke up, she seemed brighter and better than she had been for days. At
sunset she made the usual hypnotic report. Wherever he may be in the Black Sea,
the Count is hurrying to his destination. To his doom, I trust!
<P>26 October.--Another day and no tidings of the Czarina Catherine. She ought
to be here by now. That she is still journeying somewhere is apparent, for Mrs.
Harker's hypnotic report at sunrise was still the same. It is possible that the
vessel may be lying by, at times, for fog. Some of the steamers which came in
last evening reported patches of fog both to north and south of the port. We
must continue our watching, as the ship may now be signalled any moment.
<P>27 October, Noon.--Most strange. No news yet of the ship we wait for. Mrs.
Harker reported last night and this morning as usual. "Lapping waves and rushing
water," though she added that "the waves were very faint." The telegrams from
London have been the same, "no further report." Van Helsing is terribly anxious,
and told me just now that he fears the Count is escaping us.
<P>He added significantly, "I did not like that lethargy of Madam Mina's. Souls
and memories can do strange things during trance." I was about to as k him more,
but Harker just then came in, and he held up a warning hand. We must try tonight
at sunset to make her speak more fully when in her hypnotic state.
<P>28 October.--Telegram. Rufus Smith, London, to Lord Godalming, care H. B. M.
Vice Consul, Varna
<P>"Czarina Catherine reported entering Galatz at one o'clock today."
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>28 October.--When the telegram came announcing the arrival in Galatz I do not
think it was such a shock to any of us as might have been expected. True, we did
not know whence, or how, or when, the bolt would come. But I think we all
expected that something strange would happen. The day of arrival at Varna made
us individually satisfied that things would not be just as we had expected. We
only waited to learn where the change would occur. None the less, however, it
was a surprise. I suppose that nature works on such a hopeful basis that we
believe against ourselves that things will be as they ought to be, not as we
should know that they will be. Transcendentalism is a beacon to the angels, even
if it be a will-o'-the-wisp to man. Van Helsing raised his hand over his head
for a moment, as though in remonstrance with the Almighty. But he said not a
word, and in a few seconds stood up with his face sternly set.
<P>Lord Godalming grew very pale, and sat breathing heavily. I was myself half
stunned and looked in wonder at one after another. Quincey Morris tightened his
belt with that quick movement which I knew so well. In our old wandering days it
meant "action." Mrs. Harker grew ghastly white, so that the scar on her forehead
seemed to burn, but she folded her hands meekly and looked up in prayer. Harker
smiled, actually smiled, the dark, bitter smile of one who is without hope, but
at the same time his action belied his words, for his hands instinctively sought
the hilt of the great Kukri knife and rested there.
<P>"When does the next train start for Galatz?" said Van Helsing to us
generally.
<P>"At 6:30 tomorrow morning!" We all started, for the answer came from Mrs.
Harker.
<P>"How on earth do you know?" said Art.
<P>"You forget, or perhaps you do not know, though Jonathan does and so does Dr.
Van Helsing, that I am the train fiend. At home in Exeter I always used to make
up the time tables, so as to be helpful to my husband. I found it so useful
sometimes, that I always make a study of the time tables now. I knew that if
anything were to take us to Castle Dracula we should go by Galatz, or at any
rate through Bucharest, so I learned the times very carefully. Unhappily there
are not many to learn, as the only train tomorrow leaves as I say."
<P>"Wonderful woman!" murmured the Professor.
<P>"Can't we get a special?" asked Lord Godalming.
<P>Van Helsing shook his head, "I fear not. This land is very different from
yours or mine. Even if we did have a special, it would probably not arrive as
soon as our regular train. Moreover, we have something to prepare. We must
think. Now let us organize. You, friend Arthur, go to the train and get the
tickets and arrange that all be ready for us to go in the morning. Do you,
friend Jonathan, go to the agent of the ship and get from him letters to the
agent in Galatz, with authority to make a search of the ship just as it was
here. Quincey Morris, you see the Vice Consul, and get his aid with his fellow
in Galatz and all he can do to make our way smooth, so that no times be lost
when over the Danube. John will stay with Madam Mina and me, and we shall
consult. For so if time be long you may be delayed. And it will not matter when
the sun set, since I am here with Madam to make report."
<P>"And I," said Mrs. Harker brightly, and more like her old self than she had
been for many a long day, "shall try to be of use in all ways, and shall think
and write for you as I used to do. Something is shifting from me in some strange
way, and I feel freer than I have been of late!"
<P>The three younger men looked happier at the moment as they seemed to realize
the significance of her words. But Van Helsing and I, turning to each other, met
each a grave and troubled glance. We said nothing at the time, however.
<P>When the three men had gone out to their tasks Van Helsing asked Mrs. Harker
to look up the copy of the diaries and find him the part of Harker's journal at
the Castle. She went away to get it.
<P>When the door was shut upon her he said to me, "We mean the same! Speak out!"
<P>"Here is some change. It is a hope that makes me sick, for it may deceive
us."
<P>"Quite so. Do you know why I asked her to get the manuscript?"
<P>"No!" said I, "unless it was to get an opportunity of seeing me alone."
<P>"You are in part right, friend John, but only in part. I want to tell you
something. And oh, my friend, I am taking a great, a terrible, risk. But I
believe it is right. In the moment when Madam Mina said those words that arrest
both our understanding, an inspiration came to me. In the trance of three days
ago the Count sent her his spirit to read her mind. Or more like he took her to
see him in his earth box in the ship with water rushing, just as it go free at
rise and set of sun. He learn then that we are here, for she have more to tell
in her open life with eyes to see ears to hear than he, shut as he is, in his
coffin box. Now he make his most effort to escape us. At present he want her
not.
<P>"He is sure with his so great knowledge that she will come at his call. But
he cut her off, take her, as he can do, out of his own power, that so she come
not to him. Ah! There I have hope that our man brains that have been of man so
long and that have not lost the grace of God, will come higher than his
child-brain that lie in his tomb for centuries, that grow not yet to our
stature, and that do only work selfish and therefore small. Here comes Madam
Mina. Not a word to her of her trance! She knows it not, and it would overwhelm
her and make despair just when we want all her hope, all her courage, when most
we want all her great brain which is trained like man's brain, but is of sweet
woman and have a special power which the Count give her, and which he may not
take away altogether, though he think not so. Hush! Let me speak, and you shall
learn. Oh, John, my friend, we are in awful straits. I fear, as I never feared
before. We can only trust the good God. Silence! Here she comes!"
<P>I thought that the Professor was going to break down and have hysterics, just
as he had when Lucy died, but with a great effort he controlled himself and was
at perfect nervous poise when Mrs. Harker tripped into the room, bright and
happy looking and, in the doing of work, seemingly forgetful of her misery. As
she came in, she handed a number of sheets of typewriting to Van Helsing. He
looked over them gravely, his face brightening up as he read.
<P>Then holding the pages between his finger and thumb he said, "Friend John, to
you with so much experience already, and you too, dear Madam Mina, that are
young, here is a lesson. Do not fear ever to think. A half thought has been
buzzing often in my brain, but I fear to let him loose his wings. Here now, with
more knowledge, I go back to where that half thought come from and I find that
he be no half thought at all. That be a whole thought, though so young that he
is not yet strong to use his little wings. Nay, like the `Ugly Duck' of my
friend Hans Andersen, he be no duck thought at all, but a big swan thought that
sail nobly on big wings, when the time come for him to try them. See I read here
what Jonathan have written.
<P>"That other of his race who, in a later age, again and again, brought his
forces over The Great River into Turkey Land, who when he was beaten back, came
again, and again, and again, though he had to come alone from the bloody field
where his troops were being slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could
ultimately triumph.
<P>"What does this tell us? Not much? No! The Count's child thought see nothing,
therefore he speak so free. Your man thought see nothing. My man thought see
nothing, till just now. No! But there comes another word from some one who speak
without thought because she, too, know not what it mean, what it might mean.
Just as there are elements which rest, yet when in nature's course they move on
their way and they touch, the pouf! And there comes a flash of light, heaven
wide, that blind and kill and destroy some. But that show up all earth below for
leagues and leagues. Is it not so? Well, I shall explain. To begin, hav e you
ever study the philosophy of crime? `Yes' and `No.' You, John, yes, for it is a
study of insanity. You, no, Madam Mina, for crime touch you not, not but once.
Still, your mind works true, and argues not a particulari ad universale. There
is this peculiarity in criminals. It is so constant, in all countries and at all
times, that even police, who know not much from philosophy, come to know it
empirically, that it is. That is to be empiric. The criminal always work at one
crime, that is the true criminal who seems predestinate to crime, and who will
of none other. This criminal has not full man brain. He is clever and cunning
and resourceful, but he be not of man stature as to brain. He be of child brain
in much. Now this criminal of ours is predestinate to crime also. He, too, have
child brain, and it is of the child to do what he have done. The little bird,
the little fish, the little animal learn not by principle, but empirically. And
when he learn to do, then there is to him the ground to start from to do more.
`Dos pou sto,' said Archimedes. `Give me a fulcrum, and I shall move the world!'
To do once, is the fulcrum whereby child brain become man brain. And until he
have the purpose to do more, he continue to do the same again every time, just
as he have done before! Oh, my dear, I see that your eyes are opened, and that
to you the lightning flash show all the leagues, "for Mrs. Harker began to clap
her hands and her eyes sparkled.
<P>He went on, "Now you shall speak. Tell us two dry men of science what you see
with those so bright eyes." He took her hand and held it whilst he spoke. His
finger and thumb closed on her pulse, as I thought instinctively and
unconsciously, as she spoke.
<P>"The Count is a criminal and of criminal type. Nordau and Lombroso would so
classify him, and qua criminal he is of an imperfectly formed mind. Thus, in a
difficulty he has to seek resource in habit. His past is a clue, and the one
page of it that we know, and that from his own lips, tells that once before,
when in what Mr. Morris would call a`tight place,' he went back to his own
country from the land he had tried to invade, and thence, without losing
purpose, prepared himself for a new effort. He came again better equipped for
his work, and won. So he came to London to invade a new land. He was beaten, and
when all hope of success was lost, and his existence in danger, he fled back
over the sea to his home. Just as formerly he had fled back over the Danube from
Turkey Land."
<P>"Good, good! Oh, you so clever lady!" said Van Helsing, enthusiastically, as
he stooped and kissed her hand. A moment later he said to me, as calmly as
though we had been having a sick room consultation, "Seventy-two only, and in
all this excitement. I have hope."
<P>Turning to her again, he said with keen expectation, "But go on. Go on! There
is more to tell if you will. Be not afraid. John and I know. I do in any case,
and shall tell you if you are right. Speak, without fear!"
<P>"I will try to. But you will forgive me if I seem too egotistical."
<P>"Nay! Fear not, you must be egotist, for it is of you that we think."
<P>"Then, as he is criminal he is selfish. And as his intellect is small and his
action is based on selfishness, he confines himself to one purpose. That purpose
is remorseless. As he fled back over the Danube, leaving his forces to be cut to
pieces, so now he is intent on being safe, careless of all. So his own
selfishness frees my soul somewhat from the terrible power which he acquired
over me on that dreadful night. I felt it! Oh, I felt it! Thank God, for His
great mercy! My soul is freer than it has been since that awful hour. And all
that haunts me is a fear lest in some trance or dream he may have used my
knowledge for his ends."
<P>The Professor stood up, "He has so used your mind, and by it he has left us
here in Varna, whilst the ship that carried him rushed through enveloping fog up
to Galatz, where, doubtless, he had made preparation for escaping from us. But
his child mind only saw so far. And it may be that as ever is in God's
Providence, the very thing that the evil doer most reckoned on for his selfish
good, turns out to be his chiefest harm. The hunter is taken in his own snare,
as the great Psalmist says. For now that he think he is free from every trace of
us all, and that he has escaped us with so many hours to him, then his selfish
child brain will whisper him to sleep. He think, too, that as he cut himself off
from knowing your mind, there can be no knowledge of him to you. There is where
he fail! That terrible baptism of blood which he give you makes you free to go
to him in spirit, as you have as yet done in your times of freedom, when the sun
rise and set. At such times you go by my volition and not by his. And this power
to good of you and others, you have won from your suffering at his hands. This
is now all more precious that he know it not, and to guard himself have even cut
himself off from his knowledge of our where. We, however, are not selfish, and
we believe that God is with us through all this blackness, and these many dark
hours. We shall follow him, and we shall not flinch. Even if we peril ourselves
that we become like him. Friend John, this has been a great hour, and it have
done much to advance us on our way. You must be scribe and write him all down,
so that when the others return from their work you can give it to them, then
they shall know as we do."
<P>And so I have written it whilst we wait their return, and Mrs. Harker has
written with the typewriter all since she brought the MS to us.
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=axxvi>CHAPTER 26. DR. SEWARD'S
DIARY</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>29 October.--This is written in the train from Varna to Galatz. Last night we
all assembled a little before the time of sunset. Each of us had done his work
as well as he could, so far as thought, and endeavor, and opportunity go, we are
prepared for the whole of our journey, and for our work when we get to Galatz.
When the usual time came round Mrs. Harker prepared herself for her hypnotic
effort, and after a longer and more serious effort on the part of Van Helsing
than has been usually necessary, she sank into the trance. Usually she speaks on
a hint, but this time the Professor had to ask her questions, and to ask them
pretty resolutely, before we could learn anything. At last her answer came.
<P>"I can see nothing. We are still. There are no waves lapping, but only a
steady swirl of water softly running against the hawser. I can hear men's voices
calling, near and far, and the roll and creak of oars in the rowlocks. A gun is
fired somewhere, the echo of it seems far away. There is tramping of feet
overhead, and ropes and chains are dragged along. What is this? There is a gleam
of light. I can feel the air blowing upon me."
<P>Here she stopped. She had risen, as if impulsively, from where she lay on the
sofa, and raised both her hands, palms upwards, as if lifting a weight. Van
Helsing and I looked at each other with understanding. Quincey raised his
eyebrows slightly and looked at her intently, whilst Harker's hand instinctively
closed round the hilt of his Kukri. There was a long pause. We all knew that the
time when she could speak was passing, but we felt that it was useless to say
anything.
<P>Suddenly she sat up, and as she opened her eyes said sweetly, "Would none of
you like a cup of tea? You must all be so tired!"
<P>We could only make her happy, and so acqueisced. She bustled off to get tea.
When she had gone Van Helsing said, "You see, my friends. He is close to land.
He has left his earth chest. But he has yet to get on shore. In the night he may
lie hidden somewhere, but if he be not carried on shore, or if the ship do not
touch it, he cannot achieve the land. In such case he can, if it be in the
night, change his form and jump or fly on shore, then, unless he be carried he
cannot escape. And if he be carried, then the customs men may discover what the
box contain. Thus, in fine, if he escape not on shore tonight, or before dawn,
there will be the whole day lost to him. We may then arrive in time. For if he
escape not at night we shall come on him in daytime, boxed up and at our mercy.
For he dare not be his true self, awake and visible, lest he be discovered."
<P>There was no more to be said, so we waited in patience until the dawn, at
which time we might learn more from Mrs. Harker.
<P>Early this morning we listened, with breathless anxiety, for her response in
her trance. The hypnotic stage was even longer in coming than before, and when
it came the time remaining until full sunrise was so short that we began to
despair. Van Helsing seemed to throw his whole soul into the effort. At last, in
obedience to his will she made reply.
<P>"All is dark. I hear lapping water, level with me, and some creaking as of
wood on wood." She paused, and the red sun shot up. We must wait till tonight.
<P>And so it is that we are travelling towards Galatz in an agony of
expectation. We are due to arrive between two and three in the morning. But
already, at Bucharest, we are three hours late, so we cannot possibly get in
till well after sunup. Thus we shall have two more hypnotic messages from Mrs.
Harker! Either or both may possibly throw more light on what is happening.
<P>Later.--Sunset has come and gone. Fortunately it came at a time when there
was no distraction. For had it occurred whilst we were at a station, we might
not have secured the necessary calm and isolation. Mrs. Harker yielded to the
hypnotic influence even less readily than this morning. I am in fear that her
power of reading the Count's sensations may die away, just when we want it most.
It seems to me that her imagination is beginning to work. Whilst she has been in
the trance hitherto she has confined herself to the simplest of facts. If this
goes on it may ultimately mislead us. If I thought that the Count's power over
her would die away equally with her power of knowledge it would be a happy
thought. But I am afraid that it may not be so.
<P>When she did speak, her words were enigmatical, "Something is going out. I
can feel it pass me like a cold wind. I can hear, far off, confused sounds, as
of men talking in strange tongues, fierce falling water, and the howling of
wolves." She stopped and a shudder ran through her, increasing in intensity for
a few seconds, till at the end, she shook as though in a palsy. She said no
more, even in answer to the Professor's imperative questioning. When she woke
from the trance, she was cold, and exhausted, and languid, but her mind was all
alert. She could not remember anything, but asked what she had said. When she
was told, she pondered over it deeply for a long time and in silence.
<P>30 October, 7 A.M.--We are near Galatz now, and I may not have time to write
later. Sunrise this morning was anxiously looked for by us all. Knowing of the
increasing difficulty of procuring the hypnotic trance, Van Helsing began his
passes earlier than usual. They produced no effect, however, until the regular
time, when she yielded with a still greater difficulty, only a minute before the
sun rose. The Professor lost no time in his questioning.
<P>Her answer came with equal quickness, "All is dark. I hear water swirling by,
level with my ears, and the creaking of wood on wood. Cattle low far off. There
is another sound, a queer one like. . ." She stopped and grew white, and whiter
still.
<P>"Go on, go on! Speak, I command you!" said Van Helsing in an agonized voice.
At the same time there was despair in his eyes, for the risen sun was reddening
even Mrs. Harker's pale face. She opened her eyes, and we all started as she
said, sweetly and seemingly with the utmost unconcern.
<P>"Oh, Professor, why ask me to do what you know I can't? I don't remember
anything." Then, seeing the look of amazement on our faces, she said, turning
from one to the other with a troubled look, "What have I said? What have I done?
I know nothing, only that I was lying here, half asleep, and heard you say `go
on! speak, I command you!' It seemed so funny to hear you order me about, as if
I were a bad child!"
<P>"Oh, Madam Mina," he said, sadly, "it is proof, if proof be needed, of how I
love and honor you, when a word for your good, spoken more earnest than ever,
can seem so strange because it is to order her whom I am proud to obey!"
<P>The whistles are sounding. We are nearing Galatz. We are on fire with anxiety
and eagerness.
<P><STRONG>MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>30 October.--Mr. Morris took me to the hotel where our rooms had been ordered
by telegraph, he being the one who could best be spared, since he does not speak
any foreign language. The forces were distributed much as they had been at
Varna, except that Lord Godalming went to the Vice Consul, as his rank might
serve as an immediate guarantee of some sort to the official, we being in
extreme hurry. Jonathan and the two doctors went to the shipping agent to learn
particulars of the arrival of the Czarina Catherine.
<P>Later.--Lord Godalming has returned. The Consul is away, and the Vice Consul
sick. So the routine work has been attended to by a clerk. He was very obliging,
and offered to do anything in his power.
<P><STRONG>JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>30 October.--At nine o'clock Dr. Van Helsing, Dr. Seward, and I called on
Messrs. Mackenzie & Steinkoff, the agents of the London firm of Hapgood.
They had received a wire from London, in answer to Lord Godalming's telegraphed
request, asking them to show us any civility in their power. They were more than
kind and courteous, and took us at once on board the Czarina Catherine, which
lay at anchor out in the river harbor. There we saw the Captain, Donelson by
name, who told us of his voyage. He said that in all his life he had never had
so favorable a run.
<P>"Man!" he said, "but it made us afeard, for we expect it that we should have
to pay for it wi' some rare piece o' ill luck, so as to keep up the average.
It's no canny to run frae London to the Black Sea wi' a wind ahint ye, as though
the Deil himself were blawin' on yer sail for his ain purpose. An' a' the time
we could no speer a thing. Gin we were nigh a ship, or a port, or a headland, a
fog fell on us and travelled wi' us, till when after it had lifted and we looked
out, the deil a thing could we see. We ran by Gibraltar wi' oot bein' able to
signal. An' til we came to the Dardanelles and had to wait to get our permit to
pass, we never were within hail o' aught. At first I inclined to slack off sail
and beat about till the fog was lifted. But whiles, I thocht that if the Deil
was minded to get us into the Black Sea quick, he was like to do it whether we
would or no. If we had a quick voyage it would be no to our miscredit wi'the
owners, or no hurt to our traffic, an' the Old Mon who had served his ain
purpose wad be decently grateful to us for no hinderin' him."
<P>This mixture of simplicity and cunning, of superstition and commercial
reasoning, aroused Van Helsing, who said, "Mine friend, that Devil is more
clever than he is thought by some, and he know when he meet his match!"
<P>The skipper was not displeased with the compliment, and went on, "When we got
past the Bosphorus the men began to grumble. Some o' them, the Roumanians, came
and asked me to heave overboard a big box which had been put on board by a queer
lookin' old man just before we had started frae London. I had seen them speer at
the fellow, and put out their twa fingers when they saw him, to guard them
against the evil eye. Man! but the supersteetion of foreigners is pairfectly
rideeculous! I sent them aboot their business pretty quick, but as just after a
fog closed in on us I felt a wee bit as they did anent something, though I
wouldn't say it was again the big box. Well, on we went, and as the fog didn't
let up for five days I joost let the wind carry us, for if the Deil wanted to
get somewheres, well, he would fetch it up a'reet. An' if he didn't, well, we'd
keep a sharp lookout anyhow. Sure eneuch, we had a fair way and deep water all
the time. And two days ago, when the mornin' sun came through the fog, we found
ourselves just in the river opposite Galatz. The Roumanians were wild, and
wanted me right or wrong to take out the box and fling it in the river. I had to
argy wi' them aboot it wi' a handspike. An' when the last o' them rose off the
deck wi' his head in his hand, I had convinced them that, evil eye or no evil
eye, the property and the trust of my owners were better in my hands than in the
river Danube. They had, mind ye, taken the box on the deck ready to fling in,
and as it was marked Galatz via Varna, I thocht I'd let it lie till we
discharged in the port an' get rid o't althegither. We didn't do much clearin'
that day, an' had to remain the nicht at anchor. But in the mornin', braw an'
airly, an hour before sunup, a man came aboard wi' an order, written to him from
England, to receive a box marked for one Count Dracula. Sure eneuch the matter
was one ready to his hand. He had his papers a' reet, an' gla d I was to be rid
o' the dam' thing, for I was beginnin' masel' to feel uneasy at it. If the Deil
did have any luggage aboord the ship, I'm thinkin' it was nane ither than that
same!"
<P>"What was the name of the man who took it?" asked Dr. Van Helsing with
restrained eagerness.
<P>"I'll be tellin' ye quick!" he answered, and stepping down to his cabin,
produced a receipt signed "Immanuel Hildesheim." Burgen-strasse 16 was the
address. We found out that this was all the Captain knew, so with thanks we came
away.
<P>We found Hildesheim in his office, a Hebrew of rather the Adelphi Theatre
type, with a nose like a sheep, and a fez. His arguments were pointed with
specie, we doing the punctuation, and with a little bargaining he told us what
he knew. This turned out to be simple but important. He had received a letter
from Mr. de Ville of London, telling him to receive, if possible before sunrise
so as to avoid customs, a box which would arrive at Galatz in the Czarina
Catherine. This he was to give in charge to a certain Petrof Skinsky, who dealt
with the Slovaks who traded down the river to the port. He had been paid for his
work by an English bank note, which had been duly cashed for gold at the Danube
International Bank. When Skinsky had come to him, he had taken him to the ship
and handed over the box, so as to save parterage. That was all he knew.
<P>We then sought for Skinsky, but were unable to find him. One of his
neighbors, who did not seem to bear him any affection, said that he had gone
away two days before, no one knew whither. This was corroborated by his
landlord, who had received by messenger the key of the house together with the
rent due, in English money. This had been between ten and eleven o'clock last
night. We were at a standstill again.
<P>Whilst we were talking one came running and breathlessly gasped out that the
body of Skinsky had been found inside the wall of the churchyard of St. Peter,
and that the throat had been torn open as if by some wild animal. Those we had
been speaking with ran off to see the horror, the women crying out. "This is the
work of a Slovak!" We hurried away lest we should have been in some way drawn
into the affair, and so detained.
<P>As we came home we could arrive at no definite conclusion. We were all
convinced that the box was on its way, by water, to somewhere, but where that
might be we would have to discover. With heavy hearts we came home to the hotel
to Mina.
<P>When we met together, the first thing was to consult as to taking Mina again
into our confidence. Things are getting desperate, and it is at least a chance,
though a hazardous one. As a preliminary step, I was released from my promise to
her.
<P><STRONG>MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>30 October, evening.--They were so tired and worn out and dispirited that
there was nothing to be done till they had some rest, so I asked them all to lie
down for half an hour whilst I should enter everything up to the moment. I feel
so grateful to the man who invented the "Traveller's" typewriter, and to Mr.
Morris for getting this one for me. I should have felt quite astray doing the
work if I had to write with a pen. . .
<P>It is all done. Poor dear, dear Jonathan, what he must have suffered, what he
must be suffering now. He lies on the sofa hardly seeming to breathe, and his
whole body appears in collapse. His brows are knit. His face is drawn with pain.
Poor fellow, maybe he is thinking, and I can see his face all wrinkled up with
the concentration of his thoughts. Oh! if I could only help at all. I shall do
what I can.
<P>I have asked Dr. Van Helsing, and he has got me all the papers that I have
not yet seen. Whilst they are resting, I shall go over all carefully, and
perhaps I may arrive at some conclusion. I shall try to follow the Professor's
example, and think without prejudice on the facts before me. . .
<P>I do believe that under God's providence I have made a discovery. I shall get
the maps and look over them.
<P>I am more than ever sure that I am right. My new conclusion is ready, so I
shall get our party together and read it. They can judge it. It is well to be
accurate, and every minute is precious.
<P><STRONG>MINA HARKER'S MEMORANDUM</STRONG>
<P><STRONG>(ENTERED IN HER JOURNAL)</STRONG>
<P>Ground of inquiry.--Count Dracula's problem is to get back to his own place.
<P>(a) He must be brought back by some one. This is evident. For had he power to
move himself as he wished he could go either as man, or wolf, or bat, or in some
other way. He evidently fears discovery or interference, in the state of
helplessness in which he must be, confined as he is between dawn and sunset in
his wooden box.
<P>(b) How is he to be taken?--Here a process of exclusions may help us. By
road, by rail, by water?
<OL>
<LI>By Road.--There are endless difficulties, especially in leaving the city.
</LI></OL>
<P>(x) There are people. And people are curious, and investigate. A hint, a
surmise, a doubt as to what might be in the box, would destroy him.
<P>(y) There are, or there may be, customs and octroi officers to pass.
<P>(z) His pursuers might follow. This is his highest fear. And in order to
prevent his being betrayed he has repelled, so far as he can, even his victim,
me!
<P>2. By Rail.--There is no one in charge of the box. It would have to take its
chance of being delayed, and delay would be fatal, with enemies on the track.
True, he might escape at night. But what would he be, if left in a strange place
with no refuge that he could fly to? This is not what he intends, and he does
not mean to risk it.
<P>3. By Water.--Here is the safest way, in one respect, but with most danger in
another. On the water he is powerless except at night. Even then he can only
summon fog and storm and snow and his wolves. But were he wrecked, the living
water would engulf him, helpless, and he would indeed be lost. He could have the
vessel drive to land, but if it were unfriendly land, wherein he was not free to
move, his position would still be desperate.
<P>We know from the record that he was on the water, so what we have to do is to
ascertain what water.
<P>The first thing is to realize exactly what he has done as yet. We may, then,
get a light on what his task is to be.
<P>Firstly.--We must differentiate between what he did in London as part of his
general plan of action, when he was pressed for moments and had to arrange as
best he could.
<P>Secondly we must see, as well as we can surmise it from the facts we know of,
what he has done here.
<P>As to the first, he evidently intended to arrive at Galatz, and sent invoice
to Varna to deceive us lest we should ascertain his means of exit from England.
His immediate and sole purpose then was to escape. The proof of this, is the
letter of instructions sent ot Immanuel Hildesheim to clear and take away the
box before sunrise. There is also the instruction to Petrof Skinsky. These we
must only guess at, but there must have been some letter or message, since
Skinsky came to Hildesheim.
<P>That, so far, his plans were successful we know. The Czarina Catherine made a
phenomenally quick journey. So much so that Captain Donelson's suspicions were
aroused. But his superstition united with his canniness played the Count's game
for him, and he ran with his favoring wind through fogs and all till he brought
up blindfold at Galatz. That the Count's arrangements were well made, has been
proved. Hildesheim cleared the box, took it off, and gave it to Skinsky. Skinsky
took it, and here we lose the trail. We only know that the box is somewhere on
the water, moving along. The customs and the octroi, if there be any, have been
avoided.
<P>Now we come to what the Count must have done after his arrival, on land, at
Galatz.
<P>The box was given to Skinsky before sunrise. At sunrise the Count could
appear in his own form. Here, we ask why Skinsky was chosen at all to aid in the
work? In my husband's diary, Skinsky is mentioned as dealing with the Slovaks
who trade down the river to the port. And the man's remark, that the murder was
the work of a Slovak, showed the general feeling against his class. The Count
wanted isolation.
<P>My surmise is this, that in London the Count decided to get back to his
castle by water, as the most safe and secret way. He was brought from the castle
by Szgany, and probably they delivered their cargo to Slovaks who took the boxes
to Varna, for there they were shipped to London. Thus the Count had knowledge of
the persons who could arrange this service. When the box was on land, before
sunrise or after sunset, he came out from his box, met Skinsky and instructed
him what to do as to arranging the carriage of the box up some river. When this
was done, and he knew that all was in train, he blotted out his traces, as he
thought, by murdering his agent.
<P>I have examined the map and find that the river most suitable for the Slovaks
to have ascended is either the Pruth or the Sereth. I read in the typescript
that in my trance I heard cows low and water swirling level with my ears and the
creaking of wood. The Count in his box, then, was on a river in an open boat,
propelled probably either by oars or poles, for the banks are near and it is
working against stream. There would be no such if floating down stream.
<P>Of course it may not be either the Sereth or the Pruth, but we may possibly
investigate further. Now of these two, the Pruth is the more easily navigated,
but the Sereth is, at Fundu, joined by the Bistritza which runs up round the
Borgo Pass. The loop it makes is manifestly as close to Dracula's castle as can
be got by water.
<P><STRONG>MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL--CONTINUED</STRONG>
<P>When I had done reading, Jonathan took me in his arms and kissed me. The
others kept shaking me by both hands, and Dr. Van Helsing said, "Our dear Madam
Mina is once more our teacher. Her eyes have been where we were blinded. Now we
are on the track once again, and this time we may succeed. Our enemy is at his
most helpless. And if we can come on him by day, on the water, our task will be
over. He has a start, but he is powerless to hasten, as he may not leave this
box lest those who carry him may suspect. For them to suspect would be to prompt
them to throw him in the stream where he perish. This he knows, and will not.
Now men, to our Council of War, for here and now, we must plan what each and all
shall do."
<P>"I shall get a steam launch and follow him," said Lord Godalming.
<P>"And I, horses to follow on the bank lest by chance he land," said Mr.
Morris.
<P>"Good!" said the Professor, "both good. But neither must go alone. There must
be force to overcome force if need be. The Slovak is strong and rough, and he
carries rude arms." All the men smiled, for amongst them they carried a small
arsenal.
<P>Said Mr. Morris, "I have brought some Winchesters. They are pretty handy in a
crowd, and there may be wolves. The Count, if you remember, took some other
precautions. He made some requisitions on others that Mrs. Harker could not
quite hear or understand. We must be ready at all points."
<P>Dr. Seward said, "I think I had better go with Quincey. We have been
accustomed to hunt together, and we two, well armed, will be a match for
whatever may come along. You must not be alone, Art. It may be necessary to
fight the Slovaks, and a chance thrust, for I don't suppose these fellows carry
guns, would undo all our plans. There must be no chances, this time. We shall
not rest until the Count's head and body have been separated, and we are sure
that he cannot reincarnate."
<P>He looked at Jonathan as he spoke, and Jonathan looked at me. I could see
that the poor dear was torn about in his mind. Of course he wanted to be with
me. But then the boat service would, most likely, be the one which would destroy
the. . .the. . .Vampire. (Why did I hesitate to write the word?)
<P>He was silent awhile, and during his silence Dr. Van Helsing spoke, "Friend
Jonathan, this is to you for twice reasons. First, because you are young and
brave and can fight, and all energies may be needed at the last. And again that
it is your right to destroy him. That, which has wrought such woe to you and
yours. Be not afraid for Madam Mina. She will be my care, if I may. I am old. My
legs are not so quick to run as once. And I am not used to ride so long or to
pursue as need be, or to fight with lethal weapons. But I can be of other
service. I can fight in other way. And I can die, if need be, as well as younger
men. Now let me say that what I would is this. While you, my Lord Godalming and
friend Jonathan go in your so swift little steamboat up the river, and whilst
John and Quincey guard the bank where perchance he might be landed, I will take
Madam Mina right into the heart of the enemy's country. Whilst the old fox is
tied in his box, floating on the running stream whence he cannot escape to land,
where he dares not raise the lid of his coffin box lest his Slovak carriers
should in fear leave him to perish, we shall go in the track where Jonathan
went, from Bistritz over the Borgo, and find our way to the Castle of Dracula.
Here, Madam Mina's hypnotic power will surely help, and we shall find our way,
all dark and unknown otherwise, after the first sunrise when we are near that
fateful place. There is much to be done, and other places to be made sanctify,
so that that nest of vipers be obliterated."
<P>Here Jonathan interrupted him hotly, "Do you mean to say, Professor Van
Helsing, that you would bring Mina, in her sad case and tainted as she is with
that devil's illness, right into the jaws of his deathtrap? Not for the world!
Not for Heaven or Hell!"
<P>He became almost speechless for a minute, and then went on, "Do you know what
the place is? Have you seen that awful den of hellish infamy, with the very
moonlight alive with grisly shapes, and ever speck of dust that whirls in the
wind a devouring monster in embryo? Have you felt the Vampire's lips upon your
throat?"
<P>Here he turned to me, and as his eyes lit on my forehead he threw up his arms
with a cry, "Oh, my God, what have we done to have this terror upon us?" and he
sank down on the sofa in a collapse of misery.
<P>The Professor's voice, as he spoke in clear, sweet tones, which seemed to
vibrate in the air, calmed us all.
<P>"Oh, my friend, it is because I would save Madam Mina from that awful place
that I would go. God forbid that I should take her into that place. There is
work, wild work, to be done before that place can be purify. Remember that we
are in terrible straits. If the Count escape us this time, and he is strong and
subtle and cunning, he may choose to sleep him for a century, and then in time
our dear one," he took my hand, "would come to him to keep him company, and
would be as those others that you, Jonathan, saw. You have told us of their
gloating lips. You heard their ribald laugh as they clutched the moving bag that
the Count threw to them. You shudder, and well may it be. Forgive me that I make
you so much pain, but it is necessary. My friend, is it not a dire need for that
which I am giving, possibly my life? If it, were that any one went into that
place to stay, it is I who would have to go to keep them company."
<P>"Do as you will," said Jonathan, with a sob that shook him all over, "we are
in the hands of God!"
<P>Later.--Oh, it did me good to see the way that these brave men worked. How
can women help loving men when they are so earnest, and so true, and so brave!
And, too, it made me think of the wonderful power of money! What can it not do
when basely used. I felt so thankful that Lord Godalming is rich, and both he
and Mr. Morris, who also has plenty of money, are willing to spend it so freely.
For if they did not, our little expedition could not start, either so promptly
or so well equipped, as it will within another hour. It is not three hours since
it was arranged what part each of us was to do. And now Lord Godalming and
Jonathan have a lovely steam launch, with steam up ready to start at a moment's
notice. Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris have half a dozen good horses, well appointed.
We have all the maps and appliances of various kinds that can be had. Professor
Van Helsing and I are to leave by the 11:40 train tonight for Veresti, where we
are to get a carriage to drive to the Borgo Pass. We are bringing a good deal of
ready money, as we are to buy a carriage and horses. We shall drive ourselves,
for we have no one whom we can trust in the matter. The Professor knows
something of a great many languages, so we shall get on all right. We have all
got arms, even for me a large bore revolver. Jonathan would not be happy unless
I was armed like the rest. Alas! I cannot carry one arm that the rest do, the
scar on my forehead forbids that. Dear Dr. Van Helsing comforts me by telling me
that I am fully armed as there may be wolves. The weather is getting colder
every hour, and there are snow flurries which come and go as warnings.
<P>Later.--It took all my courage to say goodby to my darling. We may never meet
again. Courage, Mina! The Professor is looking at you keenly. His look is a
warning. There must be no tears now, unless it may be that God will let them
fall in gladness.
<P><STRONG>JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>30 October, night.--I am writing this in the light from the furnace door of
the steam launch. Lord Godalming is firing up. He is an experienced hand at the
work, as he has had for years a launch of his own on the Thames, and another on
the Norfolk Broads. Regarding our plans, we finally decided that Mina's guess
was correct, and that if any waterway was chosen for the Count's escape back to
his Castle, the Sereth and then the Bistritza at its junction, would be the one.
We took it, that somewhere about the 47th degree, north latitude, would be the
place chosen for crossing the country between the river and the Carpathians. We
have no fear in running at good speed up the river at night. There is plenty of
water, and the banks are wide enough apart to make steaming, even in the dark,
easy enough. Lord Godalming tells me to sleep for a while, as it is enough for
the present for one to be on watch. But I cannot sleep, how can I with the
terrible danger hanging over my darling, and her going out into that awful
place. . .
<P>My only comfort is that we are in the hands of God. Only for that faith it
would be easier to die than to live, and so be quit of all the trouble. Mr.
Morris and Dr. Seward were off on their long ride before we started. They are to
keep up the right bank, far enough off to get on higher lands where they can see
a good stretch of river and avoid the following of its curves. They have, for
the first stages, two men to ride and lead their spare horses, four in all, so
as not to excite curiosity. When they dismiss the men, which shall be shortly,
they shall themselves look after the horses. It may be necessary for us to join
forces. If so they can mount our whole party. One of the saddles has a moveable
horn, and can be easily adapted for Mina, if required.
<P>It is a wild adventure we are on. Here, as we are rushing along through the
darkness, with the cold from the river seeming to rise up and strike us, with
all the mysterious voices of the night around us, it all comes home. We seem to
be drifting into unknown places and unknown ways. Into a whole world of dark and
dreadful things. Godalming is shutting the furnace door. . .
<P>31 October.--Still hurrying along. The day has come, and Godalming is
sleeping. I am on watch. The morning is bitterly cold, the furnace heat is
grateful, though we have heavy fur coats. As yet we have passed only a few open
boats, but none of them had on board any box or package of anything like the
size of the one we seek. The men were scared every time we turned our electric
lamp on them, and fell on their knees and prayed.
<P>1 November, evening.--No news all day. We have found nothing of the kind we
seek. We have now passed into the Bistritza, and if we are wrong in our surmise
our chance is gone. We have overhauled every boat, big and little. Early this
morning, one crew took us for a Government boat, and treated us accordingly. We
saw in this a way of smoothing matters, so at Fundu, where the Bistritza runs
into the Sereth, we got a Roumanian flag which we now fly conspicuously. With
every boat which we have overhauled since then this trick has succeeded. We have
had every deference shown to us, and not once any objection to whatever we chose
to ask or do. Some of the Slovaks tell us that a big boat passed them, going at
more than usual speed as she had a double crew on board. This was before they
came to Fundu, so they could not tell us whether the boat turned into the
Bistritza or continued on up the Sereth. At Fundu we could not hear of any such
boat, so she must have passed there in the night. I am feeling very sleepy. The
cold is perhaps beginning to tell upon me, and nature must have rest some time.
Godalming insists that he shall keep the first watch. God bless him for all his
goodness to poor dear Mina and me.
<P>2 November, morning.--It is broad daylight. That good fellow would not wake
me. He says it would have been a sin to, for I slept peacefully and was
forgetting my trouble. It seems brutally selfish to me to have slept so long,
and let him watch all night, but he was quite right. I am a new man this
morning. And, as I sit here and watch him sleeping, I can do all that is
necessary both as to minding the engine, steering, and keeping watch. I can feel
that my strength and energy are coming back to me. I wonder where Mina is now,
and Van Helsing. They should have got to Veresti about noon on Wednesday. It
would take them some time to get the carriage and horses. So if they had started
and travelled hard, they would be about now at the Borgo Pass. God guide and
help them! I am afraid to think what may happen. If we could only go faster. But
we cannot. The engines are throbbing and doing their utmost. I wonder how Dr.
Seward and Mr. Morris are getting on. There seem to be endless streams running
down the mountains into this river, but as none of them are very large, at
present, at all events, though they are doubtless terrible in winter and when
the snow melts, the horsemen may not have met much obstruction. I hope that
before we get to Strasba we may see them. For if by that time we have not
overtaken the Count, it may be necessary to take counsel together what to do
next.
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>2 November.--Three days on the road. No news, and no time to write it if
there had been, for every moment is precious. We have had only the rest needful
for the horses. But we are both bearing it wonderfully. Those adventurous days
of ours are turning up useful. We must push on. We shall never feel happy till
we get the launch in sight again.
<P>3 Novenber.--We heard at Fundu that the launch had gone up the Bistritza. I
wish it wasn't so cold. There are signs of snow coming. And if it falls heavy it
will stop us. In such case we must get a sledge and go on, Russian fashion.
<P>4 Novenber.--Today we heard of the launch having been detained by an accident
when trying to force a way up the rapids. The Slovak boats get up all right, by
aid of a rope and steering with knowledge. Some went up only a few hours before.
Godalming is an amateur fitter himself, and evidently it was he who put the
launch in trim again.
<P>Finally, they got up the rapids all right, with local help, and are off on
the chase afresh. I fear that the boat is not any better for the accident, the
peasantry tell us that after she got upon smooth water again, she kept stopping
every now and again so long as she was in sight. We must push on harder than
ever. Our help may be wanted soon.
<P><STRONG>MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>31 October.--Arrived at Veresti at noon. The Professor tells me that this
morning at dawn he could hardly hypnotize me at all, and that all I could say
was, "dark and quiet." He is off now buying a carriage and horses. He says that
he will later on try to buy additional horses, so that we may be able to change
them on the way. We have something more than 70 miles before us. The country is
lovely, and most interesting. If only we were under different conditions, how
delightful it would be to see it all. If Jonathan and I were driving through it
alone what a pleasure it would be. To stop and see people, and learn something
of their life, and to fill our minds and memories with all the color and
picturesqueness of the whole wild, beautiful country and the quaint people! But,
alas!
<P>Later.--Dr. Van Helsing has returned. He has got the carriage and horses. We
are to have some dinner, and to start in an hour. The landlady is putting us up
a huge basket of provisions. It seems enough for a company of soldiers. The
Professor encourages her, and whispers to me that it may be a week before we can
get any food again. He has been shopping too, and has sent home such a wonderful
lot of fur coats and wraps, and all sorts of warm things. There will not be any
chance of our being cold.
<P>We shall soon be off. I am afraid to think what may happen to us. We are
truly in the hands of God. He alone knows what may be, and I pray Him, with all
the strength of my sad and humble soul, that He will watch over my beloved
husband. That whatever may happen, Jonathan may know that I loved him and
honored him more than I can say, and that my latest and truest thought will be
always for him.
<P>
<CENTER><STRONG><A name=axxvii>CHAPTER 27. MINA HARKER'S
JOURNAL</STRONG></A></CENTER>
<P>1 November.--All day long we have travelled, and at a good speed. The horses
seem to know that they are being kindly treated, for they go willingly their
full stage at best speed. We have now had so many changes and find the same
thing so constantly that we are encouraged to think that the journey will be an
easy one. Dr. Van Helsing is laconic, he tells the farmers that he is hurrying
to Bistritz, and pays them well to make the exchange of horses. We get hot soup,
or coffee, or tea, and off we go. It is a lovely country. Full of beauties of
all imaginable kinds, and the people are brave, and strong, and simple, and seem
full of nice qualities. They are very, very superstitious. In the first house
where we stopped, when the woman who served us saw the scar on my forehead, she
crossed herself and put out two fingers towards me, to keep off the evil eye. I
believe they went to the trouble of putting an extra amount of garlic into our
food, and I can't abide garlic. Ever since then I have taken care not to take
off my hat or veil, and so have escaped their suspicions. We are travelling
fast, and as we have no driver with us to carry tales, we go ahead of scandal.
But I daresay that fear of the evil eye will follow hard behind us all the way.
The Professor seems tireless. All day he would not take any rest, though he made
me sleep for a long spell. At sunset time he hypnotized me, and he says I
answered as usual, "darkness, lapping water and creaking wood." So our enemy is
still on the river. I am afraid to think of Jonathan, but somehow I have now no
fear for him, or for myself. I write this whilst we wait in a farmhouse for the
horses to be ready. Dr. Van Helsing is sleeping. Poor dear, he looks very tired
and old and grey, but his mouth is set as firmly as a conqueror's. Even in his
sleep he is intense with resolution. When we have well started I must make him
rest whilst I drive. I shall tell him that we have days before us, and he must
not break down when most of all his strength will be needed. . .All is ready. We
are off shortly.
<P>2 November, morning.--I was successful, and we took turns driving all night.
Now the day is on us, bright though cold. There is a strange heaviness in the
air. I say heaviness for want of a better word. I mean that it oppresses us
both. It is very cold, and only our warm furs keep us comfortable. At dawn Van
Helsing hypnotized me. He says I answered "darkness, creaking wood and roaring
water," so the river is changing as they ascend. I do hope that my darling will
not run any chance of danger, more than need be, but we are in God's hands.
<P>2 November, night.--All day long driving. The country gets wilder as we go,
and the great spurs of the Carpathians, which at Veresti seemed so far from us
and so low on the horizon, now seem to gather round us and tower in front. We
both seem in good spirits. I think we make an effort each to cheer the other, in
the doing so we cheer ourselves. Dr. Van Helsing says that by morning we shall
reach the Borgo Pass. The houses are very few here now, and the Professor says
that the last horse we got will have to go on with us, as we may not be able to
change. He got two in addition to the two we changed, so that now we have a rude
four-in-hand. The dear horses are patient and good, and they give us no trouble.
We are not worried with other travellers, and so even I can drive. We shall get
to the Pass in daylight. We do not want to arrive before. So we take it easy,
and have each a long rest in turn. Oh, what will tomorrow bring to us? We go to
seek the place where my poor darling suffered so much. God grant that we may be
guided aright, and that He will deign to watch over my husband and those dear to
us both, and who are in such deadly peril. As for me, I am not worthy in His
sight. Alas! I am unclean to His eyes, and shall be until He may deign to let me
stand forth in His sight as one of those who have not incurred His wrath.
<P><STRONG>MEMORANDUM BY ABRAHAM VAN HELSING</STRONG>
<P>4 November.--This to my old and true friend John Seward, M. D., of Purefleet,
London, in case I may not see him. It may explain. It is morning, and I write by
a fire which all the night I have kept alive, Madam Mina aiding me. It is cold,
cold. So cold that the grey heavy sky is full of snow, which when it falls will
settle for all winter as the ground is hardening to receive it. It seems to have
affected Madam Mina. She has been so heavy of head all day that she was not like
herself. She sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps! She who is usual so alert, have
done literally nothing all the day. She even have lost her appetite. She make no
entry into her little diary, she who write so faithful at every pause. Something
whisper to me that all is not well. However, tonight she is more vif. Her long
sleep all day have refresh and restore her, for now she is all sweet and bright
as ever. At sunset I try to hypnotize her, but alas! with no effect. The power
has grown less and less with each day, and tonight it fail me altogether. Well,
God's will be done, whatever it may be, and whithersoever it may lead!
<P>Now to the historical, for as Madam Mina write not in her stenography, I
must, in my cumbrous old fashion, that so each day of us may not go unrecorded.
<P>We got to the Borgo Pass just after sunrise yesterday morning. When I saw the
signs of the dawn I got ready for the hypnotism. We stopped our carriage, and
got down so that there might be no disturbance. I made a couch with furs, and
Madam Mina, lying down, yield herself as usual, but more slow and more short
time than ever, to the hypnotic sleep. As before, came the answer, "darkness and
the swirling of water." Then she woke, bright and radiant and we go on our way
and soon reach the Pass. At this time and place, she become all on fire with
zeal. Some new guiding power be in her manifested, for she point to a road and
say, "This is the way."
<P>"How know you it?" I ask.
<P>"Of course I know it,' she answer, and with a pause, add, "Have not my
Jonathan travelled it and wrote of his travel?"
<P>At first I think somewhat strange, but soon I see that there be only one such
byroad. It is used but little, and very different from the coach road from the
Bukovina to Bistritz, which is more wide and hard, and more of use.
<P>So we came down this road. When we meet other ways, not always were we sure
that they were roads at all, for they be neglect and light snow have fallen, the
horses know and they only. I give rein to them, and they go on so patient. By
and by we find all the things which Jonathan have note in that wonderful diary
of him. Then we go on for long, long hours and hours. At the first, I tell Madam
Mina to sleep. She try, and she succeed. She sleep all the time, till at the
last, I feel myself to suspicious grow, and attempt to wake her. But she sleep
on, and I may not wake her though I try. I do not wish to try too hard lest I
harm her. For I know that she have suffer much, and sleep at times be all-in-all
to her. I think I drowse myself, for all of sudden I feel guilt, as though I
have done something. I find myself bolt up, with the reins in my hand, and the
good horses go along jog, jog, just as ever. I look down and find Madam Mina
still asleep. It is now not far off sunset time, and over the snow the light of
the sun flow in big yellow flood, so that we throw great long shadow on where
the mountain rise so steep. For we are going up, and up, and all is oh, so wild
and rocky, as though it were the end of the world.
<P>Then I arouse Madam Mina. This time she wake with not much trouble, and then
I try to put her to hypnotic sleep. But she sleep not, being as though I were
not. Still I try and try, till all at once I find her and myself in dark, so I
look round, and find that the sun have gone down. Madam Mina laugh, and I turn
and look at her. She is now quite awake, and look so well as I never saw her
since that night at Carfax when we first enter the Count's house. I am amaze,
and not at ease then. But she is so bright and tender and thoughtful for me that
I forget all fear. I light a fire, for we have brought supply of wood with us,
and she prepare food while I undo the horses and set them, tethered in shelter,
to feed. Then when I return to the fire she have my supper ready. I go to help
her, but she smile, and tell me that she have eat already. That she was so
hungry that she would not wait. I like it not, and I have grave doubts. But I
fear to affright her, and so I am silent of it. She help me and I eat alone, and
then we wrap in fur and lie beside the fire, and I tell her to sleep while I
watch. But presently I forget all of watching. And when I sudden remember that I
watch, I find her lying quiet, but awake, and looking at me with so bright eyes.
Once, twice more the same occur, and I get much sleep till before morning. When
I wake I try to hypnotize her, but alas! Though she shut her eyes obedient, she
may not sleep. The sun rise up, and up, and up, and then sleep come to her too
late, but so heavy that she will not wake. I have to lift her up, and place her
sleeping in the carriage when I have harnessed the horses and made all ready.
Madam still sleep, and she look in her sleep more healthy and more redder than
before. And I like it not. And I am afraid, afraid, afraid! I am afraid of all
things, even to think but I must go on my way. The stake we play for is life and
death, or more than these, and we must not flinch.
<P>5 November, morning.--Let me be accurate in everything, for though you and I
have seen some strange things together, you may at the first think that I, Van
Helsing, am mad. That the many horrors and the so long strain on nerves has at
the last turn my brain.
<P>All yesterday we travel, always getting closer to the mountains, and moving
into a more and more wild and desert land. There are great, frowning precipices
and much falling water, and Nature seem to have held sometime her carnival.
Madam Mina still sleep and sleep. And though I did have hunger and appeased it,
I could not waken her, even for food. I began to fear that the fatal spell of
the place was upon her, tainted as she is with that Vampire baptism. "Well,"
said I to myself, "if it be that she sleep all the day, it shall also be that I
do not sleep at night." As we travel on the rough road, for a road of an ancient
and imperfect kind there was, I held down my head and slept.
<P>Again I waked with a sense of guilt and of time passed, and found Madam Mina
still sleeping, and the sun low down. But all was indeed changed. The frowning
mountains seemed further away, and we were near the top of a steep rising hill,
on summit of which was such a castle as Jonathan tell of in his diary. At once I
exulted and feared. For now, for good or ill, the end was near.
<P>I woke Madam Mina, and again tried to hypnotize her, but alas! unavailing
till too late. Then, ere the great dark came upon us, for even after down sun
the heavens reflected the gone sun on the snow, and all was for a time in a
great twilight. I took out the horses and fed them in what shelter I could. Then
I make a fire, and near it I make Madam Mina, now awake and more charming than
ever, sit comfortable amid her rugs. I got ready food, but she would not eat,
simply saying that she had not hunger. I did not press her, knowing her
unavailingness. But I myself eat, for I must needs now be strong for all. Then,
with the fear on me of what might be, I drew a ring so big for her comfort,
round where Madam Mina sat. And over the ring I passed some of the wafer, and I
broke it fine so that all was well guarded. She sat still all the time, so still
as one dead. And she grew whiter and even whiter till the snow was not more
pale, and no word she said. But when I drew near, she clung to me, and I could
know that the poor soul shook her from head to feet with a tremor that was pain
to feel.
<P>I said to her presently, when she had grown more quiet, "Will you not come
over to the fire?" for I wished to make a test of what she could. She rose
obedient, but when she have made a step she stopped, and stood as one stricken.
<P>"Why not go on?" I asked. She shook her head, and coming back, sat down in
her place. Then, looking at me with open eyes, as of one waked from sleep, she
said simply, "I cannot!" and remained silent. I rejoiced, for I knew that what
she could not, none of those that we dreaded could. Though there might be danger
to her body, yet her soul was safe!
<P>Presently the horses began to scream, and tore at their tethers till I came
to them and quieted them. When they did feel my hands on them, they whinnied low
as in joy, and licked at my hands and were quiet for a time. Many times through
the night did I come to them, till it arrive to the cold hour when all nature is
at lowest, and every time my coming was with quiet of them. In the cold hour the
fire began to die, and I was about stepping forth to replenish it, for now the
snow came in flying sweeps and with it a chill mist. Even in the dark there was
a light of some kind, as there ever is over snow, and it seemed as though the
snow flurries and the wreaths of mist took shape as of women with trailing
garments. All was in dead, grim silence only that the horses whinnied and
cowered, as if in terror of the worst. I began to fear, horrible fears. But then
came to me the sense of safety in that ring wherein I stood. I began too, to
think that my imaginings were of the night, and the gloom, and the unrest that I
have gone through, and all the terrible anxiety. It was as though my memories of
all Jonathan's horrid experience were befooling me. For the snow flakes and the
mist began to wheel and circle round, till I could get as though a shadowy
glimpse of those women that would have kissed him. And then the horses cowered
lower and lower, and moaned in terror as men do in pain. Even the madness of
fright was not to them, so that they could break away. I feared for my dear
Madam Mina when these weird figures drew near and circled round. I looked at
her, but she sat calm, and smiled at me. When I would have stepped to the fire
to replenish it, she caught me and held me back, and whispered, like a voice
that one hears in a dream, so low it was.
<P>"No! No! Do not go without. Here you are safe!"
<P>I turned to her, and looking in her eyes said, "But you? It is for you that I
fear!"
<P>Whereat she laughed, a laugh low and unreal, and said, "Fear for me! Why fear
for me? None safer in all the world from them than I am," and as I wondered at
the meaning of her words, a puff of wind made the flame leap up, and I see the
red scar on her forehead. Then, alas! I knew. Did I not, I would soon have
learned, for the wheeling figures of mist and snow came closer, but keeping ever
without the Holy circle. Then they began to materialize till, if God have not
taken away my reason, for I saw it through my eyes. There were before me in
actual flesh the same three women that Jonathan saw in the room, when they would
have kissed his throat. I knew the swaying round forms, the bright hard eyes,
the white teeth, the ruddy color, the voluptuous lips. They smiled ever at poor
dear Madam Mina. And as their laugh came through the silence of the night, they
twined their arms and pointed to her, and said in those so sweet tingling tones
that Jonathan said were of the intolerable sweetness of the water glasses,
"Come, sister. Come to us. Come!"
<P>In fear I turned to my poor Madam Mina, and my heart with gladness leapt like
flame. For oh! the terror in her sweet eyes, the repulsion, the horror, told a
story to my heart that was all of hope. God be thanked she was not, yet of them.
I seized some of the firewood which was by me, and holding out some of the
Wafer, advanced on them towards the fire. They drew back before me, and laughed
their low horrid laugh. I fed the fire, and feared them not. For I knew that we
were safe within the ring, which she could not leave no more than they could
enter. The horses had ceased to moan, and lay still on the ground. The snow fell
on them softly, and they grew whiter. I knew that there was for the poor beasts
no more of terror.
<P>And so we remained till the red of the dawn began to fall through the snow
gloom. I was desolate and afraid, and full of woe and terror. But when that
beautiful sun began to climb the horizon life was to me again. At the first
coming of the dawn the horrid figures melted in the whirling mist and snow. The
wreaths of transparent gloom moved away towards the castle, and were lost.
<P>Instinctively, with the dawn coming, I turned to Madam Mina, intending to
hypnotize her. But she lay in a deep and sudden sleep, from which I could not
wake her. I tried to hypnotize through her sleep, but she made no response, none
at all, and the day broke. I fear yet to stir. I have made my fire and have seen
the horses, they are all dead. Today I have much to do here, and I keep waiting
till the sun is up high. For there may be places where I must go, where that
sunlight, though snow and mist obscure it, will be to me a safety.
<P>I will strengthen me with breakfast, and then I will do my terrible work.
Madam Mina still sleeps, and God be thanked! She is calm in her sleep. . .
<P><STRONG>JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>4 November, evening.--The accident to the launch has been a terrible thing
for us. Only for it we should have overtaken the boat long ago, and by now my
dear Mina would have been free. I fear to think of her, off on the wolds near
that horrid place. We have got horses, and we follow on the track. I note this
whilst Godalming is getting ready. We have our arms. The Szgany must look out if
they mean to fight. Oh, if only Morris and Seward were with us. We must only
hope! If I write no more Goodby Mina! God bless and keep you.
<P><STRONG>DR. SEWARD'S DIARY</STRONG>
<P>5 November.--With the dawn we saw the body of Szgany before us dashing away
from the river with their leiter wagon. They surrounded it in a cluster, and
hurried along as though beset. The snow is falling lightly and there is a
strange excitement in the air. It may be our own feelings, but the depression is
strange. Far off I hear the howling of wolves. The snow brings them down from
the mountains, and there are dangers to all of us, and from all sides. The
horses are nearly ready, and we are soon off. We ride to death of some one. God
alone knows who, or where, or what, or when, or how it may be. . .
<P><STRONG>DR. VAN HELSING'S MEMORANDUM</STRONG>
<P>5 November, afternoon.--I am at least sane. Thank God for that mercy at all
events, though the proving it has been dreadful. When I left Madam Mina sleeping
within the Holy circle, I took my way to the castle. The blacksmith hammer which
I took in the carriage from Veresti was useful, though the doors were all open I
broke them off the rusty hinges, lest some ill intent or ill chance should close
them, so that being entered I might not get out. Jonathan's bitter experience
served me here. By memory of his diary I found my way to the old chapel, for I
knew that here my work lay. The air was oppressive. It seemed as if there was
some sulphurous fume, which at times made me dizzy. Either there was a roaring
in my ears or I heard afar off the howl of wolves. Then I bethought me of my
dear Madam Mina, and I was in terrible plight. The dilemma had me between his
horns.
<P>Her, I had not dare to take into this place, but left safe from the Vampire
in that Holy circle. And yet even there would be the wolf! I resolve me that my
work lay here, and that as to the wolves we must submit, if it were God's will.
At any rate it was only death and freedom beyond. So did I choose for her. Had
it but been for myself the choice had been easy, the maw of the wolf were better
to rest in than the grave of the Vampire! So I make my choice to go on with my
work.
<P>I knew that there were at least three graves to find, graves that are
inhabit. So I search, and search, and I find one of them. She lay in her Vampire
sleep, so full of life and voluptuous beauty that I shudder as though I have
come to do murder. Ah, I doubt not that in the old time, when such things were,
many a man who set forth to do such a task as mine, found at the last his heart
fail him, and then his nerve. So he delay, and delay, and delay, till the mere
beauty and the fascination of the wanton Undead have hypnotize him. And he
remain on and on, till sunset come, and the Vampire sleep be over. Then the
beautiful eyes of the fair woman open and look love, and the voluptuous mouth
present to a kiss, and the man is weak. And there remain one more victim in the
Vampire fold. One more to swell the grim and grisly ranks of the Undead!. . .
<P>There is some fascination, surely, when I am moved by the mere presence of
such an one, even lying as she lay in a tomb fretted with age and heavy with the
dust of centuries, though there be that horrid odor such as the lairs of the
Count have had. Yes, I was moved. I, Van Helsing, with all my purpose and with
my motive for hate. I was moved to a yearning for delay which seemed to paralyze
my faculties and to clog my very soul. It may have been that the need of natural
sleep, and the strange oppression of the air were beginning to overcome me.
Certain it was that I was lapsing into sleep, the open eyed sleep of one who
yields to a sweet fascination, when there came through the snow stilled air a
long, low wail, so full of woe and pity that it woke me like the sound of a
clarion. For it was the voice of my dear Madam Mina that I heard.
<P>Then I braced myself again to my horrid task, and found by wrenching away
tomb tops one other of the sisters, the other dark one. I dared not pause to
look on her as I had on her sister, lest once more I should begin to be
enthrall. But I go on searching until, presently, I find in a high great tomb as
if made to one much beloved that other fair sister which, like Jonathan I had
seen to gather herself out of the atoms of the mist. She was so fair to look on,
so radiantly beautiful, so exquisitely voluptuous, that the very instinct of man
in me, which calls some of my sex to love and to protect one of hers, made my
head whirl with new emotion. But God be thanked, that soul wail of my dear Madam
Mina had not died out of my ears. And, before the spell could be wrought further
upon me, I had nerved myself to my wild work. By this tim e I had searched all
the tombs in the chapel, so far as I could tell. And as there had been only
three of these Undead phantoms around us in the night, I took it that there were
no more of active Undead existent. There was one great tomb more lordly than all
the rest. Huge it was, and nobly proportioned. On it was but one word.
<P><STRONG>DRACULA</STRONG>
<P>This then was the Undead home of the King Vampire, to whom so many more were
due. Its emptiness spoke eloquent to make certain what I knew. Before I began to
restore these women to their dead selves through my awful work, I laid in
Dracula's tomb some of the Wafer, and so banished him from it, Undead, for ever.
<P>Then began my terrible task, and I dreaded it. Had it been but one, it had
been easy, comparative. But three! To begin twice more after I had been through
a deed of horror. For it was terrible with the sweet Miss Lucy, what would it
not be with these strange ones who had survived through centuries, and who had
been strenghtened by the passing of the years. Who would, if they could, have
fought for their foul lives. . .
<P>Oh, my friend John, but it was butcher work. Had I not been nerved by
thoughts of other dead, and of the living over whom hung such a pall of fear, I
could not have gone on. I tremble and tremble even yet, though till all was
over, God be thanked, my nerve did stand. Had I not seen the repose in the first
place, and the gladness that stole over it just ere the final dissolution came,
as realization that the soul had been won, I could not have gone further with my
butchery. I could not have endured the horrid screeching as the stake drove
home, the plunging of writhing form, and lips of bloody foam. I should have fled
in terror and left my work undone. But it is over! And the poor souls, I can
pity them now and weep, as I think of them placid each in her full sleep of
death for a short moment ere fading. For, friend John, hardly had my knife
severed the head of each, before the whole body began to melt away and crumble
into its native dust, as though the death that should have come centuries agone
had at last assert himself and say at once and loud, "I am here!"
<P>Before I left the castle I so fixed its entrances that never more can the
Count enter there Undead.
<P>When I stepped into the circle where Madam Mina slept, she woke from her
sleep and, seeing me, cried out in pain that I had endured too much.
<P>"Come!" she said, "come away from this awful place! Let us go to meet my
husband who is, I know, coming towards us." She was looking thin and pale and
weak. But her eyes were pure and glowed with fervor. I was glad to see her
paleness and her illness, for my mind was full of the fresh horror of that ruddy
vampire sleep.
<P>And so with trust and hope, and yet full of fear, we go eastward to meet our
friends, and him, whom Madam Mina tell me that she know are coming to meet us.
<P><STRONG>MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL</STRONG>
<P>6 November.--It was late in the afternoon when the Professor and I took our
way towards the east whence I knew Jonathan was coming. We did not go fast,
though the way was steeply downhill, for w e had to take heavy rugs and wraps
with us. We dared not face the possibility of being left without warmth in the
cold and the snow. We had to take some of our provisions too, for we were in a
perfect desolation, and so far as we could see through the snowfall, there was
not even the sign of habitation. When we had gone about a mile, I was tired with
the heavy walking and sat down to rest. Then we looked back and saw where the
clear line of Dracula's castle cut the sky. For we were so deep under the hill
whereon it was set that the angle of perspective of the Carpathian mountains was
far below it. We saw it in all its grandeur, perched a thousand feet on the
summit of a sheer precipice, and with seemingly a great gap between it and the
steep of the adjacent mountain on any side. There was something wild and uncanny
about the place. We could hear the distant howling of wolves. They were far off,
but the sound, even though coming muffled through the deadening snowfall, was
full of terror. I knew from the way Dr. Van Helsing was searching about that he
was trying to seek some strategic point, where we would be less exposed in case
of attack. The rough roadway still led downwards. We could trace it through the
drifted snow.
<P>In a little while the Professor signalled to me, so I got up and joined him.
He had found a wonderful spot, a sort of natural hollow in a rock, with an
entrance like a doorway between two boulders. He took me by the hand and drew me
in.
<P>"See!" he said, "here you will be in shelter. And if the wolves do come I can
meet them one by one."
<P>He brought in our furs, and made a snug nest for me, and got out some
provisions and forced them upon me. But I could not eat, to even try to do so
was repulsive to me, and much as I would have liked to please him, I could not
bring myself to the attempt. He looked very sad, but did not reproach me. Taking
his field glasses from the case, he stood on the top of the rock, and began to
search the horizon.
<P>Suddenly he called out, "Look! Madam Mina, look! Look!"
<P>I sprang up and stood beside him on the rock. He handed me his glasses and
pointed. The snow was now falling more heavily, and swirled about fiercely, for
a high wind was beginning to blow. However, there were times when there were
pauses between the snow flurries and I could see a long way round. From the
height where we were it was possible to see a great distance. And far off,
beyond the white waste of snow, I could see the river lying like a black ribbon
in kinks and curls as it wound its way. Straight in front of us and not far off,
in fact so near that I wondered we had not noticed before, came a group of
mounted men hurrying along. In the midst of them was a cart, a long leiter wagon
which swept from side to side, like a dog's tail wagging, with each stern
inequality of the road. Outlined against the snow as they were, I could see from
the men's clothes that they were peasants or gypsies of some kind.
<P>On the cart was a great square chest. My heart leaped as I saw it, for I felt
that the end was coming. The evening was now drawing close, and well I knew that
at sunset the Thing, which was till then imprisoned there, would take new
freedom and could in any of many forms elude pursuit. In fear I turned to the
Professor. To my consternation, however, he was not there. An instant later, I
saw him below me. Round the rock he had drawn a circle, such as we had found
shelter in last night.
<P>When he had completed it he stood beside me again saying, "At least you shall
be safe here from him!" He took the glasses from me, and at the next lull of the
snow swept the whole space below us. "See," he said, "they come quickly. They
are flogging the horses, and galloping as hard as they can."
<P>He paused and went on in a hollow voice, "They are racing for the sunset. We
may be too late. God's will be done!" Down came another blinding rush of driving
snow, and the whole landscape was blotted out. It soon passed, however, and once
more his glasses were fixed on the plain.
<P>Then came a sudden cry, "Look! Look! Look! See, two horsemen follow fast,
coming up from the south. It must be Quincey and John. Take the glass. Look
before the snow blots it all out!" I took it and looked. The two men might be
Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris. I knew at all events that neither of them was
Jonathan. At the same time I knew that Jonathan was not far off. Looking around
I saw on the north side of the coming party two other men, riding at breakneck
speed. One of them I knew was Jonathan, and the other I took, of course, to be
Lord Godalming. They too, were pursuing the party with the cart. When I told the
Professor he shouted in glee like a schoolboy, and after looking intently till a
snow fall made sight impossible, he laid his Winchester rifle ready for use
against the boulder at the opening of our shelter.
<P>"They are all converging," he said."When the time comes we shall have gypsies
on all sides." I got out my revolver ready to hand, for whilst we were speaking
the howling of wolves came louder and closer. When the snow storm abated a
moment we looked again. It was strange to see the snow falling in such heavy
flakes close to us, and beyond, the sun shining more and more brightly as it
sank down towards the far mountain tops. Sweeping the glass all around us I
could see here and there dots moving singly and in twos and threes and larger
numbers. The wolves were gathering for their prey.
<P>Every instant seemed an age whilst we waited. The wind came now in fierce
bursts, and the snow was driven with fury as it swept upon us in circling
eddies. At times we could not see an arm's length before us. But at others, as
the hollow sounding wind swept by us, it seemed to clear the air space around us
so that we could see afar off. We had of late been so accustomed to watch for
sunrise and sunset, that we knew with fair accuracy when it would be. And we
knew that before long the sun would set. It was hard to believe that by our
watches it was less than an hour that we waited in that rocky shelter before the
various bodies began to converge close upon us. The wind came now with fiercer
and more bitter sweeps, and more steadily from the north. It seemingly had
driven the snow clouds from us, for with only occasional bursts, the snow fell.
We could distinguish clearly the individuals of each party, the pursued and the
pursuers. Strangely enough those pursued did not seem to realize, or at least to
care, that they were pursued. They seemed, however, to hasten with redoubled
speed as the sun dropped lower and lower on the mountain tops.
<P>Closer and closer they drew. The Professor and I crouched down behind our
rock, and held our weapons ready. I could see that he was determined that they
should not pass. One and all were quite unaware of our presence.
<P>All at once two voices shouted out to, "Halt!" One was my Jonathan's, raised
in a high key of passion. The other Mr. Morris' strong resolute tone of quiet
command. The gypsies may not have known the language, but there was no mistaking
the tone, in whatever tongue the words were spoken. Instinctively they reined
in, and at the instant Lord Godalming and Jonathan dashed up at one side and Dr.
Seward and Mr. Morris on the other. The leader of the gypsies, a splendid
looking fellow who sat his horse like a centaur, waved them back, and in a
fierce voice gave to his companions some word to proceed. They lashed the horses
which sprang forward. But the four men raised their Winchester rifles, and in an
unmistakable way commanded them to stop. At the same moment Dr. Van Helsing and
I rose behind the rock and pointed our weapons at them. Seeing that they were
surrounded the men tightened their reins and drew up. The leader turned to them
and gave a word at which every man of the gypsy party drew what weapon he
carried, knife or pistol, and held himself in readiness to attack. Issue was
joined in an instant.
<P>The leader, with a quick movement of his rein, threw his horse out in front,
and pointed first to the sun, now close down on the hill tops, and then to the
castle, said something which I did not understand. For answer, all four men of
our party threw themselves from their horses and dashed towards the cart. I
should have felt terrible fear at seeing Jonathan in such danger, but that the
ardor of battle must have been upon me as well as the rest of them. I felt no
fear, but only a wild, surging desire to do something. Seeing the quick movement
of our parties, the leader of the gypsies gave a command. His men instantly
formed round the cart in a sort of undisciplined endeavor, each one shouldering
and pushing the other in his eagerness to carry out the order.
<P>In the midst of this I could see that Jonathan on one side of the ring of
men, and Quincey on the other, were forcing a way to the cart. It was evident
that they were bent on finishing their task before the sun should set. Nothing
seemed to stop or even to hinder them. Neither the levelled weapons nor the
flashing knives of the gypsies in front, nor the howling of the wolves behind,
appeared to even attract their attention. Jonathan's impetuosity, and the
manifest singleness of his purpose, seemed to overawe those in front of him.
Instinctively they cowered aside and let him pass. In an instant he had jumped
upon the cart, and with a strength which seemed incredible, raised the great
box, and flung it over the wheel to the ground. In the meantime, Mr. Morris had
had to use force to pass through his side of the ring of Szgany. All the time I
had been breathlessly watching Jonathan I had, with the tail of my eye, seen him
pressing desperately forward, and had seen the knives of the gypsies flash as he
won a way through them, and they cut at him. He had parried with his great bowie
knife, and at first I thought that he too had come through in safety. But as he
sprang beside Jonathan, who had by now jumped from the cart, I could see that
with his left hand he was clutching at his side, and that the blood was spurting
through his fingers. He did not delay notwithstanding this, for as Jonathan,
with desperate energy, attacked one end of the chest, attempting to prize off
the lid with his great Kukri knife, he attacked the other frantically with his
bowie. Under the efforts of both men the lid began to yield. The nails drew with
a screeching sound, and the top of the box was thrown back.
<P>By this time the gypsies, seeing themselves covered by the Winchesters, and
at the mercy of Lord Godalming and Dr. Seward, had given in and made no further
resistance. The sun was almost down on the mountain tops, and the shadows of the
whole group fell upon the snow. I saw the Count lying within the box upon the
earth, some of which the rude falling from the cart had scattered over him. He
was deathly pale, just like a waxen image, and the red eyes glared with the
horrible vindictive look which I knew so well.
<P>As I looked, the eyes saw the sinking sun, and the look of hate in them
turned to triumph.
<P>But, on the instant, came the sweep and flash of Jonathan's great knife. I
shrieked as I saw it shear through the throat. Whilst at the same moment Mr.
Morris's bowie knife plunged into the heart.
<P>It was like a miracle, but before our very eyes, and almost in the drawing of
a breath, the whole body crumbled into dust and passed from our sight.
<P>I shall be glad as long as I live that even in that moment of final
dissolution, there was in the face a look of peace, such as I never could have
imagined might have rested there.
<P>The Castle of Dracula now stood out against the red sky, and every stone of
its broken battlements was articulated against the light of the setting sun.
<P>The gypsies, taking us as in some way the cause of the extraordinary
disappearance of the dead man, turned, without a word, and rode away as if for
their lives. Those who were unmounted jumped upon the leiter wagon and shouted
to the horsemen not to desert them. The wolves, which had withdrawn to a safe
distance, followed in their wake, leaving us alone.
<P>Mr. Morris, who had sunk to the ground, leaned on his elbow, holding his hand
pressed to his side. The blood still gushed through his fingers. I flew to him,
for the Holy circle did not now keep me back, so did the two doctors. Jonathan
knelt behind him and the wounded man laid back his head on his shoulder. With a
sigh he took, with a feeble effort, my hand in that of his own which was
unstained.
<P>He must have seen the anguish of my heart in my face, for he smiled at me and
said, "I am only too happy to have been of service! Oh, God!" he cried suddenly,
struggling to a sitting posture and pointing to me. "It was worth for this to
die! Look! Look!"
<P>The sun was now right down upon the mountain top, and the red gleams fell
upon my face, so that it was bathed in rosy light. With one impulse the men sank
on their knees and a deep and earnest "Amen" broke from all as their eyes
followed the pointing of his finger.
<P>The dying man spoke, "Now God be thanked that all has not been in vain! See!
The snow is not more stainless than her forehead! The curse has passed away!"
<P>And, to our bitter grief, with a smile and in silence, he died, a gallant
gentleman.
<P><STRONG>NOTE</STRONG>
<P>Seven years ago we all went through the flames. And the happiness of some of
us since then is, we think, well worth the pain we endured. It is an added joy
to Mina and to me that our boy's birthday is the same day as that on which
Quincey Morris died. His mother holds, I know, the secret belief that some of
our brave friend's spirit has passed into him. His bundle of names links all our
little band of men together. But we call him Quincey.
<P>In the summer of this year we made a journey to Transylvania, and went over
the old ground which was, and is, to us so full of vivid and terrible memories.
It was almost impossible to believe that the things which we had seen with our
own eyes and heard with our own ears were living truths. Every trace of all that
had been was blotted out. The castle stood as before, reared high above a waste
of desolation.
<P>When we got home we were talking of the old time, which we could all look
back on without despair, for Godalming and Seward are both happily married. I
took the papers from the safe where they had been ever since our return so long
ago. We were struck with the fact, that in all the mass of material of which the
record is composed, there is hardly one authentic document. Nothing but a mass
of typewriting, except the later notebooks of Mina and Seward and myself, and
Van Helsing's memorandum. We could hardly ask any one, even did we wish to, to
accept these as proofs of so wild a story. Van Helsing summed it all up as he
said, with our boy on his knee.
<P>"We want no proofs. We ask none to believe us! This boy will some day know
what a brave and gallant woman his mother is. Already he knows her sweetness and
loving care. Later on he will understand how some men so loved her, that they
did dare much for her sake.
<P><STRONG>JONATHAN HARKER</STRONG> </P></BODY></HTML>
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