CHAPTER 1


Jonathan Harker's Journal


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.

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.

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.

I found my smattering of German very useful here, indeed, I don't
know how I should be able to get on without it.

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.


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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.)

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.

It seems to me that the further east you go the more unpunctual
are the trains.  What ought they to be in China?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?"

"Yes," I said, "Jonathan Harker."

She smiled, and gave some message to an elderly man in white shirtsleeves,
who had followed her to the door.

He went, but immediately returned with a letter:


"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."


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.

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.

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.

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:

"Do you know what day it is?"  I answered that it was the fourth of May.
She shook her head as she said again:

"Oh, yes!  I know that!  I know that, but do you know what day it is?"

On my saying that I did not understand, she went on:

"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.

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.

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.

She then rose and dried her eyes, and taking a crucifix from her neck
offered it to me.

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.

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.

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.

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.

If this book should ever reach Mina before I do, let it bring my goodbye.
Here comes the coach!


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.

I am not sleepy, and, as I am not to be called till I awake,
naturally I write till sleep comes.

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.

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!

The wine was Golden Mediasch, which produces a queer sting on the tongue,
which is, however, not disagreeable.

I had only a couple of glasses of this, and nothing else.

When I got on the coach, the driver had not taken his seat,
and I saw him talking to the landlady.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Look!  Isten szek!"--"God's seat!"--and he crossed himself reverently.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

He said to the driver, "You are early tonight, my friend."

The man stammered in reply, "The English Herr was in a hurry."

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."

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".

"Denn die Todten reiten Schnell."  ("For the dead travel fast.")


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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.





CHAPTER 2


Jonathan Harker's Journal Continued



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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

"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?"

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.

"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.

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.

"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."

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.

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,

"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."

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.

"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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

"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.

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!


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.

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.

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.

"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."

"But, Count," I said, "You know and speak English thoroughly!"
He bowed gravely.

"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.

"Indeed," I said, "You speak excellently."

"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."

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.

"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.

"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."

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.

"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."

"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.

"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?"

"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.

"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.

"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!"

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.

"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.

"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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.


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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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!




CHAPTER 3


Jonathan Harker's Journal Continued


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.

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?

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.


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.

"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."

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.)


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.

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,

"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?"

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.

"But," said he, "I could be at liberty to direct myself.
Is it not so?"

"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."

"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?"

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.

"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."

"Do you wish me to stay so long?"  I asked, for my heart grew cold
at the thought.

"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?"

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.

"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.

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,

"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.


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.

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.

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.

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.


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.

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.


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.

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!

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.

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.

One said, "Go on!  You are first, and we shall follow.
Yours' is the right to begin."

The other added, "He is young and strong.  There are kisses for us all."

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.

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.

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,

"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."

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.

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."

"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.

Then the horror overcame me,and I sank down unconscious.





CHAPTER 4


Jonathan Harker's Journal Continued


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.


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.


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.

He calculated a minute, and then said, "The first should be June 12,
the second June 19,and the third June 29."

I know now the span of my life.  God help me!


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.

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.
. .

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.  . .


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.  . .


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.

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.

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.

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."

I passed to my room and went to bed, and, strange to say,
slept without dreaming.  Despair has its own calms.

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!

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.

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.  . .


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.

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.

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.

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.


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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

The phantom shapes, which were becoming gradually materialised
from the moonbeams, were those three ghostly women to whom
I was doomed.

I fled, and felt somewhat safer in my own room, where there was no moonlight,
and where the lamp was burning brightly.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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.

I could not pity her, for I knew now what had become of her child,
and she was better dead.

What shall I do?  What can I do?  How can I escape from this
dreadful thing of night, gloom, and fear?


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.

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.

Let me not think of it.  Action!

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.

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!


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.


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.

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."

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?"

"Because, dear sir, my coachman and horses are away on a mission."

"But I would walk with pleasure.  I want to get away at once."

He smiled, such a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I
knew there was some trick behind his smoothness.  He said,
"And your baggage?"

"I do not care about it.  I can send for it some other time."

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!"

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.

To my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked.
Suspiciously, I looked all round, but could see no key
of any kind.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Back!  Back to your own place!  Your time is not
yet come.  Wait!  Have patience!  Tonight is mine.
Tomorrow night is yours!"

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.

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!


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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!

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!





CHAPTER 5


LETTER FROM MISS MINA MURRAY TO MISS LUCY WESTENRA

9 May.

My dearest Lucy,


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.

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.

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.

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.

Your loving

Mina


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.???



LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY



17, Chatham Street

Wednesday

My dearest Mina,


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Lucy


P.S.--I need not tell you this is a secret.  Goodnight again.  L.




LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY

24 May

My dearest Mina,


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.

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.

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.

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.

Evening.


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.

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.  . .

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.

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.  . .

"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?"

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.  . .

"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."

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.

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.  . .

"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.  . .

"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."

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.

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."

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.

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.  . .

Lucy


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.

Goodbye.

DR.  SEWARD'S DIARY (Kept in phonograph)


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.

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.

(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.  . .

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.


LETTER, QUINCEY P. MORRIS TO HON.  ARTHUR HOLMOOD


25 May.

My dear Art,

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!

Yours, as ever and always,

Quincey P. Morris





TELEGRAM FROM ARTHUR HOLMWOOD TO QUINCEY P. MORRIS

26 May


Count me in every time.  I bear messages which will make
both your ears tingle.

Art





CHAPTER 6


MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.  . .

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,

"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."

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,

"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."

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.

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.


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.

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.

Lucy was looking sweetly pretty in her white lawn frock.
She has got a beautiful colour since she has been here.

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.

"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."

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.

"Oh, Mr. Swales, you can't be serious.  Surely these tombstones
are not all wrong?"

"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."

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.

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."

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!"

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,

"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.

"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?"

"Well, what else be they tombstones for?  Answer me that, miss!"

"To please their relatives, I suppose."

"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?"

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.

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.

"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!"

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."

"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.

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.


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.


DR.  SEWARD'S DIARY

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.

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.

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.


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.


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.


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.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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?"

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.


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.

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.


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.

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.


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!"


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.

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?

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?

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?

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?

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.

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!

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.


MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL


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.

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.

Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on roofs
of houses and along the edges of cliffs and then get suddenly wakened
and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes all over the place.

Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells
me that her husband, Lucy's father, had the same habit,
that he would get up in the night and dress himself and go out,
if he were not stopped.

Lucy is to be married in the autumn, and she is already
planning out her dresses and how her house is to be arranged.
I sympathise with her, for I do the same, only Jonathan and I
will start in life in a very simple way, and shall have to try
to make both ends meet.

Mr. Holmwood, he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord Godalming,
is coming up here very shortly, as soon as he can leave town, for his father
is not very well, and I think dear Lucy is counting the moments till he comes.

She wants to take him up 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.


27 July.--No news from Jonathan.  I am getting quite uneasy about him,
though why I should I do not know, but I do wish that he would write,
if it were only a single line.

Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I am awakened by her moving about
the room.  Fortunately, the weather is so hot that she cannot get cold.
But still, the anxiety and the perpetually being 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.


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.

Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last week,
but there is an odd concentration about her which I do
not understand, even in her sleep she seems to be watching me.
She tries the door, and finding it locked, goes about the room
searching for the key.


6 August.--Another three days, and no news.
This suspense is getting dreadful.  If I only knew where
to write to or where to go to, I should feel easier.
But no one has heard a word of Jonathan since that last letter.
I must only pray to God for patience.

Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well.  Last night
was very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in for a storm.
I must try to watch it and learn the weather signs.

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.


I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man.
When he sat down beside me, he said in a very gentle way,
"I want to say something to you, miss."

I could see he was not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine
and asked him to speak fully.

So he said, leaving his hand in mine, "I'm afraid, my deary,
that I must have shocked you by all the wicked things I've been sayin'
about the dead, and such like, for weeks past, but I didn't mean them,
and I want ye to remember that when I'm gone.  We aud folks that be daffled,
and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal, don't altogether like to think
of it, and we don't want to feel scart of it, 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.

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.

"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."




CHAPTER 7


CUTTING FROM "THE DAILYGRAPH," 8 AUGUST


(PASTED IN MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL)


From a correspondent.


Whitby.


One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just
been experienced here, with results both strange and unique.
The weather had been somewhat sultry, but not to any degree
uncommon in the month of August.  Saturday evening was as fine
as was ever known, and the great body of holiday-makers laid
out yesterday for visits to Mulgrave Woods, Robin Hood's Bay,
Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes, and the various trips
in the 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.'

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.

More than one captain made up his mind then and there that his
`cobble' or his `mule', as they term the different classes
of boats, would remain in the harbour till the storm had passed.
The wind fell away entirely during the evening, and at midnight there
was a dead calm, a sultry heat, and that prevailing intensity which,
on the approach of thunder, affects persons of a sensitive nature.

There were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the
coasting steamers, which usually hug the shore so closely,
kept well to seaward,and but few fishing boats were in sight.
The only sail noticeable was a foreign schooner with
all sails set, which was seemingly going westwards.
The foolhardiness or ignorance of her officers was a prolific
theme for comment whilst she remained in sight, and efforts were
made to signal her to reduce sail in 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.

"As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean."


Shortly before ten o'clock the stillness of the air grew quite
oppressive,and the silence was so marked that the bleating of a sheep
inland or the barking of a dog in the town was distinctly heard,
and the band on the pier, with its lively French air,
was like a 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.


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.

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.

The Russian consul, too, acting for the charter-party, took formal
possession of the ship, and paid all harbour dues, etc.

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.

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.

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.


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.

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.

LOG OF THE "DEMETER" Varna to Whitby


Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I shall keep
accurate note henceforth till we land.


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).


On 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus.  Boarded by Turkish
Customs officers.  Backsheesh.  All correct.  Under way at
4 p.  m.


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.


On 13 July passed Cape Matapan.  Crew dissatisfied about something.
Seemed scared, but would not speak out.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.  . .

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?


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.  . .


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.

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'.



MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL


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.

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!


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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.





CHAPTER 8


MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL


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.

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.

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.


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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.  . .


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.  . .

"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.

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.

I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly.  I have taken care
that the door is locked and the window securely fastened.

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.


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.


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.

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.

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.

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.


LETTER, SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON, SOLICITORS WHITBY, TO MESSRS.
CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON.

17 August

"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.

"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.

"Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business courtesy
in pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition.

"We are, dear Sirs, "Faithfully yours, "SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON"


LETTER, MESSRS.  CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON, TO MESSRS.
BILLINGTON & SON, WHITBY.

21 August.

"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.

"We are, dear Sirs, "Yours respectfully, "Pro CARTER, PATERSON & CO."


MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL.


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.

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.

As she told me she tapped playfully with the heel of her boot
on the stone slab and said,

"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."

As she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her if she
had dreamed at all that night.

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.

"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."

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.


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.

LETTER, SISTER AGATHA, HOSPITAL OF ST.  JOSEPH AND STE.
MARY BUDA-PESTH, TO MISS WILLHELMINA MURRAY

12 August,

"Dear Madam.

"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.

Believe me,

Yours, with sympathy

and all blessings.  Sister Agatha"


"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.

"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."

DR.  SEWARD'S DIARY


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.

All he would say was, "I don't want to talk to you.  You don't count now.
The master is at hand."

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

At first he made no reply, but at length said testily, "Bother them all!
I don't care a pin about them."

"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.)

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."

He would not explain himself, but remained obstinately seated
on his bed all the time I remained with him.

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.


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.  . .

"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?"

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.

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.

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.

His cries are at times awful, but the silences that follow are more
deadly still, for he means murder in every turn and movement.

Just now he spoke coherent words for the first time.
"I shall be patient, Master.  It is coming, coming, coming!"

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.




CHAPTER 9


LETTER, MINA HARKER TO LUCY WESTENRA


Buda-Pesth, 24 August.

"My dearest Lucy,

"I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened since we
parted at the railway station at Whitby.

"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.

"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..

"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.'

"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!

"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.

"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.  . ."


"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."


"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.

"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.

"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.


"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!

"Your ever-loving "Mina Harker."

LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA HARKER.

Whitby, 30 August.

"My dearest Mina,

"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,

"Lucy.


"P.S.--Mother sends her love.  She seems better, poor dear.

"P.P.S.--We are to be married on 28 September."

DR.  SEWARDS DIARY


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."

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.

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!"

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.

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."

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.


. . . 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.


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.


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.

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.



LUCY WESTENRA'S DIARY


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.


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.



LETTER, ARTHUR TO DR.  SEWARD

"Albemarle Hotel, 31 August "My dear Jack,

"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!

"Arthur."


TELEGRAM, ARTHUR HOLMWOOD TO SEWARD


1 September


"Am summoned to see my father, who is worse.  Am writing.
Write me fully by tonight's post to Ring.  Wire me if necessary."

LETTER FROM DR.  SEWARD TO ARTHUR HOLMWOOD


2 September

"My dear old fellow,

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"Yours always."

John Seward




LETTER, ABRAHAM VAN HELSING, MD, DPh, D. LiT, ETC, ETC, TO DR.  SEWARD


2 September.

"My good Friend,

"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.

"Van Helsing."

LETTER, DR.  SEWARD TO HON.  ARTHUR HOLMWOOD


3 September

"My dear Art,

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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,

"`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.'

"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."


DR.  SEWARD'S DIARY


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.


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.

"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."

"And the flies?"  I said.

"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.


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?"

"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.

TELEGRAM.  SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM


"4 September.--Patient still better today."

TELEGRAM, SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM


"5 September.--Patient greatly improved.  Good appetite, sleeps naturally,
good spirits, color coming back."

TELEGRAM, SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM


"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."





CHAPTER 10


LETTER, DR.  SEWARD TO HON.  ARTHUR HOLMWOOD


6 September

"My dear Art,

"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,

"Yours ever,"

John Seward



DR.  SEWARD'S DIARY


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?"

"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."

"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."

"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.'
"

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!"

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.

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.

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.

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?"

"I am younger and stronger, Professor.  It must be me."

"Then get ready at once.  I will bring up my bag.
I am prepared."

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,

"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."

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,

"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."

"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."

The Professor has a strongly humorous side, and I could from old
knowledge detect a trace of its origin in his answer.

"My young sir, I do not ask so much as that, not the last!"

"What shall I do?"  There was fire in his eyes, and his open nostrils
quivered with intent.  Van Helsing slapped him on the shoulder.

"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.

"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!"

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.

"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!"

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.

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.

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.

Van Helsing, turning to me, said, "He is so young and strong,
and of blood so pure that we need not defibrinate it."

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.

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."

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.

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."

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?"

"What do you make of it?"

"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.

"Well?" said Van Helsing.

"Well," said I. "I can make nothing of it."

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."

"Shall I have a nurse?"  I asked.

"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."

"May begin?"  I said.  "What on earth do you mean?"

"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!"


DR.  SEWARD'S DIARY--CONTINUED


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.

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.

"You do not want to sleep?"

"No. I am afraid."

"Afraid to go to sleep!  Why so?  It is the boon we all crave for."

"Ah, not if you were like me, if sleep was to you a presage of horror!"

"A presage of horror!  What on earth do you mean?"

"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."

"But, my dear girl, you may sleep tonight.  I am here watching you,
and I can promise that nothing will happen."

"Ah, I can trust you!" she said.

I seized the opportunity, and said, "I promise that if I see
any evidence of bad dreams I will wake you at once."

"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.

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.

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.


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,

"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."

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.

"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."

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.

LUCY WESTENRA'S DIARY


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.

DR.  SEWARD'S DIARY


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.

"And how is our patient?"

"Well, when I left her, or rather when she left me," I answered.

"Come, let us see," he said.  And together we went into the room.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Quick!" he said.  "Bring the brandy."

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,

"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.

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.

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.

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,

"He is her lover, her fiance.  You have work, much work to do for her
and for others, and the present will suffice.

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.

"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!"

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."

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.

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.

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,

"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.

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."

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.


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.

"These are for you, Miss Lucy," he said.

"For me?  Oh, Dr. Van Helsing!"

"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."

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,

"Oh, Professor, I believe you are only putting up a joke on me.
Why, these flowers are only common garlic."

To my surprise, Van Helsing rose up and said with all his sternness,
his iron jaw set and his bushy eyebrows meeting,

"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."

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."

"Perhaps I am!"  He answered quietly as he began to make the wreath
which Lucy was to wear round her neck.

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,

"Take care you do not disturb it, and even if the room feel close,
do not tonight open the window or the door."

"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?"

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!"

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.





CHAPTER 11


LUCY WESTENRA'S DIARY


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.

DR.  SEWARD'S DIARY


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.

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,

"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."

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."

"How do you mean, ma'am?" asked the Professor.

"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."

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

After another hour Lucy waked from her sleep, fresh and bright and seemingly
not much the worse for her terrible ordeal.

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.

LUCY WESTENRA'S DIARY


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.

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.




THE PALL MALL GAZETTE 18 September.

THE ESCAPED WOLF PERILOUS ADVENTURE OF OUR INTERVIEWER

INTERVIEW WITH THE KEEPER IN THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS


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,

"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."

"How do you mean, ask them questions?"  I queried, wishful to get
him into a talkative humor.

" `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?"

"You did."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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.'

"`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.

" `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.'

"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!

" `Tyke care,' says I. `Bersicker is quick.'

" `Never mind,' he says.  I'm used to `em!'

" `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.

" `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."

"Did any one else see anything?"

"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."

"Now, Mr. Bilder, can you account in any way for the escape of the wolf?"

"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."

"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?"

"well then, Sir, I accounts for it this way.  It seems to me that `ere
wolf escaped--simply because he wanted to get out."

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."

"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."

"Well, I never!" said the old lady.

"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."

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.

"God bless me!" he said.  "If there ain't old Bersicker come
back by `isself!"

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.

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.

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,

"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."

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.

I came off too, to report the only exclusive information that is given
today regarding the strange escapade at the Zoo.



DR.  SEWARD'S DIARY


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.

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.

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!"

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.



TELEGRAM, VAN HELSING, ANTWERP, TO SEWARD, CARFAX

(Sent to Carfax, Sussex, as no county given, delivered late
by twenty-two hours.)

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.



DR.  SEWARD'S DIARY


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.




MEMORANDUM LEFT BY LUCY WESTENRA

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.

I went to bed as usual, taking care that the flowers were placed as Dr. Van
Helsing directed, and soon fell asleep.

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,

"I was uneasy about you, darling, and came in to see that you
were all right."

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?"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!





CHAPTER 12


DR.  SEWARD'S DIARY


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.

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?"

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!"

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."

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.

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.

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!"

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."

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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!"

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.

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.

"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.

"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?"

"What's the matter with me, anyhow?"

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.

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.

"What brought you her?"  I cried as our hands met.

"I guess Art is the cause."

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.'

"I think I came just in the nick of time.  You know you have only to tell me
what to do."

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."

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.

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."

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,

"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.

"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."

"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."

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,

"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.

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.

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?"

"That's so," I said, and he went on.

"I take it that both you and Van Helsing had done already what I did today.
Is not that so?"

"That's so."

"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?"

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.

"That's so."

"And how long has this been going on?"

"About ten days."

"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?"

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."

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."

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.

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.


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.

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.

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.

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.




LETTER MINA HARKER TO LUCY WESTENRA

(Unopened by her)


17 September

My dearest Lucy,

"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,

" `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.

"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.

"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



REPORT FROM PATRICK HENNESSEY, MD, MRCSLK, QCPI, ETC, ETC, TO JOHN SEWARD, MD

20 September

My dear Sir:

"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.

"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.'

"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.

"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.

"I shall report to you any matter of interest occurring here,
and shall wire you at once if there is anything of importance.

"Believe me, dear Sir,

"Yours faithfully,

"Patrick Hennessey."



LETTER, MINA HARKER TO LUCY WESTENRA (Unopened by her)


18 September

"My dearest Lucy,

"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,

"Your loving

Mina Harker"



DR.  SEWARD' DIARY


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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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."

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!"

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."

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.

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!"

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.

"Not on your life!" he said, "not for your living soul and hers!"
And he stood between them like a lion at bay.

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.

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.

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!"

"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."

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.

And then Lucy's breathing became stertorous again, and all at once it ceased.

"It is all over," said Van Helsing.  "She is dead!"

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.

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.

"We thought her dying whilst she slept, And sleeping when she died."


I stood beside Van Helsing, and said, "Ah well, poor girl,
there is peace for her at last.  It is the end!"

He turned to me, and said with grave solemnity, "Not so, alas!  Not so.
It is only the beginning!"

When I asked him what he meant, he only shook his head and answered,
"We can do nothing as yet.  Wait and see."





CHAPTER 13


DR.  SEWARD'S DIARY--cont.


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,

"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!"

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.

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."

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.

"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."

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,

"Can I help you friend John?  I am free, and if I may,
my service is to you."

"Have you got what you looked for?"  I asked.

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."

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!"

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.

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.

I was undressing in my own room, when, with a premonitory tap at the door,
he entered, and at once began to speak.

"Tomorrow I want you to bring me, before night, a set of post-mortem knives."

"Must we make an autopsy?"  I asked.

"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."

"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."

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!

"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?"

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.

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."

"Why not?"  I asked.  For his solemnity of the night before
had greatly impressed me.

"Because," he said sternly, "it is too late, or too early.  See!"  Here he
held up the little golden crucifix.

"This was stolen in the night."

"How stolen, "I asked in wonder, "since you have it now?"

"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.

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,

"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.

"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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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,

"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.  . ."

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."

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."

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?"

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.

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!"

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.

"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."

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."

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."

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."

"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."

The Professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as though about to speak,
and finally said, "May I ask you something now?"

"Certainly."

"You know that Mrs. Westenra left you all her property?"

"No, poor dear.  I never thought of it."

"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?"

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."

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!"

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.




MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL


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.

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.

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!"

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.

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?"

"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!"

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,

"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,

"Why, Mina, have I been asleep!  Oh, do forgive me for being so rude.
Come, and we'll have a cup of tea somewhere."

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.


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."

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.


DR.  SEWARD'S DIARY-CONT.


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,

"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.

"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."

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,

"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?"

"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."

"Just so.  Said he not that the transfusion of his blood to her veins
had made her truly his bride?"

"Yes, and it was a sweet and comforting idea for him."

"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."

"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,

"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."

I was touched by the tenderness of his tone, and asked why.

"Because I know!"

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.

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".




THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE, 25 SEPTEMBER A HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY


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.

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.




THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE, 25 SEPTEMBER EXTRA SPECIAL

THE HAMPSTEAD HORROR


ANOTHER CHILD INJURED

THE "BLOOFER LADY"


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".





CHAPTER 14


MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL


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.


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.

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.




LETTER, VAN HELSING TO MRS.  HARKER


24 September

(Confidence)

"Dear Madam,

"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.

"VAN HELSING"




TELEGRAM, MRS.  HARKER TO VAN HELSING


25 September.--Come today by quarter past ten train if you can catch it.
Can see you any time you call.  "WILHELMINA HARKER"




MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL


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.

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.

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.

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".

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,

"Mrs. Harker, is it not?"  I bowed assent.

"That was Miss Mina Murray?"  Again I assented.

"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."

"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,

"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.

"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."

"I can tell you, I think, Dr. Van Helsing, all about it."

"Ah, then you have good memory for facts, for details?
It is not always so with young ladies."

"No, doctor, but I wrote it all down at the time.
I can show it to you if you like."

"Oh, Madam Mina, I well be grateful.  You will do me much favor."

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?"

"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.

"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."

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.

"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."

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."

"By all means," I said.  "read it over whilst I order lunch,
and then you can ask me questions whilst we eat."

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.

"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."

"But, doctor, you praise me too much, and you do not know me."

"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?"

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."

He interrupted, "Oh, yes.  I know.  I know.  I have read
your last two letters."

I went on, "I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on Thursday
last he had a sort of shock."

"A shock, and after brain fever so soon!  That is not good.
What kind of shock was it?"

"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,

"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."

After lunch, when we went back to the drawing room, he said to me,
"And now tell me all about him."

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,

"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."

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."

"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."

"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."

"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.

So he took the papers with him and went away, and I sit here thinking,
thinking I don't know what.




LETTER (by hand), VAN HELSING TO MRS.  HARKER


25 September, 6 o'clock

"Dear Madam Mina,

"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.

"Yours the most faithful,

"Abraham Van Helsing."


LETTER, MRS.  HARKER TO VAN HELSING


25 September, 6:30 P.M.

"My dear Dr. Van Helsing,

"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.

"Believe me,

"Your faithful and grateful friend,

"Mina Harker."





JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL


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.


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,

"But Madam Mina told me you were ill, that you had had a shock."

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."

"And how?"

"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."

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."

I would listen to him go on praising Mina for a day, so I simply
nodded and stood silent.

"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."

We shook hands, and he was so earnest and so kind that it made
me quite choky.

"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."

"Look here, Sir," I said, "does what you have to do concern the Count?"

"It does," he said solemnly."

"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."

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."

"We shall both come when you will," I said.

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."




DR.  SEWARD'S DIARY


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.

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.

"What do you think of that?" he asked as he stood back and folded his arms.

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.

"Well?" he said.

"It is like poor Lucy's."

"And what do you make of it?"

"Simply that there is some cause in common.  Whatever it was that injured
her has injured them."  I did not quite understand his answer.

"That is true indirectly, but not directly."

"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.

"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."

"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?"

"Of nervous prostration following a great loss or waste of blood."

"And how was the blood lost or wasted?"  I shook my head.

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.
. ."

"Yes," I said.  "Charcot has proved that pretty well."

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?"

"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?"

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?"

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,

"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."

"That is a good image," he said.  "Well, I shall tell you.
My thesis is this, I want you to believe."

"To believe what?"

"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."

"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?"

"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?"

"I suppose so."

He stood up and said solemnly, "Then you are wrong.  Oh, would it were so!
But alas!  No. It is worse, far, far worse."

"In God's name, Professor Van Helsing, what do you mean?"  I cried.

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.

"They were made by Miss Lucy!"




CHAPTER 15


DR.  SEWARD'S DIARY-cont.


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?"

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!"

"Forgive me," said I.

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?"

This staggered me.  A man does not like to prove such a truth,
Byron excepted from the catagory, jealousy.


"And prove the very truth he most abhorred."


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.  . ."

"And then?"

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."

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.

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'."

"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?"

"Certainly not, not for a week at least, longer if the wound
is not healed."

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,

"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."

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.

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.

"What are you going to do?"  I asked.

"To open the coffin.  You shall yet be convinced."

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.

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.

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.

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."

"And what is that, friend John?"

"That it is not there."

"That is good logic," he said, "so far as it goes.
But how do you, how can you, account for it not being there?"

"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.

The Professor sighed.  "Ah well!" he said," we must have more proof.
Come with me."

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."

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."

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.

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.

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.

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?"

"No," I said, in a way that I felt was aggressive.

"Do you not see the child?"

"Yes, it is a child, but who brought it here?  And is it wounded?"

"We shall see," said the Professor, and with one impulse we took
our way out of the churchyard, he carrying the sleeping child.

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.

"Was I right?"  I asked triumphantly.

"We were just in time," said the Professor thankfully.

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.

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.


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.

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.

"Is this a juggle?"  I said to him.

"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?"

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."

"Indeed?  That is so, and by whom?"

"I do not know.  Someone has done it."

"And yet she has been dead one week.  Most peoples in that time would
not look so."

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,

"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."

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?

He looked up at me, and evidently saw the change in my face,
for he said almost joyously, "Ah, you believe now?"

I answered, "Do not press me too hard all at once.  I am willing to accept.
How will you do this bloody work?"

"I shall cut off her head and fill her mouth with garlic,
and I shall drive a stake through her body."

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?

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,

"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?

"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."

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.




NOTE LEFT BY VAN HELSING IN HIS PORTMANTEAU, BERKELEY HOTEL DIRECTED TO
JOHN SEWARD, M. D. (Not Delivered)


27 September

"Friend John,

"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.

"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.

"If it be so, farewell.

"VAN HELSING."




DR.  SEWARD'S DIARY


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.


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.

"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.

"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."

"Me too," said Quincey Morris laconically.

"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."

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,

"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."

"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."

"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.

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."

"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."

"Agreed!" said Arthur.  "That is only fair.  And now that the pourparlers
are over, may I ask what it is we are to do?"

"I want you to come with me, and to come in secret,
to the churchyard at Kingstead."

Arthur's face fell as he said in an amazed sort of way,

"Where poor Lucy is buried?"

The Professor bowed.

Arthur went on, "And when there?"

"To enter the tomb!"

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?"

"To open the coffin."

"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.

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!"

Arthur looked up with set white face and said, "Take care, sir, take care!"

"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?"

"That's fair enough," broke in Morris.

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.  . ."

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.

"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."

"UnDead!  Not alive!  What do you mean?  Is this all a nightmare,
or what is it?"

"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?"

"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!"

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.

"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.

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."





CHAPTER 16


DR SEWARD'S DIARY-cont.


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?"

"It was."

The Professor turned to the rest saying, "You hear, and yet there
is no one who does not believe with me.'

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.

The coffin was empty!

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?"

"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?

"Yes."

"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.

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.

He answered, "I am closing the tomb so that the UnDead may not enter."

"And is that stuff you have there going to do it?"

"It Is."

"What is that which you are using?"  This time the question was by Arthur.
Van Helsing reverently lifted his hat as he answered.

"The Host.  I brought it from Amsterdam.  I have an Indulgence."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

Van Helsing broke the silence by asking Arthur, "Answer me, oh my friend!
Am I to proceed in my work?"

"Do as you will, friend.  Do as you will.  There can be no horror
like this ever any more."  And he groaned in spirit.

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.

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."

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."

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.


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.

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?"

"It is her body, and yet not it.  But wait a while, and you shall
see her as she was, and is."

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.

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?"

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!"

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."

"Go on," said Arthur hoarsely."Tell me what I am to do."

"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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?"

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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?"

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."





CHAPTER 17


DR.  SEWARD'S DIARY-cont.


When we arrived at the Berkely Hotel, Van Helsing found a telegram
waiting for him.

"Am coming up by train.  Jonathan at Whitby.  Important news.
Mina Harker."


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."

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.

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?"

"And you are Mrs. Harker!"  I answered at once, whereupon she held
out her hand.

"I knew you from the description of poor dear Lucy, but.
. ." She stopped suddenly, and a quick blush overspread her face.

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.

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.

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!




MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL

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.

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.

"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."

"Oh," he replied with a smile, "I was only entering my diary."

"Your diary?"  I asked him in surprise.

"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?"

"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.

"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.

"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."

To my surprise, he answered, with a horrorstruck look in his face,
"Tell you of her death?  Not for the wide world!"

"Why not?"  I asked, for some grave, terrible feeling was coming over me.

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."

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!"

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?"

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."

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.!"

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.

"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."

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,

"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."

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.




DR.  SEWARD'S DIARY


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."

"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."

"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!"

"Must! but why?"  I asked.

"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."

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."

MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL


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.

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,

"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.

"You tell me that Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris are coming too.
Let us be able to tell them when they come."

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.

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.




DR.  SEWARD'S DIARY


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.


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.  . .


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.

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.





JOHNATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL


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.

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.

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,

"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."

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.

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.


Later.--Mina and I have worked all day, and we have put all
the papers into order.




MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL


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.


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?"

I nodded, and he went on.

"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.
. ."

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?"

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.

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.

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.

"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?"

"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."

He was so earnest, and his sorrow was so fresh, that I felt
it would comfort him, so I said, "I promise."

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."

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."

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.

"Little girl!"  The very words he had used to Lucy, and, oh, but he proved
himself a friend.





CHAPTER 18


DR.  SEWARD'S DIARY


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,

"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!"

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?"

"She is going through the house, and wants to see every one
in it," I answered.

"Oh, very well," he said, "let her come in, by all means,
but just wait a minute till I tidy up the place."

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.

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.

"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."

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."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"My husband and I are staying on a visit with Dr. Seward."

"Then don't stay."

"But why not?"

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?"

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!"

"I don't see that at all, Mr. Renfield," said Mrs. Harker,
at once championing me.

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."

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.

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.

"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?"

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.

She came at once, after saying pleasantly to Mr. Renfield,
"Goodbye, and I hope I may see you often, under auspices
pleasanter to yourself."

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!"

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.

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!"

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.

"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."

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.

"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."

"Not up to this moment, Professor," she said impulsively,
"but up to this morning."

"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."

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?"

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.

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.





MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL


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.

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.

"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?"

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.

When the Professor had done speaking my husband looked in my eyes,
and I in his, there was no need for speaking between us.

"I answer for Mina and myself," he said.

"Count me in, Professor," said Mr. Quincey Morris, laconically as usual.

"I am with you," said Lord Godalming, "for Lucy's sake,
if for no other reason."

Dr. Seward simply nodded.

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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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