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 colour
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
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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
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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 favourite 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
favourite seat, the silver light of the moon struck a halfreclining
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.
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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.
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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.
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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
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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
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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 cliffpath
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
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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
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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
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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 goodsized
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.
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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
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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
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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,
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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.’
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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.
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‘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
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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
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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 help.
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
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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
demeanour 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 August.—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
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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 selffeeling
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
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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
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dishonour her by mixing the two. If need be, 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.
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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, lest 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
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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.
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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.
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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 weaklooking.
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
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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
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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. I have asked Sister Agatha to
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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
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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 wife’s 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, what 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,
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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the attendants seized him in time, he would have tried to
kill me. As we were 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
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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
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