1897

DRACULA

by Bram Stoker

CHAPTER I.
JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL.
(Kept in shorthand.)

3 May. Bistriz.- 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
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 Ordnance 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 to 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 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 shirt-sleeves, 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 to-night. 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 any one 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 very 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 to-night,
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.
How ever, there was business to be done, and I could allow nothing
to interfere with it. I therefore 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 good-bye. Here comes
the coach!

5 May. The Castle.- The grey 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 call "robber steak"- bits of bacon, onion, and
beef, seasoned with red pepper, and strung on sticks and roasted
over the fire, in the 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 with 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- which they call by a
name meaning "word-bearer"- 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 of which mean the same thing, one being Slovak and
the other Servian for something that is either were-wolf 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
every one 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 innyard 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 box-seat- "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 and 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 emphasised 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 peasant's cart- with its long, snake-like vertebra,
calculated to suit the inequalities of the road. On this were sure
to be seated quite a group of home-coming 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 failing 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 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 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 now see 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 said 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 of 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 to-night 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 came 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, agonised 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 run-away 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 of 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 faint 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 under stand 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 that 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 had 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
moonlit sky.
CHAPTER II.
JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL.

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 out 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 the 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 the
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 name burned without 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 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
as cold as ice- more like the hand of a dead than a living man.
Again he said:-
"Welcome to my house. Come 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 way 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 much 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 questions 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 learned 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 protuberant 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 to-morrow 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 there they were worn and
frayed and moth-eaten. But still in none of the rooms in 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
or 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 it 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 centre 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 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 see me, or
pause in his speaking if he hear 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 to-day; 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 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 names
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, an 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 by-road, 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 is 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
has 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 not 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 put all 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 at 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 the dawn or
at the turn of the tide; any one 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 a 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 courtly bow, he quickly left me.
I went into my own 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 prosaic 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 that 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 than 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 heavy 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 terrible 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 III.
JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL.

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 though that there were 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
to do them. This gave me a fright, for if 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 in 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. To-night 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 gave them, which
their Berserkers displayed to such fell intent on the seaboards of
Europe, ay, and of Asia and Africa too, till the peoples thought
that the were wolves 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 Turkey-land; ay and more than that,
endless duty of the frontier guard, for, as the Turks say, 'water
sleeps, and 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
Turkey-land; who, when he was beaten back, came again, and again,
and again, though he had to come alone from the bloody field where his
troops were being slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could
ultimately triumph? 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, meagre 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 him 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
resident 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 fore thought 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 some one 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's interest,
not mine, and I had to think of him, not myself, and besides, which
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 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 in
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 replace the letters as they
had been and 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 round 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 so 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 that
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 have I 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 to be 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 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 the 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
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 now, when I think of it, for in 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 a 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 to-night 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, for, though the moonlight was behind 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 wavy
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 water-glasses 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 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 about 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 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 a 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 white-hot 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 round the room as 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 to-night?" 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
wall, 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 IV.
JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL.

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 rigourously 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, from 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 suavest 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 me 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 Szgany 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 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 wakened 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 to talk to-night, 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 paper 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 a while, 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 cracking 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 of Slovak, with his 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 agonised
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 cracking of their whips die away in the
distance.

24 June, before morning.- 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 motes 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; may, 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 of the 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 out
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 a 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 thrall of night and gloom and fear?

25 June, morning.- No man knows till he has suffered from the
night how sweet and how 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 vapourous 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! Good-bye. Mina, if I fail; good-bye, my faithful friend
and second father; good-bye, 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 the narrow ledge of stone
which runs round the building 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 knew 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 a jar, 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 search for any further outlet, but
there was none. Then I went 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 the 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 chamber, I threw myself panting upon the bed and tried to
think...

29 June.- To-day 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
alone 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 can
look as he said:-
"To-morrow, 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; to-morrow 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 asked him point-blank:-
"Why may I not go to-night?"
"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 then 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 a last chance I cried out:-
"Shut the door; I shall wait till morning!" and 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! To-night is mine. To-morrow 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? To-morrow! to-morrow! Lord, help me, and those to whom I
am dear!

30 June, morning.- 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 cock-crow, and I felt that I
was safe. With a glad heart, I opened my door and ran down to 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
drew 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 that 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 renewed,
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 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 way 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 full upon me,
with all their blaze of basilisk horror. The sight seemed to
paralyse 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, bloodstained 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 is a sound of hammering;
it is the box being nailed down. Now I can hear the heavy feet
tramping again along the hall, with many other idle feet coming behind
them.
The door is shut, and the chains rattle; there is a grinding of
the key in the lock; I can hear the key withdraw: 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 awful 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 this 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 these monsters, and
the precipice is steep and high. At its foot a man may sleep- as a
man. Good-bye, all! Mina!
CHAPTER V.
LETTERS, ETC.

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 practising 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 practising 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 practise, 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 so 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. Good-bye.
"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 to 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
good 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. Some one 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 excellent 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 says 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; 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, I must stop. Good-night. Bless me in your prayers; and, Mina,
pray for my happiness.
"Lucy.
"P.S.- I need not tell you this is a secret. Good-night 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 to-day, not a real proposal, and to-day I have 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 straightforwardly. 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 that 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 quite 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, an 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 had such
adventures. I sympathize with poor Desdemona when she had such a
dangerous 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. Quincey 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 good-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, an occasion for him, I would forgive
him. He really did look serious when he was saying it, and I
couldn't help feeling a bit serious too- I know, Mina, you will
think me a horrid flirt- though 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's 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 unselfish 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- he must be a good fellow, my dear, and a fine
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 good-bye.' 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.
"Good-bye."

Dr. Seward's Diary.
(Kept in phonograph)

25 May.- Ebb tide in appetite to-day. 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 down amongst the patients. I picked out one who has
afforded me a study of much interest. He is so quaint in his mined
to understand him as well as I can. To-day 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! verb. sap. 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, aetat 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 or a series of
accidents can balance it.

Letter, Quincey P. Morris to Hon. Arthur Holmwood.

"25 May.
"My dear Art,-
"We've told yarns by the camp-fire 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 camp-fire to-morrow 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 hear that God has made and the 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 VI.
MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL.

24 July. Whitby.- Lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter and
lovelier 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 very 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
up 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 sea-wall runs
along outside of it. On the near side, the sea-wall 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
edge 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 all
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
an' 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; an', 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 of the place.
They lead from the town up 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. They will be home by
this.

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 downfaces 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 up 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,
an' nowt else. These bans an' wafts an' boh-ghosts an' barguests 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 beuk-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 out of pulpits, does want to be cuttin'
them on the tombsteans. 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' tryin' to drag their tombsteans with them to prove
how good they was; some of them trimmlin' and ditherin', with their
hands that dozzened an' slippy from lyin' in the sea that they can't
even keep their grup 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 kirk-garth." 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 happed here, snod an' snog?" I assented
again. "Then that be just where the lie comes in. Why, there be scores
of these lay-beds that be toom as old Dun's 'bacca-box 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, aet. 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 currents 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 Lowrey- 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 about it! I tell ye that
when they got here they'd be jommlin' an' 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 light of 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-stean," 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 is 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 night the top of his head off with an old
musket that they had for scarin' the 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 wan't 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' up the grees
with the tombstean balanced on his hump, and asks it 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 favourite 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, an' I must gang. My
service to ye, ladies!" And off he hobbled.
Lucy and I sat a while, 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 the abbey. The sheep and lambs are bleating
in the fields away behind me, and there is a clatter of donkey's 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 yet 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
big fellows in a box. He keeps feeding them with 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 to-day I told him that he must get rid of them. He looked
very sad at this, so I said that he must clear out 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 blow-fly, 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
note-book 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 diminished. 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 the
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 p.m.- 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 the 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 a.m.- The attendant has just been to 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 p.m.- I gave Renfield a strong opiate to-night, enough to make
even him sleep, and took away his pocket-book 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 to-day! 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 to-day 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 will 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 only 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 to the seat on the churchyard cliff and show
him the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it is the waiting which disturbs
her; she will be all right when he arrives.

27 July.- No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about
him, though why I should I do not know; but I do wish that he would
write, if it were only a single line. Lucy walks more than ever, and
each night I am awakened by her moving about the room. Fortunately,
the weather is so hot that she cannot get cold; but still the
anxiety and the perpetually being wakened is beginning to tell on
me, and I am getting nervous and wakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy's
health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has been suddenly called to Ring to
see his father, who has been taken seriously ill. Lucy frets at the
postponement of seeing him, but it does not touch her looks; she is
a trifle stouter, and her cheeks are a lovely rose pink. She has
lost that anaemic look which she had. I pray it will all last.

3 August.- Another week gone, and no news from Jonathan, not even to
Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do hope he is not ill. He
surely would have written. I look at that last letter of his, but
somehow it does not satisfy me. It does not read like him, and yet
it is his writing. There is no mistake of that. Lucy has not walked
much in her sleep the last week, but there is an odd concentration
about her which I do not understand; even in her sleep she seems to be
watching me. She tries the door, and finding it locked, goes about the
room searching for the key.

6 August.- Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting
dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I should
feel easier; but no one has heard a word of Jonathan since that last
letter. I must only pray to God for patience. Lucy is more excitable
than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night was very threatening, and
the fishermen say that we are in for a storm. I must try to watch it
and learn the weather signs. To-day is a grey day, and the sun as I
write is hidden in thick clouds, high over Kettleness. Everything is
grey- except the green grass, which seems like emerald amongst it;
grey earthy rock; grey clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far
edge, hang over the grey sea, into which the sand-points stretch
like grey fingers. The sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the
sandy flats with a roar, muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The
horizon is lost in a grey mist. All is vastness; the clouds are
piled up like giant rocks, and there is a "brool" over the sea that
sounds like some presage of doom. Dark figures are on the beach here
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; an' 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 affin' 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
good-bye, 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 to-morrow."
CHAPTER VII.
CUTTING FROM "THE DAILYGRAPH".

(Pasted in Mina Murray's Journal.)
From a Correspondent.

8 August. 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 neighbourhood 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 that 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 north-west. 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 blow the
black mass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western sky, its
downward way 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 face of her danger. Before the night shut
down she was seen with sails idly napping 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 discord
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
realise, the whole aspect of nature at once became convulsed. The
waves rose in growing fury, each overtopping 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 piers from
the mass of onlookers, or else the fatalities of the night would
have been 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 as 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
now came thick and fast, followed by such sudden 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 sea-bird. 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 the inrushing 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
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 realised 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 grey 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 search-light
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 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 south-east 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- "thruff-steans" or "through-stones," as
they call them in the 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 on board. 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
Drawbridge 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 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 tight 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
statutes 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 Casablanca- and placed
in the mortuary to await inquest.
Already the sudden storm is passing, and its fierceness is
abating; crowds are scattering homeward, 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.

Whitby.
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 a 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 formally took 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 to-day 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 after
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 to 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 to-day
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 rescript, 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 crew, Petrofsky,
was missing. Could not account for it. Took larboard watch eight bells
last night; was relieved by Abramoff, 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 that 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 deck-house, as there was a rain-storm, when he
saw a tall, thin man, who was not like any of the crew, come up the
companion-way, 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 to-day
search 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 a handspike. I let him take
the helm, while the rest began 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 on 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
maelstrom, 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 to-night, 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; awaked 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 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 his 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 a 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 narrow 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 to-day 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 quite 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 old 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! Perhaps he had seen
Death with his dying eyes! 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 sort of fury, with its eyes savage, and
all its hairs 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 became quiet and fell
all into a 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
supersensitive a nature to go through the world without trouble. She
will be dreaming of this to-night, 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 VIII.
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
there 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 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 drawingroom, 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 to-night, 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, 3 a.m.- 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 agonising 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 open 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, overmastering 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 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 the 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 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 throat. Whilst
she did so there came a little shudder through her, as though she felt
the cold. I flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight
round 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 that I might 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 more forcibly, till finally she opened her eyes
and awoke. She did not seem surprised to see me, as, of course, she
did not realise 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 churchyard,
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 that 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 thinking, too, of how such a story
might become distorted- may, 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 to-night.

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
help to 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 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 thought
that perhaps she was looking out for me, so 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 it from 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
as 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 diagram enclosed. Your agent will
easily recognise the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the
mansion. The goods leave by the train at 9:30 to-night, and will be
due at King's Cross at 4:30 to-morrow 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
(L10), 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 (L10) received and to return cheque
L1 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."

18 August.- I am happy to-day, 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 anaemic 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 he 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
agonising 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
other subjects, 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 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 next 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 All 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 SL Joseph and Ste. Mary,
Buda-Pesth, to Miss Wilhelmina 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 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
sortly 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 with 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 on him nothing that any one 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 to 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 to-night, 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 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-lustre 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 note-book 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 to-night 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- C(2) HCL(3)O: H(2)O! I must be
careful not to let it grow into a habit. No, I shall take none
ton-night! I have thought of Lucy, and I shall not dishonour her by
mixing the two. If need be, to-night 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, 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 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 he 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, and 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 to-night.
CHAPTER IX.
LETTERS, ETC.- continued.

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 Homburg, 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 raved of dreadful
things whilst he was off his head. I 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 again, and after saying that
she could never mention what 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 of 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 that amongst them was his note-book, and was
going to ask him to let me look at it- for I knew then 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 when I came
he had his hand over the note-book, 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 all real or the dreaming of a madman. You know I
have 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 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 strongly. 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, 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 very 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 kind, 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 Good-bye, 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 to 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 could be 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. Seward's Diary.

20 August.- The case of Renfield grows even more interesting. He has
now so far quieted that there are spells or 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 dissociated
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. To-night 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 to-night play sane wits against
mad ones. He escaped before without our help; to-night 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 unexpected 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 an 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 new 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 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 moonlit sky except a big bat,
which was flapping its silent and ghostly way to the West. Bats
usually wheel and flit 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 to-night. I shall
make an excuse and 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 then 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 ever to get 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 Holmwood 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 do 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 to-morrow, two o'clock,
so as not to arose any suspicion in Mrs. Westenra, and after lunch
Lucy will take an opportunity of being alone with you. I shall come in
for tea, and we can go away together; 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 to-night'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 functional 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 all for him!' So I am quite free.
"I could easily see that she is somewhat bloodless, but I could
not see the usual anaemic signs, and by a chance I was actually able
to test the 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 gives 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 in 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 the 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, but 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, an
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 to-morrow 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, M.D., D. Ph., D. Lit., etc.,
etc., to Dr. Seward.

"2 September.
"My good Friend,-
"When I have 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 then rooms for me at the Great Eastern Hotel, so
that I may be near to hand, and please it so arrange that we may see
the young lady not too late on to-morrow, 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 good-bye,
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 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 Dally Telegraph. He
seemed not to notice, but remarked that the smuts in 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 possible 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 that 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
suavely said:-
"'My dear young miss, I have the so great pleasure because you are
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 once he pointed me out to 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 madams 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 anaemic. I have asked her to
send me her maid, that I may ask just one or two question, 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 to me the telegram every day; and if
there be cause I shall come again. The disease- for not to be all 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 and 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-be-gone 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 apologised 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 note-book 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 for 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 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 realise 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 not 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 to-day 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 to-day."

Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam.

"5 September- Patient greatly improved. Good appetite; sleeps
naturally; good spirits; colour 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 X.
LETTERS, ETC.- continued.

Letter, Dr. Seward to Hon. Arthur Holmwood.

"6 September.
"My dear Art,-
"My news to-day is not so good. Lucy this morning has 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 old 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 a
Liverpool street was:-
"Have you said anything to our young friend the 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 shall 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 stopped and 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 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, and very
gravely:-
"You were always a careful student, and your case-book was ever more
full than the rest. You were only student then; now you are master,
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 practise, 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 peoples 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
beneficent 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 roots for its causes than we have knowledge
of.
I used my knowledge of this phase of spiritual pathology, and laid
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 to-day. 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 no 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 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 my interruption at such a
time; but now, as he took in his stalwart proportions and recognised
the strong young manhood which seemed to emanate from him, his eyes
gleamed. Without a pause he said to him gravely as he held out his
hand:-
"Sir, you have come in time. You are the lover of our lear 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 humourous 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
nostril 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 not 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. Good-bye."
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 this wound, or
whatever it was, might be the means of that manifest loss of blood;
but I abandoned the idea as soon as 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 to-night," he said. "There are
books and things there which I want. You must remain here all the
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 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. This was repeated
several times, with greater effort and with shorter pauses as the time
moved on. It was apparent that she did not want to sleep, so I tackled
the subject at once:-
"You do not want to go 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 to-night. I am here watching
you, and I can promise that nothing will happen."
"Ah, I can trust you!" I seized the opportunity, and said: "I
promise you 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 to-night, 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 to-night 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 "dob-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 to-night. 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 Arthur only 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 to-night 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! Good-night 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 agonised 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 agonising 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 for 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
colour steal back into the pallid cheeks and lips. No man knows till
he experiences it, what it is to feel his own life-blood 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, whilst 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 anywhere 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 such
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 to-night, 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 them; think what you will. Do not
fear to think even the most not-probable. Good-night."
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 that
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 Conquistodores 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
sterness, his iron jaw set and his bushy eyebrows meeting:-
"No trifling with me! I never jest! There is grim purpose in all 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
awhile. Come with me, friend John, and you shall help me deck the room
with my garlic, which is all the way 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 pharmacopoeia
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 to-night 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:-
"To-night 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. To-morrow 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 XI.
LETTERS, ETC.- continued.

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 to-night, 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
the sleeplessness, or the pain of the fear of sleep, 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
to-night, hoping for sleep, and lying like Ophelia in the play, with
"virgin crants and maiden strewments." I never liked garlic before,
but to-night it is delightful! There is peace in its smell; I feel
sleep coming already. Good-night, 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 liked the completion of
nature's annual work. The leaves were turning to all kinds of
beautiful colours, 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 answered:-
"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 odour 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 grey. 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, sent down form 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,
and 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 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 recognised
the necessity, and begun to take off my coat, but he stopped me with a
warning hand. "No!" he said. "To-day you must operate. I shall
provide. You are weakened already." As he spoke he took off his coat
and rolled up his shirt-sleeve.
Again the operation; again the narcotic; again some return of colour
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
odour 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 spell 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
form 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. To-night 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 wolf 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 subjects 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 humour.
"'Ittin' of them over the 'ead with a pole is one way; scratchin' of
their hears is 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'
with a pole afore I chucks in their dinner; but I waits till they've
'ad their sherry and kawfee, 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 arksin' of me questions about my business, and I that
grumpy-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 offense, did I tell yer to go to 'ell?"
"You did."
"An' when you said you'd report me for usin' of 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 if 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 git
even 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 grey ones that come
from Norway to Jamrach's, which we bought off him four year 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 cherry 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 git 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
likes 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 wolfs 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
keeper.
"'No.' 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 grey 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 here 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 story-book, 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-'idin' 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 an a coal-celler. My eye, won't some cook get
a rum start when she sees his green eyes a-shining 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 a-walkin' 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 as 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 an unutterable mixture of comedy and pathos. The
wicked wolf that for half a day had paralysed London and set all the
children in the 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 to-day 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 thunder-struck, for such a thing as a patient getting
of his own accord into the Superintendent's study is almost unknown.
Without an instant's pause 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, 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
overexcited and weary, and I need rest, rest, rest. Happily Van
Helsing has not summoned me, so I need not forego my sleep; to-night 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 Hillingham to-night. 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 for 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 go to sleep, but 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, 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 low 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 grey 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 form 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 seemed 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 simoom 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 have
each 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. Good-bye, dear Arthur, if I
should not survive this night. God keep you, dear, and God help me!
CHAPTER XII.
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 around us? Was it indeed a house of
death to which I had come, too late? I knew 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 lost 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 draught
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 that 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 halldoor. 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 trine 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 here?" 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 subcutaneous 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 stood 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 it 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 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
that love 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
forestalling 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 he 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
to-day. 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
eye then lit on Van Helsing and on me too, and gladdened. Then she
looked around 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 that meant- that she had realised 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 it 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
thus 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 colour to the pale cheeks. When he saw her, Arthur was
simply chocking 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 was 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 to-morrow 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 our against the
old yellow stone of the cathedral and I can hear the rooks overhead
cawing and cawing and flattering 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 wash 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
a 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. Good-bye, my dearest Lucy, and all
blessings on you.
"Yours,
"Mina Harker."

Report from Patrick Hennessey, M.D., M.R.C.S.L.K.
Q.C.P.I., etc., etc., to John Seward, M.D.

"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 about 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 a 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 terrible 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
light weight, 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 labours of any place of public
entertainment. I quite understood their drift, and after a stiff glass
of 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
be-friended 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 some one, 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 the day after
to-morrow; 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's Diary.

20 September.- Only resolution and habit can let me make an entry
to-night. 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 on her pillow,
almost whiter than the lawn. She lay quite still and I looked round
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 by 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 round- 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 any 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 hissing in-draw of his 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 for 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
realised 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 champed
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 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!" said he 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 ever. 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 XIII.
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY.

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 were
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
to-morrow 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. To-morrow we shall have much to do,
but for the to-night 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 candies 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:-
"To-morrow 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 as 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
it is I that shall operate, and you must only help. I would like to do
it to-night, but for Arthur I must not; he will be free after his
father's funeral to-morrow, 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 into 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 towards 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's 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 a-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 became softened and even resolved into their youthful beauty;
that this was especially so when death had been preceded by any
acute or prolonged suffering. It 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
good-bye, 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 good-bye; so the latter went to the kitchen to tell the
undertaker's men to proceed with the preparations 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's a hard thing 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, my 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 patrolling 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 odour
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 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 flat, sitting in a
victoria outside Giuliano'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 his 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 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 to 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. The 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 I only knew! if I only 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 him 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 quietly 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, I have 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 that 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 home-coming 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 to-day."
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 sweetness out of his life! God help us all to bear our
troubles.

Dr. Seward's Diary.

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 over to Amsterdam to-night, but
says he returns to-morrow 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 humour 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
where 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 the 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 so 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 to you, friend John, for we are
more level in experiences than father and son- yet even at such 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 labour 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 the 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 explanation 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! There 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 very 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 I 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 Westminister Gazette," 25 September

A Hampstead Mystery.
The neighbourhood 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 as "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 neighbourhood 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 favourite 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
willingly 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 look-out for straying
children, especially when very young, in and around Hampstead Heath,
and for any stray dog which may be about.

"The Westminister 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 XIV.
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 his 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, lest it may harm. Again your pardon, and forgive
me.
"Van Helsing."

Telegram, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing.

"25 September.- Come to-day 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 colour. 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 she knows,
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 type-written 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
to-morrow 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 was 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 one at once as indicative of thought and
power, the head is noble, well-sized, broad, and large behind the
ears. The face 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 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 knew that the friend of that poor lily 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
made in 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 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 will be grateful; you will do me much favour."
I could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit- I suppose
it is some of the 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 long knew that Mr. Jonathan
was a man of much thankfulness; but see, his wife have all the good
things. And will you not so much honour 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 type-written
copy from my workbasket 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 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 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 daze, I am dazzle,
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. Madam"- 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 happy life and good life, and your husband will be blessed in
you."
"But, doctor, you praise me too much, and- 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's 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 was 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 all about Lucy, and so now we shall not
speak of it, lest it distress. I shall stay in Exeter to-night, 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 knew 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 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 happ 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, so 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 off-hand, 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- ay, 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 to-day I come to see you, for I have learn all at once so much
that again I am dazzle- dazzle 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
to-night from Launceston and will be here at 10:18, so that I shall
have no fear to-night. 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 all 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
where 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 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 to 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 eye
suddenly seemed to catch something in one of them, "The Westminster
Gazette"- I knew it by the colour- 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 same 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. To-day he came back, and almost
bounded into the room at about half-past five o'clock, and thrust last
night's "Westminister 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 punctured 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 on great loss or waste of blood."
"And how the blood lost or waste?" I shook my head. He stepped
over and sat down beside me, and went on:-
"You are 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
contemplate 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 materialisation. 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 student of the
brain- how you accept the hypnotism and reject the thought reading.
Let me tell you, my friend, that there are things done to-day in
electrical science which would have been deemed unholy by the very men
who discovered electricity- who would themselves not so long before
have 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 have 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 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, that 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 seen dynasties;
and why the parrot never die only of bite of cat or dog or other
complaint? Can you tell me why men believe in all ages and places that
there are some few who live on always if they be permit; 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
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
then to tell me the thing, so that I could have the object of
thought in mind all the time. But now I was without this 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 mad man, and not a sane one,
follows an idea. I feel like a novice blundering through a bog in a
mist, jumping from one tussock to another in the mere blind effort
to move on without knowing where I am going."
"That is 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 a 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 injure the
receptivity of my mind with regard to some strange matter. Do I read
your lesson aright?"
"Ah, you are my favourite 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 hole 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 XV.
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY.

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, why, think you, did I go so far round, why take
so long to tell you 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, now 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. To-night 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 category, 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 be not true, then proof
will be relief, at worst it will not harm. If it be true! Ah, there is
the dread; yet very 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 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 church-yard 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 that 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 sonic 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 when it has been quite a gala-time with them. Even this
poor little mite, when he woke up to-day, 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 no 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 mix-up
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 church-yard, 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
match-box and a piece of candle, proceeded to make a light. The tomb
in the day-time, 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 time-discoloured 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; "there may be duplicates; and anyhow it is
not difficult to pick a lock of that 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 way 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 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?"
I asked.
"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
"Spaniards," 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 shall 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 then
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 realised 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 then 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, "see, 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. Some one 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 all later- and in
trance could he best come to take more blood. In trance she died,
and in trance she is Un-Dead, too. So it is that she differ from all
other. Usually when the Un-Dead 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 Un-Dead 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 Un-Dead, 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 for ever. 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 to-day 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 good-bye 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
Un-Dead. 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 to-night
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. To-morrow 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 Un-Dead, Miss Lucy, shall
not leave to-night, 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 Un-Dead, 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 Un-Dead 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 the 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 Un-Dead, he have now 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 Un-Dead 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 come
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 Un-Dead woman sleep, and 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 Un-Dead, 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
loath 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, morning... Last night, at a little before ten o'clock,
Arthur and Quincey came into Van Helsing's room; he told us all that
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 recognised 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 honour 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 it is 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 Un-Dead."
"Un-Dead! 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 dishonour on her grave? Are you
mad that speak such things, or am I mad that listen to them? Don't
dare to 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
fulfilment even than I am, then- then I shall do my duty, whatever
it may seem to me. And then, to follow of 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 of labour 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 came 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 to her my nights and days- before death, after death;
and if my death can do her good even now, when she is the dead
Un-Dead, 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 XVI.
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY.

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 rents 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 that 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 the 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 dishonour you as
to imply a doubt; but this is a mystery that goes beyond any honour or
dishonour. Is this your doing?"
"I swear to you by all that I hold sacred that I have not removed
nor 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 day-time, 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 Un-Dead can
move. I waited here all the 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 Un-Dead cannot bear, and
other things which they shun. Last night there was no exodus, so
to-night 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 humanising 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 to 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 Un-Dead may not enter."
"And is that stuff you have put there going to do it?" asked
Quincey. "Great Scott! Is this a game?"
"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, a 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 recognised 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 colour; 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
outstreched 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 tingling 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 iron 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 colour became livid, the eyes seemed to
throw out sparks of hell-fire, the brows were wrinkled as though the
folds of the 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, she
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?"
Arthur threw himself on his knees, and hid his face in his hands, as
he answered:-
"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 in horrified
amazement as we saw, when he stood back, the woman, with a corporeal
body as real at that moment as our own, pass in 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 to-morrow. 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
lock the gate we shall remain. Then there is more to do; but not
like this of to-night. As for this little one, he is not much harm,
and by to-morrow 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 sore trial; but after, when you will
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 overmuch. 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 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 churchyard 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
body 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 bloodstained, voluptuous mouth- which it made one shudder
to see- the whole carnal and unspiritual 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 a small oil-lamp, which gave out,
when lit in a corner of the tomb, gas which burned at 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 preparations 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 Un-Dead. 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 Un-Dead
become themselves Un-Dead, 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 all time make more of
those Un-Deads that so have fill us with horror. The career of this so
unhappy dear lady is but just begun. Those children whose blood she
suck are not as yet so much the worse; but if she live on, Un-Dead,
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 plays unknowing ever of
what has been. But of the most blessed of all, when this now Un-Dead
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 assimilation 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 will 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 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 Un-Dead 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 teeth 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 had 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 her 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 forever.
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 Un-Dead. 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 of our work is done, one the most
harrowing to ourselves. But there remains a greater task: to find
out the author of all this our sorrow and to stamp him out. I have
clues which we can follow; but it is a long task, and a difficult, 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 better 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 about, and you can help me. To-night I leave for
Amsterdam, but shall return to-morrow night. And then begins our great
quest. But first I shall have much to say, so that you may know what
is 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 XVII.
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY.

When we arrived at the Berkeley 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 enroute, so that she may be prepared."
When the wire was despatched 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 to-day. 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 Un-Dead 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 diary of
all these so strange things; is it not so? Yes! Then we shall go
through all these together when that we meet." He then made ready
for his departure, and shortly after 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, last 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 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 some one 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 honour. 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 the 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 realised 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 with 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 dear
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 to-morrow 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 so have so far travelled 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 my typewriter.
He placed me in a comfortable 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- 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 a
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, dear Lucy was at lest 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 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 seventh
cylinder. I used manifold, and so took three copies of the diary
just as I had done with all 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
Westminister 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, 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 had got his
wife's wire just before starting. He is uncommonly clever, if one
can judge from his face, and full of energy. If his 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,
business-like gentleman who came here to-day.

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 they are 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 typescript 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 typescript. 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 collating his 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 outbreaks were in some way
linked with the proximity of the Count. What then does his 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 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.

Jonathan 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 stay the night. They are hospitable, with true
Yorkshire hospitality: give a guest everything, and leave him free
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 an
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 letter to Carter Paterson, and their reply, of both of 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 harbour-master. They had all something to say of
the strange entry of the ship, which is already taking its place in
local tradition; but no one could add to the simple description.
"Fifty cases of common earth." I then saw the station-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 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 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, for ever
and adequately, this source of reproach.