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CHAPTER 1

Jonathan Harker's Journal

3 May. Bistritz.__Left Munich at 8:35 P.M, on 1st May,

arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived

at 6:46, but train was an hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a won-

derful 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 nation-

al dish, I should be able to get it anywhere along the Car-

pathians.

I found my smattering of German very useful here,in-

deed, I don't know how I should be able to get on without

it.

Having had some time at my disposal when in London, I

had visited the British Museum, and made search among the

books and maps in the library regarding Transylvania; it

had struck me that some foreknowledge of the country could

hardly fail to have some importance in dealing with a

nobleman of that country.

I find that the district he named is in the extreme

east of the country, just on the borders of three states,

Transylvania, Moldavia, and Bukovina, in the midst of the

Carpathian mountains; one of the wildest and least known

portions of Europe.

I was not able to light on any map or work giving the

exact locality of the Castle Dracula, as there are no maps

of this country as yet to compare with our own Ordance

Survey Maps; but I found that Bistritz, the post town named

by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I shall

enter here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory

when I talk over my travels with Mina.

In the population of Transylvania there are four dis-

tinct 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 car-

afe, and was still thirsty. Towards morning I slept

and was wakened by the continuous knocking at my door,

so I guess I must have been sleeping soundly then.

I had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of

porridge of maize flour which they said was "mamaliga",

and egg-plant stuffed with forcemeat, a very excellent

dish, which they call "impletata". (Mem.,get recipe for this

also.)

I had to hurry breakfast, for the train started a

little before eight, or rather it ought to have done so,

for after rushing to the station at 7:30 I had to sit in

the carriage for more than an hour before we began to move.

It seems to me that the further east you go the more

unpunctual are the trains. What ought they to be in China?

All day long we seemed to dawdle through a country

which was full of beauty of every kind. Sometimes we saw

little towns or castles on the top of steep hills such as we

see in old missals; sometimes we ran by rivers and streams

which seemed from the wide stony margin on each side of them

to be subject ot great floods. It takes a lot of water, and

running strong, to sweep the outside edge of a river clear.

At every station there were groups of people, sometimes

crowds, and in all sorts of attire. Some of them were just

like the peasants at home or those I saw coming through

France and Germany, with short jackets, and round hats, and

home-made trousers; but others were very picturesque.

The women looked pretty, except when you got near them,

but they were very clumsy about the waist. They had all

full white sleeves of some kind or other, and most of them

had big belts with a lot of strips of something fluttering

from them like the dresses in a ballet, but of course there

were petticoats under them.

The strangest figures we saw were the Slovaks, who

were more barbarian than the rest, with their big cow-boy

hats, great baggy dirty-white trousers, white linen shirts,

and enormous heavy leather belts, nearly a foot wide, all

studded over with brass nails. They wore high boots, with

their trousers tucked into them, and had long black hair

and heavy black moustaches. They are very picturesque,

but do not look prepossessing. On the stage they would

be set down at once as some old Oriental band of brigands.

They are, however, I am told, very harmless and rather

wanting in natural self-assertion.

It was on the dark side of twilight when we got to

Bistritz, which is a very interesting old place. Being

practically on the frontier--for the Borgo Pass leads from

it into Bukovina--it has had a very stormy existence, and

it certainly shows marks of it. Fifty years ago a series

of great fires took place, which made terrible havoc on

five separate occasions. At the very beginning of the

seventeenth century it underwent a siege of three weeks

and lost 13,000 people, the casualties of war proper be-

ing assisted by famine and disease.

Count Dracula had directed me to go to the Golden

Krone Hotel, which I found, to my great delight, to be

thoroughly old-fashioned, for of course I wanted to see all

I could of the ways of the country.

I was evidently expected, for when I got near the

door I faced a cheery-looking elderly woman in the usual

peasant dress--white undergarment with a long double apron,

front, and back, of coloured stuff fitting almost too tight

for modesty. When I came close she bowed and said, "The

Herr Englishman?"

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

She smiled, and gave some message to an elderly man in

white 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 anxious-

ly expecting you. Sleep well tonight. At three tomorrow

the diligence will start for Bukovina; a place on it is kept

for you. At the Borgo Pass my carriage will await you and

will bring you to me. I trust that your journey from London

has been a happy one, and that you will enjoy your stay in

my beautiful land.--Your friend, Dracula."

4 May--I found that my landlord had got a letter from

the Count, directing him to secure the best place on the

coach for me; but on making inquiries as to details he seem-

ed somewhat reticent, and pretended that he could not under-

stand my German.

This could not be true,because up to then he had under-

stood it perfectly; at least, he answered my questions

exactly as if he did.

He and his wife, the old lady who had received me,look-

ed 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 start-

ing that I had no time to ask anyone else, for it was all

very mysterious and not by any means comforting.

Just before I was leaving, the old lady came up to my

room and said in a hysterical way: "Must you go? Oh! Young

Herr, must you go?" She was in such an excited state that

she seemed to have lost her grip of what German she knew,

and mixed it all up with some other language which I did

not know at all. I was just able to follow her by asking

many questions. When I told her that I must go at once, and

that I was engaged on important business, she asked again:

"Do you know what day it is?" I answered that it was

the fourth of May. She shook her head as she said again:

"Oh, yes! I know that! I know that, but do you know

what day it is?"

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

"It is the eve of St. George's Day. Do you not know

that 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 be-

fore starting.

It was all very ridiculous but I did not feel com-

fortable. However, there was business to be done, and I

could allow nothing to interfere with it.

I tried to raise her up, and said, as gravely as I

could, that I thanked her, but my duty was imperative, and

that I must go.

She then rose and dried her eyes, and taking a cruci-

fix from her neck offered it to me.

I did not know what to do, for, as an English Church-

man, I have been taught to regard such things as in some

measure idolatrous, and yet it seemed so ungracious to re-

fuse 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 gray of the morning has passed,

and the sun is high over the distant horizon, which seems

jagged, whether with trees or hills I know not, for it is

so far off that big things and little are mixed.

I am not sleepy, and, as I am not to be called till I

awake, naturally I write till sleep comes.

There are many odd things to put down, and, lest who

reads them may fancy that I dined too well before I left

Bistritz, let me put down my dinner exactly.

I dined on what they called "robber steak"--bits of

bacon, onion, and beef, seasoned with red pepper, and

strung on sticks, and roasted over the fire, in simple style

of the London cat's meat!

The wine was Golden Mediasch, which produces a queer

sting on the tongue, which is, however, not disagreeable.

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

else.

When I got on the coach, the driver had not taken his

seat, and I saw him talking to the landlady.

They were evidently talking of me, for every now and

then they looked at me, and some of the people who were

sitting on the bench outside the door--came and listened,

and then looked at me, most of them pityingly. I could hear

a lot of words often repeated, queer words, for there were

many nationalities in the crowd,so I quietly got my polyglot

dictionary from my bag and looked them out.

I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst

them were "Ordog"--Satan, "Pokol"--hell, "stregoica"--witch,

"vrolok" and "vlkoslak"--both mean the same thing, one being

Slovak and the other Servian for something that is either

werewolf or vampire. (Mem.,I must ask the Count about these

superstitions.)

When we started, the crowd round the inn door, which

had by this time swelled to a considerable size, all made

the sign of the cross and pointed two fingers towards me.

With some difficulty, I got a fellow passenger to tell

me what they meant. He would not answer at first, but on

learning that I was English, he explained that it was a

charm or guard against the evil eye.

This was not very pleasant for me, just starting for an

unknown place to meet an unknown man. But everyone seemed

so kind-hearted, and so sorrowful, and so sympathetic that I

could not but be touched.

I shall never forget the last glimpse which I had of

the inn yard and its crowd of picturesque figures,all cross-

ing themselves, as they stood round the wide archway, with

its background of rich foliage of oleander and orange trees

in green tubs clustered in the centre of the yard.

Then our driver, whose wide linen drawers covered the

whole front of the boxseat,--"gotza" they call them--cracked

his big whip over his four small horses, which ran abreast,

and we set off on our journey.

I soon lost sight and recollection of ghostly fears in

the beauty of the scene as we drove along, although had I

known the language, or rather languages, which my fellow-

passengers were speaking, I might not have been able to

throw them off so easily. Before us lay a green sloping

land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep

hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the

blank gable end to the road. There was everywhere a bewild-

ering 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 differ-

ent 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 for-

eign 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 Car-

pathians 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 him-

self reverently.

As we wound on our endless way, and the sun sank lower

and lower behind us, the shadows of the evening began to

creep round us. This was emphasized by the fact that the

snowy mountain-top still held the sunset, and seemed to glow

out with a delicate cool pink. Here and there we passed

Cszeks and slovaks, all in picturesque attire, but I noticed

that goitre was painfully prevalent. By the roadside were

many crosses, and as we swept by, my companions all crossed

themselves. Here and there was a peasant man or woman kneel-

ing before a shrine, who did not even turn round as we

approached, but seemed in the self-surrender of devotion to

have neither eyes nor ears for the outer world. There were

many things new to me. For instance, hay-ricks in the trees,

and here and there very beautiful masses of weeping birch,

their white stems shining like silver through the delicate

green of the leaves.

Now and again we passed a leiter-wagon--the ordinary

peasants's cart--with its long, snakelike vertebra, calcu-

lated to suit the inequalities of the road. On this were

sure to be seated quite a group of homecoming peasants, the

Cszeks with their white, and the Slovaks with their coloured

sheepskins, the latter carrying lance-fashion their long

staves, with axe at end. As the evening fell it began to get

very cold, and the growing twilight seemed to merge into one

dark mistiness the gloom of the trees, oak, beech, and pine,

though in the valleys which ran deep between the spurs of

the hills, as we ascended through the Pass, the dark firs

stood out here and there against the background of late-

lying snow. Sometimes, as the road was cut through the pine

woods that seemed in the darkness to be closing down upon

us, great masses of greyness which here and there bestrewed

the trees, produced a peculiarly weird and solemn effect,

which carried on the thoughts and grim fancies engendered

earlier in the evening, when the falling sunset threw into

strange relief the ghost-like clouds which amongst the

Carpathians seem to wind ceaselessly through the valleys.

Sometimes the hills were so steep that, despite our driver's

haste, the horses could only go slowly. I wished to get down

and walk up them, as we do at home, but the driver would not

hear of it. "No, no," he said. "You must not walk here. The

dogs are too fierce." And then he added, with what he evi-

dently meant for grim pleasantry--for he looked round to

catch the approving smile of the rest--"And you may have

enough of such matters before you go to sleep." The only

stop he would make was a moment's pause to light his lamps.

When it grew dark there seemed to be some excitement

amongst the passengers, and they kept speaking to him, one

after the other, as though urging him to further speed. He

lashed the horses unmercifully with his long whip, and with

wild cries of encouragement urged them on to further

exertions. Then through the darkness I could see a sort of

patch of grey light ahead of us,as though there were a cleft

in the hills. The excitement of the passengers grew greater.

The crazy coach rocked on its great leather springs, and

swayed like a boat tossed on a stormy sea. I had to hold on.

The road grew more level, and we appeared to fly along. Then

the mountains seemed to come nearer to us on each side and

to frown down upon us. We were entering on the Borgo Pass.

One by one several of the passengers offered me gifts, which

they pressed upon me with an earnestness which would take no

denial. These were certainly of an odd and varied kind, but

each was given in simple good faith, with a kindly word, and

a blessing, and that same strange mixture of fear-meaning

movements which I had seen outside the hotel at Bistritz--

the sign of the cross and the guard against the evil eye.

Then, as we flew along, the driver leaned forward, and on

each side the passengers, craning over the edge of the coach,

peered eagerly into the darkness. It was evident that some-

thing 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 sepa-

rated two atmospheres, and that now we had got into the

thunderous one. I was now myself looking out for the convey-

ance which was to take me to the Count. Each moment I

expected to see the glare of lamps through the blackness,but

all was dark. The only light was the flickering rays of our

own lamps, in which the steam from our hard-driven horses

rose in a white cloud. We could see now the sandy road lying

white before us, but there was on it no sign of a vehicle.

The passengers drew back with a sigh of gladness, which

seemed to mock my own disappointment. I was already thinking

what I had best do, when the driver, looking at his watch,

said to the others something which I could hardly hear, it

was spoken so quietly and in so low a tone, I thought it was

"An hour less than the time." Then turning to me, he spoke

in German worse than my own.

"There is no carriage here. The Herr is not expected

after all. He will now come on to Bukovina, and return tomor-

row or the next day, better the next day." Whilst he was

speaking the horses began to neigh and snort and plunge

wildly, so that the driver had to hold them up.Then, amongst

a chorus of screams from the peasants and a universal cross-

ing of themselves, a caleche, with four horses, drove up be-

hind us, overtook us, and drew up beside the coach. I could

see from the flash of our lamps as the rays fell on them,

that the horses were coal-black and splendid animals. They

were driven by a tall man, with a long brown beard and a

great black hat, which seemed to hide his face from us. I

could only see the gleam of a pair of very bright eyes,which

seemed red in the lamplight, as he turned to us.

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

friend."

The man stammered in reply, "The English Herr was in

a hurry."

To which the stranger replied, "That is why, I suppose,

you wished him to go on to Bukovina. You cannot deceive me,

my friend. I know too much, and my horses are swift."

As he spoke he smiled,and the lamplight fell on a hard-

looking mouth, with very red lips and sharp-looking teeth,

as white as ivory. One of my companions whispered to another

the line from Burger's "Lenore".

"Denn die Todten reiten Schnell."

("For the dead travel fast.")

The strange driver evidently heard the words, for he

looked up with a gleaming smile. The passenger turned his

face away, at the same time putting out his two fingers and

crossing himself. "Give me the Herr's luggage," said the

driver, and with exceeding alacrity my bags were handed out

and put in the caleche. Then I descended from the side of

the coach, as the caleche was close alongside, the driver

helping me with a hand which caught my arm in a grip of

steel. His strength must have been prodigious.

Without a word he shook his reins, the horses turned,

and we swept into the darkness of the pass. As I looked back

I saw the steam from the horses of the coach by the light

of the lamps,and projected against it the figures of my late

companions crossing themselves. Then the driver cracked his

whip and called to his horses, and off they swept on their

way to Bukovina. As they sank into the darkness I felt a

strange chill, and a lonely feeling come over me. But a

cloak was thrown over my shoulders, and a rug across my

knees, and the driver said in excellent German--

"The night is chill, mein Herr, and my master the Count

bade me take all care of you. There is a flask of slivovitz

(the plum brandy of the country) underneath the seat, if you

should require it."

I did not take any, but it was a comfort to know it was

there all the same. I felt a little strangely, and not a

little frightened. I think had there been any alternative I

should have taken it, instead of prosecuting that unknown

night journey. The carriage went at a hard pace straight

along, then we made a complete turn and went along another

straight road. It seemed to me that we were simply going

over and over the same ground again, and so I took note of

some salient point, and found that this was so. I would have

liked to have asked the driver what this all meant, but I

really feared to do so, for I thought that, placed as I was,

any protest would have had no effect in case there had been

an intention to delay.

By-and-by, however, as I was curious to know how time

was passing, I struck a match, and by its flame looked at my

watch. It was within a few minutes of midnight. This gave me

a sort of shock, for I suppose the general superstition

about midnight was increased by my recent experiences. I

waited with a sick feeling of suspense.

Then a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far

down the road, a long, agonized wailing, as if from fear.

The sound was taken up by another dog, and then another and

another, till, borne on the wind which now sighed softly

through the Pass, a wild howling began, which seemed to come

from all over the country, as far as the imagination could

grasp it through the gloom of the night.

At the first howl the horses began to strain and rear,

but the driver spoke to them soothingly, and they quieted

down, but shivered and sweated as though after a runaway

from sudden fright. Then, far off in the distance, from the

mountains on each side of us began a louder and a sharper

howling, that of wolves, which affected both the horses and

myself in the same way. For I was minded to jump from the

caleche and run, whilst they reared again and plunged madly,

so that the driver had to use all his great strength to keep

them from bolting. In a few minutes, however, my own ears

got accustomed to the sound, and the horses so far became

quiet that the driver was able to descend and to stand be-

fore them.

He petted and soothed them, and whispered something in

their ears, as I have heard of horse-tamers doing, and with

extraordinary effect, for under his caresses they became

quite manageable again, though they still trembled. The

driver again took his seat, and shaking his reins, started

off at a great pace. This time, after going to the far side

or the Pass, he suddenly turned down a narrow roadway which

ran sharply to the right.

Soon we were hemmed in with trees, which in places

arched right over the roadway till we passed as through a

tunnel. And again great frowning rocks guarded us boldly on

either side. Though we were in shelter, we could hear the

rising wind, for it moaned and whistled through the rocks,

and the branches of the trees crashed together as we swept

along. It grew colder and colder still, and fine, powdery

snow began to fall, so that soon we and all around us were

covered with a white blanket. The keen wind still carried

the howling of the dogs, though this grew fainter as we went

on our way. The baying of the wolves sounded nearer and near-

er, 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 turn-

ing his head to left and right, but I could not see anything

through the darkness.

Suddenly, away on our left I saw a fain flickering blue

flame. The driver saw it at the same moment. He at once

checked the horses, and, jumping to the ground, disappeared

into the darkness. I did not know what to do, the less as

the howling of the wolves grew closer. But while I wondered,

the driver suddenly appeared again, and without a word took

his seat, and we resumed our journey. I think I must have

fallen asleep and kept dreaming of the incident, for it

seemed to be repeated endlessly, and now looking back, it is

like a sort of awful nightmare. Once the flame appeared so

near the road, that even in the darkness around us I could

watch the driver's motions. He went rapidly to where the

blue flame arose, it must have been very faint, for it did

not seem to illumine the place around it at all, and gather-

ing 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 moon-

light had had some peculiar effect on them.The horses jumped

about and reared, and looked helplessly round with eyes that

rolled in a way painful to see.But the living ring of terror

encompassed them on every side, and they had perforce to

remain within it. I called to the coachman to come, for it

seemed to me that our only chance was to try to break out

through the ring and to aid his approach, I shouted and beat

the side of the caleche, hoping by the noise to scare the

wolves from the side, so as to give him a chance of reaching

the trap. How he came there, I know not, but I heard his

voice raised in a tone of imperious command, and looking

towards the sound, saw him stand in the roadway. As he swept

his long arms, as though brushing aside some impalpable

obstacle, the wolves fell back and back further still. Just

then a heavy cloud passed across the face of the moon, so

that we were again in darkness.

When I could see again the driver was climbing into the

caleche, and the wolves disappeared. This was all so strange

and uncanny that a dreadful fear came upon me, and I was

afraid to speak or move. The time seemed interminable as we

swept on our way, now in almost complete darkness, for the

rolling clouds obscured the moon.

We kept on ascending, with occasional periods of quick

descent, but in the main always ascending.Suddenly, I became

conscious of the fact that the driver was in the act of pull-

ing up the horses in the courtyard of a vast ruined castle,

from whose tall black windows came no ray of light,and whose

broken battlements showed a jagged line against the sky.

CHAPTER 2

Jonathan Harker's Journal Continued

5 May.--I must have been asleep, for certainly if I had

been fully awake I must have noticed the approach of such a

remarkable place. In the gloom the courtyard looked of con-

siderable size, and as several dark ways led from it under

great round arches, it perhaps seemed bigger than it really

is. I have not yet been able to see it by daylight.

When the caleche stopped, the driver jumped down and

held out his hand to assist me to alight. Again I could not

but notice his prodigious strength. His hand actually seemed

like a steel vice that could have crushed mine if he had

chosen. Then he took my traps, and placed them on the ground

beside me as I stood close to a great door, old and studded

with large iron nails, and set in a projecting doorway of

massive stone. I could see even in th e dim light that the

stone was massively carved, but that the carving had been

much worn by time and weather. As I stood, the driver jump-

ed again into his seat and shook the reins.The horses start-

ed 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 end-

less, 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 solic-

itor! 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 over-

work. But my flesh answered the pinching test, and my eyes

were not to be deceived. I was indeed awake and among the

Carpathians. All I could do now was to be patient, and to

wait the coming of morning.

Just as I had come to this conclusion I heard a heavy

step approaching behind the great door, and saw through the

chinks the gleam of a coming light. Then there was the

sound of rattling chains and the clanking of massive bolts

drawn back. A key was turned with the loud grating noise of

long disuse, and the great door swung back.

Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a

long white moustache, and clad in black from head to foot,

without a single speck of colour about him anywhere. He

held in his hand an antique silver lamp, in which the flame

burned without a chimney or globe of any kind, throwing long

quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught of the open

door. The old man motioned me in with his right hand with a

courtly gesture, saying in excellent English, but with a

strange intonation.

"Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own free

will!" He made no motion of stepping to meet me, but stood

like a statue,as though his gesture of welcome had fixed him

into stone.The instant, however, that I had stepped over the

threshold, he moved impulsively forward, and holding out his

hand grasped mine with a strength which made me wince, an

effect which was not lessened by the fact that it seemed

cold as ice, more like the hand of a dead than a living man.

Again he said.

"Welcome to my house! Enter freely.Go safely, and leave

something of the happiness you bring!" The strength of the

handshake was so much akin to that which I had noticed in

the driver, whose face I had not seen, that for a moment I

doubted if it were not the same person to whom I was speak-

ing. So to make sure, I said interrogatively, "Count Drac-

ula?"

He bowed in a courtly was as he replied, "I am Dracula,

and I bid you welcome, Mr. Harker, to my house. Come in, the

night air is chill, and you must need to eat and rest."As he

was speaking, he put the lamp on a bracket on the wall, and

stepping out, took my luggage. He had carried it in before I

could forestall him. I protested, but he insisted.

"Nay, sir, you are my guest. It is late, and my people

are not available. Let me see to your comfort myself."He in-

sisted 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 open-

ed 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 chim-

ney. 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 stone-

work, 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 pass-

age of it, at least, gave me a thrill of pleasure.

"I must regret that an attack of gout, from which mal-

ady I am a constant sufferer, forbids absolutely any travel-

ling on my part for some time to come. But I am happy to say

I can send a sufficient substitute, one in whom I have every

possible confidence. He is a young man, full of energy and

talent in his own way, and of a very faithful disposition.

He is discreet and silent, and has grown into manhood in my

service. He shall be ready to attend on you when you will

during his stay, and shall take your instructions in all

matters."

The count himself came forward and took off the cover

of a dish, and I fell to at once on an excellent roast

chicken. This, with some cheese and a salad and a bottle of

old tokay, of which I had two glasses, was my supper.During

the time I was eating it the Count asked me many question

as to my journey, and I told him by degrees all I had

experienced.

By this time I had finished my supper,and by my host's

desire had drawn up a chair by the fire and begun to smoke

a cigar which he offered me, at the same time excusing him-

self 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 point-

ed. The chin was broad and strong, and the cheeks firm

though thin. The general effect was one of extraordinary

pallor.

Hitherto I had noticed the backs of his hands as they

lay on his knees in the firelight, and they had seemed

rather white and fine. But seeing them now close to me, I

could not but notice that they were rather coarse, broad,

with squat fingers. Strange to say, there were hairs in the

centre of the palm. The nails were long and fine, and cut

to a sharp point. As the Count leaned over me and his hands

touched me, I could not repress a shudder. It may have been

that his breath was rank, but a horrible feeling of nausea

came over me, which, do what I would, I could not conceal.

The Count, evidently noticing it, drew back. And with

a grim sort of smile, which showed more than he had yet

done his protruberant teeth, sat himself down again on his

own side of the fireplace. We were both silent for a while,

and as I looked towards the window I saw the first dim

streak of the coming dawn. There seemed a strange stillness

over everything. But as I listened, I heard as if from down

below in the valley the howling of many wolves. The Count's

eyes gleamed, and he said.

"Listen to them, the children of the night. What music

they make!" Seeing, I suppose, some expression in my face

strange to him, he added,"Ah, sir, you dwellers in the city

cannot enter into the feelings of the hunter." Then he rose

and said.

"But you must be tired. Your bedroom is all ready, and

tomorrow you shall sleep as late as you will. I have to be

away till the afternoon, so sleep well and dream well!"

With a courteous bow, he opened for me himself the door to

the octagonal room, and I entered my bedroom.

I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt. I fear. I think

strange things, which I dare not confess to my own soul.

God keep me, if only for the sake of those dear to me!

7 May.--It is again early morning, but I have rested

and enjoyed the last twenty-four hours. I slept till late

in the day, and awoke of my own accord. When I had dressed

myself I went into the room where we had supped, and found

a cold breakfast laid out, with coffee kept hot by the pot

being placed on the hearth. There was a card on the table,

on which was written--

"I have to be absent for a while. Do not wait for me.

D." I set to and enjoyed a hearty meal. When I had done,

I looked for a bell, so that I might let the servants know

I had finished, but I could not find one. There are cer-

tainly odd deficiencies in the house, considering the ex-

traordinary evidences of wealth which are round me. The

table service is of gold, and so beautifully wrought that

it must be of immense value. The curtains and upholstery

of the chairs and sofas and the hangings of my bed are of

the costliest and most beautiful fabrics, and must have

been of fabulous value when they were made, for they are

centuries old, though in excellent order. I saw something

like them in Hampton Court, but they were worn and frayed

and moth-eaten. But still in none of the rooms is there a

mirror. There is not even a toilet glass on my table, and

I had to get the little shaving glass from my bag before I

could either shave or brush my hair. I have not yet seen a

servant anywhere, or heard a sound near the castle except

the howling of wolves. Some time after I had finished my

meal, I do not know whether to call it breakfast of dinner,

for it was between five and six o'clock when I had it, I

looked about for something to read, for I did not like to

go about the castle until I had asked the Count's permiss-

ion. There was absolutely nothing in the room, book, news-

paper, or even writing materials, so I opened another door

in the room and found a sort of library. The door opposite

mine I tried, but found locked.

In the library I found, to my great delight, a vast

number of English books, whole shelves full of them, and

bound volumes of magazines and newspapers. A table in the

center was littered with English magazines and newspapers,

though none of them were of very recent date. The books

were of the most varied kind, history, geography, politics,

political economy, botany, geology, law, all relating to

England and English life and customs and manners. There

were even such books of reference as the London Directory,

the "Red" and "Blue" books, Whitaker's Almanac, the Army

and Navy Lists, and it somehow gladdened my heart to see

it, the Law List.

Whilst I was looking at the books, the door opened,

and the Count entered. He saluted me in a hearty way, and

hoped that I had had a good night's rest. Then he went on.

"I am glad you found your way in here, for I am sure

there is much that will interest you. These companions,"

and he laid his hand on some of the books, "have been good

friends to me, and for some years past, ever since I had

the idea of going to London, have given me many, many hours

of pleasure. Through them I have come to know your great

England, and to know her is to love her. I long to go

through the crowded streets of your mighty London, to be

in the midst of the whirl and rush of humanity, to share

its life, its change, its death, and all that makes it what

it is. But alas! As yet I only know your tongue through

books. To you, my friend, I look that I know it to speak."

"But, Count," I said, "You know and speak English

thoroughly!" He bowed gravely.

"I thank you, my friend, for your all too-flattering

estimate, but yet I fear that I am but a little way on the

road I would travel. True,I know the grammar and the words,

but yet I know not how to speak them.

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

"Not so," he answered. "Well, I know that, did I move

and speak in your London, none there are who would not know

me for a stranger. That is not enough for me. Here I am nob-

le.I am a Boyar. The common people know me, and I am master.

But a stranger in a strange land, he is no one. Men know

him not, and to know not is to care not for. I am content

if I am like the rest, so that no man stops if he sees me,

or pauses in his speaking if he hears my words, `Ha, ha!

A stranger!' I have been so long master that I would be

master still, or at least that none other should be master

of me. You come to me not alone as agent of my friend Peter

Hawkins, of Exeter, to tell me all about my new estate in

London. You shall, I trust, rest here with me a while, so

that by our talking I may learn the English intonation. And

I would that you tell me when I make error, even of the

smallest, in my speaking. I am sorry that I had to be away

so long today, but you will, I know forgive one who has so

many important affairs in hand."

Of course I said all I could about being willing, and

asked if I might come into that room when I chose. He ans-

wered, "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 Eng-

land. 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 ask-

ed 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 un-

checked 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 centur-

ies by the Wallachian, the Saxon, and the Turk. Why, there

is hardly a foot of soil in all this region that has not

been enriched by the blood of men, patriots or invaders.

In the old days there were stirring times, when the Aust-

rian and the Hungarian came up in hordes, and the patriots

went out to meet them, men and women, the aged and the chil-

dren 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 trium-

phant 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 un-

discovered, when there is a sure index to it if men will

but take the trouble to look? "The Count smiled, and as his

lips ran back over his gums, the long, sharp, canine teeth

showed out strangely. He answered.

"Because your peasant is at heart a coward and a fool!

Those flames only appear on one night, and on that night no

man of this land will, if he can help it, stir without his

doors. And,dear sir, even if he did he would not know what

to do. Why, even the peasant that you tell me of who marked

the place of the flame would not know where to look in day-

light even for his own work. Even you would not, I dare be

sworn, be able to find these places again?"

"There you are right," I said. "I know no more than the

dead where even to look for them." Then we drifted into

other matters.

"Come," he said at last, "tell me of London and of the

house which you have procured for me." With an apology for

my remissness, I went into my own room to get the papers

from my bag. Whilst I was placing them in order I heard a

rattling of china and silver in the next room, and as I

passed through, noticed that the table had been cleared and

the lamp lit, for it was by this time deep into the dark.

The lamps were also lit in the study or library, and I

found the Count lying on the sofa, reading, of all things

in the world, and English Bradshaw's Guide. When I came in

he cleared the books and papers from the table, and with

him I went into plans and deeds and figures of all sorts.

He was interested in everything, and asked me a myriad

questions about the place and its surroundings. He clearly

had studied beforehand all he could get on the subject of

the neighborhood, for he evidently at the end knew very

much more than I did. When I remarked this, he answered.

"Well, but, my friend, is it not needful that I should?

When I go there I shall be all alone, and my friend Harker

Jonathan, nay, pardon me. I fall into my country's habit of

putting your patronymic first, my friend Jonathan Harker

will not be by my side to correct and aid me. He will be

in Exeter, miles away, probably working at papers of the

law with my other friend, Peter Hawkins. So!"

We went thoroughly into the business of the purchase

of the estate at Purfleet. When I had told him the facts

and got his signature to the necessary papers, and had

written a letter with them ready to post to Mr. Hawkins, he

began to ask me how I had come across so suitable a place.

I read to him the notes which I had made at the time, and

which I inscribe here.

"At Purfleet, on a 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 was sur-

rounded by a high wall, of ancient structure, built of heavy

stones, and has not been repaired for a large number of

years. The closed gates are of heavy old oak and iron, all

eaten with rust.

"The estate is called Carfax, no doubt a corruption of

the old Quatre Face, as the house is four sided, agreeing

with the cardinal points of the compass. It contains in all

some twenty acres, quite surrounded by the solid stone wall

above mentioned. There are many trees on it, which make it

in places gloomy, and there is a deep, dark-looking pond

or small lake, evidently fed by some springs, as the water

is clear and flows away in a fair-sized stream. The house

is very large and of all periods back, I should say, to

mediaeval times, for one part is of stone immensely thick,

with only a few windows high up and heavily barred with

iron. It looks like part of a keep, and is close to an old

chapel or church. I could not enter it, as I had not the

key of the door leading to it from the house, but I have

taken with my Kodak views of it from various points. The

house had been added to, but in a very straggling way, and

I can only guess at the amount of ground it covers, which

must be very great. There are but few houses close at

hand, one being a very large house only recently added

to and formed into a private lunatic asylum. It is not, how-

ever, 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 Tran-

sylvanian nobles love not to think that our bones may lie

amongst the common dead. I seek not gaiety nor mirth, not

the bright voluptuousness of much sunshine and sparkling

waters which please the young and gay. I am no longer

young, and my heart, through weary years of mourning over

the dead, is attuned to mirth. Moreover, the walls of my

castle are broken. The shadows are many, and the wind

breathes cold through the broken battlements and casements.

I love the shade and the shadow, and would be alone with

my thoughts when I may." Somehow his words and his look

did not seem to accord, or else it was that his cast of

face made his smile look malignant and saturnine.

Presently, with an excuse, he left me, asking me to

pull my papers together. He was some little time away, and

I began to look at some of the books around me. One was an

atlas, which I found opened naturally to England, as if

that map had been much used. On looking at it I found in

certain places little rings marked, and on examining these

I noticed that one was near London on the east side, mani-

festly 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 re-

turned. "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, chat-

ting and asking questions on every conceivable subject,

hour after hour. I felt that it was getting very late in-

deed, but I did not say anything, for I felt under

obligation to meet my host's wishes in every way. I was

not sleepy, as the long sleep yesterday had fortified me,

but I could not help experiencing that chill which comes

over one at the coming of the dawn, which is like, in its

way, the turn of the tide. They say that people who are

near death die generally at the change to dawn or at the

turn of the tide. Anyone who has when tired, and tied as

it were to his post, experienced this change in the

atmosphere can well believe it. All at once we heard the

crow of the cock coming up with preternatural shrillness

through the clear morning air.

Count Dracula, jumping to his feet, said, "Why there

is the morning again! How remiss I am to let you stay up so

long. You must make your conversation regarding my dear new

country of England less interesting, so that I may not for-

get how time flies by us," and with a courtly bow, he

quickly left me.

I went into my room and drew the curtains, but there

was little to notice. My window opened into the courtyard,

all I could see was the warm grey of quickening sky. So I

pulled the curtains again, and have written of this day.

8 May.--I began to fear as I wrote in this book that I

was getting too diffuse. But now I am glad that I went into

detail from the first, for there is something so strange

about this place and all in it that I cannot but feel uneasy.

I wish I were safe out of it, or that I had never come. It

may be that this strange night existence is telling on me,

but would that that were all! If there were any one to

talk to I could bear it, but there is no one.I have only the

Count to speak with, and he-- I fear I am myself the only

living soul within the place. Let me be prosaiac so far as

facts can be. It will help me to bear up, and imagination

must not run riot with me. If it does I am lost. Let me say

at once how I stand, or seem to.

I only slept a few hours when I went to bed,and feeling

that I could not sleep any more, got up. I had hung my shav-

ing 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 my-

self slightly, but did not notice it at the moment. Having

answered the Count's salutation, I turned to the glass again

to see how I had been mistaken. This time there could be no

error, for the man was close to me, and I could see him

over my shoulder. But there was no reflection of him in the

mirror! The whole room behind me was displayed, but there

was no sign of a man in it, except myself.

This was startling, and coming on the top of so many

strange things, was beginning to increase that vague feeling

of uneasiness which I always have when the Count is near.

But at the instant I saw the the cut had bled a little, and

the blood was trickling over my chin. I laid down the razor,

turning as I did so half round to look for some sticking

plaster. When the Count saw my face, his eyes blazed with a

sort of demoniac fury, and he suddenly made a grab at my

throat. I drew away and his hand touched the string of

beads which held the crucifix. It made an instant change

in him, for the fury passed so quickly that I could hardly

believe that it was ever there.

"Take care," he said, "take care how you cut yourself.

It is more dangerous that you think in this country." Then

seizing the shaving glass, he went on, "And this is the

wretched thing that has done the mischief. It is a foul

bauble of man's vanity. Away with it!" And opening the

window with one wrench of his terrible hand, he flung out

the glass, which was shattered into a thousand pieces on

the stones of the courtyard far below. Then he withdrew

without a word. It is very annoying, for I do not see how

I am to shave, unless in my watch-case or the bottom of

the shaving pot, which is fortunately of metal.

When I went into the dining room, breakfast was pre-

pared, but I could not find the Count anywhere. So I break-

fasted alone. It is strange that as yet I have not seen the

Count eat or drink. He must be a very peculiar man! After

breakfast I did a little exploring in the castle. I went out

on the stairs, and found a room looking towards the South.

The view was magnificent, and from where I stood there

was every opportunity of seeing it. The castle is on the

very edge of a terrific precipice. A stone falling from the

window would fall a thousand feet without touching anything!

As far as the eye can reach is a sea of green tree tops,with

occasionally a deep rift where there is a chasm. Here and

there are silver threads where the rivers wind in deep

gorges through the forests.

But I am not in heart to describe beauty,for when I had

seen the view I explored further. Doors, doors, doors every-

where, and all locked and bolted. In no place save from the

windows in the castle walls is there an available exit. The

castle is a veritable prison, and I am a prisoner!

CHAPTER 3

Jonathan Harker's Journal Continued

When I found that I was a prisoner a sort of wild feel-

ing 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 quiet-

ly 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 cau-

tiously to my own room and found him making the bed. This

was odd, but only confirmed what I had all along thought,

that there are no servants in the house. When later I saw

him through the chink of the hinges of the door laying the

table in the dining room, I was assured of it. For if he

does himself all these menial offices, surely it is proof

that there is no one else in the castle, it must have been

the Count himself who was the driver of the coach that

brought me here. This is a terrible thought, for if so,

what does it mean that he could control the wolves, as he

did, by only holding up his hand for silence? How was it

that all the people at Bistritz and on the coach had some

terrible fear for me? What meant the giving of the crucifix,

of the garlic, of the wild rose, of the mountain ash?

Bless that good, good woman who hung the crucifix round

my neck! For it is a comfort and a strength to me whenever I

touch it. It is odd that a thing which I have been taught to

regard with disfavour and as idolatrous should in a time of

loneliness and trouble be of help. Is it that there is some-

thing in the essence of the thing itself, or that it is a

medium, a tangible help, in conveying memories of sympathy

and comfort? Some time, if it may be, I must examine this

matter and try to make up my mind about it. In the meantime

I must find out all I can about Count Dracula,as it may help

me to understand. Tonight he may talk of himself, if I turn

the conversation that way. I must be very careful, however,

not to awake his suspicion.

Midnight.--I have had a long talk with the Count. I

asked him a few questions on Transylvania history, and he

warmed up to the subject wonderfully. In his speaking of

things and people, and especially of battles, he spoke as if

he had been present at them all.This he afterwards explained

by saying that to a Boyar the pride of his house and name is

his own pride,that their glory is his glory, that their fate

is his fate. Whenever he spoke of his house he always said

"we", and spoke almost in the plural, like a king speaking.

I wish I could put down all he said exactly as he said it,

for to me it was most fascinating. It seemed to have in it

a whole history of the country. He grew excited as he spoke,

and walked about the room pulling his great white moustache

and grasping anything on which he laid his hands as though

he would crush it by main strength. One thing he said which

I shall put down as nearly as I can, for it tells in its way

the story of his race.

"We Szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our veins

flows the blood of many brave races who fought as the lion

fights, for lordship. Here, in the whirlpool of European

races, the Ugric tribe bore down from Iceland the fighting

spirit which Thor and Wodin game them,which their Berserkers

displayed to such fell intent on the seaboards of Europe,

aye, and of Asia and Africa too, till the peoples thought

that the werewolves themselves had come. Here, too, when

they came, they found the Huns, whose warlike fury had

swept the earth like a living flame, till the dying peoples

held that in their veins ran the blood of those old witches,

who, expelled from Scythia had mated with the devils in the

desert. Fools, fools! What devil or what witch was ever so

great as Attila, whose blood is in these veins?" He held up

his arms. "Is it a wonder that we were a conquering race,

that we were proud, that when the Magyar, the Lombard, the

Avar, the Bulgar, or the Turk poured his thousands on our

frontiers, we drove them back? Is it strange that when Arpad

and his legions swept through the Hungarian fatherland he

found us here when he reached the frontier, that the Honfog-

lalas was completed there?And when the Hungarian flood swept

eastward,the Szekelys were claimed as kindred by the victor-

ious Magyars, and to us for centuries was trusted the guard-

ing of the frontier of Turkeyland. Aye, and more than that,

endless duty of the frontier guard, for as the Turks say,

`water sleeps, and the enemy is sleepless.' Who more gladly

than we throughout the Four Nations received the `bloody

sword,' or at its warlike call flocked quicker to the stand-

ard of the King? When was redeemed that great shame of my

nation, the shame of Cassova, when the flags of the Wallach

and the Magyar went down beneath the Crescent?Who was it but

one of my own race who as Voivode crossed the Danube and

beat the Turk on his own ground? This was a Dracula indeed!

Woe was it that his own unworthy brother,when he had fallen,

sold his people to the Turk and brought the shame of slavery

on them! Was it not this Dracula, indeed, who inspired that

other of his race who in a later age again and again brought

his forces over the great river into Turkeyland,who, when he

was beaten back, came again, and again,though he had to come

alone from the bloody field where his troops were being

slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could ultimately

triumph! They said that he thought only of himself.Bah! What

good are peasants without a leader? Where ends the war with-

out a brain and heart to conduct it? Again, when, after the

battle of Mohacs, we threw off the Hungarian yoke, we of the

Dracula blood were amongst their leaders, for our spirit

would not brook that we were not free. Ah, young sir, the

Szekelys, and the Dracula as their heart's blood, their

brains, and their swords, can boast a record that mushroom

growths like the Hapsburgs and the Romanoffs can never reach.

The warlike days are over. Blood is too precious a thing in

these days of dishonourable peace, and the glories of the

great races are as a tale that is told."

It was by this time close on morning, and we went to

bed. (Mem., this diary seems horribly like the beginning of

the "Arabian Nights," for everything has to break off at

cockcrow, or like the ghost of Hamlet's father.)

12 May.--Let me begin with facts, bare, meager facts,

verified by books and figures, and of which there can be no

doubt. I must not confuse them with experiences which will

have to rest on my own observation, or my memory of them.

Last evening when the Count came from his room he began by

asking me questions on legal matters and on the doing of

certain kinds of business. I had spent the day wearily over

books, and, simply to keep my mind occupied, went over some

of the matters I had been examined in at Lincoln's Inn.There

was a certain method in the Count's inquiries, so I shall

try to put them down in sequence. The knowledge may somehow

or some time be useful to me.

First, he asked if a man in England might have two so-

licitors 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 difficul-

ty in having one man to attend, say, to banking, and another

to look after shipping, in case local help were needed in a

place far from the home of the banking solicitor. I asked

to explain more fully, so that I might not by any chance

mislead him, so he said,

"I shall illustrate. Your friend and mine, Mr. Peter

Hawkins, from under the shadow of your beautiful cathedral

at Exeter, which is far from London, buys for me through

your good self my place at London. Good! Now here let me

say frankly, lest you should think it strange that I have

sought the services of one so far off from London instead of

some one resident there, that my motive was that no local

interest might be served save my wish only, and as one of

London residence might, perhaps,have some purpose of himself

or friend to serve, I went thus afield to seek my agent,

whose labours should be only to my interest. Now, suppose I,

who have much of affairs, wish to ship goods, say, to New-

castle, 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 someone should

come on his behalf,it was understood that my needs only were

to be consulted. I have not stinted. Is it not so?"

What could I do but bow acceptance? It was Mr.Hawkins'

interest, not mine, and I had to think of him, not myself,

and besides, while Count Dracula was speaking, there was

that in his eyes and in his bearing which made me remember

that I was a prisoner, and that if I wished it I could have

no choice. The Count saw his victory in my bow, and his mas-

tery in the trouble of my face, for he began at once to use

them, but in his own smooth, resistless way.

"I pray you, my good young friend, that you will not

discourse of things other than business in your letters. It

will doubtless please your friends to know that you are well,

and that you look forward to getting home to them. Is it not

so?" As he spoke he handed me three sheets of note paper

and three envelopes. They were all of the thinnest foreign

post, and looking at them, then at him, and noticing his

quiet smile, with the sharp, canine teeth lying over the red

underlip, I understood as well as if he had spoken that I

should be more careful what I wrote, for he would be able to

read it. So I determined to write only formal notes now, but

to write fully to Mr. Hawkins in secret, and also to Mina,

for to her I could write shorthand, which would puzzle the

Count, if he did see it. When I had written my two letters I

sat quiet, reading a book whilst the Count wrote several

notes, referring as he wrote them to some books on his table.

Then he took up my two and placed them with his own, and put

by his writing materials, after which, the instant the door

had closed behind him, I leaned over and looked at the lett-

ers, which were face down on the table.I felt no compunction

in doing so for under the circumstances I felt that I should

protect myself in every way I could.

One of the letters was directed to Samuel F.Billington,

No. 7, The Crescent, Whitby, another to Herr Leutner, Varna.

The third was to Coutts & Co., London, and the fourth to

Herren Klopstock & Billreuth, bankers, Buda Pesth. The

second and fourth were unsealed. I was just about to look at

them when I saw the door handle move.I sank back in my seat,

having just had time to resume my book before the Count,

holding still another letter in his hand, entered the room.

He took up the letters on the table and stamped them care-

fully, and then turning to me, said,

"I trust you will forgive me, but I have much work to

do in private this evening. You will,I hope, find all things

as you wish." At the door he turned, and after a moment's

pause said, "Let me advise you, my dear young friend. Nay,

let me warn you with all seriousness, that should you leave

these rooms you will not by any chance go to sleep in any

other part of the castle. It is old, and has many memories,

and there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely. Be

warned! Should sleep now or ever overcome you, or be like to

do, then haste to your own chamber or to these rooms, for

your rest will then be safe. But if you be not careful in

this respect, then," He finished his speech in a gruesome

way, for he motioned with his hands as if he were washing

them. I quite understood. My only doubt was as to whether

any dream could be more terrible than the unnatural,horrible

net of gloom and mystery which seemed closing around me.

Later.--I endorse the last words written, but this time

there is no doubt in question. I shall not fear to sleep in

any place where he is not. I have placed the crucifix over

the head of my bed,I imagine that my rest is thus freer from

dreams, and there it shall remain.

When he left me I went to my room.After a little while,

not hearing any sound,I came out and went up the stone stair

to where I could look out towards the South. There was some

sense of freedom in the vast expanse, inaccessible though it

was to me,as compared with the narrow darkness of the court-

yard. Looking out on this, I felt that I was indeed in pri-

son, and I seemed to want a breath of fresh air, though it

were of the night. I am beginning to feel this nocturnal ex-

istence tell on me. It is destroying my nerve. I start at

my own shadow, and am full of all sorts of horrible imagin-

ings. 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 black-

ness. The mere beauty seemed to cheer me. There was peace

and comfort in every breath I drew.As I leaned from the win-

dow my eye was caught by something moving a storey below me,

and somewhat to my left, where I imagined, from the order of

the rooms, that the windows of the Count's own room would

look out. The window at which I stood was tall and deep,

stone-mullioned, and though weatherworn, was still complete.

But it was evidently many a day since the case had been

there.I drew back behind the stonework, and looked carefully

out.

What I saw was the Count's head coming out from the

window. I did not see the face, but I knew the man by the

neck and the movement of his back and arms. In any case I

could not mistake the hands which I had had some many oppor-

tunities of studying. I was at first interested and somewhat

amused, for it is wonderful how small a matter will interest

and amuse a man when he is a prisoner. But my very feelings

changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man

slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the

castle wall over the dreadful abyss,face down with his cloak

spreading out around him like great wings. At first I could

not believe my eyes.I thought it was some trick of the moon-

light, 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 hor-

rible place overpowering me.I am in fear, in awful fear, and

there is no escape for me. I am encompassed about with

terrors that I dare not think of.

15 May.--Once more I have seen the count go out in his

lizard fashion. He moved downwards in a sidelong way, some

hundred feet down, and a good deal to the left. He vanished

into some hole or window. When his head had disappeared, I

leaned out to try and see more, but without avail. The dis-

tance was too great to allow a proper angle of sight. I knew

he had left the castle now, and thought to use the opportun-

ity 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 un-

locked, so that I may get it and escape. I went on to make

a thorough examination of the various stairs and passages,

and to try the doors that opened from them. One or two

small rooms near the hall were open, but there was nothing

to see in them except old furniture, dusty with age and

moth-eaten. At last, however, I found one door at the top of

the stairway which, though it seemed locked, gave a little

under pressure. I tried it harder, and found that it was not

really locked, but that the resistance came from the fact

that the hinges had fallen somewhat,and the heavy door rest-

ed 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 win-

dows 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 culv-

erin could not reach, and consequently light and comfort,

impossible to a position which had to be guarded, were secu-

red. To the west was a great valley, and then, rising far

away, great jagged mountain fastnesses, rising peak on peak,

the sheer rock studded with mountain ash and thorn, whose

roots clung in cracks and crevices and crannies of the stone.

This was evidently the portion of the castle occupied by the

ladies in bygone days, for the furniture had more an air of

comfort than any I had seen.

The windows were curtainless, and the yellow moonlight,

flooding in through the diamond panes, enabled one to see

even colours,whilst it softened the wealth of dust which lay

over all and disguised in some measure the ravages of time

and moth.My lamp seemed to be of little effect in the brill-

iant 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 pre-

sence 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 short-

hand all that has happened since I closed it last. It is the

nineteenth century up-to-date with a vengeance. And yet, un-

less 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 hate-

ful place the Count is the least dreadful to me, that to him

alone I can look for safety, even though this be only whilst

I can serve his purpose. Great God! Merciful God, let me be

calm, for out of that way lies madness indeed. I begin to

get new lights on certain things which have puzzled me. Up

to now I never quite knew what Shakespeare meant when he

made Hamlet say, "My tablets! Quick, my tablets! `tis meet

that I put it down," etc., For now, feeling as though my own

brain were unhinged or as if the shock had come which must

end in its undoing, I turn to my diary for repose. The habit

of entering accurately must help to soothe me.

The Count's mysterious warning frightened me at the

time. It frightens me more not when I think of it, for in

the future he has a fearful hold upon me. I shall fear to

doubt what he may say!

When I had written in my diary and had fortunately re-

placed the book and pen in my pocket I felt sleepy. The

Count's warning came into my mind, but I took pleasure in

disobeying it. The sense of sleep was upon me, and with it

the obstinacy which sleep brings as outrider. The soft moon-

light 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 fol-

lowed 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 dis-

turbed the long accumulation of dust. In the moonlight opp-

osite me were three young women, ladies by their dress and

manner. I thought at the time that I must be dreaming when I

saw them, they threw no shadow on the floor. They came close

to me, and looked at me for some time, and then whispered

together. Two were dark, and had high aquiline noses, like

the Count, and great dark, piercing eyes, that seemed to be

almost red when contrasted with the pale yellow moon. The

other was fair,as fair as can be, with great masses of gold-

en 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 some-

thing about them that made me uneasy,some longing and at the

same time some deadly fear.I felt in my heart a wicked,burn-

ing desire that they would kiss me with those red lips.It is

not good to note this down, lest some day it should meet

Mina's eyes and cause her pain, but it is the truth. They

whispered together, and then they all three laughed, such a

silvery,musical laugh, but as hard as though the sound never

could have come through the softness of human lips. It was

like the intolerable,tingling sweetness of waterglasses when

played on by a cunning hand. The fair girl shook her head

coquettishly, and the other two urged her on.

One said, "Go on! You are first, and we shall follow.

Yours' is the right to begin."

The other added, "He is young and strong. There are

kisses for us all."

I lay quiet, looking out from under my eyelashes in an

agony of delightful anticipation. The fair girl advanced and

bent over me till I could feel the movement of her breath

upon me. Sweet it was in one sense,honey-sweet, and sent the

same tingling through the nerves as her voice, but with a

bitter underlying the sweet, a bitter offensiveness, as one

smells in blood.

I was afraid to raise my eyelids,but looked out and saw

perfectly under the lashes. The girl went on her knees, and

bent over me, simply gloating.There was a deliberate volupt-

uousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she

arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal,

till I could see in the moonlight the moisture shining on

the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the

white sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips

went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed to

fasten on my throat. Then she paused, and I could hear the

churning sound of her tongue as it licked her teeth and lips,

and I could feel the hot breath on my neck. Then the skin of

my throat began to tingle as one's flesh does when the hand

that is to tickle it approaches nearer, nearer. I could feel

the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the super sensitive

skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth,

just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in lang-

uorous 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 pos-

itively 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 in the room he said,

"How dare you touch him, any of you? How dare you cast

eyes on him when I had forbidden it? Back, I tell you all!

This man belongs to me! Beware how you meddle with him, or

you'll have to deal with me."

The fair girl, with a laugh of ribald coquetry, turned

to answer him. "You yourself never loved.You never love!" On

this the other women joined,and such a mirthless,hard, soul-

less 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 atten-

tively, and said in a soft whisper, "Yes, I too can love.You

yourselves can tell it from the past. Is it not so? Well,now

I promise you that when I am done with him you shall kiss

him at your will.Now go! Go! I must awaken him, for there is

work to be done."

"Are we to have nothing tonight?"said one of them, with

a low laugh, as she pointed to the bag which he had thrown

upon the floor, and which moved as though there were some

living thing within it. For answer he nodded his head. One

of the women jumped forward and opened it.If my ears did not

deceive me there was a gasp and a low wail, as of a half

smothered child. The women closed round, whilst I was aghast

with horror. But as I looked,they disappeared, and with them

the dreadful bag.There was no door near them, and they could

not have passed me without my noticing.They simply seemed to

fade into the rays of the moonlight and pass out through the

window, for I could see outside the dim, shadowy forms for a

moment before they entirely faded away.

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

CHAPTER 4

Jonathan Harker's Journal Continued

I awoke in my own bed. If it be that I had not dreamt,

the Count must have carried me here. I tried to satisfy

myself on the subject, but could not arrive at any un-

questionable result. To be sure, there were certain small

evidences, such as that my clothes were folded and laid by

in a manner which was not my habit. My watch was still

unwound, and I am rigorously accustomed to wind it the last

thing before going to bed, and many such details. But these

things are no proof, for they may have been evidences that

my mind was not as usual, and, for some cause or another, I

had certainly been much upset.I must watch for proof. Of one

thing I am glad.If it was that the Count carried me here and

undressed me, he must have been hurried in his task, for my

pockets are intact. I am sure this diary would have been a

mystery to him which he would not have brooked.He would have

taken or destroyed it. As I look round this room, although

it has been to me so full of fear, it is now a sort of sanc-

tuary, 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 door-

way at the top of the stairs I found it closed. It had been

so forcibly driven against the jamb that part of the wood-

work was splintered. I could see that the bolt of the lock

had not been shot, but the door is fastened from the inside.

I fear it was no dream, and must act on this surmise.

19 May.--I am surely in the toils. Last night the Count

asked me in the sauvest tones to write three letters, one

saying that my work here was nearly done, and that I should

start for home within a few days,another that I was starting

on the next morning from the time of the letter, and the

third that I had left the castle and arrived at Bistritz. I

would fain have rebelled, but felt that in the present state

of things it would be madness to quarrel openly with the

Count whilst I am so absolutely in his power. And to refuse

would be to excite his suspicion and to arouse his anger. He

knows that I know too much, and that I must not live, lest I

be dangerous to him. My only chance is to prolong my oppor-

tunities. Something may occur which will give ma a chance to

escape. I saw in his eyes something of that gathering wrath

which was manifest when he hurled that fair woman from him.

He explained to me that posts were few and uncertain, and

that my writing now would ensure ease of mind to my friends.

And he assured me with so much impressiveness that he would

countermand the later letters, which would be held over at

Bistritz until due time in case chance would admit of my

prolonging my stay, that to oppose him would have been to

create new suspicion. I therefore pretended to fall in with

his views, and asked him what dates I should put on the

letters.

He calculated a minute, and then said, "The first

should be June 12,the second June 19,and the third June 29."

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

28 May.--There is a chance of escape, or at any rate of

being able to send word home. A band of Szgany have come to

the castle, and are encamped in the courtyard. These are

gipsies. I have notes of them in my book. They are peculiar

to this part of the world, though allied to the ordinary

gipsies all the world over. There are thousands of them in

Hungary and Transylvania, who are almost outside all law.

They attach themselves as a rule to some great noble or

boyar, and call themselves by his name. They are fearless

and without religion, save superstition, and they talk only

their own varieties of the Romany tongue.

I shall write some letters home, and shall try to get

them to have them posted. I have already spoken to them

through my window to begin acquaintanceship. They took their

hats off and made obeisance and many signs, which however, I

could not understand any more than I could their spoken

language . . .

I have written the letters. Mina's is in shorthand, and

I simply ask Mr. Hawkins to communicate with her. To her I

have explained my situation, but without the horrors which I

may only surmise. It would shock and frighten her to death

were I to expose my heart to her. Should the letters not

carry, then the Count shall not yet know my secret or the

extent of my knowledge . . .

I have given the letters. I threw them through the bars

of my window with a gold piece, and made what signs I could

to have them posted. The man who took them pressed them to

his heart and bowed, and then put them in his cap. I could

do no more. I stole back to the study, and began to read. As

the Count did not come in, I have written here . . .

The Count has come. He sat down beside me, and said in

his smoothest voice as he opened two letters, "The Szgany

has given me these, of which, though I know not whence they

come, I shall, of course, take care. See!"--He must have

looked at it.--"One is from you, and to my friend Peter

Hawkins. The other,"--here he caught sight of the strange

symbols as he opened the envelope, and the dark look came

into his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly,--"The other is

a vile thing, an outrage upon friendship and hospitality! It

is not signed. Well! So it cannot matter to us."And he calm-

ly 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 soft-

ly. A minute later I went over and tried it, and the door

was locked.

When, an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into

the room, his coming awakened me, for I had gone to sleep on

the sofa.He was very courteous and very cheery in his manner,

and seeing that I had been sleeping, he said, "So, my friend,

you are tired? Get to bed. There is the surest rest. I may

not have the pleasure of talk tonight, since there are many

labours to me, but you will sleep, I pray."

I passed to my room and went to bed, and, strange to

say, slept without dreaming. Despair has its own calms.

31 May.--This morning when I woke I thought I would

provide myself with some papers and envelopes from my bag

and keep them in my pocket, so that I might write in case I

should get an opportunity, but again a surprise, again a

shock!

Every scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes,

my memoranda, relating to railways and travel, my letter of

credit, in fact all that might be useful to me were I once

outside the castle. I sat and pondered awhile, and then some

thought occurred to me, and I made search of my portmanteau

and in the wardrobe where I had placed my clothes.

The suit in which I had travelled was gone, and also my

overcoat and rug. I could find no trace of them anywhere.

This looked like some new scheme of villainy . . .

17 June.--This morning, as I was sitting on the edge of

my bed cudgelling my brains, I heard without a crackling of

whips and pounding and scraping of horses' feet up the

rocky path beyond the courtyard. With joy I hurried to the

window, and saw drive into the yard two great leiter-wagons,

each drawn by eight sturdy horses, and at the head of each

pair a Slovak, with his wide hat, great nail-studded belt,

dirty sheepskin, and high boots. They had also their long

staves in hand. I ran to the door, intending to descend and

try and join them through the main hall, as I thought that

way might be opened for them. Again a shock, my door was

fastened on the outside.

Then I ran to the window and cried to them. They looked

up at me stupidly and pointed, but just then the "hetman" of

the Szgany came out, and seeing them pointing to my window,

said something, at which they laughed.

Henceforth no effort of mine,no piteous cry or agonized

entreaty, would make them even look at me. They resolutely

turned away. The leiter-wagons contained great,square boxes,

with handles of thick rope. These were evidently empty by

the ease with which the Slovaks handled them, and by their

resonance as they were roughly moved.

When they were all unloaded and packed in a great heap

in one corner of the yard, the Slovaks were given some money

by the Szgany, and spitting on it for luck, lazily went each

to his horse's head. Shortly afterwards, I heard the crack-

ling of their whips die away in the distance.

24 June.--Last night the Count left me early, and lock-

ed 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 ruth-

less 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 not-

ice 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 embra-

sure in a more comfortable position, so that I could enjoy

more fully the aerial gambolling.

Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of

dogs somewhere far below in the valley, which was hidden

from my sight. Louder it seemed to ring in my ears, and the

floating moats of dust to take new shapes to the sound as

they danced in the moonlight. I felt myself struggling to

awake to some call of my instincts. Nay, my very soul was

struggling, and my half-remembered sensibilities were striv-

ing to answer the call. I was becoming hypnotised!

Quicker and quicker danced the dust.The moonbeams seem-

ed 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 mat-

erialised from the moonbeams, were those three ghostly women

to whom I was doomed.

I fled, and felt somewhat safer in my own room, where

there was no moonlight, and where the lamp was burning

brightly.

When a couple of hours had passed I heard something

stirring in the Count's room, something like a sharp wail

quickly suppressed. And then there was silence, deep, awful

silence, which chilled me. With a beating heart, I tried the

door, but I was locked in my prison, and could do nothing. I

sat down and simply cried.

As I sat I heard a sound in the courtyard without, the

agonised cry of a woman. I rushed to the window, and throw-

ing it up, peered between the bars.

There, indeed, was a woman with dishevelled hair, hold-

ing her hands over her heart as one distressed with running.

She was leaning against the corner of the gateway. When she

saw my face at the window she threw herself forward, and

shouted in a voice laden with menace, "Monster, give me my

child!"

She threw herself on her knees,and raising up her hands,

cried the same words in tones which wrung my heart. Then she

tore her hair and beat her breast, and abandoned herself to

all the violences of extravagant emotion. Finally, she threw

herself forward, and though I could not see her,I could hear

the beating of her naked hands against the door.

Somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard

the voice of the Count calling in his harsh,metallic whisper.

His call seemed to be answered from far and wide by the howl-

ing of wolves. Before many minutes had passed a pack of them

poured, like a pent-up dam when liberated, through the wide

entrance into the courtyard.

There was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the

wolves was but short. Before long they streamed away singly,

licking their lips.

I could not pity her, for I knew now what had become of

her child, and she was better dead.

What shall I do? What can I do? How can I escape from

this dreadful thing of night, gloom, and fear?

25 June.--No man knows till he has suffered from the

night how sweet and dear to his heart and eye the morning

can be. When the sun grew so high this morning that it

struck the top of the great gateway opposite my window, the

high spot which it touched seemed to me as if the dove from

the ark had lighted there. My fear fell from me as if it

had been a vaporous garment which dissolved in the warmth.

I must take action of some sort whilst the courage of

the day is upon me. Last night one of my post-dated letters

went to post, the first of that fatal series which is to

blot out the very traces of my existence from the earth.

Let me not think of it. Action!

It has always been at night-time that I have been mo-

lested or threatened, or in some way in danger or in fear.

I have not yet seen the Count in the daylight. Can it be

that he sleeps when others wake, that he may be awake whilst

they sleep? If I could only get into his room! But there is

no possible way. The door is always locked, no way for me.

Yes, there is a way, if one dares to take it. Where his

body has gone why may not another body go? I have seen him

myself crawl from his window. Why should not I imitate him,

and go in by his window? The chances are desperate, but my

need is more desperate still. I shall risk it. At the worst

it can only be death, and a man's death is not a calf's, and

the dreaded Hereafter may still be open to me. God help me

in my task! Goodbye, Mina, if I fail. Goodbye, my faithful

friend and second father.Goodbye, all, and last of all Mina!

Same day, later.--I have made the effort, and God help-

ing me, have come safely back to this room. I must put down

every detail in order. I went whilst my courage was fresh

straight to the window on the south side, and at once got

outside on this side.The stones are big and roughly cut, and

the mortar has by process of time been washed away between

them. I took off my boots, and ventured out on the desperate

way. I looked down once, so as to make sure that a sudden

glimpse of the awful depth would not overcome me, but after

that kept my eyes away from it.I know pretty well the direc-

tion 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 any-

where. The only thing I found was a great heap of gold in

one corner, gold of all kinds, Roman, and British, and Aust-

rian,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 pass-

age, through which came a deathly, sickly odour, the odour

of old earth newly turned. As I went through the passage

the smell grew closer and heavier. At last I pulled open

a heavy door which stood ajar, and found myself in an old

ruined chapel, which had evidently been used as a graveyard.

The roof was broken, and in two places were steps leading to

vaults, but the ground had recently been dug over, and the

earth placed in great wooden boxes, manifestly those which

had been brought by the Slovaks.

There was nobody about, and I made a search over every

inch of the ground, so as not to lose a chance. I went down

even into the vaults, where the dim light struggled,although

to do so was a dread to my very soul. Into two of these I

went, but saw nothing except fragments of old coffins and

piles of dust. In the third, however, I made a discovery.

There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were

fifty in all, on a pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count!

He was either dead or asleep.I could not say which, for eyes

were open and stony, but without the glassiness of death,and

the cheeks had the warmth of life through all their pallor.

The lips were as red as ever. But there was no sign of move-

ment, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart.

I bent over him, and tried to find any sign of life,

but in vain. He could not have lain there long, for the

earthy smell would have passed away in a few hours. By the

side of the box was its cover, pierced with holes here and

there. I thought he might have the keys on him, but when I

went to search I saw the dead eyes, and in them dead though

they were, such a look of hate, though unconscious of me or

my presence, that I fled from the place, and leaving the

Count's room by the window, crawled again up the castle wall.

Regaining my room, I threw myself panting upon the bed and

tried to think.

29 June.--Today is the date of my last letter, and the

Count has taken steps to prove that it was genuine,for again

I saw him leave the castle by the same window, and in my

clothes. As he went down the wall, lizard fashion, I wished

I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that I might destroy him.

But I fear that no weapon wrought along by man's hand would

have any effect on him. I dared not wait to see him return,

for I feared to see those weird sisters. I came back to the

library, and read there till I fell asleep.

I was awakened by the Count, who looked at me as grimly

as a man could look as he said,"Tomorrow, my friend, we must

part. You return to your beautiful England, I to some work

which may have such an end that we may never meet.Your lett-

er home has been despatched. Tomorrow I shall not be here,

but all shall be ready for your journey. In the morning come

the Szgany, who have some labours of their own here, and al-

so come some Slovaks. When they have gone, my carriage

shall come for you, and shall bear you to the Borgo Pass to

meet the diligence from Bukovina to Bistritz. But I am in

hopes that I shall see more of you at Castle Dracula."

I suspected him, and determined to test his sincerity.

Sincerity! It seems like a profanation of the word to write

it in connection with such a monster, so I asked him point-

blank, "Why may I not go tonight?"

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

a mission."

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

once."

He smiled, such a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I

knew there was some trick behind his smoothness. He said,

"And your baggage?"

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

time."

The Count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy

which made me rub my eyes, it seemed so real, "You English

have a saying which is close to my heart, for its spirit is

that which rules our boyars, `Welcome the coming, speed the

parting guest.' Come with me, my dear young friend. Not an

hour shall you wait in my house against your will,though sad

am I at your going,and that you so suddenly desire it. Come!"

With a stately gravity, he, with the lamp, preceded me down

the stairs and along the hall. Suddenly he stopped. "Hark!"

Close at hand came the howling of many wolves. It was

almost as if the sound sprang up at the rising of his hand,

just as the music of a great orchestra seems to leap under

the baton of the conductor. After a pause of a moment, he

proceeded, in his stately way, to the door, drew back the

ponderous bolts, unhooked the heavy chains, and began to

draw it open.

To my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked.

Suspiciously, I looked all round, but could see no key of

any kind.

As the door began to open, the howling of the wolves

without grew louder and angrier. Their red jaws, with champ-

ing teeth, and their blunt-clawed feet as they leaped, came

in through the opening door. I knew than that to struggle

at the moment against the Count was useless.With such allies

as these at his command, I could do nothing.

But still the door continued slowly to open, and only

the Count's body stood in the gap. Suddenly it struck me

that this might be the moment and means of my doom. I was to

be given to the wolves, and at my own instigation. There was

a diabolical wickedness in the idea great enough for the

Count, and as the last chance I cried out, "Shut the door! I

shall wait till morning." And I covered my face with my

hands to hide my tears of bitter disappointment.

With one sweep of his powerful arm, the Count threw the

door shut, and the great bolts clanged and echoed through

the hall as they shot back into their places.

In silence we returned to the library, and after a min-

ute 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 list-

ened. Unless my ears deceived me, I heard the voice of the

Count.

"Back! Back to your own place! Your time is not yet

come. Wait! Have patience! Tonight is mine. Tomorrow night

is yours!"

There was a low,sweet ripple of laughter, and in a rage

I threw open the door, and saw without the three terrible

women licking their lips. As I appeared, they all joined in

a horrible laugh, and ran away.

I came back to my room and threw myself on my knees. It

is then so near the end? Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Lord, help me,

and those to whom I am dear!

30 June.--These may be the last words I ever write in

this diary. I slept till just before the dawn, and when I

woke threw myself on my knees,for I determined that if Death

came he should find me ready.

At last I felt that subtle change in the air, and knew

that the morning had come. Then came the welcome cock-crow,

and I felt that I was safe. With a glad heart, I opened the

door and ran down the hall. I had seen that the door was

unlocked, and now escape was before me. With hands that

trembled with eagerness, I unhooked the chains and threw

back the massive bolts.

But the door would not move. Despair seized me. I

pulled and pulled at the door, and shook it till, massive as

it was, it rattled in its casement.I could see the bolt shot.

It had been locked after I left the Count.

Then a wild desire took me to obtain the key at any

risk,and I determined then and there to scale the wall again,

and gain the Count's room. He might kill me, but death now

seemed the happier choice of evils. Without a pause I rushed

up to the east window, and scrambled down the wall,as before,

into the Count's room. It was empty, but that was as I ex-

pected. I could not see a key anywhere, but the heap of gold

remained. I went through the door in the corner and down the

winding stair and along the dark passage to the old chapel.I

knew now well enough where to find the monster I sought.

The great box was in the same place, close against the

wall, but the lid was laid on it, not fastened down, but

with the nails ready in their places to be hammered home.

I knew I must reach the body for the key, so I raised

the lid, and laid it back against the wall. And then I saw

something which filled my very soul with horror. There lay

the Count,but looking as if his youth had been half restored.

For the white hair and moustache were changed to dark iron-

grey. The cheeks were fuller, and the white skin seemed

ruby-red underneath. The mouth was redder than ever, for on

the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the

corners of the mouth and ran down over the chin and neck.

Even the deep,burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh,

for the lids and pouches underneath were bloated. It seemed

as if the whole awful creature were simply gorged with blood.

He lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his repletion.

I shuddered as I bent over to touch him,and every sense

in me revolted at the contact, but I had to search, or I was

lost. The coming night might see my own body a banquet in a

similar war to those horrid three. I felt all over the body,

but no sign could I find of the key.Then I stopped and look-

ed 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 work-

men had been using to fill the cases, and lifting it high,

struck, with the edge downward, at the hateful face. But as

I did so the head turned, and the eyes fell upon me,with all

their blaze of basilisk horror. The sight seemed to paralyze

me, and the shovel turned in my hand and glanced from the

face, merely making a deep gash above the forehead. The sho-

vel fell from my hand across the box,and as I pulled it away

the flange of the blade caught the edge of the lid which

fell over again, and hid the horrid thing from my sight. The

last glimpse I had was of the bloated face,blood-stained and

fixed with a grin of malice which would have held its own in

the nethermost hell.

I thought and thought what should be my next move, but

my brain seemed on fire,and I waited with a despairing feel-

ing 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 lint-

els flying. When I ran to push it open, I found that it

was hopelessly fast. I was again a prisoner, and the net

of doom was closing round me more closely.

As I write there is in the passage below a sound of

many tramping feet and the crash of weights being set down

heavily, doubtless the boxes, with their freight of earth.

There was a sound of hammering. It is the box being nailed

down. Now I can hear the heavy feet tramping again along

the hall, with with many other idle feet coming behind them.

The door is shut, the chains rattle. There is a grind-

ing of the key in the lock. I can hear the key withdrawn,

then another door opens and shuts. I hear the creaking of

lock and bolt.

Hark! In the courtyard and down the rocky way the

roll of heavy wheels, the crack of whips, and the chorus of

the Szgany as they pass into the distance.

I am alone in the castle with those horrible women.

Faugh! Mina is a woman, and there is nought in common. They

are devils of the Pit!

I shall not remain alone with them. I shall try to

scale the castle wall farther than I have yet attempted. I

shall take some of the gold with me, lest I want it later. I

may find a way from this dreadful place.

And then away for home! Away to the quickest and near-

est train! Away from the cursed spot, from this cursed land,

where the devil and his children still walk with earthly

feet!

At least God's mercy is better than that of those mon-

sters, and the precipice is steep and high. At its foot a

man may sleep, as a man. Goodbye, all. Mina!

CHAPTER 5

LETTER FROM MISS MINA MURRAY TO MISS LUCY WESTENRA

9 May.

My dearest Lucy,

Forgive my long delay in writing,but I have been simply

overwhelmed with work. The life of an assistant schoolmist-

ress is sometimes trying. I am longing to be with you, and

by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our

castles in the air. I have been working very hard lately,

because I want to keep up with Jonathan's studies, and I

have been practicing shorthand very assiduously. When we are

married I shall be able to be useful to Jonathan, and if I

can stenograph well enough I can take down what he wants to

say in this way and write it out for him on the typewriter,

at which also I am practicing very hard.

He and I sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he

is keeping a stenographic journal of his travels abroad.

When I am with you I shall keep a diary in the same way. I

don't mean one of those two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-

squeezed-in-a-corner diaries, but a sort of journal which

I can write in whenever I feel inclined.

I do not suppose there will be much of interest to

other people, but it is not intended for them. I may show

it to Jonathan some day if there is in it anything worth

sharing, but it is really an exercise book. I shall try to

do what I see lady journalists do, interviewing and writing

descriptions and trying to remember conversations. I am told

that, with a little practice, one can remember all that goes

on or that one hears said during a day.

However, we shall see. I will tell you of my little

plans when we meet. I have just had a few hurried lines from

Jonathan from Transylvania. He is well, and will be return-

ing in about a week. I am longing to hear all his news. It

must be nice to see strange countries. I wonder if we, I

mean Jonathan and I, shall ever see them together. There is

the ten o'clock bell ringing. Goodbye.

Your loving

Mina

Tell me all the news when you write. You have not told

me anything for a long time. I hear rumours, and especially

of a tall, handsome, curly-haired man.???

LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY

17, Chatham Street

Wednesday

My dearest Mina,

I must say you tax me very unfairly with being a bad

correspondent. I wrote you twice since we parted, and your

last letter was only your second. Besides, I have nothing

to tell you. There is really nothing to interest you.

Town is very pleasant just now, and we go a great deal

to picture-galleries and for walks and rides in the park. As

to the tall, curly-haired man, I suppose it was the one who

was with me at the last Pop. Someone has evidently been

telling tales.

That was Mr. Holmwood. He often comes to see us, and

he and Mamma get on very well together, they have so many

things to talk about in common.

We met some time ago a man that would just do for you,

if you were not already engaged to Jonathan. He is an

excellant parti, being handsome, well off, and of good birth.

He is a doctor and really clever. Just fancy! He is only

nine-and twenty, and he has an immense lunatic asylum all

under his own care. Mr. Holmwood introduced him to me, and

he called here to see us, and often comes now. I think he

is one of the most resolute men I ever saw, and yet the most

calm. He seems absolutely imperturbable. I can fancy what

a wonderful power he must have over his patients. He has a

curious habit of looking one straight in the face, as if

trying to read one's thoughts. He tries this on very much

with me,but I flatter myself he has got a tough nut to crack.

I know that from my glass.

Do you ever try to read your own face? I do, and I can

tell you it is not a bad study, and gives you more trouble

than you can well fancy if you have never tried it.

He say that I afford him a curious psychological study,

and I humbly think I do. I do not, as you know, take suff-

icient interest in dress to be able to describe the new

fashions. Dress is a bore. That is slang again, but never

mind. Arthur says that every day.

There, it is all out,Mina, we have told all our secrets

to each other since we were children. We have slept together

and eaten together, and laughed and cried together, and now,

though I have spoken, I would like to speak more. Oh, Mina,

couldn't you guess? I love him. I am blushing as I write,

for although I think he loves me, he has not told me so in

words. But, oh, Mina, I love him. I love him! There, that

does me good.

I wish I were with you, dear, sitting by the fire un-

dressing, as we used to sit, and I would try to tell you

what I feel. I do not know how I am writing this even to

you. I am afraid to stop, or I should tear up the letter,

and I don't want to stop, for I do so want to tell you all.

Let me hear from you at once, and tell me all that you think

about it. Mina, pray for my happiness.

Lucy

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

again. L.

LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY

24 May

My dearest Mina,

Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet

letter. It was so nice to be able to tell you and to have

your sympathy.

My dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old

proverbs are. Here am I, who shall be twenty in September,

and yet I never had a proposal till today, not a real pro-

posal, and today I had three. Just fancy! Three proposals

in one day! Isn't it awful! I feel sorry, really and truly

sorry, for two of the poor fellows. Oh, Mina, I am so happy

that I don't know what to do with myself. And three propos-

als! But, for goodness' sake, don't tell any of the girls,

or they would be getting all sorts of extravagant ideas, and

imagining themselves injured and slighted if in their very

first day at home they did not get six at least. Some girls

are so vain! You and I, Mina dear, who are engaged and are

going to settle down soon soberly into old married women,

can despise vanity. Well, I must tell you about the three,

but you must keep it a secret, dear, from every one except,

of course, Jonathan. You will tell him, because I would, if

I were in your place, certainly tell Arthur. A woman ought

to tell her husband everything. Don't you think so, dear?

And I must be fair. Men like women, certainly their wives,

to be quite as fair as they are. And women, I am afraid, are

not always quite as fair as they should be.

Well, my dear, number One came just before lunch. I

told you of him, Dr. John Seward, the lunatic asylum man,

with the strong jaw and the good forehead. He was very cool

outwardly, but was nervous all the same. He had evidently

been schooling himself as to all sorts of little things, and

remembered them, but he almost managed to sit down on his

silk hat, which men don't generally do when they are cool,

and then when he wanted to appear at ease he kept playing

with a lancet in a way that made me nearly scream. He spoke

to me, Mina, very straightfordwardly. He told me how dear I

was to him, though he had known me so little, and what his

life would be with me to help and cheer him. He was going to

tell me how unhappy he would be if I did not care for him,

but when he saw me cry he said he was a brute and would not

add to my present trouble. Then he broke off and asked if I

could love him in time, and when I shook my head his hands

trembled, and then with some hesitation he asked me if I

cared already for any one else.He put it very nicely, saying

that he did not want to wring my confidence from me, but on-

ly to know, because if a woman's heart was free a man might

have hope. And then, Mina, I felt a sort of duty to tell

him that there was some one. I only told him that much, and

then he stood up, and he looked very strong and very grave

as he took both my hands in his and said he hoped I would be

happy, and that If I ever wanted a friend I must count him

one of my best.

Oh, Mina dear, I can't help crying, and you must excuse

this letter being all blotted. Being proposed to is all very

nice and all that sort of thing, but it isn't at all a happy

thing when you have to see a poor fellow,whom you know loves

you honestly, going away and looking all broken hearted, and

to know that, no matter what he may say at the moment, you

are passing out of his life. My dear, I must stop here at

present, I feel so miserable, though I am so happy.

Evening.

Arthur has just gone, and I feel in better spirits than

when I left off, so I can go on telling you about the day.

Well, my dear, number Two came after lunch. He is such

a nice fellow,and American from Texas, and he looks so young

and so fresh that it seems almost impossible that he has

been to so many places and has such adventures. I sympathize

with poor Desdemona when she had such a stream poured in her

ear, even by a black man. I suppose that we women are such

cowards that we think a man will save us from fears, and we

marry him. I know now what I would do if I were a man and

wanted to make a girl love me. No, I don't, for there was

Mr.Morris telling us his stories, and Arthur never told any,

and yet . . .

My dear, I am somewhat previous. Mr. Quincy P. Morris

found me alone. It seems that a man always does find a girl

alone. No, he doesn't, for Arthur tried twice to make a

chance, and I helping him all I could, I am not ashamed to

say it now. I must tell you beforehand that Mr. Morris does-

n'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 wo-

men with the lamps when you quit. Won't you just hitch up

along-side of me and let us go down the long road together,

driving in double harness?"

Well, he did look so hood humoured and so jolly that it

didn't seem half so hard to refuse him as it did poor Dr.

Seward. So I said, as lightly as I could, that I did not

know anything of hitching, and that I wasn't broken to harn-

ess at all yet. Then he said that he had spoken in a light

manner, and he hoped that if he had made a mistake in doing

so on so grave, so momentous, and occasion for him, I would

forgive him. He really did look serious when he was saying

it, and I couldn't help feeling a sort of exultation that he

was number Two in one day. And then, my dear, before I could

say a word he began pouring out a perfect torrent of love-

making, laying his very heart and soul at my feet. He looked

so earnest over it that I shall never again think that a man

must be playful always, and never earnest, because he is

merry at times. I suppose he saw something in my face which

checked him, for he suddenly stopped,and said with a sort of

manly fervour that I could have loved him for if I had been

free . . .

"Lucy, you are an honest hearted girl, I know. I should

not be here speaking to you as I am now if I did not believe

you clean grit,right through to the very depths of your soul.

Tell me, like one good fellow to another, is there any one

else that you care for? And if there is I'll never trouble

you a hair's breadth again, but will be, if you will let me,

a very faithful friend."

My dear Mina, why are men so noble when we women are so

little worthy of them? Here was I almost making fun of this

great hearted, true gentleman. I burst into tears, I am

afraid, my dear, you will think this a very sloppy letter in

more ways than one, and I really felt very badly.

Why can't they let a girl marry three men,or as many as

want her, and save all this trouble? But this is heresy, and

I must not say it. I am glad to say that, though I was cry-

ing, I was able to look into Mr. Morris' brave eyes, and I

told him out straight . . .

"Yes, there is some one I love, though he has not told

me yet that he even loves me." I was right to speak to him

so frankly, for quite a light came into his face, and he put

out both his hands and took mine, I think I put them into

his, and said in a hearty way . . .

"That's my brave girl. It's better worth being late for

a chance of winning you than being in time for any other

girl in the world. Don't cry, my dear. If it's for me, I'm

a hard nut to crack, and I take it standing up. If that

other fellow doesn't know his happiness, well, he'd better

look for it soon, or he'll have to deal with me.Little girl,

your honesty and pluck have made me a friend, and that's

rarer than a lover, it's more selfish anyhow. My dear, I'm

going to have a pretty lonely walk between this and Kingdom

Come.Won't you give me one kiss? It'll be something to keep

off the darkness now and then. You can, you know, if you

like, for that other good fellow, or you could not love him,

hasn't spoken yet."

That quite won me, Mina, for it was brave and sweet of

him, and noble too, to a rival, wasn't it? And he so sad,

so I leant over and kissed him.

He stood up with my two hands in his, and as he looked

down into my face, I am afraid I was blushing very much, he

said, "Little girl, I hold your hand, and you've kissed me,

and if these things don't make us friends nothing ever will.

Thank you for your sweet honesty to me, and goodbye."

He wrung my hand, and taking up his hat, went straight

out of the room without looking back, without a tear or a

quiver or a pause, and I am crying like a baby.

Oh, why must a man like that be made unhappy when there

are lots of girls about who would worship the very ground he

trod on? I know I would if I were free, only I don't want

to be free My dear, this quite upset me, and I feel I

cannot write of happiness just at once, after telling you of

it,and I don't wish to tell of the number Three until it can

be all happy. Ever your loving . . .

Lucy

P.S.--Oh, about number Three, I needn't tell you of

number Three, need I? Besides, it was all so confused. It

seemed only a moment from his coming into the room till both

his arms were round me, and he was kissing me. I am very,

very happy, and I don't know what I have done to deserve it.

I must only try in the future to show that I am not ungrate-

ful to God for all His goodness to me in sending to me such

a lover, such a husband, and such a friend.

Goodbye.

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY

(Kept in phonograph)

25 May.--Ebb tide in appetite today. Cannot eat, can-

not rest, so diary instead. since my rebuff of yesterday I

have a sort of empty feeling. Nothing in the world seems of

sufficient importance to be worth the doing. As I knew that

the only cure for this sort of thing was work,I went amongst

the patients. I picked out one who has afforded me a study

of much interest. He is so quaint that I am determined to

understand him as well as I can.Today I seemed to get nearer

than ever before to the heart of his mystery.

I questioned him more fully than I had ever done, with

a view to making myself master of the facts of his halluci-

nation. In my manner of doing it there was, I now see, some-

thing of cruelty. I seemed to wish to keep him to the point

of his madness, a thing which I avoid with the patients as I

would the mouth of hell.

(Mem., Under what circumstances would I not avoid the

pit of hell?) Omnia Romae venalia sunt. Hell has its price!

If there be anything behind this instinct it will be valu-

able to trace it afterwards accurately, so I had better

commence to do so, therefore . . .

R. M, Renfield, age 59. Sanguine temperament, great

physical strength, morbidly excitable, periods of gloom,end-

ing in some fixed idea which I cannot make out. I presume

that the sanguine temperament itself and the disturbing in-

fluence end in a mentally-accomplished finish, a possibly

dangerous man, probably dangerous if unselfish. In selfish

men caution is as secure an armour for their foes as for

themselves. What I think of on this point is, when self is

the fixed point the centripetal force is balanced with the

centrifugal. When duty, a cause, etc., is the fixed point,

the latter force is paramount, and only accident of a series

of accidents can balance it.

LETTER, QUINCEY P. MORRIS TO HON. ARTHUR HOLMOOD

25 May.

My dear Art,

We've told yarns by the campfire in the prairies, and

dressed one another's wounds after trying a landing at the

Marquesas, and drunk healths on the shore of Titicaca. There

are more yarns to be told,and other wounds to be healed, and

another health to be drunk. Won't you let this be at my

campfire tomorrow night? I have no hesitation in asking you,

as I know a certain lady is engaged to a certain dinner

party, and that you are free. There will only be one other,

our old pal at the Korea, Jack Seward. He's coming, too, and

we both want to mingle our weeps over the wine cup, and to

drink a health with all our hearts to the happiest man in

all the wide world, who has won the noblest heart that God

has made and best worth winning. We promise you a hearty

welcome, and a loving greeting, and a health as true as your

own right hand. We shall both swear to leave you at home if

you drink too deep to a certain pair of eyes. Come!

Yours, as ever and always,

Quincey P. Morris

TELEGRAM FROM ARTHUR HOLMWOOD TO QUINCEY P. MORRIS

26 May

Count me in every time. I bear messages which will

make both your ears tingle.

Art

CHAPTER 6

MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL

24 July. Whitby.--Lucy met me at the station, looking

sweeter and lovlier than ever, and we drove up to the house

at the Crescent in which they have rooms. This is a lovely

place. The little river, the Esk, runs through a deep vall-

ey, 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, un-

less 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 Abb-

ey, 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 beaut-

iful 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 stret-

ches out over the sandy pathway far below. There are walks,

with seats beside them, through the churchyard, and people

go and sit there all day long looking at the beautiful view

and enjoying the breeze.

I shall come and sit here often myself and work.Indeed,

I am writing now, with my book on my knee, and listening to

the talk of three old men who are sitting beside me. They

seem to do nothing all day but sit here and talk.

The harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one

long granite wall stretching out into the sea, with a curve

outwards at the end of it,in the middle of which is a light-

house. A heavy seawall runs along outside of it. On the

near side, the seawall makes an elbow crooked inversely, and

its end too has a lighthouse. Between the two piers there

is a narrow opening into the harbour, which then suddenly

widens.

It is nice at high water, but when the tide is out it

shoals away to nothing,and there is merely the stream of the

Esk, running between banks of sand, with rocks here and

there. Outside the harbour on this side there rises for a-

bout half a mile a great reef, the sharp of which runs

straight out from behind the south lighthouse. At the end of

it is a buoy with a bell, which swings in bad weather, and

sends in a mournful sound on the wind.

They have a legend here that when a ship is lost bells

are heard out at sea. I must ask the old man about this. He

is coming this way . . .

He is a funny old man. He must be awfully old, for his

face is gnarled and twisted like the bark of a tree.He tells

me that he is nearly a hundred, and that he was a sailor in

the Greenland fishing fleet when Waterloo was fought. He is,

I am afraid, a very sceptical person, for when I asked him

about the bells at sea and the White Lady at the abbey he

said very brusquely,

"I wouldn't fash masel' about them, miss. Them things

be all wore out. Mind, I don't say that they never was, but

I do say that they wasn't in my time. They be all very well

for comers and trippers, an' the like, but not for a nice

young lady like you. Them feet-folks from York and Leeds

that be always eatin'cured herrin's and drinkin' tea an'

lookin' out to buy cheap jet would creed aught. I wonder

masel' who'd be bothered tellin' lies to them, even the

newspapers, which is full of fool-talk."

I thought he would be a good person to learn interest-

ing things from, so I asked him if he would mind telling me

something about the whale fishing in the old days. He was

just settling himself to begin when the clock struck six,

whereupon he laboured to get up, and said,

"I must gang ageeanwards home now, miss. My grand-

daughter doesn't like to be kept waitin' when the tea is

ready, for it takes me time to crammle aboon the grees, for

there be a many of `em, and miss, I lack belly-timber sairly

by the clock."

He hobbled away, and I could see him hurrying, as well

as he could, down the steps. The steps are a great feature

on the place. They lead from the town to the church, there

are hundreds of them, I do not know how many, and they wind

up in a delicate curve. The slope is so gentle that a horse

could easily walk up and down them.

I think they must originally have had something to do

with the abbey. I shall go home too. Lucy went out, visit-

ing with her mother, and as they were only duty calls, I did

not go.

1 August.--I came up here an hour ago with Lucy, and we

had a most interesting talk with my old friend and the two

others who always come and join him. He is evidently the Sir

Oracle of them,and I should think must have been in his time

a most dictatorial person.

He will not admit anything, and down faces everybody.If

he can't out-argue them he bullies them,and then takes their

silence for agreement with his views.

Lucy was looking sweetly pretty in her white lawn frock.

She has got a beautiful colour since she has been here.

I noticed that the old men did not lose any time in

coming and sitting near her when we sat down.She is so sweet

with old people, I think they all fell in love with her on

the spot. Even my old man succumbed and did not contradict

her, but gave me double share instead. I got him on the sub-

ject of the legends , and he went off at once into a sort of

sermon. I must try to remember it and put it down.

"It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel, that's

what it be and nowt else.These bans an' wafts an' boh-ghosts

an' bar-guests an' bogles an' all anent them is only fit to

set bairns an' dizzy women a'belderin'. They be nowt but

air-blebs. They, an' all grims an' signs an' warnin's, be

all invented by parsons an' illsome berk-bodies an' railway

touters to skeer an' scunner hafflin's, an' to get folks to

do somethin' that they don't other incline to. It makes me

ireful to think o' them. Why, it's them that, not content

with printin' lies on paper an' preachin' them ou t of

pulpits, does want to be cuttin' them on the tombstones.Look

here all around you in what airt ye will. All them steans,

holdin' up their heads as well as they can out of their

pride, is acant, simply tumblin' down with the weight o' the

lies wrote on them, `Here lies the body' or `Sacred to the

memory' wrote on all of them, an' yet in nigh half of them

there bean't no bodies at all, an' the memories of them

bean't cared a pinch of snuff about, much less sacred. Lies

all of them, nothin' but lies of one kind or another! My gog,

but it'll be a quare scowderment at the Day of Judgment when

they come tumblin' up in their death-sarks, all jouped toge-

ther an' trying' to drag their tombsteans with them to prove

how good they was, some of them trimmlin' an' dithering,with

their hands that dozzened an' slippery from lyin' in the sea

that they can't even keep their gurp o' them."

I could see from the old fellow's self-satisfied air

and the way in which he looked round for the approval of his

cronies that he was "showing off," so I put in a word to

keep him going.

"Oh, Mr. Swales, you can't be serious. Surely these

tombstones are not all wrong?"

"Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin'

where they make out the people too good, for there be folk

that do think a balm-bowl be like the sea, if only it be

their own. The whole thing be only lies. Now look you here.

You come here a stranger, an' you see this kirkgarth."

I nodded, for I thought it better to assent, though I

did not quite understand his dialect. I knew it had some-

thing to do with the church.

He went on, "And you consate that all these steans be

aboon folk that be haped here, snod an' snog?" I assented

again. "Then that be just where the lie comes in. Why,

there be scores of these laybeds that be toom as old Dun's

`baccabox on Friday night."

He nudged one of his companions, and they all laughed.

"And, my gog! How could they be otherwise? Look at that

one, the aftest abaft the bier-bank, read it!"

I went over and read, "Edward Spencelagh, master marin-

er,murdered by pirates off the coast of Andres, April, 1854,

age 30." When I came back Mr. Swales went on,

"Who brought him home, I wonder, to hap him here? Murd-

ered off the coast of Andres! An' you consated his body lay

under! Why, I could name ye a dozen whose bones lie in the

Greenland seas above," he pointed northwards, "or where the

currants may have drifted them. There be the steans around

ye. Ye can, with your young eyes, read the small print of

the lies from here. This Braithwaite Lowery, I knew his

father, lost in the Lively off Greenland in `20, or Andrew

Woodhouse, drowned in the same seas in 1777, or John Paxton,

drowned off Cape Farewell a year later,or old John Rawlings,

whose grandfather sailed with me, drowned in the Gulf of

Finland in `50. Do ye think that all these men will have to

make a rush to Whitby when the trumpet sounds? I have me

antherums aboot it! I tell ye that when they got here they'd

be jommlin' and jostlin' one another that way that it `ud be

like a fight up on the ice in the old days, when we'd be

at one another from daylight to dark, an' tryin' to tie up

our cuts by the aurora borealis." This was evidently local

pleasantry, for the old man cackled over it, and his cronies

joined in with gusto.

"But," I said, "surely you are not quite correct, for

you start on the assumption that all the poor people, or

their spirits, will have to take their tombstones with them

on the Day of Judgment. Do you think that will be really

necessary?"

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

that, miss!"

"To please their relatives, I suppose."

"To please their relatives, you suppose!" This he said

with intense scorn. "How will it pleasure their relatives to

know that lies is wrote over them, and that everybody in the

place knows that they be lies?"

He pointed to a stone at our feet which had been laid

down as a slab, on which the seat was rested, close to the

edge of the cliff. "Read the lies on that thruff-stone," he

said.

The letters were upside down to me from where I sat,but

Lucy was more opposite to them, so she leant over and read,

"Sacred to the memory of George Canon, who died, in the hope

of a glorious resurrection, on July 29,1873,falling from the

rocks at Kettleness. This tomb was erected by his sorrowing

mother to her dearly beloved son.`He was the only son of his

mother, and she was a widow.' Really, Mr. Swales, I don't

see anything very funny in that!" She spoke her comment very

gravely and somewhat severely.

"Ye don't see aught funny! Ha-ha! But that's because ye

don't gawm the sorrowin'mother was a hell-cat that hated him

because he was acrewk'd, a regular lamiter he was, an' he

hated her so that he committed suicide in order that she

mightn't get an insurance she put on his life. He blew nigh

the top of his head off with an old musket that they had for

scarin' crows with. `twarn't for crows then, for it brought

the clegs and the dowps to him. That's the way he fell off

the rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, I've

often heard him say masel' that he hoped he'd go to hell,for

his mother was so pious that she'd be sure to go to heaven,

an' he didn't want to addle where she was. Now isn't that

stean at any rate,"he hammered it with his stick as he spoke,

"a pack of lies? And won't it make Gabriel keckle when

Geordie comes pantin' ut the grees with the tompstean balan-

ced on his hump, and asks to be took as evidence!"

I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conver-

sation as she said, rising up, "Oh, why did you tell us of

this? It is my favorite seat, and I cannot leave it, and now

I find I must go on sitting over the grave of a suicide."

"That won't harm ye, my pretty, an' it may make poor

Geordie gladsome to have so trim a lass sittin' on his lap.

That won't hurt ye. Why, I've sat here off an' on for nigh

twenty years past, an' it hasn't done me no harm. Don't ye

fash about them as lies under ye, or that doesn' lie there

either! It'll be time for ye to be getting scart when ye see

the tombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as a

stubble-field. There's the clock, and'I must gang.My service

to ye, ladies!" And off he hobbled.

Lucy and I sat awhile, and it was all so beautiful be-

fore 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 Jona-

than for a whole month.

The same day. I came up here alone, for I am very sad.

There was no letter for me. I hope there cannot be anything

the matter with Jonathan. The clock has just struck nine. I

see the lights scattered all over the town,sometimes in rows

where the streets are, and sometimes singly. They run right

up the Esk and die away in the curve of the valley. To my

left the view is cut off by a black line of roof of the old

house next to the abbey. The sheep and lambs are bleating in

the fields away behind me, and there is a clatter of donkeys'

hoofs up the paved road below. The band on the pier is play-

ing a harsh waltz in good time, and further along the quay

there is a Salvation Army meeting in a back street. Neither

of the bands hears the other, but up here I hear and see

them both. I wonder where Jonathan is and if he is thinking

of me! I wish he were here.

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY

5 June.--The case of Renfield grows more interesting the

more I get to understand the man. He has certain qualities

very largely developed, selfishness, secrecy, and purpose.

I wish I could get at what is the object of the latter.

He seems to have some settled scheme of his own, but what it

is I do not know.His redeeming quality is a love of animals,

though, indeed, he has such curious turns in it that I some-

times imagine he is only abnormally cruel. His pets are of

odd sorts.

Just now his hobby is catching flies. He has at pre-

sent such a quantity that I have had myself to expostulate.

To my astonishment, he did not break out into a fury, as I

expected, but took the matter in simple seriousness. He

thought for a moment, and then said, "May I have three days?

I shall clear them away." Of course, I said that would do.

I must watch him.

18 June.--He has turned his mind now to spiders,and has

got several very big fellows in a box. He keeps feeding them

his flies, and the number of the latter is becoming sensibly

diminished, although he has used half his food in attracting

more flies from outside to his room.

1 July.--His spiders are now becoming as great a nui-

sance as his flies, and today I told him that he must get

rid of them.

He looked very sad at this, so I said that he must some

of them, at all events. He cheerfully acquiesced in this,

and I gave him the same time as before for reduction.

He disgusted me much while with him, for when a horrid

blowfly, bloated with some carrion food, buzzed into the

room, he caught it, held it exultantly for a few moments be-

tween his finger and thumb, and before I knew what he was

going to do, put it in his mouth and ate it.

I scolded him for it, but he argued quietly that it was

very good and very wholesome, that it was life, strong life,

and gave life to him. This gave me an idea, or the rudiment

of one. I must watch how he gets rid of his spiders.

He has evidently some deep problem in his mind, for he

keeps a little notebook in which he is always jotting down

something. whole pages of it are filled with masses of fig-

ures, generally single numbers added up in batches, and then

the totals added in batches again, as though he were focuss-

ing some account, as the auditors put it.

8 July.--There is a method in his madness,and the rudi-

mentary 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 par-

tially tamed it. His means of taming is simple, for already

the spiders have diminshed. Those that do remain, however,

are well fed, for he still brings in the flies by tempting

them with his food.

19 July--We are progressing. My friend has now a whole

colony of sparrows, and his flies and spiders are almost ob-

literated. When I came in he ran to me and said he wanted

to ask me a great favour, a very, very great favour. And as

he spoke, he fawned on me like a dog.

I asked him what it was, and he said, with a sort of

rapture in his voice and bearing, "A kitten, a nice, little,

sleek playful kitten, that I can play with, and teach, and

feed, and feed, and feed!"

I was not unprepared for this request,for I had noticed

how his pets went on increasing in size and vivacity, but I

did not care that his pretty family of tame sparrows should

be wiped out in the same manner as the flies and spiders.

So I said I would see about it, and asked him if he would

not rather have a cat than a kitten.

His eagerness betrayed him as he answered, "Oh, yes, I

would like a cat! I only asked for a kitten lest you should

refuse me a cat. No one would refuse me a kitten, would

they?"

I shook my head, and said that at present I feared it

would not be possible, but that I would see about it. His

face fell, and I could see a warning of danger in it, for

there was a sudden fierce, sidelong look which meant killing.

The man is an undeveloped homicidal maniac. I shall test

him with his present craving and see how it will work out,

then I shall know more.

10 pm.--I have visited him again and found him sitting

in a corner brooding. When I came in he threw himself on

his knees before me and implored me to let him have a cat,

that his salvation depended upon it.

I was firm, however, and told him that he could not

have it, whereupon he went without a word, and sat down,

gnawing his fingers, in the corner where I had found him. I

shall see him in the morning early.

20 July.--Visited Renfield very early, before attendant

went his rounds. Found him up and humming a tune. He was

spreading out his sugar, which he had saved, in the window,

and was manifestly beginning his fly catching again, and be-

ginning 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 any-

thing odd about him during the day.

11 am.--The attendant has just been to see me to say

that Renfield has been very sick and has disgorged a whole

lot of feathers. "My belief is, doctor," he said, "that he

has eaten his birds, and that he just took and ate them raw!"

11 pm.--I gave Renfield a strong opiate tonight, enough

to make even him sleep, and took away his pocketbook to look

at it. The thought that has been buzzing about my brain

lately is complete, and the theory proved.

My homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. I shall have

to invent a new classification for him, and call him a zoo-

phagous (life-eating) maniac. What he desires is to absorb

as many lives as he can, and he has laid himself out to ac-

hieve 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 exper-

iment. It might be done if there were only a sufficient

cause. Men sneered at vivisection, and yet look at its re-

sults today! Why not advance science in its most difficult

and vital aspect, the knowledge of the brain?

Had I even the secret of one such mind, did I hold the

key to the fancy of even one lunatic, I might advance my own

branch of science to a pitch compared with which Burdon-

Sanderson's physiology or Ferrier's brain knowledge would be

as nothing. If only there were a sufficient cause! I must

not think too much of this, or I may be tempted. A good

cause might turn the scale with me, for may not I too be of

an exceptional brain, congenitally?

How well the man reasoned. Lunatics always do within

their own scope. I wonder at how many lives he values a man,

or if at only one.He has closed the account most accurately,

and today begun a new record. How many of us begin a new

record with each day of our lives?

To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended

with my new hope, and that truly I began a new record. So it

shall be until the Great Recorder sums me up and closes my

ledger account with a balance to profit or loss.

Oh, Lucy,Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be

angry with my friend whose happiness is yours, but I must

only wait on hopeless and work. Work! Work!

If I could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend

there, a good, unselfish cause to make me work, that would

be indeed happiness.

MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL

26 July.--I am anxious,and it soothes me to express my-

self here. It is like whispering to one's self and listening

at the same time. And there is also something about the

shorthand symbols that makes it different from writing. I am

unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan. I had not heard from

Jonathan for some time, and was very concerned,but yesterday

dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind, sent me a letter

from him. I had written asking him if he had heard, and he

said the enclosed had just been received. It is only a line

dated from Castle Dracula, and says that he is just starting

for home. That is not like Jonathan. I do not understand it,

and it makes me uneasy.

Then, too, Lucy , although she is so well, has lately

taken to her old habit of walking in her sleep. Her mother

has spoken to me about it, and we have decided that I am to

lock the door of our room every night.

Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always

go out on roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs and

then get suddenly wakened and fall over with a despairing

cry that echoes all over the place.

Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy, and she

tells me that her husband, Lucy's father, had the same habit,

that he would get up in the night and dress himself and go

out, if he were not stopped.

Lucy is to be married in the autumn, and she is already

planning out her dresses and how her house is to be arranged.

I sympathise with her, for I do the same, only Jonathan and

I will start in life in a very simple way, and shall have to

try to make both ends meet.

Mr. Holmwood, he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son

of Lord Godalming,is coming up here very shortly, as soon as

he can leave town, for his father is not very well, and I

think dear Lucy is counting the moments till he comes.

She wants to take him up in the seat on the churchyard

cliff and show him the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it is the

waiting which disturbs her. She will be all right when he

arrives.

27 July.--No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite un-

easy about him, though why I should I do not know, but I do

wish that he would write, if it were only a single line.

Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I am awakened

by her moving about the room. Fortunately, the weather is so

hot that she cannot get cold. But still, the anxiety and the

perpetually being awakened is beginning to tell on me, and I

am getting nervous and wakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy's

health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has been suddenly called to

Ring to see his father, who has been taken seriously ill.

Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it does

not touch her looks. She is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks

are a lovely rose-pink. She has lost the anemic look which

she had. I pray it will all last.

3 August.--Another week gone by, and no news from Jona-

than, 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 under-

stand, 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 sus-

pense is getting dreadful. If I only knew where to write to

or where to go to, I should feel easier. But no one has

heard a word of Jonathan since that last letter. I must

only pray to God for patience.

Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well.

Last night was very threatening, and the fishermen say that

we are in for a storm. I must try to watch it and learn the

weather signs.

Today is a gray day,and the sun as I write is hidden in

thick clouds, high over Kettleness.Everything is gray except

the green grass, which seems like emerald amongst it, gray

earthy rock, gray clouds,tinged with the sunburst at the far

edge, hang over the gray sea, into which the sandpoints

stretch like gray figures. The sea is tumbling in over the

shallows and the sandy flats with a roar, muffled in the

sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a gray

mist. All vastness, the clouds are piled up like giant

rocks, and there is a `brool' over the sea that sounds like

some passage of doom. Dark figures are on the beach here and

there, sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem `men

like trees walking'. The fishing boats are racing for home,

and rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep into the

harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales.

He is making straight for me, and I can see, by the way he

lifts his hat, that he wants to talk.

I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old

man. When he sat down beside me, he said in a very gentle

way, "I want to say something to you, miss."

I could see he was not at ease, so I took his poor old

wrinkled hand in mine and asked him to speak fully.

So he said, leaving his hand in mine, "I'm afraid, my

deary, that I must have shocked you by all the wicked things

I've been sayin' about the dead, and such like, for weeks

past, but I didn't mean them, and I want ye to remember that

when I'm gone. We aud folks that be daffled, and with one

foot abaft the krok-hooal, don't altogether like to think of

it, and we don't want to feel scart of it, and that's why

I've took to makin' light of it, so that I'd cheer up my

own heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I ain't afraid of

dyin', not a bit, only I don't want to die if I can help it.

My time must be nigh at hand now,for I be aud, and a hundred

years is too much for any man to expect. And I'm so nigh it

that the Aud Man is already whettin' his scythe. Ye see, I

can't get out o' the habit of caffin' about it all at once.

The chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the

Angel of Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don't ye

dooal an' greet, my deary!"--for he saw that I was crying--

"if he should come this very night I'd not refuse to answer

his call. For life be, after all, only a waitin' for some-

thin' 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 dis-

tress, 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 rai-

sed 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 tomorrow."

CHAPTER 7

CUTTING FROM "THE DAILYGRAPH," 8 AUGUST

(PASTED IN MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL)

From a correspondent.

Whitby.

One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has

just been experienced here, with results both strange and

unique. The weather had been somewhat sultry, but not to

any degree uncommon in the month of August. Saturday even-

ing was as fine as was ever known, and the great body of

holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits to Mulgrave

Woods, Robin Hood's Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes, and

the various trips in the neighborhood of Whitby. The

steamers Emma and Scarborough made trips up and down the

coast, and there was an unusual amount of `tripping' both

to and from Whitby. The day was unusually fine till the

afternoon, when some of the gossips who frequent the East

Cliff churchyard, and from the commanding eminence watch

the wide sweep of sea visible to the north and east, called

attention to a sudden show of `mares tails' high in the sky

to the northwest. The wind was then blowing from the south-

west in the mild degree which in barometrical language is

ranked `No. 2, light breeze.'

The coastguard on duty at once made report, and one old

fisherman,who for more than half a century has kept watch on

weather signs from the East Cliff, foretold in an emphatic

manner the coming of a sudden storm. The approach of sunset

was so very beautiful, so grand in its masses of splendidly

coloured clouds, that there was quite an assemblage on the

walk along the cliff in the old churchyard to enjoy the

beauty.Before the sun dipped below the black mass of Kettle-

ness, standing boldly athwart the western sky, its downward

was was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset colour,

flame, purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of

gold, with here and there masses not large, but of seemingly

absolute blackness, in all sorts of shapes, as well outlined

as colossal silhouettes. The experience was not lost on the

painters, and doubtless some of the sketches of the `Prelude

to the Great Storm' will grace the R. A and R. I. walls in

May next.

More than one captain made up his mind then and there

that his `cobble' or his `mule', as they term the different

classes of boats, would remain in the harbour till the storm

had passed. The wind fell away entirely during the evening,

and at midnight there was a dead calm, a sultry heat, and

that prevailing intensity which, on the approach of thunder,

affects persons of a sensitive nature.

There were but few lights in sight at sea, for even

the coasting steamers,which usually hug the shore so closely,

kept well to seaward,and but few fishing boats were in sight.

The only sail noticeable was a foreign schooner with all

sails set, which was seemingly going westwards.The foolhard-

iness or ignorance of her officers was a prolific theme for

comment whilst she remained in sight, and efforts were made

to signal her to reduce sail in the face of her danger. Be-

fore the night shut down she was seen with sails idly flapp-

ing as she gently rolled on the undulating swell of the sea.

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

Shortly before ten o'clock the stillness of the air

grew quite oppressive,and the silence was so marked that the

bleating of a sheep inland or the barking of a dog in the

town was distinctly heard, and the band on the pier, with

its lively French air, was like a dischord in the great har-

mony of nature's silence. A little after midnight came a

strange sound from over the sea, and high overhead the air

began to carry a strange, faint, hollow booming.

Then without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity

which, at the time, seemed incredible,and even afterwards is

impossible to realize, the whole aspect of nature at once

became convulsed. The waves rose in growing fury, each over-

topping its fellow, till in a very few minutes the lately

glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring monster. White-

crested waves beat madly on the level sands and rushed up

the shelving cliffs. Others broke over the piers, and with

their spume swept the lanthorns of the lighthouses which

rise from the end of either pier of Whitby Harbour.

The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such force

that it was with difficulty that even strong men kept their

feet, or clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. It

was found necessary to clear the entire pier from the mass

of onlookers, or else the fatalities of the night would have

increased manifold. To add to the difficulties and dangers

of the time, masses of sea-fog came drifting inland. White,

wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly fashion, so dank and

damp and cold that it needed but little effort of imagina-

tion to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were

touching their living brethren with the clammy hands of

death, and many a one shuddered at the wreaths of sea-mist

swept by.

At times the mist cleared, and the sea for some dis-

tance could be seen in the glare of the lightning, which

came thick and fast, followed by such peals of thunder that

the whole sky overhead seemed trembling under the shock of

the footsteps of the storm.

Some of the scenes thus revealed were of immeasurable

grandeur and of absorbing interest. The sea, running mount-

ains high, threw skywards with each wave mighty masses of

white foam, which the tempest seemed to snatch at and whirl

away into space. Here and there a fishing boat, with a rag

of sail, running madly for shelter before the blast, now and

again the white wings of a storm-tossed seabird. On the

summit of the East Cliff the new searchlight was ready for

experiment, but had not yet been tried. The officers in

charge of it got it into working order, and in the pauses of

onrushing mist swept with it the surface of the sea. Once or

twice its service was most effective, as when a fishing boat,

with gunwale under water, rushed into the harbour, able, by

the guidance of the sheltering light, to avoid the danger of

dashing against the piers. As each boat achieved the safety

of the port there was a shout of joy from the mass of people

on the shore,a shout which for a moment seemed to cleave the

gale and was then swept away in its rush.

Before long the searchlight discovered some distance

away a schooner with all sails set, apparently the same ves-

sel which had been noticed earlier in the evening. The wind

had by this time backed to the east, and there was a shudder

amongst the watchers on the cliff as they realized the terr-

ible danger in which she now was.

Between her and the port lay the great flat reef on

which so many good ships have from time to time suffered,

and, with the wind blowing from its present quarter,it would

be quite impossible that she should fetch the entrance of

the harbour.

It was now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves

were so great that in their troughs the shallows of the

shore were almost visible, and the schooner, with all sails

set, was rushing with such speed that, in the words of one

old salt, "she must fetch up somewhere, if it was only in

hell". Then came another rush of sea-fog, greater than any

hitherto, a mass of dank mist, which seemed to close on all

things like a gray pall, and left available to men only the

organ of hearing, for the roar of the tempest, and the crash

of the thunder, and the booming of the mighty billows came

through the damp oblivion even louder than before. The rays

of the searchlight were kept fixed on the harbour mouth

across the East Pier, where the shock was expected, and men

waited breathless.

The wind suddenly shifted to the northeast, and the

remnant of the sea fog melted in the blast. And then,

mirabile dictu, between the piers, leaping from wave to wave

as it rushed at headlong speed, swept the strange schooner

before the blast, with all sail set, and gained the safety

of the harbour. The searchlight followed her, and a shudder

ran through all who saw her, for lashed to the helm was a

corpse, with drooping head, which swung horribly to and fro

at each motion of the ship. No other form could be seen on

the deck at all.

A great awe came on all as they realised that the ship,

as if by a miracle, had found the harbour, unsteered save by

the hand of a dead man! However, all took place more quickly

than it takes to write these words. The schooner paused not,

but rushing across the harbour, pitched herself on that

accumulation of sand and gravel washed by many tides and

many storms into the southeast corner of the pier jutting

under the East Cliff, known locally as Tate Hill Pier.

There was of course a considerable concussion as the

vessel drove up on the sand heap. Every spar, rope, and stay

was strained,and some of the `top-hammer' came crashing down.

But, strangest of all,the very instant the shore was touched,

an immense dog sprang up on deck from below,as if shot up by

the concussion, and running forward, jumped from the bow on

the sand.

Making straight for the steep cliff, where the church-

yard hangs over the laneway to the East Pier so steeply that

some of the flat tombstones, thruffsteans or through-stones,

as they call them in Whitby vernacular, actually project

over where the sustaining cliff has fallen away, it disa-

ppeared 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 prox-

imity were either in bed or were out on the heights above.

Thus the coastguard on duty on the eastern side of the har-

bour, who at once ran down to the little pier, was the first

to climb aboard. The men working the searchlight, after

scouring the entrance of the harbour without seeing anything,

then turned the light on the derelict and kept it there. The

coastguard ran aft, and when he came beside the wheel, bent

over to examine it,and recoiled at once as though under some

sudden emotion. This seemed to pique general curiosity, and

quite a number of people began to run.

It is a good way round from the West Cliff by the Draw-

bridge to Tate Hill Pier, but your correspondent is a fairly

good runner, and came well ahead of the crowd. When I arri-

ved, however, I found already assembled on the pier a crowd,

whom the coastguard and police refused to allow to come on

board. By the courtesy of the chief boatman, I was, as your

correspondent, permitted to climb on deck, and was one of a

small group who saw the dead seaman whilst actually lashed

to the wheel.

It was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, or

even awed, for not often can such a sight have been seen.

The man was simply fastened by his hands, tied one over the

other, to a spoke of the wheel. Between the inner hand and

the wood was a crucifix, the set of beads on which it was

fastened being around both wrists and wheel, and all kept

fast by the binding cords. The poor fellow may have been

seated at one time, but the flapping and buffeting of the

sails had worked through the rudder of the wheel and had

dragged him to and fro, so that the cords with which he

was tied had cut the flesh to the bone.

Accurate note was made of the state of things, and a

doctor, Surgeon J. M. Caffyn, of 33, East Elliot Place, who

came immediately after me, declared, after making examina-

tion, 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 complica-

tions later on, in the Admiralty Court, for coastguards

cannot claim the salvage which is the right of the first

civilian entering on a derelict. Already, however, the legal

tongues are wagging, and one young law student is loudly

asserting that the rights of the owner are already complete-

ly sacrificed, his property being held in contravention of

the statues of mortmain, since the tiller, as emblemship, if

not proof, of delegated possession, is held in a dead hand.

It is needless to say that the dead steersman has been

reverently removed from the place where he held his honour-

able watch and ward till death, a steadfastness as noble as

that of the young Casabianca, and placed in the mortuary to

await inquest.

Already the sudden storm is passing,and its fierceness

is abating. Crowds are scattering backward, and the sky is

beginning to redden over the Yorkshire wolds.

I shall send, in time for your next issue, further de-

tails of the derelict ship which found her way so miracu-

lously into harbour in the storm.

9 August.--The sequel to the strange arrival of the

derelict in the storm last night is almost more startling

than the thing itself. It turns out that the schooner is

Russian from Varna, and is called the Demeter. She is almost

entirely in ballast of silver sand, with only a small amount

of cargo, a number of great wooden boxes filled with mould.

This cargo was consigned to a Whitby solicitor,Mr. S.F.

Billington, of 7, The Crescent, who this morning went aboard

and took formal possession of the goods consigned to him.

The Russian consul, too, acting for the charter-party,

took formal possession of the ship, and paid all harbour

dues, etc.

Nothing is talked about here today except the strange

coincidence. The officials of the Board of Trade have been

most exacting in seeing that every compliance has been made

with existing regulations. As the matter is to be a `nine

days wonder', they are evidently determined that there shall

be no cause of other complaint.

A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog

which landed when the ship struck, and more than a few of

the members of the S.P.C.A., which is very strong in Whitby,

have tried to befriend the animal. To the general disa-

ppointment, 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 possibil-

ity, lest later on it should in itself become a danger, for

it is evidently a fierce brute. Early this morning a large

dog, a half-bred mastiff belonging to a coal merchant close

to Tate Hill Pier, was found dead in the roadway opposite

its master's yard. It had been fighting, and manifestly had

had a savage opponent,for its throat was torn away, and its

belly was slit open as if with a savage claw.

Later.--By the kindness of the Board of Trade inspector,

I have been permitted to look over the log book of the Deme-

ter, which was in order up to within three days, but con-

tained nothing of special interest except as to facts of

missing men. The greatest interest, however, is with regard

to the paper found in the bottle,which was today produced at

the inquest. And a more strange narrative than the two bet-

ween them unfold it has not been my lot to come across.

As there is no motive for concealment,I am permitted to

use them, and accordingly send you a transcript, simply

omitting technical details of seamanship and supercargo. It

almost seems as though the captain had been seized with some

kind of mania before he had got well into blue water, and

that this had developed persistently throughout the voyage.

Of course my statement must be taken cum grano, since I am

writing from the dictation of a clerk of the Russian consul,

who kindly translated for me, time being short.

LOG OF THE "DEMETER"

Varna to Whitby

Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I

shall keep accurate note henceforth till we land.

On 6 July we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and

boxes of earth. At noon set sail. East wind, fresh. Crew,

five hands . . . two mates, cook, and myself, (captain).

On 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus. Boarded by

Turkish Customs officers. Backsheesh. All correct. Under

way at 4 p. m.

On 12 July through Dardanelles. More Customs officers

and flagboat of guarding squadron. Backsheesh again. Work

of officers thorough, but quick. Want us off soon. At dark

passed into Archipelago.

On 13 July passed Cape Matapan. Crew dissatisfied about

something. Seemed scared, but would not speak out.

On 14 July was somewhat anxious about crew. Men all

steady fellows, who sailed with me before. Mate could not

make out what was wrong. They only told him there was SOME-

THING, and crossed themselves. Mate lost temper with one of

them that day and struck him. Expected fierce quarrel, but

all was quiet.

On 16 July mate reported in the morning that one of the

crew, Petrofsky, was missing. Could not account for it.Took

larboard watch eight bells last night, was relieved by Amra-

moff, but did not go to bunk. Men more downcast than ever.

All said they expected something of the kind, but would not

say more than there was SOMETHING aboard. Mate getting very

impatient with them. Feared some trouble ahead.

On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came to

my cabin, and in an awestruck way confided to me that he

thought there was a strange man aboard the ship.He said that

in his watch he had been sheltering behind the deckhouse, as

there was a rain storm, when he saw a tall,thin man, who was

not like any of the crew, come up the companionway, and go

along the deck forward and disappear.He followed cautiously,

but when he got to bows found no one, and the hatchways were

all closed. He was in a panic of superstitious fear, and I

am afraid the panic may spread. To allay it, I shall today

search the entire ship carefully from stem to stern.

Later in the day I got together the whole crew,and told

them, as they evidently thought there was some one in the

ship, we would search from stem to stern. First mate angry,

said it was folly, and to yield to such foolish ideas would

demoralise the men, said he would engage to keep them out of

trouble with the handspike. I let him take the helm, while

the rest began a thorough search, all keeping abreast, with

lanterns. We left no corner unsearched. As there were only

the big wooden boxes, there were no odd corners where a man

could hide. Men much relieved when search over, and went

back to work cheerfully.First mate scowled,but said nothing.

22 July.--Rough weather last three days, and all hands

busy with sails, no time to be frightened. Men seem to have

forgotten their dread. Mate cheerful again, and all on good

terms. Praised men for work in bad weather. Passed Gibral-

tar and out through Straits. All well.

24 July.--There seems some doom over this ship. Already

a hand short, and entering the Bay of Biscay with wild wea-

ther ahead, and yet last night another man lost, disappeared.

Like the first, he came off his watch and was not seen again.

Men all in a panic of fear, sent a round robin, asking to

have double watch, as they fear to be alone. Mate angry.

Fear there will be some trouble,as either he or the men will

do some violence.

28 July.--Four days in hell,knocking about in a sort of

malestrom, and the wind a tempest. No sleep for any one. Men

all worn out. Hardly know how to set a watch, since no one

fit to go on. Second mate volunteered to steer and watch,

and let men snatch a few hours sleep. Wind abating, seas

still terrific, but feel them less, as ship is steadier.

29 July.--Another tragedy. Had single watch tonight, as

crew too tired to double. When morning watch came on deck

could find no one except steersman. Raised outcry, and all

came on deck. Thorough search, but no one found. Are now

without second mate, and crew in a panic. Mate and I agreed

to go armed henceforth and wait for any sign of cause.

30 July.--Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England.

Weather fine, all sails set. Retired worn out, slept sound-

ly, awakened by mate telling me that both man of watch and

steersman missing. Only self and mate and two hands left to

work ship.

1 August.--Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. Had

hoped when in the English Channel to be able to signal for

help or get in somewhere. Not having power to work sails,

have to run before wind. Dare not lower, as could not raise

them again. We seem to be drifting to some terrible doom.

Mate now more demoralised than either of men. His stronger

nature seems to have worked inwardly against himself. Men

are beyond fear, working stolidly and patiently, with minds

made up to worst. They are Russian, he Roumanian.

2 August, midnight.--Woke up from few minutes sleep by

hearing a cry, seemingly outside my port. Could see nothing

in fog. Rushed on deck, and ran against mate. Tells me he

heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on watch. One more

gone. Lord, help us! Mate says we must be past Straits of

Dover, as in a moment of fog lifting he saw North Foreland,

just as he heard the man cry out. If so we are now off in

the North Sea, and only God can guide us in the fog, which

seems to move with us, and God seems to have deserted us.

3 August.--At midnight I went to relieve the man at the

wheel and when I got to it found no one there. The wind was

steady, and as we ran before it there was no yawing. I dared

not leave it, so shouted for the mate. After a few seconds,

he rushed up on deck in his flannels. He looked wild-eyed

and haggard, and I greatly fear his reason has given way. He

came close to me and whispered hoarsely, with his mouth to

my ear, as though fearing the very air might hear. "It is

here. I know it now. On the watch last night I saw It,

like a man, tall and thin, and ghastly pale. It was in the

bows, and looking out. I crept behind It, and gave it my

knife, but the knife went through It, empty as the air." And

as he spoke he took the knife and drove it savagely into

space. Then he went on, "But It is here, and I'll find It.

It is in the hold, perhaps in one of those boxes. I'll un-

screw them one by one and see. You work the helm." And with

a warning look and his finger on his lip, he went below.

There was springing up a choppy wind, and I could not leave

the helm. I saw him come out on deck again with a tool chest

and lantern, and go down the forward hatchway. He is mad,

stark, raving mad, and it's no use my trying to stop him. He

can't hurt those big boxes, they are invoiced as clay, and

to pull them about is as harmless a thing as he can do. So

here I stay and mind the helm, and write these notes. I can

only trust in God and wait till the fog clears. Then, if I

can't steer to any harbour with the wind that is, I shall

cut down sails, and lie by, and signal for help . . .

It is nearly all over now. Just as I was beginning to

hope that the mate would come out calmer, for I heard him

knocking away at something in the hold, and work is good for

him, there came up the hatchway a sudden, startled scream,

which made my blood run cold, and up on the deck he came as

if shot from a gun, a raging madman, with his eyes rolling

and his face convulsed with fear. "Save me! Save me!" he

cried, and then looked round on the blanket of fog. His

horror turned to despair, and in a steady voice he said,"You

had better come too, captain, before it is too late. He is

there! I know the secret now. The sea will save me from

Him, and it is all that is left!" Before I could say a word,

or move forward to seize him, he sprang on the bulwark and

deliberately threw himself into the sea. I suppose I know

the secret too, now. It was this madman who had got rid of

the men one by one, and now he has followed them himself.

God help me! How am I to account for all these horrors when

I get to port? When I get to port! Will that ever be?

4 August.--Still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce,I

know there is sunrise because I am a sailor, why else I know

not. I dared not go below, I dared not leave the helm, so

here all night I stayed, and in the dimness of the night I

saw it, Him! God, forgive me, but the mate was right to

jump overboard. It was better to die like a man. To die

like a sailor in blue water, no man can object. But I am

captain, and I must not leave my ship. But I shall baffle

this fiend or monster, for I shall tie my hands to the wheel

when my strength begins to fail, and along with them I shall

tie that which He, It, dare not touch. And then, come good

wind or foul, I shall save my soul, and my honour as a

captain. I am growing weaker, and the night is coming on. If

He can look me in the face again, I may not have time to

act . . .If we are wrecked, mayhap this bottle may be found,

and those who find it may understand. If not . . . well,

then all men shall know that I have been true to my trust.

God and the Blessed Virgin and the Saints help a poor ignor-

ant 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 comm-

itted 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 arran-

ged 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 church-

yard 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 pre-

sent state, he would, I believe, be adopted by the town. To-

morrow 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. Strange-

ly enough,Lucy did not wake, but she got up twice and dress-

ed 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 in-

tention, if there be any, disappears, and she yields herself

almost exactly to the routine of her life.

Early in the morning we both got up and went down to

the harbour to see if anything had happened in the night.

There were very few people about, and though the sun was

bright, and the air clear and fresh, the big, grim-looking

waves, that seemed dark themselves because the foam that

topped them was like snow, forced themselves in through the

mouth of the harbour, like a bullying man going through a

crowd. Somehow I felt glad that Jonathan was not on the sea

last night, but on land. But, oh, is he on land or sea?

Where is he, and how? I am getting fearfully anxious about

him. If I only knew what to do, and could do anything!

10 August.--The funeral of the poor sea captain today

was most touching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to be

there, and the coffin was carried by captains all the way

from Tate Hill Pier up to the churchyard. Lucy came with

me, and we went early to our old seat, whilst the cortege

of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came down

again. We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly

all the way. The poor fellow was laid to rest near our seat

so that we stood on it,when the time came and saw everything.

Poor Lucy seemed much upset. She was restless and

uneasy all the time,and I cannot but think that her dreaming

at night is telling on her. She is quite odd in one thing.

She will not admit to me that there is any cause for rest-

lessness, or if there be, she does not understand it herself.

There is an additional cause in that poor Mr. Swales

was found dead this morning on our seat, his neck being

broken. He had evidently, as the doctor said, fallen back

in the seat in some sort of fright, for there was a look of

fear and horror on his face that the men said made them

shudder. Poor dear old man!

Lucy is so sweet and sensitive that she feels influ-

ences more acutely than other people do. Just now she was

quite upset by a little thing which I did not much heed,

though I am myself very fond of animals.

One of the men who came up here often to look for the

boats was followed by his dog. The dog is always with him.

They are both quiet persons, and I never saw the man angry,

nor heard the dog bark. During the service the dog would not

come to its master, who was on the seat with us, but kept a

few yards off, barking and howling. Its master spoke to it

gently, and then harshly, and then angrily. But it would

neither come nor cease to make a noise. It was in a fury,

with its eyes savage, and all its hair bristling out like a

cat's tail when puss is on the war path.

Finally the man too got angry, and jumped down and

kicked the dog, and then took it by the scruff of the neck

and half dragged and half threw it on the tombstone on which

the seat is fixed. The moment it touched the stone the poor

thing began to tremble. It did not try to get away, but

crouched down, quivering and cowering, and was in such a

pitiable state of terror that I tried, though without effect,

to comfort it.

Lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt to

touch the dog, but looked at it in an agonised sort of way.

I greatly fear that she is of too super sensitive a nature

to go through the world without trouble. She will be dream-

ing of this tonight, I am sure. The whole agglomeration of

things, the ship steered into port by a dead man, his atti-

tude, tied to the wheel with a crucifix and beads, the

touching funeral, the dog, now furious and now in terror,

will all afford material for her dreams.

I think it will be best for her to go to bed tired out

physically, so I shall take her for a long walk by the

cliffs to Robin Hood's Bay and back. She ought not to have

much inclination for sleep-walking then.

CHAPTER 8

MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL

Same day, 11 o'clock p.m..--Oh, but I am tired! If it

were not that I had made my diary a duty I should not open

it tonight. We had a lovely walk. Lucy, after a while, was

in gay spirits, owing, I think, to some dear cows who came

nosing towards us in a field close to the lighthouse, and

frightened the wits out of us. I believe we forgot every-

thing, except of course, personal fear,and it seemed to wipe

the slate clean and give us a fresh start. We had a capital

`severe tea' at Robin Hood's Bay in a sweet little old-

fashioned inn, with a bow window right over the seaweed-

covered rocks of the strand. I believe we should have shock-

ed 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 breed-

ing up a new class of curates, who don't take supper, no

matter how hard they may be pressed to, and who will know

when girls are tired.

Lucy is asleep and breathing softly. She has more color

in her cheeks than usual, and looks, oh so sweet. If Mr.

Holmwood fell in love with her seeing her only in the draw-

ing room, I wonder what he would say if he saw her now. Some

of the `New Women' writers will some day start an idea that

men and women should be allowed to see each other asleep be-

fore proposing or accepting. But I suppose the `New Woman'

won't condescend in future to accept. She will do the pro-

posing herself. And a nice job she will make of it too!

There's some consolation in that. I am so happy tonight,

because dear Lucy seems better. I really believe she has

turned the corner, and that we are over her troubles with

dreaming. I should be quite happy if I only knew if Jona-

than . . . God bless and keep him.

11 August.--Diary again. No sleep now, so I may as well

write. I am too agitated to sleep. We have had such an ad-

venture, such an agonizing experience. I fell asleep as soon

as I had closed my diary . . .Suddenly I became broad awake,

and sat up, with a horrible sense of fear upon me, and of

some feeling of emptiness around me. The room was dark, so I

could not see Lucy's bed. I stole across and felt for her.

The bed was empty. I lit a match and found that she was not

in the room. The door was shut, but not locked, as I had

left it. I feared to wake her mother, who has been more than

usually ill lately,so threw on some clothes and got ready to

look for her. As I was leaving the room it struck me that

the clothes she wore might give me some clue to her dreaming

intention. Dressing-gown would mean house, dress outside.

Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places. "Thank

God," I said to myself, "she cannot be far, as she is only

in her nightdress."

I ran downstairs and looked in the sitting room. Not

there! Then I looked in all the other rooms of the house,

with an ever-growing fear chilling my heart. Finally, I

came to the hall door and found it open. It was not wide

open, but the catch of the lock had not caught. The people

of the house are careful to lock the door every night, so I

feared that Lucy must have gone out as she was. There was no

time to think of what might happen. A vague over-mastering

fear obscured all details.

I took a big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was

striking one as I was in the Crescent, and there was not a

soul in sight. I ran along the North Terrace, but could see

no sign of the white figure which I expected. At the edge of

the West Cliff above the pier I looked across the harbour to

the East Cliff, in the hope or fear, I don't know which, of

seeing Lucy in our favorite seat.

There was a bright full moon, with heavy black, driving

clouds, which threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama

of light and shade as they sailed across. For a moment or

two I could see nothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured

St. Mary's Church and all around it. Then as the cloud

passed I could see the ruins of the abbey coming into view,

and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharp as a

sword-cut moved along, the church and churchyard became

gradually visible. Whatever my expectation was, it was not

disappointed, for there, on our favorite seat, the silver

light of the moon struck a half-reclining figure,snowy white.

The coming of the cloud was too quick for me to see much,for

shadow shut down on light almost immediately, but it seemed

to me as though something dark stood behind the seat where

the white figure shone, and bent over it. What it was, whe-

ther 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 re-

joiced 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 some-

thing raised a head, and from where I was I could see a

white face and red, gleaming eyes.

Lucy did not answer,and I ran on to the entrance of the

churchyard. As I entered, the church was between me and the

seat, and for a minute or so I lost sight of her. When I

came in view again the cloud had passed, and the moonlight

struck so brilliantly that I could see Lucy half reclining

with her head lying over the back of the seat. She was

quite alone, and there was not a sign of any living thing

about.

When I bent over her I could see that she was still

asleep. Her lips were parted, and she was breathing, not

softly as usual with her,but in long, heavy gasps, as though

striving to get her lungs full at every breath. As I came

close,she put up her hand in her sleep and pulled the collar

of her nightdress close around her, as though she felt the

cold. I flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges

tight around her neck, for I dreaded lest she should get

some deadly chill from the night air, unclad as she was. I

feared to wake her all at once, so,in order to have my hands

free to help her, I fastened the shawl at her throat with a

big safety pin. But I must have been clumsy in my anxiety

and pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her

breathing became quieter, she put her hand to her throat

again and moaned. When I had her carefully wrapped up I put

my shoes on her feet, and then began very gently to wake her.

At first she did not respond, but gradually she became

more and more uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing occa-

sionally. At last, as time was passing fast, and for many

other reasons, I wished to get her home at once, I shook her

forcibly, till finally she opened her eyes and awoke. She

did not seem surprised to see me, as, of course, she did not

realize all at once where she was.

Lucy always wakes prettily,and even at such a time,when

her body must have been chilled with cold,and her mind some-

what appalled at waking unclad in a churchyard at night, she

did not lose her grace. She trembled a little, and clung to

me. When I told her to come at once with me home, she rose

without a word, with the obedience of a child. As we passed

along, the gravel hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince.

She stopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes,but

I would not. However, when we got to the pathway outside the

chruchyard,where there was a puddle of water, remaining from

the storm,I daubed my feet with mud, using each foot in turn

on the other, so that as we went home, no one, in case we

should meet any one, should notice my bare feet.

Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a

soul. Once we saw a man, who seemed not quite sober, pass-

ing 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 Scot-

land. My heart beat so loud all the time sometimes I

thought I should faint.I was filled with anxiety about Lucy,

not only for her health, lest she should suffer from the ex-

posure, but for her reputation in case the story should get

wind. When we got in, and had washed our feet, and had said

a prayer of thankfulness together, I tucked her into bed.

Before falling asleep she asked, even implored, me not to

say a word to any one, even her mother, about her sleep-

walking adventure.

I hesitated at first,to promise, but on thinking of the

state of her mother's health, and how the knowledge of such

a thing would fret her, and think too, of how such a story

might become distorted, nay, infallibly would, in case it

should leak out, I thought it wiser to do so. I hope I did

right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied to my

wrist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is

sleeping soundly. The reflex of the dawn is high and far

over the sea . . .

Same day, noon.--All goes well. Lucy slept till I woke

her and seemed not to have even changed her side. The ad-

venture 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 join-

ing her at the gate. I felt a little sad myself, for I

could not but feel how absolutely happy it would have been

had Jonathan been with me. But there! I must only be

patient. In the evening we strolled in the Casino Terrace,

and heard some good music by Spohr and Mackenzie, and went

to bed early. Lucy seems more restful than she has been for

some time, and fell asleep at once. I shall lock the door

and secure the key the same as before,though I do not expect

any trouble tonight.

12 August.--My expectations were wrong, for twice dur-

ing the night I was wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She

seemed, even in her sleep, to be a little impatient at find-

ing the door shut, and went back to bed under a sort of

protest. I woke with the dawn, and heard the birds chirp-

ing outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and I was glad

to see, was even better than on the previous morning. All

her old gaiety of manner seemed to have come back, and she

came and snuggled in beside me and told me all about Arthur.

I told her how anxious I was about Jonathan, and then she

tried to comfort me. Well, she succeeded somewhat, for,

though sympathy can't alter facts, it can make them more

bearable.

13 August.--Another quiet day, and to bed with the key

on my wrist as before. Again I awoke in the night, and

found Lucy sitting up in bed, still asleep, pointing to the

window. I got up quietly, and pulling aside the blind,

looked out. It was brilliant moonlight, and the soft effect

of the light over the sea and sky, merged together in one

great silent mystery, was beautiful beyond words. Between me

and the moonlight flitted a great bat, coming and going in

great whirling circles. Once or twice it came quite close,

but was, I suppose,frightened at seeing me, and flitted away

across the harbour towards the abbey. When I came back from

the window Lucy had lain down again, and was sleeping peace-

fully. 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 after-

noon she made a funny remark.We were coming home for dinner,

and had come to the top of the steps up from the West Pier

and stopped to look at the view, as we generally do. The

setting sun, low down in the sky, was just dropping behind

Kettleness. The red light was thrown over on the East Cliff

and the old abbey, and seemed to bathe everything in a

beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a while, and

suddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself . . .

"His red eyes again! They are just the same." It was

such an odd expression, coming apropos of nothing, that it

quite startled me. I slewed round a little, so as to see

Lucy well without seeming to stare at her, and saw that she

was in a half dreamy state, with an odd look on her face

that I could not quite make out, so I said nothing, but

followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at our

own seat, whereon was a dark figure seated alone. I was

quite a little startled myself, for it seemed for an instant

as if the stranger had great eyes like burning flames, but

a second look dispelled the illusion. The red sunlight was

shining on the windows of St. Mary's Church behind our seat,

and as the sun dipped there was just sufficient change in

the refraction and reflection to make it appear as if the

light moved. I called Lucy's attention to the peculiar

effect, and she became herself with a start, but she looked

sad all the same. It may have been that she was thinking

of that terrible night up there. We never refer to it, so

I said nothing, and we went home to dinner. Lucy had a head-

ache 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, every-

thing could be well seen, I threw a glance up at our window,

and saw Lucy's head leaning out. I opened my handkerchief

and waved it. She did not notice or make any movement what-

ever. 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 win-

dow 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 hold-

ing her hand to her throat, as though to protect if from the

cold.

I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly. I have

taken care that the door is locked and the window securely

fastened.

She looks so sweet as she sleeps, but she is paler than

is her wont, and there is a drawn, haggard look under her

eyes which I do not like. I fear she is fretting about some-

thing. 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 weak-

ening. At any time, even now, a sudden shock would be almost

sure to kill her.Ah,we were wise to keep from her the affair

of the dreadful night of Lucy's sleep-walking.

17 August.--No diary for two whole days. I have not

had the heart to write. Some sort of shadowy pall seems to

be coming over our happiness. No news from Jonathan, and

Lucy seems to be growing weaker, whilst her mother's hours

are numbering to a close. I do not understand Lucy's fading

away as she is doing. She eats well and sleeps well, and

enjoys the fresh air, but all the time the roses in her

cheeks are fading, and she gets weaker and more languid day

by day. At night I hear her gasping as if for air.

I keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist

at night, but she gets up and walks about the room, and sits

at the open window. Last night I found her leaning out when

I woke up, and when I tried to wake her I could not.

She was in a faint. When I managed to restore her, she

was weak as water, and cried silently between long, painful

struggles for breath. When I asked her how she came to be

at the window she shook her head and turned away.

I trust her feeling ill may not be from that unlucky

prick of the safety-pin. I looked at her throat just now as

she lay asleep, and the tiny wounds seem not to have healed.

They are still open, and, if anything, larger than before,

and the edges of them are faintly white.They are like little

white dots with red centres. Unless they heal within a day

or two, I shall insist on the doctor seeing about them.

LETTER, SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON, SOLICITORS

WHITBY,TO MESSRS. CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON.

17 August

"Dear Sirs, --

"Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great

Northern Railway. Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near

Purfleet, immediately on receipt at goods station King's

Cross. The house is at present empty, but enclosed please

find keys, all of which are labelled.

"You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number,

which form the consignment, in the partially ruined building

forming part of the house and marked `A' on rough diagrams

enclosed. Your agent will easily recognize the locality, as

it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. The goods leave by

the train at 9:30 tonight, and will be due at King's Cross

at 4:30 tomorrow afternoon. As our client wishes the deliv-

ery made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by your

having teams ready at King's Cross at the time named and

forthwith conveying the goods to destination. In order to

obviate any delays possible through any routine requirements

as to payment in your departments,we enclose cheque herewith

for ten pounds, receipt of which please acknowledge. Should

the charge be less than this amount, you can return balance,

if greater, we shall at once send cheque for difference on

hearing from you. You are to leave the keys on coming away

in the main hall of the house, where the proprietor may get

them on his entering the house by means of his duplicate key.

"Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of busi-

ness courtesy in pressing you in all ways to use the utmost

expedition.

"We are, dear Sirs,

"Faithfully yours,

"SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON"

LETTER, MESSRS. CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON,

TO MESSRS. BILLINGTON & SON, WHITBY.

21 August.

"Dear Sirs,--

"We beg to acknowledge 10 pounds received and to return

cheque of 1 pound, 17s, 9d, amount of overplus, as shown in

receipted account herewith. Goods are delivered in exact

accordance with instructions, and keys left in parcel in

main hall, as directed.

"We are, dear Sirs,

"Yours respectfully,

"Pro CARTER, PATERSON & CO."

MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL.

18 August.--I am happy today, and write sitting on the

seat in the churchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last

night she slept well all night, and did not disturb me once.

The roses seem coming back already to her cheeks,though

she is still sadly pale and wan-looking. If she were in any

way anemic I could understand it, but she is not. She is in

gay spirits and full of life and cheerfulness.All the morbid

reticence seems to have passed from her, and she has just

reminded me, as if I needed any reminding, of that night,and

that it was here, on this very seat, I found her asleep.

As she told me she tapped playfully with the heel of

her boot on the stone slab and said,

"My poor little feet didn't make much noise then! I

daresay poor old Mr. Swales would have told me that it was

because I didn't want to wake up Geordie."

As she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her

if she had dreamed at all that night.

Before she answered,that sweet, puckered look came into

her forehead, which Arthur,I call him Arthur from her habit,

says he loves, and indeed, I don't wonder that he does. Then

she went on in a half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to

recall it to herself.

"I didn't quite dream, but it all seemed to be real. I

only wanted to be here in this spot. I don't know why, for I

was afraid of something, I don't know what. I remember,

though I suppose I was asleep, passing through the streets

and over the bridge. A fish leaped as I went by, and I lean-

ed over to look at it, and I heard a lot of dogs howling.The

whole town seemed as if it must be full of dogs all howling

at once, as I went up the steps. Then I had a vague memory

of something long and dark with red eyes, just as we saw in

the sunset, and something very sweet and very bitter all

around me at once. And then I seemed sinking into deep green

water, and there was a singing in my ears, as I have heard

there is to drowning men, and then everything seemed passing

away from me. My soul seemed to go out from my body and

float about the air. I seem to remember that once the West

Lighthouse was right under me, and then there was a sort of

agonizing feeling, as if I were in an earthquake, and I came

back and found you shaking my body. I saw you do it before

I felt you."

Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to

me, and I listened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like

it,and thought it better not to keep her mind on the subject,

so we drifted on to another subject, and Lucy was like her

old self again. When we got home the fresh breeze had braced

her up, and her pale cheeks were really more rosy.Her mother

rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very happy

evening together.

19 August.--Joy, joy, joy! Although not all joy. At

last, news of Jonathan. The dear fellow has been ill, that

is why he did not write. I am not afraid to think it or to

say it, now that I know. Mr. Hawkins sent me on the letter,

and wrote himself, oh so kindly. I am to leave in the morn-

ing and go over to Jonathan, and to help to nurse him if

necessary, and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says it would

not be a bad thing if we were to be married out there. I

have cried over the good Sister's letter till I can feel it

wet against my bosom, where it lies. It is of Jonathan, and

must be near my heart, for he is in my heart. My journey is

all mapped out, and my luggage ready. I am only taking one

change of dress. Lucy will bring my trunk to London and keep

it till I send for it, for it may be that . . . I must write

no more. I must keep it to say to Jonathan, my husband. The

letter that he has seen and touched must comfort me till we

meet.

LETTER, SISTER AGATHA, HOSPITAL OF ST. JOSEPH AND STE. MARY

BUDA-PESTH, TO MISS WILLHELMINA MURRAY

12 August,

"Dear Madam.

"I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is him-

self 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 vio-

lent 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 want-

ing for belp.

Believe me,

Yours, with sympathy

and all blessings.

Sister Agatha"

"P.S.--My patient being asleep, I open this to let you

know something more. He has told me all about you, and that

you are shortly to be his wife. All blessings to you both!

He has had some fearful shock,so says our doctor, and in his

delirium his ravings have been dreadful,of wolves and poison

and blood, of ghosts and demons, and I fear to say of what.

Be careful of him always that there may be nothing to excite

him of this kind for a long time to come. The traces of such

an illness as his do not lightly die away. We should have

written long ago, but we knew nothing of his friends, and

there was nothing on him, nothing that anyone could under-

stand. He came in the train from Klausenburg, and the guard

was told by the station master there that he rushed into the

station shouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from his

violent demeanor that he was English, they gave him a ticket

for the furthest station on the way thither that the train

reached.

"Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all

hearts by his sweetness and gentleness. He is truly getting

on well, and I have no doubt will in a few weeks be all him-

self. But be careful of him for safety's sake. There are,I

pray God and St.Joseph and Ste.Mary, many, many, happy years

for you both."

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY

19 Agust.--Strange and sudden change in Renfield last

night. About eight o'clock he began to get excited and sniff

about as a dog does when setting. The attendant was struck

by his manner, and knowing my interest in him, encouraged

him to talk. He is usually respectful to the attendant and

at times servile, but tonight, the man tells me, he was

quite haughty. Would not condescend to talk with him at all.

All he would say was, "I don't want to talk to you. You

don't count now. The master is at hand."

The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of relig-

ious mania which has seized him. If so, we must look out for

squalls, for a strong man with homicidal and religious mania

at once might be dangerous.The combination is a dreadful one.

At Nine o'clock I visited him myself.His attitude to me

was the same as that to the attendant. In his sublime self-

feeling the difference between myself and the attendant

seemed to him as nothing. It looks like religious mania, and

he will soon think that he himself is God.

These infinitesimal distinctions between man and man

are too paltry for an Omnipotent Being.How these madmen give

themselves away! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow

fall. But the God created from human vanity sees no differ-

ence 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 watch-

ing him, but I kept strict observation all the same. All at

once that shifty look came into his eyes which we always see

when a madman has seized an idea, and with it the shifty

movement of the head and back which asylum attendants come

to know so well. He became quite quiet, and went and sat on

the edge of his bed resignedly, and looked into space with

lack-luster eyes.

I thought I would find out if his apathy were real or

only assumed, and tried to lead him to talk of his pets, a

theme which had never failed to excite his attention.

At first he made no reply, but at length said testily,

"Bother them all! I don't care a pin about them."

"What" I said. "You don't mean to tell me you don't

care about spiders?" (Spiders at present are his hobby and

the notebook is filling up with columns of small figures.)

To this he answered enigmatically, "The Bride maidens

rejoice the eyes that wait the coming of the bride. But

when the bride draweth nigh, then the maidens shine not to

the eyes that are filled."

He would not explain himself, but remained obstinately

seated on his bed all the time I remained with him.

I am weary tonight and low in spirits. I cannot but

think of Lucy, and how different things might have been. If

I don't sleep at once, chloral, the modern Morpheus! I must

be careful not to let it grow into a habit. No, I shall take

none tonight! I have thought of Lucy, and I shall not dis-

honour her by mixing the two. If need by, tonight shall be

sleepless.

Later.--Glad I made the resolution, gladder that I kept

to it. I had lain tossing about, and had heard the clock

strike only twice, when the night watchman came to me, sent

up from the ward, to say that Renfield had escaped. I threw

on my clothes and ran down at once. My patient is too dan-

gerous 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 wrench-

ed 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 fore-

most, 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 Car-

fax, in case our friend might be dangerous. I got a ladder

myself, and crossing the wall,dropped down on the other side.

I could see Renfield's figure just disappearing behind the

angle of the house, so I ran after him. On the far side of

the house I found him pressed close against the old iron-

bound oak door of the chapel.

He was talking, apparently to some one,but I was afraid

to go near enough to hear what he was saying, les t I might

frighten him, and he should run off.

Chasing an errant swarm of bees is nothing to following

a naked lunatic, when the fit of escaping is upon him! After

a few minutes, however,I could see that he did not take note

of anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearer to

him, the more so as my men had now crossed the wall and were

closing him in. I heard him say . . .

"I am here to do your bidding, Master. I am your slave,

and you will reward me, for I shall be faithful. I have

worshipped you long and afar off. Now that you are near, I

await your commands, and you will not pass me by, will you,

dear Master, in your distribution of good things?"

He is a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the

loaves and fishes even when he believes his is in a real

Presence. His manias make a startling combination. When we

closed in on him he fought like a tiger. He is immensely

strong, for he was more like a wild beast than a man.

I never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before,

and I hope I shall not again. It is a mercy that we have

found out his strength and his danger in good time. With

strength and determination like his, he might have done wild

work before he was caged.

He is safe now, at any rate. Jack Sheppard himself

couldn't get free from the strait waistcoat that keeps him

restrained, and he's chained to the wall in the padded room.

His cries are at times awful, but the silences that

follow are more deadly still, for he means murder in every

turn and movement.

Just now he spoke coherent words for the first time. "I

shall be patient, Master. It is coming, coming, coming!"

So I took the hint, and came too. I was too excited to

sleep, but this diary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get

some sleep tonight.

CHAPTER 9

LETTER, MINA HARKER TO LUCY WESTENRA

Buda-Pesth, 24 August.

"My dearest Lucy,

"I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happ-

ened since we parted at the railway station at Whitby.

"Well, my dear, I got to Hull all right, and caught

the boat to Hamburg, and then the train on here. I feel

that I can hardly recall anything of the journey, except

that I knew I was coming to Jonathan, and that as I should

have to do some nursing, I had better get all the sleep I

could. I found my dear one, oh, so thin and pale and weak-

looking. All the resolution has gone out of his dear eyes,

and that quiet dignity which I told you was in his face has

vanished. He is only a wreck of himself, and he does not

remember anything that has happened to him for a long time

past. At least, he wants me to believe so, and I shall

never ask.

"He has had some terrible shock, and I fear it might

tax his poor brain if he were to try to recall it. Sister

Agatha, who is a good creature and a born nurse, tells me

that he wanted her to tell me what they were, but she would

only cross herself, and say she would never tell. That the

ravings of the sick were the secrets of God, and that if a

nurse through her vocation should hear them, she should re-

spect her trust..

"She is a sweet, good soul, and the next day, when she

saw I was troubled, she opened up the subject my poor dear

raved about, added, `I can tell you this much, my dear.

That it was not about anything which he has done wrong him-

self, and you, as his wife to be, have no cause to be con-

cerned. He has not forgotten you or what he owes to you.

His fear was of great and terrible things, which no mortal

can treat of.'

"I do believe the dear soul thought I might be jealous

lest my poor dear should have fallen in love with any other

girl. The idea of my being jealous about Jonathan! And yet,

my dear, let me whisper, I felt a thrill of joy through me

when I knew that no other woman was a cause for trouble. I

am now sitting by his bedside,where I can see his face while

he sleeps. He is waking!

"When he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to

get something from the pocket. I asked Sister Agatha, and

she brought all his things. I saw amongst them was his note-

book, and was was going to ask him to let me look at it, for

I knew that I might find some clue to his trouble,but I sup-

pose he must have seen my wish in my eyes, for he sent me

over to the window, saying he wanted to be quite alone for a

moment.

"Then he called me back,and he said to me very solemnly,

`Wilhelmina', I knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for

he has never called me by that name since he asked me to

marry him, `You know, dear, my ideas of the trust between

husband and wife. There should be no secret, no concealment.

I have had a great shock, and when I try to think of what it

is I feel my head spin round, and I do not know if it was

real of the dreaming of a madman.You know I had brain fever,

and that is to be mad. The secret is here, and I do not want

to know it. I want to take up my life here, with our marri-

age.' For, my dear, we had decided to be married as soon as

the formalities are complete. `Are you willing, Wilhelmina,

to share my ignorance? Here is the book. Take it and keep

it,read it if you will,but never let me know unless, indeed,

some solemn duty should come upon me to go back to the

bitter hours, asleep or awake, sane or mad, recorded here.'

He fell back exhausted, and I put the book under his pillow,

and kissed him. have asked Sister Agatha to beg the Super-

ior to let our wedding be this afternoon, and am waiting her

reply . . ."

"She has come and told me that the Chaplain of the En-

glish mission church has been sent for. We are to be married

in an hour, or as soon after as Jonathan awakes."

"Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn,

but very, very happy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour,

and all was ready, and he sat up in bed, propped up with

pillows. He answered his `I will' firmly and strong. I

could hardly speak. My heart was so full that even those

words seemed to choke me.

"The dear sisters were so kind. Please, God, I shall

never, never forget them, nor the grave and sweet respon-

sibilities I have taken upon me. I must tell you of my

wedding present. When the chaplain and the sisters had left

me alone with my husband--oh, Lucy, it is the first time I

have written the words `my husband'--left me alone with my

husband, I took the book from under his pillow, and wrapped

it up in white paper, and tied it with a little bit of pale

blue ribbon which was round my neck, and sealed it over the

knot with sealing wax, and for my seal I used my wedding

ring. Then I kissed it and showed it to my husband, and told

him that I would keep it so, and then it would be an outward

and visible sign for us all our lives that we trusted each

other, that I would never open it unless it were for his own

dear sake or for the sake of some stern duty. Then he took

my hand in his, and oh, Lucy, it was the first time he took

his wifes' hand, and said that it was the dearest thing in

all the wide world,and that he would go through all the past

again to win it, if need be.The poor dear meant to have said

a part of the past, but he cannot think of time yet, and I

shall not wonder if at first he mixes up not only the month,

but the year.

"Well, my dear, could I say? I could only tell him that

I was the happiest woman in all the wide world, and that I

had nothing to give him except myself, my life,and my trust,

and that with these went my love and duty for all the days

of my life. And, my dear, when he kissed me, and drew me to

him with his poor weak hands, it was like a solemn pledge

between us.

"Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is

not only because it is all sweet to me, but because you have

been, and are, very dear to me. It was my privilege to be

your friend and guide when you came from the schoolroom to

prepare for the world of life. I want you to see now, and

with the eyes of a very happy wife, whither duty has led me,

so that in your own married life you too may be all happy,

as I am. My dear, please Almighty God, your life may be all

it promises, a long day of sunshine, with no harsh wind, no

forgetting duty, no distrust. I must not wish you no pain,

for that can never be, but I do hope you will be always as

happy as I am now. Goodbye, my dear. I shall post this at

once, and perhaps, write you very soon again. I must stop,

for Jonathan is waking. I must attend my husband!

"Your ever-loving

"Mina Harker."

LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA HARKER.

Whitby, 30 August.

"My dearest Mina,

"Oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you

soon be in your own home with your husband. I wish you were

coming home soon enough to stay with us here. The strong air

would soon restore Jonathan. It has quite restored me. I

have an appetite like a cormorant, am full of life,and sleep

well. You will be glad to know that I have quite given up

walking in my sleep. I think I have not stirred out of my

bed for a week, that is when I once got into it at night.

Arthur says I am getting fat. By the way, I forgot to tell

you that Arthur is here. We have such walks and drives, and

rides, and rowing, and tennis, and fishing together, and I

love him more than ever. He tells me that he loves me more,

but I doubt that, for at first he told me that he couldn't

love me more than he did then. But this is nonsense. There

he is, calling to me. So no more just at present from your

loving,

"Lucy.

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

dear.

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

DR. SEWARDS DIARY

20 August.--The case of Renfield grows even more in-

teresting. He has now so far quieted that there are spells

of cessation from his passion. For the first week after his

attack he was perpetually violent. Then one night, just as

the moon rose, he grew quiet, and kept murmuring to himself.

"Now I can wait. Now I can wait."

The attendant came to tell me, so I ran down at once to

have a look at him. He was still in the strait waistcoat

and in the padded room, but the suffused look had gone from

his face, and his eyes had something of their old pleading.

I might almost say, cringing, softness. I was satisfied

with his present condition, and directed him to be relieved.

The attendants hesitated, but finally carried out my wishes

without protest.

It was a strange thing that the patient had humour

enough to see their distrust, for, coming close to me, he

said in a whisper, all the while looking furtively at them,

"They think I could hurt you! Fancy me hurting you! The

fools!"

It was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find my-

self disassociated even in the mind of this poor madman from

the others, but all the same I do not follow his thought. Am

I to take it that I have anything in common with him,so that

we are, as it were, to stand together.Or has he to gain from

me some good so stupendous that my well being is needful to

Him? I must find out later on. Tonight he will not speak.

Even the offer of a kitten or even a full-grown cat will not

tempt him.

He will only say, "I don't take any stock in cats. I

have more to think of now, and I can wait. I can wait."

After a while I left him. The attendant tells me that

he was quiet until just before dawn, and that then he began

to get uneasy, and at length violent, until at last he fell

into a paroxysm which exhausted him so that he swooned into

a sort of coma.

. . . Three nights has the same thing happened, violent

all day then quiet from moonrise to sunrise. I wish I could

get some clue to the cause. It would almost seem as if there

was some influence which came and went. Happy thought! We

shall tonight play sane wits against mad ones. He escaped

before without our help. Tonight he shall escape with it.

We shall give him a chance, and have the men ready to follow

in case they are required.

23 August.--"The expected always happens." How well

Disraeli knew life. Our bird when he found the cage open

would not fly,so all our subtle arrangements were for nought.

At any rate, we have proved one thing, that the spells of

quietness last a reasonable time. We shall in future be able

to ease his bonds for a few hours each day. I have given

orders to the night attendant merely to shut him in the pad-

ded room, when once he is quiet, until the hour before sun-

rise. 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 wait-

ed until the attendant was entering the room to inspect.

Then he dashed out past him and flew down the passage. I

sent word for the attendants to follow. Again he went into

the grounds of the deserted house, and we found him in the

same place, pressed against the old chapel door. When he saw

me he became furious, and had not the attendants seized him

in time, he would have tried to kill me. As we sere holding

him a strange thing happened. He suddenly redoubled his eff-

orts, and then as suddenly grew calm.I looked round instinc-

tively, but could see nothing. Then I caught the patient's

eye and followed it, but could trace nothing as it looked

into the moonlight sky, except a big bat, which was flapping

its silent and ghostly way to the west. Bats usually wheel

about, but this one seemed to go straight on, as if it knew

where it was bound for or had some intention of its own.

The patient grew calmer every instant, and presently

said, "You needn't tie me. I shall go quietly!" Without

trouble, we came back to the house. I feel there is some-

thing ominous in his calm, and shall not forget this night.

LUCY WESTENRA'S DIARY

Hillingham, 24 August.--I must imitate Mina, and keep

writing things down. Then we can have long talks when we do

meet. I wonder when it will be. I wish she were with me

again, for I feel so unhappy. Last night I seemed to be

dreaming again just as I was at Whitby. Perhaps it is the

change of air, or getting home again. It is all dark and

horrid to me, for I can remember nothing. But I am full of

vague fear, and I feel so weak and worn out. When Arthur

came to lunch he looked quite grieved when he saw me, and I

hadn't the spirit to try to be cheerful. I wonder if I could

sleep in mother's room tonight.I shall make an excuse to try.

25 August.--Another bad night. Mother did not seem to

take to my proposal. She seems not too well herself, and

doubtless she fears to worry me. I tried to keep awake, and

succeeded for a while, but when the clock struck twelve it

waked me from a doze, so I must have been falling asleep.

There was a sort of scratching or flapping at the window,

but I did not mind it, and as I remember no more, I suppose

I must have fallen asleep. More bad dreams. I wish I could

remember them. This morning I am horribly weak. My face is

ghastly pale, and my throat pains me. It must be something

wrong with my lungs, for I don't seem to be getting air

enough. I shall try to cheer up when Arthur comes, or else

I know he will be miserable to see me so.

LETTER, ARTHUR TO DR. SEWARD

"Albemarle Hotel, 31 August

"My dear Jack,

"I want you to do me a favour. Lucy is ill, that is she

has no special disease, but she looks awful, and is getting

worse every day. I have asked her if there is any cause, I

not dare to ask her mother, for to disturb the poor lady's

mind about her daughter in her present state of health would

be fatal. Mrs. Westenra has confided to me that her doom is

spoken, disease of the heart, though poor Lucy does not know

it yet. I am sure that there is something preying on my dear

girl's mind. I am almost distracted when I think of her. To

look at her gives me a pang. I told her I should ask you to

see her, and though she demurred at first, I know why, old

fellow, she finally consented. It will be a painful task for

you, I know, old friend, but it is for her sake, and I must

not hesitate to ask, or you to act. You are to come to lunch

at Hillingham tomorrow, two o'clock, so as not to arouse any

suspicion in Mrs. Westenra,and after lunch Lucy will take an

opportunity of being alone with you. I am filled with

anxiety, and want to consult with you alone as soon as I can

after you have seen her. Do not fail!

"Arthur."

TELEGRAM, ARTHUR HOLMWOOD TO SEWARD

1 September

"Am summoned to see my father, who is worse.Am writing.

Write me fully by tonight's post to Ring. Wire me if neces-

sary."

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 funct-

al 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 re-

action to make a diagnosis.

"She said to me very sweetly, `I cannot tell you how I

loathe talking about myself.' I reminded her that a doctor's

confidence was sacred, but that you were grievously anxious

about her. She caught on to my meaning at once, and settled

that matter in a word. `Tell Arthur everything you choose. I

do not care for myself, but for him!' So I am quite free.

"I could easily see that she was somewhat bloodless,but

I could not see the usual anemic signs, and by the chance ,I

was able to test the actual quality of her blood, for in

opening a window which was stiff a cord gave way,and she cut

her hand slightly with broken glass. It was a slight matter

in itself, but it gave me an evident chance, and I secured

a few drops of the blood and have analysed them.

"The qualitative analysis give a quite normal condition,

and shows, I should infer, in itself a vigorous state of

health. In other physical matters I was quite satisfied that

there is no need for anxiety, but as there must be a cause

somewhere, I have come to the conclusion that it must be

something mental.

"She complains of difficulty breathing satisfactorily

at times, and of heavy, lethargic sleep, with dreams that

frighten her, but regarding which she can remember nothing.

She says that as a child, she used to walk in her sleep, and

that when in Whitby the habit came back, and that once she

walked out in the night and went to East Cliff, where Miss

Murray found her. But she assures me that of late the habit

has not returned.

"I am in doubt, and so have done the best thing I know

of. I have written to my old friend and master, Professor

Van Helsing, of Amsterdam, who knows as much about obscure

diseases as any one in the world. I have asked him to come

over, and as you told me that all things were to be at your

charge, I have mentioned to him who you are and your rela-

tions to Miss Westenra. This, my dear fellow, is in obed-

ience to your wishes, for I am only too proud and happy to

do anything I can for her.

"Van Helsing would, I know, do anything for me for a

personal reason, so no matter on what ground he comes, we

must accept his wishes. He is a seemingly arbitrary man,

this is because he knows what he is talking about better

than any one else. He is a philosopher and a metaphysician,

and one of the most advanced scientists of his day, and he

has, I believe, an absolutely open mind. This, with an iron

nerve,a temper of the ice-brook, and indomitable resolution,

self-command, and toleration exalted from virtues to bless-

ings, and the kindliest and truest heart that beats, these

form his equipment for the noble work that he is doing for

mankind, work both in theory and practice, for his views are

as wide as his all-embracing sympathy.I tell you these facts

that you may know why I have such confidence in him. I have

asked him to come at once.I shall see Miss Westenra tomorrow

again. She is to meet me at the Stores, so that I may not

alarm her mother by too early a repetition of my call.

"Yours always."

John Seward

LETTER, ABRAHAM VAN HELSING, MD, DPh, D. LiT, ETC, ETC,

TO DR. SEWARD

2 September.

"My good Friend,

"When I received your letter I am already coming to you.

By good fortune I can leave just at once, without wrong to

any of those who have trusted me. Were fortune other, then

it were bad for those who have trusted, for I come to my

friend when he call me to aid those he holds dear. Tell your

friend that when that time you suck from my wound so swiftly

the poison of the gangrene from that knife that our other

friend, too nervous, let slip, you did more for him when he

wants my aids and you call for them than all his great for-

tune could do. But it is pleasure added to do for him, your

friend, it is to you that I come. Have near at hand, and

please it so arrange that we may see the young lady not too

late on tomorrow, for it is likely that I may have to return

here that night. But if need be I shall come again in three

days, and stay longer if it must. Till then goodbye, my

friend John.

"Van Helsing."

LETTER, DR. SEWARD TO HON. ARTHUR HOLMWOOD

3 September

"My dear Art,

"Van Helsing has come and gone. He came on with me to

Hillingham, and found that, by Lucy's discretion, her mother

was lunching out, so that we were alone with her.

"Van Helsing made a very careful examination of the

patient. He is to report to me, and I shall advise you, for

of course I was not present all the time. He is, I fear,

much concerned, but says he must think. When I told him of

our friendship and how you trust to me in the matter,he said,

`You must tell him all you think. Tell him him what I think,

if you can guess it, if you will. Nay, I am not jesting.

This is no jest, but life and death, perhaps more.' I asked

what he meant by that, for he was very serious. This was

when we had come back to town,and he was having a cup of tea

before starting on his return to Amsterdam.He would not give

me any further clue. You must not be angry with me, Art, be-

cause his very reticence means that all his brains are work-

ing for her good. He will speak plainly enough when the time

comes, be sure.So I told him I would simply write an account

of our visit, just as if I were doing a descriptive special

article for THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.He seemed not to notice, but

remarked that the smuts of London were not quite so bad as

they used to be when he was a student here. I am to get his

report tomorrow if he can possibly make it. In any case I

am to have a letter.

"Well, as to the visit, Lucy was more cheerful than on

the day I first saw her, and certainly looked better. She

had lost something of the ghastly look that so upset you,and

her breathing was normal.She was very sweet to the Professor

(as she always is),and tried to make him feel at ease,though

I could see the poor girl was making a hard struggle for it.

"I believe Van Helsing saw it, too, for I saw the quick

look under his bushy brows that I knew of old. Then he began

to chat of all things except ourselves and diseases and with

such an infinite geniality that I could see poor Lucy's pre-

tense of animation merge into reality. Then, without any

seeming change, he brought the conversation gently round to

his visit, and sauvely said,

"`My dear young miss, I have the so great pleasure be-

cause you are so much beloved. That is much, my dear, even

were there that which I do not see. They told me you were

down in the spirit, and that you were of a ghastly pale. To

them I say "Pouf!" ' And he snapped his fingers at me and

went on. `But you and I shall show them how wrong they are.

How can he', and he pointed at me with the same look and

gesture as that with which he pointed me out in his class,

on, or rather after, a particular occasion which he never

fails to remind me of, `know anything of a young ladies? He

has his madmen to play with,and to bring them back to happi-

ness, and to those that love them. It is much to do, and,

oh, but there are rewards in that we can bestow such happi-

ness.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 cig-

arette in the garden, whiles you and I have little talk all

to ourselves.' I took the hint, and strolled about, and pre-

sently the professor came to the window and called me in. He

looked grave, but said, ` I have made careful examination,

but there is no functional cause.With you I agree that there

has been much blood lost, it has been but is not. But the

conditions of her are in no way anemic. I have asked her to

send me her maid, that I may ask just one or two questions,

that so I may not chance to miss nothing. I know well what

she will say. And yet there is cause. There is always cause

for everything. I must go back home and think. You must

send me the telegram every day,and if there be cause I shall

come again. The disease, for not to be well is a disease,

interest me, and the sweet, young dear, she interest me too.

She charm me, and for her, if not for you or disease, I

come.'

"As I tell you, he would not say a word more, even when

we were alone. And so now, Art, you know all I know. I

shall keep stern watch.I trust your poor father is rallying.

It must be a terrible thing to you,my dear old fellow, to be

placed in such a position between two people who are both so

dear to you. I know your idea of duty to your father, and

you are right to stick to it. But if need be, I shall send

you word to come at once to Lucy, so do not be over-anxious

unless you hear from me."

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY

4 September.--Zoophagous patient still keeps up our

interest in him. He had only one outburst and that was yes-

terday at an unusual time. Just before the stroke of noon

he began to grow restless. The attendant knew the symptoms,

and at once summoned aid. Fortunately the men came at a run,

and were just in time,for at the stroke of noon he became so

violent that it took all their strength to hold him.In about

five minutes, however,he began to get more quiet,and finally

sank into a sort of melancholy,in which state he has remain-

ed up to now. The attendant tells me that his screams whilst

in the paroxysm were really appalling. I found my hands full

when I got in, attending to some of the other patients who

were frightened by him. Indeed, I can quite understand the

effect, for the sounds disturbed even me, though I was some

distance away.It is now after the dinner hour of the asylum,

and as yet my patient sits in a corner brooding,with a dull,

sullen, woe-begone look in his face, which seems rather to

indicate than to show something directly. I cannot quite

understand it.

Later.--Another change in my patient. At five o'clock

I looked in on him, and found him seemingly as happy and

contented as he used to be. He was catching flies and eating

them,and was keeping note of his capture by making nailmarks

on the edge of the door between the ridges of padding. When

he saw me, he came over and apologized for his bad conduct,

and asked me in a very humble, cringing way to be led back

to his own room, and to have his notebook again.I thought it

well to humour him,so he is back in his room with the window

open. He has the sugar of his tea spread out on the window

sill, and is reaping quite a harvest of flies. He is not now

eating them, but putting them into a box, as of old, and is

already examining the corners of his room to find a spider.I

tried to get him to talk about the past few days, for any

clue to his thoughts would be of immense help to me, but he

would not rise. For a moment or two he looked very sad, and

said in a sort of far away voice, as though saying it rather

to himself than to me.

"All over! All over! He has deserted me. No hope for

me now unless I do it myself!" Then suddenly turning to me

in a resolute way, he said,"Doctor,won't you be very good to

me and let me have a little more sugar? I think it would be

very good for me."

"And the flies?" I said.

"Yes! The flies like it, too, and I like the flies,

therefore I like it."And there are people who know so little

as to think that madmen do not argue.I procured him a double

supply, and left him as happy a man as,I suppose, any in the

world. I wish I could fathom his mind.

Midnight.--Another change in him.I had been to see Miss

Westenra, whom I found much better, and had just returned,

and was standing at our own gate looking at the sunset, when

once more I heard him yelling.As his room is on this side of

the house, I could hear it better than in the morning. It

was a shock to me to turn from the wonderful smoky beauty of

a sunset over London, with its lurid lights and inky shadows

and all the marvellous tints that come on foul clouds even

as on foul water,and to realize all the grim sternness of my

own cold stone building, with its wealth of breathing misery,

and my own desolate heart to endure it all. I reached him

just as the sun was going down, and from his window saw the

red disc sink. As it sank he became less and less frenzied,

and just as it dipped he slid from the hands that held him,

an inert mass, on the floor. It is wonderful, however, what

intellectual recuperative power lunatics have, for within a

few minutes he stood up quite calmly and looked around him.

I signalled to the attendants not to hold him, for I was

anxious to see what he would do. He went straight over to

the window and brushed out the crumbs of sugar. Then he

took his fly box, and emptied it outside, and threw away the

box. Then he shut the window, and crossing over, sat down on

his bed.All this surprised me, so I asked him,"Are you going

to keep flies any more?"

"No," said he. "I am sick of all that rubbish!" He

certainly is a wonderfully interesting study. I wish I could

get some glimpse of his mind or of the cause of his sudden

passion. Stop. There may be a clue after all, if we can find

why today his paroxysms came on at high noon and at sunset.

Can it be that there is a malign influence of the sun at

periods which affects certain natures, as at times the moon

does others? We shall see.

TELEGRAM. SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM

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

TELEGRAM, SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM

"5 September.--Patient greatly improved. Good appetite,

sleeps naturally, good spirits, color coming back."

TELEGRAM, SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM

"6 September.--Terrible change for the worse. Come at

once. Do not lose an hour. I hold over telegram to Holm-

wood till have seen you."

CHAPTER 10

LETTER, DR. SEWARD TO HON. ARTHUR HOLMWOOD

6 September

"My dear Art,

"My news today is not so good. Lucy this morning had

gone back a bit. There is, however, one good thing which has

arisen from it. Mrs. Westenra was naturally anxious concern-

ing Lucy, and has consulted me professionally about her. I

took advantage of the opportunity, and told her that my old

master, Van Helsing, the great specialist,was coming to stay

with me, and that I would put her in his charge conjointly

with myself. So now we can come and go without alarming her

unduly, for a shock to her would mean sudden death,and this,

in Lucy's weak condition, might be disastrous to her. We are

hedged in with difficulties, all of us, my poor fellow, but,

please God, we shall come through them all right.If any need

I shall write, so that, if you do not hear from me, take it

for granted that I am simply waiting for news, In haste,

"Yours ever,"

John Seward

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY

7 September.--The first thing Van Helsing said to me

when we met at Liverpool Street was, "Have you said anything

to our young friend, to lover of her?"

"No," I said. "I waited till I had seen you, as I said

in my telegram. I wrote him a letter simply telling him that

you were coming,as Miss Westenra was not so well, and that I

should let him know if need be."

"Right, my friend," he said. "Quite right! Better he

not know as yet. Perhaps he will never know. I pray so, but

if it be needed, then he shall know all. And, my good friend

John, let me caution you. You deal with the madmen. All men

are mad in some way or the other, and inasmuch as you deal

discreetly with your madmen, so deal with God's madmen too,

the rest of the world. You tell not your madmen what you do

nor why you do it. You tell them not what you think. So

you shall keep knowledge in its place, where it may rest,

where it may gather its kind around it and breed. You and I

shall keep as yet what we know here, and here." He touched

me on the heart and on the forehead, and then touched him-

self the same way. "I have for myself thoughts at the pre-

sent. Later I shall unfold to you."

"Why not now?" I asked. "It may do some good. We may

arrive at some decision."He looked at me and said,"My friend

John, when the corn is grown, even before it has ripened,

while the milk of its mother earth is in him, and the sun-

shine has not yet begun to paint him with his gold, the hus-

bandman he pull the ear and rub him between his rough hands,

and blow away the green chaff, and say to you, 'Look! He's

good corn, he will make a good crop when the time comes.' "

I did not see the application and told him so. For

reply he reached over and took my ear in his hand and pulled

it playfully, as he used long ago to do at lectures,and said,

"The good husbandman tell you so then because he knows, but

not till then. But you do not find the good husbandman dig

up his planted corn to see if he grow. That is for the

children who play at husbandry, and not for those who take

it as of the work of their life. See you now, friend John?

I have sown my corn, and Nature has her work to do in making

it sprout, if he sprout at all, there's some promise, and I

wait till the ear begins to swell." He broke off, for he

evidently saw that I understood. Then he went on gravely,

"You were always a careful student, and your case book was

ever more full than the rest. And I trust that good habit

have not fail. Remember, my friend, that knowledge is

stronger than memory, and we should not trust the weaker.

Even if you have not kept the good practice, let me tell you

that this case of our dear miss is one that may be, mind, I

say may be, of such interest to us and others that all the

rest may not make him kick the beam, as your people say.

Take then good note of it. Nothing is too small. I counsel

you, put down in record even your doubts and surmises. Here-

after 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 instru-

ments and drugs, "the ghastly paraphernalia of our bene-

ficial trade," as he once called, in one of his lectures,

the equipment of a professor of the healing craft.

When we were shown in, Mrs. Westenra met us. She was

alarmed, but not nearly so much as I expected to find her.

Nature in one of her beneficient moods has ordained that

even death has some antidote to its own terrors. Here, in

a case where any shock may prove fatal,matters are so order-

ed 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 enve-

lope 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 con-

demn any one for the vice of egoism,for there may be deeper

root for its causes than we have knowledge of.

I used my knowledge of this phase of spiritual patho-

logy, and set down a rule that she should not be present

with Lucy, or think of her illness more than was absolutely

required. She assented readily, so readily that I saw again

the hand of Nature fighting for life.Van Helsing and I were

shown up to Lucy's room. If I was shocked when I saw her

yesterday, I was horrified when I saw her today.

She was ghastly, chalkily pale. The red seemed to have

gone even from her lips and gums, and the bones of her face

stood out prominently. Her breathing was painful to see or

hear. Van Helsing's face grew set as marble, and his eye-

brows 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 beckon-

ed to me, and we went gently out of the room. The instant

we had closed the door he stepped quickly along the passage

to the next door, which was open. Then he pulled me quickly

in with him and closed the door. "My god!" he said. "This

is dreadful. There is not time to be lost. She will die

for sheer want of blood to keep the heart's action as it

should be. There must be a transfusion of blood at once. Is

it you or me?"

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

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

prepared."

I went downstairs with him, and as we were going there

was a knock at the hall door. When we reached the hall, the

maid had just opened the door, and Arthur was stepping

quickly in. He rushed up to me, saying in an eager whisper,

"Jack, I was so anxious. I read between the lines of

your letter, and have been in an agony. The dad was better,

so I ran down here to see for myself. Is not that gentleman

Dr.Van Helsing? I am so thankful to you, sir, for coming."

When first the Professor's eye had lit upon him,he had

been angry at his interruption at such a time, but now, as

he took in his stalwart proportions and recognized the

strong young manhood which seemed to emanate from him, his

eyes gleamed. Without a pause he said to him as he held out

his hand,

"Sir, you have come in time. You are the lover of our

dear miss. She is bad, very, very bad. Nay, my child, do

not go like that."For he suddenly grew pale and sat down in

a chair almost fainting. "You are to help her. You can do

more than any that live,and your courage is your best help."

"What can I do?" asked Arthur hoarsely. "Tell me, and

I shall do it. My life is hers' and I would give the last

drop of blood in my body for her."

The Professor has a strongly humorous side,and I could

from old knowledge detect a trace of its origin in his

answer.

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

last!"

"What shall I do?" There was fire in his eyes, and his

open nostrils quivered with intent. Van Helsing slapped him

on the shoulder.

"Come!" he said. "You are a man, and it is a man we

want. You are better than me, better than my friend John."

Arthur looked bewildered, and the Professor went on by ex-

plaining 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 con-

sulted,and we are about to perform what we call transfusion

of blood, to transfer from full veins of one to the empty

veins which pine for him. John was to give his blood, as he

is the more young and strong than me."--Here Arthur took my

hand and wrung it hard in silence.--"But now you are here,

you are more good than us, old or young, who toil much in

the world of thought. Our nerves are not so calm and our

blood so bright than yours!"

Arthur turned to him and said, "If you only knew how

gladly I would die for her you would understand . . ." He

stopped with a sort of choke in his voice.

"Good boy!" said Van Helsing. "In the not-so-far-off

you will be happy that you have done all for her you love.

Come now and be silent. You shall kiss her once before it

is done, but then you must go, and you must leave at my

sign. Say no word to Madame. You know how it is with her.

There must be no shock, any knowledge of this would be one.

Come!"

We all went up to Lucy's room. Arthur by direction re-

mained 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 nar-

cotic, 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 sat-

isfied, 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 Hel-

sing 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 weak-

ened. 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 present-

ly." And as he had now finished his operation, he adjusted

the pillow to the patient's head. As he did so the narrow

black velvet band which she seems always to wear round her

throat, buckled with an old diamond buckle which her lover

had given her, was dragged a little up, and showed a red

mark on her throat.

Arthur did not notice it, but I could hear the deep

hiss of indrawn breath which is one of Van Helsing's ways

of betraying emotion. He said nothing at the moment, but

turned to me, saying, "Now take down our brave young lover,

give him of the port wine, and let him lie down a while. He

must then go home and rest,sleep much and eat much, that he

may be recruited of what he has so given to his love. He

must not stay here. Hold a moment! I may take it, sir, that

you are anxious of result. Then bring it with you, that in

all ways the operation is successful. You have saved her

life this time, and you can go home and rest easy in mind

that all that can be is. I shall tell her all when she is

well. She shall love you none the less for what you have

done. Goodbye."

When Arthur had gone I went back to the room. Lucy

was sleeping gently, but her breathing was stronger. I

could see the counterpane move as her breast heaved. By

the bedside sat Van Helsing, looking at her intently. The

velvet band again covered the red mark. I asked the Pro-

fessor in a whisper, "What do you make of that mark on her

throat?"

"What do you make of it?"

"I have not examined it yet," I answered, and then and

there proceeded to loose the band. Just over the external

jugular vein there were two punctures, not large, but not

wholesome looking. There was no sign of disease, but the

edges were white and worn looking,as if by some trituration.

It at once occurred to me that that this wound, or whatever

it was, might be the means of that manifest loss of blood.

But I abandoned the idea as soon as it formed, for such a

thing could not be. The whole bed would have been drenched

to a scarlet with the blood which the girl must have lost

to leave such a pallor as she had before the transfusion.

"Well?" said Van Helsing.

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

The Professor stood up. "I must go back to Amsterdam

tonight," he said "There are books and things there which

I want. You must remain here all night, and you must not

let your sight pass from her."

"Shall I have a nurse?" I asked.

"We are the best nurses, you and I. You keep watch all

night. See that she is well fed, and that nothing disturbs

her.You must not sleep all the night.Later on we can sleep,

you and I. I shall be back as soon as possible. And then

we may begin."

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

"We shall see!" he answered, as he hurried out.He came

back a moment later and put his head inside the door and

said with a warning finger held up, "Remember, she is your

charge. If you leave her, and harm befall, you shall not

sleep easy hereafter!"

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY--CONTINUED

8 September.--I sat up all night with Lucy. The opiate

worked itself off towards dusk, and she waked naturally.She

looked a different being from what she had been before the

operation.Her spirits even were good, and she was full of a

happy vivacity, but I could see evidences of the absolute

prostration which she had undergone. When I told Mrs.West-

enra that Dr. Van Helsing had directed that I should sit up

with her, she almost pooh-poohed the idea, pointing out her

daughter's renewed strength and excellent spirits. I was

firm, however, and made preparations for my long vigil.When

her maid had prepared her for the night I came in,having in

the meantime had supper, and took a seat by the bedside.

She did not in any way make objection,but looked at me

gratefully whenever I caught her eye.After a long spell she

seemed sinking off to sleep, but with an effort seemed to

pull herself together and shook it off.It was apparent that

she did not want to sleep, so I tackled the subject at once.

"You do not want to sleep?"

"No. I am afraid."

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

crave for."

"Ah,not if you were like me, if sleep was to you a pre-

sage of horror!"

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

"I don't know. Oh, I don't know. And that is what is

so terrible. All this weakness comes to me in sleep, until

I dread the very thought."

"But, my dear girl, you may sleep tonight. I am here

watching you, and I can promise that nothing will happen."

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

I seized the opportunity, and said, "I promise that if

I see any evidence of bad dreams I will wake you at once."

"You will? Oh, will you really? How good you are to me.

Then I will sleep!" And almost at the word she gave a deep

sigh of relief, and sank back, asleep.

All night long I watched by her.She never stirred, but

slept on and on in a deep, tranquil, life-giving, health-

giving sleep. Her lips were slightly parted, and her breast

rose and fell with the regularity of a pendulum. There was

a smile on her face, and it was evident that no bad dreams

had come to disturb her peace of mind.

In the early morning her maid came, and I left her in

her care and took myself back home, for I was anxious about

many things. I sent a short wire to Van Helsing and to

Arthur, telling them of the excellent result of the opera-

tion. My own work, with its manifold arrears, took me all

day to clear off. It was dark when I was able to inquire

about my zoophagous patient. The report was good. He had

been quite quiet for the past day and night. A telegram

came from Van Helsing at Amsterdam whilst I was at dinner,

suggesting that I should be at Hillingham tonight, as it

might be well to be at hand, and stating that he was leav-

ing by the night mail and would join me early in the morn-

ing.

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 cheer-

ful spirits. When she shook hands with me she looked sharp-

ly in my face and said,

"No sitting up tonight for you. You are worn out. I

am quite well again.Indeed, I am, and if there is to be any

sitting up, it is I who will sit up with you."

I would not argue the point,but went and had my supper.

Lucy came with me, and, enlivened by her charming presence,

I made an excellent meal,and had a couple of glasses of the

more than excellent port. Then Lucy took me upstairs, and

showed me a room next her own,where a cozy fire was burning.

"Now," she said. "You must stay here. I shall leave

this door open and my door too. You can lie on the sofa for

I know that nothing would induce any of you doctors to go

to bed whilst there is a patient above the horizon. If I

want anything I shall call out, and you can come to me at

once."

I could not but acquiesce, for I was dog tired, and

could not have sat up had I tried. So, on her renewing her

promise to call me if she should want anything,I lay on the

sofa, and forgot all about everything.

LUCY WESTENRA'S DIARY

9 September.--I feel so happy tonight. I have been so

miserably weak, that to be able to think and move about is

like feeling sunshine after a long spell of east wind out

of a steel sky. Somehow Arthur feels very, very close to me.

I seem to feel his presence warm about me. I suppose it is

that sickness and weakness are selfish things and turn our

inner eyes and sympathy on ourselves, whilst health and

strength give love rein, and in thought and feeling he can

wander where he wills. I know where my thoughts are. If

only Arthur knew! My dear, my dear, your ears must tingle

as you sleep, as mine do waking. Oh, the blissful rest of

last night! How I slept, with that dear, good Dr. Seward

watching me. And tonight I shall not fear to sleep, since

he is close at hand and within call. Thank everybody for

being so good to me. Thank God! Goodnight Arthur.

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY

10 September.--I was conscious of the Professor's hand

on my head, and started awake all in a second. That is one

of the things that we learn in an asylum, at any rate.

"And how is our patient?"

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

answered.

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

the room.

The blind was down, and I went over to raise it gently,

whilst Van Helsing stepped, with his soft, cat-like tread,

over to the bed.

As I raised the blind, and the morning sunlight flood-

ed the room,I heard the Professor's low hiss of inspiration,

and knowing its rarity, a deadly fear shot through my heart.

As I passed over he moved back, and his exclamation of

horror, "Gott in Himmel!" needed no enforcement from his

agonized face. He raised his hand and pointed to the bed,

and his iron face was drawn and ashen white.I felt my knees

begin to tremble.

There on the bed, seemingly in a swoon, lay poor Lucy,

more horribly white and wan-looking than ever. Even the

lips were white, and the gums seemed to have shrunken back

from the teeth,as we sometimes see in a corpse after a pro-

longed 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 de-

canter. He wetted the poor white lips with it, and together

we rubbed palm and wrist and heart. He felt her heart, and

after a few moments of agonizing suspense said,

"It is not too late. It beats, though but feebly. All

our work is undone. We must begin again. There is no young

Arthur here now. I have to call on you yourself this time,

friend John." As he spoke, he was dipping into his bag, and

producing the instruments of transfusion.I had taken off my

coat and rolled up my shirt sleeve.There was no possibility

of an opiate just at present, and no need of one. and so,

without a moment's delay, we began the operation.

After a time, it did not seem a short time either, for

the draining away of one's blood, no matter how willingly

it be given, is a terrible feeling, Van Helsing held up a

warning finger. "Do not stir," he said. "But I fear that

with growing strength she may wake, and that would make

danger, oh, so much danger. But I shall precaution take. I

shall give hypodermic injection of morphia." He proceeded

then, swiftly and deftly, to carry out his intent.

The effect on Lucy was not bad, for the faint seemed

to merge subtly into the narcotic sleep. It was with a

feeling of personal pride that I could see a faint tinge of

color steal back into the pallid cheeks and lips. No man

knows, till he experiences it, what it is to feel his own

lifeblood drawn away into the veins of the woman he loves.

The Professor watched me critically. "That will do,"

he said. "Already?" I remonstrated. "You took a great

deal more from Art." To which he smiled a sad sort of smile

as he replied,

"He is her lover, her fiance. You have work, much work

to do for her and for others, and the present will suffice.

When we stopped the operation, he attended to Lucy,

whilst I applied digital pressure to my own incision.I laid

down, while I waited his leisure to attend to me,for I felt

faint and a little sick.By and by he bound up my wound, and

sent me downstairs to get a glass of wine for myself. As I

was leaving the room, he came after me, and half whispered.

"Mind, nothing must be said of this.If our young lover

should turn up unexpected, as before, no word to him. It

would at once frighten him and enjealous him, too. There

must be none. So!"

When I came back he looked at me carefully, and then

said, "You are not much the worse. Go into the room, and

lie on your sofa, and rest awhile, then have much breakfast

and come here to me."

I followed out his orders, for I knew how right and

wise they were. I had done my part, and now my next duty

was to keep up my strength. I felt very weak, and in the

weakness lost something of the amazement at what had occur-

red. I fell asleep on the sofa, however, wondering over

and over again how Lucy had made such a retrograde movement,

and how she could have been drained of so much blood with

no sign any where to show for it. I think I must have con-

tinued 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 uncon-

scious that anything had happened. I tried to keep her

amused and interested. When her mother came up to see her,

she did not seem to notice any change whatever, but said to

me gratefully,

"We owe you so much, Dr.Seward, for all you have done,

but you really must now take care not to overwork yourself.

You are looking pale yourself. You want a wife to nurse

and look after you a bit, that you do!" As she spoke, Lucy

turned crimson,though it was only momentarily, for her poor

wasted veins could not stand for long an unwonted drain to

the head. The reaction came in excessive pallor as she

turned imploring eyes on me. I smiled and nodded, and laid

my finger on my lips. With a sigh, she sank back amid her

pillows.

Van Helsing returned in a couple of hours, and present-

ly said to me. "Now you go home, and eat much and drink

enough. Make yourself strong. I stay here tonight, and I

shall sit up with little miss myself. You and I must watch

the case, and we must have none other to know. I have grave

reasons. No, do not ask the. Think what you will. Do not

fear to think even the most not-improbable. Goodnight."

In the hall two of the maids came to me, and asked if

they or either of them might not sit up with Miss Lucy.They

implored me to let them, and when I said it was Dr. Van

Helsing's wish that either he or I should sit up,they asked

me quite piteously to intercede with the`foreign gentleman'.

I was much touched by their kindness. Perhaps it is because

I am weak at present, and perhaps because it was on Lucy's

account, that their devotion was manifested. For over and

over again have I seen similar instances of woman's kind-

ness. 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 Hilling-

ham. 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 im-

pressment,assumed, of course, and showed a great bundle of

white flowers.

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

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

"Yes, my dear, but not for you to play with. These are

medicines." Here Lucy made a wry face. "Nay, but they are

not to take in a decoction or in nauseous form, so you need

not snub that so charming nose, or I shall point out to my

friend Arthur what woes he may have to endure in seeing so

much beauty that he so loves so much distort.Aha, my pretty

miss, that bring the so nice nose all straight again. This

is medicinal, but you do not know how. I put him in your

window, I make pretty wreath, and hang him round your neck,

so you sleep well. Oh, yes! They, like the lotus flower,

make your trouble forgotten. It smell so like the waters of

Lethe,and of that fountain of youth that the Conquistadores

sought for in the Floridas, and find him all too late."

Whilst he was speaking, Lucy had been examining the

flowers and smelling them. Now she threw them down saying,

with half laughter, and half disgust,

"Oh, Professor, I believe you are only putting up a

joke on me. Why, these flowers are only common garlic."

To my surprise, Van Helsing rose up and said with all

his sternness, his iron jaw set and his bushy eyebrows

meeting,

"No trifling with me! I never jest! There is grim

purpose in what I do, and I warn you that you do not thwart

me. Take care, for the sake of others if not for your own."

Then seeing poor Lucy scared, as she might well be, he went

on more gently, "Oh, little miss, my dear, do not fear me.

I only do for your good, but there is much virtue to you

in those so common flowers. See, I place them myself in

your room. I make myself the wreath that you are to wear.

But hush! No telling to others that make so inquisitive

questions. We must obey, and silence is a part of obed-

ience, and obedience is to bring you strong and well into

loving arms that wait for you. Now sit still a while. Come

with me, friend John, and you shall help me deck the room

with my garlic, which is all the war from Haarlem, where my

friend Vanderpool raise herb in his glass houses all the

year. I had to telegraph yesterday, or they would not have

been here."

We went into the room, taking the flowers with us. The

Professor's actions were certainly odd and not to be found

in any pharmacopeia that I ever heard of. First he fasten-

ed 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 scep-

tic here, or he would say that you were working some spell

to keep out an evil spirit."

"Perhaps I am!" He answered quietly as he began to

make the wreath which Lucy was to wear round her neck.

We then waited whilst Lucy made her toilet for the

night, and when she was in bed he came and himself fixed

the wreath of garlic round her neck. The last words he said

to her were,

"Take care you do not disturb it, and even if the room

feel close, do not tonight open the window or the door."

"I promise," said Lucy. "And thank you both a thousand

times for all your kindness to me! Oh, what have I done to

be blessed with such friends?"

As we left the house in my fly, which was waiting, Van

Helsing said,"Tonight I can sleep in peace,and sleep I want,

two nights of travel, much reading in the day between, and

much anxiety on the day to follow, and a night to sit up,

without to wink. Tomorrow in the morning early you call for

me, and we come together to see our pretty miss, so much

more strong for my `spell' which I have work. Ho, ho!"

He seemed so confident that I, remembering my own con-

fidence two nights before and with the baneful result, felt

awe and vague terror. It must have been my weakness that

made me hesitate to tell it to my friend, but I felt it all

the more, like unshed tears.

CHAPTER 11

LUCY WESTENRA'S DIARY

12 September.--How good they all are to me. I quite

love that dear Dr. Van Helsing. I wonder why he was so

anxious about these flowers. He positively frightened me,

he was so fierce. And yet he must have been right, for I

feel comfort from them already. Somehow, I do not dread

being alone tonight, and I can go to sleep without fear. I

shall not mind any flapping outside the window. Oh, the

terrible struggle that I have had against sleep so often of

late, the pain of sleeplessness, or the pain of the fear of

sleep, and with such unknown horrors as it has for me! How

blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears,no dreads,

to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings

nothing but sweet dreams.Well, here I am tonight, hoping for

sleep, and lying like Ophelia in the play,with`virgin crants

and maiden strewments.' I never liked garlic before, but to-

night it is delightful! There is peace in its smell. I feel

sleep coming already. Goodnight, everybody.

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY

13 September.--Called at the Berkeley and found Van

Helsing, as usual, up to time. The carriage ordered from

the hotel was waiting. The Professor took his bag, which he

always brings with him now.

Let all be put down exactly. Van Helsing and I arrived

at Hillingham at eight o'clock. It was a lovely morning. The

bright sunshine and all the fresh feeling of early autumn

seemed like the completion of nature's annual work. The

leaves were turning to all kinds of beautiful colors,but had

not yet begun to drop from the trees. When we entered we met

Mrs. Westenra coming out of the morning room. She is always

an early riser. She greeted us warmly and said,

"You will be glad to know that Lucy is better. The

dear child is still asleep. I looked into her room and saw

her, but did not go in, lest I should disturb her." The

Professor smiled, and looked quite jubilant. He rubbed his

hands together, and said, "Aha! I thought I had diagnosed

the case. My treatment is working."

To which she replied, "You must not take all the credit

to yourself, doctor. Lucy's state this morning is due in

part to me."

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

"Well, I was anxious about the dear child in the night,

and went into her room. She was sleeping soundly, so soundly

that even my coming did not wake her. But the room was aw-

fully stuffy. There were a lot of those horrible, strong-

smelling flowers about everywhere, and she had actually a

bunch of them round her neck. I feared that the heavy odor

would be too much for the dear child in her weak state, so

I took them all away and opened a bit of the window to let

in a little fresh air. You will be pleased with her, I am

sure."

She moved off into her boudoir,where she usually break-

fasted early. As she had spoken, I watched the Professor's

face, and saw it turn ashen gray. He had been able to retain

his self-command whilst the poor lady was present, for he

knew her state and how mischievous a shock would be. He

actually smiled on her as he held open the door for her to

pass into her room. But the instant she had disappeared he

pulled me, suddenly and forcibly, into the dining room and

closed the door.

Then, for the first time in my life, I saw Van Helsing

break down. He raised his hands over his head in a sort of

mute despair, and then beat his palms together in a helpless

way. Finally he sat down on a chair, and putting his hands

before his face,began to sob, with loud, dry sobs that seem-

ed to come from the very racking of his heart.

Then he raised his arms again, as though appealing to

the whole universe. "God! God! God!" he said. "What have

we done, what has this poor thing done, that we are so sore

beset? Is there fate amongst us still, send down from the

pagan world of old, that such things must be, and in such

way? This poor mother, all unknowing, and all for the best

as she think, does such thing as lose her daughter body and

soul, and we must not tell her, we must not even warn her,

or she die, then both die. Oh, how we are beset! How are

all the powers of the devils against us!"

Suddenly he jumped to his feet. "Come," he said."come,

we must see and act. Devils or no devils, or all the devils

at once, it matters not. We must fight him all the same." He

went to the hall door for his bag,and together we went up to

Lucy's room.

Once again I drew up the blind, whilst Van Helsing went

towards the bed. This time he did not start as he looked on

the poor face with the same awful, waxen pallor as before.He

wore a look of stern sadness and infinite pity.

"As I expected," he murmured, with that hissing inspir-

ation 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 transfu-

sion of blood. I had long ago recognized the necessity, and

begun to take off my coat, but he stopped me with a warning

hand. "No!" he said. "Today you must operate. I shall pro-

vide. You are weakened already." As he spoke he took off

his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeve.

Again the operation. Again the narcotic. Again some

return of color to the ashy cheeks, and the regular breath-

ing of healthy sleep. This time I watched whilst Van Helsing

recruited himself and rested.

Presently he took an opportunity of telling Mrs. West-

enra that she must not remove anything from Lucy's room

without consulting him. That the flowers were of medicinal

value, and that the breathing of their odor was a part of

the system of cure. Then he took over the care of the case

himself, saying that he would watch this night and the next,

and would send me word when to come.

After another hour Lucy waked from her sleep, fresh

and bright and seemingly not much the worse for her ter-

rible 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 remem-

brance of long, anxious times of waiting and fearing, dark-

ness in which there was not even the pain of hope to make

present distress more poignant. And then long spells of

oblivion, and the rising back to life as a diver coming up

through a great press of water. Since, however, Dr. Van

Helsing has been with me, all this bad dreaming seems to

have passed away. The noises that used to frighten me out

of my wits, the flapping against the windows, the distant

voices which seemed so close to me, the harsh sounds that

came from I know not where and commanded me to do I know

not what, have all ceased. I go to bed now without any fear

of sleep. I do not even try to keep awake. I have grown

quite fond of the garlic, and a boxful arrives for me every

day from Haarlem. Tonight Dr. Van Helsing is going away, as

he has to be for a day in Amsterdam. But I need not be

watched. I am well enough to be left alone.

Thank God for Mother's sake, and dear Arthur's, and for

all our friends who have been so kind! I shall not even feel

the change, for last night Dr.Van Helsing slept in his chair

a lot of the time. I found him asleep twice when I awoke.

But I did not fear to go to sleep again, although the boughs

or bats or something flapped almost angrily against the

window panes.

THE PALL MALL GAZETTE 18 September.

THE ESCAPED WOLF

PERILOUS ADVENTURE OF OUR INTERVIEWER

INTERVIEW WITH THE KEEPER IN THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS

After many inquiries and almost as many refusals, and

perpetually using the words `PALL MALL GAZETTE ' as a sort

of talisman, I managed to find the keeper of the section of

the Zoological Gardens in which the wold department is in-

cluded. Thomas Bilder lives in one of the cottages in the

enclosure behind the elephant house, and was just sitting

down to his tea when I found him. Thomas and his wife are

hospitable folk, elderly, and without children, and if the

specimen I enjoyed of their hospitality be of the average

kind, their lives must be pretty comfortable. The keeper

would not enter on what he called business until the supper

was over, and we were all satisfied. Then when the table was

cleared, and he had lit his pipe, he said,

"Now, Sir, you can go on and arsk me what you want.

You'll excoose me refoosin' to talk of perfeshunal subjucts

afore meals. I gives the wolves and the jackals and the

hyenas in all our section their tea afore I begins to arsk

them questions."

"How do you mean, ask them questions?" I queried, wish-

ful to get him into a talkative humor.

" `Ittin' of them over the `ead with a pole is one way.

Scratchin' of their ears in another, when gents as is flush

wants a bit of a show-orf to their gals. I don't so much

mind the fust, the `ittin of the pole part afore I chucks in

their dinner, but I waits till they've `ad their sherry and

kawffee,so to speak,afore I tries on with the ear scratchin'.

Mind you," he added philosophically, "there's a deal of the

same nature in us as in them theer animiles. Here's you

a-comin' and arskin' of me questions about my business, and

I that grump-like that only for your bloomin' `arf-quid I'd

`a' seen you blowed fust `fore I'd answer. Not even when

you arsked me sarcastic like if I'd like you to arsk the

Superintendent if you might arsk me questions. Without

offence did I tell yer to go to `ell?"

"You did."

"An' when you said you'd report me for usin' obscene

language that was `ittin' me over the `ead. But the `arf-

quid made that all right. I weren't a-goin' to fight, so I

waited for the food, and did with my `owl as the wolves and

lions and tigers does. But, lor' love yer `art, now that the

old `ooman has stuck a chunk of her tea-cake in me, an'

rinsed me out with her bloomin' old teapot,and I've lit hup,

you may scratch my ears for all you're worth, and won't even

get a growl out of me. Drive along with your questions. I

know what yer a-comin' at, that `ere escaped wolf."

"Exactly. I want you to give me your view of it. Just

tell me how it happened, and when I know the facts I'll get

you to say what you consider was the cause of it, and how

you think the whole affair will end."

"All right, guv'nor. This `ere is about the `ole story.

That`ere wolf what we called Bersicker was one of three gray

ones that came from Norway to Jamrach's, which we bought off

him four years ago. He was a nice well-behaved wolf, that

never gave no trouble to talk of. I'm more surprised at `im

for wantin' to get out nor any other animile in the place.

But, there, you can't trust wolves no more nor women."

"Don't you mind him, Sir!" broke in Mrs. Tom, with a

cheery laugh. " `E's got mindin' the animiles so long that

blest if he ain't like a old wolf `isself! But there ain't

no `arm in `im."

"Well, Sir, it was about two hours after feedin' yes-

terday 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 ani-

miles to me and says, `Keeper, these wolves seem upset at

something.'

"`Maybe it's you,' says I, for I did not like the airs

as he give `isself. He didn't get angry, as I `oped he

would, but he smiled a kind of insolent smile, with a mouth

full of white, sharp teeth. `Oh no, they wouldn't like me,'

`e says.

" `Ow yes, they would,' says I, a-imitatin'of him.`They

always like a bone or two to clean their teeth on about tea

time, which you `as a bagful.'

"Well, it was a odd thing, but when the animiles see us

a-talkin' they lay down,and when I went over to Bersicker he

let me stroke his ears same as ever.That there man kem over,

and blessed but if he didn't put in his hand and stroke the

old wolf's ears too!

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

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

" `Are you in the business yourself?"I says, tyking off

my `at, for a man what trades in wolves, anceterer,is a good

friend to keepers.

" `Nom' says he, `not exactly in the business, but I

`ave made pets of several.' and with that he lifts his `at

as perlite as a lord, and walks away. Old Bersicker kep'

a-lookin' arter `im till `e was out of sight, and then went

and lay down in a corner and wouldn't come hout the `ole

hevening. Well, larst night, so soon as the moon was hup,

the wolves here all began a-`owling. There warn't nothing

for them to `owl at. There warn't no one near, except some

one that was evidently a-callin' a dog somewheres out back

of the gardings in the Park road. Once or twice I went out

to see that all was right, and it was, and then the `owling

stopped. Just before twelve o'clock I just took a look

round afore turnin' in, an', bust me, but when I kem oppo-

site to old Bersicker's cage I see the rails broken and

twisted about and the cage empty. And that's all I know

for certing."

"Did any one else see anything?"

"One of our gard`ners was a-comin' `ome about that time

from a `armony, when he sees a big gray dog comin' out

through the garding `edges.At least, so he says, but I don't

give much for it myself, for if he did `e never said a word

about it to his missis when `e got `ome, and it was only af-

ter the escape of the wolf was made known,and we had been up

all night a-huntin' of the Park for Bersicker,that he remem-

bered 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 laugh-

ed at the joke I could see that it had done service before,

and that the whole explanation was simply an elaborate sell.

I couldn't cope in badinage with the worthy Thomas, but I

thought I knew a surer way to his heart, so I said,"Now, Mr.

Bilder, we'll consider that first half-sovereign worked off,

and this brother of his is waiting to be claimed when you've

told me what you think will happen."

"Right y`are, Sir," he said briskly. "Ye`ll excoose me,

I know, for a-chaffin' of ye, but the old woman her winked

at me, which was as much as telling me to go on."

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

"My opinion is this. That `ere wolf is a`idin' of,

somewheres. The gard`ner wot didn't remember said he was

a-gallopin' northward faster than a horse could go, but I

don't believe him, for, yer see, Sir, wolves don't gallop

no more nor dogs does, they not bein' built that way. Wolves

is fine things in a storybook, and I dessay when they gets

in packs and does be chivyin' somethin' that's more afeared

than they is they can make a devil of a noise and chop it

up, whatever it is. But, Lor' bless you, in real life a wolf

is only a low creature, not half so clever or bold as a good

dog, and not half a quarter so much fight in `im. This one

ain't been used to fightin' or even to providin' for hisself,

and more like he's somewhere round the Park a'hidin' an'

a'shiverin' of, and if he thinks at all, wonderin' where he

is to get his breakfast from. Or maybe he's got down some

area and is in a coal cellar. My eye, won't some cook get

a rum start when she sees his green eyes a-shinin' at her

out of the dark! If he can't get food he's bound to look

for it, and mayhap he may chance to light on a butcher's

shop in time. If he doesn't, and some nursemaid goes out

walkin' or orf with a soldier, leavin' of the hinfant in the

perambulator--well, then I shouldn't be surprised if the

census is one babby the less. That's all."

I was handing him the half-sovereign, when something

came bobbing up against the window, and Mr. Bilder's face

doubled its natural length with surprise.

"God bless me!" he said. "If there ain't old Bersicker

come back by `isself!"

He went to the door and opened it, a most unnecessary

proceeding it seemed to me. I have always thought that a

wild animal never looks so well as when some obstacle of

pronounced durability is between us. A personal experience

has intensified rather than diminished that idea.

After all, however, there is nothing like custom, for

neither Bilder nor his wife thought any more of the wolf

than I should of a dog. The animal itself was a peaceful

and well-behaved as that father of all picture-wolves, Red

Riding Hood's quondam friend, whilst moving her confidence

in masquerade.

The whole scene was a unutterable mixture of comedy and

pathos. The wicked wolf that for a half a day had paralyzed

London and set all the children in town shivering in their

shoes, was there in a sort of penitent mood,and was received

and petted like a sort of vulpine prodigal son. Old Bilder

examined him all over with most tender solicitude, and when

he had finished with his penitent said,

"There, I knew the poor old chap would get into some

kind of trouble. Didn't I say it all along? Here's his

head all cut and full of broken glass. `E's been a-gettin'

over some bloomin' wall or other. It's a shyme that people

are allowed to top their walls with broken bottles. This

`ere's what comes of it. Come along, Bersicker."

He took the wolf and locked him up in a cage, with a

piece of meat that satisfied, in quantity at any rate, the

elementary conditions of the fatted calf, and went off to

report.

I came off too,to report the only exclusive information

that is given today regarding the strange escapade at the

Zoo.

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY

17 September.--I was engaged after dinner in my study

posting up my books, which, through press of other work and

the many visits to Lucy, had fallen sadly into arrear. Sud-

denly the door was burst open,and in rushed my patient, with

his face distorted with passion. I was thunderstruck, for

such a thing as a patient getting of his own accord into the

Superintendent's study is almost unknown.

Without an instant's notice he made straight at me. He

had a dinner knife in his hand,and as I saw he was dangerous,

I tried to keep the table between us. He was too quick and

too strong for me,however, for before I could get my balance

he had struck at me and cut my left wrist rather severely.

Before he could strike again, however,I got in my right

hand and he was sprawling on his back on the floor. My wrist

bled freely, and quite a little pool trickled on to the car-

pet. 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 employ-

ment 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 pro-

longed strain of Lucy's illness and its horrible phases is

telling on me. I am over excited and weary, and I need rest,

rest, rest. Happily Van Helsing has not summoned me, so I

need not forego my sleep. Tonight I could not well do with-

out it.

TELEGRAM, VAN HELSING, ANTWERP, TO SEWARD, CARFAX

(Sent to Carfax, Sussex, as no county given, delivered late

by twenty-two hours.)

17 September.--Do not fail to be at Hilllingham tonight.

If not watching all the time, frequently visit and see that

flowers are as placed, very important, do not fail. Shall be

with you as soon as possible after arrival.

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY

18 September.--Just off train to London. The arrival of

Van Helsing's telegram filled me with dismay. A whole night

lost, and I know by bitter experience what may happen in a

night. Of course it is possible that all may be well, but

what may have happened? Surely there is some horrible doom

hanging over us that every possible accident should thwart

us in all we try to do. I shall take this cylinder with me,

and then I can complete my entry on Lucy's phonograph.

MEMORANDUM LEFT BY LUCY WESTENRA

17 September, Night.--I write this and leave it to be

seen, so that no one may by any chance get into trouble

through me. This is an exact record of what took place to-

night. I feel I am dying of weakness, and have barely

strength to write, but it must be done if I die in the doing.

I went to bed as usual, taking care that the flowers

were placed as Dr. Van Helsing directed, and soon fell

asleep.

I was waked by the flapping at the window, which had

begun after that sleep-walking on the cliff at Whitby when

Mina saved me, and which now I know so well. I was not

afraid, but I did wish that Dr. Seward was in the next room,

as Dr. Van Helsing said he would be, so that I might have

called him. I tried to sleep, but I could not. Then there

came to me the old fear of sleep, and I determined to keep

awake. Perversely sleep would try to come then when I did

not want it. So, as I feared to be alone, I opened my door

and called out. "Is there anybody there?" There was no

answer. I was afraid to wake mother, and so closed my door

again. Then outside in the shrubbery I heard a sort of howl

like a dog's, but more fierce and deeper. I went to the win-

dow and looked out, but could see nothing, except a big bat,

which had evidently been buffeting its wings against the

window. So I went back to bed again, but determined not to

go to sleep. Presently the door opened,and mother looked in.

Seeing by my moving that I was not asleep, she came in and

sat by me. She said to me even more sweetly and softly than

her wont,

"I was uneasy about you, darling, and came in to see

that you were all right."

I feared she might catch cold sitting there, and asked

her to come in and sleep with me, so she came into bed, and

lay down beside me. She did not take off her dressing gown,

for she said she would only stay a while and then go back

to her own bed. As she lay there in my arms, and I in hers

the flapping and buffeting came to the window again. She

was startled and a little frightened, and cried out, "What

is that?"

I tried to pacify her, and at last succeeded, and she

lay quiet. But I could hear her poor dear heart still beat-

ing terribly. After a while there was the howl again out in

the shrubbery, and shortly after there was a crash at the

window, and a lot of broken glass was hurled on the floor.

The window blind blew back with the wind that rushed in, and

in the aperture of the broken panes there was the head of a

great, gaunt gray wolf.

Mother cried out in a fright, and struggled up into a

sitting posture, and clutched wildly at anything that would

help her. Amongst other things, she clutched the wreath of

flowers that Dr. Van Helsing insisted on my wearing round

my neck, and tore it away from me. For a second or two she

sat up, pointing at the wolf, and there was a strange and

horrible gurgling in her throat. Then she fell over, as if

struck with lightning, and her head hit my forehead and made

me dizzy for a moment or two.

The room and all round seemed to spin round. I kept my

eyes fixed on the window, but the wolf drew his head back,

and a whole myriad of little specks seems to come blowing

in through the broken window, and wheeling and circling

round like the pillar of dust that travellers describe when

there is a simoon in the desert. I tried to stir, but there

was some spell upon me, and dear Mother's poor body, which

seemed to grow cold already, for her dear heart had ceased

to beat, weighed me down, and I remembered no more for a

while.

The time did not seem long, but very, very awful, till

I recovered consciousness again. Somewhere near, a passing

bell was tolling. The dogs all round the neighborhood were

howling, and in our shrubbery, seemingly just outside, a

nightingale was singing. I was dazed and stupid with pain

and terror and weakness, but the sound of the nightingale

seemed like the voice of my dead mother come back to comfort

me. The sounds seemed to have awakened the maids, too, for

I could hear their bare feet pattering outside my door. I

called to them, and they came in, and when they saw what had

happened, and what it was that lay over me on the bed, they

screamed out. The wind rushed in through the broken window,

and the door slammed to. They lifted off the body of my

dear mother, and laid her, covered up with a sheet, on the

bed after I had got up. They were all so frightened and

nervous that I directed them to go to the dining room and

each have a glass of wine. The door flew open for an instant

and closed again. The maids shrieked, and then went in a

body to the dining room, and I laid what flowers I had on

my dear mother's breast. When they were there I remembered

what Dr. Van Helsing had told me, but I didn't like to re-

move 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 de-

canter of sherry was on the table half full, but there was

a queer, acrid smell about. I was suspicious, and examined

the decanter. It smelt of laudanum, and looking on the

sideboard,I found that the bottle which Mother's doctor uses

for her--oh! did use--was empty. What am I to do? What am I

to do? I am back in the room with Mother.I cannot leave her,

and I am alone, save for the sleeping servants, whom some

one has drugged. Alone with the dead! I dare not go out, for

I can hear the low howl of the wolf through the broken

window.

The air seems full of specks, floating and circling in

the draught from the window, and the lights burn blue and

dim. What am I to do? God shield me from harm this night!

I shall hide this paper in my breast, where they shall find

it when they come to lay me out. My dear mother gone! It

is time that I go too. Goodbye, dear Arthur, if I should

not survive this night. God keep you, dear, and God help me!

CHAPTER 12

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY

18 September.--I drove at once to Hillingham and ar-

rived early. Keeping my cab at the gate, I went up the

avenue alone. I knocked gently and rang as quietly as pos-

sible, for I feared to disturb Lucy or her mother, and hoped

to only bring a servant to the door. After a while, finding

no response, I knocked and rang again, still no answer. I

cursed the laziness of the servants that they should lie

abed at such an hour,for it was now ten o'clock, and so rang

and knocked again, but more impatiently, but still without

response. Hitherto I had blamed only the servants, but now

a terrible fear began to assail me. Was this desolation but

another link in the chain of doom which seemed drawing tight

round us? Was it indeed a house of death to which I had come,

too late? I know that minutes, even seconds of delay, might

mean hours of danger to Lucy, if she had had again one of

those frightful relapses, and I went round the house to try

if I could find by chance an entry anywhere.

I could find no means of ingress. Every window and door

was fastened and locked, and I returned baffled to the porch.

As I did so, I heard the rapid pit-pat of a swiftly driven

horse's feet. They stopped at the gate, and a few seconds

later I met Van Helsing running up the avenue. When he saw

me, he gasped out, "Then it was you, and just arrived. How

is she? Are we too late? Did you not get my telegram?"

I answered as quickly and coherently as I could that I

had only got his telegram early in the morning, and had not

a minute in coming here, and that I could not make any one

in the house hear me. He paused and raised his hat as he

said solemnly, "Then I fear we are too late. God's will be

done!"

With his usual recuperative energy, he went on, "Come.

If there be no way open to get in, we must make one. Time

is all in all to us now."

We went round to the back of the house, where there was

a kitchen window. The Professor took a small surgical saw

from his case, and handing it to me,pointed to the iron bars

which guarded the window. I attacked them at once and had

very soon cut through three of them. Then with a long, thin

knife we pushed back the fastening of the sashes and opened

the window. I helped the Professor in, and followed him.

There was no one in the kitchen or in the servants' rooms,

which were close at hand. We tried all the rooms as we went

along, and in the dining room, dimly lit by rays of light

through the shutters, found four servant women lying on the

floor. There was no need to think them dead, for their ster-

torous breathing and the acrid smell of laudanum in the room

left no doubt as to their condition.

Van Helsing and I looked at each other, and as we moved

away he said, "We can attend to them later."Then we ascended

to Lucy's room. For an instant or two we paused at the door

to listen, but there was no sound that we could hear. With

white faces and trembling hands, we opened the door gently,

and entered the room.

How shall I describe what we saw? On the bed lay two

women, Lucy and her mother. The latter lay farthest in, and

she was covered with a white sheet, the edge of which had

been blown back by the drought through the broken window,

showing the drawn, white, face, with a look of terror fixed

upon it. By her side lay Lucy, with face white and still

more drawn. The flowers which had been round her neck we

found upon her mother's bosom, and her throat was bare,show-

ing the two little wounds which we had noticed before, but

looking horribly white and mangled. Without a word the Pro-

fessor 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 de-

canter 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 lift-

ed her on the sofa and let her sleep.

The others were dazed at first, but as remembrance came

back to them they cried and sobbed in a hysterical manner. I

was stern with them, however, and would not let them talk. I

told them that one life was bad enough to lose, and if they

delayed they would sacrifice Miss Lucy. So, sobbing and cry-

ing they went about their way, half clad as they were, and

prepared fire and water. Fortunately, the kitchen and boiler

fires were still alive, and there was no lack of hot water.

We got a bath and carried Lucy out as she was and placed

her in it. Whilst we were busy chafing her limbs there was a

knock at the hall door. One of the maids ran off, hurried

on some more clothes, and opened it. Then she returned and

whispered to us that there was a gentleman who had come with

a message from Mr. Holmwood. I bade her simply tell him

that he must wait, for we could see no one now. She went

away with the message, and, engrossed with our work, I clean

forgot all about him.

I never saw in all my experience the Professor work in

such deadly earnest. I knew, as he knew, that it was a

stand-up fight with death, and in a pause told him so. He

answered me in a way that I did not understand, but with the

sternest look that his face could wear.

"If that were all, I would stop here where we are now,

and let her fade away into peace, for I see no light in life

over her horizon." He went on with his work with, if poss-

ible, renewed and more frenzied vigour.

Presently we both began to be conscious that the heat

was beginning to be of some effect. Lucy's heart beat a

trifle more audibly to the stethoscope, and her lungs had a

perceptible movement. Van Helsing's face almost beamed, and

as we lifted her from the bath and rolled her in a hot sheet

to dry her he said to me, "The first gain is ours! Check to

the King!"

We took Lucy into another room, which had by now been

prepared, and laid her in bed and forced a few drops of

brandy down her throat. I noticed that Van Helsing tied a

soft silk handkerchief round her throat. She was still

unconscious, and was quite as bad as, if not worse than, we

had ever seen her.

Van Helsing called in one of the women, and told her to

stay with her and not to take her eyes off her till we re-

turned, 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 out-

stretched hands.

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

"I guess Art is the cause."

He handed me a telegram.-- `Have not heard from Seward

for three days, and am terribly anxious.Cannot leave. Father

still in same condition. Send me word how Lucy is. Do not

delay.--Holmwood.'

"I think I came just in the nick of time. You know you

have only to tell me what to do."

Van Helsing strode forward, and took his hand, looking

him straight in the eyes as he said, "A brave man's blood is

the best thing on this earth when a woman is in trouble.

You're a man and no mistake. Well, the devil may work

against us for all he's worth, but God sends us men when we

want them."

Once again we went through that ghastly operation. I

have not the heart to go through with the details. Lucy had

got a terrible shock and it told on her more than before,for

though plenty of blood went into her veins, her body did not

respond to the treatment as well as on the other occasions.

Her struggle back into life was something frightful to see

and hear. However, the action of both heart and lungs im-

proved, and Van Helsing made a sub-cutaneous injection of

morphia, as before, and with good effect. Her faint became

a profound slumber. The Professor watched whilst I went

downstairs with Quincey Morris, and sent one of the maids

to pay off one of the cabmen who were waiting.

I left Quincey lying down after having a glass of wine,

and told the cook to get ready a good breakfast. Then a

thought struck me, and I went back to the room where Lucy

now was. When I came softly in, I found Van Helsing with a

sheet or two of note paper in his hand. He had evidently

read it, and was thinking it over as he sat with his hand to

his brow. There was a look of grim satisfaction in his face,

as of one who has had a doubt solved. He handed me the paper

saying only, "It dropped from Lucy's breast when we carried

her to the bath."

When I had read it, I stook looking at the Professor,

and after a pause asked him, "In God's name, what does it

all mean? Was she, or is she, mad, or what sort of horri-

ble danger is it?" I was so bewildered that I did not know

what to say more. Van Helsing put out his hand and took

the paper, saying,

"Do not trouble about it now. Forget if for the pre-

sent. You shall know and understand it all in good time, but

it will be later. And now what is it that you came to me to

say?" This brought me back to fact, and I was all myself

again.

"I came to speak about the certificate of death.If we do

not act properly and wisely, there may be an inquest, and

that paper would have to be produced. I am in hopes that we

need have no inquest, for if we had it would surely kill poor

Lucy, if nothing else did. I know, and you know, and the

other doctor who attended her knows, that Mrs. Westenra had

disease of the heart, and we can certify that she died of it.

Let us fill up the certificate at once, and I shall take it

myself to the registrar and go on to the undertaker."

"Good, oh my friend John! Well thought of! Truly Miss

Lucy, if she be sad in the foes that beset her, is at least

happy in the friends thatlove her. One, two, three, all open

their veins for her, besides one old man. Ah, yes, I know,

friend John. I am not blind! I love you all the more for it!

Now go."

In the hall I met Quincey Morris, with a telegram for

Arthur telling him that Mrs. Westenra was dead, that Lucy

also had been ill, but was now going on better, and that Van

Helsing and I were with her. I told him where I was going,

and he hurried me out, but as I was going said,

"When you come back, Jack, may I have two words with you

all to ourselves?" I nodded in reply and went out.I found no

difficulty about the registration,and arranged with the local

undertaker to come up in the evening to measure for the

coffin and to make arrangements.

When I got back Quincey was waiting for me. I told him

I would see him as soon as I knew about Lucy, and went up to

her room. She was still sleeping, and the Professor seemingly

had not moved from his seat at her side. From his putting his

finger to his lips, I gathered that he expected her to wake

before long and was afraid of fore-stalling nature. So I went

down to Quincey and took him into the breakfast room, where

the blinds were not drawn down, and which was a little more

cheerful, or rather less cheerless, than the other rooms.

When we were alone, he said to me, "Jack Seward, I don't

want to shove myself in anywhere where I've no right to be,

but this is no ordinary case. You know I loved that girl and

wanted to marry her, but although that's all past and gone, I

can't help feeling anxious about her all the same. What is

it that's wrong with her? The Dutchman, and a fine old fellow

is is, I can see that, said that time you two came into the

room, that you must have another transfusion of blood, and

that both you and he were exhausted. Now I know well that you

medical men speak in camera, and that a man must not expect

to know what they consult about in private. But this is no

common matter, and whatever it is, I have done my part.Is not

that so?"

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

"I take it that both you and Van Helsing had done al-

ready what I did today. Is not that so?"

"That's so."

"And I guess Art was in it too. When I saw him four

days ago down at his own place he looked queer. I have not

seen anything pulled down so quick since I was on the Pampas

and had a mare that I was fond of go to grass all in a night.

One of those big bats that they call vampires had got at her

in the night,and what with his gorge and the vein left open,

there wasn't enough blood in her to let her stand up, and I

had to put a bullet through her as she lay. Jack, if you

may tell me without betraying confidence, Arthur was the

first, is not that so?"

As he spoke the poor fellow looked terribly anxious. He

was in a torture of suspense regarding the woman he loved,

and his utter ignorance of the terrible mystery which seem-

ed 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 calcula-

tions 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 move-

ment was to feel in her breast, and to my surprise, produced

the paper which Van Helsing had given me to read. The care-

ful Professor had replaced it where it had come from, lest

on waking she should be alarmed. Her eyes then lit on Van

Helsing and on me too, and gladdened. Then she looked round

the room, and seeing where she was, shuddered. She gave a

loud cry, and put her poor thin hands before her pale face.

We both understood what was meant, that she had real-

ized 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 mater-

ial were still in her hands. Finally she lifted her hands

and opened them as though scattering the fragments. Van

Helsing seemed surprised, and his brows gathered as if in

thought, but he said nothing.

19 September.--All last night she slept fitfully, being

always afraid to sleep, and something weaker when she woke

from it. The Professor and I took in turns to watch, and we

never left her for a moment unattended. Quincey Morris said

nothing about his intention, but I knew that all night long

he patrolled round and round the house.

When the day came, its searching light showed the rav-

ages 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 sleep-

ing and waking. Whilst asleep she looked stronger, although

more haggard, and her breathing was softer. Her open mouth

showed the pale gums drawn back from the teeth, which looked

positively longer and sharper than usual. When she woke the

softness of her eyes evidently changed the expression, for

she looked her own self, although a dying one. In the after-

noon she asked for Arthur, and we telegraphed for him.Quinc-

ey went off to meet him at the station.

When he arrived it was nearly six o'clock, and the sun

was setting full and warm, and the red light streamed in

through the window and gave more color to the pale cheeks.

When he saw her, Arthur was simply choking with emotion, and

none of us could speak.In the hours that had passed,the fits

of sleep, or the comatose condition that passed for it, had

grown more frequent,so that the pauses when conversation was

possible were shortened. Arthur's presence, however, seemed

to act as a stimulant.She rallied a little, and spoke to him

more brightly than she had done since we arrived. He too

pulled himself together, and spoke as cheerily as he could,

so that the best was made of everything.

It is now nearly one o'clock, and he and Van Helsing

are sitting with her. I am to relieve them in a quarter

of an hour,and I am entering this on Lucy's phonograph.Until

six o'clock they are to try to rest. I fear that tomorrow

will end our watching, for the shock has been too great. The

poor child cannot rally. God help us all.

LETTER MINA HARKER TO LUCY WESTENRA

(Unopened by her)

17 September

My dearest Lucy,

"It seems an age since I heard from you,or indeed since

I wrote. You will pardon me, I know, for all my faults when

you have read all my budget of news. Well, I got my hus-

band 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 prosper-

ity, and may every blessing attend you both. I know you

both from children, and have, with love and pride, seen you

grow up. Now I want you to make your home here with me. I

have left to me neither chick nor child.All are gone, and in

my will I have left you everything.' I cried, Lucy dear, as

Jonathan and the old man clasped hands. Our evening was a

very, very happy one.

"So here we are, installed in this beautiful old house,

and from both my bedroom and the drawing room I can see the

great elms of the cathedral close, with their great black

stems standing out against the old yellow stone of the cath-

edral, and I can hear the rooks overhead cawing and cawing

and chattering and chattering and gossiping all day, after

the manner of rooks--and humans. I am busy, I need not tell

you, arranging things and housekeeping. Jonathan and Mr.

Hawkins are busy all day,for now that Jonathan is a partner,

Mr. Hawkins wants to tell him all about the clients.

"How is your dear mother getting on? I wish I could

run up to town for a day or two to see you, dear, but I,dare

not go yet, with so much on my shoulders, and Jonathan wants

looking after still.He is beginning to put some flesh on his

bones again,but he was terribly weakened by the long illness.

Even now he sometimes starts out of his sleep in a sudden

way and awakes all trembling until I can coax him back to

his usual placidity.However, thank God, these occasions grow

less frequent as the days go on, and they will in time pass

away altogether, I trust. And now I have told you my news,

let me ask yours. When are you to be married, and where, and

who is to perform the ceremony,and what are you to wear, and

is it to be a public or private wedding? Tell me all about

it, dear, tell me all about everything, for there is nothing

which interests you which will not be dear to me. Jonathan

asks me to send his `respectful duty', but I do not think

that is good enough from the junior partner of the important

firm Hawkins & Harker. And so, as you love me, and he loves

me,and I love you with all the moods and tenses of the verb,

I send you simply his `love' instead. Goodbye, my dearest

Lucy, and blessings on you."

Yours,

Mina Harker

REPORT FROM PATRICK HENNESSEY, MD, MRCSLK, QCPI, ETC, ETC,

TO JOHN SEWARD, MD

20 September

My dear Sir:

"In accordance with your wishes, I enclose report of

the conditions of everything left in my charge. With regard

to patient, Renfield, there is more to say. He has had an-

other outbreak, which might have had a dreadful ending, but

which, as it fortunately happened, was unattended with any

unhappy results.This afternoon a carrier's cart with two men

made a call at the empty house whose grounds abut on ours,

the house to which, you will remember, the patient twice ran

away. The men stopped at our gate to ask the porter their

way, as they were strangers.

"I was myself looking out of the study window, having a

smoke after dinner, and saw one of them come up to the house.

As he passed the window of Renfield's room, the patient be-

gan to rate him from within, and called him all the foul

names he could lay his tongue to. The man, who seemed a de-

cent fellow enough,contented himself by telling him to `shut

up for a foul-mouthed beggar',whereon our man accused him of

robbing him and wanting to murder him and said that he would

hinder him if he were to swing for it. I opened the window

and signed to the man not to notice, so he contented himself

after looking the place over and making up his mind as to

what kind of place he had got to by saying, `Lor' bless yer,

sir, I wouldn't mind what was said to me in a bloomin' mad-

house. 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 follow-

ed 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 fore-

heads, and were flushed in the face, as if with violent ex-

ercise. Before I could get up to him, the patient rushed at

them, and pulling one of them off the cart, began to knock

his head against the ground. If I had not seized him just

at the moment, I believe he would have killed the man there

and then. The other fellow jumped down and struck him over

the head with the butt end of his heavy whip. It was a

horrible blow, but he did not seem to mind it, but seized

him also, and struggled with the three of us, pulling us to

and fro as if we were kittens. You know I am no lightweight,

and the others were both burly men. At first he was silent

in his fighting, but as we began to master him, and the at-

tendants 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 pen-

alties of the law on us. Their threats were, however,

mingled with some sort of indirect apology for the defeat

of the two of them by a feeble madman. They said that if

it had not been for the way their strength had been spent

in carrying and raising the heavy boxes to the cart they

would have made short work of him. They gave as another

reason for their defeat the extraordinary state of drouth

to which they had been reduced by the dusty nature of

their occupation and the reprehensible distance from the

scene of their labors of any place of public entertainment.

I quite understood their drift, and after a stiff glass of

strong grog, or rather more of the same, and with each a

sovereign in hand, they made light of the attack, and swore

that they would encounter a worse madman any day for the

pleasure of meeting so `bloomin' good a bloke' as your

correspondent. I took their names and addresses, in case

they might be needed. They are as follows: Jack Smollet,

of Dudding's Rents, King George's Road, Great Walworth, and

Thomas Snelling, Peter Farley's Row, Guide Court, Bethnal

Green. They are both in the employment of Harris & Sons,

Moving and Shipment Company, Orange Master's Yard, Soho.

"I shall report to you any matter of interest occurr-

ing 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. Jon-

athan is greatly distressed. It is not only that he feels

sorrow, deep sorrow,for the dear,good man who has befriended

him all his life,and now at the end has treated him like his

own son and left him a fortune which to people of our modest

bringing up is wealth beyond the dream of avarice, but Jona-

than feels it on another account. He says the amount of re-

sponsibility which it puts upon him makes him nervous. He

begins to doubt himself.I try to cheer him up, and my belief

in him helps him to have a belief in himself. But it is here

that the grave shock that he experienced tells upon him the

most. Oh, it is too hard that a sweet, simple, noble, strong

nature such as his, a nature which enabled him by our dear,

good friend's aid to rise from clerk to master in a few

years, should be so injured that the very essence of its

strength is gone. Forgive me, dear, if I worry you with my

troubles in the midst of your own happiness, but Lucy dear,

I must tell someone,for the strain of keeping up a brave and

cheerful appearance to Jonathan tries me, and I have no one

here that I can confide in. I dread coming up to London, as

we must do that day after tomorrow, for poor Mr.Hawkins left

in his will that he was to be buried in the grave with his

father. As there are no relations at all, Jonathan will have

to be chief mourner. I shall try to run over to see you,

dearest,if only for a few minutes. Forgive me for troubling

you. With all blessings,

"Your loving

Mina Harker"

DR. SEWARD' DIARY

20 September.--Only resolution and habit can let me

make an entry tonight. I am too miserable, too low spirited,

too sick of the world and all in it, including life itself,

that I would not care if I heard this moment the flapping of

the wings of the angel of death. And he has been flapping

those grim wings to some purpose of late, Lucy's mother and

Arthur's father, and now . . .Let me get on with my work.

I duly relieved Van Helsing in his watch over Lucy. We

wanted Arthur to go to rest also, but he refused at first.

It was only when I told him that we should want him to help

us during the day, and that we must not all break down for

want of rest, lest Lucy should suffer, that he agreed to go.

Van Helsing was very kind to him. "Come, my child," he

said. "Come with me. You are sick and weak, and have had

much sorrow and much mental pain,as well as that tax on your

strength that we know of. You must not be alone, for to be

alone is to be full of fears and alarms. Come to the drawing

room, where there is a big fire, and there are two sofas.You

shall lie on one, and I on the other, and our sympathy will

be comfort to each other, even though we do not speak, and

even if we sleep."

Arthur went off with him, casting back a longing look

on Lucy's face, which lay in her pillow, almost whiter than

the lawn. She lay quite still, and I looked around the room

to see that all was as it should be. I could see that the

Professor had carried out in this room, as in the other, his

purpose of using the garlic. The whole of the window sashes

reeked with it, and round Lucy's neck, over the silk hand-

kerchief which Van Helsing made her keep on, was a rough

chaplet of the same odorous flowers.

Lucy was breathing somewhat stertorously, and her face

was at its worst, for the open mouth showed the pale gums.

Her teeth, in the dim, uncertain light, seemed longer and

sharper than they had been in the morning. In particular,

by some trick of the light, the canine teeth looked longer

and sharper than the rest.

I sat down beside her, and presently she moved uneas-

ily. At the same moment there came a sort of dull flapping

or buffeting at the window. I went over to it softly, and

peeped out by the corner of the blind. There was a full

moonlight,and I could see that the noise was made by a great

bat, which wheeled around, doubtless attracted by the light,

although so dim, and every now and again struck the window

with its wings. When I came back to my seat, I found that

Lucy had moved slightly,and had torn away the garlic flowers

from her throat. I replaced them as well as I could, and sat

watching her.

Presently she woke, and I gave her food, as Van Helsing

had prescribed. She took but a little, and that languidly.

There did not seem to be with her now the unconscious strug-

gle for life and strength that had hitherto so marked her

illness. It struck me as curious that the moment she became

conscious she pressed the garlic flowers close to her. It

was certainly odd that whenever she got into that lethargic

state, with the stertorous breathing, she put the flowers

from her, but that when she waked she clutched them close,

There was no possibility of making amy mistake about this,

for in the long hours that followed, she had many spells

of sleeping and waking and repeated both actions many times.

At six o'clock Van Helsing came to relieve me. Arthur

had then fallen into a doze, and he mercifully let him sleep

on. When he saw Lucy's face I could hear the sissing indraw

of breath, and he said to me in a sharp whisper."Draw up the

blind. I want light!" Then he bent down, and, with his face

almost touching Lucy's, examined her carefully. He removed

the flowers and lifted the silk handkerchief from her throat.

As he did so he started back and I could hear his ejacula-

tion, "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 dis-

appeared.

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 re-

mained, 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 Hel-

sing 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 in-

stant 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 hurl-

ed him almost across the room.

"Not on your life!" he said, "not for your living soul

and hers!" And he stood between them like a lion at bay.

Arthur was so taken aback that he did not for a moment

know what to do or say, and before any impulse of violence

could seize him he realized the place and the occasion, and

stood silent, waiting.

I kept my eyes fixed on Lucy, as did Van Helsing, and

we saw a spasm as of rage flit like a shadow over her face.

The sharp teeth clamped together. Then her eyes closed, and

she breathed heavily.

Very shortly after she opened her eyes in all their

softness, and putting out her poor, pale, thin hand, took

Van Helsing's great brown one, drawing it close to her, she

kissed it. "My true friend," she said, in a faint voice,but

with untellable pathos, "My true friend, and his! Oh, guard

him, and give me peace!"

"I swear it!" he said solemnly, kneeling beside her

and holding up his hand, as one who registers an oath. Then

he turned to Arthur, and said to him, "Come, my child, take

her hand in yours, and kiss her on the forehead, and only

once."

Their eyes met instead of their lips, and so they part-

ed. Lucy's eyes closed, and Van Helsing, who had been watch-

ing 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 draw-

ing room, where he sat down, and covered his face with his

hands, sobbing in a way that nearly broke me down to see.

I went back to the room, and found Van Helsing looking

at poor Lucy, and his face was sterner than eve. Some change

had come over her body. Death had given back part of her

beauty, for her brow and cheeks had recovered some of their

flowing lines. Even the lips had lost their deadly pallor.

It was as if the blood, no longer needed for the working of

the heart, had gone to make the harshness of death as little

rude as might be.

"We thought her dying whilst she slept,

And sleeping when she died."

I stood beside Van Helsing, and said, "Ah well, poor

girl, there is peace for her at last. It is the end!"

He turned to me, and said with grave solemnity,"Not so,

alas! Not so. It is only the beginning!"

When I asked him what he meant, he only shook his head

and answered, "We can do nothing as yet. Wait and see."

CHAPTER 13

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY--cont.

The funeral was arranged for the next succeeding day,

so that Lucy and her mother might be buried together. I

attended to all the ghastly formalities, and the urbane

undertaker proved that his staff was afflicted, or blessed,

with something of his own obsequious suavity. Even the

woman who performed the last offices for the dead remarked

to me, in a confidential, brother-professional way, when

she had come out from the death chamber,

"She makes a very beautiful corpse, sir. It's quite

a privilege to attend on her. It's not too much to say that

she will do credit to our establishment!"

I noticed that Van Helsing never kept far away. This

was possible from the disordered state of things in the

household. There were no relatives at hand, and as Arthur

had to be back the next day to attend at his father's fun-

eral, 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 sol-

icitor and had written to him. All the poor lady's papers

were in order. Explicit directions regarding the place of

burial were given. I had hardly sealed the letter, when, to

my surprise, Van Helsing walked into the room, saying,

"Can I help you friend John? I am free, and if I may,

my service is to you."

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

To which he replied, "I did not look for any specific

thing. I only hoped to find, and find I have, all that there

was, only some letters and a few memoranda, and a diary new

begun. But I have them here, and we shall for the present

say nothing of them. I shall see that poor lad tomorrow

evening, and, with his sanction, I shall use some."

When we had finished the work in hand, he said to me,

"And now, friend John, I think we may to bed. We want sleep,

both you and I, and rest to recuperate. Tomorrow we shall

have much to do, but for the tonight there is no need of us.

Alas!"

Before turning in we went to look at poor Lucy. The

undertaker had certainly done his work well, for the room

was turned into a small chapelle ardente. There was a wild-

erness of beautiful white flowers, and death was made as

little repulsive as might be. The end of the winding sheet

was laid over the face. When the Professor bent over and

turned it gently back, we both started at the beauty before

us. The tall wax candles showing a sufficient light to note

it well. All Lucy's loveliness had come back to her in death,

and the hours that had passed, instead of leaving traces of

`decay's effacing fingers', had but restored the beauty of

life, till positively I could not believe my eyes that I was

looking at a corpse.

The Professor looked sternly grave. He had not loved

her as I had, and there was no need for tears in his eyes.

He said to me, "Remain till I return," and left the room. He

came back with a handful of wild garlic from the box waiting

in the hall, but which had not been opened, and placed the

flowers amongst the others on and around the bed. Then he

took from his neck, inside his collar, a little gold cruci-

fix, 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 premoni-

tory tap at the door, he entered, and at once began to speak.

"Tomorrow I want you to bring me, before night, a set

of post-mortem knives."

"Must we make an autopsy?" I asked.

"Yes and no. I want to operate, but not what you think.

Let me tell you now, but not a word to another. I want to

cut off her head and take out her heart. Ah! You a surgeon,

and so shocked! You, whom I have seen with no tremble of

hand or heart, do operations of life and death that make the

rest shudder. Oh, but I must not forget, my dear friend

John, that you loved her, and I have not forgotten it for is

I that shall operate, and you must not help. I would like to

do it tonight, but for Arthur I must not. He will be free

after his father's funeral tomorrow, and he will want to see

her, to see it. Then, when she is coffined ready for the

next day, you and I shall come when all sleep. We shall

unscrew the coffin lid, and shall do our operation, and then

replace all, so that none know, save we alone."

"But why do it at all? The girl is dead. Why mutilate

her poor body without need? And if there is no necessity for

a post-mortem and nothing to gain by it, no good to her, to

us, to science, to human knowledge, why do it? Without such

it is monstrous."

For answer he put his hand on my shoulder, and said,

with infinite tenderness, "Friend John, I pity your poor

bleeding heart, and I love you the more because it does so

bleed. If I could, I would take on myself the burden that

you do bear. But there are things that you know not, but

that you shall know, and bless me for knowing, though they

are not pleasant things. John, my child, you have been my

friend now many years, and yet did you ever know me to do

any without good cause? I may err, I am but man, but I be-

lieve in all I do. Was it not for these causes that you

send for me when the great trouble came? Yes! Were you not

amazed, nay horrified, when I would not let Arthur kiss his

love, though she was dying, and snatched him away by all my

strength? Yes! And yet you saw how she thanked me,with her

so beautiful dying eyes, her voice, too, so weak, and she

kiss my rough old hand and bless me? Yes! And did you not

hear me swear promise to her, that so she closed her eyes

grateful? Yes!

"Well, I have good reason now for all I want to do. You

have for many years trust me.You have believe me weeks past,

when there be things so strange that you might have well

doubt. Believe me yet a little, friend John. If you trust me

not, then I must tell what I think, and that is not perhaps

well. And if I work, as work I shall, no matter trust or no

trust,without my friend trust in me, I work with heavy heart

and feel, oh so lonely when I want all help and courage that

may be!" He paused a moment and went on solemnly, "Friend

John, there are strange and terrible days before us. Let us

not be two, but one, that so we work to a good end. Will you

not have faith in me?"

I took his hand, and promised him. I held my door open

as he went away,and watched him go to his room and close the

door. As I stood without moving, I saw one of the maids pass

silently along the passage, she had her back to me, so did

not see me, and go into the room where Lucy lay. The sight

touched me. Devotion is so rare, and we are so grateful to

those who show it unasked to those we love. Here was a poor

girl putting aside the terrors which she naturally had of

death to go watch alone by the bier of the mistress whom she

loved, so that the poor clay might not be lonely till laid

to eternal rest.

I must have slept long and soundly, for it was broad

daylight when Van Helsing waked me by coming into my room.

He came over to my bedside and said, "You need not trouble

about the knives. We shall not do it."

"Why not?" I asked. For his solemnity of the night

before had greatly impressed me.

"Because," he said sternly, "it is too late, or too

early. See!" Here he held up the little golden crucifix.

"This was stolen in the night."

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

"Because I get it back from the worthless wretch who

stole it, from the woman who robbed the dead and the living.

Her punishment will surely come, but not through me. She

knew not altogether what she did, and thus unknowing, she

only stole. Now we must wait." He went away on the word,

leaving me with a new mystery to think of, a new puzzle to

grapple with.

The forenoon was a dreary time, but at noon the solici-

tor came, Mr.Marquand, of Wholeman, Sons, Marquand & Lidder-

dale. He was very genial and very appreciative of what we

had done, and took off our hands all cares as to details.

During lunch he told us that Mrs. Westenra had for some time

expected sudden death from her heart,and had put her affairs

in absolute order. He informed us that, with the exception

of a certain entailed property of Lucy's father which now,

in default of direct issue, went back to a distant branch of

the family, the whole estate, real and personal, was left

absolutely to Arthur Holmwood. When he had told us so much

he went on,

"Frankly we did our best to prevent such a testamentary

disposition,and pointed out certain contingencies that might

leave her daughter either penniless or not so free as she

should be to act regarding a matrimonial alliance. Indeed,

we pressed the matter so far that we almost came into colli-

sion, 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 senti-

mental 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 under-

taker, 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 adher-

ed 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, say-

ing 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 tight-

ening of an arm over the shoulder, a sob in unison, are ex-

pressions 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 seem-

ed to be enhancing her loveliness. It frightened and amazed

me somewhat. And as for Arthur, he fell to trembling, and

finally was shaken with doubt as with an ague.At last, after

a long pause, he said to me in a faint whisper,"Jack, is she

really dead?"

I assured him sadly that it was so, and went on to sug-

gest, for I felt that such a horrible doubt should not have

life for a moment longer than I could help, that it often

happened that after death faces become softened and even

resolved into their youthful beauty,that this was especially

so when death had been preceded by any acute or prolonged

suffering. I seemed to quite do away with any doubt, and af-

ter kneeling beside the couch for a while and looking at her

lovingly and long, he turned aside.I told him that that must

be goodbye, as the coffin had to be prepared,so he went back

and took her dead hand in his and kissed it, and bent over

and kissed her forehead. He came away, fondly looking back

over his shoulder at her as he came.

I left him in the drawing room, and told Van Helsing

that he had said goodbye, so the latter went to the kitchen

to tell the undertaker's men to proceed with the prepera-

tions and to screw up the coffin. When he came out of the

room again I told him of Arthur's question, and he replied,

"I am not surprised.Just now I doubted for a moment myself!"

We all dined together, and I could see that poor Art

was trying to make the best of things. Van Helsing had been

silent all dinner time, but when we had lit our cigars he

said, "Lord . . ., but Arthur interrupted him.

"No, no, not that, for God's sake! Not yet at any rate.

Forgive me, sir. I did not mean to speak offensively. It is

only because my loss is so recent."

The Professor answered very sweetly, "I only used that

name because I was in doubt. I must not call you `Mr.' and

I have grown to love you, yes, my dear boy, to love you, as

Arthur."

Arthur held out his hand, and took the old man's warmly.

"Call me what you will," he said. "I hope I may always have

the title of a friend. And let me say that I am at a loss

for words to thank you for your goodness to my poor dear."

He paused a moment, and went on, "I know that she understood

your goodness even better than I do. And if I was rude or in

any way wanting at that time you acted so, you remember,"--

the Professor nodded--"You must forgive me."

He answered with a grave kindness, "I know it was hard

for you to quite trust me then, for to trust such violence

needs to understand, and I take it that you do not, that you

cannot, trust me now, for you do not yet understand. And

there may be more times when I shall want you to trust when

you cannot, and may not, and must not yet understand.But the

time will come when your trust shall be whole and complete

in me, and when you shall understand as though the sunlight

himself shone through. Then you shall bless me from first to

last for your own sake, and for the sake of others, and for

her dear sake to whom I swore to protect."

"And indeed, indeed, sir," said Arthur warmly. "I shall

in all ways trust you. I know and believe you have a very

noble heart, and you are Jack's friend, and you were hers.

You shall do what you like."

The Professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as

though about to speak, and finally said, "May I ask you

something now?"

"Certainly."

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

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

"And as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with

it as you will. I want you to give me permission to read all

Miss Lucy's papers and letters. Believe me, it is no idle

curiosity. I have a motive of which, be sure, she would have

approved. I have them all here. I took them before we knew

that all was yours, so that no strange hand might touch them,

no strange eye look through words into her soul. I shall

keep them, if I may. Even you may not see them yet, but I

shall keep them safe. No word shall be lost, and in the

good time I shall give them back to you. It is a hard thing

that I ask, but you will do it, will you not, for Lucy's

sake?"

Arthur spoke out heartily, like his old self, "Dr. Van

Helsing, you may do what you will. I feel that in saying

this I am doing what my dear one would have approved. I

shall not trouble you with questions till the time comes."

The old Professor stood up as he said solemnly,"And you

are right. There will be pain for us all, but it will not be

all pain, nor will this pain be the last.We and you too, you

most of all, dear boy, will have to pass through the bitter

water before we reach the sweet. But we must be brave of

heart and unselfish, and do our duty, and all will be well!"

I slept on a sofa in Arthur's room that night. Van Hel-

sing did not go to bed at all. He went to and fro, as if

patroling the house, and was never out of sight of the room

where Lucy lay in her coffin, strewn with the wild garlic

flowers, which sent through the odor of lily and rose, a

heavy, overpowering smell into the night.

MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL

22 September.--In the train to Exeter. Jonathan sleep-

ing. 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, marr-

ied to Jonathan, Jonathan a solicitor, a partner, rich, mas-

ter of his business, Mr. Hawkins dead and buried, and Jona-

than with another attack that may harm him. Some day he may

ask me about it. Down it all goes. I am rusty in my short-

hand, 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 repre-

senting Sir John Paxton, the President of the Incorporated

Law Society. Jonathan and I stood hand in hand, and we felt

that our best and dearest friend was gone from us.

We came back to town quietly, taking a bus to Hyde Park

Corner. Jonathan thought it would interest me to go into

the Row for a while, so we sat down. But there were very

few people there, and it was sad-looking and desolate to see

so many empty chairs. It made us think of the empty chair at

home. So we got up and walked down Piccadilly. Jonathan was

holding me by the arm, the way he used to in the old days

before I went to school. I felt it very improper, for you

can't go on for some years teaching etiquette and decorum to

other girls without the pedantry of it biting into yourself

a bit. But it was Jonathan, and he was my husband, and we

didn't know anybody who saw us, and we didn't care if they

did, so on we walked. I was looking at a very beautiful girl,

in a big cart-wheel hat, sitting in a victoria outside Guil-

iano's, when I felt Jonathan clutch my arm so tight that he

hurt me, and he said under his breath, "My God!"

I am always anxious about Jonathan, for I fear that

some nervous fit may upset him again. So I turned to him

quickly, and asked him what it was that disturbed him.

He was very pale, and his eyes seemed bulging out as,

half in terror and half in amazement, he gazed at a tall,

thin man, with a beaky nose and black moustache and pointed

beard, who was also observing the pretty girl.He was looking

at her so hard that he did not see either of us,and so I had

a good view of him. His face was not a good face. It was

hard, and cruel,and sensual,and big white teeth, that looked

all the whiter because his lips were so red, were pointed

like an animal's. Jonathan kept staring at him, till I was

afraid he would notice. I feared he might take it ill, he

looked so fierce and nasty. I asked Jonathan why he was dis-

turbed, and he answered, evidently thinking that I knew as

much about it as he did, "Do you see who it is?"

"No, dear," I said. "I don't know him, who is it?"

His answer seemed to shock and thrill me, for it was said as

if he did not know that it was me, Mina, to whom he was

speaking. "It is the man himself!"

The poor dear was evidently terrified at something,very

greatly terrified. I do believe that if he had not had me

to lean on and to support him he would have sunk down. He

kept staring. A man came out of the shop with a small parcel,

and gave it to the lady, who then drove off. Th e dark man

kept his eyes fixed on her, and when the carriage moved up

Piccadilly he followed in the same direction, and hailed a

hansom. Jonathan kept looking after him, and said, as if to

himself,

"I believe it is the Count, but he has grown young. My

God, if this be so! Oh, my God! My God! If only I knew! If

only I knew!" He was distressing himself so much that I fear-

ed to keep his mind on the subject by asking him any ques-

tions, so I remained silent. I drew away quietly, and he,

holding my arm, came easily. We walked a little further, and

then went in and sat for a while in the Green Park. It was

a hot day for autumn, and there was a comfortable seat in a

shady place. After a few minutes' staring at nothing, Jona-

than's eyes closed, and he went quickly into a sleep, with

his head on my shoulder. I thought it was the best thing for

him, so did not disturb him. In about twenty minutes he woke

up, and said to me quite cheerfully,

"Why, Mina, have I been asleep! Oh, do forgive me for

being so rude. Come, and we'll have a cup of tea somewhere."

He had evidently forgotten all about the dark stranger,

as in his illness he had forgotten all that this episode

had reminded him of. I don't like this lapsing into forget-

fulness. It may make or continue some injury to the brain.

I must not ask him, for fear I shall do more harm than good,

but I must somehow learn the facts of his journey abroad.The

time is come, I fear, when I must open the parcel, and know

what is written. Oh, Jonathan, you will, I know, forgive me

if I do wrong, but it is for your own dear sake.

Later.--A sad 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 today."

Oh, what a wealth of sorrow in a few words! Poor Mrs.

Westenra! Poor Lucy! Gone, gone, never to return to us!

And poor, poor Arthur, to have lost such a sweetness out of

his life! God help us all to bear our troubles.

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY-CONT.

22 September.--It is all over. Arthur has gone back to

Ring, and has taken Quincey Morris with him. What a fine

fellow is Quincey! I believe in my heart of hearts that he

suffered as much about Lucy's death as any of us,but he bore

himself through it like a moral Viking. If America can go on

breeding men like that, she will be a power in the world in-

deed. Van Helsing is lying down, having a rest preparatory

to his journey. He goes to Amsterdam tonight, but says he

returns tomorrow night, that he only wants to make some

arrangements which can only be made personally. He is to

stop with me then, if he can. He says he has work to do in

London which may take him some time. Poor old fellow! I fear

that the strain of the past week has broken down even his

iron strength.All the time of the burial he was, I could see,

putting some terrible restraint on himself. When it was all

over, we were standing beside Arthur, who, poor fellow, was

speaking of his part in the operation where his blood had

been transfused to his Lucy's veins. I could see Van Hel-

sing's face grow white and purple by turns. Arthur was

saying that he felt since then as if they two had been

really married,and that she was his wife in the sight of God.

None of us said a word of the other operations, and none of

us ever shall. Arthur and Quincey went away together to the

station, and Van Helsing and I came on here. The moment we

were alone in the carriage he gave way to a regular fit of

hysterics. He has denied to me since that it was hysterics,

and insisted that it was only his sense of humor asserting

itself under very terrible conditions. He laughed till he

cried, and I had to draw down the blinds lest any one should

see us and misjudge.And then he cried, till he laughed again,

and laughed and cried together, just as a woman does.I tried

to be stern with him, as one is to a woman under the circum-

stances, but it had no effect.Men and women are so different

in manifestations of nervous strength or weakness! Then when

his face grew grave and stern again I asked him why his

mirth, and why at such a time. His reply was in a way char-

acteristic of him, for it was logical and forceful and mys-

terious. He said,

"Ah, you don't comprehend, friend John. Do not think

that I am not sad, though I laugh. See, I have cried even

when the laugh did choke me. But no more think that I am all

sorry when I cry, for the laugh he come just the same. Keep

it always with you that laughter who knock at your door and

say, `May I come in?' is not true laughter. No! He is a king,

and he come when and how he like.He ask no person, he choose

no time of suitability. He say, `I am here.' Behold, in ex-

ample I grieve my heart out for that so sweet young girl. I

give my blood for her,though I am old and worn. I give my

time, my skill, my sleep. I let my other sufferers want that

she may have all. And yet I can laugh at her very grave,

laugh when the clay from the spade of the sexton drop upon

her coffin and say `Thud, thud!' to my heart, till it send

back the blood from my cheek. My heart bleed for that poor

boy, that dear boy, so of the age of mine own boy had I been

so blessed that he live, and with his hair and eyes the same.

"There, you know now why I love him so. And yet when

he say things that touch my husband-heart to the quick, and

make my father-heart yearn to him as to no other man, not

even you, friend John, for we are more level in experiences

than father and son, yet even at such a moment King Laugh he

come to me and shout and bellow in my ear,`Here I am! Here I

am!' till the blood come dance back and bring some of the

sunshine that he carry with him to my cheek.Oh, friend John,

it is a strange world, a sad world,a world full of miseries,

and woes, and troubles.And yet when King Laugh come, he make

them all dance to the tune he play. Bleeding hearts, and dry

bones of the churchyard, and tears that burn as they fall,

all dance together to the music that he make with that smile-

less mouth of him. And believe me, friend John, that he is

good to come, and kind. Ah, we men and women are like ropes

drawn tight with strain that pull us different ways. Then

tears come, and like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up,

until perhaps the strain become too great, and we break. But

King Laugh he come like the sunshine, and he ease off the

strain again, and we bear to go on with our labor, what it

may be."

I did not like to wound him by pretending not to see

his idea, but as I did not yet understand the cause of his

laughter, I asked him. As he answered me his face grew

stern, and he said in quite a different tone,

"Oh,it was the grim irony of it all,this so lovely lady

garlanded with flowers,that looked so fair as life, till one

by one we wondered if she were truly dead, she laid in that

so fine marble house in that lonely churchyard,where rest so

many of her kin, laid there with the mother who loved her,

and whom she loved, and that sacred bell going "Toll! Toll!

Toll!' so sad and slow, and those holy men, with the white

garments of the angel, pretending to read books, and yet all

the time their eyes never on the page,and all of us with the

bowed head. And all for what? She is dead, so! Is it not?"

"Well, for the life of me, Professor," I said, "I can't

see anything to laugh at in all that. Why, your expression

makes it a harder puzzle than before. But even if the burial

service was comic, what about poor Art and his trouble? Why

his heart was simply breaking."

"Just so. Said he not that the transfusion of his blood

to her veins had made her truly his bride?"

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

"Quite so. But there was a difficulty, friend John. If

so that, then what about the others? Ho, ho! Then this so

sweet maid is a polyandrist,and me,with my poor wife dead to

me, but alive by Church's law,though no wits, all gone, even

I, who am faithful husband to this now-no-wife,am bigamist."

"I don't see where the joke comes in there either!" I

said, and I did not feel particularly pleased with him for

saying such things. He laid his hand on my arm, and said,

"Friend John, forgive me if I pain. I showed not my

feeling to others when it would wound, but only to you, my

old friend, whom I can trust. If you could have looked in-

to my heart then when I want to laugh,if you could have done

so when the laugh arrived, if you could do so now, when King

Laugh have pack up his crown, and all that is to him, for he

go far, far away from me, and for a long, long time, maybe

you would perhaps pity me the most of all."

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

why.

"Because I know!"

And now we are all scattered, and for many a long day

loneliness will sit over our roofs with brooding wings. Lucy

lies in the tomb of her kin,a lordly death house in a lonely

churchyard, away from teeming London, where the air is fresh,

and the sun rises over Hampstead Hill,and where wild flowers

grow of their own accord.

So I can finish this diary, and God only knows if I

shall ever begin another. If I do, or if I even open this

again, it will be to deal with different people and differ-

ent themes,for here at the end, where the romance of my life

is told, ere I go back to take up the thread of my life-work,

I say sadly and without hope, "FINIS".

THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE, 25 SEPTEMBER

A HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY

The neighborhood of Hampstead is just at present exer-

cised with a series of events which seem to run on lines

parallel to those of what was known to the writers of head-

lines and "The Kensington Horror," or "The Stabbing Woman,"

or "The Woman in Black." During the past two or three days

several cases have occurred of young children straying from

home or neglecting to return from their playing on the Heath.

In all these cases the children were too young to give any

properly intelligible account of themselves, but the consen-

sus of their excuses is that they had been with a "bloofer

lady." It has always been late in the evening when they have

been missed, and on two occasions the children have not been

found until early in the following morning. It is generally

supposed in the neighborhood that, as the first child missed

gave as his reason for being away that a "bloofer lady" had

asked him to come for a walk,the others had picked up the

phrase and used it as occasion served. This is the more nat-

ural as the favorite game of the little ones at present is

luring each other away by wiles. A correspondent writes us

that to see some of the tiny tots pretending to be the"bloo-

fer lady" is supremely funny.Some of our caricaturists might,

he says,take a lesson in the irony of grotesque by comparing

the reality and the picture. It is only in accordance with

general principles of human nature that the "bloofer lady"

should be the popular role at these al fresco performances.

Our correspondent naively says that even Ellen Terry could

not be so winningly attractive as some of these grubby-faced

little children pretend, and even imagine themselves, to be.

There is, however, possibly a serious side to the ques-

tion, for some of the children, indeed all who have been

missed at night, have been slightly torn or wounded in the

throat. The wounds seem such as might be made by a rat or a

small dog, and although of not much importance individually,

would tend to show that whatever animal inflicts them has a

system or method of its own. The police of the division

have been instructed to keep a sharp lookout for straying

children, especially when very young, in and around Hamp-

stead Heath, and for any stray dog which may be about.

THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE, 25 SEPTEMBER

EXTRA SPECIAL

THE HAMPSTEAD HORROR

ANOTHER CHILD INJURED

THE "BLOOFER LADY"

We have just received intelligence that another child,

missed last night, was only discovered late in the morning

under a furze bush at the Shooter's Hill side of Hampstead

Heath, which is perhaps,less frequented than the other parts.

It has the same tiny wound in the throat as has been noticed

in other cases. It was terribly weak, and looked quite ema-

ciated.It too, when partially restored, had the common story

to tell of being lured away by the "bloofer lady".

CHAPTER 14

MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL

23 September.--Jonathan is better after a bad night. I

am so glad that he has plenty of work to do, for that keeps

his mind off the terrible things, and oh, I am rejoiced that

he is not now weighed down with the responsibility of his

new position. I knew he would be true to himself, and now

how proud I am to see my Jonathan rising to the height of

his advancement and keeping pace in all ways with the duties

that come upon him. He will be away all day till late, for

he said he could not lunch at home. My household work is

done, so I shall take his foreign journal, and lock myself

up in my room and read it.

24 September.--I hadn't the heart to write last night,

that terrible record of Jonathan's upset me so. Poor dear!

How he must have suffered, whether it be true or only imag-

ination. 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 wedd-

ing day he said "Unless some solemn duty come upon me to go

back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake, mad or sane . . ."

There seems to be through it all some thread of continuity.

That fearful Count was coming to London. If it should be,

and he came to London, with its teeming millions . . . There

may be a solemn duty, and if it come we must not shrink from

it. I shall be prepared. I shall get my typewriter this very

hour and begin transcribing.Then we shall be ready for other

eyes if required. And if it be wanted, then, perhaps, if I

am ready, poor Jonathan may not be upset,for I can speak for

him and never let him be troubled or worried with it at all.

If ever Jonathan quite gets over the nervousness he may want

to tell me of it all, and I can ask him questions and find

out things, and see how I may comfort him.

LETTER, VAN HELSING TO MRS. HARKER

24 September

(Confidence)

"Dear Madam,

"I pray you to pardon my writing, in that I am so far

friend as that I sent to you sad news of Miss Lucy Westenra's

death. By the kindness of Lord Godalming, I am empowered to

read her letters and papers, for I am deeply concerned about

certain matters vitally important. In them I find some

letters from you, which show how great friends you were and

how you love her. Oh, Madam Mina, by that love, I implore

you, help me. It is for others' good that I ask, to redress

great wrong, and to lift much and terrible troubles, that

may be more great than you can know. May it be that I see

you? You can trust me. I am friend of Dr. John Seward and

of Lord Godalming (that was Arthur of Miss Lucy). I must

keep it private for the present from all. I should come to

Exeter to see you at once if you tell me I am privilege to

come, and where and when. I implore your pardon, Madam. I

have read your letters to poor Lucy, and know how good you

are and how your husband suffer. So I pray you, if it may

be, enlighten him not, least it may harm. Again your pardon,

and forgive me.

"VAN HELSING"

TELEGRAM, MRS. HARKER TO VAN HELSING

25 September.--Come today by quarter past ten train if

you can catch it. Can see you any time you call.

"WILHELMINA HARKER"

MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL

25 September.--I cannot help feeling terribly excited

as the time draws near for the visit of Dr. Van Helsing, for

somehow I expect that it will throw some light upon Jona-

than's sad experience, and as he attended poor dear Lucy in

her last illness, he can tell me all about her. That is the

reason of his coming. It is concerning Lucy and her sleep-

walking, and not about Jonathan. Then I shall never know

the real truth now! How silly I am. That awful journal gets

hold of my imagination and tinges everything with something

of its own color. Of course it is about Lucy. That habit

came back to the poor dear,and that awful night on the cliff

must have made her ill. I had almost forgotten in my own

affairs how ill she was afterwards. She must have told him

of her sleep-walking adventure on the cliff, and that I knew

all about it, and now he wants me to tell him what I know,so

that he may understand. I hope I did right in not saying

anything of it to Mrs. Westenra. I should never forgive my-

self if any act of mine, were it even a negative one,brought

harm on poor dear Lucy. I hope too,Dr. Van Helsing will not

blame me. I have had so much trouble and anxiety of late

that I feel I cannot bear more just at present.

I suppose a cry does us all good at times, clears the

air as other rain does. Perhaps it was reading the journal

yesterday that upset me, and then Jonathan went away this

morning to stay away from me a whole day and night,the first

time we have been parted since our marriage. I do hope the

dear fellow will take care of himself, and that nothing will

occur to upset him. It is two o'clock, and the doctor will

be here soon now. I shall say nothing of Jonathan's journal

unless he asks me. I am so glad I have typewritten out my

own journal, so that, in case he asks about Lucy, I can hand

it to him. It will save much questioning.

Later.--He has come and gone. Oh, what a strange meet-

ing, 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 cer-

tain that his eyes and ears and brain did not deceive him,

and that it is all true.It may be that it is the doubt which

haunts him, that when the doubt is removed, no matter which,

waking or dreaming, may prove the truth, he will be more

satisfied and better able to bear the shock. Dr. Van Helsing

must be a good man as well as a clever one if he is Arthur's

friend and Dr. Seward's, and if they brought him all the way

from Holland to look after Lucy. I feel from having seen him

that he is good and kind and of a noble nature. When he

comes tomorrow I shall ask him about Jonathan. And then,

please God, all this sorrow and anxiety may lead to a good

end. I used to think I would like to practice interviewing.

Jonathan's friend on "The Exeter News" told him that memory

is everything in such work, that you must be able to put

down exactly almost every word spoken, even if you had to

refine some of it afterwards. Here was a rare interview. I

shall try to record it verbatim.

It was half-past two o'clock when the knock came. I

took my courage a deux mains and waited. In a few minutes

Mary opened the door, and announced "Dr. Van Helsing".

I rose and bowed, and he came towards me, a man of med-

ium weight, strongly built, with his shoulders set back over

a broad, deep chest and a neck well balanced on the trunk as

the head is on the neck. The poise of the head strikes me at

once as indicative of thought and power. The head is noble,

well-sized, broad, and large behind the ears.The face, clean-

shaven, shows a hard, square chin, a large resolute, mobile

mouth, a good-sized nose, rather straight, but with quick,

sensitive nostrils, that seem to broaden as the big bushy

brows come down and the mouth tightens.The forehead is broad

and fine, rising at first almost straight and then sloping

back above two bumps or ridges wide apart, such a forehead

that the reddish hair cannot possibly tumble over it, but

falls naturally back and to the sides. Big, dark blue eyes

are set widely apart, and are quick and tender or stern with

the man's moods. He said to me,

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

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

"It is Mina Murray that I came to see that was friend

of that poor dear child Lucy Westenra. Madam Mina, it is on

account of the dead that I come."

"Sir," I said, "you could have no better claim on me

than that you were a friend and helper of Lucy Westenra."And

I held out my hand. He took it and said tenderly,

"Oh, Madam Mina, I know that the friend of that poor

little girl must be good, but I had yet to learn . . ." He

finished his speech with a courtly bow. I asked him what it

was that he wanted to see me about, so he at once began.

"I have read your letters to Miss Lucy. Forgive me, but

I had to begin to inquire somewhere, and there was none to

ask. I know that you were with her at Whitby. She sometimes

kept a diary, you need not look surprised, Madam Mina. It

was begun after you had left, and was an imitation of you,

and in that diary she traces by inference certain things to

a sleep-walking in which she puts down that you saved her.In

great perplexity then I come to you, and ask you out of your

so much kindness to tell me all of it that you can remember."

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

it."

"Ah, then you have good memory for facts, for details?

It is not always so with young ladies."

"No, doctor, but I wrote it all down at the time. I can

show it to you if you like."

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

favor."

I could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a

bit, I suppose it is some taste of the original apple that

remains still in our mouths, so I handed him the shorthand

diary. He took it with a grateful bow, and said, "May I read

it?"

"If you wish," I answered as demurely as I could. He

opened it, and for an instant his face fell. Then he stood

up and bowed.

"Oh, you so clever woman!" he said. "I knew long that

Mr. Jonathan was a man of much thankfulness, but see, his

wife have all the good things.And will you not so much honor

me and so help me as to read it for me? Alas! I know not

the shorthand."

By this time my little joke was over, and I was almost

ashamed. So I took the typewritten copy from my work basket

and handed it to him.

"Forgive me," I said. "I could not help it, but I had

been thinking that it was of dear Lucy that you wished to

ask, and so that you might not have time to wait, not on my

account, but because I know your time must be precious, I

have written it out on the typewriter for you."

He took it and his eyes glistened. "You are so good,"

he said. "And may I read it now? I may want to ask you some

things when I have read."

"By all means," I said. "read it over whilst I order

lunch, and then you can ask me questions whilst we eat."

He bowed and settled himself in a chair with his back

to the light, and became so absorbed in the papers, whilst I

went to see after lunch chiefly in order that he might not

be disturbed. When I came back, I found him walking hurried-

ly up and down the room, his face all ablaze with excitement.

He rushed up to me and took me by both hands.

"Oh, Madam Mina," he said, "how can I say what I owe to

you? This paper is as sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I

am dazed, I am dazzled, with so much light, and yet clouds

roll in behind the light every time. But that you do not,

cannot comprehend. Oh, but I am grateful to you, you so

clever woman. Madame," he said this very solemnly, "if ever

Abraham Van Helsing can do anything for you or yours,I trust

you will let me know. It will be pleasure and delight if I

may serve you as a friend, as a friend, but all I have ever

learned, all I can ever do, shall be for you and those you

love. There are darknesses in life, and there are lights.

You are one of the lights. You will have a happy life and a

good life, and your husband will be blessed in you."

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

know me."

"Not know you, I, who am old, and who have studied all

my life men and women, I who have made my specialty the

brain and all that belongs to him and all that follow from

him! And I have read your diary that you have so goodly

written for me, and which breathes out truth in every line.

I, who have read your so sweet letter to poor Lucy of your

marriage and your trust, not know you! Oh, Madam Mina, good

women tell all their lives, and by day and by hour and by

minute, such things that angels can read. And we men who

wish to know have in us something of angels' eyes. Your

husband is noble nature, and you are noble too, for you

trust, and trust cannot be where there is mean nature. And

your husband, tell me of him. Is he quite well? Is all

that fever gone, and is he strong and hearty?"

I saw here an opening to ask him about Jonathan, so I

said,"He was almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset

by Mr. Hawkins death."

He interrupted, "Oh, yes. I know. I know. I have read

your last two letters."

I went on, "I suppose this upset him, for when we were

in town on Thursday last he had a sort of shock."

"A shock, and after brain fever so soon! That is not

good. What kind of shock was it?"

"He thought he saw some one who recalled something

terrible, something which led to his brain fever." And here

the whole thing seemed to overwhelm me in a rush. The pity

for Jonathan, the horror which he experienced, the whole

fearful mystery of his diary, and the fear that has been

brooding over me ever since, all came in a tumult. I suppose

I was hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees and held up

my hands to him, and implored him to make my husband well

again. He took my hands and raised me up, and made me sit

on the sofa, and sat by me. He held my hand in his, and said

to me with, oh, such infinite sweetness,

"My life is a barren and lonely one,and so full of work

that I have not had much time for friendships, but since I

have been summoned to here by my friend John Seward I have

known so many good people and seen such nobility that I feel

more than ever, and it has grown with my advancing years,

the loneliness of my life. Believe me, then, that I come

here full of respect for you, and you have given me hope,

hope, not in what I am seeking of, but that there are good

women still left to make life happy, good women, whose lives

and whose truths may make good lesson for the children that

are to be. I am glad, glad, that I may here be of some use

to you. For if your husband suffer, he suffer within the

range of my study and experience. I promise you that I will

gladly do all for him that I can,all to make his life strong

and manly, and your life a happy one. Now you must eat. You

are over-wrought and perhaps over-anxious. Husband Jonathan

would not like to see you so pale,and what he like not where

he love, is not to his good. Therefore for his sake you must

eat and smile. You have told me about Lucy, and so now we

shall not speak of it, lest it distress. I shall stay in Ex-

eter tonight, for I want to think much over what you have

told me, and when I have thought I will ask you questions,if

I may. And then too, you will tell me of husband Jonathan's

trouble so far as you can, but not yet. You must eat now,

afterwards you shall tell me all."

After lunch, when we went back to the drawing room, he

said to me, "And now tell me all about him."

When it came to speaking to this great learned man, I

began to fear that he would think me a weak fool, and Jona-

than a madman, that journal is all so strange, and I hesi-

tated to go on. But he was so sweet and kind, and he had

promised to help, and I trusted him, so I said,

"Dr. Van Helsing, what I have to tell you is so queer

that you must not laugh at me or at my husband. I have been

since yesterday in a sort of fever of doubt. You must be

kind to me, and not think me foolish that I have even half

believed some very strange things."

He reassured me by his manner as well as his words when

he said, "Oh, my dear, if you only know how strange is the

matter regarding which I am here, it is you who would laugh.

I have learned not to think little of any one's belief, no

matter how strange it may be. I have tried to keep an open

mind, and it is not the ordinary things of life that could

close it, but the strange things, the extraordinary things,

the things that make one doubt if they be mad or sane."

"Thank you, thank you a thousand times! You have taken

a weight off my mind. If you will let me, I shall give you

a paper to read. It is long, but I have typewritten it out.

It will tell you my trouble and Jonathan's.It is the copy of

his journal when abroad, and all that happened. I dare not

say anything of it. You will read for yourself and judge.

And then when I see you, perhaps, you will be very kind and

tell me what you think."

"I promise," he said as I gave him the papers. "I shall

in the morning, as soon as I can, come to see you and your

husband, if I may."

"Jonathan will be here at half-past eleven,and you must

come to lunch with us and see him then. You could catch the

quick 3:34 train, which will leave you at Paddington before

eight." He was surprised at my knowledge of the trains 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,

aye, and going a second time, is not one to be injured in

permanence by a shock.His brain and his heart are all right,

this I swear, before I have even seen him, so be at rest. I

shall have much to ask him of other things.I am blessed that

today I come to see you,for I have learn all at once so much

that again I am dazzled, dazzled more than ever, and I must

think.

"Yours the most faithful,

"Abraham Van Helsing."

LETTER, MRS. HARKER TO VAN HELSING

25 September, 6:30 p.m.

"My dear Dr. Van Helsing,

"A thousand thanks for your kind letter,which has taken

a great weight off my mind. And yet, if it be true, what

terrible things there are in the world, and what an awful

thing if that man, that monster, be really in London! I fear

to think. I have this moment, whilst writing, had a wire

from Jonathan,saying that he leaves by the 6:25 tonight from

Launceston and will be here at 10:18,so that I shall have no

fear tonight. Will you, therefore, instead of lunching with

us, please come to breakfast at eight o'clock,if this be not

too early for you? You can get away, if you are in a hurry,

by the 10:30 train, which will bring you to Paddington by

2:35. Do not answer this, as I shall take it that, if I do

not hear, you will come to breakfast.

"Believe me,

"Your faithful and grateful friend,

"Mina Harker."

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

26 September.--I thought never to write in this diary

again, but the time has come. When I got home last night

Mina had supper ready, and when we had supped she told me of

Van Helsing's visit, and of her having given him the two

diaries copied out, and of how anxious she has been about me.

She showed me in the doctor's letter that all I wrote down

was true. It seems to have made a new man of me. It was the

doubt as to the reality of the whole thing that knocked me

over. I felt impotent, and in the dark, and distrustful. But,

now that I know, I am not afraid, even of the Count. He has

succeeded after all, then, in his design in getting to Lond-

on, and it was he I saw. He has got younger, and how? Van

Helsing is the man to unmask him and hunt him out, if he is

anything like what Mina says. We sat late, and talked it

over. Mina is dressing, and I shall call at the hotel in a

few minutes and bring him over.

He was, I think, surprised to see me. When I came into

the room whee he was, and introduced myself, he took me by

the shoulder, and turned my face round to the light, and

said, after a sharp scrutiny,

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

a shock."

It was so funny to hear my wife called `Madam Mina' by

this kindly, strong-faced old man. I smiled, and said, "I

was ill, I have had a shock, but you have cured me already."

"And how?"

"By your letter to Mina last night. I was in doubt, and

then everything took a hue of unreality, and I did not know

what to trust, even the evidence of my own senses. Not know-

ing what to trust, I did not know what to do,and so had only

to keep on working in what had hitherto been the groove of

my life. The groove ceased to avail me, and I mistrusted

myself.Doctor, you don't know what it is to doubt everything,

even yourself. No, you don't, you couldn't with eyebrows

like yours."

He seemed pleased, and laughed as he said, "So! You are

a physiognomist. I learn more here with each hour. I am with

so much pleasure coming to you to breakfast, and, oh, sir,

you will pardon praise from an old man, but you are blessed

in your wife."

I would listen to him go on praising Mina for a day, so

I simply nodded and stood silent.

"She is one of God's women,fashioned by His own hand to

show us men and other women that there is a heaven where we

can enter, and that its light can be here on earth. So true,

so sweet, so noble, so little an egoist, and that, let me

tell you, is much in this age, so sceptical and selfish. And

you, sir. . . I have read all the letters to poor Miss Lucy,

and some of them speak of you, so I know you since some days

from the knowing of others, but I have seen your true self

since last night. You will give me your hand, will you not?

And let us be friends for all our lives."

We shook hands, and he was so earnest and so kind that

it made me quite choky.

"and now," he said, "may I ask you for some more help?

I have a great task to do, and at the beginning it is to

know. You can help me here. Can you tell me what went be-

fore your going to Transylvania? Later on I may ask more

help, and of a different kind, but at first this will do."

"Look here, Sir," I said, "does what you have to do

concern the Count?"

"It does," he said solemnly."

"Then I am with you heart and soul. As you go by the

10:30 train, you will not have time to read them, but I

shall get the bundle of papers. You can take them with you

and read them in the train."

After breakfast I saw him to the station. When we were

parting he said, "Perhaps you will come to town if I send

for you, and take Madam Mina too."

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

I had got him the morning papers and the London papers

of the previous night, and while we were talking at the

carriage window, waiting for the train to start, he was turn-

ing them over. His eyes suddenly seemed to catch something

in one of them, "The Westminster Gazette", I knew it by the

color, and he grew quite white. He read something intently,

groaning to himself, "Mein Gott! Mein Gott! So soon! So

soon!" I do not think he remembered me at the moment. Just

then the whistle blew, and the train moved off.This recalled

him to himself, and he leaned out of the window and waved

his hand, calling out, "Love to Madam Mina. I shall write so

soon as ever I can."

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY

26 September.--Truly there is no such thing as finality.

Not a week since I said "Finis," and yet here I am starting

fresh again, or rather going on with the record. Until this

afternoon I had no cause to think of what is done. Renfield

had become, to all intents, as sane as he ever was. He was

already well ahead with his fly business, and he had just

started in the spider line also, so he had not been of any

trouble to me. I had a letter from Arthur, written on Sun-

day, 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 sett-

ling down to my work with the enthusiasm which I used to

have for it, so that I might fairly have said that the wound

which poor Lucy left on me was becoming cicatrised.

Everything is, however, now reopened, and what is to be

the end God only knows. I have an idea that Van Helsing

thinks he knows, too, but he will only let out enough at a

time to whet curiosity. He went to Exeter yesterday, and

stayed there all night. Today he came back, and almost

bounded into the room at about half-past five o'clock, and

thrust last night's "Westminster Gazette" into my hand.

"What do you think of that?" he asked as he stood back

and folded his arms.

I looked over the paper, for I really did not know what

he meant, but he took it from me and pointed out a paragraph

about children being decoyed away at Hampstead. It did not

convey much to me, until I reached a passage where it des-

cribed small puncture wounds on their throats.An idea struck

me, and I looked up.

"Well?" he said.

"It is like poor Lucy's."

"And what do you make of it?"

"Simply that there is some cause in common. Whatever

it was that injured her has injured them." I did not quite

understand his answer.

"That is true indirectly, but not directly."

"How do you mean, Professor?" I asked. I was a little

inclined to take his seriousness lightly, for, after all,

four days of rest and freedom from burning, harrowing, anx-

iety does help to restore one's spirits, but when I saw his

face, it sobered me. Never, even in the midst of our des-

pair about poor Lucy, had he looked more stern.

"Tell me!" I said. "I can hazard no opinion. I do not

know what to think, and I have no data on which to found a

conjecture."

"Do you mean to tell me, friend John, that you have no

suspicion as to what poor Lucy died of, not after all the

hints given, not only by events, but by me?"

"Of nervous prostration following a great loss or waste

of blood."

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

He stepped over and sat down beside me, and went on,"You

are a clever man, friend John. You reason well, and your wit

is bold, but you are too prejudiced. You do not let your eyes

see nor your ears hear, and that which is outside your daily

life is not of account to you. Do you not think that there

are things which you cannot understand,and yet which are,that

some people see things that others cannot? But there are

things old and new which must not be contemplated by men's

eyes, because they know, or think they know,some things which

other men have told them. Ah, it is the fault of our science

that it wants to explain all, and if it explain not, then it

says there is nothing to explain. But yet we see around us

every day the growth of new beliefs, which think themselves

new, and which are yet but the old, which pretend to be young,

like the fine ladies at the opera. I suppose now you do not

believe in corporeal transference. No? Nor in materialization.

No? Nor in astral bodies. No? Nor in the reading of thought.

No? Nor in hypnotism . . ."

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

He smiled as he went on, "Then you are satisfied as to

it. Yes? And of course then you understand how it act, and

can follow the mind of the great Charcot, alas that he is no

more, into the very soul of the patient that he influence.No?

Then, friend John,am I to take it that you simply accept fact,

and are satisfied to let from premise to conclusion be a

blank? No? Then tell me, for I am a student of the brain,

how you accept hypnotism and reject the thought reading. Let

me tell you, my friend, that there are things done today in

electrical science which would have been deemed unholy by the

very man who discovered electricity, who would themselves not

so long before been burned as wizards. There are always mys-

teries in life. Why was it that Methuselah lived nine hundred

years, and `Old Parr'one hundred and sixty-nine, and yet that

poor Lucy, with four men's blood in her poor veins, could not

live even one day? For, had she live one more day, we could

save her. Do you know all the mystery of life and death? Do

you know the altogether of comparative anatomy and can say

wherefore the qualities of brutes are in some men, and not

in others? Can you tell me why, when other spiders die small

and soon, that one great spider lived for centuries in the

tower of the old Spanish church and grew and grew, till, on

descending, he could drink the oil of all the church lamps?

Can you tell me why in the Pampas, ay and elsewhere,there are

bats that come out at night and open the veins of cattle and

horses and suck dry their veins, how in some islands of the

Western seas there are bats which hang on the trees all day,

and those who have seen describe as like giant nuts or pods,

and that when the sailors sleep on the deck, because that it

is hot, flit down on them and then, and then in the morning

are found dead men, white as even Miss Lucy was?"

"Good God, Professor!" I said, starting up. "Do you

mean to tell me that Lucy was bitten by such a bat, and that

such a thing is here in London in the nineteenth century?"

He waved his hand for silence, and went on,"Can you tell

me why the tortoise lives more long than generations of men,

why the elephant goes on and on till he have sees dynasties,

and why the parrot never die only of bite of cat of dog or

other complaint? Can you tell me why men believe in all ages

and places that there are men and women who cannot die? We

all know, because science has vouched for the fact,that there

have been toads shut up in rocks for thousands of years, shut

in one so small hole that only hold him since the youth of

the world. Can you tell me how the Indian fakir can make him-

self 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 un-

broken seal and that there lie the Indian fakir, not dead,

but that rise up and walk amongst them as before?"

Here I interrupted him. I was getting bewildered. He

so crowded on my mind his list of nature's eccentricities and

possible impossibilities that my imagination was getting

fired. I had a dim idea that he was teaching me some lesson,

as long ago he used to do in his study at Amsterdam. But he

used them to tell me the thing, so that I could have the ob-

ject of thought in mind all the time. But now I was without

his help, yet I wanted to follow him, so I said,

"Professor, let me be your pet student again. Tell me

the thesis, so that I may apply your knowledge as you go on.

At present I am going in my mind from point to point as a

madman, and not a sane one, follows an idea. I feel like a

novice lumbering through a bog in a midst, jumping from one

tussock to another in the mere blind effort to move on with-

out knowing where I am going."

"That is a good image," he said. "Well, I shall tell

you. My thesis is this, I want you to believe."

"To believe what?"

"To believe in things that you cannot.Let me illustrate.

I heard once of an American who so defined faith, `that fac-

ulty which enables us to believe things which we know to be

untrue.' For one, I follow that man. He meant that we shall

have an open mind,and not let a little bit of truth check the

rush of the big truth,like a small rock does a railway truck.

We get the small truth first. Good! We keep him, and we

value him, but all the same we must not let him think himself

all the truth in the universe."

"Then you want me not to let some previous conviction

inure the receptivity of my mind with regard to some strange

matter. Do I read your lesson aright?"

"Ah, you are my favorite pupil still. It is worth to

teach you. Now that you are willing to understand, you have

taken the first step to understand. You think then that

those so small holes in the children's throats were made by

the same that made the holes in Miss Lucy?"

"I suppose so."

He stood up and said solemnly, "Then you are wrong. Oh,

would it were so! But alas! No. It is worse, far, far worse."

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

I cried.

He threw himself with a despairing gesture into a chair,

and placed his elbows on the table, covering his face with

his hands as he spoke.

"They were made by Miss Lucy!"

CHAPTER 15

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY-cont.

For a while sheer anger mastered me. It was as if he

had during her life struck Lucy on the face. I smote the

table hard and rose up as I said to him, "Dr. Van Helsing,

are you mad?"

He raised his head and looked at me, and somehow the

tenderness of his face calmed me at once. "Would I were!" he

said. "Madness were easy to bear compared with truth like

this. Oh, my friend, whey, think you, did I go so far round,

why take so long to tell so simple a thing? Was it because I

hate you and have hated you all my life? Was it because I

wished to give you pain? Was it that I wanted, no so late,

revenge for that time when you saved my life, and from a

fearful death? Ah no!"

"Forgive me," said I.

He went on, "My friend, it was because I wished to be

gentle in the breaking to you, for I know you have loved

that so sweet lady. But even yet I do not expect you to

believe. It is so hard to accept at once any abstract truth,

that we may doubt such to be possible when we have always

believed the `no' of it. It is more hard still to accept so

sad a concrete truth, and of such a one as Miss Lucy.Tonight

I go to prove it. Dare you come with me?"

This staggered me. A man does not like to prove such a

truth, Byron excepted from the catagory, jealousy.

"And prove the very truth he most abhorred."

He saw my hesitation, and spoke, "The logic is simple,

no madman's logic this time, jumping from tussock to tussock

in a misty bog. If it not be true, then proof will be relief.

At worst it will not harm. If it be true! Ah, there is the

dread. Yet every dread should help my cause, for in it is

some need of belief. Come, I tell you what I propose. First,

that we go off now and see that child in the hospital. Dr.

Vincent, of the North Hospital, where the papers say the

child is, is a friend of mine, and I think of yours since

you were in class at Amsterdam. He will let two scientists

see his case, if he will not let two friends. We shall tell

him nothing, but only that we wish to learn. And then . . ."

"And then?"

He took a key from his pocket and held it up. "And then

we spend the night, you and I, in the churchyard where Lucy

lies. This is the key that lock the tomb. I had it from the

coffin man to give to Arthur."

My heart sank within me, for I felt that there was some

fearful ordeal before us. I could do nothing, however, so I

plucked up what heart I could and said that we had better

hasten, as the afternoon was passing.

We found the child awake. It had had a sleep and taken

some food, and altogether was going on well. Dr, Vincent

took the bandage from its throat, and showed us the punct-

ures. There was no mistaking the similarity to those which

had been on Lucy's throat. They were smaller, and the edges

looked fresher, that was all. We asked Vincent to what he

attributed them, and he replied that it must have been a

bite of some animal, perhaps a rat, but for his own part, he

was inclined to think it was one of the bats which are so

numerous on the northern heights of London. "Out of so many

harmless ones," he said, "there may be some wild specimen

from the South of a more malignant species. Some sailor may

have brought one home, and it managed to escape,or even from

the Zoological Gardens a young one may have got loose,or one

be bred there from a vampire. These things do occur, you,

know. Only ten days ago a wolf got out, and was, I believe,

traced up in this direction. For a week after, the children

were playing nothing but Red Riding Hood on the Heath and in

every alley in the place until this `bloofer lady' scare

came along, since then it has been quite a gala time with

them. Even this poor little mite, when he woke up today,

asked the nurse if he might go away. When she asked him why

he wanted to go, he said he wanted to play with the `bloofer

lady'."

"I hope," said Van Helsing, "that when you are sending

the child home you will caution its parents to keep strict

watch over it. These fancies to stray are most dangerous,

and if the child were to remain out another night, it would

probably be fatal. But in any case I suppose you will not

let it away for some days?"

"Certainly not, not for a week at least, longer if the

wound is not healed."

Our visit to the hospital took more time than we had

reckoned on, and the sun had dipped before we came out. When

Van Helsing saw how dark it was, he said,

"There is not hurry. It is more late than I thought.

Come, let us seek somewhere that we may eat, and then we

shall go on our way."

We dined at `Jack Straw's Castle' along with a little

crowd of bicyclists and others who were genially noisy.About

ten o'clock we started from the inn. It was then very dark,

and the scattered lamps made the darkness greater when we

were once outside their individual radius. The Professor had

evidently noted the road we were to go, for he went on un-

hesitatingly, but, as for me, I was in quite a mixup as to

locality. As we went further, we met fewer and fewer people,

till at last we were somewhat surprised when we met even the

patrol of horse police going their usual suburban round. At

last we reached the wall of the churchyard, which we climbed

over. With some little difficulty, for it was very dark, and

the whole place seemed so strange to us, we found the West-

enra tomb. The Professor took the key, opened the creaky

door, and standing back, politely, but quite unconsciously,

motioned me to precede him. There was a delicious irony in

the offer, in the courtliness of giving preference on such a

ghastly occasion. My companion followed me quickly, and

cautiously drew the door to, after carefully ascertaining

that the lock was a falling, and not a spring one. In the

latter case we should have been in a bad plight. Then he

fumbled in his bag, and taking out a matchbox and a piece of

candle, proceeded to make a light. The tomb in the daytime,

and when wreathed with fresh flowers, had looked grim and

gruesome enough, but now, some days afterwards, when the

flowers hung lank and dead, their whites turning to rust and

their greens to browns, when the spider and the beetle had

resumed their accustomed dominance, when the time-discolored

stone, and dust-encrusted mortar, and rusty, dank iron, and

tarnished brass, and clouded silver-plating gave back the

feeble glimmer of a candle, the effect was more miserable

and sordid than could have been imagined. It conveyed irr-

esistibly the idea that life, animal life, was not the only

thing which could pass away.

Van Helsing went about his work systematically. Hold-

ing 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 dan-

gers, have to become accustomed to such things, and I drew

back towards the door. But the Professor never stopped for

a moment. He sawed down a couple of feet along one side of

the lead coffin, and then across, and down the other side.

Taking the edge of the loose flange, he bent it back towards

the foot of the coffin, and holding up the candle into the

aperture, motioned to me to look.

I drew near and looked. The coffin was empty. It was

certainly a surprise to me, and gave me a considerable shock,

but Van Helsing was unmoved. He was now more sure than ever

of his ground, and so emboldened to proceed in his task."Are

you satisfied now, friend John?" he asked.

I felt all the dogged argumentativeness of my nature

awake within me as I answered him, "I am satisfied that

Lucy's body is not in that coffin, but that only proves one

thing."

"And what is that, friend John?"

"That it is not there."

"That is good logic," he said, "so far as it goes. But

how do you, how can you, account for it not being there?"

"Perhaps a body-snatcher," I suggested. "Some of the

undertaker's people may have stolen it." I felt that I was

speaking folly, and yet it was the only real cause which I

could suggest.

The Professor sighed. "Ah well!" he said," we must have

more proof. Come with me."

He put on the coffin lid again, gathered up all his

things and placed them in the bag, blew out the light, and

placed the candle also in the bag. We opened the door, and

went out. Behind us he closed the door and locked it. He

handed me the key, saying, "Will you keep it? You had better

be assured."

I laughed, it was not a very cheerful laugh, I am bound

to say, as I motioned him to keep it. "A key is nothing," I

said, "thee are many duplicates, and anyhow it is not diffi-

cult to pick a lock of this kind."

He said nothing, but put the key in his pocket. Then

he told me to watch at one side of the churchyard whilst he

would watch at the other.

I took up my place behind a yew tree, and I saw his

dark figure move until the intervening headstones and trees

hid it from my sight.

It was a lonely vigil. Just after I had taken my place I

heard a distant clock strike twelve,and in time came one and

two.I was chilled and unnerved, and angry with the Professor

for taking me on such an errand and with myself for coming.

I was too cold and too sleepy to be keenly observant,and not

sleepy enough to betray my trust, so altogether I had a

dreary, miserable time.

Suddenly, as I turned round, I thought I saw something

like a white streak,moving between two dark yew trees at the

side of the churchyard farthest from the tomb. At the same

time a dark mass moved from the Professor's side of the

ground, and hurriedly went towards it. Then I too moved, but

I had to go round headstones and railed-off tombs, and I

stumbled over graves.The sky was overcast, and somewhere far

off an early cock crew. A little ways off, beyond a line of

scattered juniper trees, which marked the pathway to the

church, a white dim figure flitted in the direction of the

tomb. The tomb itself was hidden by trees, and I could not

see where the figure had disappeared. I heard the rustle of

actual movement where I had first seen the white figure, and

coming over, found the Professor holding in his arms a tiny

child. When he saw me he held it out to me, and said, "Are

you satisfied now?"

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

"Do you not see the child?"

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

wounded?"

"We shall see,"said the Professor, and with one impulse

we took our way out of the churchyard, he carrying the sleep-

ing 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 exclam-