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<section id="contents">
<table>
<tr>
<th>Chapter Number</th>
<th>Devices mentioned</th>
<th>Places mentioned</th>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-1">CHAPTER I</a></td>
<td>CARRIAGE, LAMP, LAMPS, LEITER-WAGON, TRAIN</td>
<td>A GREEN SLOPING LAND FULL OF FORESTS AND WOODS, BISTRITZ, BORGO PASS, BUDA-PESTH,
BUKOVINA, CARPATHIAN MOUNTAINS, CARPATHIANS, CASTLE DRACULA, FRANCE, GERMAN, GERMANY,
KLAUSENBURGH, LITTLE TOWNS OR CASTLES, LONDON, STEEP HILLS, THE BRITISH MUSEUM, THE
CARPATHIANS, THE CASTLE, THE DANUBE, THE GOLDEN KRONE HOTEL, THE GREEN SWELLING HILLS
OF THE MITTEL LAND, THE HOTEL AT BISTRITZ, THE HOTEL ROYALE, THE INN-YARD AND ITS
CROWD OF PICTURESQUE FIGURES, THE PASS, TRANSYLVANIA, VIENNA</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-2">CHAPTER II</a></td>
<td>COMPASS, LAMP, LAMPS</td>
<td>A HOUSE, ASYLUM, AT PURFLEET, ON A BY-ROAD, ENGLAND, EXETER, HAMPTON COURT, LONDON,
THE CASTLE, THE DINING-ROOM, THE ESTATE IS CALLED CARFAX, TRANSYLVANIA, TRANSYLVANIA;,
WHITBY, YORKSHIRE COAST</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-3">CHAPTER III</a></td>
<td>LAMP, PEN, STAMPED</td>
<td>BISTRITZ, CATHEDRAL AT EXETER, ENGLAND, HE DANUBE, ICELAND, LONDON, SCYTHIA, THE TURK,
TRANSYLVANIA, TURKEY-LAND, WHITBY</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-4">CHAPTER IV</a></td>
<td>CARRIAGE, GUN, LAMP, LEITER-WAGON, RAILWAYS</td>
<td>BISTRITZ, BORGO PASS, BUKOVINA, CASTLE DRACULA, ENGLAND, LONDON, THE COUNT’S ROOM,
THE COURTYARD., THE PASSAGE, TRANSYLVANIA</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-5">CHAPTER V</a></td>
<td>LAMPS, PHONOGRAPH, TYPEWRITER</td>
<td>ASYLUM, TRANSYLVANIA</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-6">CHAPTER VI</a></td>
<td>RAILWAY</td>
<td>CASTLE DRACULA, CHURCHYARD, RING, WHITBY</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-7">CHAPTER VII</a></td>
<td>GUN, STEAMERS, TRAIN</td>
<td>CHURCHYARD, ENGLAND, WHITBY</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-8">CHAPTER VIII</a></td>
<td>TRAIN</td>
<td>ASYLUM, CARFAX, CHURCHYARD, EXETER, LONDON, WHITBY</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-9">CHAPTER IX</a></td>
<td>RAILWAY, TELEGRAM, TRAIN</td>
<td>ASYLUM, LONDON, RING, WHITBY</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-10">CHAPTER X</a></td>
<td>INJECTION, MEDICINE, MEDICINES, TELEGRAM, TRAIN, TRANSFUSION, WIRE</td>
<td>ASYLUM</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-11">CHAPTER XI</a></td>
<td>CARRIAGE, PHONOGRAPH, TELEGRAM, TRAIN, TRANSFUSION</td>
<td>CARFAX, LONDON, WHITBY</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-12">CHAPTER XII</a></td>
<td>BULLET, CARRIAGE, INJECTION, PHONOGRAPH, TELEGRAM, TRAIN, TRANSFUSION, WIRE</td>
<td>BETHNAL GREEN, EXETER, LONDON, WALWORTH</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-13">CHAPTER XIII</a></td>
<td>CARRIAGE, TELEGRAM, TRAIN, TRANSFUSION</td>
<td>CHURCHYARD, EXETER, HAMPSTEAD, HAMPSTEAD HEATH, HAMPSTEAD HILL, HYDE PARK CORNER,
LONDON, PICCADILLY, RING, WHITBY</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-14">CHAPTER XIV</a></td>
<td>CARRIAGE, ELECTRICAL, ELECTRICITY, LAMPS, OIL, RAILWAY, TRAIN, TRAINS, TYPEWRITER,
WIRE</td>
<td>EXETER, HAMPSTEAD, LONDON, TRANSYLVANIA, WHITBY</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-15">CHAPTER XV</a></td>
<td>LAMPS</td>
<td>ASYLUM, BERKELEY HOTEL, CASTLE, CHURCHYARD, HAMPSTEAD HEATH, LONDON, PICCADILLY</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-16">CHAPTER XVI</a></td>
<td>LAMP, LAMPS, OIL-LAMP, TRAIN</td>
<td>CHURCHYARD</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-17">CHAPTER XVII</a></td>
<td>PHONOGRAPH, TELEGRAM, TRAIN, TYPEWRITER, WIRE</td>
<td>ASYLUM, BERKELEY HOTEL, CARFAX, EXETER, LONDON, TRANSYLVANIA, WHITBY</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-18">CHAPTER XVIII</a></td>
<td>BULLET, CARRIAGE, TRAIN</td>
<td>ASYLUM, BUDA-PESTH UNIVERSITY, CARFAX, CHERNOSESE, CHINA, FRANCE, GERMANY, INDIA,
OLD ROME, WHITBY</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-19">CHAPTER XIX</a></td>
<td>ELECTRIC, LAMP, LAMPS, TRAIN</td>
<td>CHURCHYARD, LONDON, THE COUNT’S HOUSE, TRANSYLVANIA, WHITBY</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-20">CHAPTER XX</a></td>
<td>MEDICINE, STAMP, STAMPED IT, TRAIN</td>
<td>BETHNAL GREEN, CARFAX, EXETER, LONDON, PICCADILLY, PICCADILLY CIRCUS, THE BRITISH
MUSEUM, WALWORTH</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-21">CHAPTER XXI</a></td>
<td>MEDICINE, PHONOGRAPH</td>
<td>CARFAX, THE COUNT’S HOUSE, WHITBY</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-22">CHAPTER XXII</a></td>
<td>CARRIAGES, PENS, PHONOGRAPHS, TRAIN, WIRE</td>
<td>ARLINGTON STREET, ASYLUM, CARFAX, LONDON, PICCADILLY, TRANSYLVANIA, WALWORTH</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-23">CHAPTER XXIII</a></td>
<td>KUKRI KNIFE, TELEGRAM, TRAIN</td>
<td>CARFAX, LONDON</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-24">CHAPTER XXIV</a></td>
<td>ELECTRIC, PHONOGRAPH</td>
<td>CASTLE, CASTLE DRACULA, ENGLAND, INDIA, LONDON, THE THAMES, TRANSYLVANIA</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-25">CHAPTER XXV</a></td>
<td>KUKRI KNIFE, PEN, PHONOGRAPH, STEAMERS, TELEGRAM, TELEGRAMS, TRAIN, TYPEWRITER, WIRE</td>
<td>CASTLE, CASTLE DRACULA, EXETER, GALATZ, LONDON, THE DARDANELLES</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-26">CHAPTER XXVI</a></td>
<td>CARRIAGE, ELECTRIC LAMP, ENGINE, ENGINES, GUN, GUNS, TRAIN, TYPEWRITER, WIRE</td>
<td>BISTRITZ, BORGO PASS, CASTLE, CASTLE OF DRACULA, CHURCHYARD, ENGLAND, FUNDU, GALATZ,
LONDON, STRASBA, THE CARPATHIANS, THE DARDANELLES, THE THAMES, VERESTI, WHITBY</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#ch-27">CHAPTER XXVII</a></td>
<td>CARRIAGE, KUKRI KNIFE, LEITER-WAGON, TRAIN</td>
<td>BISTRITZ, BORGO PASS, BUKOVINA, CARFAX, CARPATHIAN MOUNTAINS, CASTLE OF DRACULA, LONDON,
THE CARPATHIANS, THE COUNT’S HOUSE, THE PASS, TRANSYLVANIA, VERESTI</td>
</tr>
</table>
</section>
<section id="readingView">
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-1">CHAPTER I</h2>

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

(Kept in shorthand.)

3 May. Bistritz.—Left Munich at 8:35 P. M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next
morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a
wonderful place, from the glimpse which I got of it from the train and the little I
could walk through the streets. I feared to go very far from the station, as we had
arrived late and would start as near the correct time as possible. The impression
I had
was that we were leaving the West and entering the East; the most western of splendid
bridges over the Danube, which is here of noble width and depth, took us among the
traditions of Turkish rule.

We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klausenburgh. Here I stopped for
the night at the Hotel Royale. I had for dinner, or rather supper, a chicken done up
some way with red pepper, which was very good but thirsty. (Mem., get recipe for Mina.)
I asked the waiter, and he said it was called paprika hendl, and that, as it was
a national dish, I should be able to get it anywhere along the Carpathians. I found my
smattering of German very useful here; indeed, I don’t know how I should be able to get
on without it.

Having had some time at my disposal when in London, I had visited the British Museum, and
made search among the books and maps in the library regarding Transylvania; it had
struck me that some foreknowledge of the country could hardly fail to have some
importance in dealing with a nobleman of that country. I find that the district he
named
is in the extreme east of the country, just on the borders of three states,
Transylvania, Moldavia and Bukovina, in the midst of the Carpathian mountains; one of
the wildest and least known portions of Europe. I was not able to light on any map
or
work giving the exact locality of the Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this
country as yet to compare with our own Ordnance Survey maps; but I found that Bistritz,
the post town named by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I shall enter here
some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when I talk over my travels with
Mina.

In the population of Transylvania there are four distinct nationalities: Saxons in the
South, and mixed with them the Wallachs, who are the descendants of the Dacians; Magyars
in the West, and Szekelys in the East and North. I am going among the latter, who claim
to be descended from Attila and the Huns. This may be so, for when the Magyars conquered
the country in the eleventh century they found the Huns settled in it. I read that
every
known superstition in the world is gathered into the horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if
it were the centre of some sort of imaginative whirlpool; if so my stay may be very
interesting. (Mem., I must ask the Count all about them.)

I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had all sorts of
queer
dreams. There was a dog howling all night under my window, which may have had something
to do with it; or it may have been the paprika, for I had to drink up all the water
in
my carafe, and was still thirsty. Towards morning I slept and was wakened by the
continuous knocking at my door, so I guess I must have been sleeping soundly then.
I had
for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge of maize flour which they said
was
mamaliga, and egg-plant stuffed with forcemeat, a very excellent dish, which
they call impletata. (Mem., get recipe for this also.) I had to hurry breakfast,
for the train started a little before eight, or rather it ought to have done so, for
after rushing to the station at 7:30 I had to sit in the carriage for more than an hour
before we began to move. It seems to me that the further east you go the more unpunctual
are the trains. What ought they to be in China?

All day long we seemed to dawdle through a country which was full of beauty of every
kind. Sometimes we saw little towns or castles on the top of steep hills such as we see
in old missals; sometimes we ran by rivers and streams which seemed from the wide
stony
margin on each side of them to be subject to great floods. It takes a lot of water,
and
running strong, to sweep the outside edge of a river clear. At every station there were
groups of people, sometimes crowds, and in all sorts of attire. Some of them were just
like the peasants at home or those I saw coming through France and Germany, with short
jackets and round hats and home-made trousers; but others were very picturesque. The
women looked pretty, except when you got near them, but they were very clumsy about
the
waist. They had all full white sleeves of some kind or other, and most of them had big
belts with a lot of strips of something fluttering from them like the dresses in a
ballet, but of course there were petticoats under them. The strangest figures we saw
were the Slovaks, who were more barbarian than the rest, with their big cow-boy hats,
great baggy dirty-white trousers, white linen shirts, and enormous heavy leather belts,
nearly a foot wide, all studded over with brass nails. They wore high boots, with
their
trousers tucked into them, and had long black hair and heavy black moustaches. They are
very picturesque, but do not look prepossessing. On the stage they would be set down
at
once as some old Oriental band of brigands. They are, however, I am told, very harmless
and rather wanting in natural self-assertion.

It was on the dark side of twilight when we got to Bistritz, which is a very interesting
old place. Being practically on the frontier—for the Borgo Pass leads from it into
Bukovina—it has had a very stormy existence, and it certainly shows marks of it. Fifty
years ago a series of great fires took place, which made terrible havoc on five separate
occasions. At the very beginning of the seventeenth century it underwent a siege of
three weeks and lost 13,000 people, the casualties of war proper being assisted by
famine and disease.

Count Dracula had directed me to go to the Golden Krone Hotel, which I found, to my great
delight, to be thoroughly old-fashioned, for of course I wanted to see all I could
of
the ways of the country. I was evidently expected, for when I got near the door I
faced
a cheery-looking elderly woman in the usual peasant dress—white undergarment with
long
double apron, front, and back, of coloured stuff fitting almost too tight for modesty.
When I came close she bowed and said, The Herr Englishman?
Yes, I said, Jonathan Harker. She smiled, and gave some message to an
elderly man in white shirt-sleeves, who had followed her to the door. He went, but
immediately returned with a letter:—

"My Friend.—Welcome to the Carpathians. I am anxiously expecting you. Sleep well
to-night. At three to-morrow the diligence will start for Bukovina; a place on it is
kept for you. At the Borgo Pass my carriage will await you and will bring you to me. I
trust that your journey from London has been a happy one, and that you will enjoy your
stay in my beautiful land.

"Your friend,

Dracula.

4 May.—I found that my landlord had got a letter from the Count, directing him to secure
the best place on the coach for me; but on making inquiries as to details he seemed
somewhat reticent, and pretended that he could not understand my German. This could
not
be true, because up to then he had understood it perfectly; at least, he answered
my
questions exactly as if he did. He and his wife, the old lady who had received me,
looked at each other in a frightened sort of way. He mumbled out that the money had
been
sent in a letter, and that was all he knew. When I asked him if he knew Count Dracula,
and could tell me anything of his castle, both he and his wife crossed themselves,
and,
saying that they knew nothing at all, simply refused to speak further. It was so near
the time of starting that I had no time to ask any one else, for it was all very
mysterious and not by any means comforting.

Just before I was leaving, the old lady came up to my room and said in a very hysterical
way:

Must you go? Oh! young Herr, must you go? She was in such an excited state that
she seemed to have lost her grip of what German she knew, and mixed it all up with some
other language which I did not know at all. I was just able to follow her by asking
many
questions. When I told her that I must go at once, and that I was engaged on important
business, she asked again:

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

Oh, yes! I know that! I know that, but do you know what day it is? On my saying
that I did not understand, she went on:

It is the eve of St. George’s Day. Do you not know that to-night, when the clock
strikes midnight, all the evil things in the world will have full sway? Do you know
where you are going, and what you are going to? She was in such evident distress
that I tried to comfort her, but without effect. Finally she went down on her knees
and
implored me not to go; at least to wait a day or two before starting. It was all very
ridiculous but I did not feel comfortable. However, there was business to be done,
and I
could allow nothing to interfere with it. I therefore tried to raise her up, and said,
as gravely as I could, that I thanked her, but my duty was imperative, and that I
must
go. She then rose and dried her eyes, and taking a crucifix from her neck offered
it to
me. I did not know what to do, for, as an English Churchman, I have been taught to
regard such things as in some measure idolatrous, and yet it seemed so ungracious
to
refuse an old lady meaning so well and in such a state of mind. She saw, I suppose,
the
doubt in my face, for she put the rosary round my neck, and said, For your mother’s
sake, and went out of the room. I am writing up this part of the diary whilst I
am waiting for the coach, which is, of course, late; and the crucifix is still round
my
neck. Whether it is the old lady’s fear, or the many ghostly traditions of this place,
or the crucifix itself, I do not know, but I am not feeling nearly as easy in my mind
as
usual. If this book should ever reach Mina before I do, let it bring my good-bye. Here
comes the coach!5 May. The Castle.—The grey of the morning has passed, and the sun is
high over the distant horizon, which seems jagged, whether with trees or hills I know
not, for it is so far off that big things and little are mixed. I am not sleepy, and,
as
I am not to be called till I awake, naturally I write till sleep comes. There are
many
odd things to put down, and, lest who reads them may fancy that I dined too well before
I left Bistritz, let me put down my dinner exactly. I dined on what they called
robber steak—bits of bacon, onion, and beef, seasoned with red pepper, and
strung on sticks and roasted over the fire, in the simple style of the London cat’s
meat! The wine was Golden Mediasch, which produces a queer sting on the tongue, which
is, however, not disagreeable. I had only a couple of glasses of this, and nothing
else.

When I got on the coach the driver had not taken his seat, and I saw him talking with
the
landlady. They were evidently talking of me, for every now and then they looked at
me,
and some of the people who were sitting on the bench outside the door—which they call
by
a name meaning word-bearer—came and listened, and then looked at me, most of them
pityingly. I could hear a lot of words often repeated, queer words, for there were
many
nationalities in the crowd; so I quietly got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and
looked them out. I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them were
Ordog—Satan, pokol—hell, stregoica—witch, vrolok and
vlkoslak—both of which mean the same thing, one being Slovak and the other
Servian for something that is either were-wolf or vampire. (Mem., I must ask the Count
about these superstitions)

When we started, the crowd round the inn door, which had by this time swelled to a
considerable size, all made the sign of the cross and pointed two fingers towards
me.
With some difficulty I got a fellow-passenger to tell me what they meant; he would
not
answer at first, but on learning that I was English, he explained that it was a charm or
guard against the evil eye. This was not very pleasant for me, just starting for an
unknown place to meet an unknown man; but every one seemed so kind-hearted, and so
sorrowful, and so sympathetic that I could not but be touched. I shall never forget
the
last glimpse which I had of the inn-yard and its crowd of picturesque figures, all
crossing themselves, as they stood round the wide archway, with its background of
rich
foliage of oleander and orange trees in green tubs clustered in the centre of the
yard.
Then our driver, whose wide linen drawers covered the whole front of the
box-seat—gotza they call them—cracked his big whip over his four small
horses, which ran abreast, and we set off on our journey.

I soon lost sight and recollection of ghostly fears in the beauty of the scene as
we
drove along, although had I known the language, or rather languages, which my
fellow-passengers were speaking, I might not have been able to throw them off so easily.
Before us lay a green sloping land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep
hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the blank gable end to the
road.
There was everywhere a bewildering mass of fruit blossom—apple, plum, pear, cherry;
and
as we drove by I could see the green grass under the trees spangled with the fallen
petals. In and out amongst these green hills of what they call here the Mittel
Land ran the road, losing itself as it swept round the grassy curve, or was shut
out by the straggling ends of pine woods, which here and there ran down the hillsides
like tongues of flame. The road was rugged, but still we seemed to fly over it with
a
feverish haste. I could not understand then what the haste meant, but the driver was
evidently bent on losing no time in reaching Borgo Prund. I was told that this road
is
in summertime excellent, but that it had not yet been put in order after the winter
snows. In this respect it is different from the general run of roads in the Carpathians,
for it is an old tradition that they are not to be kept in too good order. Of old
the
Hospadars would not repair them, lest the Turk should think that they were preparing
to
bring in foreign troops, and so hasten the war which was always really at loading
point.

Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty slopes of forest up to the
lofty steeps of thethe Carpathians themselves. Right and left of us they towered, with the
afternoon sun falling full upon them and bringing out all the glorious colours of
this
beautiful range, deep blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and brown
where
grass and rock mingled, and an endless perspective of jagged rock and pointed crags,
till these were themselves lost in the distance, where the snowy peaks rose grandly.
Here and there seemed mighty rifts in the mountains, through which, as the sun began
to
sink, we saw now and again the white gleam of falling water. One of my companions
touched my arm as we swept round the base of a hill and opened up the lofty,
snow-covered peak of a mountain, which seemed, as we wound on our serpentine way,
to be
right before us:—

Look! Isten szek!—God’s seat!—and he crossed himself reverently.

As we wound on our endless way, and the sun sank lower and lower behind us, the shadows
of the evening began to creep round us. This was emphasised by the fact that the snowy
mountain-top still held the sunset, and seemed to glow out with a delicate cool pink.
Here and there we passed Cszeks and Slovaks, all in picturesque attire, but I noticed
that goitre was painfully prevalent. By the roadside were many crosses, and as we
swept
by, my companions all crossed themselves. Here and there was a peasant man or woman
kneeling before a shrine, who did not even turn round as we approached, but seemed
in
the self-surrender of devotion to have neither eyes nor ears for the outer world.
There
were many things new to me: for instance, hay-ricks in the trees, and here and there
very beautiful masses of weeping birch, their white stems shining like silver through
the delicate green of the leaves. Now and again we passed a leiter-wagon—the ordinary
peasant’s cart—with its long, snake-like vertebra, calculated to suit the inequalities
of the road. On this were sure to be seated quite a group of home-coming peasants,
the
Cszeks with their white, and the Slovaks with their coloured, sheepskins, the latter
carrying lance-fashion their long staves, with axe at end. As the evening fell it
began
to get very cold, and the growing twilight seemed to merge into one dark mistiness
the
gloom of the trees, oak, beech, and pine, though in the valleys which ran deep between
the spurs of the hills, as we ascended through the Pass, the dark firs stood out here
and there against the background of late-lying snow. Sometimes, as the road was cut
through the pine woods that seemed in the darkness to be closing down upon us, great
masses of greyness, which here and there bestrewed the trees, produced a peculiarly
weird and solemn effect, which carried on the thoughts and grim fancies engendered
earlier in the evening, when the falling sunset threw into strange relief the ghost-like
clouds which amongst the Carpathians seem to wind ceaselessly through the valleys.
Sometimes the hills were so steep that, despite our driver’s haste, the horses could
only go slowly. I wished to get down and walk up them, as we do at home, but the driver
would not hear of it. No, no, he said; you must not walk here; the dogs are
too fierce; and then he added, with what he evidently meant for grim
pleasantry—for he looked round to catch the approving smile of the rest—and you may
have enough of such matters before you go to sleep. The only stop he would make
was a moment’s pause to light his lamps.

When it grew dark there seemed to be some excitement amongst the passengers, and they
kept speaking to him, one after the other, as though urging him to further speed.
He
lashed the horses unmercifully with his long whip, and with wild cries of encouragement
urged them on to further exertions. Then through the darkness I could see a sort of
patch of grey light ahead of us, as though there were a cleft in the hills. The
excitement of the passengers grew greater; the crazy coach rocked on its great leather
springs, and swayed like a boat tossed on a stormy sea. I had to hold on. The road
grew
more level, and we appeared to fly along. Then the mountains seemed to come nearer
to us
on each side and to frown down upon us; we were entering on the Borgo Pass. One by one
several of the passengers offered me gifts, which they pressed upon me with an
earnestness which would take no denial; these were certainly of an odd and varied
kind,
but each was given in simple good faith, with a kindly word, and a blessing, and that
strange mixture of fear-meaning movements which I had seen outside the hotel at
Bistritz—the sign of the cross and the guard against the evil eye. Then, as we flew
along, the driver leaned forward, and on each side the passengers, craning over the
edge
of the coach, peered eagerly into the darkness. It was evident that something very
exciting was either happening or expected, but though I asked each passenger, no one
would give me the slightest explanation. This state of excitement kept on for some
little time; and at last we saw before us the Pass opening out on the eastern side.
There were dark, rolling clouds overhead, and in the air the heavy, oppressive sense
of
thunder. It seemed as though the mountain range had separated two atmospheres, and
that
now we had got into the thunderous one. I was now myself looking out for the conveyance
which was to take me to the Count. Each moment I expected to see the glare of lamps
through the blackness; but all was dark. The only light was the flickering rays of
our
own lamps, in which the steam from our hard-driven horses rose in a white cloud. We
could see now the sandy road lying white before us, but there was on it no sign of
a
vehicle. The passengers drew back with a sigh of gladness, which seemed to mock my
own
disappointment. I was already thinking what I had best do, when the driver, looking
at
his watch, said to the others something which I could hardly hear, it was spoken so
quietly and in so low a tone; I thought it was An hour less than the time. Then
turning to me, he said in German worse than my own:—

There is no carriage here. The Herr is not expected after all. He will now come on to
Bukovina, and return to-morrow or the next day; better the next day. Whilst he
was speaking the horses began to neigh and snort and plunge wildly, so that the driver
had to hold them up. Then, amongst a chorus of screams from the peasants and a universal
crossing of themselves, a calèche, with four horses, drove up behind us, overtook
us,
and drew up beside the coach. I could see from the flash of our lamps, as the rays fell
on them, that the horses were coal-black and splendid animals. They were driven by
a
tall man, with a long brown beard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide his
face
from us. I could only see the gleam of a pair of very bright eyes, which seemed red
in
the lamplight, as he turned to us. He said to the driver:—

You are early to-night, my friend. The man stammered in reply:—

The English Herr was in a hurry, to which the stranger replied:—

That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to Bukovina. You cannot deceive me, my
friend; I know too much, and my horses are swift. As he spoke he smiled, and the
lamplight fell on a hard-looking mouth, with very red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as
white as ivory. One of my companions whispered to another the line from Burger’s
Lenore:—

Denn die Todten reiten schnell—

(For the dead travel fast.)

The strange driver evidently heard the words, for he looked up with a gleaming smile.
The
passenger turned his face away, at the same time putting out his two fingers and
crossing himself. Give me the Herr’s luggage, said the driver; and with exceeding
alacrity my bags were handed out and put in the calèche. Then I descended from the
side
of the coach, as the calèche was close alongside, the driver helping me with a hand
which caught my arm in a grip of steel; his strength must have been prodigious. Without
a word he shook his reins, the horses turned, and we swept into the darkness of the
Pass. As I looked back I saw the steam from the horses of the coach by the light of
the
lamps, and projected against it the figures of my late companions crossing themselves.
Then the driver cracked his whip and called to his horses, and off they swept on their
way to Bukovina. As they sank into the darkness I felt a strange chill, and a lonely
feeling came over me; but a cloak was thrown over my shoulders, and a rug across my
knees, and the driver said in excellent German:—

The night is chill, mein Herr, and my master the Count bade me take all care of you.
There is a flask of slivovitz (the plum brandy of the country) underneath the seat,
if you should require it. I did not take any, but it was a comfort to know it
was there all the same. I felt a little strangely, and not a little frightened. I
think
had there been any alternative I should have taken it, instead of prosecuting that
unknown night journey. The carriage went at a hard pace straight along, then we made a
complete turn and went along another straight road. It seemed to me that we were simply
going over and over the same ground again; and so I took note of some salient point,
and
found that this was so. I would have liked to have asked the driver what this all
meant,
but I really feared to do so, for I thought that, placed as I was, any protest would
have had no effect in case there had been an intention to delay. By-and-by, however,
as
I was curious to know how time was passing, I struck a match, and by its flame looked
at
my watch; it was within a few minutes of midnight. This gave me a sort of shock, for
I
suppose the general superstition about midnight was increased by my recent experiences.
I waited with a sick feeling of suspense.

Then a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far down the road—a long, agonised
wailing, as if from fear. The sound was taken up by another dog, and then another
and
another, till, borne on the wind which now sighed softly through the Pass, a wild
howling began, which seemed to come from all over the country, as far as the imagination
could grasp it through the gloom of the night. At the first howl the horses began
to
s train 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 calèche and run, whilst they reared again and plunged
madly,
so that the driver had to use all his great strength to keep them from bolting. In
a few
minutes, however, my own ears got accustomed to the sound, and the horses so far became
quiet that the driver was able to descend and to stand before them. He petted and
soothed them, and whispered something in their ears, as I have heard of horse-tamers
doing, and with extraordinary effect, for under his caresses they became quite
manageable again, though they still trembled. The driver again took his seat, and
shaking his reins, started off at a great pace. This time, after going to the far
side
of the Pass, he suddenly turned down a narrow roadway which ran sharply to the
right.

Soon we were hemmed in with trees, which in places arched right over the roadway till
we
passed as through a tunnel; and again great frowning rocks guarded us boldly on either
side. Though we were in shelter, we could hear the rising wind, for it moaned and
whistled through the rocks, and the branches of the trees crashed together as we swept
along. It grew colder and colder still, and fine, powdery snow began to fall, so that
soon we and all around us were covered with a white blanket. The keen wind still carried
the howling of the dogs, though this grew fainter as we went on our way. The baying
of
the wolves sounded nearer and nearer, as though they were closing round on us from
every
side. I grew dreadfully afraid, and the horses shared my fear. The driver, however,
was
not in the least disturbed; he kept turning his head to left and right, but I could
not
see anything through the darkness.

Suddenly, away on our left, I saw a faint flickering blue flame. The driver saw it
at the
same moment; he at once checked the horses, and, jumping to the ground, disappeared
into
the darkness. I did not know what to do, the less as the howling of the wolves grew
closer; but while I wondered the driver suddenly appeared again, and without a word
took
his seat, and we resumed our journey. I think I must have fallen asleep and kept
dreaming of the incident, for it seemed to be repeated endlessly, and now looking
back,
it is like a sort of awful nightmare. Once the flame appeared so near the road, that
even in the darkness around us I could watch the driver’s motions. He went rapidly
to
where the blue flame arose—it must have been very faint, for it did not seem to illumine
the place around it at all—and gathering a few stones, formed them into some device.
Once there appeared a strange optical effect: when he stood between me and the flame
he
did not obstruct it, for I could see its ghostly flicker all the same. This startled
me,
but as the effect was only momentary, I took it that my eyes deceived me straining
through the darkness. Then for a time there were no blue flames, and we sped onwards
through the gloom, with the howling of the wolves around us, as though they were
following in a moving circle.

At last there came a time when the driver went further afield than he had yet gone,
and
during his absence, the horses began to tremble worse than ever and to snort and scream
with fright. I could not see any cause for it, for the howling of the wolves had ceased
altogether; but just then the moon, sailing through the black clouds, appeared behind
the jagged crest of a beetling, pine-clad rock, and by its light I saw around us a
ring
of wolves, with white teeth and lolling red tongues, with long, sinewy limbs and shaggy
hair. They were a hundred times more terrible in the grim silence which held them
than
even when they howled. For myself, I felt a sort of paralysis of fear. It is only
when a
man feels himself face to face with such horrors that he can understand their true
import.

All at once the wolves began to howl as though the moonlight had had some peculiar
effect
on them. The horses jumped about and reared, and looked helplessly round with eyes
that
rolled in a way painful to see; but the living ring of terror encompassed them on
every
side; and they had perforce to remain within it. I called to the coachman to come,
for
it seemed to me that our only chance was to try to break out through the ring and
to aid
his approach. I shouted and beat the side of the calèche, hoping by the noise to scare
the wolves from that side, so as to give him a chance of reaching the trap. How he
came
there, I know not, but I heard his voice raised in a tone of imperious command, and
looking towards the sound, saw him stand in the roadway. As he swept his long arms,
as
though brushing aside some impalpable obstacle, the wolves fell back and back further
still. Just then a heavy cloud passed across the face of the moon, so that we were
again
in darkness.

When I could see again the driver was climbing into the calèche, and the wolves had
disappeared. This was all so strange and uncanny that a dreadful fear came upon me,
and
I was afraid to speak or move. The time seemed interminable as we swept on our way,
now
in almost complete darkness, for the rolling clouds obscured the moon. We kept on
ascending, with occasional periods of quick descent, but in the main always ascending.
Suddenly, I became conscious of the fact that the driver was in the act of pulling
up
the horses in the courtyard of a vast ruined castle, from whose tall black windows
came
no ray of light, and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line against the moonlit
sky.

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-2">CHAPTER II</h2>

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL—continued

5 May.—I must have been asleep, for certainly if I had been fully awake I must have
noticed the approach of such a remarkable place. In the gloom the courtyard looked
of
considerable size, and as several dark ways led from it under great round arches,
it
perhaps seemed bigger than it really is. I have not yet been able to see it by
daylight.

When the calèche stopped, the driver jumped down and held out his hand to assist me
to
alight. Again I could not but notice his prodigious strength. His hand actually seemed
like a steel vice that could have crushed mine if he had chosen. Then he took out
my
traps, and placed them on the ground beside me as I stood close to a great door, old
and
studded with large iron nails, and set in a projecting doorway of massive stone. I
could
see even in the dim light that the stone was massively carved, but that the carving
had
been much worn by time and weather. As I stood, the driver jumped again into his seat
and shook the reins; the horses started forward, and trap and all disappeared down
one
of the dark openings.

I stood in silence where I was, for I did not know what to do. Of bell or knocker
there
was no sign; through these frowning walls and dark window openings it was not likely
that my voice could penetrate. The time I waited seemed endless, and I felt doubts
and
fears crowding upon me. What sort of place had I come to, and among what kind of people?
What sort of grim adventure was it on which I had embarked? Was this a customary
incident in the life of a solicitor’s clerk sent out to explain the purchase of a
London
estate to a foreigner? Solicitor’s clerk! Mina would not like that. Solicitor—for
just
before leaving London I got word that my examination was successful; and I am now a
full-blown solicitor! I began to rub my eyes and pinch myself to see if I were awake.
It
all seemed like a horrible nightmare to me, and I expected that I should suddenly
awake,
and find myself at home, with the dawn struggling in through the windows, as I had
now
and again felt in the morning after a day of overwork. But my flesh answered the
pinching test, and my eyes were not to be deceived. I was indeed awake and among the
Carpathians. All I could do now was to be patient, and to wait the coming of the
morning.

Just as I had come to this conclusion I heard a heavy step approaching behind the
great
door, and saw through the chinks the gleam of a coming light. Then there was the sound
of rattling chains and the clanking of massive bolts drawn back. A key was turned
with
the loud grating noise of long disuse, and the great door swung back.

Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white moustache, and clad
in
black from head to foot, without a single speck of colour about him anywhere. He held
in
his hand an antique silver lamp, in which the flame burned without chimney or globe of
any kind, throwing long quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught of the open
door. The old man motioned me in with his right hand with a courtly gesture, saying
in
excellent English, but with a strange intonation:—

Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own will! He made no motion of
stepping to meet me, but stood like a statue, as though his gesture of welcome had
fixed
him into stone. The instant, however, that I had stepped over the threshold, he moved
impulsively forward, and holding out his hand grasped mine with a strength which made
me
wince, an effect which was not lessened by the fact that it seemed as cold as ice—more
like the hand of a dead than a living man. Again he said:—

Welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness
you
bring! The strength of the handshake was so much akin to that which I had
noticed in the driver, whose face I had not seen, that for a moment I doubted if it
were
not the same person to whom I was speaking; so to make sure, I said
interrogatively:—

Count Dracula? He bowed in a courtly way as he replied:—

I am Dracula; and I bid you welcome, Mr. Harker, to my house. Come in; the night air
is chill, and you must need to eat and rest. As he was speaking, he put the lamp
on a bracket on the wall, and stepping out, took my luggage; he had carried it in
before
I could forestall him. I protested but he insisted:—

Nay, sir, you are my guest. It is late, and my people are not available. Let me see
to
your comfort myself. He insisted on carrying my traps along the passage, and
then up a great winding stair, and along another great passage, on whose stone floor
our
steps rang heavily. At the end of this he threw open a heavy door, and I rejoiced
to see
within a well-lit room in which a table was spread for supper, and on whose mighty
hearth a great fire of logs, freshly replenished, flamed and flared.

The Count halted, putting down my bags, closed the door, and crossing the room, opened
another door, which led into a small octagonal room lit by a single lamp, and seemingly
without a window of any sort. Passing through this, he opened another door, and motioned
me to enter. It was a welcome sight; for here was a great bedroom well lighted and
warmed with another log fire,—also added to but lately, for the top logs were
fresh—which sent a hollow roar up the wide chimney. The Count himself left my luggage
inside and withdrew, saying, before he closed the door:—

You will need, after your journey, to refresh yourself by making your toilet. I trust
you will find all you wish. When you are ready, come into the other room, where you
will find your supper prepared.

The light and warmth and the Count’s courteous welcome seemed to have dissipated all
my
doubts and fears. Having then reached my normal state, I discovered that I was half
famished with hunger; so making a hasty toilet, I went into the other room.

I found supper already laid out. My host, who stood on one side of the great fireplace,
leaning against the stonework, made a graceful wave of his hand to the table, and
said:—

I pray you, be seated and sup how you please. You will, I trust, excuse me that I
do
not join you; but I have dined already, and I do not sup.

I handed to him the sealed letter which Mr. Hawkins had entrusted to me. He opened it and
read it gravely; then, with a charming smile, he handed it to me to read. One passage
of
it, at least, gave me a thrill of pleasure.

I must regret that an attack of gout, from which malady I am a constant sufferer,
forbids absolutely any travelling on my part for some time to come; but I am happy
to say I can send a sufficient substitute, one in whom I have every possible
confidence. He is a young man, full of energy and talent in his own way, and of a
very faithful disposition. He is discreet and silent, and has grown into manhood in
my service. He shall be ready to attend on you when you will during his stay, and
shall take your instructions in all matters.

The Count himself came forward and took off the cover of a dish, and I fell to at once on
an excellent roast chicken. This, with some cheese and a salad and a bottle of old
Tokay, of which I had two glasses, was my supper. During the time I was eating it
the
Count asked me many questions as to my journey, and I told him by degrees all I had
experienced.

By this time I had finished my supper, and by my host’s desire had drawn up a chair
by
the fire and begun to smoke a cigar which he offered me, at the same time excusing
himself that he did not smoke. I had now an opportunity of observing him, and found
him
of a very marked physiognomy.

His face was a strong—a very strong—aquiline, with high bridge of the thin nose and
peculiarly arched nostrils; with lofty domed forehead, and hair growing scantily round
the temples but profusely elsewhere. His eyebrows were very massive, almost meeting
over
the nose, and with bushy hair that seemed to curl in its own profusion. The mouth,
so
far as I could see it under the heavy moustache, was fixed and rather cruel-looking,
with peculiarly sharp white teeth; these protruded over the lips, whose remarkable
ruddiness showed astonishing vitality in a man of his years. For the rest, his ears
were
pale, and at the tops extremely pointed; the chin was broad and strong, and the cheeks
firm though thin. The general effect was one of extraordinary pallor.

Hitherto I had noticed the backs of his hands as they lay on his knees in the firelight,
and they had seemed rather white and fine; but seeing them now close to me, I could
not
but notice that they were rather coarse—broad, with squat fingers. Strange to say,
there
were hairs in the centre of the palm. The nails were long and fine, and cut to a sharp
point. As the Count 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
protuberant teeth, sat himself down again on his own side of the fireplace. We were
both
silent for a while; and as I looked towards the window I saw the first dim streak
of the
coming dawn. There seemed a strange stillness over everything; but as I listened I
heard
as if from down below in the valley the howling of many wolves. The Count’s eyes
gleamed, and he said:—

Listen to them—the children of the night. What music they make! Seeing, I suppose,
some expression in my face strange to him, he added:—

Ah, sir, you dwellers in the city cannot enter into the feelings of the hunter.
Then he rose and said:—

But you must be tired. Your bedroom is all ready, and to-morrow you shall sleep as
late as you will. I have to be away till the afternoon; so sleep well and dream
well! With a courteous bow, he opened for me himself the door to the octagonal
room, and I entered my bedroom....

I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear; I think strange things, which I dare
not
confess to my own soul. God keep me, if only for the sake of those dear to me!7 May.—It
is again early morning, but I have rested and enjoyed the last twenty-four hours.
I
slept till late in the day, and awoke of my own accord. When I had dressed myself
I went
into the room where we had supped, and found a cold breakfast laid out, with coffee
kept
hot by the pot being placed on the hearth. There was a card on the table, on which
was
written:—

I have to be absent for a while. Do not wait for me.—D. I set to and enjoyed a
hearty meal. When I had done, I looked for a bell, so that I might let the servants
know
I had finished; but I could not find one. There are certainly odd deficiencies in
the
house, considering the extraordinary evidences of wealth which are round me. The table
service is of gold, and so beautifully wrought that it must be of immense value. The
curtains and upholstery of the chairs and sofas and the hangings of my bed are of
the
costliest and most beautiful fabrics, and must have been of fabulous value when they
were made, for they are centuries old, though in excellent order. I saw something
like
them in Hampton Court, but there they were worn and frayed and moth-eaten. But still in
none of the rooms 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 or dinner, for it was between five and six o’clock when I had it—I
looked about for something to read, for I did not like to go about the castle until
I
had asked the Count’s permission. There was absolutely nothing in the room, book,
newspaper, or even writing materials; so I opened another door in the room and found
a
sort of library. The door opposite mine I tried, but found it locked.

In the library I found, to my great delight, a vast number of English books, whole
shelves full of them, and bound volumes of magazines and newspapers. A table in the
centre was littered with English magazines and newspapers, though none of them were
of
very recent date. The books were of the most varied kind—history, geography, politics,
political economy, botany, geology, law—all relating to England and English life and
customs and manners. There were even such books of reference as the London Directory,
the Red and Blue books, Whitaker’s Almanac, the Army and Navy Lists,
and—it somehow gladdened my heart to see it—the Law List.

Whilst I was looking at the books, the door opened, and the Count entered. He saluted
me
in a hearty way, and hoped that I had had a good night’s rest. Then he went on:—

I am glad you found your way in here, for I am sure there is much that will interest
you. These companions—and he laid his hand on some of the books—have been
good friends to me, and for some years past, ever since I had the idea of going to
London, have given me many, many hours of pleasure. Through them I have come to know
your great England; and to know her is to love her. I long to go through the crowded
streets of your mighty London, to be in the midst of the whirl and rush of humanity,
to share its life, its change, its death, and all that makes it what it is. But
alas! as yet I only know your tongue through books. To you, my friend, I look that
I
know it to speak.

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

I thank you, my friend, for your all too-flattering estimate, but yet I fear that
I
am but a little way on the road I would travel. True, I know the grammar and the
words, but yet I know not how to speak them.

Indeed, I said, you speak excellently.

Not so, he answered. Well, I know that, did I move and speak in your London,
none there are who would not know me for a stranger. That is not enough for me. Here
I am noble; I am boyar; the common people know me, and I am master. But a stranger
in a strange land, he is no one; men know him not—and to know not is to care not
for. I am content if I am like the rest, so that no man stops if he see me, or pause
in his speaking if he hear my words, ‘Ha, ha! a stranger!’ I have been so long
master that I would be master still—or at least that none other should be master of
me. You come to me not alone as agent of my friend Peter Hawkins, of Exeter, to tell
me all about my new estate in London. You shall, I trust, rest here with me awhile,
so that by our talking I may learn the English intonation; and I would that you tell
me when I make error, even of the smallest, in my speaking. I am sorry that I had
to
be away so long to-day; but you will, I know, forgive one who has so many important
affairs in hand.

Of course I said all I could about being willing, and asked if I might come into that
room when I chose. He answered: Yes, certainly, and added:—

You may go anywhere you wish in the castle, except where the doors are locked, where
of course you will not wish to go. There is reason that all things are as they are,
and did you see with my eyes and know with my knowledge, you would perhaps better
understand. I said I was sure of this, and then he went on:—

We are in Transylvania; and Transylvania is not England. Our ways are not your ways,
and there shall be to you many strange things. Nay, from what you have told me of
your experiences already, you know something of what strange things there may
be.

This led to much conversation; and as it was evident that he wanted to talk, if only
for
talking’s sake, I asked him many questions regarding things that had already happened
to
me or come within my notice. Sometimes he sheered off the subject, or turned the
conversation by pretending not to understand; but generally he answered all I asked
most
frankly. Then as time went on, and I had got somewhat bolder, I asked him of some
of the
strange things of the preceding night, as, for instance, why the coachman went to the
places where he had seen the blue flames. He then explained to me that it was commonly
believed that on a certain night of the year—last night, in fact, when all evil spirits
are supposed to have unchecked sway—a blue flame is seen over any place where treasure
has been concealed. That treasure has been hidden, he went on, in the region
through which you came last night, there can be but little doubt; for it was the
ground fought over for centuries by the Wallachian, the Saxon, and the Turk. Why,
there is hardly a foot of soil in all this region that has not been enriched by the
blood of men, patriots or invaders. In old days there were stirring times, when
the Austrian and the Hungarian came up in hordes, and the patriots went out to meet
them—men and women, the aged and the children too—and waited their coming on the
rocks above the passes, that they might sweep destruction on them with their
artificial avalanches. When the invader was triumphant he found but little, for
whatever there was had been sheltered in the friendly soil.

But how, said I, can it have remained so long undiscovered, when there is a
sure index to it if men will but take the trouble to look? The Count smiled, and
as his lips ran back over his gums, the long, sharp, canine teeth showed out strangely;
he answered:—

Because your peasant is at heart a coward and a fool! Those flames only appear on one
night; and on that night no man of this land will, if he can help it, stir without
his doors. And, dear sir, even if he did he would not know what to do. Why, even the
peasant that you tell me of who marked the place of the flame would not know where
to look in daylight even for his own work. Even you would not, I dare be sworn, be
able to find these places again?

There you are right, I said. I know no more than the dead where even to look
for them. Then we drifted into other matters.

Come, he said at last, tell me of London and of the house which you have
procured for me. With an apology for my remissness, I went into my own room to
get the papers from my bag. Whilst I was placing them in order I heard a rattling
of
china and silver in the next room, and as I passed through, noticed that the table
had
been cleared and the lamp lit, for it was by this time deep into the dark. The lamps
were also lit in the study or library, and I found the Count lying on the sofa, reading,
of all things in the world, an English Bradshaw’s Guide. When I came in he cleared
the
books and papers from the table; and with him I went into plans and deeds and figures
of
all sorts. He was interested in everything, and asked me a myriad questions about
the
place and its surroundings. He clearly had studied beforehand all he could get on
the
subject of the neighbourhood, for he evidently at the end knew very much more than
I
did. When I remarked this, he answered:—

Well, but, my friend, is it not needful that I should? When I go there I shall be
all
alone, and my friend Harker Jonathan—nay, pardon me, I fall into my country’s habit
of putting your patronymic first—my friend Jonathan Harker will not be by my side to
correct and aid me. He will be in Exeter, miles away, probably working at papers of
the law with my other friend, Peter Hawkins. So!

We went thoroughly into the business of the purchase of the estate at Purfleet. When
I
had told him the facts and got his signature to the necessary papers, and had written
a
letter with them ready to post to Mr. Hawkins, he began to ask me how I had come across
so suitable a place. I read to him the notes which I had made at the time, and which
I
inscribe here:—

"At Purfleet, on a by-road, I came across just such a place as seemed to be required, and
where was displayed a dilapidated notice that the place was for sale. It is surrounded
by a high wall, of ancient structure, built of heavy stones, and has not been repaired
for a large number of years. The closed gates are of heavy old oak and iron, all eaten
with rust.

The estate is called Carfax, no doubt a corruption of the old Quatre Face, as the
house is four-sided, agreeing with the cardinal points of the compass. It contains
in all some twenty acres, quite surrounded by the solid stone wall above mentioned.
There are many trees on it, which make it in places gloomy, and there is a deep,
dark-looking pond or small lake, evidently fed by some springs, as the water is
clear and flows away in a fair-sized stream. The house is very large and of all
periods back, I should say, to mediæval times, for one part is of stone immensely
thick, with only a few windows high up and heavily barred with iron. It looks like
part of a keep, and is close to an old chapel or church. I could not enter it, as
I
had not the key of the door leading to it from the house, but I have taken with my
kodak views of it from various points. The house has been added to, but in a very
straggling way, and I can only guess at the amount of ground it covers, which must
be very great. There are but few houses close at hand, one being a very large house
only recently added to and formed into a private lunatic asylum. It is not, however,
visible from the grounds.

When I had finished, he said:—

I am glad that it is old and big. I myself am of an old family, and to live in a new
house would kill me. A house cannot be made habitable in a day; and, after all, how
few days go to make up a century. I rejoice also that there is a chapel of old
times. We Transylvanian nobles love not to think that our bones may lie amongst the
common dead. I seek not gaiety nor mirth, not the bright voluptuousness of much
sunshine and sparkling waters which please the young and gay. I am no longer young;
and my heart, through weary years of mourning over the dead, is not attuned to
mirth. Moreover, the walls of my castle are broken; the shadows are many, and the
wind breathes cold through the broken battlements and casements. I love the shade
and the shadow, and would be alone with my thoughts when I may. Somehow his
words and his look did not seem to accord, or else it was that his cast of face made
his
smile look malignant and saturnine.

Presently, with an excuse, he left me, asking me to put all my papers together. He
was
some little time away, and I began to look at some of the books around me. One was
an
atlas, which I found opened naturally at England, as if that map had been much used. On
looking at it I found in certain places little rings marked, and on examining these
I
noticed that one was near London on the east side, manifestly where his new estate was
situated; the other two were Exeter, and Whitby on the Yorkshire coast.

It was the better part of an hour when the Count returned. Aha! he said; still
at your books? Good! But you must not work always. Come; I am informed that your
supper is ready. He took my arm, and we went into the next room, where I found
an excellent supper ready on the table. The Count again excused himself, as he had dined
out on his being away from home. But he sat as on the previous night, and chatted
whilst
I ate. After supper I smoked, as on the last evening, and the Count stayed with me,
chatting and asking questions on every conceivable subject, hour after hour. I felt
that
it was getting very late indeed, but I did not say anything, for I felt under obligation
to meet my host’s wishes in every way. I was not sleepy, as the long sleep yesterday
had
fortified me; but I could not help experiencing that chill which comes over one at
the
coming of the dawn, which is like, in its way, the turn of the tide. They say that
people who are near death die generally at the change to the dawn or at the turn of
the
tide; any one who has when tired, and tied as it were to his post, experienced this
change in the atmosphere can well believe it. All at once we heard the crow of a cock
coming up with preternatural shrillness through the clear morning air; Count Dracula,
jumping to his feet, said:—

Why, there is the morning again! How remiss I am to let you stay up so long. You must
make your conversation regarding my dear new country of England less interesting, so
that I may not forget how time flies by us, and, with a courtly bow, he quickly
left me.

I went into my own room and drew the curtains, but there was little to notice; my
window
opened into the courtyard, all I could see was the warm grey of quickening sky. So
I
pulled the curtains again, and have written of this day.8 May.—I began to fear as I
wrote in this book that I was getting too diffuse; but now I am glad that I went into
detail from the first, for there is something so strange about this place and all
in it
that I cannot but feel uneasy. I wish I were safe out of it, or that I had never come.
It may be that this strange night-existence is telling on me; but would that that
were
all! If there were any one to talk to I could bear it, but there is no one. I have
only
the Count to speak with, and he!—I fear I am myself the only living soul within the
place. Let me be prosaic so far as facts can be; it will help me to bear up, and
imagination must not run riot with me. If it does I am lost. Let me say at once how
I
stand—or seem to.

I only slept a few hours when I went to bed, and feeling that I could not sleep any
more,
got up. I had hung my shaving glass by the window, and was just beginning to shave.
Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, and heard the Count’s voice saying to me,
Good-morning. I started, for it amazed me that I had not seen him, since the
reflection of the glass covered the whole room behind me. In starting I had cut myself
slightly, but did not notice it at the moment. Having answered the Count’s salutation,
I
turned to the glass again to see how I had been mistaken. This time there could be
no
error, for the man was close to me, and I could see him over my shoulder. But there
was
no reflection of him in the mirror! The whole room behind me was displayed; but there
was no sign of a man in it, except myself. This was startling, and, coming on the
top of
so many strange things, was beginning to increase that vague feeling of uneasiness
which
I always have when the Count is near; but at the instant I saw that the cut had bled
a
little, and the blood was trickling over my chin. I laid down the razor, turning as
I
did so half round to look for some sticking plaster. When the Count saw my face, his
eyes blazed with a sort of demoniac fury, and he suddenly made a grab at my throat.
I
drew away, and his hand touched the string of beads which held the crucifix. It made
an
instant change in him, for the fury passed so quickly that I could hardly believe
that
it was ever there.

Take care, he said, take care how you cut yourself. It is more dangerous than
you think in this country. Then seizing the shaving glass, he went on: And
this is the wretched thing that has done the mischief. It is a foul bauble of man’s
vanity. Away with it! and opening the heavy window with one wrench of his
terrible hand, he flung out the glass, which was shattered into a thousand pieces
on the
stones of the courtyard far below. Then he withdrew without a word. It is very annoying,
for I do not see how I am to shave, unless in my watch-case or the bottom of the
shaving-pot, which is fortunately of metal.

When I went into the dining-room, breakfast was prepared; but I could not find the Count
anywhere. So I breakfasted alone. It is strange that as yet I have not seen the Count
eat or drink. He must be a very peculiar man! After breakfast I did a little exploring
in the castle. I went out on the stairs, and found a room looking towards the South.
The
view was magnificent, and from where I stood there was every opportunity of seeing
it.
The castle is on the very edge of a terrible precipice. A stone falling from the window
would fall a thousand feet without touching anything! As far as the eye can reach
is a
sea of green tree tops, with occasionally a deep rift where there is a chasm. Here
and
there are silver threads where the rivers wind in deep gorges through the forests.

But I am not in heart to describe beauty, for when I had seen the view I explored
further; doors, doors, doors everywhere, and all locked and bolted. In no place save
from the windows in the castle walls is there an available exit.

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

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-3">CHAPTER III</h2>

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL—continued

WHEN I found that I was a prisoner a sort of wild feeling came over me. I rushed up
and
down the stairs, trying every door and peering out of every window I could find; but
after a little the conviction of my helplessness overpowered all other feelings. When
I
look back after a few hours I think I must have been mad for the time, for I behaved
much as a rat does in a trap. When, however, the conviction had come to me that I
was
helpless I sat down quietly—as quietly as I have ever done anything in my life—and
began
to think over what was best to be done. I am thinking still, and as yet have come
to no
definite conclusion. Of one thing only am I certain; that it is no use making my ideas
known to the Count. He knows well that I am imprisoned; and as he has done it himself,
and has doubtless his own motives for it, he would only deceive me if I trusted him
fully with the facts. So far as I can see, my only plan will be to keep my knowledge
and
my fears to myself, and my eyes open. I am, I know, either being deceived, like a
baby,
by my own fears, or else I am in desperate straits; and if the latter be so, I need,
and
shall need, all my brains to get through.

I had hardly come to this conclusion when I heard the great door below shut, and knew
that the Count had returned. He did not come at once into the library, so I went
cautiously to my own room and found him making the bed. This was odd, but only confirmed
what I had all along thought—that there were no servants in the house. When later
I saw
him through the chink of the hinges of the door laying the table in the dining-room,
I
was assured of it; for if he does himself all these menial offices, surely it is proof
that there is no one else to do them. This gave me a fright, for if there is no one
else
in the castle, it must have been the Count himself who was the driver of the coach that
brought me here. This is a terrible thought; for if so, what does it mean that he
could
control the wolves, as he did, by only holding up his hand in silence. How was it
that
all the people at Bistritz and on the coach had some terrible fear for me? What meant
the giving of the crucifix, of the garlic, of the wild rose, of the mountain ash?
Bless
that good, good woman who hung the crucifix round my neck! for it is a comfort and
a
strength to me whenever I touch it. It is odd that a thing which I have been taught
to
regard with disfavour and as idolatrous should in a time of loneliness and trouble
be of
help. Is it that there is something in the essence of the thing itself, or that it
is a
medium, a tangible help, in conveying memories of sympathy and comfort? Some time,
if it
may be, I must examine this matter and try to make up my mind about it. In the meantime
I must find out all I can about Count Dracula, as it may help me to understand. To-night
he may talk of himself, if I turn the conversation that way. I must be very careful,
however, not to awake his suspicion.Midnight.—I have had a long talk with the Count. I
asked him a few questions on Transylvania history, and he warmed up to the subject
wonderfully. In his speaking of things and people, and especially of battles, he spoke
as if he had been present at them all. This he afterwards explained by saying that
to a
boyar the pride of his house and name is his own pride, that their glory is his glory,
that their fate is his fate. Whenever he spoke of his house he always said we,
and spoke almost in the plural, like a king speaking. I wish I could put down all
he
said exactly as he said it, for to me it was most fascinating. It seemed to have in
it a
whole history of the country. He grew excited as he spoke, and walked about the room
pulling his great white moustache and grasping anything on which he laid his hands
as
though he would crush it by main strength. One thing he said which I shall put down
as
nearly as I can; for it tells in its way the story of his race:—

We Szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our veins flows the blood of many brave
races who fought as the lion fights, for lordship. Here, in the whirlpool of
European races, the Ugric tribe bore down from Iceland the fighting spirit which
Thor and Wodin gave them, which their Berserkers displayed to such fell intent on
the seaboards of Europe, ay, and of Asia and Africa too, till the peoples thought
that the were-wolves themselves had come. Here, too, when they came, they found the
Huns, whose warlike fury had swept the earth like a living flame, till the dying
peoples held that in their veins ran the blood of those old witches, who, expelled
from Scythia had mated with the devils in the desert. Fools, fools! What devil or
what witch was ever so great as Attila, whose blood is in these veins? He held
up his arms. Is it a wonder that we were a conquering race; that we were proud; that
when the Magyar, the Lombard, the Avar, the Bulgar, or the Turk poured his thousands
on our frontiers, we drove them back? Is it strange that when Arpad and his legions
swept through the Hungarian fatherland he found us here when he reached the
frontier; that the Honfoglalas was completed there? And when the Hungarian flood
swept eastward, the Szekelys were claimed as kindred by the victorious Magyars, and
to us for centuries was trusted the guarding of the frontier of Turkey-land; ay, and
more than that, endless duty of the frontier guard, for, as the Turks say, ‘water
sleeps, and enemy is sleepless.’ Who more gladly than we throughout the Four Nations
received the ‘bloody sword,’ or at its warlike call flocked quicker to the standard
of the King? When was redeemed that great shame of my nation, the shame of Cassova,
when the flags of the Wallach and the Magyar went down beneath the Crescent? Who was
it but one of my own race who as Voivode crossed the Danube and beat the Turk on his
own ground? This was a Dracula indeed! Woe was it that his own unworthy brother,
when he had fallen, sold his people to the Turk and brought the shame of slavery on
them! Was it not this Dracula, indeed, who inspired that other of his race who in
a
later age again and again brought his forces over the great river into Turkey-land;
who, when he was beaten back, came again, and again, and again, though he had to
come alone from the bloody field where his troops were being slaughtered, since he
knew that he alone could ultimately triumph! They said that he thought only of
himself. Bah! what good are peasants without a leader? Where ends the war without
a
brain and heart to conduct it? Again, when, after the battle of Mohács, we threw off
the Hungarian yoke, we of the Dracula blood were amongst their leaders, for our
spirit would not brook that we were not free. Ah, young sir, the Szekelys—and the
Dracula as their heart’s blood, their brains, and their swords—can boast a record
that mushroom growths like the Hapsburgs and the Romanoffs can never reach. The
warlike days are over. Blood is too precious a thing in these days of dishonourable
peace; and the glories of the great races are as a tale that is told.

It was by this time close on morning, and we went to bed. (Mem., this diary seems
horribly like the beginning of the Arabian Nights, for everything has to break
off at cockcrow—or like the ghost of Hamlet’s father.)12 May.—Let me begin with
facts—bare, meagre facts, verified by books and figures, and of which there can be
no
doubt. I must not confuse them with experiences which will have to rest on my own
observation, or my memory of them. Last evening when the Count came from his room he
began by asking me questions on legal matters and on the doing of certain kinds of
business. I had spent the day wearily over books, and, simply to keep my mind occupied,
went over some of the matters I had been examined in at Lincoln’s Inn. There was a
certain method in the Count’s inquiries, so I shall try to put them down in sequence;
the knowledge may somehow or some time be useful to me.

First, he asked if a man in England might have two solicitors or more. I told him he
might have a dozen if he wished, but that it would not be wise to have more than one
solicitor engaged in one transaction, as only one could act at a time, and that to
change would be certain to militate against his interest. He seemed thoroughly to
understand, and went on to ask if there would be any practical difficulty in having
one
man to attend, say, to banking, and another to look after shipping, in case local
help
were needed in a place far from the home of the banking solicitor. I asked him to
explain more fully, so that I might not by any chance mislead him, so he said:—

I shall illustrate. Your friend and mine, Mr. Peter Hawkins, from under the shadow of
your beautiful cathedral at Exeter, which is far from London, buys for me through
your good self my place at London. Good! Now here let me say frankly, lest you
should think it strange that I have sought the services of one so far off from
London instead of some one resident there, that my motive was that no local interest
might be served save my wish only; and as one of London residence might, perhaps,
have some purpose of himself or friend to serve, I went thus afield to seek my
agent, whose labours should be only to my interest. Now, suppose I, who have much
of
affairs, wish to ship goods, say, to Newcastle, or Durham, or Harwich, or Dover,
might it not be that it could with more ease be done by consigning to one in these
ports? I answered that certainly it would be most easy, but that we solicitors
had a system of agency one for the other, so that local work could be done locally
on
instruction from any solicitor, so that the client, simply placing himself in the
hands
of one man, could have his wishes carried out by him without further trouble.

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

Of course, I replied; and such is often done by men of business, who do not
like the whole of their affairs to be known by any one person.

Good! he said, and then went on to ask about the means of making consignments and
the forms to be gone through, and of all sorts of difficulties which might arise,
but by
forethought could be guarded against. I explained all these things to him to the best
of
my ability, and he certainly left me under the impression that he would have made
a
wonderful solicitor, for there was nothing that he did not think of or foresee. For
a
man who was never in the country, and who did not evidently do much in the way of
business, his knowledge and acumen were wonderful. When he had satisfied himself on
these points of which he had spoken, and I had verified all as well as I could by
the
books available, he suddenly stood up and said:—

Have you written since your first letter to our friend Mr. Peter Hawkins, or to any
other? It was with some bitterness in my heart that I answered that I had not,
that as yet I had not seen any opportunity of sending letters to anybody.

Then write now, my young friend, he said, laying a heavy hand on my shoulder:
write to our friend and to any other; and say, if it will please you, that you
shall stay with me until a month from now.

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

I desire it much; nay, I will take no refusal. When your master, employer, what you
will, engaged that someone should come on his behalf, it was understood that my
needs only were to be consulted. I have not stinted. Is it not so?

What could I do but bow acceptance? It was Mr. Hawkins’s interest, not mine, and I had to
think of him, not myself; and besides, while Count Dracula was speaking, there was that
in his eyes and in his bearing which made me remember that I was a prisoner, and that
if
I wished it I could have no choice. The Count saw his victory in my bow, and his mastery
in the trouble of my face, for he began at once to use them, but in his own smooth,
resistless way:—

I pray you, my good young friend, that you will not discourse of things other than
business in your letters. It will doubtless please your friends to know that you are
well, and that you look forward to getting home to them. Is it not so? As he
spoke he handed me three sheets of note-paper and three envelopes. They were all of
the
thinnest foreign post, and looking at them, then at him, and noticing his quiet smile,
with the sharp, canine teeth lying over the red underlip, I understood as well as
if he
had spoken that I should be careful what I wrote, for he would be able to read it.
So I
determined to write only formal notes now, but to write fully to Mr. Hawkins in secret,
and also to Mina, for to her I could write in shorthand, which would puzzle the Count,
if he did see it. When I had written my two letters I sat quiet, reading a book whilst
the Count wrote several notes, referring as he wrote them to some books on his table.
Then he took up my two and placed them with his own, and put by his writing materials,
after which, the instant the door had closed behind him, I leaned over and looked
at the
letters, which were face down on the table. I felt no compunction in doing so, for
under
the circumstances I felt that I should protect myself in every way I could.

One of the letters was directed to Samuel F. Billington, No. 7, The Crescent, Whitby,
another to Herr Leutner, Varna; the third was to Coutts &amp; Co., London, and the
fourth to Herren Klopstock &amp; Billreuth, bankers, Buda-Pesth. The second and fourth
were unsealed. I was just about to look at them when I saw the door-handle move. I
sank
back in my seat, having just had time to replace the letters as they had been and
to
resume my book before the Count, holding still another letter in his hand, entered
the
room. He took up the letters on the table and stamped them carefully, and then turning
to me, said:—

I trust you will forgive me, but I have much work to do in private this evening. You
will, I hope, find all things as you wish. At the door he turned, and after a
moment’s pause said:—

Let me advise you, my dear young friend—nay, let me warn you with all seriousness,
that should you leave these rooms you will not by any chance go to sleep in any
other part of the castle. It is old, and has many memories, and there are bad dreams
for those who sleep unwisely. Be warned! Should sleep now or ever overcome you, or
be like to do, then haste to your own chamber or to these rooms, for your rest will
then be safe. But if you be not careful in this respect, then—He finished his
speech in a gruesome way, for he motioned with his hands as if he were washing them.
I
quite understood; my only doubt was as to whether any dream could be more terrible
than
the unnatural, horrible net of gloom and mystery which seemed closing around me.Later.—I
endorse the last words written, but this time there is no doubt in question. I shall
not
fear to sleep in any place where he is not. I have placed the crucifix over the head
of
my bed—I imagine that my rest is thus freer from dreams; and there it shall remain.

When he left me I went to my room. After a little while, not hearing any sound, I
came
out and went up the stone stair to where I could look out towards the South. There
was
some sense of freedom in the vast expanse, inaccessible though it was to me, as compared
with the narrow darkness of the courtyard. Looking out on this, I felt that I was
indeed
in prison, and I seemed to want a breath of fresh air, though it were of the night.
I am
beginning to feel this nocturnal existence tell on me. It is destroying my nerve.
I
start at my own shadow, and am full of all sorts of horrible imaginings. God knows
that
there is ground for my terrible fear in this accursed place! I looked out over the
beautiful expanse, bathed in soft yellow moonlight till it was almost as light as
day.
In the soft light the distant hills became melted, and the shadows in the valleys
and
gorges of velvety blackness. The mere beauty seemed to cheer me; there was peace and
comfort in every breath I drew. As I leaned from the window my eye was caught by
something moving a storey below me, and somewhat to my left, where I imagined, from
the
order of the rooms, that the windows of the Count’s own room would look out. The window
at which I stood was tall and deep, stone-mullioned, and though weatherworn, was still
complete; but it was evidently many a day since the case had been there. I drew back
behind the stonework, and looked carefully out.

What I saw was the Count’s head coming out from the window. I did not see the face, but I
knew the man by the neck and the movement of his back and arms. In any case I could
not
mistake the hands which I had had so many opportunities of studying. I was at first
interested and somewhat amused, for it is wonderful how small a matter will interest
and
amuse a man when he is a prisoner. But my very feelings changed to repulsion and terror
when I saw the whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the
castle wall over that dreadful abyss, face down with his cloak spreading out around
him
like great wings. At first I could not believe my eyes. I thought it was some trick
of
the moonlight, some weird effect of shadow; but I kept looking, and it could be no
delusion. I saw the fingers and toes grasp the corners of the stones, worn clear of
the
mortar by the stress of years, and by thus using every projection and inequality move
downwards with considerable speed, just as a lizard moves along a wall.

What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature is it in the semblance of man?
I
feel the dread of this horrible place overpowering me; I am in fear—in awful fear—and
there is no escape for me; I am encompassed about with terrors that I dare not think
of....15 May.—Once more have I seen the Count go out in his lizard fashion. He moved
downwards in a sidelong way, some hundred feet down, and a good deal to the left.
He
vanished into some hole or window. When his head had disappeared, I leaned out to
try
and see more, but without avail—the distance was too great to allow a proper angle
of
sight. I knew he had left the castle now, and thought to use the opportunity to explore
more than I had dared to do as yet. I went back to the room, and taking a lamp, tried
all the doors. They were all locked, as I had expected, and the locks were comparatively
new; but I went down the stone stairs to the hall where I had entered originally.
I
found I could pull back the bolts easily enough and unhook the great chains; but the
door was locked, and the key was gone! That key must be in the Count’s room; I must
watch should his door be unlocked, so that I may get it and escape. I went on to make
a
thorough examination of the various stairs and passages, and to try the doors that
opened from them. One or two small rooms near the hall were open, but there was nothing
to see in them except old furniture, dusty with age and moth-eaten. At last, however,
I
found one door at the top of the stairway which, though it seemed to be locked, gave
a
little under pressure. I tried it harder, and found that it was not really locked,
but
that the resistance came from the fact that the hinges had fallen somewhat, and the
heavy door rested on the floor. Here was an opportunity which I might not have again,
so
I exerted myself, and with many efforts forced it back so that I could enter. I was
now
in a wing of the castle further to the right than the rooms I knew and a storey lower
down. From the windows I could see that the suite of rooms lay along to the south
of the
castle, the windows of the end room looking out both west and south. On the latter
side,
as well as to the former, there was a great precipice. The castle was built on the
corner of a great rock, so that on three sides it was quite impregnable, and great
windows were placed here where sling, or bow, or culverin could not reach, and
consequently light and comfort, impossible to a position which had to be guarded,
were
secured. To the west was a great valley, and then, rising far away, great jagged
mountain fastnesses, rising peak on peak, the sheer rock studded with mountain ash
and
thorn, whose roots clung in cracks and crevices and crannies of the stone. This was
evidently the portion of the castle occupied by the ladies in bygone days, for the
furniture had more air of comfort than any I had seen. The windows were curtainless,
and
the yellow moonlight, flooding in through the diamond panes, enabled one to see even
colours, whilst it softened the wealth of dust which lay over all and disguised in
some
measure the ravages of time and the moth. My lamp seemed to be of little effect in the
brilliant moonlight, but I was glad to have it with me, for there was a dread loneliness
in the place which chilled my heart and made my nerves tremble. Still, it was better
than living alone in the rooms which I had come to hate from the presence of the Count,
and after trying a little to school my nerves, I found a soft quietude come over me.
Here I am, sitting at a little oak table where in old times possibly some fair lady
sat
to pen, with much thought and many blushes, her ill-spelt love-letter, and writing
in my
diary in shorthand all that has happened since I closed it last. It is nineteenth
century up-to-date with a vengeance. And yet, unless my senses deceive me, the old
centuries had, and have, powers of their own which mere modernity cannot
kill.Later: the Morning of 16 May.—God preserve my sanity, for to this I am reduced.
Safety and the assurance of safety are things of the past. Whilst I live on here there
is but one thing to hope for, that I may not go mad, if, indeed, I be not mad already.
If I be sane, then surely it is maddening to think that of all the foul things that
lurk
in this hateful place the Count is the least dreadful to me; that to him alone I can
look for safety, even though this be only whilst I can serve his purpose. Great God!
merciful God! Let me be calm, for out of that way lies madness indeed. I begin to
get
new lights on certain things which have puzzled me. Up to now I never quite knew what
Shakespeare meant when he made Hamlet say:—

"My tablets! quick, my tablets!

’Tis meet that I put it down," etc.,

for now, feeling as though my own brain were unhinged or as if the shock had come
which
must end in its undoing, I turn to my diary for repose. The habit of entering accurately
must help to soothe me.

The Count’s mysterious warning frightened me at the time; it frightens me more now when I
think of it, for in future he has a fearful hold upon me. I shall fear to doubt what
he
may say!

When I had written in my diary and had fortunately replaced the book and pen in my pocket
I felt sleepy. The Count’s warning came into my mind, but I took a pleasure in
disobeying it. The sense of sleep was upon me, and with it the obstinacy which sleep
brings as outrider. The soft moonlight soothed, and the wide expanse without gave
a
sense of freedom which refreshed me. I determined not to return to-night to the
gloom-haunted rooms, but to sleep here, where, of old, ladies had sat and sung and
lived
sweet lives whilst their gentle breasts were sad for their menfolk away in the midst
of
remorseless wars. I drew a great couch out of its place near the corner, so that as
I
lay, I could look at the lovely view to east and south, and unthinking of and uncaring
for the dust, composed myself for sleep. I suppose I must have fallen asleep; I hope
so,
but I fear, for all that followed was startlingly real—so real that now sitting here
in
the broad, full sunlight of the morning, I cannot in the least believe that it was
all
sleep.

I was not alone. The room was the same, unchanged in any way since I came into it;
I
could see along the floor, in the brilliant moonlight, my own footsteps marked where
I
had disturbed the long accumulation of dust. In the moonlight opposite me were three
young women, ladies by their dress and manner. I thought at the time that I must be
dreaming when I saw them, for, though the moonlight was behind them, they threw no
shadow on the floor. They came close to me, and looked at me for some time, and then
whispered together. Two were dark, and had high aquiline noses, like the Count, and
great dark, piercing eyes that seemed to be almost red when contrasted with the pale
yellow moon. The other was fair, as fair as can be, with great wavy masses of golden
hair and eyes like pale sapphires. I seemed somehow to know her face, and to know
it in
connection with some dreamy fear, but I could not recollect at the moment how or where.
All three had brilliant white teeth that shone like pearls against the ruby of their
voluptuous lips. There was something about them that made me uneasy, some longing
and at
the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that they
would kiss me with those red lips. It is not good to note this down, lest some day
it
should meet Mina’s eyes and cause her pain; but it is the truth. They whispered
together, and then they all three laughed—such a silvery, musical laugh, but as hard
as
though the sound never could have come through the softness of human lips. It was
like
the intolerable, tingling sweetness of water-glasses when played on by a cunning hand.
The fair girl shook her head coquettishly, and the other two urged her on. One
said:—

Go on! You are first, and we shall follow; yours is the right to begin. The other
added:—

He is young and strong; there are kisses for us all. I lay quiet, looking out
under my eyelashes in an agony of delightful anticipation. The fair girl advanced
and
bent over me till I could feel the movement of her breath upon me. Sweet it was in
one
sense, honey-sweet, and sent the same tingling through the nerves as her voice, but
with
a bitter underlying the sweet, a bitter offensiveness, as one smells in blood.

I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly under the lashes.
The
girl went on her knees, and bent over me, simply gloating. There was a deliberate
voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck
she
actually licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the moisture
shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the white sharp teeth.
Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of my mouth and chin
and
seemed about to fasten on my throat. Then she paused, and I could hear the churning
sound of her tongue as it licked her teeth and lips, and could feel the hot breath
on my
neck. Then the skin of my throat began to tingle as one’s flesh does when the hand
that
is to tickle it approaches nearer—nearer. I could feel the soft, shivering touch of
the
lips on the super-sensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth,
just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in a languorous ecstasy and
waited—waited with beating heart.

But at that instant, another sensation swept through me as quick as lightning. I was
conscious of the presence of the Count, and of his being as if lapped in a storm of
fury. As my eyes opened involuntarily I saw his strong hand grasp the slender neck
of
the fair woman and with giant’s power draw it back, the blue eyes transformed with
fury,
the white teeth champing with rage, and the fair cheeks blazing red with passion.
But
the Count! Never did I imagine such wrath and fury, even to the demons of the pit.
His
eyes were positively blazing. The red light in them was lurid, as if the flames of
hell-fire blazed behind them. His face was deathly pale, and the lines of it were
hard
like drawn wires; the thick eyebrows that met over the nose now seemed like a heaving
bar of white-hot metal. With a fierce sweep of his arm, he hurled the woman from him,
and then motioned to the others, as though he were beating them back; it was the same
imperious gesture that I had seen used to the wolves. In a voice which, though low
and
almost in a whisper seemed to cut through the air and then ring round the room he
said:—

How dare you touch him, any of you? How dare you cast eyes on him when I had forbidden
it? Back, I tell you all! This man belongs to me! Beware how you meddle with him,
or
you’ll have to deal with me. The fair girl, with a laugh of ribald coquetry,
turned to answer him:—

You yourself never loved; you never love! On this the other women joined, and such
a mirthless, hard, soulless laughter rang through the room that it almost made me
faint
to hear; it seemed like the pleasure of fiends. Then the Count turned, after looking at
my face attentively, and said in a soft whisper:—

Yes, I too can love; you yourselves can tell it from the past. Is it not so? Well,
now I promise you that when I am done with him you shall kiss him at your will. Now
go! go! I must awaken him, for there is work to be done.

Are we to have nothing to-night? said one of them, with a low laugh, as she
pointed to the bag which he had thrown upon the floor, and which moved as though there
were some living thing within it. For answer he nodded his head. One of the women jumped
forward and opened it. If my ears did not deceive me there was a gasp and a low 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.

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-4">CHAPTER IV</h2>

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL—continued

I AWOKE in my own bed. If it be that I had not dreamt, the Count must have carried me
here. I tried to satisfy myself on the subject, but could not arrive at any
unquestionable result. To be sure, there were certain small evidences, such as that
my
clothes were folded and laid by in a manner which was not my habit. My watch was still
unwound, and I am rigorously accustomed to wind it the last thing before going to
bed,
and many such details. But these things are no proof, for they may have been evidences
that my mind was not as usual, and, from some cause or another, I had certainly been
much upset. I must watch for proof. Of one thing I am glad: if it was that the Count
carried me here and undressed me, he must have been hurried in his task, for my pockets
are intact. I am sure this diary would have been a mystery to him which he would not
have brooked. He would have taken or destroyed it. As I look round this room, although
it has been to me so full of fear, it is now a sort of sanctuary, for nothing can
be
more dreadful than those awful women, who were—who are—waiting to suck my blood.18
May.—I have been down to look at that room again in daylight, for I must know the
truth.
When I got to the doorway at the top of the stairs I found it closed. It had been
so
forcibly driven against the jamb that part of the woodwork was splintered. I could
see
that the bolt of the lock had not been shot, but the door is fastened from the inside.
I
fear it was no dream, and must act on this surmise.19 May.—I am surely in the toils.
Last night the Count asked me in the suavest tones to write three letters, one saying
that my work here was nearly done, and that I should start for home within a few days,
another that I was starting on the next morning from the time of the letter, and the
third that I had left the castle and arrived at Bistritz. I would fain have rebelled,
but felt that in the present state of things it would be madness to quarrel openly
with
the Count whilst I am so absolutely in his power; and to refuse would be to excite
his
suspicion and to arouse his anger. He knows that I know too much, and that I must
not
live, lest I be dangerous to him; my only chance is to prolong my opportunities.
Something may occur which will give me a chance to escape. I saw in his eyes something
of that gathering wrath which was manifest when he hurled that fair woman from him.
He
explained to me that posts were few and uncertain, and that my writing now would ensure
ease of mind to my friends; and he assured me with so much impressiveness that he
would
countermand the later letters, which would be held over at Bistritz until due time in
case chance would admit of my prolonging my stay, that to oppose him would have been
to
create new suspicion. I therefore pretended to fall in with his views, and asked him
what dates I should put on the letters. He calculated a minute, and then said:—

The first should be June 12, the second June 19, and the third June 29.

I know now the span of my life. God help me!28 May.—There is a chance of escape, or at
any rate of being able to send word home. A band of Szgany have come to the castle,
and
are encamped in the courtyard. These Szgany are gipsies; I have notes of them in my
book. They are peculiar to this part of the world, though allied to the ordinary gipsies
all the world over. There are thousands of them in Hungary and Transylvania, who are
almost outside all law. They attach themselves as a rule to some great noble or boyar,
and call themselves by his name. They are fearless and without religion, save
superstition, and they talk only their own varieties of the Romany tongue.

I shall write some letters home, and shall try to get them to have them posted. I
have
already spoken them through my window to begin acquaintanceship. They took their hats
off and made obeisance and many signs, which, however, I could not understand any
more
than I could their spoken language....I have written the letters. Mina’s is in
shorthand, and I simply ask Mr. Hawkins to communicate with her. To her I have explained
my situation, but without the horrors which I may only surmise. It would shock and
frighten her to death were I to expose my heart to her. Should the letters not carry,
then the Count shall not yet know my secret or the extent of my knowledge....I have
given the letters; I threw them through the bars of my window with a gold piece, and
made what signs I could to have them posted. The man who took them pressed them to
his
heart and bowed, and then put them in his cap. I could do no more. I stole back to
the
study, and began to read. As the Count did not come in, I have written here....The Count
has come. He sat down beside me, and said in his smoothest voice as he opened two
letters:—

The Szgany has given me these, of which, though I know not whence they come, I shall,
of course, take care. See!—he must have looked at it—one is from you, and to
my friend Peter Hawkins; the other—here he caught sight of the strange symbols
as he opened the envelope, and the dark look came into his face, and his eyes blazed
wickedly—the other is a vile thing, an outrage upon friendship and hospitality!
It is not signed. Well! so it cannot matter to us. And he calmly held letter and
envelope in the flame of the lamp till they were consumed. Then he went on:—

The letter to Hawkins—that I shall, of course, send on, since it is yours. Your
letters are sacred to me. Your pardon, my friend, that unknowingly I did break the
seal. Will you not cover it again? He held out the letter to me, and with a
courteous bow handed me a clean envelope. I could only redirect it and hand it to
him in
silence. When he went out of the room I could hear the key turn softly. A minute later
I
went over and tried it, and the door was locked.

When, an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into the room, his coming 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 to talk to-night, since there are many labours to me; but you will sleep,
I
pray. I passed to my room and went to bed, and, strange to say, slept without
dreaming. Despair has its own calms.31 May.—This morning when I woke I thought I would
provide myself with some paper and envelopes from my bag and keep them in my pocket,
so
that I might write in case I should get an opportunity, but again a surprise, again
a
shock!

Every scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes, my memoranda, relating to
 railways and travel, my letter of credit, in fact all that might be useful to me were I
once outside the castle. I sat and pondered 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
cracking of whips and pounding and scraping of horses’ feet up the rocky path beyond
the
courtyard. With joy I hurried to the window, and saw drive into the yard two great
leiter-wagons, each drawn by eight sturdy horses, and at the head of each pair 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 agonised entreaty, would make them even look at me. They resolutely turned
away.
The leiter-wagons contained great, square boxes, with handles of thick rope; these were
evidently empty by the ease with which the Slovaks handled them, and by their resonance
as they were roughly moved. When they were all unloaded and packed in a great heap
in
one corner of the yard, the Slovaks were given some money by the Szgany, and spitting on
it for luck, lazily went each to his horse’s head. Shortly afterwards, I heard the
cracking of their whips die away in the distance.24 June, before morning.—Last night the
Count left me early, and locked himself into his own room. As soon as I dared I ran
up
the winding stair, and looked out of the window, which opened south. I thought I would
watch for the Count, for there is something going on. The Szgany are quartered somewhere
in the castle and are doing work of some kind. I know it, for now and then I hear
a
far-away muffled sound as of mattock and spade, and, whatever it is, it must be the
end
of some ruthless villainy.

I had been at the window somewhat less than half an hour, when I saw something coming
out
of the Count’s window. I drew back and watched carefully, and saw the whole man emerge.
It was a new shock to me to find that he had on the suit of clothes which I had worn
whilst travelling here, and slung over his shoulder the terrible bag which I had seen
the women take away. There could be no doubt as to his quest, and in my garb, too!
This,
then, is his new scheme of evil: that he will allow others to see me, as they think,
so
that he may both leave evidence that I have been seen in the towns or villages posting
my own letters, and that any wickedness which he may do shall by the local people
be
attributed to me.

It makes me rage to think that this can go on, and whilst I am shut up here, a veritable
prisoner, but without that protection of the law which is even a criminal’s right
and
consolation.

I thought I would watch for the Count’s return, and for a long time sat doggedly at
the
window. Then I began to notice that there were some quaint little specks floating
in the
rays of the moonlight. They were like the tiniest grains of dust, and they whirled
round
and gathered in clusters in a nebulous sort of way. I watched them with a sense of
soothing, and a sort of calm stole over me. I leaned back in the embrasure in a more
comfortable position, so that I could enjoy more fully the aërial gambolling.

Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs somewhere far below in
the
valley, which was hidden from my sight. Louder it seemed to ring in my ears, and the
floating motes of dust to take new shapes to the sound as they danced in the moonlight.
I felt myself struggling to awake to some call of my instincts; nay, my very soul
was
struggling, and my half-remembered sensibilities were striving to answer the call.
I was
becoming hypnotised! Quicker and quicker danced the dust; the moonbeams seemed to
quiver
as they went by me into the mass of gloom beyond. More and more they gathered till
they
seemed to take dim phantom shapes. And then I started, broad awake and in full
possession of my senses, and ran screaming from the place. The phantom shapes, which
were becoming gradually materialised from the moonbeams, were those of the three ghostly
women to whom I was doomed. I fled, and felt somewhat safer in my own room, where
there
was no moonlight and where the lamp was burning brightly.

When a couple of hours had passed I heard something stirring in the Count’s room,
something like a sharp wail quickly suppressed; and then there was silence, deep,
awful
silence, which chilled me. With a beating heart, I tried the door; but I was locked
in
my prison, and could do nothing. I sat down and simply cried.

As I sat I heard a sound in the courtyard without—the agonised cry of a woman. I rushed
to the window, and throwing it up, peered out between the bars. There, indeed, was
a
woman with dishevelled hair, holding her hands over her heart as one distressed with
running. She was leaning against a corner of the gateway. When she saw my face at
the
window she threw herself forward, and shouted in a voice laden with menace:—

Monster, give me my child!

She threw herself on her knees, and raising up her hands, cried the same words in
tones
which wrung my heart. Then she tore her hair and beat her breast, and abandoned herself
to all the violences of extravagant emotion. Finally, she threw herself forward, and,
though I could not see her, I could hear the beating of her naked hands against the
door.

Somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard the voice of the Count calling in
his harsh, metallic whisper. His call seemed to be answered from far and wide by the
howling of wolves. Before many minutes had passed a pack of them poured, like a pent-up
dam when liberated, through the wide entrance into the courtyard.

There was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the wolves was but short. Before
long
they streamed away singly, licking their lips.

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

What shall I do? what can I do? How can I escape from this dreadful thing of night
and
gloom and fear?25 June, morning.—No man knows till he has suffered from the night how
sweet and how dear to his heart and eye the morning can be. When the sun grew so high
this morning that it struck the top of the great gateway opposite my window, the high
spot which it touched seemed to me as if the dove from the ark had lighted there.
My
fear fell from me as if it had been a vaporous garment which dissolved in the warmth. I
must take action of some sort whilst the courage of the day is upon me. Last night
one
of my post-dated letters went to post, the first of that fatal series which is to
blot
out the very traces of my existence from the earth.

Let me not think of it. Action!

It has always been at night-time that I have been molested or threatened, or in some
way
in danger or in fear. I have not yet seen the Count in the daylight. Can it be that
he
sleeps when others wake, that he may be awake whilst they sleep? If I could only get
into his room! But there is no possible way. The door is always locked, no way for
me.

Yes, there is a way, if one dares to take it. Where his body has gone why may not
another
body go? I have seen him myself crawl from his window. Why should not I imitate him,
and
go in by his window? The chances are desperate, but my need is more desperate still.
I
shall risk it. At the worst it can only be death; and a man’s death is not a calf’s,
and
the dreaded Hereafter may still be open to me. God help me in my task! Good-bye, Mina,
if I fail; good-bye, my faithful friend and second father; good-bye, all, and last
of
all Mina!Same day, later.—I have made the effort, and God, helping me, have come safely
back to this room. I must put down every detail in order. I went whilst my courage
was
fresh straight to the window on the south side, and at once got outside on the narrow
ledge of stone which runs around the building on this side. The stones are big and
roughly cut, and the mortar has by process of time been washed away between them.
I took
off my boots, and ventured out on the desperate way. I looked down once, so as to
make
sure that a sudden glimpse of the awful depth would not overcome me, but after that
kept
my eyes away from it. I knew pretty well the direction and distance of the Count’s
window, and made for it as well as I could, having regard to the opportunities
available. I did not feel dizzy—I suppose I was too excited—and the time seemed
ridiculously short till I found myself standing on the window-sill and trying to raise
up the sash. I was filled with agitation, however, when I bent down and slid feet
foremost in through the window. Then I looked around for the Count, but, with surprise
and gladness, made a discovery. The room was empty! It was barely furnished with odd
things, which seemed to have never been used; the furniture was something the same
style
as that in the south rooms, and was covered with dust. I looked for the key, but it
was
not in the lock, and I could not find it anywhere. The only thing I found was a great
heap of gold in one corner—gold of all kinds, Roman, and British, and Austrian, and
Hungarian, and Greek and Turkish money, covered with a film of dust, as though it
had
lain long in the ground. None of it that I noticed was less than three hundred years
old. There were also chains and ornaments, some jewelled, but all of them old and
stained.

At one corner of the room was a heavy door. I tried it, for, since I could not find
the
key of the room or the key of the outer door, which was the main object of my search,
I
must make further examination, or all my efforts would be in vain. It was open, and
led
through a stone passage to a circular stairway, which went steeply down. I descended,
minding carefully where I went, for the stairs were dark, being only lit by loopholes
in
the heavy masonry. At the bottom there was a dark, tunnel-like passage, through which
came a deathly, sickly odour, the odour of old earth newly turned. As I went through
the
passage the smell grew closer and heavier. At last I pulled open a heavy door which
stood 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 search for any further outlet, but there was none. Then I went over every inch
of
the ground, so as not to lose a chance. I went down even into the vaults, where the
dim
light struggled, although to do so was a dread to my very soul. Into two of these
I
went, but saw nothing except fragments of old coffins and piles of dust; in the third,
however, I made a discovery.

There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on a pile of newly
dug earth, lay the Count! He was either dead or asleep, I could not say which—for the
eyes were open and stony, but without the glassiness of death—and the cheeks had the
warmth of life through all their pallor; the lips were as red as ever. But there was no
sign of movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart. I bent over him, and
tried to find any sign of life, but in vain. He could not have lain there long, for
the
earthy smell would have passed away in a few hours. By the side of the box was its
cover, pierced with holes here and there. I thought he might have the keys on him,
but
when I went to search I saw the dead eyes, and in them, dead though they were, such
a
look of hate, though unconscious of me or my presence, that I fled from the place,
and
leaving the Count’s room by the window, crawled again up the castle wall. Regaining
my
room, I threw myself panting upon the bed and tried to think....29 June.—To-day is the
date of my last letter, and the Count has taken steps to prove that it was genuine,
for
again I saw him leave the castle by the same window, and in my clothes. As he went
down
the wall, lizard fashion, I wished I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that I might
destroy him; but I fear that no weapon wrought alone by man’s hand would have any
effect
on him. I dared not wait to see him return, for I feared to see those weird sisters.
I
came back to the library, and read there till I fell asleep.

I was awakened by the Count, who looked at me as grimly as a man can look as he
said:—

To-morrow, my friend, we must part. You return to your beautiful England, I to some
work which may have such an end that we may never meet. Your letter home has been
despatched; to-morrow I shall not be here, but all shall be ready for your journey.
In the morning come the Szgany, who have some labours of their own here, and also
come some Slovaks. When they have gone, my carriage shall come for you, and shall
bear you to the Borgo Pass to meet the diligence from Bukovina to Bistritz. But I am
in hopes that I shall see more of you at Castle Dracula. I suspected him, and
determined to test his sincerity. Sincerity! It seems like a profanation of the word
to
write it in connection with such a monster, so asked him point-blank:—

Why may I not go to-night?

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

But I would walk with pleasure. I want to get away at once. He smiled, such a
soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I knew there was some trick behind his smoothness.
He said:—

And your baggage?

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

The Count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy which made me rub my eyes, it
seemed
so real:—

You English have a saying which is close to my heart, for its spirit is that which
rules our boyars: ‘Welcome the coming; speed the parting guest.’ Come with me, my
dear young friend. Not an hour shall you wait in my house against your will, though
sad am I at your going, and that you so suddenly desire it. Come! With a stately
gravity, he, with the lamp, preceded me down the stairs and along the hall. Suddenly he
stopped.

Hark!

Close at hand came the howling of many wolves. It was almost as if the sound sprang
up at
the rising of his hand, just as the music of a great orchestra seems to leap under
the
bâton of the conductor. After a pause of a moment, he proceeded, in his stately way,
to
the door, drew back the ponderous bolts, unhooked the heavy chains, and began to draw
it
open.

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

As the door began to open, the howling of the wolves without grew louder and angrier;
their red jaws, with champing teeth, and their blunt-clawed feet as they leaped, came
in
through the opening door. I knew then that to struggle at the moment against the Count
was useless. With such allies as these at his command, I could do nothing. But still
the
door continued slowly to open, and only the Count’s body stood in the gap. Suddenly
it
struck me that this might be the moment and means of my doom; I was to be given to
the
wolves, and at my own instigation. There was a diabolical wickedness in the idea great
enough for the Count, and as a last chance I cried out:—

Shut the door; I shall wait till morning! and covered my face with my hands to
hide my tears of bitter disappointment. With one sweep of his powerful arm, the Count
threw the door shut, and the great bolts clanged and echoed through the hall as they
shot back into their places.

In silence we returned to the library, and after a minute or two I went to my own
room.
The last I saw of Count Dracula was his kissing his hand to me; with a red light of
triumph in his eyes, and with a smile that Judas in hell might be proud of.

When I was in my room and about to lie down, I thought I heard a whispering at my
door. I
went to it softly and listened. Unless my ears deceived me, I heard the voice of the
Count:—

Back, back, to your own place! Your time is not yet come. Wait! Have patience!
To-night is mine. To-morrow night is yours! There was a low, sweet ripple of
laughter, and in a rage I threw open the door, and saw without the three terrible
women
licking their lips. As I appeared they all joined in a horrible laugh, and ran away.

I came back to my room and threw myself on my knees. It is then so near the end?
To-morrow! to-morrow! Lord, help me, and those to whom I am dear!30 June, morning.—These
may be the last words I ever write in this diary. I slept till just before the dawn,
and
when I woke threw myself on my knees, for I determined that if Death came he should
find
me ready.

At last I felt that subtle change in the air, and knew that the morning had come.
Then
came the welcome cock-crow, and I felt that I was safe. With a glad heart, I opened
my
door and ran down to the hall. I had seen that the door was unlocked, and now escape
was
before me. With hands that trembled with eagerness, I unhooked the chains and drew
back
the massive bolts.

But the door would not move. Despair seized me. I pulled, and pulled, at the door,
and
shook it till, massive as it was, it rattled in its casement. I could see the bolt
shot.
It had been locked after I left the Count.

Then a wild desire took me to obtain that key at any risk, and I determined then and
there to scale the wall again and gain the Count’s room. He might kill me, but death now
seemed the happier choice of evils. Without a pause I rushed up to the east window,
and
scrambled down the wall, as before, into the Count’s room. It was empty, but that was as
I expected. I could not see a key anywhere, but the heap of gold remained. I went
through the door in the corner and down the winding stair and along the dark passage
to
the old chapel. I knew now well enough where to find the monster I sought.

The great box was in the same place, close against the wall, but the lid was laid
on it,
not fastened down, but with the nails ready in their places to be hammered home. I
knew
I must reach the body for the key, so I raised the lid, and laid it back against the
wall; and then I saw something which filled my very soul with horror. There lay the
Count, but looking as if his youth had been half renewed, for the white hair and
moustache were changed to dark iron-grey; the cheeks were fuller, and the white skin
seemed ruby-red underneath; the mouth was redder than ever, for on the lips were gouts
of fresh blood, which trickled from the corners of the mouth and ran over the chin
and
neck. Even the deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and
pouches underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature were simply
gorged with blood. He lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his repletion. I shuddered
as I bent over to touch him, and every sense in me revolted at the contact; but I
had to
search, or I was lost. The coming night might see my own body a banquet in a similar
way
to those horrid three. I felt all over the body, but no sign could I find of the key.
Then I stopped and looked at the Count. There was a mocking smile on the bloated face
which seemed to drive me mad. This was the being I was helping to transfer to London,
where, perhaps, for centuries to come he might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate
his lust for blood, and create a new and ever-widening circle of semi-demons to batten
on the helpless. The very thought drove me mad. A terrible desire came upon me to
rid
the world of such a monster. There was no lethal weapon at hand, but I seized a shovel
which the workmen had been using to fill the cases, and lifting it high, struck, with
the edge downward, at the hateful face. But as I did so the head turned, and the eyes
fell full upon me, with all their blaze of basilisk horror. The sight seemed to paralyse
me, and the shovel turned in my hand and glanced from the face, merely making a deep
gash above the forehead. The shovel fell from my hand across the box, and as I pulled
it
away the flange of the blade caught the edge of the lid which fell over again, and
hid
the horrid thing from my sight. The last glimpse I had was of the bloated face,
blood-stained and fixed with a grin of malice which would have held its own in the
nethermost hell.

I thought and thought what should be my next move, but my brain seemed on fire, and
I
waited with a despairing feeling growing over me. As I waited I heard in the distance
a
gipsy song sung by merry voices coming closer, and through their song the rolling
of
heavy wheels and the cracking of whips; the Szgany and the Slovaks of whom the Count had
spoken were coming. With a last look around and at the box which contained the vile
body, I ran from the place and gained the Count’s room, determined to rush out at the
moment the door should be opened. With strained ears, I listened, and heard downstairs
the grinding of the key in the great lock and the falling back of the heavy door.
There
must have been some other means of entry, or some one had a key for one of the locked
doors. Then there came the sound of many feet tramping and dying away in some passage
which sent up a clanging echo. I turned to run down again towards the vault, where
I
might find the new entrance; but at the moment there seemed to come a violent puff
of
wind, and the door to the winding stair blew to with a shock that set the dust from
the
lintels flying. When I ran to push it open, I found that it was hopelessly fast. I
was
again a prisoner, and the net of doom was closing round me more closely.

As I write there is in the passage below a sound of many tramping feet and the crash of
weights being set down heavily, doubtless the boxes, with their freight of earth.
There
is a sound of hammering; it is the box being nailed down. Now I can hear the heavy
feet
tramping again along the hall, with many other idle feet coming behind them.

The door is shut, and the chains rattle; there is a grinding of the key in the lock;
I
can hear the key withdraw: then another door opens and shuts; I hear the creaking
of
lock and bolt.

Hark! in the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of heavy wheels, the crack
of
whips, and the chorus of the Szgany as they pass into the distance.

I am alone in the castle with those awful women. Faugh! Mina is a woman, and there
is
nought in common. They are devils of the Pit!

I shall not remain alone with them; I shall try to scale the castle wall farther than
I
have yet attempted. I shall take some of the gold with me, lest I want it later. I
may
find a way from this dreadful place.

And then away for home! away to the quickest and nearest train! away from this cursed
spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his children still walk with earthly
feet!

At least God’s mercy is better than that of these monsters, and the precipice is steep
and high. At its foot a man may sleep—as a man. Good-bye, all! Mina!

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-5">CHAPTER V</h2>

Letter from Miss Mina Murray to Miss Lucy Westenra.

"9 May.

"My dearest Lucy,—

"Forgive my long delay in writing, but I have been simply overwhelmed with work. The
life
of an assistant schoolmistress is sometimes trying. I am longing to be with you, and
by
the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air. I have
been
working very hard lately, because I want to keep up with Jonathan’s studies, and I
have
been practising shorthand very assiduously. When we are married I shall be able to
be
useful to Jonathan, and if I can stenograph well enough I can take down what he wants
to
say in this way and write it out for him on the typewriter , at which also I am
practising very hard. He and I sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is keeping
a
stenographic journal of his travels abroad. When I am with you I shall keep a diary
in
the same way. I don’t mean one of those
two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner diaries, but a sort of journal
which I can write in whenever I feel inclined. I do not suppose there will be much
of
interest to other people; but it is not intended for them. I may show it to Jonathan
some day if there is in it anything worth sharing, but it is really an exercise book.
I
shall try to do what I see lady journalists do: interviewing and writing descriptions
and trying to remember conversations. I am told that, with a little practice, one
can
remember all that goes on or that one hears said during a day. However, we shall see.
I
will tell you of my little plans when we meet. I have just had a few hurried lines
from
Jonathan from Transylvania. He is well, and will be returning in about a week. I am
longing to hear all his news. It must be so nice to see strange countries. I wonder
if
we—I mean Jonathan and I—shall ever see them together. There is the ten o’clock bell
ringing. Good-bye.

"Your loving

"Mina.

Tell me all the news when you write. You have not told me anything for a long time.
I
hear rumours, and especially of a tall, handsome, curly-haired man???

Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray.

"17, Chatham Street,

"Wednesday.

"My dearest Mina,—

"I must say you tax me very unfairly with being a bad correspondent. I wrote to you
twice
since we parted, and your last letter was only your second. Besides, I have nothing
to
tell you. There is really nothing to interest you. Town is very pleasant just now,
and
we go a good deal to picture-galleries and for walks and rides in the park. As to
the
tall, curly-haired man, I suppose it was the one who was with me at the last Pop.
Some
one has evidently been telling tales. That was Mr. Holmwood. He often comes to see
us,
and he and mamma get on very well together; they have so many things to talk about
in
common. We met some time ago a man that would just do for you, if you were not already
engaged to Jonathan. He is an excellent parti, being handsome, well off, and of good
birth. He is a doctor and really clever. Just fancy! He is only nine-and-twenty, and
he
has an immense lunatic asylum all under his own care. Mr. Holmwood introduced him to me,
and he called here to see us, and often comes now. I think he is one of the most
resolute men I ever saw, and yet the most calm. He seems absolutely imperturbable.
I can
fancy what a wonderful power he must have over his patients. He has a curious habit
of
looking one straight in the face, as if trying to read one’s thoughts. He tries this
on
very much with me, but I flatter myself he has got a tough nut to crack. I know that
from my glass. Do you ever try to read your own face? I do, and I can tell you it
is not
a bad study, and gives you more trouble than you can well fancy if you have never
tried
it. He says that I afford him a curious psychological study, and I humbly think I
do. I
do not, as you know, take sufficient interest in dress to be able to describe the
new
fashions. Dress is a bore. That is slang again, but never mind; Arthur says that every
day. There, it is all out. Mina, we have told all our secrets to each other since
we
were children; we have slept together and eaten together, and laughed and cried
together; and now, though I have spoken, I would like to speak more. Oh, Mina, couldn’t
you guess? I love him. I am blushing as I write, for although I think he loves me,
he
has not told me so in words. But oh, Mina, I love him; I love him; I love him! There,
that does me good. I wish I were with you, dear, sitting by the fire undressing, as
we
used to sit; and I would try to tell you what I feel. I do not know how I am writing
this even to you. I am afraid to stop, or I should tear up the letter, and I don’t
want
to stop, for I do so want to tell you all. Let me hear from you at once, and tell
me all
that you think about it. Mina, I must stop. Good-night. Bless me in your prayers;
and,
Mina, pray for my happiness.

"LUCY.

"P.S.—I need not tell you this is a secret. Good-night again.

L.

Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray.

"24 May.

"My dearest Mina,—

"Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter. It was so nice to be
able to
tell you and to have your sympathy.

"My dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old proverbs are. Here am I, who
shall be twenty in September, and yet I never had a proposal till to-day, not a real
proposal, and to-day I have had three. Just fancy! THREE proposals in one day! Isn’t
it
awful! I feel sorry, really and truly sorry, for two of the poor fellows. Oh, Mina,
I am
so happy that I don’t know what to do with myself. And three proposals! But, for
goodness’ sake, don’t tell any of the girls, or they would be getting all sorts of
extravagant ideas and imagining themselves injured and slighted if in their very first
day at home they did not get six at least. Some girls are so vain! You and I, Mina
dear,
who are engaged and are going to settle down soon soberly into old married women,
can
despise vanity. Well, I must tell you about the three, but you must keep it a secret,
dear, from every one, except, of course, Jonathan. You will tell him, because I would,
if I were in your place, certainly tell Arthur. A woman ought to tell her husband
everything—don’t you think so, dear?—and I must be fair. Men like women, certainly
their
wives, to be quite as fair as they are; and women, I am afraid, are not always quite
as
fair as they should be. Well, my dear, number One came just before lunch. I told you
of
him, Dr. John Seward, the lunatic-asylum man, with the strong jaw and the good forehead.
He was very cool outwardly, but was nervous all the same. He had evidently been
schooling himself as to all sorts of little things, and remembered them; but he almost
managed to sit down on his silk hat, which men don’t generally do when they are cool,
and then when he wanted to appear at ease he kept playing with a lancet in a way that
made me nearly scream. He spoke to me, Mina, very straightforwardly. He told me how
dear
I was to him, though he had known me so little, and what his life would be with me
to
help and cheer him. He was going to tell me how unhappy he would be if I did not care
for him, but when he saw me cry he said that he was a brute and would not add to my
present trouble. Then he broke off and asked if I could love him in time; and when
I
shook my head his hands trembled, and then with some hesitation he asked me if I cared
already for any one else. He put it very nicely, saying that he did not want to wring
my
confidence from me, but only to know, because if a woman’s heart was free a man might
have hope. And then, Mina, I felt a sort of duty to tell him that there was some one.
I
only told him that much, and then he stood up, and he looked very strong and very
grave
as he took both my hands in his and said he hoped I would be happy, and that if I
ever
wanted a friend I must count him one of my best. Oh, Mina dear, I can’t help crying:
and
you must excuse this letter being all blotted. Being proposed to is all very nice
and
all that sort of thing, but it isn’t at all a happy thing when you have to see a poor
fellow, whom you know loves you honestly, going away and looking all broken-hearted,
and
to know that, no matter what he may say at the moment, you are passing quite out of
his
life. My dear, I must stop here at present, I feel so miserable, though I am so
happy.

"Evening.

"Arthur has just gone, and I feel in better spirits than when I left off, so I can
go on
telling you about the day. Well, my dear, number Two came after lunch. He is such
a nice
fellow, an American from Texas, and he looks so young and so fresh that it seems almost
impossible that he has been to so many places and has had such adventures. I sympathise
with poor Desdemona when she had such a dangerous stream poured in her ear, even by
a
black man. I suppose that we women are such cowards that we think a man will save
us
from fears, and we marry him. I know now what I would do if I were a man and wanted
to
make a girl love me. No, I don’t, for there was Mr. Morris telling us his stories,
and
Arthur never told any, and yet—— My dear, I am somewhat previous. Mr. Quincey P. Morris
found me alone. It seems that a man always does find a girl alone. No, he doesn’t,
for
Arthur tried twice to make a chance, and I helping him all I could; I am not ashamed
to
say it now. I must tell you beforehand that Mr. Morris doesn’t always speak slang—that
is to say, he never does so to strangers or before them, for he is really well educated
and has exquisite manners—but he found out that it amused me to hear him talk American
slang, and whenever I was present, and there was no one to be shocked, he said such
funny things. I am afraid, my dear, he has to invent it all, for it fits exactly into
whatever else he has to say. But this is a way slang has. I do not know myself if
I
shall ever speak slang; I do not know if Arthur likes it, as I have never heard him
use
any as yet. Well, Mr. Morris sat down beside me and looked as happy and jolly as he
could, but I could see all the same that he was very nervous. He took my hand in his,
and said ever so sweetly:—

" ‘Miss Lucy, I know I ain’t good enough to regulate the fixin’s of your little shoes,
but I guess if you wait till you find a man that is you will go join them seven young
women with the lamps when you quit. Won’t you just hitch up alongside of me and let us
go down the long road together, driving in double harness?’

"Well, he did look so good-humoured and so jolly that it didn’t seem half so hard
to
refuse him as it did poor Dr. Seward; so I said, as lightly as I could, that I did
not
know anything of hitching, and that I wasn’t broken to harness at all yet. Then he
said
that he had spoken in a light manner, and he hoped that if he had made a mistake in
doing so on so grave, so momentous, an occasion for him, I would forgive him. He really
did look serious when he was saying it, and I couldn’t help feeling a bit serious
too—I
know, Mina, you will think me a horrid flirt—though I couldn’t help feeling a sort
of
exultation that he was number two in one day. And then, my dear, before I could say
a
word he began pouring out a perfect torrent of love-making, laying his very heart
and
soul at my feet. He looked so earnest over it that I shall never again think that
a man
must be playful always, and never earnest, because he is merry at times. I suppose
he
saw something in my face which checked him, for he suddenly stopped, and said with
a
sort of manly fervour that I could have loved him for if I had been free:—

" ‘Lucy, you are an honest-hearted girl, I know. I should not be here speaking to
you as
I am now if I did not believe you clean grit, right through to the very depths of
your
soul. Tell me, like one good fellow to another, is there any one else that you care
for?
And if there is I’ll never trouble you a hair’s breadth again, but will be, if you
will
let me, a very faithful friend.’

"My dear Mina, why are men so noble when we women are so little worthy of them? Here
was
I almost making fun of this great-hearted, true gentleman. I burst into tears—I am
afraid, my dear, you will think this a very sloppy letter in more ways than one—and
I
really felt very badly. Why can’t they let a girl marry three men, or as many as want
her, and save all this trouble? But this is heresy, and I must not say it. I am glad
to
say that, though I was crying, I was able to look into Mr. Morris’s brave eyes, and
I
told him out straight:—

" ‘Yes, there is some one I love, though he has not told me yet that he even loves
me.’ I
was right to speak to him so frankly, for quite a light came into his face, and he
put
out both his hands and took mine—I think I put them into his—and said in a hearty
way:—

" ‘That’s my brave girl. It’s better worth being late for a chance of winning you
than
being in time for any other girl in the world. Don’t cry, my dear. If it’s for me,
I’m a
hard nut to crack; and I take it standing up. If that other fellow doesn’t know his
happiness, well, he’d better look for it soon, or he’ll have to deal with me. Little
girl, your honesty and pluck have made me a friend, and that’s rarer than a lover;
it’s
more unselfish anyhow. My dear, I’m going to have a pretty lonely walk between this
and
Kingdom Come. Won’t you give me one kiss? It’ll be something to keep off the darkness
now and then. You can, you know, if you like, for that other good fellow—he must be
a
good fellow, my dear, and a fine fellow, or you could not love him—hasn’t spoken yet.’
That quite won me, Mina, for it was brave and sweet of him, and noble, too, to a
rival—wasn’t it?—and he so sad; so I leant over and kissed him. He stood up with my
two
hands in his, and as he looked down into my face—I am afraid I was blushing very much—he
said:—

" ‘Little girl, I hold your hand, and you’ve kissed me, and if these things don’t
make us
friends nothing ever will. Thank you for your sweet honesty to me, and good-bye.’
He
wrung my hand, and taking up his hat, went straight out of the room without looking
back, without a tear or a quiver or a pause; and I am crying like a baby. Oh, why
must a
man like that be made unhappy when there are lots of girls about who would worship
the
very ground he trod on? I know I would if I were free—only I don’t want to be free.
My
dear, this quite upset me, and I feel I cannot write of happiness just at once, after
telling you of it; and I don’t wish to tell of the number three until it can be all
happy.

"Ever your loving

"Lucy.

"P.S.—Oh, about number Three—I needn’t tell you of number Three, need I? Besides,
it was
all so confused; it seemed only a moment from his coming into the room till both his
arms were round me, and he was kissing me. I am very, very happy, and I don’t know
what
I have done to deserve it. I must only try in the future to show that I am not
ungrateful to God for all His goodness to me in sending to me such a lover, such a
husband, and such a friend.

Good-bye.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

(Kept in phonograph)

25 May.—Ebb tide in appetite to-day. Cannot eat, cannot rest, so diary instead. Since my
rebuff of yesterday I have a sort of empty feeling; nothing in the world seems of
sufficient importance to be worth the doing.... As I knew that the only cure for this
sort of thing was work, I went down amongst the patients. I picked out one who has
afforded me a study of much interest. He is so quaint that I am determined to understand
him as well as I can. To-day I seemed to get nearer than ever before to the heart
of his
mystery.

I questioned him more fully than I had ever done, with a view to making myself master
of
the facts of his hallucination. In my manner of doing it there was, I now see, something
of cruelty. I seemed to wish to keep him to the point of his madness—a thing which
I
avoid with the patients as I would the mouth of hell.

(Mem., under what circumstances would I not avoid the pit of hell?) Omnia Romæ venalia
sunt. Hell has its price! verb. sap. If there be anything behind this instinct it
will
be valuable to trace it afterwards accurately, so I had better commence to do so,
therefore—

R. M. Renfield, ætat 59.—Sanguine temperament; great physical strength; morbidly
excitable; periods of gloom, ending in some fixed idea which I cannot make out. I
presume that the sanguine temperament itself and the disturbing influence end in a
mentally-accomplished finish; a possibly dangerous man, probably dangerous if unselfish.
In selfish men caution is as secure an armour for their foes as for themselves. What
I
think of on this point is, when self is the fixed point the centripetal force is
balanced with the centrifugal; when duty, a cause, etc., is the fixed point, the latter
force is paramount, and only accident or a series of accidents can balance it.

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

"25 May.

"My dear Art,—

"We’ve told yarns by the camp-fire in the prairies; and dressed one another’s wounds
after trying a landing at the Marquesas; and drunk healths on the shore of Titicaca.
There are more yarns to be told, and other wounds to be healed, and another health
to be
drunk. Won’t you let this be at my camp-fire to-morrow night? I have no hesitation
in
asking you, as I know a certain lady is engaged to a certain dinner-party, and that
you
are free. There will only be one other, our old pal at the Korea, Jack Seward. He’s
coming, too, and we both want to mingle our weeps over the wine-cup, and to drink
a
health with all our hearts to the happiest man in all the wide world, who has won
the
noblest heart that God has made and the best worth winning. We promise you a hearty
welcome, and a loving greeting, and a health as true as your own right hand. We shall
both swear to leave you at home if you drink too deep to a certain pair of eyes.
Come!

"Yours, as ever and always,

Quincey P. Morris.

Telegram from Arthur Holmwood to Quincey P. Morris.

"26 May.

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

Art.

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-6">CHAPTER VI</h2>

MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL

24 July. Whitby.—Lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter and lovelier than ever, and
we drove up to the house at the Crescent in which they have rooms. This is a lovely
place. The little river, the Esk, runs through a deep valley, which broadens out as
it
comes near the harbour. A great viaduct runs across, with high piers, through which
the
view seems somehow further away than it really is. The valley is beautifully green,
and
it is so steep that when you are on the high land on either side you look right across
it, unless you are near enough to see down. The houses of the old town—the side away
from us—are all red-roofed, and seem piled up one over the other anyhow, like the
pictures we see of Nuremberg. Right over the town is the ruin of Whitby Abbey, which was
sacked by the Danes, and which is the scene of part of Marmion, where the girl
was built up in the wall. It is a most noble ruin, of immense size, and full of
beautiful and romantic bits; there is a legend that a white lady is seen in one of
the
windows. Between it and the town there is another church, the parish one, round which
is
a big graveyard, all full of tombstones. This is to my mind the nicest spot in Whitby,
for it lies right over the town, and has a full view of the harbour and all up the
bay
to where the headland called Kettleness stretches out into the sea. It descends so
steeply over the harbour that part of the bank has fallen away, and some of the graves
have been destroyed. In one place part of the stonework of the graves stretches out
over
the sandy pathway far below. There are walks, with seats beside them, through the
churchyard; and people go and sit there all day long looking at the beautiful view and
enjoying the breeze. I shall come and sit here very often myself and work. Indeed,
I am
writing now, with my book on my knee, and listening to the talk of three old men who
are
sitting beside me. They seem to do nothing all day but sit up here and talk.

The harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one long granite wall stretching
out
into the sea, with a curve outwards at the end of it, in the middle of which is a
lighthouse. A heavy sea-wall runs along outside of it. On the near side, the sea-wall
makes an elbow crooked inversely, and its end too has a lighthouse. Between the two
piers there is a narrow opening into the harbour, which then suddenly widens.

It is nice at high water; but when the tide is out it shoals away to nothing, and
there
is merely the stream of the Esk, running between banks of sand, with rocks here and
there. Outside the harbour on this side there rises for about half a mile a great
reef,
the sharp edge of which runs straight out from behind the south lighthouse. At the
end
of it is a buoy with a bell, which swings in bad weather, and sends in a mournful
sound
on the wind. They have a legend here that when a ship is lost bells are heard out
at
sea. I must ask the old man about this; he is coming this way....

He is a funny old man. He must be awfully old, for his face is all gnarled and twisted
like the bark of a tree. He tells me that he is nearly a hundred, and that he was
a
sailor in the Greenland fishing fleet when Waterloo was fought. He is, I am afraid,
a
very sceptical person, for when I asked him about the bells at sea and the White Lady
at
the abbey he said very brusquely:—

I wouldn’t fash masel’ about them, miss. Them things be all wore out. Mind, I don’t
say that they never was, but I do say that they wasn’t in my time. They be all very
well for comers and trippers, an’ the like, but not for a nice young lady like you.
Them feet-folks from York and Leeds that be always eatin’ cured herrin’s an’
drinkin’ tea an’ lookin’ out to buy cheap jet would creed aught. I wonder masel’
who’d be bothered tellin’ lies to them—even the newspapers, which is full of
fool-talk. I thought he would be a good person to learn interesting things from,
so I asked him if he would mind telling me something about the whale-fishing in the
old
days. He was just settling himself to begin when the clock struck six, whereupon he
laboured to get up, and said:—

I must gang ageeanwards home now, miss. My grand-daughter doesn’t like to be kept
waitin’ when the tea is ready, for it takes me time to crammle aboon the grees, for
there be a many of ’em; an’, miss, I lack belly-timber sairly by the clock.

He hobbled away, and I could see him hurrying, as well as he could, down the steps.
The
steps are a great feature on the place. They lead from the town up to the church,
there
are hundreds of them—I do not know how many—and they wind up in a delicate curve;
the
slope is so gentle that a horse could easily walk up and down them. I think they must
originally have had something to do with the abbey. I shall go home too. Lucy went
out
visiting with her mother, and as they were only duty calls, I did not go. They will
be
home by this.1 August.—I came up here an hour ago with Lucy, and we had a most
interesting talk with my old friend and the two others who always come and join him.
He
is evidently the Sir Oracle of them, and I should think must have been in his time
a
most dictatorial person. He will not admit anything, and downfaces everybody. If he
can’t out-argue them he bullies them, and then takes their silence for agreement with
his views. Lucy was looking sweetly pretty in her white lawn frock; she has got a
beautiful colour since she has been here. I noticed that the old men did not lose
any
time in coming up and sitting near her when we sat down. She is so sweet with old
people; I think they all fell in love with her on the spot. Even my old man succumbed
and did not contradict her, but gave me double share instead. I got him on the subject
of the legends, and he went off at once into a sort of sermon. I must try to remember
it
and put it down:—

It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel; that’s what it be, an’ nowt else. These
bans an’ wafts an’ boh-ghosts an’ barguests an’ bogles an’ all anent them is only
fit to set bairns an’ dizzy women a-belderin’. They be nowt but air-blebs. They, an’
all grims an’ signs an’ warnin’s, be all invented by parsons an’ illsome beuk-bodies
an’ railway touters to skeer an’ scunner hafflin’s, an’ to get folks to do somethin’
that they don’t other incline to. It makes me ireful to think o’ them. Why, it’s
them that, not content with printin’ lies on paper an’ preachin’ them out of
pulpits, does want to be cuttin’ them on the tombstones. Look here all around you
in
what airt ye will; all them steans, holdin’ up their heads as well as they can out
of their pride, is acant—simply tumblin’ down with the weight o’ the lies wrote on
them, ‘Here lies the body’ or ‘Sacred to the memory’ wrote on all of them, an’ yet
in nigh half of them there bean’t no bodies at all; an’ the memories of them bean’t
cared a pinch of snuff about, much less sacred. Lies all of them, nothin’ but lies
of one kind or another! My gog, but it’ll be a quare scowderment at the Day of
Judgment when they come tumblin’ up in their death-sarks, all jouped together an’
tryin’ to drag their tombsteans with them to prove how good they was; some of them
trimmlin’ and ditherin’, with their hands that dozzened an’ slippy from lyin’ in the
sea that they can’t even keep their grup o’ them.

I could see from the old fellow’s self-satisfied air and the way in which he looked
round
for the approval of his cronies that he was showing off, so I put in a word to
keep him going:—

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

Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin’ where they make out the people
too good; for there be folk that do think a balm-bowl be like the sea, if only it
be
their own. The whole thing be only lies. Now look you here; you come here a
stranger, an’ you see this kirk-garth. I nodded, for I thought it better to
assent, though I did not quite understand his dialect. I knew it had something to
do
with the church. He went on: And you consate that all these steans be aboon folk that
be happed here, snod an’ snog? I assented again. Then that be just where the
lie comes in. Why, there be scores of these lay-beds that be toom as old Dun’s
’bacca-box on Friday night. He nudged one of his companions, and they all
laughed. And my gog! how could they be otherwise? Look at that one, the aftest abaft
the bier-bank: read it! I went over and read:—

Edward Spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by pirates off the coast of Andres, April,
1854, æt. 30. When I came back Mr. Swales went on:—

Who brought him home, I wonder, to hap him here? Murdered off the coast of Andres!
an’
you consated his body lay under! Why, I could name ye a dozen whose bones lie in the
Greenland seas above—he pointed northwards—or where the currents may have
drifted them. There be the steans around ye. Ye can, with your young eyes, read the
small-print of the lies from here. This Braithwaite Lowrey—I knew his father, lost
in the Lively off Greenland in ’20; or Andrew Woodhouse, drowned in the same seas
in
1777; or John Paxton, drowned off Cape Farewell a year later; or old John Rawlings,
whose grandfather sailed with me, drowned in the Gulf of Finland in ’50. Do ye think
that all these men will have to make a rush to Whitby when the trumpet sounds? I
have me antherums aboot it! I tell ye that when they got here they’d be jommlin’ an’
jostlin’ one another that way that it ’ud be like a fight up on the ice in the old
days, when we’d be at one another from daylight to dark, an’ tryin’ to tie up our
cuts by the light of the aurora borealis. This was evidently local pleasantry,
for the old man cackled over it, and his cronies joined in with gusto.

But, I said, surely you are not quite correct, for you start on the assumption
that all the poor people, or their spirits, will have to take their tombstones with
them on the Day of Judgment. Do you think that will be really necessary?

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

To please their relatives, I suppose.

To please their relatives, you suppose! This he said with intense scorn. How
will it pleasure their relatives to know that lies is wrote over them, and that
everybody in the place knows that they be lies? He pointed to a stone at our
feet which had been laid down as a slab, on which the seat was rested, close to the
edge
of the cliff. Read the lies on that thruff-stean, he said. The letters were
upside down to me from where I sat, but Lucy was more opposite to them, so she leant
over and read:—

Sacred to the memory of George Canon, who died, in the hope of a glorious
resurrection, on July, 29, 1873, falling from the rocks at Kettleness. This tomb 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’ the crows with. ’Twarn’t for crows then, for it
brought the clegs and the dowps to him. That’s the way he fell off the rocks. And,
as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, I’ve often heard him say masel’ that he
hoped he’d go to hell, for his mother was so pious that she’d be sure to go to
heaven, an’ he didn’t 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’ up the grees with the tombstean
balanced on his hump, and asks it to be took as evidence!

I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conversation as she said, rising up:—

Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my favourite seat, and I cannot leave it; and
now I find I must go on sitting over the grave of a suicide.

That won’t harm ye, my pretty; an’ it may make poor Geordie gladsome to have so trim
a
lass sittin’ on his lap. That won’t hurt ye. Why, I’ve sat here off an’ on for nigh
twenty years past, an’ it hasn’t done me no harm. Don’t ye fash about them as lies
under ye, or that doesn’ lie there either! It’ll be time for ye to be getting scart
when ye see the tombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as a
stubble-field. There’s the clock, an’ I must gang. My service to ye, ladies! And
off he hobbled.

Lucy and I sat awhile, and it was all so beautiful before us that we took hands as
we
sat; and she told me all over again about Arthur and their coming marriage. That made
me
just a little heart-sick, for I haven’t heard from Jonathan for a whole month.The
same
day. I came up here alone, for I am very sad. There was no letter for me. I hope there
cannot be anything the matter with Jonathan. The clock has just struck nine. I see
the
lights scattered all over the town, sometimes in rows where the streets are, and
sometimes singly; they run right up the Esk and die away in the curve of the valley.
To
my left the view is cut off by a black line of roof of the old house next the abbey.
The
sheep and lambs are bleating in the fields away behind me, and there is a clatter
of a
donkey’s hoofs up the paved road below. The band on the pier is playing a harsh waltz
in
good time, and further along the quay there is a Salvation Army meeting in a back
street. Neither of the bands hears the other, but up here I hear and see them both.
I
wonder where Jonathan is and if he is thinking of me! I wish he were here.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

5 June.—The case of Renfield grows more interesting the more I get to understand the man.
He has certain qualities very largely developed; selfishness, secrecy, and purpose.
I
wish I could get at what is the object of the latter. He seems to have some settled
scheme of his own, but what it is I do not yet know. His redeeming quality is a love
of
animals, though, indeed, he has such curious turns in it that I sometimes imagine
he is
only abnormally cruel. His pets are of odd sorts. Just now his hobby is catching flies.
He has at present such a quantity that I have had myself to expostulate. To my
astonishment, he did not break out into a fury, as I expected, but took the matter
in
simple seriousness. He thought for a moment, and then said: May I have three days?
I
shall clear them away. Of course, I said that would do. I must watch him.18
June.—He has turned his mind now to spiders, and has got several very big fellows
in a
box. He keeps feeding them with his flies, and the number of the latter is becoming
sensibly diminished, although he has used half his food in attracting more flies from
outside to his room.1 July.—His spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as his
flies, and to-day I told him that he must get rid of them. He looked very sad at this,
so I said that he must clear out some of them, at all events. He cheerfully acquiesced
in this, and I gave him the same time as before for reduction. He disgusted me much
while with him, for when a horrid blow-fly, bloated with some carrion food, buzzed
into
the room, he caught it, held it exultantly for a few moments between his finger and
thumb, and, before I knew what he was going to do, put it in his mouth and ate it.
I
scolded him for it, but he argued quietly that it was very good and very wholesome;
that
it was life, strong life, and gave life to him. This gave me an idea, or the rudiment
of
one. I must watch how he gets rid of his spiders. He has evidently some deep problem
in
his mind, for he keeps a little note-book in which he is always jotting down something.
Whole pages of it are filled with masses of figures, generally single numbers added
up
in batches, and then the totals added in batches again, as though he were
focussing some account, as the auditors put it.8 July.—There is a method in
his madness, and the rudimentary idea in my mind is growing. It will be a whole idea
soon, and then, oh, unconscious cerebration! you will have to give the wall to your
conscious brother. I kept away from my friend for a few days, so that I might notice
if
there were any change. Things remain as they were except that he has parted with some
of
his pets and got a new one. He has managed to get a sparrow, and has already partially
tamed it. His means of taming is simple, for already the spiders have diminished.
Those
that do remain, however, are well fed, for he still brings in the flies by tempting
them
with his food.19 July.—We are progressing. My friend has now a whole colony of sparrows,
and his flies and spiders are almost obliterated. When I came in he ran to me and
said
he wanted to ask me a great favour—a very, very great favour; and as he spoke he fawned
on me like a dog. I asked him what it was, and he said, with a sort of rapture in
his
voice and bearing:—

A kitten, a nice little, sleek playful kitten, that I can play with, and teach, and
feed—and feed—and feed! I was not unprepared for this request, for I had noticed
how his pets went on increasing in size and vivacity, but I did not care that his
pretty
family of tame sparrows should be wiped out in the same manner as the flies and the
spiders; so I said I would see about it, and asked him if he would not rather have
a cat
than a kitten. His eagerness betrayed him as he answered:—

Oh, yes, I would like a cat! I only asked for a kitten lest you should refuse me a
cat. No one would refuse me a kitten, would they? I shook my head, and said that
at present I feared it would not be possible, but that I would see about it. His face
fell, and I could see a warning of danger in it, for there was a sudden fierce, sidelong
look which meant killing. The man is an undeveloped homicidal maniac. I shall test
him
with his present craving and see how it will work out; then I shall know more.10 p.
m.—I
have visited him again and found him sitting in a corner brooding. When I came in
he
threw himself on his knees before me and implored me to let him have a cat; that his
salvation depended upon it. I was firm, however, and told him that he could not have
it,
whereupon he went without a word, and sat down, gnawing his fingers, in the corner
where
I had found him. I shall see him in the morning early.20 July.—Visited Renfield very
early, before the attendant went his rounds. Found him up and humming a tune. He was
spreading out his sugar, which he had saved, in the window, and was manifestly beginning
his fly-catching again; and beginning it cheerfully and with a good grace. I looked
around for his birds, and not seeing them, asked him where they were. He replied,
without turning round, that they had all flown away. There were a few feathers about
the
room and on his pillow a drop of blood. I said nothing, but went and told the keeper
to
report to me if there were anything odd about him during the day.11 a. m.—The attendant
has just been to me to say that Renfield has been very sick and has disgorged a whole
lot of feathers. My belief is, doctor, he said, that he has eaten his birds,
and that he just took and ate them raw!11 p. m.—I gave Renfield a strong opiate
to-night, enough to make even him sleep, and took away his pocket-book to look at
it.
The thought that has been buzzing about my brain lately is complete, and the theory
proved. My homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. I shall have to invent a new
classification for him, and call him a zoöphagous (life-eating) maniac; what he desires
is to absorb as many lives as he can, and he has laid himself out to achieve it in
a
cumulative way. He gave many flies to one spider and many spiders to one bird, and
then
wanted a cat to eat the many birds. What would have been his later steps? It would
almost be worth while to complete the experiment. It might be done if there were only
a
sufficient cause. Men sneered at vivisection, and yet look at its results to-day!
Why
not advance science in its most difficult and vital aspect—the knowledge of the brain?
Had I even the secret of one such mind—did I hold the key to the fancy of even one
lunatic—I might advance my own branch of science to a pitch compared with which
Burdon-Sanderson’s physiology or Ferrier’s brain-knowledge would be as nothing. If
only
there were a sufficient cause! I must not think too much of this, or I may be tempted;
a
good cause might turn the scale with me, for may not I too be of an exceptional brain,
congenitally?

How well the man reasoned; lunatics always do within their own scope. I wonder at
how
many lives he values a man, or if at only one. He has closed the account most
accurately, and to-day begun a new record. How many of us begin a new record with
each
day of our lives?

To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new hope, and that
truly I
began a new record. So it will be until the Great Recorder sums me up and closes my
ledger account with a balance to profit or loss. Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry
with
you, nor can I be angry with my friend whose happiness is yours; but I must only wait
on
hopeless and work. Work! work!

If I only could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there—a good, unselfish
cause to make me work—that would be indeed happiness.

Mina Murray’s Journal.

26 July.—I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here; it is like whispering to
one’s self and listening at the same time. And there is also something about the
shorthand symbols that makes it different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy and
about Jonathan. I had not heard from Jonathan for some time, and was very concerned;
but
yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind, sent me a letter from him. I had
written asking him if he had heard, and he said the enclosed had just been received.
It
is only a line dated from Castle Dracula, and says that he is just starting for home.
That is not like Jonathan; I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy. Then, too,
Lucy, although she is so well, has lately taken to her old habit of walking in her
sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it, and we have decided that I am to lock
the
door of our room every night. Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always
go
out on roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs and then get suddenly wakened
and
fall over with a despairing cry that echoes all over the place. Poor dear, she is
naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me that her husband, Lucy’s father, had
the
same habit; that he would get up in the night and dress himself and go out, if he
were
not stopped. Lucy is to be married in the autumn, and she is already planning out
her
dresses and how her house is to be arranged. I sympathise with her, for I do the same,
only Jonathan and I will start in life in a very simple way, and shall have to try
to
make both ends meet. Mr. Holmwood—he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord
Godalming—is coming up here very shortly—as soon as he can leave town, for his father
is
not very well, and I think dear Lucy is counting the moments till he comes. She wants
to
take him up to the seat on the churchyard cliff and show him the beauty of Whitby. I
daresay it is the waiting which disturbs her; she will be all right when he arrives.27
July.—No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about him, though why I should
I
do not know; but I do wish that he would write, if it were only a single line. Lucy
walks more than ever, and each night I am awakened by her moving about the room.
Fortunately, the weather is so hot that she cannot get cold; but still the anxiety
and
the perpetually being wakened is beginning to tell on me, and I am getting nervous
and
wakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy’s health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has been suddenly
called
to Ring to see his father, who has been taken seriously ill. Lucy frets at the
postponement of seeing him, but it does not touch her looks; she is a trifle stouter,
and her cheeks are a lovely rose-pink. She has lost that anæmic look which she had.
I
pray it will all last.3 August.—Another week gone, and no news from Jonathan, not even
to Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do hope he is not ill. He surely would
have written. I look at that last letter of his, but somehow it does not satisfy me.
It
does not read like him, and yet it is his writing. There is no mistake of that. Lucy
has
not walked much in her sleep the last week, but there is an odd concentration about
her
which I do not understand; even in her sleep she seems to be watching me. She tries
the
door, and finding it locked, goes about the room searching for the key.

6 August.—Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting dreadful. If I only
knew where to write to or where to go to, I should feel easier; but no one has heard
a
word of Jonathan since that last letter. I must only pray to God for patience. Lucy
is
more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night was very threatening,
and
the fishermen say that we are in for a storm. I must try to watch it and learn the
weather signs. To-day is a grey day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds,
high over Kettleness. Everything is grey—except the green grass, which seems like
emerald amongst it; grey earthy rock; grey clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the
far
edge, hang over the grey sea, into which the sand-points stretch like grey fingers.
The
sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar, muffled in the
sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a grey mist. All is vastness; the
clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and there is a brool over the sea that
sounds like some presage of doom. Dark figures are on the beach here and there,
sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem men like trees walking. The
fishing-boats are racing for home, and rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep
into the harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is making
straight for me, and I can see, by the way he lifts his hat, that he wants to
talk....

I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. When he sat down beside
me,
he said in a very gentle way:—

I want to say something to you, miss. I could see he was not at ease, so I took
his poor old wrinkled hand in mine and asked him to speak fully; so he said, leaving
his
hand in mine:—

I’m afraid, my deary, that I must have shocked you by all the wicked things I’ve been
sayin’ about the dead, and such like, for weeks past; but I didn’t mean them, and
I
want ye to remember that when I’m gone. We aud folks that be daffled, and with one
foot abaft the krok-hooal, don’t altogether like to think of it, and we don’t want
to feel scart of it; an’ that’s why I’ve took to makin’ light of it, so that I’d
cheer up my own heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I ain’t afraid of dyin’, not
a
bit; only I don’t want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at hand now,
for I be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to expect; and I’m so nigh
it that the Aud Man is already whettin’ his scythe. Ye see, I can’t get out o’ the
habit of caffin’ about it all at once; the chafts will wag as they be used to. Some
day soon the Angel of Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don’t ye dooal an’
greet, my deary!—for he saw that I was crying—if he should come this very
night I’d not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all, only a waitin’ for
somethin’ else than what we’re doin’; and death be all that we can rightly depend
on. But I’m content, for it’s comin’ to me, my deary, and comin’ quick. It may be
comin’ while we be lookin’ and wonderin’. Maybe it’s in that wind out over the sea
that’s bringin’ with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. Look!
look! he cried suddenly. There’s something in that wind and in the hoast
beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. It’s in the air;
I
feel it comin’. Lord, make me answer cheerful when my call comes! He held up his
arms devoutly, and raised his hat. His mouth moved as though he were praying. After
a
few minutes’ silence, he got up, shook hands with me, and blessed me, and said good-bye,
and hobbled off. It all touched me, and upset me very much.

I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spy-glass under his arm. He stopped
to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time kept looking at a strange ship.

I can’t make her out, he said; she’s a Russian, by the look of her; but she’s
knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn’t know her mind a bit; she seems to
see the storm coming, but can’t decide whether to run up north in the open, or to
put in here. Look there again! She is steered mighty strangely, for she doesn’t mind
the hand on the wheel; changes about with every puff of wind. We’ll hear more of her
before this time to-morrow.

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-7">CHAPTER VII</h2>

CUTTING FROM THE DAILYGRAPH, 8 AUGUST

(Pasted in Mina Murray’s Journal.)

From a Correspondent.

Whitby.

ONE greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been experienced here, with results
both strange and unique. The weather had been somewhat sultry, but not to any degree
uncommon in the month of August. Saturday evening was as fine as was ever known, and
the
great body of holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits to Mulgrave Woods, Robin
Hood’s Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes, and the various trips in the neighbourhood
of
Whitby. The steamers Emma and Scarborough made trips up and down the coast, and there
was an unusual amount of tripping both to and from Whitby. The day was unusually
fine till the afternoon, when some of the gossips who frequent the East Cliff
churchyard, and from that commanding eminence watch the wide sweep of sea visible to the
north and east, called attention to a sudden show of mares’-tails high in the sky
to the north-west. The wind was then blowing from the south-west in the mild degree
which in barometrical language is ranked No. 2: light breeze. The coastguard on
duty at once made report, and one old fisherman, who for more than half a century
has
kept watch on weather signs from the East Cliff, foretold in an emphatic manner the
coming of a sudden storm. The approach of sunset was so very beautiful, so grand in
its
masses of splendidly-coloured clouds, that there was quite an assemblage on the walk
along the cliff in the old churchyard to enjoy the beauty. Before the sun dipped below
the black mass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western sky, its downward
way
was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset-colour—flame, purple, pink, green, violet,
and all the tints of gold; with here and there masses not large, but of seemingly
absolute blackness, in all sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal silhouettes.
The experience was not lost on the painters, and doubtless some of the sketches of
the
Prelude to the Great Storm will grace the R. A. and R. I. walls in May next.
More than one captain made up his mind then and there that his cobble or his
mule, as they term the different classes of boats, would remain in the
harbour till the storm had passed. The wind fell away entirely during the evening,
and
at midnight there was a dead calm, a sultry heat, and that prevailing intensity which,
on the approach of thunder, affects persons of a sensitive nature. There were but
few
lights in sight at sea, for even the coasting steamers, which usually hug the
shore so closely, kept well to seaward, and but few fishing-boats were in sight. The
only sail noticeable was a foreign schooner with all sails set, which was seemingly
going westwards. The foolhardiness or ignorance of her officers was a prolific theme
for
comment whilst she remained in sight, and efforts were made to signal her to reduce
sail
in face of her danger. Before the night shut down she was seen with sails idly flapping
as she gently rolled on the undulating swell of the sea,

As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.

Shortly before ten o’clock the stillness of the air grew quite oppressive, and the
silence was so marked that the bleating of a sheep inland or the barking of a dog
in the
town was distinctly heard, and the band on the pier, with its lively French air, was
like a discord in the great harmony of nature’s silence. A little after midnight came
a
strange sound from over the sea, and high overhead the air began to carry a strange,
faint, hollow booming.

Then without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity which, at the time, seemed
incredible, and even afterwards is impossible to realize, the whole aspect of nature
at
once became convulsed. The waves rose in growing fury, each overtopping its fellow,
till
in a very few minutes the lately glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring monster.
White-crested waves beat madly on the level sands and rushed up the shelving cliffs;
others broke over the piers, and with their spume swept the lanthorns of the lighthouses
which rise from the end of either pier of Whitby Harbour. The wind roared like thunder,
and blew with such force that it was with difficulty that even strong men kept their
feet, or clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. It was found necessary to clear
the entire piers from the mass of onlookers, or else the fatalities of the night would
have been increased manifold. To add to the difficulties and dangers of the time,
masses
of sea-fog came drifting inland—white, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly fashion,
so
dank and damp and cold that it needed but little effort of imagination to think that
the
spirits of those lost at sea were touching their living brethren with the clammy hands
of death, and many a one shuddered as the wreaths of sea-mist swept by. At times the
mist cleared, and the sea for some distance could be seen in the glare of the lightning,
which now came thick and fast, followed by such sudden peals of thunder that the whole
sky overhead seemed trembling under the shock of the footsteps of the storm.

Some of the scenes thus revealed were of immeasurable grandeur and of absorbing
interest—the sea, running mountains high, threw skywards with each wave mighty masses
of
white foam, which the tempest seemed to snatch at and whirl away into space; here
and
there a fishing-boat, with a rag of sail, running madly for shelter before the blast;
now and again the white wings of a storm-tossed sea-bird. On the summit of the East
Cliff the new searchlight was ready for experiment, but had not yet been tried. The
officers in charge of it got it into working order, and in the pauses of the inrushing
mist swept with it the surface of the sea. Once or twice its service was most effective,
as when a fishing-boat, with gunwale under water, rushed into the harbour, able, by
the
guidance of the sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against the piers.
As
each boat achieved the safety of the port there was a shout of joy from the mass of
people on shore, a shout which for a moment seemed to cleave the gale and was then
swept
away in its rush.

Before long the searchlight discovered some distance away a schooner with all sails
set,
apparently the same vessel which had been noticed earlier in the evening. The wind
had
by this time backed to the east, and there was a shudder amongst the watchers on the
cliff as they realized the terrible danger in which she now was. Between her and the
port lay the great flat reef on which so many good ships have from time to time
suffered, and, with the wind blowing from its present quarter, it would be quite
impossible that she should fetch the entrance of the harbour. It was now nearly the
hour
of high tide, but the waves were so great that in their troughs the shallows of the
shore were almost visible, and the schooner, with all sails set, was rushing with
such
speed that, in the words of one old salt, she must fetch up somewhere, if it was only
in hell. Then came another rush of sea-fog, greater than any hitherto—a mass of
dank mist, which seemed to close on all things like a grey pall, and left available
to
men only the organ of hearing, for the roar of the tempest, and the crash of the
thunder, and the booming of the mighty billows came through the damp oblivion even
louder than before. The rays of the searchlight were kept fixed on the harbour mouth
across the East Pier, where the shock was expected, and men waited breathless. The
wind
suddenly shifted to the north-east, 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
deck at all. A great awe came on all as they realised that the ship, as if by a miracle,
had found the harbour, unsteered save by the hand of a dead man! However, all took
place
more quickly than it takes to write these words. The schooner paused not, but rushing
across the harbour, pitched herself on that accumulation of sand and gravel washed
by
many tides and many storms into the south-east corner of the pier jutting under the
East
Cliff, known locally as Tate Hill Pier.

There was of course a considerable concussion as the vessel drove up on the sand heap.
Every spar, rope, and stay was strained, and some of the top-hammer came crashing
down. But, strangest of all, the very instant the shore was touched, an immense dog
sprang up on deck from below, as if shot up by the concussion, and running forward,
jumped from the bow on the sand. Making straight for the steep cliff, where the
churchyard hangs over the laneway to the East Pier so steeply that some of the flat
tombstones—thruff-steans or through-stones, as they call them in the
Whitby vernacular—actually project over where the sustaining cliff has fallen away, it
disappeared in the darkness, which seemed intensified just beyond the focus of the
searchlight.

It so happened that there was no one at the moment on Tate Hill Pier, as all those
whose
houses are in close proximity were either in bed or were out on the heights above.
Thus
the coastguard on duty on the eastern side of the harbour, who at once ran down to
the
little pier, was the first to climb on board. The men working the searchlight, after
scouring the entrance of the harbour without seeing anything, then turned the light
on
the derelict and kept it there. The coastguard ran aft, and when he came beside the
wheel, bent over to examine it, and recoiled at once as though under some sudden
emotion. This seemed to pique general curiosity, and quite a number of people began
to
run. It is a good way round from the West Cliff by the Drawbridge to Tate Hill Pier,
but
your correspondent is a fairly good runner, and came well ahead of the crowd. When
I
arrived, however, I found already assembled on the pier a crowd, whom the coastguard
and
police refused to allow to come on board. By the courtesy of the chief boatman, I
was,
as your correspondent, permitted to climb on deck, and was one of a small group who
saw
the dead seaman whilst actually lashed to the wheel.

It was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, or even awed, for not often can
such
a sight have been seen. The man was simply fastened by his hands, tied one over the
other, to a spoke of the wheel. Between the inner hand and the wood was a crucifix,
the
set of beads on which it was fastened being around both wrists and wheel, and all
kept
fast by the binding cords. The poor fellow may have been seated at one time, but the
flapping and buffeting of the sails had worked through the rudder of the wheel and
dragged him to and fro, so that the cords with which he was tied had cut the flesh
to
the bone. Accurate note was made of the state of things, and a doctor—Surgeon J. M.
Caffyn, of 33, East Elliot Place—who came immediately after me, declared, after making
examination, that the man must have been dead for quite two days. In his pocket was
a
bottle, carefully corked, empty save for a little roll of paper, which proved to be
the
addendum to the log. The coastguard said the man must have tied up his own hands,
fastening the knots with his teeth. The fact that a coastguard was the first on board
may save some complications, later on, in the Admiralty Court; for coastguards cannot
claim the salvage which is the right of the first civilian entering on a derelict.
Already, however, the legal tongues are wagging, and one young law student is loudly
asserting that the rights of the owner are already completely sacrificed, his property
being held in contravention of the statutes of mortmain, since the tiller, as
emblemship, if not proof, of delegated possession, is held in a dead hand. It is
needless to say that the dead steersman has been reverently removed from the place
where
he held his honourable watch and ward till death—a steadfastness as noble as that
of the
young Casabianca—and placed in the mortuary to await inquest.

Already the sudden storm is passing, and its fierceness is abating; crowds are scattering
homeward, and the sky is beginning to redden over the Yorkshire wolds. I shall send,
in
time for your next issue, further details of the derelict ship which found her way
so
miraculously into harbour in the storm.

Whitby

9 August.—The sequel to the strange arrival of the derelict in the storm last night is
almost more startling than the thing itself. It turns out that the schooner is a Russian
from Varna, and is called the Demeter. She is almost entirely in ballast of silver
sand,
with only a small amount of cargo—a number of great wooden boxes filled with mould.
This
cargo was consigned to a Whitby solicitor, Mr. S. F. Billington, of 7, The Crescent, who
this morning went aboard and formally took possession of the goods consigned to him.
The
Russian consul, too, acting for the charter-party, took formal possession of the ship,
and paid all harbour dues, etc. Nothing is talked about here to-day except the strange
coincidence; the officials of the Board of Trade have been most exacting in seeing
that
every compliance has been made with existing regulations. As the matter is to be a
nine days’ wonder, they are evidently determined that there shall be no cause
of after complaint. A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog which landed
when the ship struck, and more than a few of the members of the S. P. C. A., which
is
very strong in Whitby, have tried to befriend the animal. To the general disappointment,
however, it was not to be found; it seems to have disappeared entirely from the town.
It
may be that it was frightened and made its way on to the moors, where it is still
hiding
in terror. There are some who look with dread on such a possibility, lest later on
it
should in itself become a danger, for it is evidently a fierce brute. Early this morning
a large dog, a half-bred mastiff belonging to a coal merchant close to Tate Hill Pier,
was found dead in the roadway opposite to its master’s yard. It had been fighting,
and
manifestly had had a savage opponent, for its throat was torn away, and its belly
was
slit open as if with a savage claw.Later.—By the kindness of the Board of Trade
inspector, I have been permitted to look over the log-book of the Demeter, which was
in
order up to within three days, but contained nothing of special interest except as
to
facts of missing men. The greatest interest, however, is with regard to the paper
found
in the bottle, which was to-day produced at the inquest; and a more strange narrative
than the two between them unfold it has not been my lot to come across. As there is
no
motive for concealment, I am permitted to use them, and accordingly send you a rescript,
simply omitting technical details of seamanship and supercargo. It almost seems as
though the captain had been seized with some kind of mania before he had got well
into
blue water, and that this had developed persistently throughout the voyage. Of course
my
statement must be taken cum grano, since I am writing from the dictation of a clerk
of
the Russian consul, who kindly translated for me, time being short.

LOG OF THE DEMETER.

Varna to Whitby.

Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I shall keep accurate note henceforth
till we land.On 6 July we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and boxes of earth. At
noon set sail. East wind, fresh. Crew, five hands ... two mates, cook, and myself
(captain).On 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus. Boarded by Turkish Customs officers.
Backsheesh. All correct. Under way at 4 p. m.On 12 July through Dardanelles. More
Customs officers and flagboat of guarding squadron. Backsheesh again. Work of officers
thorough, but quick. Want us off soon. At dark passed into Archipelago.On 13 July passed
Cape Matapan. Crew dissatisfied about something. Seemed scared, but would not speak
out.On 14 July was somewhat anxious about crew. Men all steady fellows, who sailed with
me before. Mate could not make out what was wrong; they only told him there was
something, and crossed themselves. Mate lost temper with one of them that day and
struck
him. Expected fierce quarrel, but all was quiet.On 16 July mate reported in the morning
that one of crew, Petrofsky, was missing. Could not account for it. Took larboard
watch
eight bells last night; was relieved by Abramoff, but did not go to bunk. Men more
downcast than ever. All said they expected something of the kind, but would not say
more
than there was something aboard. Mate getting very impatient with them; feared some
trouble ahead.On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came to my cabin, and in
an awestruck way confided to me that he thought there was a strange man aboard the
ship.
He said that in his watch he had been sheltering behind the deck-house, as there was
a
rain-storm, when he saw a tall, thin man, who was not like any of the crew, come up
the
companion-way, and go along the deck forward, and disappear. He followed cautiously,
but
when he got to bows found no one, and the hatchways were all closed. He was in a panic
of superstitious fear, and I am afraid the panic may spread. To allay it, I shall
to-day
search entire ship carefully from stem to stern.Later in the day I got together the
whole crew, and told them, as they evidently thought there was some one in the ship,
we
would search from stem to stern. First mate angry; said it was folly, and to yield
to
such foolish ideas would demoralise the men; said he would engage to keep them out
of
trouble with a handspike. I let him take the helm, while the rest began thorough search,
all keeping abreast, with lanterns: we left no corner unsearched. As there were only
the
big wooden boxes, there were no odd corners where a man could hide. Men much relieved
when search over, and went back to work cheerfully. First mate scowled, but said
nothing.22 July.—Rough weather last three days, and all hands busy with sails—no time to
be frightened. Men seem to have forgotten their dread. Mate cheerful again, and all
on
good terms. Praised men for work in bad weather. Passed Gibralter and out through
Straits. All well.24 July.—There seems some doom over this ship. Already a hand short,
and entering on the Bay of Biscay with wild weather ahead, and yet last night another
man lost—disappeared. Like the first, he came off his watch and was not seen again.
Men
all in a panic of fear; sent a round robin, asking to have double watch, as they fear
to
be alone. Mate angry. Fear there will be some trouble, as either he or the men will
do
some violence.28 July.—Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of maelstrom, and the
wind a tempest. No sleep for any one. Men all worn out. Hardly know how to set a watch,
since no one fit to go on. Second mate volunteered to steer and watch, and let men
snatch a few hours’ sleep. Wind abating; seas still terrific, but feel them less,
as
ship is steadier.29 July.—Another tragedy. Had single watch to-night, as crew too tired
to double. When morning watch came on deck could find no one except steersman. Raised
outcry, and all came on deck. Thorough search, but no one found. Are now without second
mate, and crew in a panic. Mate and I agreed to go armed henceforth and wait for any
sign of cause.30 July.—Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England. Weather fine, all
sails set. Retired worn out; slept soundly; awaked by mate telling me that both man
of
watch and steersman missing. Only self and mate and two hands left to work ship.1
August.—Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. Had hoped when in the English Channel
to be able to signal for help or get in somewhere. Not having power to work sails,
have
to run before wind. Dare not lower, as could not raise them again. We seem to be
drifting to some terrible doom. Mate now more demoralised than either of men. His
stronger nature seems to have worked inwardly against himself. Men are beyond fear,
working stolidly and patiently, with minds made up to worst. They are Russian, he
Roumanian.2 August, midnight.—Woke up from few minutes’ sleep by hearing a cry,
seemingly outside my port. Could see nothing in fog. Rushed on deck, and ran against
mate. Tells me heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on watch. One more gone. Lord,
help
us! Mate says we must be past Straits of Dover, as in a moment of fog lifting he saw
North Foreland, just as he heard the man cry out. If so we are now off in the North
Sea,
and only God can guide us in the fog, which seems to move with us; and God seems to
have
deserted us.3 August.—At midnight I went to relieve the man at the wheel, and when I got
to it found no one there. The wind was steady, and as we ran before it there was no
yawing. I dared not leave it, so shouted for the mate. After a few seconds he rushed
up
on deck in his flannels. He looked wild-eyed and haggard, and I greatly fear his reason
has given way. He came close to me and whispered hoarsely, with his mouth to my ear,
as
though fearing the very air might hear: It is here; I know it, now. On the watch last
night I saw It, like a man, tall and thin, and ghastly pale. It was in the bows, and
looking out. I crept behind It, and gave It my knife; but the knife went through It,
empty as the air. And as he spoke he took his knife and drove it savagely into
space. Then he went on: But It is here, and I’ll find It. It is in the hold, perhaps
in one of those boxes. I’ll unscrew them one by one and see. You work the helm.
And, with a warning look and his finger on his lip, he went below. There was springing
up a choppy wind, and I could not leave the helm. I saw him come out on deck again
with
a tool-chest and a lantern, and go down the forward hatchway. He is mad, stark, raving
mad, and it’s no use my trying to stop him. He can’t hurt those big boxes: they are
invoiced as clay, and to pull them about is as harmless a thing as he can do. So
here I stay, and mind the helm, and write these notes. I can only trust in God and
wait
till the fog clears. Then, if I can’t steer to any harbour with the wind that is,
I
shall cut down sails and lie by, and signal for help....It is nearly all over now.
Just
as I was beginning to hope that the mate would come out calmer—for I heard him knocking
away at something in the hold, and work is good for him—there came up the hatchway
a
sudden, startled scream, which made my blood run cold, and up on the deck he came
as if
shot from a gun —a raging madman, with his eyes rolling and his face convulsed with fear.
Save me! save me! he cried, and then looked round on the blanket of fog. His
horror turned to despair, and in a steady voice he said: You had better come too,
captain, before it is too late. He is there. I know the secret now. The sea will
save me from Him, and it is all that is left! Before I could say a word, or move
forward to seize him, he sprang on the bulwark and deliberately threw himself into
the
sea. I suppose I know the secret too, now. It was this madman who had got rid of the
men
one by one, and now he has followed them himself. God help me! How am I to account
for
all these horrors when I get to port? When I get to port! Will that ever be?4
August.—Still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce. I know there is sunrise because
I am
a sailor, why else I know not. I dared not go below, I dared not leave the helm; so
here
all night I stayed, and in the dimness of the night I saw It—Him! God forgive me,
but
the mate was right to jump overboard. It was better to die like a man; to die like
a
sailor in blue water no man can object. But I am captain, and I must not leave my
ship.
But I shall baffle this fiend or monster, for I shall tie my hands to the wheel when
my
strength begins to fail, and along with them I shall tie that which He—It!—dare not
touch; and then, come good wind or foul, I shall save my soul, and my honour as a
captain. I am growing weaker, and the night is coming on. If He can look me in the
face
again, I may not have time to act.... If we are wrecked, mayhap this bottle may be
found, and those who find it may understand; if not, ... well, then all men shall
know
that I have been true to my trust. God and the Blessed Virgin and the saints help
a poor
ignorant soul trying to do his duty....Of course the verdict was an open one. There
is
no evidence to adduce; and whether or not the man himself committed the murders there
is
now none to say. The folk here hold almost universally that the captain is simply
a
hero, and he is to be given a public funeral. Already it is arranged that his body
is to
be taken with a train of boats up the Esk for a piece and then brought back to Tate Hill
Pier and up the abbey steps; for he is to be buried in the churchyard on the cliff. The
owners of more than a hundred boats have already given in their names as wishing to
follow him to the grave.

No trace has ever been found of the great dog; at which there is much mourning, for,
with
public opinion in its present state, he would, I believe, be adopted by the town.
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 . Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake;
but she got up twice and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I awoke in time and
managed to undress her without waking her, and got her back to bed. It is a very strange
thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as her will is thwarted in any physical way,
her
intention, if there be any, disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the
routine of her life.

Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the harbour to see if anything
had
happened in the night. There were very few people about, and though the sun was bright,
and the air clear and fresh, the big, grim-looking waves, that seemed dark themselves
because the foam that topped them was like snow, forced themselves in through the
narrow
mouth of the harbour—like a bullying man going through a crowd. Somehow I felt glad
that
Jonathan was not on the sea last night, but on land. But, oh, is he on land or sea?
Where is he, and how? I am getting fearfully anxious about him. If I only knew what
to
do, and could do anything!10 August.—The funeral of the poor sea-captain to-day was most
touching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffin was carried
by
captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to the churchyard. Lucy came with me, and we
went early to our old seat, whilst the cortège of boats went up the river to the Viaduct
and came down again. We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly all the way.
The poor fellow was laid to rest quite near our seat so that we stood on it when the
time came and saw everything. Poor Lucy seemed much upset. She was restless and uneasy
all the time, and I cannot but think that her dreaming at night is telling on her.
She
is quite odd in one thing: she will not admit to me that there is any cause for
restlessness; or if there be, she does not understand it herself. There is an additional
cause in that poor old Mr. Swales was found dead this morning on our seat, his neck
being broken. He had evidently, as the doctor said, fallen back in the seat in some
sort
of fright, for there was a look of fear and horror on his face that the men said made
them shudder. Poor dear old man! Perhaps he had seen Death with his dying eyes! Lucy
is
so sweet and sensitive that she feels influences more acutely than other people do.
Just
now she was quite upset by a little thing which I did not much heed, though I am myself
very fond of animals. One of the men who came up here often to look for the boats
was
followed by his dog. The dog is always with him. They are both quiet persons, and
I
never saw the man angry, nor heard the dog bark. During the service the dog would
not
come to its master, who was on the seat with us, but kept a few yards off, barking
and
howling. Its master spoke to it gently, and then harshly, and then angrily; but it
would
neither come nor cease to make a noise. It was in a sort of fury, with its eyes savage,
and all its hairs bristling out like a cat’s tail when puss is on the war-path. Finally
the man, too, got angry, and jumped down and kicked the dog, and then took it by the
scruff of the neck and half dragged and half threw it on the tombstone on which the
seat
is fixed. The moment it touched the stone the poor thing became quiet and fell all
into
a tremble. It did not try to get away, but crouched down, quivering and cowering,
and
was in such a pitiable state of terror that I tried, though without effect, to comfort
it. Lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt to touch the dog, but looked
at
it in an agonised sort of way. I greatly fear that she is of too super-sensitive a
nature to go through the world without trouble. She will be dreaming of this to-night,
I
am sure. The whole agglomeration of things—the ship steered into port by a dead man;
his
attitude, tied to the wheel with a crucifix and beads; the touching funeral; the dog,
now furious and now in terror—will all afford material for her dreams.

I think it will be best for her to go to bed tired out physically, so I shall take
her
for a long walk by the cliffs to Robin Hood’s Bay and back. She ought not to have
much
inclination for sleep-walking then.

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-8">CHAPTER VIII</h2>

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 to-night. We had a lovely walk. Lucy, after a while, was
in
gay spirits, owing, I think, to some dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field
close to the lighthouse, and frightened the wits out of us. I believe we forgot
everything except, of course, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe the slate clean
and
give us a fresh start. We had a capital severe tea at Robin Hood’s Bay in a sweet
little old-fashioned inn, with a bow-window right over the seaweed-covered rocks of
the
strand. I believe we should have shocked the New Woman with our appetites. Men
are more tolerant, bless them! Then we walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages
to rest, and with our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls. Lucy was really
tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as soon as we could. The young curate came
in, however, and Mrs. Westenra asked him to stay for supper. Lucy and I had both a
fight
for it with the dusty miller; I know it was a hard fight on my part, and I am quite
heroic. I think that some day the bishops must get together and see about breeding
up a
new class of curates, who don’t take supper, no matter how they may be pressed to,
and
who will know when girls are tired. Lucy is asleep and breathing softly. She has more
colour in her cheeks than usual, and looks, oh, so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in
love
with her seeing her only in the drawing-room, I wonder what he would say if he saw
her
now. Some of the New Women writers will some day start an idea that men and women
should be allowed to see each other asleep before proposing or accepting. But I suppose
the New Woman won’t condescend in future to accept; she will do the proposing herself.
And a nice job she will make of it, too! There’s some consolation in that. I am so
happy
to-night, because dear Lucy seems better. I really believe she has turned the corner,
and that we are over her troubles with dreaming. I should be quite happy if I only
knew
if Jonathan.... God bless and keep him.11 August, 3 a. m.—Diary again. No sleep now, so
I may as well write. I am too agitated to sleep. We have had such an adventure, such
an
agonising experience. I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my diary.... Suddenly
I
became broad awake, and sat up, with a horrible sense of fear upon me, and of some
feeling of emptiness around me. The room was dark, so I could not see Lucy’s bed;
I
stole across and felt for her. The bed was empty. I lit a match and found that she
was
not in the room. The door was shut, but not locked, as I had left it. I feared to
wake
her mother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw on some clothes and
got
ready to look for her. As I was leaving the room it struck me that the clothes she
wore
might give me some clue to her dreaming intention. Dressing-gown would mean house;
dress, outside. Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places. Thank God, I
said to myself, she cannot be far, as she is only in her nightdress. I ran
downstairs and looked in the sitting-room. Not there! Then I looked in all the other
open rooms of the house, with an ever-growing fear chilling my heart. Finally I came
to
the hall door and found it open. It was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had
not
caught. The people of the house are careful to lock the door every night, so I feared
that Lucy must have gone out as she was. There was no time to think of what might
happen; a vague, overmastering fear obscured all details. I took a big, heavy shawl
and
ran out. The clock was striking one as I was in the Crescent, and there was not a
soul
in sight. I ran along the North Terrace, but could see no sign of the white figure
which
I expected. At the edge of the West Cliff above the pier I looked across the harbour
to
the East Cliff, in the hope or fear—I don’t know which—of seeing Lucy in our favourite
seat. There was a bright full moon, with heavy black, driving clouds, which threw
the
whole scene into a fleeting diorama of light and shade as they sailed across. For
a
moment or two I could see nothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary’s Church
and all around it. Then as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of the abbey coming
into view; and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharp as a sword-cut moved
along, the church and the churchyard became gradually visible. Whatever my expectation
was, it was not disappointed, for there, on our favourite seat, the silver light of
the
moon struck a half-reclining figure, snowy white. The coming of the cloud was too
quick
for me to see much, for shadow shut down on light almost immediately; but it seemed
to
me as though something dark stood behind the seat where the white figure shone, and
bent
over it. What it was, whether man or beast, I could not tell; I did not wait to catch
another glance, but flew down the steep steps to the pier and along by the fish-market
to the bridge, which was the only way to reach the East Cliff. The town seemed as
dead,
for not a soul did I see; I rejoiced that it was so, for I wanted no witness of poor
Lucy’s condition. The time and distance seemed endless, and my knees trembled and
my
breath came laboured as I toiled up the endless steps to the abbey. I must have gone
fast, and yet it seemed to me as if my feet were weighted with lead, and as though
every
joint in my body were rusty. When I got almost to the top I could see the seat and
the
white figure, for I was now close enough to distinguish it even through the spells
of
shadow. There was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over the half-reclining
white figure. I called in fright, Lucy! Lucy! and something raised a head, and
from where I was I could see a white face and red, gleaming eyes. Lucy did not answer,
and I ran on to the entrance of the churchyard. As I entered, the church was between me
and the seat, and for a minute or so I lost sight of her. When I came in view again
the
cloud had passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly that I could see Lucy half
reclining with her head lying over the back of the seat. She was quite alone, and
there
was not a sign of any living thing about.

When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her lips were parted,
and she
was breathing—not softly as usual with her, but in long, heavy gasps, as though striving
to get her lungs full at every breath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her
sleep
and pulled the collar of her nightdress close around her throat. Whilst she did so
there
came a little shudder through her, as though she felt the cold. I flung the warm shawl
over her, and drew the edges tight round her neck, for I dreaded lest she should get
some deadly chill from the night air, unclad as she was. I feared to wake her all
at
once, so, in order to have my hands free that I might help her, I fastened the shawl
at
her throat with a big safety-pin; but I must have been clumsy in my anxiety and pinched
or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her breathing became quieter, she put
her
hand to her throat again and moaned. When I had her carefully wrapped up I put my
shoes
on her feet and then began very gently to wake her. At first she did not respond;
but
gradually she became more and more uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing
occasionally. At last, as time was passing fast, and, for many other reasons, I wished
to get her home at once, I shook her more forcibly, till finally she opened her eyes
and
awoke. She did not seem surprised to see me, as, of course, she did not realise all
at
once where she was. Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her
body
must have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled at waking unclad
in a
churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace. She trembled a little, and clung to me;
when I told her to come at once with me home she rose without a word, with the obedience
of a child. As we passed along, the gravel hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince.
She
stopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes; but I would not. However, when
we
got to the pathway outside the churchyard, where there was a puddle of water, remaining
from the storm, I daubed my feet with mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so
that
as we went home, no one, in case we should meet any one, should notice my bare feet.

Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul. Once we saw a man, who
seemed not quite sober, passing along a street in front of us; but we hid in a door
till
he had disappeared up an opening such as there are here, steep little closes, or
wynds, as they call them in Scotland. My heart beat so loud all the time that
sometimes I thought I should faint. I was filled with anxiety about Lucy, not only
for
her health, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her reputation in case
the
story should get wind. When we got in, and had washed our feet, and had said a prayer
of
thankfulness together, I tucked her into bed. Before falling asleep she asked—even
implored—me not to say a word to any one, even her mother, about her sleep-walking
adventure. I hesitated at first to promise; but on thinking of the state of her mother’s
health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her, and thinking, too, of
how
such a story might become distorted—nay, infallibly would—in case it should leak out,
I
thought it wiser to do so. I hope I did right. I have locked the door, and the key
is
tied to my wrist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is sleeping soundly;
the reflex of the dawn is high and far over the sea....Same day, noon.—All goes well.
Lucy slept till I woke her and seemed not to have even changed her side. The adventure
of the night does not seem to have harmed her; on the contrary, it has benefited her,
for she looks better this morning than she has done for weeks. I was sorry to notice
that my clumsiness with the safety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it might have been serious,
for
the skin of her throat was pierced. I must have pinched up a piece of loose skin and
have transfixed it, for there are two little red points like pin-pricks, and on the
band
of her nightdress was a drop of blood. When I apologised and was concerned about it,
she
laughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it. Fortunately it cannot leave
a
scar, as it is so tiny.Same day, night.—We passed a happy day. The air was clear,
and
the sun bright, and there was a cool breeze. We took our lunch to Mulgrave Woods,
Mrs.
Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I walking by the cliff-path and joining
her at
the gate. I felt a little sad myself, for I could not but feel how absolutely happy
it
would have been had Jonathan been with me. But there! I must only be patient. In the
evening we strolled in the Casino Terrace, and heard some good music by Spohr and
Mackenzie, and went to bed early. Lucy seems more restful than she has been for some
time, and fell asleep at once. I shall lock the door and secure the key the same as
before, though I do not expect any trouble to-night.12 August.—My expectations were
wrong, for twice during the night I was wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed,
even in her sleep, to be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and went back
to
bed under a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and heard the birds chirping outside
of the window. Lucy woke, too, and, I was glad to see, was even better than on the
previous morning. All her old gaiety of manner seemed to have come back, and she came
and snuggled in beside me and told me all about Arthur. I told her how anxious I was
about Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she succeeded somewhat, for,
though sympathy can’t alter facts, it can help to make them more bearable.13
August.—Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist as before. Again I
awoke
in the night, and found Lucy sitting up in bed, still asleep, pointing to the window.
I
got up quietly, and pulling aside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant moonlight,
and
the soft effect of the light over the sea and sky—merged together in one great, silent
mystery—was beautiful beyond words. Between me and the moonlight flitted a great bat,
coming and going in great whirling circles. Once or twice it came quite close, but
was,
I suppose, frightened at seeing me, and flitted away across the harbour towards the
abbey. When I came back from the window Lucy had lain down again, and was sleeping
peacefully. She did not stir again all night.14 August.—On the East Cliff, reading and
writing all day. Lucy seems to have become as much in love with the spot as I am,
and it
is hard to get her away from it when it is time to come home for lunch or tea or dinner.
This afternoon she made a funny remark. We were coming home for dinner, and had come
to
the top of the steps up from the West Pier and stopped to look at the view, as we
generally do. The setting sun, low down in the sky, was just dropping behind Kettleness;
the red light was thrown over on the East Cliff and the old abbey, and seemed to bathe
everything in a beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a while, and suddenly Lucy
murmured as if to herself:—

His red eyes again! They are just the same. It was such an odd expression, coming
apropos of nothing, that it quite startled me. I slewed round a little, so as to see
Lucy well without seeming to stare at her, and saw that she was in a half-dreamy state,
with an odd look on her face that I could not quite make out; so I said nothing, but
followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at our own seat, whereon was a
dark
figure seated alone. I was a little startled myself, for it seemed for an instant
as if
the stranger had great eyes like burning flames; but a second look dispelled the
illusion. The red sunlight was shining on the windows of St. Mary’s Church behind
our
seat, and as the sun dipped there was just sufficient change in the refraction and
reflection to make it appear as if the light moved. I called Lucy’s attention to the
peculiar effect, and she became herself with a start, but she looked sad all the same;
it may have been that she was thinking of that terrible night up there. We never refer
to it; so I said nothing, and we went home to dinner. Lucy had a headache and went
early
to bed. I saw her asleep, and went out for a little stroll myself; I walked along
the
cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet sadness, for I was thinking of Jonathan.
When coming home—it was then bright moonlight, so bright that, though the front of
our
part of the Crescent was in shadow, everything could be well seen—I threw a glance
up at
our window, and saw Lucy’s head leaning out. I thought that perhaps she was looking
out
for me, so I opened my handkerchief and waved it. She did not notice or make any
movement whatever. Just then, the moonlight crept round an angle of the building,
and
the light fell on the window. There distinctly was Lucy with her head lying up against
the side of the window-sill and her eyes shut. She was fast asleep, and by her, seated
on the window-sill, was something that looked like a good-sized bird. I was afraid
she
might get a chill, so I ran upstairs, but as I came into the room she was moving back
to
her bed, fast asleep, and breathing heavily; she was holding her hand to her throat,
as
though to protect it from cold.

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

She looks so sweet as she sleeps; but she is paler than is her wont, and there is
a
drawn, haggard look under her eyes which I do not like. I fear she is fretting about
something. I wish I could find out what it is.15 August.—Rose later than usual. Lucy was
languid and tired, and slept on after we had been called. We had a happy surprise
at
breakfast. Arthur’s father is better, and wants the marriage to come off soon. Lucy
is
full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad and sorry at once. Later on in the day she
told me the cause. She is grieved to lose Lucy as her very own, but she is rejoiced
that
she is soon to have some one to protect her. Poor dear, sweet lady! She confided to
me
that she has got her death-warrant. She has not told Lucy, and made me promise secrecy;
her doctor told her that within a few months, at most, she must die, for her heart
is
weakening. At any time, even now, a sudden shock would be almost sure to kill her.
Ah,
we were wise to keep from her the affair of the dreadful night of Lucy’s
sleep-walking.17 August.—No diary for two whole days. I have not had the heart to write.
Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our happiness. No news from Jonathan,
and Lucy seems to be growing weaker, whilst her mother’s hours are numbering to a
close.
I do not understand Lucy’s fading away as she is doing. She eats well and sleeps well,
and enjoys the fresh air; but all the time the roses in her cheeks are fading, and
she
gets weaker and more languid day by day; at night I hear her gasping as if for air.
I
keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist at night, but she gets up and
walks
about the room, and sits at the open window. Last night I found her leaning out when
I
woke up, and when I tried to wake her I could not; she was in a faint. When I managed
to
restore her she was as weak as water, and cried silently between long, painful struggles
for breath. When I asked her how she came to be at the window she shook her head and
turned away. I trust her feeling ill may not be from that unlucky prick of the
safety-pin. I looked at her throat just now as she lay asleep, and the tiny wounds
seem
not to have healed. They are still open, and, if anything, larger than before, and
the
edges of them are faintly white. They are like little white dots with red centres.
Unless they heal within a day or two, I shall insist on the doctor seeing about
them.

Letter, Samuel F. Billington &amp; Son, Solicitors, Whitby, to Messrs. Carter, Paterson
&amp; Co., London.

"17 August.

"Dear Sirs,—

"Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great Northern Railway. Same are
to be
delivered at Carfax, near Purfleet, immediately on receipt at goods station King’s
Cross. The house is at present empty, but enclosed please find keys, all of which
are
labelled.

"You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form the consignment, in
the
partially ruined building forming part of the house and marked ‘A’ on rough diagram
enclosed. Your agent will easily recognise the locality, as it is the ancient chapel
of
the mansion. The goods leave by the train at 9:30 to-night, and will be due at King’s
Cross at 4:30 to-morrow afternoon. As our client wishes the delivery made as soon as
possible, we shall be obliged by your having teams ready at King’s Cross at the time
named and forthwith conveying the goods to destination. In order to obviate any delays
possible through any routine requirements as to payment in your departments, we enclose
cheque herewith for ten pounds (£10), receipt of which please acknowledge. Should
the
charge be less than this amount, you can return balance; if greater, we shall at once
send cheque for difference on hearing from you. You are to leave the keys on coming
away
in the main hall of the house, where the proprietor may get them on his entering the
house by means of his duplicate key.

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

"We are, dear Sirs,

"Faithfully yours,

Samuel F. Billington &amp; Son.

Letter, Messrs. Carter, Paterson &amp; Co., London, to Messrs. Billington &amp; Son,
Whitby.

"21 August.

"Dear Sirs,—

"We beg to acknowledge £10 received and to return cheque £1 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 &amp; Co.

Mina Murray’s Journal.

18 August.—I am happy to-day, and write sitting on the seat in the churchyard. Lucy is
ever so much better. Last night she slept well all night, and did not disturb me once.
The roses seem coming back already to her cheeks, though she is still sadly pale and
wan-looking. If she were in any way anæmic I could understand it, but she is not.
She is
in gay spirits and full of life and cheerfulness. All the morbid reticence seems to
have
passed from her, and she has just reminded me, as if I needed any reminding, of that
night, and that it was here, on this very seat, I found her asleep. As she told me
she
tapped playfully with the heel of her boot on the stone slab and said:—

My poor little feet didn’t make much noise then! I daresay poor old Mr. Swales would
have told me that it was because I didn’t want to wake up Geordie. As she was in
such a communicative humour, I asked her if she had dreamed at all that night. Before
she answered, that sweet, puckered look came into her forehead, which Arthur—I call
him
Arthur from her habit—says he loves; and, indeed, I don’t wonder that he does. Then
she
went on in a half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it to herself:—

I didn’t quite dream; but it all seemed to be real. I only wanted to be here in this
spot—I don’t know why, for I was afraid of something—I don’t know what. I remember,
though I suppose I was asleep, passing through the streets and over the bridge. A
fish leaped as I went by, and I leaned over to look at it, and I heard a lot of dogs
howling—the whole town seemed as if it must be full of dogs all howling at once—as
I
went up the steps. Then I had a vague memory of something long and dark with red
eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and something very sweet and very bitter all
around me at once; and then I seemed sinking into deep green water, and there was
a
singing in my ears, as I have heard there is to drowning men; and then everything
seemed passing away from me; my soul seemed to go out from my body and float about
the air. I seem to remember that once the West Lighthouse was right under me, and
then there was a sort of agonising feeling, as if I were in an earthquake, and I
came back and found you shaking my body. I saw you do it before I felt you.

Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I listened to her
breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and thought it better not to keep her mind
on the
subject, so we drifted on to other subjects, and Lucy was like her old self again.
When
we got home the fresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were really more
rosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very happy evening
together.19 August.—Joy, joy, joy! although not all joy. At last, news of Jonathan. The
dear fellow has been ill; that is why he did not write. I am not afraid to think it
or
say it, now that I know. Mr. Hawkins sent me on the letter, and wrote himself, oh,
so
kindly. I am to leave in the morning and go over to Jonathan, and to help to nurse
him
if necessary, and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says it would not be a bad thing
if we
were to be married out there. I have cried over the good Sister’s letter till I can
feel
it wet against my bosom, where it lies. It is of Jonathan, and must be next my heart,
for he is in my heart. My journey is all mapped out, and my luggage ready. I am only
taking one change of dress; Lucy 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
Wilhelmina Murray.

"12 August.

"Dear Madam,—

"I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is himself not strong enough to write,
though progressing well, thanks to God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary. He has been under
our care for nearly six weeks, suffering from a violent brain fever. He wishes me
to
convey his love, and to say that by this post I write for him to Mr. Peter Hawkins,
Exeter, to say, with his dutiful respects, that he is sorry for his delay, and that all
of his work is completed. He will require some few weeks’ rest in our sanatorium in
the
hills, but will then return. He wishes me to say that he has not sufficient money
with
him, and that he would like to pay for his staying here, so that others who need shall
not be wanting for help.

"Believe me,

"Yours, with sympathy and all blessings,

"Sister Agatha.

"P. S.—My patient being asleep, I open this to let you know something more. He has
told
me all about you, and that you are 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 with him always that there may be nothing to excite him of this kind
for a long time to come; the traces of such an illness as his do not lightly die away.
We should have written long ago, but we knew nothing of his friends, and there was
on
him nothing that any one could understand. He came in the train from Klausenburg, and
the guard was told by the station-master there that he rushed into the station shouting
for a ticket for home. Seeing from his violent demeanour that he was English, they
gave
him a ticket for the furthest station on the way thither that the train reached.

Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all hearts by his sweetness and
gentleness. He is truly getting on well, and I have no doubt will in a few weeks be
all himself. But be careful of him for safety’s sake. There are, I pray God and St.
Joseph and Ste. Mary, many, many, happy years for you both.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

19 August.—Strange and sudden change in Renfield last night. About eight o’clock he began
to get excited and sniff about as a dog does when setting. The attendant was struck
by
his manner, and knowing my interest in him, encouraged him to talk. He is usually
respectful to the attendant and at times servile; but to-night, the man tells me,
he was
quite haughty. Would not condescend to talk with him at all. All he would say was:—

I don’t want to talk to you: you don’t count now; the Master is at hand.

The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania which has seized him.
If
so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong man with homicidal and religious mania
at
once might be dangerous. The combination is a dreadful one. At nine o’clock I visited
him myself. His attitude to me was the same as that to the attendant; in his sublime
self-feeling the difference between myself and attendant seemed to him as nothing.
It
looks like religious mania, and he will soon think that he himself is God. These
infinitesimal distinctions between man and man are too paltry for an Omnipotent Being.
How these madmen give themselves away! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall;
but
the God created from human vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a sparrow.
Oh,
if men only knew!

For half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in greater and greater degree.
I
did not pretend to be watching him, but I kept strict observation all the same. All
at
once that shifty look came into his eyes which we always see when a madman has seized
an
idea, and with it the shifty movement of the head and back which asylum attendants come
to know so well. He became quite quiet, and went and sat on the edge of his bed
resignedly, and looked into space with lack-lustre eyes. I thought I would find out
if
his apathy were real or only assumed, and tried to lead him to talk of his pets, a
theme
which had never failed to excite his attention. At first he made no reply, but at
length
said testily:—

Bother them all! I don’t care a pin about them.

What? I said. You don’t mean to tell me you don’t care about spiders?
(Spiders at present are his hobby and the note-book is filling up with columns of
small
figures.) To this he answered enigmatically:—

The bride-maidens rejoice the eyes that wait the coming of the bride; but when the
bride draweth nigh, then the maidens shine not to the eyes that are filled.

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

I am weary to-night and low in spirits. I cannot but think of Lucy, and how different
things might have been. If I don’t sleep at once, chloral, the modern Morpheus—C2HCl3O.
H2O! I must be careful not to let it grow into a habit. No, I shall take none to-night!
I have thought of Lucy, and I shall not dishonour her by mixing the two. If need be,
to-night shall be sleepless....Later.—Glad I made the resolution; gladder that I kept
to
it. I had lain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice, when the
night-watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that Renfield had escaped.
I
threw on my clothes and ran down at once; my patient is too dangerous a person to
be
roaming about. Those ideas of his might work out dangerously with strangers. The
attendant was waiting for me. He said he had seen him not ten minutes before, seemingly
asleep in his bed, when he had looked through the observation-trap in the door. His
attention was called by the sound of the window being wrenched out. He ran back and
saw
his feet disappear through the window, and had at once sent up for me. He was only
in
his night-gear, and cannot be far off. The attendant thought it would be more useful
to
watch where he should go than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst
getting out of the building by the door. He is a bulky man, and couldn’t get through
the
window. I am thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feet foremost, and, as we were
only
a few feet above ground, landed unhurt. The attendant told me the patient had gone
to
the left, and had taken a straight line, so I ran as quickly as I could. As I got
through the belt of trees I saw a white figure scale the high wall which separates
our
grounds from those of the deserted house.

I ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four men immediately and follow
me
into the grounds of Carfax, in case our friend might be dangerous. I got a ladder
myself, and crossing the wall, dropped down on the other side. I could see Renfield’s
figure just disappearing behind the angle of the house, so I ran after him. On the
far
side of the house I found him pressed close against the old ironbound oak door of
the
chapel. He was talking, apparently to some one, but I was afraid to go near enough
to
hear what he was saying, lest I might frighten him, and he should run off. Chasing
an
errant swarm of bees is nothing to following a naked lunatic, when the fit of escaping
is upon him! After a few minutes, however, I could see that he did not take note of
anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearer to him—the more so as my men had
now
crossed the wall and were closing him in. I heard him say:—

I am here to do Your bidding, Master. I am Your slave, and You will reward me, for
I
shall be faithful. I have worshipped You long and afar off. Now that You are near,
I
await Your commands, and You will not pass me by, will You, dear Master, in Your
distribution of good things?

He is a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the loaves and fishes even when he
believes he is in a Real Presence. His manias make a startling combination. When we
closed in on him he fought like a tiger. He is immensely strong, 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 to-night.

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-9">CHAPTER IX</h2>

Letter, Mina Harker to Lucy Westenra.

"Buda-Pesth, 24 August.

"My dearest Lucy,—

"I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened since we parted at the railway 
station at Whitby. Well, my dear, I got to Hull all right, and caught the boat to
Hamburg, and then the train on here. I feel that I can hardly recall anything of the
journey, except that I knew I was coming to Jonathan, and, that as I should have to
do
some nursing, I had better get all the sleep I could.... I found my dear one, oh,
so
thin and pale and weak-looking. All the resolution has gone out of his dear eyes,
and
that quiet dignity which I told you was in his face has vanished. He is only a wreck
of
himself, and he does not remember anything that has happened to him for a long time
past. At least, he wants me to believe so, and I shall never ask. He has had some
terrible shock, and I fear it might tax his poor brain if he were to try to recall
it.
Sister Agatha, who is a good creature and a born nurse, tells me that he raved of
dreadful things whilst he was off his head. I wanted her to tell me what they were;
but
she would only cross herself, and say she would never tell; that the ravings of the
sick
were the secrets of God, and that if a nurse through her vocation should hear them,
she
should respect her trust. She is a sweet, good soul, and the next day, when she saw
I
was troubled, she opened up the subject again, and after saying that she could never
mention what my poor dear raved about, added: ‘I can tell you this much, my dear:
that
it was not about anything which he has done wrong himself; and you, as his wife to
be,
have no cause to be concerned. He has not forgotten you or what he owes to you. His
fear
was of great and terrible things, which no mortal can treat of.’ I do believe the
dear
soul thought I might be jealous lest my poor dear should have fallen in love with
any
other girl. The idea of my being jealous about Jonathan! And yet, my dear, let me
whisper, I felt a thrill of joy through me when I knew that no other woman was a cause
of trouble. I am now sitting by his bedside, where I can see his face while he sleeps.
He is waking!...

"When he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to get something from the pocket;
I
asked Sister Agatha, and she brought all his things. I saw that amongst them was his
note-book, and was going to ask him to let me look at it—for I knew then that I might
find some clue to his trouble—but I suppose he must have seen my wish in my eyes,
for he
sent me over to the window, saying he wanted to be quite alone for a moment. Then
he
called me back, and when I came he had his hand over the note-book, and he said to
me
very solemnly:—

‘Wilhelmina’—I knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for he has never called me
by
that name since he asked me to marry him—‘you know, dear, my ideas of the trust
between husband and wife: there should be no secret, no concealment. I have had a
great shock, and when I try to think of what it is I feel my head spin round, and
I
do not know if it was all real or the dreaming of a madman. You know I have had
brain fever, and that is to be mad. The secret is here, and I do not want to know
it. I want to take up my life here, with our marriage.’ For, my dear, we had decided
to be married as soon as the formalities are complete. ‘Are you willing, Wilhelmina,
to share my ignorance? Here is the book. Take it and keep it, read it if you will,
but never let me know; unless, indeed, some solemn duty should come upon me to go
back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake, sane or mad, recorded here.’ He fell back
exhausted, and I put the book under his pillow, and kissed him. I have asked Sister
Agatha to beg the Superior to let our wedding be this afternoon, and am waiting her
reply....She has come and told me that the chaplain of the English mission
church has been sent for. We are to be married in an hour, or as soon after as Jonathan
awakes...."Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but very, very happy.
Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all was ready, and he sat up in bed, propped
up with pillows. He answered his ‘I will’ firmly and strongly. I could hardly speak;
my
heart was so full that even those words seemed to choke me. The dear sisters were
so
kind. Please God, I shall never, never forget them, nor the grave and sweet
responsibilities I have taken upon me. I must tell you of my wedding present. When
the
chaplain and the sisters had left me alone with my husband—oh, Lucy, it is the first
time I have written the words ‘my husband’—left me alone with my husband, I took the
book from under his pillow, and wrapped it up in white paper, and tied it with a little
bit of pale blue ribbon which was round my neck, and sealed it over the knot with
sealing-wax, and for my seal I used my wedding ring. Then I kissed it and showed it
to
my husband, and told him that I would keep it so, and then it would be an outward
and
visible sign for us all our lives that we trusted each other; that I would never open
it
unless it were for his own dear sake or for the sake of some stern duty. Then he took
my
hand in his, and oh, Lucy, it was the first time he took his wife’s hand, and said
that
it was the dearest thing in all the wide world, and that he would go through all the
past again to win it, if need be. The poor dear meant to have said a part of the past,
but he cannot think of time yet, and I shall not wonder if at first he mixes up not
only
the month, but the year.

"Well, my dear, what could I say? I could only tell him that I was the happiest woman
in
all the wide world, and that I had nothing to give him except myself, my life, and
my
trust, and that with these went my love and duty for all the days of my life. And,
my
dear, when he kissed me, and drew me to him with his poor weak hands, it was like
a very
solemn pledge between us....

"Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is not only because it is all
sweet
to me, but because you have been, and are, very dear to me. It was my privilege to
be
your friend and guide when you came from the schoolroom to prepare for the world of
life. I want you to see now, and with the eyes of a very happy wife, whither duty
has
led me; so that in your own married life you too may be all happy as I am. My dear,
please Almighty God, your life may be all it promises: a long day of sunshine, with
no
harsh 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. Good-bye, my dear.
I
shall post this at once, and, perhaps, write you very soon again. I must stop, for
Jonathan is waking—I must attend to my husband!

"Your ever-loving

Mina Harker.

Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Harker.

"Whitby, 30 August.

"My dearest Mina,—

"Oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you soon be in your own home with
your
husband. I wish you could be coming home soon enough to stay with us here. The strong
air would soon restore Jonathan; it has quite restored me. I have an appetite like
a
cormorant, am full of life, and sleep well. You will be glad to know that I have quite
given up walking in my sleep. I think I have not stirred out of my bed for a week,
that
is when I once got into it at night. Arthur says I am getting fat. By the way, I forgot
to tell you that Arthur is here. We have such walks and drives, and rides, and rowing,
and tennis, and fishing together; and I love him more than ever. He tells me that
he
loves me more, but I doubt that, for at first he told me that he couldn’t love me
more
than he did then. But this is nonsense. There he is, calling to me. So no more just
at
present from your loving

"Lucy.

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

P. P. S.—We are to be married on 28 September.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

20 August.—The case of Renfield grows even more interesting. He has now so far quieted
that there are spells of cessation from his passion. For the first week after his
attack
he was perpetually violent. Then one night, just as the moon rose, he grew quiet,
and
kept murmuring to himself: Now I can wait; now I can wait. The attendant came to
tell me, so I ran down at once to have a look at him. He was still in the
strait-waistcoat and in the padded room, but the suffused look had gone from his face,
and his eyes had something of their old pleading—I might almost say,
cringing—softness. I was satisfied with his present condition, and directed him
to be relieved. The attendants hesitated, but finally carried out my wishes without
protest. It was a strange thing that the patient had humour enough to see their
distrust, for, coming close to me, he said in a whisper, all the while looking furtively
at them:—

They think I could hurt you! Fancy me hurting you! The fools!

It was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself dissociated even in the mind
of
this poor madman from the others; but all the same I do not follow his thought. Am
I to
take it that I have anything in common with him, so that we are, as it were, to stand
together; or has he to gain from me some good so stupendous that my well-being is
needful to him? I must find out later on. To-night he will not speak. Even the offer
of
a kitten or even a full-grown cat will not tempt him. He will only say: I don’t take
any stock in cats. I have more to think of now, and I can wait; I can wait.

After a while I left him. The attendant tells me that he was quiet until just before
dawn, and that then he began to get uneasy, and at length violent, until at last he
fell
into a paroxysm which exhausted him so that he swooned into a sort of coma.... Three
nights has the same thing happened—violent all day then quiet from moonrise to sunrise.
I wish I could get some clue to the cause. It would almost seem as if there was some
influence which came and went. Happy thought! We shall to-night play sane wits against
mad ones. He escaped before without our help; to-night he shall escape with it. We
shall
give him a chance, and have the men ready to follow in case they are required....23
August.—The unexpected always happens. How well Disraeli knew life. Our bird
when he found the cage open would not fly, so all our subtle arrangements were for
nought. At any rate, we have proved one thing; that the spells of quietness last a
reasonable time. We shall in future be able to ease his bonds for a few hours each
day.
I have given orders to the night attendant merely to shut him in the padded room,
when
once he is quiet, until an hour before sunrise. The poor soul’s body will enjoy the
relief even if his mind cannot appreciate it. Hark! The unexpected again! I am called;
the patient has once more escaped.Later.—Another night adventure. Renfield artfully
waited until the attendant was entering the room to inspect. Then he dashed out past
him
and 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 were holding him a strange thing
happened. He suddenly redoubled his efforts, and then as suddenly grew calm. I looked
round instinctively, but could see nothing. Then I caught the patient’s eye and followed
it, but could trace nothing as it looked into the moonlit sky except a big bat, which
was flapping its silent and ghostly way to the west. Bats usually wheel and flit about,
but this one seemed to go straight on, as if it knew where it was bound for or had
some
intention of its own. The patient grew calmer every instant, and presently said:—

You needn’t tie me; I shall go quietly! Without trouble we came back to the house.
I feel there is something ominous in his calm, and shall not forget this night....

Lucy Westenra’s Diary

Hillingham, 24 August.—I must imitate Mina, and keep writing things down. Then we can
have long talks when we do meet. I wonder when it will be. I wish she were with me
again, for I feel so unhappy. Last night I seemed to be dreaming again just as I was
at
Whitby. Perhaps it is the change of air, or getting home again. It is all dark and
horrid to me, for I can remember nothing; but I am full of vague fear, and I feel
so
weak and worn out. When Arthur came to lunch he looked quite grieved when he saw me,
and
I hadn’t the spirit to try to be cheerful. I wonder if I could sleep in mother’s room
to-night. I shall make an excuse and try.25 August.—Another bad night. Mother did not
seem to take to my proposal. She seems not too well herself, and doubtless she fears
to
worry me. I tried to keep awake, and succeeded for a while; but when the clock struck
twelve it waked me from a doze, so I must have been falling asleep. There was a sort
of
scratching or flapping at the window, but I did not mind it, and as I remember no
more,
I suppose I must then have fallen asleep. More bad dreams. I wish I could remember
them.
This morning I am horribly weak. My face is ghastly pale, and my throat pains me.
It
must be something wrong with my lungs, for I don’t seem ever to get air enough. I
shall
try to cheer up when Arthur comes, or else I know he will be miserable to see me so.

Letter, Arthur Holmwood to Dr. Seward.

"Albemarle Hotel, 31 August.

"My dear Jack,—

"I want you to do me a favour. Lucy is ill; that is, she has no special disease, but
she
looks awful, and is getting worse every day. I have asked her if there is any cause;
I
do not dare to ask her mother, for to disturb the poor lady’s mind about her daughter
in
her present state of health would be fatal. Mrs. Westenra has confided to me that
her
doom is spoken—disease of the heart—though poor Lucy does not know it yet. I am sure
that there is something preying on my dear girl’s mind. I am almost distracted when
I
think of her; to look at her gives me a pang. I told her I should ask you to see her,
and though she demurred at first—I know why, old fellow—she finally consented. It
will
be a painful task for you, I know, old friend, but it is for her sake, and I must
not
hesitate to ask, or you to act. You are to come to lunch at Hillingham to-morrow,
two
o’clock, so as not to arouse any suspicion in Mrs. Westenra, and after lunch Lucy
will
take an opportunity of being alone with you. I shall come in for tea, and we can go
away
together; I am filled with anxiety, and want to consult with you alone as soon as
I can
after you have seen her. Do not fail!

Arthur.

Telegram, Arthur Holmwood to Seward.

"1 September.

Am summoned to see my father, who is worse. Am writing. Write me fully by to-night’s
post to Ring. Wire me if necessary.

Letter from Dr. Seward to Arthur Holmwood.

"2 September.

"My dear old fellow,—

"With regard to Miss Westenra’s health I hasten to let you know at once that in my
opinion there is not any functional disturbance or any malady that I know of. At the
same time, I am not by any means satisfied with her appearance; she is woefully
different from what she was when I saw her last. Of course you must bear in mind that
I
did not have full opportunity of examination such as I should wish; our very friendship
makes a little difficulty which not even medical science or custom can bridge over.
I
had better tell you exactly what happened, leaving you to draw, in a measure, your
own
conclusions. I shall then say what I have done and propose doing.

"I found Miss Westenra in seemingly gay spirits. Her mother was present, and in a
few
seconds I made up my mind that she was trying all she knew to mislead her mother and
prevent her from being anxious. I have no doubt she guesses, if she does not know,
what
need of caution there is. We lunched alone, and as we all exerted ourselves to be
cheerful, we got, as some kind of reward for our labours, some real cheerfulness amongst
us. Then Mrs. Westenra went to lie down, and Lucy was left with me. We went into her
boudoir, and till we got there her gaiety remained, for the servants were coming and
going. As soon as the door was closed, however, the mask fell from her face, and she
sank down into a chair with a great sigh, and hid her eyes with her hand. When I saw
that her high spirits had failed, I at once took advantage of her reaction to make
a
diagnosis. She said to me very sweetly:—

" ‘I cannot tell you how I loathe talking about myself.’ I reminded her that a doctor’s
confidence was sacred, but that you were grievously anxious about her. She caught
on to
my meaning at once, and settled that matter in a word. ‘Tell Arthur everything you
choose. I do not care for myself, but all for him!’ So I am quite free.

"I could easily see that she is somewhat bloodless, but I could not see the usual
anæmic
signs, and by a chance I was actually able to test the quality of her blood, for in
opening a window which was stiff a cord gave way, and she cut her hand slightly with
broken glass. It was a slight matter in itself, but it gave me an evident chance,
and I
secured a few drops of the blood and have analysed them. The qualitative analysis
gives
a quite normal condition, and shows, I should infer, in itself a vigorous state of
health. In other physical matters I was quite satisfied that there is no need for
anxiety; but as there must be a cause somewhere, I have come to the conclusion that
it
must be something mental. She complains of difficulty in breathing satisfactorily
at
times, and of heavy, lethargic sleep, with dreams that frighten her, but regarding
which
she can remember nothing. She says that as a child she used to walk in her sleep,
and
that when in Whitby the habit came back, and that once she walked out in the night and
went to East Cliff, where Miss Murray found her; but she assures me that of late the
habit has not returned. I am in doubt, and so have done the best thing I know of;
I have
written to my old friend and master, Professor Van Helsing, of Amsterdam, who knows
as
much about obscure diseases as any one in the world. I have asked him to come over,
and
as you told me that all things were to be at your charge, I have mentioned to him
who
you are and your relations to Miss Westenra. This, my dear fellow, is in obedience
to
your wishes, for I am only too proud and happy to do anything I can for her. Van Helsing
would, I know, do anything for me for a personal reason, so, no matter on what ground
he
comes, we must accept his wishes. He is a seemingly arbitrary man, but this is because
he knows what he is talking about better than any one else. He is a philosopher and
a
metaphysician, and one of the most advanced scientists of his day; and he has, I
believe, an absolutely open mind. This, with an iron nerve, a temper of the ice-brook,
an indomitable resolution, self-command, and toleration exalted from virtues to
blessings, and the kindliest and truest heart that beats—these form his equipment
for
the noble work that he is doing for mankind—work both in theory and practice, for
his
views are as wide as his all-embracing sympathy. I tell you these facts that you may
know why I have such confidence in him. I have asked him to come at once. I shall
see
Miss Westenra to-morrow again. She is to meet me at the Stores, so that I may not
alarm
her mother by too early a repetition of my call.

"Yours always,

John Seward.

Letter, Abraham Van Helsing, M. D., D. Ph., D. Lit., etc., etc., to Dr. Seward.

"2 September.

"My good Friend,—

"When I have received your letter I am already coming to you. By good fortune I can
leave
just at once, without wrong to any of those who have trusted me. Were fortune other,
then it were bad for those who have trusted, for I come to my friend when he call
me to
aid those he holds dear. Tell your friend that when that time you suck from my wound
so
swiftly the poison of the gangrene from that knife that our other friend, too nervous,
let slip, you did more for him when he wants my aids and you call for them than all
his
great fortune could do. But it is pleasure added to do for him, your friend; it is
to
you that I come. Have then rooms for me at the Great Eastern Hotel, so that I may
be
near to hand, and please it so arrange that we may see the young lady not too late
on
to-morrow, for it is likely that I may have to return here that night. But if need
be I
shall come again in three days, and stay longer if it must. Till then good-bye, my
friend John.

Van Helsing.

Letter, Dr. Seward to Hon. Arthur Holmwood.

"3 September.

"My dear Art,—

"Van Helsing has come and gone. He came on with me to Hillingham, and found that,
by
Lucy’s discretion, her mother was lunching out, so that we were alone with her. Van
Helsing made a very careful examination of the patient. He is to report to me, and
I
shall advise you, for of course I was not present all the time. He is, I fear, much
concerned, but says he must think. When I told him of our friendship and how you trust
to me in the matter, he said: ‘You must tell him all you think. Tell him what I think,
if you can guess it, if you will. Nay, I am not jesting. This is no jest, but life
and
death, perhaps more.’ I asked what he meant by that, for he was very serious. This
was
when we had come back to town, and he was having a cup of tea before starting on his
return to Amsterdam. He would not give me any further clue. You must not be angry
with
me, Art, because his very reticence means that all his brains are working for her
good.
He will speak plainly enough when the time comes, be sure. So I told him I would simply
write an account of our visit, just as if I were doing a descriptive special article
for
The Daily Telegraph. He seemed not to notice, but remarked that the smuts in London were
not quite so bad as they used to be when he was a student here. I am to get his report
to-morrow 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 that the poor girl was making
a
hard struggle for it. I believe Van Helsing saw it, too, for I saw the quick look
under
his bushy brows that I knew of old. Then he began to chat of all things except ourselves
and diseases and with such an infinite geniality that I could see poor Lucy’s pretense
of animation merge into reality. Then, without any seeming change, he brought the
conversation gently round to his visit, and suavely said:—

‘My dear young miss, I have the so great pleasure because you are so much beloved.
That is much, my dear, ever were there that which I do not see. They told me you
were down in the spirit, and that you were of a ghastly pale. To them I say:
Pouf!" ’ And he snapped his fingers at me and went on: ‘But you and I shall show
them how wrong they are. How can he’—and he pointed at me with the same look and gesture
as that with which once he pointed me out to his class, on, or rather after, a
particular occasion which he never fails to remind me of—‘know anything of a young
ladies? He has his madams to play with, and to bring them back to happiness, and to
those that love them. It is much to do, and, oh, but there are rewards, in that we
can
bestow such happiness. But the young ladies! He has no wife nor daughter, and the
young
do not tell themselves to the young, but to the old, like me, who have known so many
sorrows and the causes of them. So, my dear, we will send him away to smoke the
cigarette in the garden, whiles you and I have little talk all to ourselves.’ I took
the
hint, and strolled about, and presently the professor came to the window and called
me
in. He looked grave, but said: ‘I have made careful examination, but there is no
functional cause. With you I agree that there has been much blood lost; it has been,
but
is not. But the conditions of her are in no way anæmic. I have asked her to send me
her
maid, that I may ask just one or two question, that so I may not chance to miss nothing.
I know well what she will say. And yet there is cause; there is always cause for
everything. I must go back home and think. You must send to me the telegram every day;
and if there be cause I shall come again. The disease—for not to be all well is a
disease—interest me, and the sweet young dear, she interest me too. She charm me,
and
for her, if not for you or disease, I come.’

As I tell you, he would not say a word more, even when we were alone. And so now,
Art, you know all I know. I shall keep stern watch. I trust your poor father is
rallying. It must be a terrible thing to you, my dear old fellow, to be placed in
such a position between two people who are both so dear to you. I know your idea of
duty to your father, and you are right to stick to it; but, if need be, I shall send
you word to come at once to Lucy; so do not be over-anxious unless you hear from
me.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

4 September.—Zoöphagous patient still keeps up our interest in him. He had only one
outburst and that was yesterday at an unusual time. Just before the stroke of noon
he
began to grow restless. The attendant knew the symptoms, and at once summoned aid.
Fortunately the men came at a run, and were just in time, for at the stroke of noon
he
became so violent that it took all their strength to hold him. In about five minutes,
however, he began to get more and more quiet, and finally sank into a sort of
melancholy, in which state he has remained up to now. The attendant tells me that
his
screams whilst in the paroxysm were really appalling; I found my hands full when I
got
in, attending to some of the other patients who were frightened by him. Indeed, I
can
quite understand the effect, for the sounds disturbed even me, though I was some
distance away. It is now after the dinner-hour of the asylum, and as yet my patient sits
in a corner brooding, with a dull, sullen, woe-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 nail-marks on the edge of the
door
between the ridges of padding. When he saw me, he came over and apologised for his
bad
conduct, and asked me in a very humble, cringing way to be led back to his own room
and
to have his note-book again. I thought it well to humour him: so he is back in his
room
with the window open. He has the sugar of his tea spread out on the window-sill, and
is
reaping quite a harvest of flies. He is not now eating them, but putting them into
a
box, as of old, and is already examining the corners of his room to find a spider.
I
tried to get him to talk about the past few days, for any clue to his thoughts would
be
of immense help to me; but he would not rise. For a moment or two he looked very sad,
and said in a sort of far-away voice, as though saying it rather to himself than to
me:—

All over! all over! He has deserted me. No hope for me now unless I do it for
myself! Then suddenly turning to me in a resolute way, he said: Doctor, won’t
you be very good to me and let me have a little more sugar? I think it would be good
for me.

And the flies? I said.

Yes! The flies like it, too, and I like the flies; therefore I like it. And there
are people who know so little as to think that madmen do not argue. I procured him
a
double supply, and left him as happy a man as, I suppose, any in the world. I wish
I
could fathom his mind.Midnight.—Another change in him. I had been to see Miss Westenra,
whom I found much better, and had just returned, and was standing at our own gate
looking at the sunset, when once more I heard him yelling. As his room is on this
side
of the house, I could hear it better than in the morning. It was a shock to me to
turn
from the wonderful smoky beauty of a sunset over London, with its lurid lights and inky
shadows and all the marvellous tints that come on foul clouds even as on foul water,
and
to realise all the grim sternness of my own cold stone building, with its wealth of
breathing misery, and my own desolate heart to endure it all. I reached him just as
the
sun was going down, and from his window saw the red disc sink. As it sank he became
less
and less frenzied; and just as it dipped he slid from the hands that held him, an
inert
mass, on the floor. It is wonderful, however, what intellectual recuperative power
lunatics have, for within a few minutes he stood up quite calmly and looked around
him.
I signalled to the attendants not to hold him, for I was anxious to see what he would
do. He went straight over to the window and brushed out the crumbs of sugar; then
he
took his fly-box, and emptied it outside, and threw away the box; then he shut the
window, and crossing over, sat down on his bed. All this surprised me, so I asked
him:
Are you not going to keep flies any more?

No, said he; I am sick of all that rubbish! He certainly is a wonderfully
interesting study. I wish I could get some glimpse of his mind or of the cause of
his
sudden passion. Stop; there may be a clue after all, if we can find why to-day his
paroxysms came on at high noon and at sunset. Can it be that there is a malign influence
of the sun at periods which affects certain natures—as at times the moon does others?
We
shall see.

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

4 September.—Patient still better to-day.

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

5 September.—Patient greatly improved. Good appetite; sleeps naturally; good spirits;
colour coming back.

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

6 September.—Terrible change for the worse. Come at once; do not lose an hour. I hold
over telegram to Holmwood till have seen you.

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-10">CHAPTER X</h2>

Letter, Dr. Seward to Hon. Arthur Holmwood.

"6 September.

"My dear Art,—

"My news to-day is not so good. Lucy this morning had gone back a bit. There is, however,
one good thing which has arisen from it; Mrs. Westenra was naturally anxious concerning
Lucy, and has consulted me professionally about her. I took advantage of the
opportunity, and told her that my old master, Van Helsing, the great specialist, was
coming to stay with me, and that I would put her in his charge conjointly with myself;
so now we can come and go without alarming her unduly, for a shock to her would mean
sudden death, and this, in Lucy’s weak condition, might be disastrous to her. We are
hedged in with difficulties, all of us, my poor old fellow; but, please God, we shall
come through them all right. If any need I shall write, so that, if you do not hear
from
me, take it for granted that I am simply waiting for news. In haste

Yours ever,

John Seward.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

7 September.—The first thing Van Helsing said to me when we met at Liverpool Street
was:—

Have you said anything to our young friend the lover of her?

No, I said. I waited till I had seen you, as I said in my telegram . I wrote him
a letter simply telling him that you were coming, as Miss Westenra was not so well,
and that I should let him know if need be.

Right, my friend, he said, quite right! Better he not know as yet; perhaps he
shall never know. I pray so; but if it be needed, then he shall know all. And, my
good friend John, let me caution you. You deal with the madmen. All men are mad in
some way or the other; and inasmuch as you deal discreetly with your madmen, so deal
with God’s madmen, too—the rest of the world. You tell not your madmen what you do
nor why you do it; you tell them not what you think. So you shall keep knowledge in
its place, where it may rest—where it may gather its kind around it and breed. You
and I shall keep as yet what we know here, and here. He touched me on the heart
and on the forehead, and then touched himself the same way. I have for myself
thoughts at the present. Later I shall unfold to you.

Why not now? I asked. It may do some good; we may arrive at some decision.
He stopped and looked at me, and said:—

My friend John, when the corn is grown, even before it has ripened—while the milk
of
its mother-earth is in him, and the sunshine has not yet begun to paint him with his
gold, the husbandman he pull the ear and rub him between his rough hands, and blow
away the green chaff, and say to you: ‘Look! he’s good corn; he will make good crop
when the time comes.’ I did not see the application, and told him so. For reply
he reached over and took my ear in his hand and pulled it playfully, as he used long
ago
to do at lectures, and said: The good husbandman tell you so then because he knows,
but not till then. But you do not find the good husbandman dig up his planted corn
to see if he grow; that is for the children who play at husbandry, and not for those
who take it as of the work of their life. See you now, friend John? I have sown my
corn, and Nature has her work to do in making it sprout; if he sprout at all,
there’s some promise; and I wait till the ear begins to swell. He broke off, for
he evidently saw that I understood. Then he went on, and very gravely:—

You were always a careful student, and your case-book was ever more full than the
rest. You were only student then; now you are master, and I trust that good habit
have not fail. Remember, my friend, that knowledge is stronger than memory, and we
should not trust the weaker. Even if you have not kept the good practise, let me
tell you that this case of our dear miss is one that may be—mind, I say may be—of
such interest to us and others that all the rest may not make him kick the beam, as
your peoples say. Take then good note of it. Nothing is too small. I counsel you,
put down in record even your doubts and surmises. Hereafter it may be of interest
to
you to see how true you guess. We learn from failure, not from success!

When I described Lucy’s symptoms—the same as before, but infinitely more marked—he
looked
very grave, but said nothing. He took with him a bag in which were many instruments
and
drugs, the ghastly paraphernalia of our beneficial trade, as he once called, in
one of his lectures, the equipment of a professor of the healing craft. When we were
shown in, Mrs. Westenra met us. She was alarmed, but not nearly so much as I expected
to
find her. Nature in one of her beneficent moods has ordained that even death has some
antidote to its own terrors. Here, in a case where any shock may prove fatal, matters
are so ordered that, from some cause or other, the things not personal—even the terrible
change in her daughter to whom she is so attached—do not seem to reach her. It is
something like the way Dame Nature gathers round a foreign body an envelope of some
insensitive tissue which can protect from evil that which it would otherwise harm
by
contact. If this be an ordered selfishness, then we should pause before we condemn
any
one for the vice of egoism, for there may be deeper root for its causes than we have
knowledge of.

I used my knowledge of this phase of spiritual pathology, and laid down a rule that
she
should not be present with Lucy or think of her illness more than was absolutely
required. She assented readily, so readily that I saw again the hand of Nature fighting
for life. Van Helsing and I were shown up to Lucy’s room. If I was shocked when I
saw
her yesterday, I was horrified when I saw her to-day. She was ghastly, chalkily pale;
the red seemed to have gone even from her lips and gums, and the bones of her face
stood
out prominently; her breathing was painful to see or hear. Van Helsing’s face grew
set
as marble, and his eyebrows converged till they almost touched over his nose. Lucy
lay
motionless, and did not seem to have strength to speak, so for a while we were all
silent. Then Van Helsing beckoned to me, and we went gently out of the room. The instant
we had closed the door he stepped quickly along the passage to the next door, which
was
open. Then he pulled me quickly in with him and closed the door. My God! he said;
this is dreadful. There is no time to be lost. She will die for sheer want of
blood to keep the heart’s action as it should be. There must be transfusion of blood
at once. Is it you or me?

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

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

I went downstairs with him, and as we were going there was a knock at the hall-door.
When
we reached the hall the maid had just opened the door, and Arthur was stepping quickly
in. He rushed up to me, saying in an eager whisper:—

Jack, I was so anxious. I read between the lines of your letter, and have been in
an
agony. The dad was better, so I ran down here to see for myself. Is not that
gentleman Dr. Van Helsing? I am so thankful to you, sir, for coming. When first
the Professor’s eye had lit upon him he had been angry at his interruption at such
a
time; but now, as he took in his stalwart proportions and recognised the strong young
manhood which seemed to emanate from him, his eyes gleamed. Without a pause he said
to
him gravely as he held out his hand:—

Sir, you have come in time. You are the lover of our 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 nostril quivered with
intent. Van Helsing slapped him on the shoulder. Come! he said. You are a man,
and it is a man we want. You are better than me, better than my friend John.
Arthur looked bewildered, and the Professor went on by explaining in a kindly way:—

Young miss is bad, very bad. She wants blood, and blood she must have or die. My
friend John and I have consulted; and we are about to perform what we call
 transfusion of blood—to transfer from full veins of one to the empty veins which
pine for him. John was to give his blood, as he is the more young and strong than
me—here Arthur took my hand and wrung it hard in silence—but, now you are
here, you are more good than us, old or young, who toil much in the world of
thought. Our nerves are not so calm and our blood not so bright than yours!
Arthur turned to him and said:—

If you only knew how gladly I would die for her you would understand——

He stopped, with a sort of choke in his voice.

Good boy! said Van Helsing. In the not-so-far-off you will be happy that you
have done all for her you love. Come now and be silent. You shall kiss her once
before it is done, but then you must go; and you must leave at my sign. Say no word
to Madame; you know how it is with her! There must be no shock; any knowledge of
this would be one. Come!

We all went up to Lucy’s room. Arthur by direction remained outside. Lucy turned her
head
and looked at us, but said nothing. She was not asleep, but she was simply too weak
to
make the effort. Her eyes spoke to us; that was all. Van Helsing took some things
from
his bag and laid them on a little table out of sight. Then he mixed a narcotic, and
coming over to the bed, said cheerily:—

Now, little miss, here is your medicine . Drink it off, like a good child. See, I lift
you so that to swallow is easy. Yes. She had made the effort with success.

It astonished me how long the drug took to act. This, in fact, marked the extent of
her
weakness. The time seemed endless until sleep began to flicker in her eyelids. At
last,
however, the narcotic began to manifest its potency; and she fell into a deep sleep.
When the Professor was satisfied he called Arthur into the room, and bade him strip
off
his coat. Then he added: You may take that one little kiss whiles I bring over the
table. Friend John, help to me! So neither of us looked whilst he bent over
her.

Van Helsing turning to me, said:

He is so young and strong and of blood so pure that we need not defibrinate it.

Then with swiftness, but with absolute method, Van Helsing performed the operation.
As
the transfusion went on something like life seemed to come back to poor Lucy’s cheeks,
and through Arthur’s growing pallor the joy of his face seemed absolutely to shine.
After a bit I began to grow anxious, for the loss of blood was telling on Arthur,
strong
man as he was. It gave me an idea of what a terrible s train Lucy’s system must have
undergone that what weakened Arthur only partially restored her. But the Professor’s
face was set, and he stood watch in hand and with his eyes fixed now on the patient
and
now on Arthur. I could hear my own heart beat. Presently he said in a soft voice:
Do
not stir an instant. It is enough. You attend him; I will look to her. When all
was over I could see how much Arthur was weakened. I dressed the wound and took his
arm
to bring him away, when Van Helsing spoke without turning round—the man seems to have
eyes in the back of his head:—

The brave lover, I think, deserve another kiss, which he shall have presently. And
as he had now finished his operation, he adjusted the pillow to the patient’s head.
As
he did so the narrow black velvet band which she seems always to wear round her throat,
buckled with an old diamond buckle which her lover had given her, was dragged a little
up, and showed a red mark on her throat. Arthur did not notice it, but I could hear
the
deep hiss of indrawn breath which is one of Van Helsing’s ways of betraying emotion.
He
said nothing at the moment, but turned to me, saying: Now take down our brave young
lover, give him of the port wine, and let him lie down a while. He must then go home
and rest, sleep much and eat much, that he may be recruited of what he has so given
to his love. He must not stay here. Hold! a moment. I may take it, sir, that you are
anxious of result. Then bring it with you that in all ways the operation is
successful. You have saved her life this time, and you can go home and rest easy in
mind that all that can be is. I shall tell her all when she is well; she shall love
you none the less for what you have done. Good-bye.

When Arthur had gone I went back to the room. Lucy was sleeping gently, but her breathing
was stronger; I could see the counterpane move as her breast heaved. By the bedside
sat
Van Helsing, looking at her intently. The velvet band again covered the red mark.
I
asked the Professor in a whisper:—

What do you make of that mark on her throat?

What do you make of it?

I have not examined it yet, I answered, and then and there proceeded to loose the
band. Just over the external jugular vein there were two punctures, not large, but
not
wholesome-looking. There was no sign of disease, but the edges were white and
worn-looking, as if by some trituration. It at once occurred to me that this wound,
or
whatever it was, might be the means of that manifest loss of blood; but I abandoned
the
idea as soon as formed, for such a thing could not be. The whole bed would have been
drenched to a scarlet with the blood which the girl must have lost to leave such a
pallor as she had before the transfusion .

Well? said Van Helsing.

Well, said I, I can make nothing of it. The Professor stood up. I must
go back to Amsterdam to-night, he said. There are books and things there
which I want. You must remain here all the night, and you must not let your sight
pass from her.

Shall I have a nurse? I asked.

We are the best nurses, you and I. You keep watch all night; see that she is well
fed, and that nothing disturbs her. You must not sleep all the night. Later on we
can sleep, you and I. I shall be back as soon as possible. And then we may
begin.

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

We shall see! he answered, as he hurried out. He came back a moment later and put
his head inside the door and said with warning finger held up:—

Remember, she is your charge. If you leave her, and harm befall, you shall not sleep
easy hereafter!

Dr. Seward’s Diary—continued.

8 September.—I sat up all night with Lucy. The opiate worked itself off towards dusk, and
she waked naturally; she looked a different being from what she had been before the
operation. Her spirits even were good, and she was full of a happy vivacity, but I
could
see evidences of the absolute prostration which she had undergone. When I told Mrs.
Westenra that Dr. Van Helsing had directed that I should sit up with her she almost
pooh-poohed the idea, pointing out her daughter’s renewed strength and excellent
spirits. I was firm, however, and made preparations for my long vigil. When her maid
had
prepared her for the night I came in, having in the meantime had supper, and took
a seat
by the bedside. She did not in any way make objection, but looked at me gratefully
whenever I caught her eye. After a long spell she seemed sinking off to sleep, but
with
an effort seemed to pull herself together and shook it off. This was repeated several
times, with greater effort and with shorter pauses as the time moved on. It was apparent
that she did not want to sleep, so I tackled the subject at once:—

You do not want to go to sleep?

No; I am afraid.

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

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

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

I don’t know; oh, I don’t know. And that is what is so terrible. All this weakness
comes to me in sleep; until I dread the very thought.

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

Ah, I can trust you! I seized the opportunity, and said: I promise you that if
I see any evidence of bad dreams I will wake you at once.

You will? Oh, will you really? How good you are to me. Then I will sleep! And
almost at the word she gave a deep sigh of relief, and sank back, asleep.

All night long I watched by her. She never stirred, but slept on and on in a deep,
tranquil, life-giving, health-giving sleep. Her lips were slightly parted, and her
breast rose and fell with the regularity of a pendulum. There was a smile on her face,
and it was evident that no bad dreams had come to disturb her peace of mind.

In the early morning her maid came, and I left her in her care and took myself back
home,
for I was anxious about many things. I sent a short wire to Van Helsing and to Arthur,
telling them of the excellent result of the operation. My own work, with its manifold
arrears, took me all day to clear off; it was dark when I was able to inquire about
my
zoöphagous patient. The report was good; he had been quite quiet for the past day
and
night. A telegram came from Van Helsing at Amsterdam whilst I was at dinner, suggesting
that I should be at Hillingham to-night, as it might be well to be at hand, and stating
that he was leaving by the night mail and would join me early in the morning.9
September.—I was pretty tired and worn out when I got to Hillingham. For two nights
I
had hardly had a wink of sleep, and my brain was beginning to feel that numbness which
marks cerebral exhaustion. Lucy was up and in cheerful spirits. When she shook hands
with me she looked sharply in my face and said:—

No sitting up to-night for you. You are worn out. I am quite well again; indeed, I
am;
and if there is to be any sitting up, it is I who will sit up with you. I would
not argue the point, but went and had my supper. Lucy came with me, and, enlivened
by
her charming presence, I made an excellent meal, and had a couple of glasses of the
more
than excellent port. Then Lucy took me upstairs, and showed me a room next her own,
where a cozy fire was burning. Now, she said, you must stay here. I shall
leave this door open and my door too. You can lie on the sofa for I know that
nothing would induce any of you doctors to go to bed whilst there is a patient above
the horizon. If I want anything I shall call out, and you can come to me at
once. I could not but acquiesce, for I was 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 to-night. I have been so miserably weak, that to be able to
think and move about is like feeling sunshine after a long spell of east wind out
of a
steel sky. Somehow Arthur feels very, very close to me. I seem to feel his presence
warm
about me. I suppose it is that sickness and weakness are selfish things and turn our
inner eyes and sympathy on ourselves, whilst health and strength give Love rein, and
in
thought and feeling he can wander where he wills. I know where my thoughts are. If
Arthur only knew! My dear, my dear, your ears must tingle as you sleep, as mine do
waking. Oh, the blissful rest of last night! How I slept, with that dear, good Dr.
Seward watching me. And to-night I shall not fear to sleep, since he is close at hand
and within call. Thank everybody for being so good to me! Thank God! Good-night,
Arthur.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

10 September.—I was conscious of the Professor’s hand on my head, and started awake all
in a second. That is one of the things that we learn in an asylum, at any rate.

And how is our patient?

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

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

The blind was down, and I went over to raise it gently, whilst Van Helsing stepped,
with
his soft, cat-like tread, over to the bed.

As I raised the blind, and the morning sunlight flooded the room, I heard the Professor’s
low hiss of inspiration, and knowing its rarity, a deadly fear shot through my heart.
As
I passed over he moved back, and his exclamation of horror, Gott in Himmel!
needed no enforcement from his agonised face. He raised his hand and pointed to the
bed,
and his iron face was drawn and ashen white. I felt my knees begin to tremble.

There on the bed, seemingly in a swoon, lay poor Lucy, more horribly white and
wan-looking than ever. Even the lips were white, and the gums seemed to have shrunken
back from the teeth, as we sometimes see in a corpse after a prolonged illness. Van
Helsing raised his foot to stamp in anger, but the instinct of his life and all the
long
years of habit stood to him, and he put it down again softly. Quick! he said.
Bring the brandy. I flew to the dining-room, and returned with the decanter.
He wetted the poor white lips with it, and together we rubbed palm and wrist and heart.
He felt her heart, and after a few moments of agonising suspense said:—

It is not too late. It beats, though but feebly. All our work is undone; we must begin
again. There is no young Arthur here now; I have to call on you yourself this time,
friend John. As he spoke, he was dipping into his bag and producing the
instruments for transfusion ; I had taken off my coat and rolled up my shirt-sleeve.
There was no possibility of an opiate just at present, and no need of one; and so,
without a moment’s delay, we began the operation. After a time—it did not seem a short
time either, for the draining away of one’s blood, no matter how willingly it be given,
is a terrible feeling—Van Helsing held up a warning finger. Do not stir, he said,
but I fear that with growing strength she may wake; and that would make danger,
oh, so much danger. But I shall precaution take. I shall give hypodermic injection 
of morphia. He proceeded then, swiftly and deftly, to carry out his intent. The
effect on Lucy was not bad, for the faint seemed to merge subtly into the narcotic
sleep. It was with a feeling of personal pride that I could see a faint tinge of colour
steal back into the pallid cheeks and lips. No man knows, till he experiences it,
what
it is to feel his own life-blood drawn away into the veins of the woman he loves.

The Professor watched me critically. That will do, he said. Already? I
remonstrated. You took a great deal more from Art. To which he smiled a sad sort
of smile as he replied:—

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

When we stopped the operation, he attended to Lucy, whilst I applied digital pressure
to
my own incision. I laid down, whilst I waited his leisure to attend to me, for I felt
faint and a little sick. By-and-by he bound up my wound, and sent me downstairs to
get a
glass of wine for myself. As I was leaving the room, he came after me, and half
whispered:—

Mind, nothing must be said of this. If our young lover should turn up unexpected,
as
before, no word to him. It would at once frighten him and enjealous him, too. There
must be none. So!

When I came back he looked at me carefully, and then said:—

You are not much the worse. Go into the room, and lie on your sofa, and rest awhile;
then have much breakfast, and come here to me.

I followed out his orders, for I knew how right and wise they were. I had done my
part,
and now my next duty was to keep up my strength. I felt very weak, and in the weakness
lost something of the amazement at what had occurred. I fell asleep on the sofa,
however, wondering over and over again how Lucy had made such a retrograde movement,
and
how she could have been drained of so much blood with no sign anywhere to show for
it. I
think I must have continued my wonder in my dreams, for, sleeping and waking, my
thoughts always came back to the little punctures in her throat and the ragged,
exhausted appearance of their edges—tiny though they were.

Lucy slept well into the day, and when she woke she was fairly well and strong, though
not nearly so much so as the day before. When Van Helsing had seen her, he went out
for
a walk, leaving me in charge, with strict injunctions that I was not to leave her
for a
moment. I could hear his voice in the hall, asking the way to the nearest telegraph
office.

Lucy chatted with me freely, and seemed quite unconscious that anything had happened.
I
tried to keep her amused and interested. When her mother came up to see her, she did
not
seem to notice any change whatever, but said to me gratefully:—

We owe you so much, Dr. Seward, for all you have done, but you really must now take
care not to overwork yourself. You are looking pale yourself. You want a wife to
nurse and look after you a bit; that you do! As she spoke, Lucy turned crimson,
though it was only momentarily, for her poor wasted veins could not stand for long
such
an unwonted drain to the head. The reaction came in excessive pallor as she turned
imploring eyes on me. I smiled and nodded, and laid my finger on my lips; with a sigh,
she sank back amid her pillows.

Van Helsing returned in a couple of hours, and presently said to me: Now you go home,
and eat much and drink enough. Make yourself strong. I stay here to-night, and I
shall sit up with little miss myself. You and I must watch the case, and we must
have none other to know. I have grave reasons. No, do not ask them; think what you
will. Do not fear to think even the most not-probable. Good-night.

In the hall two of the maids came to me, and asked if they or either of them might
not
sit up with Miss Lucy. They implored me to let them; and when I said it was Dr. Van
Helsing’s wish that either he or I should sit up, they asked me quite piteously to
intercede with the foreign gentleman. I was much touched by their kindness.
Perhaps it is because I am weak at present, and perhaps because it was on Lucy’s
account, that their devotion was manifested; for over and over again have I seen similar
instances of woman’s kindness. I got back here in time for a late dinner; went my
rounds—all well; and set this down whilst waiting for sleep. It is coming.11
September.—This afternoon I went over to Hillingham. Found Van Helsing in excellent
spirits, and Lucy much better. Shortly after I had arrived, a big parcel from abroad
came for the Professor. He opened it with much impressment—assumed, of course—and
showed
a great bundle of white flowers.

These are for you, Miss Lucy, he said.

For me? Oh, Dr. Van Helsing!

Yes, my dear, but not for you to play with. These are medicines . Here Lucy made a
wry face. Nay, but they are not to take in a decoction or in nauseous form, so you
need not snub that so charming nose, or I shall point out to my friend Arthur what
woes he may have to endure in seeing so much beauty that he so loves so much
distort. Aha, my pretty miss, that bring the so nice nose all straight again. This
is medicinal, but you do not know how. I put him in your window, I make pretty
wreath, and hang him round your neck, so that you sleep well. Oh yes! they, like the
lotus flower, make your trouble forgotten. It smell so like the waters of Lethe, and
of that fountain of youth that the 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 all I do; and I warn you
that you do not thwart me. Take care, for the sake of others if not for your
own. Then seeing poor Lucy scared, as she might well be, he went on more gently:
Oh, little miss, my dear, do not fear me. I only do for your good; but there is
much virtue to you in those so common flowers. See, I place them myself in your
room. I make myself the wreath that you are to wear. But hush! no telling to others
that make so inquisitive questions. We must obey, and silence is a part of
obedience; and obedience is to bring you strong and well into loving arms that wait
for you. Now sit still awhile. Come with me, friend John, and you shall help me deck
the room with my garlic, which is all the way from Haarlem, where my friend
Vanderpool raise herb in his glass-houses all the year. I had to telegraph
yesterday, or they would not have been here.

We went into the room, taking the flowers with us. The Professor’s actions were certainly
odd and not to be found in any pharmacopœia that I ever heard of. First he fastened
up
the windows and latched them securely; next, taking a handful of the flowers, he rubbed
them all over the sashes, as though to ensure that every whiff of air that might get
in
would be laden with the garlic smell. Then with the wisp he rubbed all over the jamb
of
the door, above, below, and at each side, and round the fireplace in the same way.
It
all seemed grotesque to me, and presently I said:—

Well, Professor, I know you always have a reason for what you do, but this certainly
puzzles me. It is well we have no sceptic here, or he would say that you were
working some spell to keep out an evil spirit.

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

We then waited whilst Lucy made her toilet for the night, and when she was in bed
he came
and himself fixed the wreath of garlic round her neck. The last words he said to her
were:—

Take care you do not disturb it; and even if the room feel close, do not to-night
open the window or the door.

I promise, said Lucy, and thank you both a thousand times for all your kindness
to me! Oh, what have I done to be blessed with such friends?

As we left the house in my fly, which was waiting, Van Helsing said:—

To-night I can sleep in peace, and sleep I want—two nights of travel, much reading
in
the day between, and much anxiety on the day to follow, and a night to sit up,
without to wink. To-morrow in the morning early you call for me, and we come
together to see our pretty miss, so much more strong for my ‘spell’ which I have
work. Ho! ho!

He seemed so confident that I, remembering my own confidence two nights before and
with
the baneful result, felt awe and vague terror. It must have been my weakness that
made
me hesitate to tell it to my friend, but I felt it all the more, like unshed tears.

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-11">CHAPTER XI</h2>

Lucy Westenra’s Diary.

12 September.—How good they all are to me. I quite love that dear Dr. Van Helsing. I
wonder why he was so anxious about these flowers. He positively frightened me, he
was so
fierce. And yet he must have been right, for I feel comfort from them already. Somehow,
I do not dread being alone to-night, and I can go to sleep without fear. I shall not
mind any flapping outside the window. Oh, the terrible struggle that I have had against
sleep so often of late; the pain of the sleeplessness, or the pain of the fear of
sleep,
with such unknown horrors as it has for me! How blessed are some people, whose lives
have no fears, no dreads; to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings
nothing but sweet dreams. Well, here I am to-night, hoping for sleep, and lying like
Ophelia in the play, with virgin crants and maiden strewments. I never liked
garlic before, but to-night it is delightful! There is peace in its smell; I feel
sleep
coming already. Good-night, everybody.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

13 September.—Called at the Berkeley and found Van Helsing, as usual, up to time. The
 carriage ordered from the hotel was waiting. The Professor took his bag, which he always
brings with him now.

Let all be put down exactly. Van Helsing and I arrived at Hillingham at eight o’clock.
It
was a lovely morning; the bright sunshine and all the fresh feeling of early autumn
seemed like the completion of nature’s annual work. The leaves were turning to all
kinds
of beautiful colours, but had not yet begun to drop from the trees. When we entered
we
met Mrs. Westenra coming out of the morning room. She is always an early riser. She
greeted us warmly and said:—

You will be glad to know that Lucy is better. The dear child is still asleep. I looked
into her room and saw her, but did not go in, lest I should disturb her. The
Professor smiled, and looked quite jubilant. He rubbed his hands together, and
said:—

Aha! I thought I had diagnosed the case. My treatment is working, to which she
answered:—

You must not take all the credit to yourself, doctor. Lucy’s state this morning is
due in part to me.

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

Well, I was anxious about the dear child in the night, and went into her room. She
was sleeping soundly—so soundly that even my coming did not wake her. But the room
was awfully stuffy. There were a lot of those horrible, strong-smelling flowers
about everywhere, and she had actually a bunch of them round her neck. I feared that
the heavy odour would be too much for the dear child in her weak state, so I took
them all away and opened a bit of the window to let in a little fresh air. You will
be pleased with her, I am sure.

She moved off into her boudoir, where she usually breakfasted early. As she had spoken,
I
watched the Professor’s face, and saw it turn ashen grey. He had been able to retain
his
self-command whilst the poor lady was present, for he knew her state and how mischievous
a shock would be; he actually smiled on her as he held open the door for her to pass
into her room. But the instant she had disappeared he pulled me, suddenly and forcibly,
into the dining-room and closed the door.

Then, for the first time in my life, I saw Van Helsing break down. He raised his hands
over his head in a sort of mute despair, and then beat his palms together in a helpless
way; finally he sat down on a chair, and putting his hands before his face, began
to
sob, with loud, dry sobs that seemed to come from the very racking of his heart. Then
he
raised his arms again, as though appealing to the whole universe. God! God! God!
he said. What have we done, what has this poor thing done, that we are so sore beset?
Is there fate amongst us still, sent down 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, and then both die. Oh, how we
are beset! How are all the powers of the devils against us! Suddenly he jumped
to his feet. Come, he said, come, we must see and act. Devils or no devils, or
all the devils at once, it matters not; we fight him all the same. He went to
the hall-door for his bag; and together we went up to Lucy’s room.

Once again I drew up the blind, whilst Van Helsing went towards the bed. This time
he did
not start as he looked on the poor face with the same awful, waxen pallor as before.
He
wore a look of stern sadness and infinite pity.

As I expected, he murmured, with that hissing inspiration of his which meant so
much. Without a word he went and locked the door, and then began to set out on the
little table the instruments for yet another operation of transfusion of blood. I had
long ago recognised the necessity, and begun to take off my coat, but he stopped me
with
a warning hand. No! he said. To-day you must operate. I shall provide. You are
weakened already. As he spoke he took off his coat and rolled up his
shirt-sleeve.

Again the operation; again the narcotic; again some return of colour to the ashy cheeks,
and the regular breathing of healthy sleep. This time I watched whilst Van Helsing
recruited himself and rested.

Presently he took an opportunity of telling Mrs. Westenra that she must not remove
anything from Lucy’s room without consulting him; that the flowers were of medicinal
value, and that the breathing of their odour was a part of the system of cure. Then
he
took over the care of the case himself, saying that he would watch this night and
the
next and would send me word when to come.

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

What does it all mean? I am beginning to wonder if my long habit of life amongst the
insane is beginning to tell upon my own brain.

Lucy Westenra’s Diary.

17 September.—Four days and nights of peace. I am getting so strong again that I hardly
know myself. It is as if I had passed through some long nightmare, and had just awakened
to see the beautiful sunshine and feel the fresh air of the morning around me. I have
a
dim half-remembrance of long, anxious times of waiting and fearing; darkness in which
there was not even the pain of hope to make present distress more poignant: and then
long 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. To-night Dr. Van Helsing is going away, as he has to be for a day in
Amsterdam. But I need not be watched; I am well enough to be left alone. Thank God
for
mother’s sake, and dear Arthur’s, and for all our friends who have been so kind! I
shall
not even feel the change, for last night Dr. Van Helsing slept in his chair a lot
of the
time. I found him asleep twice when I awoke; but I did not fear to go to sleep again,
although the boughs or bats or something napped 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 Zoölogical 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 Zoölogical Gardens in which the wolf department is included. Thomas Bilder
lives
in one of the cottages in the enclosure behind the elephant-house, and was just sitting
down to his tea when I found him. Thomas and his wife are hospitable folk, elderly,
and
without children, and if the specimen I enjoyed of their hospitality be of the average
kind, their lives must be pretty comfortable. The keeper would not enter on what he
called business until the supper was over, and we were all satisfied. Then when
the table was cleared, and he had lit his pipe, he said:—

Now, sir, you can go on and arsk me what you want. You’ll excoose me refoosin’ to
talk of perfeshunal subjects afore meals. I gives the wolves and the jackals and the
hyenas in all our section their tea afore I begins to arsk them questions.

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

’Ittin’ of them over the ’ead with a pole is one way; scratchin’ of their hears is
another, when gents as is flush wants a bit of a show-orf to their gals. I don’t so
much mind the fust—the ’ittin’ with a pole afore I chucks in their dinner; but I
waits till they’ve ’ad their sherry and 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 grumpy-like that only for your bloomin’
’arf-quid I’d ’a’ seen you blowed fust ’fore I’d answer. Not even when you arsked
me
sarcastic-like if I’d like you to arsk the Superintendent if you might arsk me
questions. Without offence did I tell yer to go to ’ell?

You did.

An’ when you said you’d report me for usin’ of obscene language that was ’ittin’ me
over the ’ead; but the ’arf-quid made that all right. I weren’t a-goin’ to fight,
so
I waited for the food, and did with my ’owl as the wolves, and lions, and tigers
does. But, Lor’ love yer ’art, now that the old ’ooman has stuck a chunk 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 git even a growl out of me.
Drive along with your questions. I know what yer a-comin’ at, that ’ere escaped
wolf.

Exactly. I want you to give me your view of it. Just tell me how it happened; and
when I know the facts I’ll get you to say what you consider was the cause of it, and
how you think the whole affair will end.

All right, guv’nor. This ’ere is about the ’ole story. That ’ere wolf what we called
Bersicker was one of three grey ones that came from Norway to Jamrach’s, which we
bought off him four years ago. He was a nice well-behaved wolf, that never gave no
trouble to talk of. I’m more surprised at ’im for wantin’ to get out nor any other
animile in the place. But, there, you can’t trust wolves no more nor women.

Don’t you mind him, sir! broke in Mrs. Tom, with a cheery laugh. ’E’s got
mindin’ the animiles so long that blest if he ain’t like a old wolf ’isself! But
there ain’t no ’arm in ’im.

"Well, sir, it was about two hours after feedin’ yesterday when I first hear my
disturbance. I was makin’ up a litter in the monkey-house for a young puma which is
ill;
but when I heard the yelpin’ and ’owlin’ I kem away straight. There was Bersicker
a-tearin’ like a mad thing at the bars as if he wanted to get out. There wasn’t much
people about that day, and close at hand was only one man, a tall, thin chap, with
a
’ook nose and a pointed beard, with a few white hairs runnin’ through it. He had a
’ard,
cold look and red eyes, and I took a sort of mislike to him, for it seemed as if it
was
’im as they was hirritated at. He ’ad white kid gloves on ’is ’ands, and he pointed
out
the animiles to me and says: ‘Keeper, these wolves seem upset at something.’

" ‘Maybe it’s you,’ says I, for I did not like the airs as he give ’isself. He didn’t
git
angry, as I ’oped he would, but he smiled a kind of insolent smile, with a mouth full
of
white, sharp teeth. ‘Oh no, they wouldn’t like me,’ ’e says.

" ‘Ow yes, they would,’ says I, a-imitatin’ of him. ‘They always likes a bone or two
to
clean their teeth on about tea-time, which you ’as a bagful.’

"Well, it was a odd thing, but when the animiles see us a-talkin’ they lay down, and
when
I went over to Bersicker he let me stroke his ears same as ever. That there man kem
over, and blessed but if he didn’t put in his hand and stroke the old 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.

‘No’ says he, ‘not exactly in the business, but I ’ave made pets of several.’ And
with that he lifts his ’at as perlite as a lord, and walks away. Old Bersicker kep’
a-lookin’ arter ’im till ’e was out of sight, and then went and lay down in a corner
and wouldn’t come hout the ’ole hevening. Well, larst night, so soon as the moon was
hup, the wolves here all began a-’owling. There warn’t nothing for them to ’owl at.
There warn’t no one near, except some one that was evidently a-callin’ a dog
somewheres out back of the gardings in the Park road. Once or twice I went out to
see that all was right, and it was, and then the ’owling stopped. Just before twelve
o’clock I just took a look round afore turnin’ in, an’, bust me, but when I kem
opposite to old Bersicker’s cage I see the rails broken and twisted about and the
cage empty. And that’s all I know for certing.

Did any one else see anything?

One of our gard’ners was a-comin’ ’ome about that time from a ’armony, when he sees
a
big grey dog comin’ out through the garding ’edges. At least, so he says, but I
don’t give much for it myself, for if he did ’e never said a word about it to his
missis when ’e got ’ome, and it was only after the escape of the wolf was made
known, and we had been up all night-a-huntin’ of the Park for Bersicker, that he
remembered seein’ anything. My own belief was that the ’armony ’ad got into his
’ead.

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

Well, sir, he said, with a suspicious sort of modesty, I think I can; but I
don’t know as ’ow you’d be satisfied with the theory.

Certainly I shall. If a man like you, who knows the animals from experience, can’t
hazard a good guess at any rate, who is even to try?

Well then, sir, I accounts for it this way; it seems to me that ’ere wolf
escaped—simply because he wanted to get out.

From the hearty way that both Thomas and his wife laughed at the joke I could see
that it
had done service before, and that the whole explanation was simply an elaborate sell.
I
couldn’t cope in badinage with the worthy Thomas, but I thought I knew a surer way
to
his heart, so I said:—

Now, Mr. Bilder, we’ll consider that first half-sovereign worked off, and this
brother of his is waiting to be claimed when you’ve told me what you think will
happen.

Right y’are, sir, he said briskly. Ye’ll excoose me, I know, for a-chaffin’ of
ye, but the old woman here winked at me, which was as much as telling me to go
on.

Well, I never! said the old lady.

My opinion is this: that ’ere wolf is a-’idin’ of, somewheres. The gard’ner wot
didn’t remember said he was a-gallopin’ northward faster than a horse could go; but
I don’t believe him, for, yer see, sir, wolves don’t gallop no more nor dogs does,
they not bein’ built that way. Wolves is fine things in a 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-’idin’ an’ a-shiverin’ of, and, if he thinks at all, wonderin’ where he is
to
get his breakfast from; or maybe he’s got down some area and is in a coal-cellar.
My
eye, won’t some cook get a rum start when she sees his green eyes a-shining at her
out of the dark! If he can’t get food he’s bound to look for it, and mayhap he may
chance to light on a butcher’s shop in time. If he doesn’t, and some nursemaid goes
a-walkin’ orf with a soldier, leavin’ of the hinfant in the perambulator—well, then
I shouldn’t be surprised if the census is one babby the less. That’s all.

I was handing him the half-sovereign, when something came bobbing up against the window,
and Mr. Bilder’s face doubled its natural length with surprise.

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

He went to the door and opened it; a most unnecessary proceeding it seemed to me.
I have
always thought that a wild animal never looks so well as when some obstacle of
pronounced durability is between us; a personal experience has intensified rather
than
diminished that idea.

After all, however, there is nothing like custom, for neither Bilder nor his wife
thought
any more of the wolf than I should of a dog. The animal itself was as peaceful and
well-behaved as that father of all picture-wolves—Red Riding Hood’s quondam friend,
whilst moving her confidence in masquerade.

The whole scene was an unutterable mixture of comedy and pathos. The wicked wolf that
for
half a day had paralysed London and set all the children in the town shivering in their
shoes, was there in a sort of penitent mood, and was received and petted like a sort
of
vulpine prodigal son. Old Bilder examined him all over with most tender solicitude,
and
when he had finished with his penitent said:—

There, I knew the poor old chap would get into some kind of trouble; didn’t I say
it
all along? Here’s his head all cut and full of broken glass. ’E’s been a-gettin’
over some bloomin’ wall or other. It’s a shyme that people are allowed to top their
walls with broken bottles. This ’ere’s what comes of it. Come along, Bersicker.

He took the wolf and locked him up in a cage, with a piece of meat that satisfied,
in
quantity at any rate, the elementary conditions of the fatted calf, and went off to
report.

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

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

17 September.—I was engaged after dinner in my study posting up my books, which, through
press of other work and the many visits to Lucy, had fallen sadly into arrear. Suddenly
the door was burst open, and in rushed my patient, with his face distorted with passion.
I was 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 pause he made straight
at
me. He had a dinner-knife in his hand, and, as I saw he was dangerous, I tried to
keep
the table between us. He was too quick and too strong for me, however; for before
I
could get my balance he had struck at me and cut my left wrist rather severely. Before
he could strike again, however, I got in my right and he was sprawling on his back
on
the floor. My wrist bled freely, and quite a little pool trickled on to the carpet.
I
saw that my friend was not intent on further effort, and occupied myself binding up
my
wrist, keeping a wary eye on the prostrate figure all the time. When the attendants
rushed in, and we turned our attention to him, his employment positively sickened
me. He
was lying on his belly on the floor licking up, like a dog, the blood which had fallen
from my wounded wrist. He was easily secured, and, to my surprise, went with the
attendants quite placidly, simply repeating over and over again: The blood is the
life! The blood is the life!

I cannot afford to lose blood just at present; I have lost too much of late for my
physical good, and then the prolonged s train 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; to-night I could not well
do
without it.

Telegram, Van Helsing, Antwerp, to Seward, Carfax.

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

17 September.—Do not fail to be at Hillingham to-night. If not watching all the time
frequently, visit and see that flowers are as placed; very important; do not fail.
Shall be with you as soon as possible after arrival.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

18 September.—Just off for train to London. The arrival of Van Helsing’s telegram filled
me with dismay. A whole night lost, and I know by bitter experience what may happen
in a
night. Of course it is possible that all may be well, but what may have happened?
Surely
there is some horrible doom hanging over us that every possible accident should thwart
us in all we try to do. I shall take this cylinder with me, and then I can complete
my
entry on Lucy’s phonograph.

Memorandum left by Lucy Westenra.

17 September. Night.—I write this and leave it to be seen, so that no one may by any
chance get into trouble through me. This is an exact record of what took place 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 go to sleep, but could not. Then there
came to me the old fear of sleep, and I determined to keep awake. Perversely sleep
would
try to come then when I did not want it; so, as I feared to be alone, I opened my
door
and called out: Is there anybody there? There was no answer. I was afraid to wake
mother, and so closed my door again. Then outside in the shrubbery I heard a sort
of
howl like a dog’s, but more fierce and deeper. I went to the window and looked out,
but
could see nothing, except a big bat, which had evidently been buffeting its wings
against the window. So I went back to bed again, but determined not to go to sleep.
Presently the door opened, and mother looked in; seeing by my moving that I was not
asleep, came in, and sat by me. She said to me even more sweetly and softly than her
wont:—

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

I feared she might catch cold sitting there, and asked her to come in and sleep with
me,
so she came into bed, and lay down beside me; she did not take off her dressing gown,
for she said she would only stay a while and then go back to her own bed. As she lay
there in my arms, and I in hers, the flapping and buffeting came to the window again.
She was startled and a little frightened, and cried out: What is that? I tried to
pacify her, and at last succeeded, and she lay quiet; but I could hear her poor dear
heart still beating terribly. After a while there was the low howl again out in the
shrubbery, and shortly after there was a crash at the window, and a lot of broken
glass
was hurled on the floor. The window blind blew back with the wind that rushed in,
and in
the aperture of the broken panes there was the head of a great, gaunt grey wolf. Mother
cried out in a fright, and struggled up into a sitting posture, and clutched wildly
at
anything that would help her. Amongst other things, she clutched the wreath of flowers
that Dr. Van Helsing insisted on my wearing round my neck, and tore it away 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 seemed to come blowing in through the broken window, and
wheeling and circling round like the pillar of dust that travellers describe when
there
is a 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 neighbourhood were
howling; and in our shrubbery, seemingly just outside, a nightingale was singing.
I was
dazed and stupid with pain and terror and weakness, but the sound of the nightingale
seemed like the voice of my dead mother come back to comfort me. The sounds seemed
to
have awakened the maids, too, for I could hear their bare feet pattering outside my
door. I called to them, and they came in, and when they saw what had happened, and
what
it was that lay over me on the bed, they screamed out. The wind rushed in through
the
broken window, and the door slammed to. They lifted off the body of my dear mother,
and
laid her, covered up with a sheet, on the bed after I had got up. They were all so
frightened and nervous that I directed them to go to the dining-room and have each
a
glass of wine. The door flew open for an instant and closed again. The maids shrieked,
and then went in a body to the dining-room; and I laid what flowers I had on my dear
mother’s breast. When they were there I remembered what Dr. Van Helsing had told me,
but
I didn’t like to remove them, and, besides, I would have some of the servants to sit
up
with me now. I was surprised that the maids did not come back. I called them, but
got no
answer, so I went to the dining-room to look for them.

My heart sank when I saw what had happened. They all four lay helpless on the floor,
breathing heavily. The decanter of sherry was on the table half full, but there was
a
queer, acrid smell about. I was suspicious, and examined the decanter. It smelt of
laudanum, and looking on the sideboard, I found that the bottle which mother’s doctor
uses for her—oh! did use—was empty. What am I to do? what am I to do? I am back in
the
room with mother. I cannot leave her, and I am alone, save for the sleeping servants,
whom some one has drugged. Alone with the dead! I dare not go out, for I can hear
the
low howl of the wolf through the broken window.

The air seems full of specks, floating and circling in the draught from the window,
and
the lights burn blue and dim. What am I to do? God shield me from harm this night!
I
shall hide this paper in my breast, where they shall find it when they come to lay
me
out. My dear mother gone! It is time that I go too. Good-bye, dear Arthur, if I should
not survive this night. God keep you, dear, and God help me!

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-12">CHAPTER XII</h2>

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY

18 September.—I drove at once to Hillingham and arrived early. Keeping my cab at the
gate, I went up the avenue alone. I knocked gently and rang as quietly as possible,
for
I feared to disturb Lucy or her mother, and hoped to only bring a servant to the door.
After a while, finding no response, I knocked and rang again; still no answer. I cursed
the laziness of the servants that they should lie abed at such an hour—for it was
now
ten o’clock—and so rang and knocked again, but more impatiently, but still without
response. Hitherto I had blamed only the servants, but now a terrible fear began to
assail me. Was this desolation but another link in the chain of doom which seemed
drawing tight around us? Was it indeed a house of death to which I had come, too late?
I
knew that minutes, even seconds of delay, might mean hours of danger to Lucy, if she
had
had again one of those frightful relapses; and I went round the house to try if I
could
find by chance an entry anywhere.

I could find no means of ingress. Every window and door was fastened and locked, and
I
returned baffled to the porch. As I did so, I heard the rapid pit-pat of a swiftly
driven horse’s feet. They stopped at the gate, and a few seconds later I met Van Helsing
running up the avenue. When he saw me, he gasped out:—

Then it was you, and just arrived. How is she? Are we too late? Did you not get my
 telegram ?

I answered as quickly and coherently as I could that I had only got his telegram early in
the morning, and had not lost a minute in coming here, and that I could not make any
one
in the house hear me. He paused and raised his hat as he said solemnly:—

Then I fear we are too late. God’s will be done! With his usual recuperative
energy, he went on: Come. If there be no way open to get in, we must make one. Time
is all in all to us now.

We went round to the back of the house, where there was a kitchen window. The Professor
took a small surgical saw from his case, and handing it to me, pointed to the iron
bars
which guarded the window. I attacked them at once and had very soon cut through three
of
them. Then with a long, thin knife we pushed back the fastening of the sashes and
opened
the window. I helped the Professor in, and followed him. There was no one in the kitchen
or in the servants’ rooms, which were close at hand. We tried all the rooms as we
went
along, and in the dining-room, dimly lit by rays of light through the shutters, found
four servant-women lying on the floor. There was no need to think them dead, for their
stertorous breathing and the acrid smell of laudanum in the room left no doubt as
to
their condition. Van Helsing and I looked at each other, and as we moved away he said:
We can attend to them later. Then we ascended to Lucy’s room. For an instant
or two we paused at the door to listen, but there was no sound that we could hear.
With
white faces and trembling hands, we opened the door gently, and entered the room.

How shall I describe what we saw? On the bed lay two women, Lucy and her mother. The
latter lay farthest in, and she was covered with a white sheet, the edge of which
had
been blown back by the draught through the broken window, showing the drawn, white
face,
with a look of terror fixed upon it. By her side lay Lucy, with face white and still
more drawn. The flowers which had been round her neck we found upon her mother’s bosom,
and her throat was bare, showing the two little wounds which we had noticed before,
but
looking horribly white and mangled. Without a word the Professor bent over the bed,
his
head almost touching poor Lucy’s breast; then he gave a quick turn of his head, as
of
one who listens, and leaping to his feet, he cried out to me:—

It is not yet too late! Quick! quick! Bring the brandy!

I flew downstairs and returned with it, taking care to smell and taste it, lest it,
too,
were drugged like the decanter of sherry which I found on the table. The maids were
still breathing, but more restlessly, and I fancied that the narcotic was wearing
off. I
did not stay to make sure, but returned to Van Helsing. He rubbed the brandy, as on
another occasion, on her lips and gums and on her wrists and the palms of her hands.
He
said to me:—

I can do this, all that can be at the present. You go wake those maids. Flick them
in
the face with a wet towel, and flick them hard. Make them get heat and fire and a
warm bath. This poor soul is nearly as cold as that beside her. She will need be
heated before we can do anything more.

I went at once, and found little difficulty in waking three of the women. The fourth
was
only a young girl, and the drug had evidently affected her more strongly, so I lifted
her on the sofa and let her sleep. The others were dazed at first, but as remembrance
came back to them they cried and sobbed in a hysterical manner. I was stern with them,
however, and would not let them talk. I told them that one life was bad enough to
lose,
and that if they delayed they would sacrifice Miss Lucy. So, sobbing and crying, they
went about their way, half clad as they were, and prepared fire and water. Fortunately,
the kitchen and boiler fires were still alive, and there was no lack of hot water.
We
got a bath and carried Lucy out as she was and placed her in it. Whilst we were busy
chafing her limbs there was a knock at the hall door. One of the maids ran off, hurried
on some more clothes, and opened it. Then she returned and whispered to us that there
was a gentleman who had come with a message from Mr. Holmwood. I bade her simply tell
him that he must wait, for we could see no one now. She went away with the message,
and,
engrossed with our work, I clean forgot all about him.

I never saw in all my experience the Professor work in such deadly earnest. I knew—as
he
knew—that it was a stand-up fight with death, and in a pause told him so. He answered
me
in a way that I did not understand, but with the sternest look that his face could
wear:—

If that were all, I would stop here where we are now, and let her fade away into
peace, for I see no light in life over her horizon. He went on with his work
with, if possible, renewed and more frenzied vigour.

Presently we both began to be conscious that the heat was beginning to be of some
effect.
Lucy’s heart beat a trifle more audibly to the stethoscope, and her lungs had a
perceptible movement. Van Helsing’s face almost beamed, and as we lifted her from
the
bath and rolled her in a hot sheet to dry her he said to me:—

The first gain is ours! Check to the King!

We took Lucy into another room, which had by now been prepared, and laid her in bed
and
forced a few drops of brandy down her throat. I noticed that Van Helsing tied a soft
silk handkerchief round her throat. She was still unconscious, and was quite as bad
as,
if not worse than, we had ever seen her.

Van Helsing called in one of the women, and told her to stay with her and not to take
her
eyes off her till we returned, and then beckoned me out of the room.

We must consult as to what is to be done, he said as we descended the stairs. In
the hall he opened the dining-room door, and we passed in, he closing the door carefully
behind him. The shutters had been opened, but the blinds were already down, with that
obedience to the etiquette of death which the British woman of the lower classes always
rigidly observes. The room was, therefore, dimly dark. It was, however, light enough
for
our purposes. Van Helsing’s sternness was somewhat relieved by a look of perplexity.
He
was evidently torturing his mind about something, so I waited for an instant, and
he
spoke:—

What are we to do now? Where are we to turn for help? We must have another
 transfusion of blood, and that soon, or that poor girl’s life won’t be worth an
hour’s purchase. You are exhausted already; I am exhausted too. I fear to trust
those women, even if they would have courage to submit. What are we to do for some
one who will open his veins for her?

What’s the matter with me, anyhow?

The voice came from the sofa across the room, and its tones brought relief and joy
to my
heart, for they were those of Quincey Morris. Van Helsing started angrily at the first
sound, but his face softened and a glad look came into his eyes as I cried out:
Quincey Morris! and rushed towards him with outstretched hands.

What brought you here? I cried as our hands met.

I guess Art is the cause.

He handed me a telegram :—

Have not heard from Seward for three days, and am terribly anxious. Cannot leave.
Father still in same condition. Send me word how Lucy is. Do not
delay.—Holmwood.

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

Van Helsing strode forward, and took his hand, looking him straight in the eyes as
he
said:—

A brave man’s blood is the best thing on this earth when a woman is in trouble.
You’re a man and no mistake. Well, the devil may work against us for all he’s worth,
but God sends us men when we want them.

Once again we went through that ghastly operation. I have not the heart to go through
with the details. Lucy had got a terrible shock and it told on her more than before,
for
though plenty of blood went into her veins, her body did not respond to the treatment
as
well as on the other occasions. Her struggle back into life was something frightful
to
see and hear. However, the action of both heart and lungs improved, and Van Helsing
made
a subcutaneous injection of morphia, as before, and with good effect. Her faint became a
profound slumber. The Professor watched whilst I went downstairs with Quincey Morris,
and sent one of the maids to pay off one of the cabmen who were waiting. I left Quincey
lying down after having a glass of wine, and told the cook to get ready a good
breakfast. Then a thought struck me, and I went back to the room where Lucy now was.
When I came softly in, I found Van Helsing with a sheet or two of note-paper in his
hand. He had evidently read it, and was thinking it over as he sat with his hand to
his
brow. There was a look of grim satisfaction in his face, as of one who has had a doubt
solved. He handed me the paper saying only: It dropped from Lucy’s breast when we
carried her to the bath.

When I had read it, I stood looking at the Professor, and after a pause asked him:
In
God’s name, what does it all mean? Was she, or is she, mad; or what sort of horrible
danger is it? I was so bewildered that I did not know what to say more. Van
Helsing put out his hand and took the paper, saying:—

Do not trouble about it now. Forget it for the present. You shall know and understand
it all in good time; but it will be later. And now what is it that you came to 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 that love her. One, two, three, all
open their veins for her, besides one old man. Ah yes, I know, friend John; I am not
blind! I love you all the more for it! Now go.

In the hall I met Quincey Morris, with a telegram for Arthur telling him that Mrs.
Westenra was dead; that Lucy also had been ill, but was now going on better; and that
Van Helsing and I were with her. I told him where I was going, and he hurried me out,
but as I was going said:—

When you come back, Jack, may I have two words with you all to ourselves? I nodded
in reply and went out. I found no difficulty about the registration, and arranged
with
the local undertaker to come up in the evening to measure for the coffin and to make
arrangements.

When I got back Quincey was waiting for me. I told him I would see him as soon as
I knew
about Lucy, and went up to her room. She was still sleeping, and the Professor seemingly
had not moved from his seat at her side. From his putting his finger to his lips,
I
gathered that he expected her to wake before long and was afraid of forestalling nature.
So I went down to Quincey and took him into the breakfast-room, where the blinds were
not drawn down, and which was a little more cheerful, or rather less cheerless, than
the
other rooms. When we were alone, he said to me:—

Jack Seward, I don’t want to shove myself in anywhere where I’ve no right to be; but
this is no ordinary case. You know I loved that girl and wanted to marry her; but,
although that’s all past and gone, I can’t help feeling anxious about her all the
same. What is it that’s wrong with her? The Dutchman—and a fine old fellow he is;
I
can see that—said, that time you two came into the room, that you must have another
 transfusion of blood, and that both you and he were exhausted. Now I know well that
you medical men speak in camera, and that a man must not expect to know what they
consult about in private. But this is no common matter, and, whatever it is, I have
done my part. Is not that so?

That’s so, I said, and he went on:—

I take it that both you and Van Helsing had done already what I did to-day. Is not
that so?

That’s so.

And I guess Art was in it too. When I saw him four days ago down at his own place
he
looked queer. I have not seen anything pulled down so quick since I was on the
Pampas and had a mare that I was fond of go to grass all in a night. One of those
big bats that they call vampires had got at her in the night, and what with his
gorge and the vein left open, there wasn’t enough blood in her to let her stand up,
and I had to put a bullet through her as she lay. Jack, if you may tell me without
betraying confidence, Arthur was the first, is not that so? As he spoke the poor
fellow looked terribly anxious. He was in a torture of suspense regarding the woman
he
loved, and his utter ignorance of the terrible mystery which seemed to surround her
intensified his pain. His very heart was bleeding, and it took all the manhood of
him—and there was a royal lot of it, too—to keep him from breaking down. I paused
before
answering, for I felt that I must not betray anything which the Professor wished kept
secret; but already he knew so much, and guessed so much, that there could be no reason
for not answering, so I answered in the same phrase: That’s so.

And how long has this been going on?

About ten days.

Ten days! Then I guess, Jack Seward, that that poor pretty creature that we all love
has had put into her veins within that time the blood of four strong men. Man alive,
her whole body wouldn’t hold it. Then, coming close to me, he spoke in a fierce
half-whisper: What took it out?

I shook my head. That, I said, is the crux. Van Helsing is simply frantic about
it, and I am at my wits’ end. I can’t even hazard a guess. There has been a series
of little circumstances which have thrown out all our calculations as to Lucy being
properly watched. But these shall not occur again. Here we stay until all be well—or
ill. Quincey held out his hand. Count me in, he said. You and the
Dutchman will tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.

When she woke late in the afternoon, Lucy’s first movement was to feel in her breast,
and, to my surprise, produced the paper which Van Helsing had given me to read. The
careful Professor had replaced it where it had come from, lest on waking she should
be
alarmed. Her eye then lit on Van Helsing and on me too, and gladdened. Then she looked
around the room, and seeing where she was, shuddered; she gave a loud cry, and put
her
poor thin hands before her pale face. We both understood what that meant—that she
had
realised to the full her mother’s death; so we tried what we could to comfort her.
Doubtless sympathy eased her somewhat, but she was very low in thought and spirit,
and
wept silently and weakly for a long time. We told her that either or both of us would
now remain with her all the time, and that seemed to comfort her. Towards dusk she
fell
into a doze. Here a very odd thing occurred. Whilst still asleep she took the paper
from
her breast and tore it in two. Van Helsing stepped over and took the pieces from her.
All the same, however, she went on with the action of tearing, as though the material
were still in her hands; finally she lifted her hands and opened them as though
scattering the fragments. Van Helsing seemed surprised, and his brows gathered as
if in
thought, but he said nothing.19 September.—All last night she slept fitfully, being
always afraid to sleep, and something weaker when she woke from it. The Professor
and I
took it in turns to watch, and we never left her for a moment unattended. Quincey
Morris
said nothing about his intention, but I knew that all night long he patrolled round
and
round the house.

When the day came, its searching light showed the ravages in poor Lucy’s strength.
She
was hardly able to turn her head, and the little nourishment which she could take
seemed
to do her no good. At times she slept, and both Van Helsing and I noticed the difference
in her, between sleeping and waking. Whilst asleep she looked stronger, although more
haggard, and her breathing was softer; her open mouth showed the pale gums drawn back
from the teeth, which thus looked positively longer and sharper than usual; when she
woke the softness of her eyes evidently changed the expression, for she looked her
own
self, although a dying one. In the afternoon she asked for Arthur, and we telegraphed
for him. Quincey went off to meet him at the station.

When he arrived it was nearly six o’clock, and the sun was setting full and warm,
and the
red light streamed in through the window and gave more colour to the pale cheeks.
When
he saw her, Arthur was simply 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 was now nearly one o’clock, and he and Van Helsing are sitting with her. I am to
relieve them in a quarter of an hour, and I am entering this on Lucy’s phonograph. Until
six o’clock they are to try to rest. I fear that to-morrow will end our watching,
for
the shock has been too great; the poor child cannot rally. God help us all.

Letter, Mina Harker to Lucy Westenra.

(Unopened by her.)

"17 September.

"My dearest Lucy,—

"It seems an age since I heard from you, or indeed since I wrote. You will pardon
me, I
know, for all my faults when you have read all my budget of news. Well, I got my husband
back all right; when we arrived at Exeter there was a carriage waiting for us, and in
it, though he had an attack of gout, Mr. Hawkins. He took us to his house, where there
were rooms for us all nice and comfortable, and we dined together. After dinner Mr.
Hawkins said:—

" ‘My dears, I want to drink your health and prosperity; and may every blessing attend
you both. I know you both from children, and have, with love and pride, seen you grow
up. Now I want you to make your home here with me. I have left to me neither chick
nor
child; all are gone, and in my will I have left you everything.’ I cried, Lucy dear,
as
Jonathan and the old man clasped hands. Our evening was a very, very happy one.

"So here we are, installed in this beautiful old house, and from both my bedroom and
the
drawing-room I can see the great elms of the cathedral close, with their great black
stems standing out against the old yellow stone of the cathedral and I can hear the
rooks overhead cawing and cawing 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 a private wedding? Tell me all about
it, dear; tell me all about everything, for there is nothing which interests you which
will not be dear to me. Jonathan asks me to send his ‘respectful duty,’ but I do not
think that is good enough from the junior partner of the important firm Hawkins &amp;
Harker; and so, as you love me, and he loves me, and I love you with all the moods
and
tenses of the verb, I send you simply his ‘love’ instead. Good-bye, my dearest Lucy,
and
all blessings on you.

"Yours,

Mina Harker.

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

"20 September.

"My dear Sir,—

In accordance with your wishes, I enclose report of the conditions of everything left
in my charge.... With regard to patient, Renfield, there is more to say. He has had
another outbreak, which might have had a dreadful ending, but which, as it
fortunately happened, was unattended with any unhappy results. This afternoon a
carrier’s cart with two men made a call at the empty house whose grounds abut on
ours—the house to which, you will remember, the patient twice ran away. The men
stopped at our gate to ask the porter their way, as they were strangers. I was
myself looking out of the study window, having a smoke after dinner, and saw one of
them come up to the house. As he passed the window of Renfield’s room, the patient
began to rate him from within, and called him all the foul names he could lay his
tongue to. The man, who seemed a decent fellow enough, contented himself by telling
him to shut up for a foul-mouthed beggar," whereon our man accused him of
robbing him and wanting to murder him and said that he would hinder him if he were
to
swing for it. I opened the window and signed to the man not to notice, so he contented
himself after looking the place over and making up his mind as to what kind of a place
he had got to by saying: ‘Lor’ bless yer, sir, I wouldn’t mind what was said to me
in a
bloomin’ madhouse. I pity ye and the guv’nor for havin’ to live in the house with
a wild
beast like that.’ Then he asked his way civilly enough, and I told him where the gate
of
the empty house was; he went away, followed by threats and curses and revilings from
our
man. I went down to see if I could make out any cause for his anger, since he is usually
such a well-behaved man, and except his violent fits nothing of the kind had ever
occurred. I found him, to my astonishment, quite composed and most genial in his manner.
I tried to get him to talk of the incident, but he blandly asked me questions as to
what
I meant, and led me to believe that he was completely oblivious of the affair. It
was, I
am sorry to say, however, only another instance of his cunning, for within half an
hour
I heard of him again. This time he had broken out through the window of his room,
and
was running down the avenue. I called to the attendants to follow me, and ran after
him,
for I feared he was intent on some mischief. My fear was justified when I saw the
same
cart which had passed before coming down the road, having on it some great wooden
boxes.
The men were wiping their foreheads, and were flushed in the face, as if with violent
exercise. Before I could get up to him the patient rushed at them, and pulling one
of
them off the cart, began to knock his head against the ground. If I had not seized
him
just at the moment I believe he would have killed the man there and then. The other
fellow jumped down and struck him over the head with the butt-end of his heavy whip.
It
was a terrible blow; but he did not seem to mind it, but seized him also, and struggled
with the three of us, pulling us to and fro as if we were kittens. You know I am no
light weight, and the others were both burly men. At first he was silent in his
fighting; but as we began to master him, and the attendants were putting a
strait-waistcoat on him, he began to shout: ‘I’ll frustrate them! They shan’t rob
me!
they shan’t murder me by inches! I’ll fight for my Lord and Master!’ and all sorts
of
similar incoherent ravings. It was with very considerable difficulty that they got
him
back to the house and put him in the padded room. One of the attendants, Hardy, had
a
finger broken. However, I set it all right; and he is going on well.

"The two carriers were at first loud in their threats of actions for damages, and
promised to rain all the penalties of the law on us. Their threats were, however,
mingled with some sort of indirect apology for the defeat of the two of them by a
feeble
madman. They said that if it had not been for the way their strength had been spent
in
carrying and raising the heavy boxes to the cart they would have made short work of
him.
They gave as another reason for their defeat the extraordinary state of drouth to
which
they had been reduced by the dusty nature of their occupation and the reprehensible
distance from the scene of their labours of any place of public entertainment. I quite
understood their drift, and after a stiff glass of grog, or rather more of the same,
and
with each a sovereign in hand, they made light of the attack, and swore that they
would
encounter a worse madman any day for the pleasure of meeting so ‘bloomin’ good a bloke’
as your correspondent. I took their names and addresses, in case they might be needed.
They are as follows:—Jack Smollet, of Dudding’s Rents, King George’s Road, Great
Walworth, and Thomas Snelling, Peter Farley’s Row, Guide Court, Bethnal Green. They are
both in the employment of Harris &amp; Sons, Moving and Shipment Company, Orange
Master’s Yard, Soho.

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

"Believe me, dear Sir,

"Yours faithfully,

Patrick Hennessey.

Letter, Mina Harker to Lucy Westenra.

(Unopened by her.)

"18 September.

"My dearest Lucy,—

"Such a sad blow has befallen us. Mr. Hawkins has died very suddenly. Some may not
think
it so sad for us, but we had both come to so love him that it really seems as though
we
had lost a father. I never knew either father or mother, so that the dear old man’s
death is a real blow to me. Jonathan is greatly distressed. It is not only that he
feels
sorrow, deep sorrow, for the dear, good man who has befriended him all his life, and
now
at the end has treated him like his own son and left him a fortune which to people
of
our modest bringing up is wealth beyond the dream of avarice, but Jonathan feels it
on
another account. He says the amount of responsibility which it puts upon him makes
him
nervous. He begins to doubt himself. I try to cheer him up, and my belief in him helps
him to have a belief in himself. But it is here that the grave shock that he experienced
tells upon him the most. Oh, it is too hard that a sweet, simple, noble, strong nature
such as his—a nature which enabled him by our dear, good friend’s aid to rise from
clerk
to master in a few years—should be so injured that the very essence of its strength
is
gone. Forgive me, dear, if I worry you with my troubles in the midst of your own
happiness; but, Lucy dear, I must tell some one, for the s train of keeping up a brave
and cheerful appearance to Jonathan tries me, and I have no one here that I can confide
in. I dread coming up to London, as we must do the day after to-morrow; for poor Mr.
Hawkins left in his will that he was to be buried in the grave with his father. As
there
are no relations at all, Jonathan will have to be chief mourner. I shall try to run
over
to see you, dearest, if only for a few minutes. Forgive me for troubling you. With
all
blessings,

"Your loving

Mina Harker.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

20 September.—Only resolution and habit can let me make an entry to-night. I am too
miserable, too low-spirited, too sick of the world and all in it, including life itself,
that I would not care if I heard this moment the flapping of the wings of the angel
of
death. And he has been flapping those grim wings to some purpose of late—Lucy’s mother
and Arthur’s father, and now.... Let me get on with my work.

I duly relieved Van Helsing in his watch over Lucy. We wanted Arthur to go to rest
also,
but he refused at first. It was only when I told him that we should want him to help
us
during the day, and that we must not all break down for want of rest, lest Lucy should
suffer, that he agreed to go. Van Helsing was very kind to him. Come, my child,
he said; come with me. You are sick and weak, and have had much sorrow and much
mental pain, as well as that tax on your strength that we know of. You must not be
alone; for to be alone is to be full of fears and alarms. Come to the drawing-room,
where there is a big fire, and there are two sofas. You shall lie on one, and I on
the other, and our sympathy will be comfort to each other, even though we do not
speak, and even if we sleep. Arthur went off with him, casting back a longing
look on Lucy’s face, which lay in her pillow, almost whiter than the lawn. She lay
quite
still, and I looked round the room to see that all was as it should be. I could see
that
the Professor had carried out in this room, as in the other, his purpose of using
the
garlic; the whole of the window-sashes reeked with it, and round Lucy’s neck, over
the
silk handkerchief which Van Helsing made her keep on, was a rough chaplet of the same
odorous flowers. Lucy was breathing somewhat stertorously, and her face was at its
worst, for the open mouth showed the pale gums. Her teeth, in the dim, uncertain light,
seemed longer and sharper than they had been in the morning. In particular, by some
trick of the light, the canine teeth looked longer and sharper than the rest. I sat
down
by her, and presently she moved uneasily. At the same moment there came a sort of
dull
flapping or buffeting at the window. I went over to it softly, and peeped out by the
corner of the blind. There was a full moonlight, and I could see that the noise was
made
by a great bat, which wheeled round—doubtless attracted by the light, although so
dim—and every now and again struck the window with its wings. When I came back to
my
seat, I found that Lucy had moved slightly, and had torn away the garlic flowers from
her throat. I replaced them as well as I could, and sat watching her.

Presently she woke, and I gave her food, as Van Helsing had prescribed. She took but
a
little, and that languidly. There did not seem to be with her now the unconscious
struggle for life and strength that had hitherto so marked her illness. It struck
me as
curious that the moment she became conscious she pressed the garlic flowers close
to
her. It was certainly odd that whenever she got into that lethargic state, with the
stertorous breathing, she put the flowers from her; but that when she waked she clutched
them close. There was no possibility of making any mistake about this, for in the
long
hours that followed, she had many spells of sleeping and waking and repeated both
actions many times.

At six o’clock Van Helsing came to relieve me. Arthur had then fallen into a doze,
and he
mercifully let him sleep on. When he saw Lucy’s face I could hear the sissing indraw
of
his breath, and he said to me in a sharp whisper: Draw up the blind; I want
light! Then he bent down, and, with his face almost touching Lucy’s, examined
her carefully. He removed the flowers and lifted the silk handkerchief from her throat.
As he did so he started back, and I could hear his ejaculation, Mein Gott! as it
was smothered in his throat. I bent over and looked, too, and as I noticed some queer
chill came over me.

The wounds on the throat had absolutely disappeared.

For fully five minutes Van Helsing stood looking at her, with his face at its sternest.
Then he turned to me and said calmly:—

She is dying. It will not be long now. It will be much difference, mark me, whether
she dies conscious or in her sleep. Wake that poor boy, and let him come and see the
last; he trusts us, and we have promised him.

I went to the dining-room and waked him. He was dazed for a moment, but when he saw
the
sunlight streaming in through the edges of the shutters he thought he was late, and
expressed his fear. I assured him that Lucy was still asleep, but told him as gently
as
I could that both Van Helsing and I feared that the end was near. He covered his face
with his hands, and slid down on his knees by the sofa, where he remained, perhaps
a
minute, with his head buried, praying, whilst his shoulders shook with grief. I took
him
by the hand and raised him up. Come, I said, my dear old fellow, summon all
your fortitude: it will be best and easiest for her.

When we came into Lucy’s room I could see that Van Helsing had, with his usual
forethought, been putting matters straight and making everything look as pleasing
as
possible. He had even brushed Lucy’s hair, so that it lay on the pillow in its usual
sunny ripples. When we came into the room she opened her eyes, and seeing him, whispered
softly:—

Arthur! Oh, my love, I am so glad you have come! He was stooping to kiss her, when
Van Helsing motioned him back. No, he whispered, not yet! Hold her hand; it
will comfort her more.

So Arthur took her hand and knelt beside her, and she looked her best, with all the
soft
lines matching the angelic beauty of her eyes. Then gradually her eyes closed, and
she
sank to sleep. For a little bit her breast heaved softly, and her breath came and
went
like a tired child’s.

And then insensibly there came the strange change which I had noticed in the night.
Her
breathing grew stertorous, the mouth opened, and the pale gums, drawn back, made the
teeth look longer and sharper than ever. In a sort of sleep-waking, vague, unconscious
way she opened her eyes, which were now dull and hard at once, and said in a soft,
voluptuous voice, such as I had never heard from her lips:—

Arthur! Oh, my love, I am so glad you have come! Kiss me! Arthur bent eagerly over
to kiss her; but at that instant Van Helsing, who, like me, had been startled by her
voice, swooped upon him, and catching him by the neck with both hands, dragged him
back
with a fury of strength which I never thought he could have possessed, and actually
hurled him almost across the room.

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

Arthur was so taken aback that he did not for a moment know what to do or say; and
before
any impulse of violence could seize him he realised the place and the occasion, and
stood silent, waiting.

I kept my eyes fixed on Lucy, as did Van Helsing, and we saw a spasm as of rage flit
like
a shadow over her face; the sharp teeth champed together. Then her eyes closed, and
she
breathed heavily.

Very shortly after she opened her eyes in all their softness, and putting out her
poor,
pale, thin hand, took Van Helsing’s great brown one; drawing it to her, she kissed
it.
My true friend, she said, in a faint voice, but with untellable pathos, My
true friend, and his! Oh, guard him, and give me peace!

I swear it! he said solemnly, kneeling beside her and holding up his hand, as one
who registers an oath. Then he turned to Arthur, and said to him: Come, my child,
take her hand in yours, and kiss her on the forehead, and only once.

Their eyes met instead of their lips; and so they parted.

Lucy’s eyes closed; and Van Helsing, who had been watching closely, took Arthur’s
arm,
and drew him away.

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

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

I took Arthur by the arm, and led him away to the drawing-room, where he sat down,
and
covered his face with his hands, sobbing in a way that nearly broke me down to see.

I went back to the room, and found Van Helsing looking at poor Lucy, and his face
was
sterner than ever. Some change had come over her body. Death had given back part of
her
beauty, for her brow and cheeks had recovered some of their flowing lines; even the
lips
had lost their deadly pallor. It was as if the blood, no longer needed for the working
of the heart, had gone to make the harshness of death as little rude as might be.

"We thought her dying whilst she slept,

And sleeping when she died."

I stood beside Van Helsing, and said:—

Ah, well, poor girl, there is peace for her at last. It is the end!

He turned to me, and said with grave solemnity:—

Not so; alas! not so. It is only the beginning!

When I asked him what he meant, he only shook his head and answered:—

We can do nothing as yet. Wait and see.

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-13">CHAPTER XIII</h2>

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY—continued.

THE funeral was arranged for the next succeeding day, so that Lucy and her mother
might
be buried together. I attended to all the ghastly formalities, and the urbane undertaker
proved that his staff were afflicted—or blessed—with something of his own obsequious
suavity. Even the woman who performed the last offices for the dead remarked to me,
in a
confidential, brother-professional way, when she had come out from the
death-chamber:—

She makes a very beautiful corpse, sir. It’s quite a privilege to attend on her. It’s
not too much to say that she will do credit to our establishment!

I noticed that Van Helsing never kept far away. This was possible from the disordered
state of things in the household. There were no relatives at hand; and as Arthur had
to
be back the next day to attend at his father’s funeral, we were unable to notify any
one
who should have been bidden. Under the circumstances, Van Helsing and I took it upon
ourselves to examine papers, etc. He insisted upon looking over Lucy’s papers himself.
I
asked him why, for I feared that he, being a foreigner, might not be quite aware of
English legal requirements, and so might in ignorance make some unnecessary trouble.
He
answered me:—

I know; I know. You forget that I am a lawyer as well as a doctor. But this is not
altogether for the law. You knew that, when you avoided the coroner. I have more
than him to avoid. There may be papers more—such as this.

As he spoke he took from his pocket-book the memorandum which had been in Lucy’s breast,
and which she had torn in her sleep.

When you find anything of the solicitor who is for the late Mrs. Westenra, seal all
her papers, and write him to-night. For me, I watch here in the room and in Miss
Lucy’s old room all night, and I myself search for what may be. It is not well that
her very thoughts go into the hands of strangers.

I went on with my part of the work, and in another half hour had found the name and
address of Mrs. Westenra’s solicitor and had written to him. All the poor lady’s papers
were in order; explicit directions regarding the place of burial were given. I had
hardly sealed the letter, when, to my surprise, Van Helsing walked into the room,
saying:—

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

Have you got what you looked for? I asked, to which he replied:—

I did not look for any specific thing. I only hoped to find, and find I have, all
that there was—only some letters and a few memoranda, and a diary new begun. But I
have them here, and we shall for the present say nothing of them. I shall see that
poor lad to-morrow evening, and, with his sanction, I shall use some.

When we had finished the work in hand, he said to me:—

And now, friend John, I think we may to bed. We want sleep, both you and I, and rest
to recuperate. To-morrow we shall have much to do, but for the to-night there is no
need of us. Alas!

Before turning in we went to look at poor Lucy. The undertaker had certainly done
his
work well, for the room was turned into a small chapelle ardente. There was a wilderness
of beautiful white flowers, and death was made as little repulsive as might be. The
end
of the winding-sheet was laid over the face; when the Professor bent over and turned
it
gently back, we both started at the beauty before us, the tall wax candles showing
a
sufficient light to note it well. All Lucy’s loveliness had come back to her in death,
and the hours that had passed, instead of leaving traces of decay’s effacing
fingers, had but restored the beauty of life, till positively I could not
believe my eyes that I was looking at a corpse.

The Professor looked sternly grave. He had not loved her as I had, and there was no
need
for tears in his eyes. He said to me: Remain till I return, and left the room. He
came back with a handful of wild garlic from the box waiting in the hall, but which
had
not been opened, and placed the flowers amongst the others on and around the bed.
Then
he took from his neck, inside his collar, a little gold crucifix, and placed it over
the
mouth. He restored the sheet to its place, and we came away.

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

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

Must we make an autopsy? I asked.

Yes and no. I want to operate, but not as you think. Let me tell you now, but not
a
word to another. I want to cut off her head and take out her heart. Ah! you a
surgeon, and so shocked! You, whom I have seen with no tremble of hand or heart, do
operations of life and death that make the rest shudder. Oh, but I must not forget,
my dear friend John, that you loved her; and I have not forgotten it, for it is I
that shall operate, and you must only help. I would like to do it to-night, but for
Arthur I must not; he will be free after his father’s funeral to-morrow, and he will
want to see her—to see it. Then, when she is coffined ready for the next day, you
and I shall come when all sleep. We shall unscrew the coffin-lid, and shall do our
operation: and then replace all, so that none know, save we alone.

But why do it at all? The girl is dead. Why mutilate her poor body without need? And
if there is no necessity for a post-mortem and nothing to gain by it—no good to her,
to us, to science, to human knowledge—why do it? Without such it is monstrous.

For answer he put his hand on my shoulder, and said, with infinite tenderness:—

"Friend John, I pity your poor bleeding heart; and I love you the more because it
does so
bleed. If I could, I would take on myself the burden that you do bear. But there are
things that you know not, but that you shall know, and bless me for knowing, though
they
are not pleasant things. John, my child, you have been my friend now many years, and
yet
did you ever know me to do any without good cause? I may err—I am but man; but I believe
in all I do. Was it not for these causes that you send for me when the great trouble
came? Yes! Were you not amazed, nay horrified, when I would not let Arthur kiss his
love—though she was dying—and snatched him away by all my strength? Yes! And yet you
saw
how she thanked me, with her so beautiful dying eyes, her voice, too, so weak, and
she
kiss my rough old hand and bless me? Yes! And did you not hear me swear promise to
her,
that so she closed her eyes grateful? Yes!

Well, I have good reason now for all I want to do. You have for many years trust me;
you have believe me weeks past, when there be things so strange that you might have
well doubt. Believe me yet a little, friend John. If you trust me not, then I must
tell what I think; and that is not perhaps well. And if I work—as work I shall, no
matter trust or no trust—without my friend trust in me, I work with heavy heart and
feel, oh! so lonely when I want all help and courage that may be! He paused a
moment and went on solemnly: Friend John, there are strange and terrible days before
us. Let us not be two, but one, that so we work to a good end. Will you not have
faith in me?

I took his hand, and promised him. I held my door open as he went away, and watched
him
go into his room and close the door. As I stood without moving, I saw one of the maids
pass silently along the passage—she had her back towards me, so did not see me—and
go
into the room where Lucy lay. The sight touched me. Devotion is so rare, and we are
so
grateful to those who show it unasked to those we love. Here was a poor girl putting
aside the terrors which she naturally had of death to go watch alone by the bier of
the
mistress whom she loved, so that the poor clay might not be lonely till laid to eternal
rest....I must have slept long and soundly, for it was broad daylight when Van Helsing
waked me by coming into my room. He came over to my bedside and said:—

You need not trouble about the knives; we shall not do it.

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

Because, he said sternly, it is too late—or too early. See! Here he held up
the little golden crucifix. This was stolen in the night.

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

Because I get it back from the worthless wretch who stole it, from the woman who
robbed the dead and the living. Her punishment will surely come, but not through me;
she knew not altogether what she did and thus unknowing, she only stole. Now we must
wait.

He went away on the word, leaving me with a new mystery to think of, a new puzzle
to
grapple with.

The forenoon was a dreary time, but at noon the solicitor came: Mr. Marquand, of
Wholeman, Sons, Marquand &amp; Lidderdale. He was very genial and very appreciative of
what we had done, and took off our hands all cares as to details. During lunch he
told
us that Mrs. Westenra had for some time expected sudden death from her heart, and
had
put her affairs in absolute order; he informed us that, with the exception of a certain
entailed property of Lucy’s father’s which now, in default of direct issue, went back
to
a distant branch of the family, the whole estate, real and personal, was left absolutely
to Arthur Holmwood. When he had told us so much he went on:—

Frankly we did our best to prevent such a testamentary disposition, and pointed out
certain contingencies that might leave her daughter either penniless or not so free
as she should be to act regarding a matrimonial alliance. Indeed, we pressed the
matter so far that we almost came into collision, for she asked us if we were or
were not prepared to carry out her wishes. Of course, we had then no alternative but
to accept. We were right in principle, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred we
should have proved, by the logic of events, the accuracy of our judgment. Frankly,
however, I must admit that in this case any other form of disposition would have
rendered impossible the carrying out of her wishes. For by her predeceasing her
daughter the latter would have come into possession of the property, and, even had
she only survived her mother by five minutes, her property would, in case there were
no will—and a will was a practical impossibility in such a case—have been treated
at
her decease as under intestacy. In which case Lord Godalming, though so dear a
friend, would have had no claim in the world; and the inheritors, being remote,
would not be likely to abandon their just rights, for sentimental reasons regarding
an entire stranger. I assure you, my dear sirs, I am rejoiced at the result,
perfectly rejoiced.

He was a good fellow, but his rejoicing at the one little part—in which he was officially
interested—of so great a tragedy, was an object-lesson in the limitations of sympathetic
understanding.

He did not remain long, but said he would look in later in the day and see Lord
Godalming. His coming, however, had been a certain comfort to us, since it assured
us
that we should not have to dread hostile criticism as to any of our acts. Arthur was
expected at five o’clock, so a little before that time we visited the death-chamber.
It
was so in very truth, for now both mother and daughter lay in it. The undertaker,
true
to his craft, had made the best display he could of his goods, and there was a mortuary
air about the place that lowered our spirits at once. Van Helsing ordered the former
arrangement to be adhered to, explaining that, as Lord Godalming was coming very soon,
it would be less harrowing to his feelings to see all that was left of his fiancée
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 s train of his much-tried emotions. He had, I knew, been
very genuinely and devotedly attached to his father; and to lose him, and at such
a
time, was a bitter blow to him. With me he was warm as ever, and to Van Helsing he
was
sweetly courteous; but I could not help seeing that there was some constraint with
him.
The Professor noticed it, too, and motioned me to bring him upstairs. I did so, and
left
him at the door of the room, as I felt he would like to be quite alone with her, but
he
took my arm and led me in, saying huskily:—

You loved her too, old fellow; she told me all about it, and there was no friend had
a closer place in her heart than you. I don’t know how to thank you for all you have
done for her. I can’t think yet....

Here he suddenly broke down, and threw his arms round my shoulders and laid his head
on
my breast, crying:—

Oh, Jack! Jack! What shall I do! The whole of life seems gone from me all at once,
and there is nothing in the wide world for me to live for.

I comforted him as well as I could. In such cases men do not need much expression.
A grip
of the hand, the tightening of an arm over the shoulder, a sob in unison, are
expressions of sympathy dear to a man’s heart. I stood still and silent till his sobs
died away, and then I said softly to him:—

Come and look at her.

Together we moved over to the bed, and I lifted the lawn from her face. God! how
beautiful she was. Every hour seemed to be enhancing her loveliness. It frightened
and
amazed me somewhat; and as for Arthur, he fell a-trembling, and finally was shaken
with
doubt as with an ague. At last, after a long pause, he said to me in a faint
whisper:—

Jack, is she really dead?

I assured him sadly that it was so, and went on to suggest—for I felt that such a
horrible doubt should not have life for a moment longer than I could help—that it
often
happened that after death faces became softened and even resolved into their youthful
beauty; that this was especially so when death had been preceded by any acute or
prolonged suffering. It seemed to quite do away with any doubt, and, after kneeling
beside the couch for a while and looking at her lovingly and long, he turned aside.
I
told him that that must be good-bye, as the coffin had to be prepared; so he went
back
and took her dead hand in his and kissed it, and bent over and kissed her forehead.
He
came away, fondly looking back over his shoulder at her as he came.

I left him in the drawing-room, and told Van Helsing that he had said good-bye; so
the
latter went to the kitchen to tell the undertaker’s men to proceed with the preparations
and to screw up the coffin. When he came out of the room again I told him of Arthur’s
question, and he replied:—

I am not surprised. Just now I doubted for a moment myself!

We all dined together, and I could see that poor Art was trying to make the best of
things. Van Helsing had been silent all dinner-time; but when we had lit our cigars
he
said—

Lord——; but Arthur interrupted him:—

No, no, not that, for God’s sake! not yet at any rate. Forgive me, sir: I did not
mean to speak offensively; it is only because my loss is so recent.

The Professor answered very sweetly:—

I only used that name because I was in doubt. I must not call you ‘Mr.,’ and I have
grown to love you—yes, my dear boy, to love you—as Arthur.

Arthur held out his hand, and took the old man’s warmly.

Call me what you will, he said. I hope I may always have the title of a friend.
And let me say that I am at a loss for words to thank you for your goodness to my
poor dear. He paused a moment, and went on: I know that she understood your
goodness even better than I do; and if I was rude or in any way wanting at that time
you acted so—you remember—the Professor nodded—you must forgive me.

He answered with a grave kindness:—

I know it was hard for you to quite trust me then, for to trust such violence needs
to understand; and I take it that you do not—that you cannot—trust me now, for you
do not yet understand. And there may be more times when I shall want you to trust
when you cannot—and may not—and must not yet understand. But the time will come when
your trust shall be whole and complete in me, and when you shall understand as
though the sunlight himself shone through. Then you shall bless me from first to
last for your own sake, and for the sake of others and for her dear sake to whom I
swore to protect.

And, indeed, indeed, sir, said Arthur warmly, I shall in all ways trust you. I
know and believe you have a very noble heart, and you are Jack’s friend, and you
were hers. You shall do what you like.

The Professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as though about to speak, and
finally
said:—

May I ask you something now?

Certainly.

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

No, poor dear; I never thought of it.

And as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with it as you will. I want you to
give me permission to read all Miss Lucy’s papers and letters. Believe me, it is no
idle curiosity. I have a motive of which, be sure, she would have approved. I have
them all here. I took them before we knew that all was yours, so that no strange
hand might touch them—no strange eye look through words into her soul. I shall keep
them, if I may; even you may not see them yet, but I shall keep them safe. No word
shall be lost; and in the good time I shall give them back to you. It’s a hard thing
I ask, but you will do it, will you not, for Lucy’s sake?

Arthur spoke out heartily, like his old self:—

Dr. Van Helsing, you may do what you will. I feel that in saying this I am doing what
my dear one would have approved. I shall not trouble you with questions till the
time comes.

The old Professor stood up as he said solemnly:—

And you are right. There will be pain for us all; but it will not be all pain, nor
will this pain be the last. We and you too—you most of all, my dear boy—will have
to
pass through the bitter water before we reach the sweet. But we must be brave of
heart and unselfish, and do our duty, and all will be well!

I slept on a sofa in Arthur’s room that night. Van Helsing did not go to bed at all.
He
went to and fro, as if patrolling the house, and was never out of sight of the room
where Lucy lay in her coffin, strewn with the wild garlic flowers, which sent, through
the odour of lily and rose, a heavy, overpowering smell into the night.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

22 September.—In the train to Exeter. Jonathan sleeping.

It seems only yesterday that the last entry was made, and yet how much between then,
in
Whitby and all the world before me, Jonathan away and no news of him; and now, married
to Jonathan, Jonathan a solicitor, a partner, rich, master of his business, Mr. Hawkins
dead and buried, and Jonathan with another attack that may harm him. Some day he may
ask
me about it. Down it all goes. I am rusty in my shorthand—see what unexpected prosperity
does for us—so it may be as well to freshen it up again with an exercise anyhow....

The service was very simple and very solemn. There were only ourselves and the servants
there, one or two old friends of his from Exeter, his London agent, and a gentleman
representing Sir John Paxton, the President of the Incorporated Law Society. Jonathan
and I stood hand in hand, and we felt that our best and dearest friend was gone from
us....

We came back to town quietly, taking a ’bus to Hyde Park Corner. Jonathan thought it
would interest me to go into the Row for a while, so we sat down; but there were very
few people there, and it was sad-looking and desolate to see so many empty chairs.
It
made us think of the empty chair at home; so we got up and walked down Piccadilly.
Jonathan was holding me by the arm, the way he used to in old days before I went to
school. I felt it very improper, for you can’t go on for some years teaching etiquette
and decorum to other girls without the pedantry of it biting into yourself a bit;
but it
was Jonathan, and he was my husband, and we didn’t know anybody who saw us—and we
didn’t
care if they did—so on we walked. I was looking at a very beautiful girl, in a big
cart-wheel hat, sitting in a victoria outside Guiliano’s, when I felt Jonathan clutch
my
arm so tight that he hurt me, and he said under his breath: My God! I am always
anxious about Jonathan, for I fear that some nervous fit may upset him again; so I
turned to him quickly, and asked him what it was that disturbed him.

He was very pale, and his eyes seemed bulging out as, half in terror and half in
amazement, he gazed at a tall, thin man, with a beaky nose and black moustache and
pointed beard, who was also observing the pretty girl. He was looking at her so hard
that he did not see either of us, and so I had a good view of him. His face was not
a
good face; it was hard, and cruel, and sensual, and his big white teeth, that looked
all
the whiter because his lips were so red, were pointed like an animal’s. Jonathan kept
staring at him, till I was afraid he would notice. I feared he might take it ill,
he
looked so fierce and nasty. I asked Jonathan why he was disturbed, and he answered,
evidently thinking 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 to me, Mina, to whom
he
was speaking:—

It is the man himself!

The poor dear was evidently terrified at something—very greatly terrified; I do believe
that if he had not had me to lean on and to support him he would have sunk down. He
kept
staring; a man came out of the shop with a small parcel, and gave it to the lady,
who
then drove off. The dark man kept his eyes fixed on her, and when the carriage moved up
 Piccadilly he followed in the same direction, and hailed a hansom. Jonathan kept looking
after him, and said, as if to himself:—

I believe it is the Count, but he has grown young. My God, if this be so! Oh, my God!
my God! If I only knew! if I only knew! He was distressing himself so much that
I feared to keep his mind on the subject by asking him any questions, so I remained
silent. I drew him away quietly, and he, holding my arm, came easily. We walked a
little
further, and then went in and sat for a while in the Green Park. It was a hot day
for
autumn, and there was a comfortable seat in a shady place. After a few minutes’ staring
at nothing, Jonathan’s eyes closed, and he went quietly into a sleep, with his head
on
my shoulder. I thought it was the best thing for him, so did not disturb him. In about
twenty minutes he woke up, and said to me quite cheerfully:—

Why, Mina, have I been asleep! Oh, do forgive me for being so rude. Come, and we’ll
have a cup of tea somewhere. He had evidently forgotten all about the dark
stranger, as in his illness he had forgotten all that this episode had reminded him
of.
I don’t like this lapsing into forgetfulness; it may make or continue some injury
to the
brain. I must not ask him, for fear I shall do more harm than good; but I must somehow
learn the facts of his journey abroad. The time is come, I fear, when I must open
that
parcel, and know what is written. Oh, Jonathan, you will, I know, forgive me if I
do
wrong, but it is for your own dear sake.Later.—A sad home-coming in every way—the
house
empty of the dear soul who was so good to us; Jonathan still pale and dizzy under
a
slight relapse of his malady; and now a telegram from Van Helsing, whoever he may
be:—

You will be grieved to hear that Mrs. Westenra died five days ago, and that Lucy died
the day before yesterday. They were both buried to-day.

Oh, what a wealth of sorrow in a few words! Poor Mrs. Westenra! poor Lucy! Gone, gone,
never to return to us! And poor, poor Arthur, to have lost such sweetness out of his
life! God help us all to bear our troubles.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

22 September.—It is all over. Arthur has gone back to Ring, and has taken Quincey Morris
with him. What a fine fellow is Quincey! I believe in my heart of hearts that he
suffered as much about Lucy’s death as any of us; but he bore himself through it like
a
moral Viking. If America can go on breeding men like that, she will be a power in
the
world indeed. Van Helsing is lying down, having a rest preparatory to his journey.
He
goes over to Amsterdam to-night, but says he returns to-morrow night; that he only
wants
to make some arrangements which can only be made personally. He is to stop with me
then,
if he can; he says he has work to do in London which may take him some time. Poor old
fellow! I fear that the s train of the past week has broken down even his iron strength.
All the time of the burial he was, I could see, putting some terrible restraint on
himself. When it was all over, we were standing beside Arthur, who, poor fellow, was
speaking of his part in the operation where his blood had been transfused to his Lucy’s
veins; I could see Van Helsing’s face grow white and purple by turns. Arthur was saying
that he felt since then as if they two had been really married and that she was his
wife
in the sight of God. None of us said a word of the other operations, and none of us
ever
shall. Arthur and Quincey went away together to the station, and Van Helsing and I
came
on here. The moment we were alone in the carriage he gave way to a regular fit of
hysterics. He has denied to me since that it was hysterics, and insisted that it was
only his sense of humour asserting itself under very terrible conditions. He laughed
till he cried, and I had to draw down the blinds lest any one should see us and
misjudge; and then he cried, till he laughed again; and laughed and cried together,
just
as a woman does. I tried to be stern with him, as one is to a woman under the
circumstances; but it had no effect. Men and women are so different in manifestations
of
nervous strength or weakness! Then when his face grew grave and stern again I asked
him
why his mirth, and why at such a time. His reply was in a way characteristic of him,
for
it was logical and forceful and mysterious. He said:—

Ah, you don’t comprehend, friend John. Do not think that I am not sad, though I
laugh. See, I have cried even when the laugh did choke me. But no more think that
I
am all sorry when I cry, for the laugh he come just the same. Keep it always with
you that laughter who knock at your door and say, ‘May I come in?’ is not the true
laughter. No! he is a king, and he come when and how he like. He ask no person; he
choose no time of suitability. He say, ‘I am here.’ Behold, in example I grieve my
heart out for that so sweet young girl; I give my blood for her, though I am old and
worn; I give my time, my skill, my sleep; I let my other sufferers want that so she
may have all. And yet I can laugh at her very grave—laugh when the clay from the
spade of the sexton drop upon her coffin and say ‘Thud! thud!’ to my heart, till it
send back the blood from my cheek. My heart bleed for that poor boy—that dear boy,
so of the age of mine own boy had I been so blessed that he live, and with his hair
and eyes the same. There, you know now why I love him so. And yet when he say things
that touch my husband-heart to the quick, and make my father-heart yearn to him as
to no other man—not even to you, friend John, for we are more level in experiences
than father and son—yet even at such moment King Laugh he come to me and shout and
bellow in my ear, ‘Here I am! here I am!’ till the blood come dance back and bring
some of the sunshine that he carry with him to my cheek. Oh, friend John, it is a
strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and troubles; and
yet when King Laugh come he make them all dance to the tune he play. Bleeding
hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and tears that burn as they fall—all dance
together to the music that he make with that smileless mouth of him. And believe me,
friend John, that he is good to come, and kind. Ah, we men and women are like ropes
drawn tight with s train that pull us different ways. Then tears come; and, like the
rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until perhaps the s train become too great, and
we break. But King Laugh he come like the sunshine, and he ease off the strain
again; and we bear to go on with our labour, what it may be.

I did not like to wound him by pretending not to see his idea; but, as I did not yet
understand the cause of his laughter, I asked him. As he answered 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 explanation makes it a harder puzzle than before. But even
if
the burial service was comic, what about poor Art and his trouble? Why, his heart
was simply breaking.

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

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

Quite so. But there was a difficulty, friend John. If so that, then what about the
others? Ho, ho! Then this so sweet maid is a polyandrist, and me, with my poor wife
dead to me, but alive by Church’s law, though no wits, all gone—even I, who am
faithful husband to this now-no-wife, am bigamist.

I don’t see where the joke comes in there either! I said; and I did not feel
particularly pleased with him for saying such things. He laid his hand on my arm,
and
said:—

Friend John, forgive me if I pain. I showed not my feeling to others when it would
wound, but only to you, my old friend, whom I can trust. If you could have looked
into my very heart then when I want to laugh; if you could have done so when the
laugh arrived; if you could do so now, when King Laugh have pack up his crown, and
all that is to him—for he go far, far away from me, and for a long, long time—maybe
you would perhaps pity me the most of all.

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

Because I know!

And now we are all scattered; and for many a long day loneliness will sit over our
roofs
with brooding wings. Lucy lies in the tomb of her kin, a lordly death-house in a lonely
churchyard, away from teeming London; where the air is fresh, and the sun rises over
Hampstead Hill, and where wild flowers grow of their own accord.

So I can finish this diary; and God only knows if I shall ever begin another. If I
do, or
if I even open this again, it will be to deal with different people and different
themes; for here at the end, where the romance of my life is told, ere I go back to
take
up the thread of my life-work, I say sadly and without hope,

FINIS.

The Westminster Gazette, 25 September.

A HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY.

The neighbourhood of Hampstead is just at present exercised with a series of events which
seem to run on lines parallel to those of what was known to the writers of headlines
as
The Kensington Horror, or The Stabbing Woman, or The Woman in
Black. During the past two or three days several cases have occurred of young
children straying from home or neglecting to return from their playing on the Heath.
In
all these cases the children were too young to give any properly intelligible account
of
themselves, but the consensus of their excuses is that they had been with a bloofer
lady. It has always been late in the evening when they have been missed, and on
two occasions the children have not been found until early in the following morning.
It
is generally supposed in the neighbourhood that, as the first child missed gave as
his
reason for being away that a bloofer lady had asked him to come for a walk, the
others had picked up the phrase and used it as occasion served. This is the more natural
as the favourite game of the little ones at present is luring each other away by wiles.
A correspondent writes us that to see some of the tiny tots pretending to be the
bloofer lady is supremely funny. Some of our caricaturists might, he says,
take a lesson in the irony of grotesque by comparing the reality and the picture.
It is
only in accordance with general principles of human nature that the bloofer lady
should be the popular rôle at these al fresco performances. Our correspondent naïvely
says that even Ellen Terry could not be so winningly attractive as some of these
grubby-faced little children pretend—and even imagine themselves—to be.

There is, however, possibly a serious side to the question, for some of the children,
indeed all who have been missed at night, have been slightly torn or wounded in the
throat. The wounds seem such as might be made by a rat or a small dog, and although
of
not much importance individually, would tend to show that whatever animal inflicts
them
has a system or method of its own. The police of the division have been instructed
to
keep a sharp look-out for straying children, especially when very young, in and around
Hampstead Heath, and for any stray dog which may be about.

The Westminster Gazette, 25 September.

Extra Special.

THE HAMPSTEAD HORROR.

ANOTHER CHILD INJURED.

The Bloofer Lady.

We have just received intelligence that another child, missed last night, was only
discovered late in the morning under a furze bush at the Shooter’s Hill side of
Hampstead Heath, which is, perhaps, less frequented than the other parts. It has the
same tiny wound in the throat as has been noticed in other cases. It was terribly
weak,
and looked quite emaciated. It too, when partially restored, had the common story
to
tell of being lured away by the bloofer lady.

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-14">CHAPTER XIV</h2>

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

23 September.—Jonathan is better after a bad night. I am so glad that he has plenty of
work to do, for that keeps his mind off the terrible things; and oh, I am rejoiced
that
he is not now weighed down with the responsibility of his new position. I knew he
would
be true to himself, and now how proud I am to see my Jonathan rising to the height
of
his advancement and keeping pace in all ways with the duties that come upon him. He
will
be away all day till late, for he said he could not lunch at home. My household work
is
done, so I shall take his foreign journal, and lock myself up in my room and read
it....

24 September.—I hadn’t the heart to write last night; that terrible record of Jonathan’s
upset me so. Poor dear! How he must have suffered, whether it be true or only
imagination. I wonder if there is any truth in it at all. Did he get his brain fever,
and then write all those terrible things, or had he some cause for it all? I suppose
I
shall never know, for I dare not open the subject to him.... And yet that man we saw
yesterday! He seemed quite certain of him.... Poor fellow! I suppose it was the funeral
upset him and sent his mind back on some train of thought.... He believes it all
himself. I remember how on our wedding-day he said: Unless some solemn duty come upon
me to go back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake, mad or sane. There seems to
be through it all some thread of continuity.... That fearful Count was coming to
London.... If it should be, and he came to London, with his teeming millions.... There
may be a solemn duty; and if it come we must not shrink from it.... I shall be prepared.
I shall get my typewriter this very hour and begin transcribing. Then we shall be ready
for other eyes if required. And if it be wanted; then, perhaps, if I am ready, poor
Jonathan may not be upset, for I can speak for him and never let him be troubled or
worried with it at all. If ever Jonathan quite gets over the nervousness he may want
to
tell me of it all, and I can ask him questions and find out things, and see how I
may
comfort him.

Letter, Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker.

"24 September.

(Confidence)

"Dear Madam,—

"I pray you to pardon my writing, in that I am so far friend as that I sent to you
sad
news of Miss Lucy Westenra’s death. By the kindness of Lord Godalming, I am empowered
to
read her letters and papers, for I am deeply concerned about certain matters vitally
important. In them I find some letters from you, which show how great friends you
were
and how you love her. Oh, Madam Mina, by that love, I implore you, help me. It is
for
others’ good that I ask—to redress great wrong, and to lift much and terrible
troubles—that may be more great than you can know. May it be that I see you? You can
trust me. I am friend of Dr. John Seward and of Lord Godalming (that was Arthur of
Miss
Lucy). I must keep it private for the present from all. I should come to Exeter to see
you at once if you tell me I am privilege to come, and where and when. I implore your
pardon, madam. I have read your letters to poor Lucy, and know how good you are and
how
your husband suffer; so I pray you, if it may be, enlighten him not, lest it may harm.
Again your pardon, and forgive me.

Van Helsing.

Telegram, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing.

"25 September.—Come to-day by quarter-past ten train if you can catch it. Can see you any
time you call.

Wilhelmina Harker.

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL.

25 September.—I cannot help feeling terribly excited as the time draws near for the visit
of Dr. Van Helsing, for somehow I expect that it will throw some light upon Jonathan’s
sad experience; and as he attended poor dear Lucy in her last illness, he can tell
me
all about her. That is the reason of his coming; it is concerning Lucy and her
sleep-walking, and not about Jonathan. Then I shall never know the real truth now!
How
silly I am. That awful journal gets hold of my imagination and tinges everything with
something of its own colour. Of course it is about Lucy. That habit came back to the
poor dear, and that awful night on the cliff must have made her ill. I had almost
forgotten in my own affairs how ill she was afterwards. She must have told him of
her
sleep-walking adventure on the cliff, and that I knew all about it; and now he wants
me
to tell him what she knows, so that he may understand. I hope I did right in not saying
anything of it to Mrs. Westenra; I should never forgive myself if any act of mine,
were
it even a negative one, brought harm on poor dear Lucy. I hope, too, Dr. Van Helsing
will not blame me; I have had so much trouble and anxiety of late that I feel I cannot
bear more just at present.

I suppose a cry does us all good at times—clears the air as other rain does. Perhaps
it
was reading the journal yesterday that upset me, and then Jonathan went away this
morning to stay away from me a whole day and night, the first time we have been parted
since our marriage. I do hope the dear fellow will take care of himself, and that
nothing will occur to upset him. It is two o’clock, and the doctor will be here soon
now. I shall say nothing of Jonathan’s journal unless he asks me. I am so glad I have
type-written out my own journal, so that, in case he asks about Lucy, I can hand it
to
him; it will save much questioning.Later.—He has come and gone. Oh, what a strange
meeting, and how it all makes my head whirl round! I feel like one in a dream. Can
it be
all possible, or even a part of it? If I had not read Jonathan’s journal first, I
should
never have accepted even a possibility. Poor, poor, dear Jonathan! How he must have
suffered. Please the good God, all this may not upset him again. I shall try to save
him
from it; but it may be even a consolation and a help to him—terrible though it be
and
awful in its consequences—to know for certain that his eyes and ears and brain did
not
deceive him, and that it is all true. It may be that it is the doubt which haunts
him;
that when the doubt is removed, no matter which—waking or dreaming—may prove the truth,
he will be more satisfied and better able to bear the shock. Dr. Van Helsing must
be a
good man as well as a clever one if he is Arthur’s friend and Dr. Seward’s, and if
they
brought him all the way from Holland to look after Lucy. I feel from having seen him
that he is good and kind and of a noble nature. When he comes to-morrow I shall ask
him
about Jonathan; and then, please God, all this sorrow and anxiety may lead to a good
end. I used to think I would like to practise interviewing; Jonathan’s friend on The
Exeter News told him that memory was everything in such work—that you must be
able to put down exactly almost every word spoken, even if you had to refine some
of it
afterwards. Here was a rare interview; I shall try to record it verbatim.

It was half-past two o’clock when the knock came. I took my courage à deux mains and
waited. In a few minutes Mary opened the door, and announced Dr. Van Helsing.

I rose and bowed, and he came towards me; a man of medium weight, strongly built,
with
his shoulders set back over a broad, deep chest and a neck well balanced on the trunk
as
the head is on the neck. The poise of the head strikes one at once as indicative of
thought and power; the head is noble, well-sized, broad, and large behind the ears.
The
face, 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 I come.

Sir, I said, you could have no better claim on me than that you were a friend
and helper of Lucy Westenra. And I held out my hand. He took it and said
tenderly:—

Oh, Madam Mina, I knew that the friend of that poor lily girl must be good, but I
had
yet to learn—— He finished his speech with a courtly bow. I asked him what it
was that he wanted to see me about, so he at once began:—

I have read your letters to Miss Lucy. Forgive me, but I had to begin to inquire
somewhere, and there was none to ask. I know that you were with her at Whitby. She
sometimes kept a diary—you need not look surprised, Madam Mina; it was begun after
you had left, and was in imitation of you—and in that diary she traces by inference
certain things to a sleep-walking in which she puts down that you saved her. In
great perplexity then I come to you, and ask you out of your so much kindness to
tell me all of it that you 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 will be grateful; you will do me much favour. I could not resist
the temptation of mystifying him a bit—I suppose it is some of the taste of the original
apple that remains still in our mouths—so I handed him the shorthand diary. He took
it
with a grateful bow, and said:—

May I read it?

If you wish, I answered as demurely as I could. He opened it, and for an instant
his face fell. Then he stood up and bowed.

Oh, you so clever woman! he said. I 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 honour me and so help me as to read it for me? Alas! I know not the
shorthand. By this time my little joke was over, and I was almost ashamed; so I
took the typewritten copy from my workbasket and handed it to him.

Forgive me, I said: I could not help it; but I had been thinking that it was of
dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you might not have 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 absorbed in the papers, whilst I went to see after lunch
chiefly in order that he might not be disturbed. When I came back, I found him walking
hurriedly up and down the room, his face all ablaze with excitement. He rushed up
to me
and took me by both hands.

Oh, Madam Mina, he said, how can I say what I owe to you? This paper is as
sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I am daze, I am dazzle, with so much light, and
yet clouds roll in behind the light every time. But that you do not, cannot,
comprehend. Oh, but I am grateful to you, you so clever woman. Madam—he said
this very solemnly—if ever Abraham Van Helsing can do anything for you or yours, I
trust you will let me know. It will be pleasure and delight if I may serve you as
a
friend; as a friend, but all I have ever learned, all I can ever do, shall be for
you and those you love. There are darknesses in life, and there are lights; you are
one of the lights. You will have happy life and good life, and your husband will be
blessed in you.

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

Not know you—I, who am old, and who have studied all my life men and women; I, who
have made my specialty the brain and all that belongs to him and all that follow
from him! And I have read your diary that you have so goodly written for me, and
which breathes out truth in every line. I, who have read your so sweet letter to
poor Lucy of your marriage and your trust, not know you! Oh, Madam Mina, good women
tell all their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute, such things that angels
can read; and we men who wish to know have in us something of angels’ eyes. Your
husband is noble nature, and you are noble too, for you trust, and trust cannot be
where there is mean nature. And your husband—tell me of him. Is he quite well? Is
all that fever gone, and is he strong and hearty? I saw here an opening to ask
him about Jonathan, so I said:—

He was almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by Mr. Hawkins’s death. He
interrupted:—

Oh, yes, I know, I know. I have read your last two letters. I went on:—

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

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

He thought he saw some one who recalled something terrible, something which led to
his
brain fever. And here the whole thing seemed to overwhelm me in a rush. The pity
for Jonathan, the horror which he experienced, the whole fearful mystery of his diary,
and the fear that has been brooding over me ever since, all came in a tumult. I suppose
I was hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees and held up my hands to him, and
implored him to make my husband well again. He took my hands and raised me up, and
made
me sit on the sofa, and sat by me; he held my hand in his, and said to me with, oh,
such
infinite sweetness:—

My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that I have not had much time
for friendships; but since I have been summoned to here by my friend John Seward I
have known so many good people and seen such nobility that I feel more than ever—and
it has grown with my advancing years—the loneliness of my life. Believe, me, then,
that I come here full of respect for you, and you have given me hope—hope, not in
what I am seeking of, but that there are good women still left to make life
happy—good women, whose lives and whose truths may make good lesson for the children
that are to be. I am glad, glad, that I may here be of some use to you; for if your
husband suffer, he suffer within the range of my study and experience. I promise you
that I will gladly do all for him that I can—all to make his life strong and manly,
and your life a happy one. Now you must eat. You are overwrought and perhaps
over-anxious. Husband Jonathan would not like to see you so pale; and what he like
not where he love, is not to his good. Therefore for his sake you must eat and
smile. You have told me all about Lucy, and so now we shall not speak of it, lest
it
distress. I shall stay in Exeter to-night, for I want to think much over what you
have told me, and when I have thought I will ask you questions, if I may. And then,
too, you will tell me of husband Jonathan’s trouble so far as you can, but not yet.
You must eat now; afterwards you shall tell me all.

After lunch, when we went back to the drawing-room, he said to me:—

And now tell me all about him. When it came to speaking to this great learned man,
I began to fear that he would think me a weak fool, and Jonathan a madman—that journal
is all so strange—and I hesitated to go on. But he was so sweet and kind, and he had
promised to help, and I trusted him, so I said:—

Dr. Van Helsing, what I have to tell you is so queer that you must not laugh at me
or
at my husband. I have been since yesterday in a sort of fever of doubt; you must be
kind to me, and not think me foolish that I have even half believed some very
strange things. He reassured me by his manner as well as his words when he
said:—

Oh, my dear, if you only 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 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, so soon as
I can, come to see you and your husband, if I may.

Jonathan will be here at half-past eleven, and you must come to lunch with us and
see
him then; you could catch the quick 3:34 train, which will leave you at Paddington
before eight. He was surprised at my knowledge of the trains off-hand, but he
does not know that I have made up all the trains to and from Exeter, so that I may help
Jonathan in case he is in a hurry.

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

Letter (by hand), Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker.

"25 September, 6 o’clock.

"Dear Madam Mina,—

"I have read your husband’s so wonderful diary. You may sleep without doubt. Strange
and
terrible as it is, it is true! I will pledge my life on it. It may be worse for others;
but for him and you there is no dread. He is a noble fellow; and let me tell you from
experience of men, that one who would do as he did in going down that wall and to
that
room—ay, and going a second time—is not one to be injured in permanence by a shock.
His
brain and his heart are all right; this I swear, before I have even seen him; so be
at
rest. I shall have much to ask him of other things. I am blessed that to-day I come
to
see you, for I have learn all at once so much that again I am dazzle—dazzle more than
ever, and I must think.

"Yours the most faithful,

Abraham Van Helsing.

Letter, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing.

"25 September, 6:30 p. m.

"My dear Dr. Van Helsing,—

"A thousand thanks for your kind letter, which has taken a great weight off my mind.
And
yet, if it be true, what terrible things there are in the world, and what an awful
thing
if that man, that monster, be really in London! I fear to think. I have this moment,
whilst writing, had a wire from Jonathan, saying that he leaves by the 6:25 to-night
from Launceston and will be here at 10:18, so that I shall have no fear to-night. Will
you, therefore, instead of lunching with us, please come to breakfast at eight o’clock,
if this be not too early for you? You can get away, if you are in a hurry, by the
10:30
train, which will bring you to Paddington by 2:35. Do not answer this, as I shall take
it that, if I do not hear, you will come to breakfast.

"Believe me,

"Your faithful and grateful friend,

Mina Harker.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

26 September.—I thought never to write in this diary again, but the time has come. When I
got home last night Mina had supper ready, and when we had supped she told me of Van
Helsing’s visit, and of her having given him the two diaries copied out, and of how
anxious she has been about me. She showed me in the doctor’s letter that all I wrote
down was true. It seems to have made a new man of me. It was the doubt as to the reality
of the whole thing that knocked me over. I felt impotent, and in the dark, and
distrustful. But, now that I know, I am not afraid, even of the Count. He has succeeded
after all, then, in his design in getting to London, and it was he I saw. He has got
younger, and how? Van Helsing is the man to unmask him and hunt him out, if he is
anything like what Mina says. We sat late, and talked it all over. Mina is dressing,
and
I shall call at the hotel in a few minutes and bring him over....

He was, I think, surprised to see me. When I came into the room where he was, and
introduced myself, he took me by the shoulder, and turned my face round to the light,
and said, after a sharp scrutiny:—

But Madam Mina told me you were ill, that you had had a shock. It was so funny to
hear my wife called Madam Mina by this kindly, strong-faced old man. I smiled,
and said:—

I was ill, I have had a shock; but you have cured me already.

And how?

By your letter to Mina last night. I was in doubt, and then everything took a hue
of
unreality, and I did not know what to trust, even the evidence of my own senses. Not
knowing what to trust, I did not know what to do; and so had only to keep on working
in what had hitherto been the groove of my life. The groove ceased to avail me, and
I mistrusted myself. Doctor, you don’t know what it is to doubt everything, even
yourself. No, you don’t; you couldn’t with eyebrows like yours. He seemed
pleased, and laughed as he said:—

So! You are physiognomist. I learn more here with each hour. I am with so much
pleasure coming to you to breakfast; and, oh, sir, you will pardon praise from an
old man, but you are blessed in your wife. I would listen to him go on praising
Mina for a day, so I simply nodded and stood silent.

She is one of God’s women, fashioned by His own hand to show us men and other women
that there is a heaven where we can enter, and that its light can be here on earth.
So true, so sweet, so noble, so little an egoist—and that, let me tell you, is much
in this age, so sceptical and selfish. And you, sir—I have read all the letters to
poor Miss Lucy, and some of them speak of you, so I know you since some days from
the knowing of others; but I have seen your true self since last night. You will
give me your hand, will you not? And let us be friends for all our lives.

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

And now, he said, may I ask you for some more help? I have a great task to do,
and at the beginning it is to know. You can help me here. Can you tell me what went
before your going to Transylvania? Later on I may ask more help, and of a different
kind; but at first this will do.

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

It does, he said solemnly.

Then I am with you heart and soul. As you go by the 10:30 train, you will not have
time to read them; but I shall get the bundle of papers. You can take them with you
and read them in the train.

After breakfast I saw him to the station. When we were parting he said:—

Perhaps you will come to town if I send to you, and take Madam Mina too.

We shall both come when you will, I said.

I had got him the morning papers and the London papers of the previous night, and while
we were talking at the carriage window, waiting for the train to start, he was turning
them over. His eyes suddenly seemed to catch something in one of them, The
Westminster Gazette—I knew it by the colour—and he grew quite white. He read
something intently, groaning to himself: Mein Gott! Mein Gott! So soon! so soon!
I do not think he remembered me at the moment. Just then the whistle blew, and the
train
moved off. This recalled him to himself, and he leaned out of the window and waved
his
hand, calling out: Love to Madam Mina; I shall write so soon as ever I can.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

26 September.—Truly there is no such thing as finality. Not a week since I said
Finis, and yet here I am starting fresh again, or rather going on with the
same record. Until this afternoon I had no cause to think of what is done. Renfield
had
become, to all intents, as sane as he ever was. He was already well ahead with his
fly
business; and he had just started in the spider line also; so he had not been of any
trouble to me. I had a letter from Arthur, written on Sunday, and from it I gather
that
he is bearing up wonderfully well. Quincey Morris is with him, and that is much of
a
help, for he himself is a bubbling well of good spirits. Quincey wrote me a line too,
and from him I hear that Arthur is beginning to recover something of his old buoyancy;
so as to them all my mind is at rest. As for myself, I was settling down to my work
with
the enthusiasm which I used to have for it, so that I might fairly have said that
the
wound which poor Lucy left on me was becoming cicatrised. Everything is, however,
now
reopened; and what is to be the end God only knows. I have an idea that Van Helsing
thinks he knows, too, but he will only let out enough at a time to whet curiosity.
He
went to Exeter yesterday, and stayed there all night. To-day he came back, and almost
bounded into the room at about half-past five o’clock, and thrust last night’s
Westminster Gazette into my hand.

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

I looked over the paper, for I really did not know what he meant; but he took it from
me
and pointed out a paragraph about children being decoyed away at Hampstead. It did not
convey much to me, until I reached a passage where it described small punctured wounds
on their throats. An idea struck me, and I looked up. Well? he said.

It is like poor Lucy’s.

And what do you make of it?

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

That is true indirectly, but not directly.

How do you mean, Professor? I asked. I was a little inclined to take his
seriousness lightly—for, after all, four days of rest and freedom from burning,
harrowing anxiety does help to restore one’s spirits—but when I saw his face, it sobered
me. Never, even in the midst of our despair about poor Lucy, had he looked more
stern.

Tell me! I said. I can hazard no opinion. I do not know what to think, and I
have no data on which to found a conjecture.

Do you mean to tell me, friend John, that you have no suspicion as to what poor Lucy
died of; not after all the hints given, not only by events, but by me?

Of nervous prostration following on great loss or waste of blood.

And how the blood lost or waste? I shook my head. He stepped over and sat down
beside me, and went on:—

You are clever man, friend John; you reason well, and your wit is bold; but you are
too prejudiced. You do not let your eyes see nor your ears hear, and that which is
outside your daily life is not of account to you. Do you not think that there are
things which you cannot understand, and yet which are; that some people see things
that others cannot? But there are things old and new which must not be contemplate
by men’s eyes, because they know—or think they know—some things which other men have
told them. Ah, it is the fault of our science that it wants to explain all; and if
it explain not, then it says there is nothing to explain. But yet we see around us
every day the growth of new beliefs, which think themselves new; and which are yet
but the old, which pretend to be young—like the fine ladies at the opera. I suppose
now you do not believe in corporeal transference. No? Nor in materialisation. No?
Nor in astral bodies. No? Nor in the reading of thought. No? Nor in hypnotism——

Yes, I said. Charcot has proved that pretty well. He smiled as he went on:
Then you are satisfied as to it. Yes? And of course then you understand how it
act, and can follow the mind of the great Charcot—alas that he is no more!—into the
very soul of the patient that he influence. No? Then, friend John, am I to take it
that you simply accept fact, and are satisfied to let from premise to conclusion be
a blank? No? Then tell me—for I am student of the brain—how you accept the hypnotism
and reject the thought reading. Let me tell you, my friend, that there are things
done to-day in electrical science which would have been deemed unholy by the very
men who discovered electricity —who would themselves not so long before have been
burned as wizards. There are always mysteries in life. Why was it that Methuselah
lived nine hundred years, and ‘Old Parr’ one hundred and sixty-nine, and yet that
poor Lucy, with four men’s blood in her poor veins, could not live even one day?
For, had she live one more day, we could have save her. Do you know all the mystery
of life and death? Do you know the altogether of comparative anatomy and can say
wherefore the qualities of brutes are in some men, and not in others? Can you tell
me why, when other spiders die small and soon, that one great spider lived for
centuries in the tower of the old Spanish church and grew and grew, till, on
descending, he could drink the oil of all the church lamps? Can you tell me why in
the Pampas, ay and elsewhere, there are bats that come at night and open the veins
of cattle and horses and suck dry their veins; how in some islands of the Western
seas there are bats which hang on the trees all day, 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 seen dynasties; and why the parrot never die
only of bite of cat or dog or other complaint? Can you tell me why men believe in
all ages and places that there are some few who live on always if they be permit;
that there are men and women who cannot die? We all know—because science has vouched
for the fact—that there have been toads shut up in rocks for thousands of years,
shut in one so small hole that only hold him since the youth of the world. Can you
tell me how the Indian fakir can make himself to die and have been buried, and his
grave sealed and corn sowed on it, and the corn reaped and be cut and sown and
reaped and cut again, and then men come and take away the unbroken seal and that
there lie the Indian fakir, not dead, but that rise up and walk amongst them as
before? Here I interrupted him. I was getting bewildered; he so crowded on my
mind his list of nature’s eccentricities and possible impossibilities that my
imagination was getting fired. I had a dim idea that he was teaching me some lesson,
as
long ago he used to do in his study at Amsterdam; but he used then to tell me the
thing,
so that I could have the object of thought in mind all the time. But now I was without
this help, yet I wanted to follow him, so I said:—

Professor, let me be your pet student again. Tell me the thesis, so that I may apply
your knowledge as you go on. At present I am going in my mind from point to point
as
a mad man, and not a sane one, follows an idea. I feel like a novice lumbering
through a bog in a mist, jumping from one tussock to another in the mere blind
effort to move on without knowing where I am going.

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

To believe what?

To believe in things that you cannot. Let me illustrate. I heard once of an American
who so defined faith: ‘that faculty which enables us to believe things which we know
to be untrue.’ For one, I follow that man. He meant that we shall have an open mind,
and not let a little bit of truth check the rush of a big truth, like a small rock
does a railway truck. We get the small truth first. Good! We keep him, and we value
him; but all the same we must not let him think himself all the truth in the
universe.

Then you want me not to let some previous conviction injure the receptivity of my
mind with regard to some strange matter. Do I read your lesson aright?

Ah, you are my favourite pupil still. It is worth to teach you. Now that you are
willing to understand, you have taken the first step to understand. You think then
that those so small holes in the children’s throats were made by the same that made
the hole in Miss Lucy?

I suppose so. He stood up and said solemnly:—

Then you are wrong. Oh, would it were so! but alas! no. It is worse, far, far
worse.

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

He threw himself with a despairing gesture into a chair, and placed his elbows on
the
table, covering his face with his hands as he spoke:—

They were made by Miss Lucy!

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-15">CHAPTER XV</h2>

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY—continued.

FOR a while sheer anger mastered me; it was as if he had during her life struck Lucy
on
the face. I smote the table hard and rose up as I said to him:—

Dr. Van Helsing, are you mad? He raised his head and looked at me, and somehow the
tenderness of his face calmed me at once. Would I were! he said. Madness were
easy to bear compared with truth like this. Oh, my friend, why, think you, did I go
so far round, why take so long to tell you so simple a thing? Was it because I hate
you and have hated you all my life? Was it because I wished to give you pain? Was
it
that I wanted, now so late, revenge for that time when you saved my life, and from
a
fearful death? Ah no!

Forgive me, said I. He went on:—

My friend, it was because I wished to be gentle in the breaking to you, for I know
you have loved that so sweet lady. But even yet I do not expect you to believe. It
is so hard to accept at once any abstract truth, that we may doubt such to be
possible when we have always believed the ‘no’ of it; it is more hard still to
accept so sad a concrete truth, and of such a one as Miss Lucy. To-night I go to
prove it. Dare you come with me?

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

And prove the very truth he most abhorred.

He saw my hesitation, and spoke:—

The logic is simple, no madman’s logic this time, jumping from tussock to tussock
in
a misty bog. If it be not true, then proof will be relief; at worst it will not
harm. If it be true! Ah, there is the dread; yet very dread should help my cause,
for in it is some need of belief. Come, I tell you what I propose: first, that we
go
off now and see that child in the hospital. Dr. Vincent, of the North Hospital,
where the papers say the child is, is friend of mine, and I think of yours since you
were in class at Amsterdam. He will let two scientists see his case, if he will not
let two friends. We shall tell him nothing, but only that we wish to learn. And
then——

And then? He took a key from his pocket and held it up. And then we spend the
night, you and I, in the churchyard where Lucy lies. This is the key that lock the
tomb. I had it from the coffin-man to give to Arthur. My heart sank within me,
for I felt that there was some fearful ordeal before us. I could do nothing, however,
so
I plucked up what heart I could and said that we had better hasten, as the afternoon
was
passing....

We found the child awake. It had had a sleep and taken some food, and altogether was
going on well. Dr. Vincent took the bandage from its throat, and showed us the
punctures. There was no mistaking the similarity to those which had been on Lucy’s
throat. They were smaller, and the edges looked fresher; that was all. We asked Vincent
to what he attributed them, and he replied that it must have been a bite of some animal,
perhaps a rat; but, for his own part, he was inclined to think that it was one of
the
bats which are so numerous on the northern heights of London. Out of so many harmless
ones, he said, there may be 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 Zoölogical Gardens a young one may have got loose, or one be bred
there from a vampire. These things do occur, you know. Only ten days ago a wolf got
out, and was, I believe, traced up in this direction. For a week after, the children
were playing nothing but Red Riding Hood on the Heath and in every alley in the
place until this ‘bloofer lady’ scare came along, since when it has been quite a
gala-time with them. Even this poor little mite, when he woke up to-day, asked the
nurse if he might go away. When she asked him why he wanted to go, he said he wanted
to play with the ‘bloofer lady.’

I hope, said Van Helsing, that when you are sending the child home you will
caution its parents to keep strict watch over it. These fancies to stray are most
dangerous; and if the child were to remain out another night, it would probably be
fatal. But in any case I suppose you will not let it away for some days?

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

Our visit to the hospital took more time than we had reckoned on, and the sun had
dipped
before we came out. When Van Helsing saw how dark it was, he said:—

There is no hurry. It is more late than I thought. Come, let us seek somewhere that
we may eat, and then we shall go on our way.

We dined at Jack Straw’s Castle along with a little crowd of bicyclists and others
who were genially noisy. About ten o’clock we started from the inn. It was then very
dark, and the scattered lamps made the darkness greater when we were once outside their
individual radius. The Professor had evidently noted the road we were to go, for he
went
on unhesitatingly; but, as for me, I was in quite a mixup as to locality. As we went
further, we met fewer and fewer people, till at last we were somewhat surprised when
we
met even the patrol of horse police going their usual suburban round. At last we reached
the wall of the churchyard, which we climbed over. With some little difficulty—for it
was very dark, and the whole place seemed so strange to us—we found the Westenra tomb.
The Professor took the key, opened the creaky door, and standing back, politely, but
quite unconsciously, motioned me to precede him. There was a delicious irony in the
offer, in the courtliness of giving preference on such a ghastly occasion. My companion
followed me quickly, and cautiously drew the door to, after carefully ascertaining
that
the lock was a falling, and not a spring, one. In the latter case we should have been
in
a bad plight. Then he fumbled in his bag, and taking out a matchbox and a piece of
candle, proceeded to make a light. The tomb in the day-time, and when wreathed with
fresh flowers, had looked grim and gruesome enough; but now, some days afterwards,
when
the flowers hung lank and dead, their whites turning to rust and their greens to browns;
when the spider and the beetle had resumed their accustomed dominance; when
time-discoloured stone, and dust-encrusted mortar, and rusty, dank iron, and tarnished
brass, and clouded silver-plating gave back the feeble glimmer of a candle, the effect
was more miserable and sordid than could have been imagined. It conveyed irresistibly
the idea that life—animal life—was not the only thing which could pass away.

Van Helsing went about his work systematically. Holding his candle so that he could
read
the coffin plates, and so holding it that the sperm dropped in white patches which
congealed as they touched the metal, he made assurance of Lucy’s coffin. Another search
in his bag, and he took out a turnscrew.

What are you going to do? I asked.

To open the coffin. You shall yet be convinced. Straightway he began taking out
the screws, and finally lifted off the lid, showing the casing of lead beneath. The
sight was almost too much for me. It seemed to be as much an affront to the dead as
it
would have been to have stripped off her clothing in her sleep whilst living; I actually
took hold of his hand to stop him. He only said: You shall see, and again
fumbling in his bag, took out a tiny fret-saw. Striking the turnscrew through the
lead
with a swift downward stab, which made me wince, he made a small hole, which was,
however, big enough to admit the point of the saw. I had expected a rush of gas from
the
week-old corpse. We doctors, who have had to study our dangers, have to become
accustomed to such things, and I drew back towards the door. But the Professor never
stopped for a moment; he sawed down a couple of feet along one side of the lead coffin,
and then across, and down the other side. Taking the edge of the loose flange, he
bent
it back towards the foot of the coffin, and holding up the candle into the aperture,
motioned to me to look.

I drew near and looked. The coffin was empty.

It was certainly a surprise to me, and gave me a considerable shock, but Van Helsing
was
unmoved. He was now more sure than ever of his ground, and so emboldened to proceed
in
his task. Are you satisfied now, friend John? he asked.

I felt all the dogged argumentativeness of my nature awake within me as I answered
him:—

I am satisfied that Lucy’s body is not in that coffin; but that only proves one
thing.

And what is that, friend John?

That it is not there.

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

Perhaps a body-snatcher, I suggested. Some of the undertaker’s people may have
stolen it. I felt that I was speaking folly, and yet it was the only real cause
which I could suggest. The Professor sighed. Ah well! he said, we must have
more proof. Come with me.

He put on the coffin-lid again, gathered up all his things and placed them in the
bag,
blew out the light, and placed the candle also in the bag. We opened the door, and
went
out. Behind us he closed the door and locked it. He handed me the key, saying: Will
you keep it? You had better be assured. I laughed—it was not a very cheerful
laugh, I am bound to say—as I motioned him to keep it. A key is nothing, I said;
there may be duplicates; and anyhow it is not difficult to pick a lock of that
kind. He said nothing, but put the key in his pocket. Then he told me to watch
at one side of the churchyard whilst he would watch at the other. I took up my place
behind a yew-tree, and I saw his dark figure move until the intervening headstones
and
trees hid it from my sight.

It was a lonely vigil. Just after I had taken my place I heard a distant clock strike
twelve, and in time came one and two. I was chilled and unnerved, and angry with the
Professor for taking me on such an errand and with myself for coming. I was too cold
and
too sleepy to be keenly observant, and not sleepy enough to betray my trust so
altogether I had a dreary, miserable time.

Suddenly, as I turned round, I thought I saw something like a white streak, moving
between two dark yew-trees at the side of the churchyard farthest from the tomb; at the
same time a dark mass moved from the Professor’s side of the ground, and hurriedly
went
towards it. Then I too moved; but I had to go round headstones and railed-off tombs,
and
I stumbled over graves. The sky was overcast, and somewhere far off an early cock
crew.
A little way off, beyond a line of scattered juniper-trees, which marked the pathway
to
the church, a white, dim figure flitted in the direction of the tomb. The tomb itself
was hidden by trees, and I could not see where the figure disappeared. I heard the
rustle of actual movement where I had first seen the white figure, and coming over,
found the Professor holding in his arms a tiny child. When he saw me he held it out
to
me, and said:—

Are you satisfied now?

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

Do you not see the child?

Yes, it is a child, but who brought it here? And is it wounded? I asked.

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

When we had got some little distance away, we went into a clump of trees, and struck
a
match, and looked at the child’s throat. It was without a scratch or scar of any
kind.

Was I right? I asked triumphantly.

We were just in time, said the Professor thankfully.

We had now to decide what we were to do with the child, and so consulted about it.
If we
were to take it to a police-station we should have to give some account of our movements
during the night; at least, we should have had to make some statement as to how we
had
come to find the child. So finally we decided that we would take it to the Heath,
and
when we heard a policeman coming, would leave it where he could not fail to find it;
we
would then seek our way home as quickly as we could. All fell out well. At the edge
of
Hampstead Heath we heard a policeman’s heavy tramp, and laying the child on the pathway,
we waited and watched until he saw it as he flashed his lantern to and fro. We heard
his
exclamation of astonishment, and then we went away silently. By good chance we got
a cab
near the Spaniards, and drove to town.

I cannot sleep, so I make this entry. But I must try to get a few hours’ sleep, as
Van
Helsing is to call for me at noon. He insists that I shall go with him on another
expedition.27 September.—It was two o’clock before we found a suitable opportunity for
our attempt. The funeral held at noon was all completed, and the last stragglers of
the
mourners had taken themselves lazily away, when, looking carefully from behind a clump
of alder-trees, we saw the sexton lock the gate after him. We knew then that we were
safe till morning did we desire it; but the Professor told me that we should not want
more than an hour at most. Again I felt that horrid sense of the reality of things,
in
which any effort of imagination seemed out of place; and I realised distinctly the
perils of the law which we were incurring in our unhallowed work. Besides, I felt
it was
all so useless. Outrageous as it was to open a leaden coffin, to see if a woman dead
nearly a week were really dead, it now seemed the height of folly to open the tomb
again, when we knew, from the evidence of our own eyesight, that the coffin was empty.
I
shrugged my shoulders, however, and rested silent, for Van Helsing had a way of going
on
his own road, no matter who remonstrated. He took the key, opened the vault, and again
courteously motioned me to precede. The place was not so gruesome as last night, but
oh,
how unutterably mean-looking when the sunshine streamed in. Van Helsing walked over
to
Lucy’s coffin, and I followed. He bent over and again forced back the leaden flange;
and
then a shock of surprise and dismay shot through me.

There lay Lucy, seemingly just as we had seen her the night before her funeral. She
was,
if possible, more radiantly beautiful than ever; and I could not believe that she
was
dead. The lips were red, nay redder than before; and on the cheeks was a delicate
bloom.

Is this a juggle? I said to him.

Are you convinced now? said the Professor in response, and as he spoke he put over
his hand, and in a way that made me shudder, pulled back the dead lips and showed
the
white teeth.

See, he went on, see, they are even sharper than before. With this and
this—and he touched one of the canine teeth and that below it—the little children
can be bitten. Are you of belief now, friend John? Once more, argumentative
hostility woke within me. I could not accept such an overwhelming idea as he suggested;
so, with an attempt to argue of which I was even at the moment ashamed, I said:—

She may have been placed here since last night.

Indeed? That is so, and by whom?

I do not know. Some one has done it.

And yet she has been dead one week. Most peoples in that time would not look so. I
had no answer for this, so was silent. Van Helsing did not seem to notice my silence;
at
any rate, he showed neither chagrin nor triumph. He was looking intently at the face
of
the dead woman, raising the eyelids and looking at the eyes, and once more opening
the
lips and examining the teeth. Then he turned to me and said:—

Here, there is one thing which is different from all recorded; here is some dual life
that is not as the common. She was bitten by the vampire when she was in a trance,
sleep-walking—oh, you start; you do not know that, friend John, but you shall know
it all later—and in trance could he best come to take more blood. In trance she
died, and in trance she is Un-Dead, too. So it is that she differ from all other.
Usually when the Un-Dead sleep at home—as he spoke he made a comprehensive sweep
of his arm to designate what to a vampire was home—their face show what they
are, but this so sweet that was when she not Un-Dead she go back to the nothings of
the common dead. There is no malign there, see, and so it make hard that I must kill
her in her sleep. This turned my blood cold, and it began to dawn upon me that I
was accepting Van Helsing’s theories; but if she were really dead, what was there
of
terror in the idea of killing her? He looked up at me, and evidently saw the change
in
my face, for he said almost joyously:—

Ah, you believe now?

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

I shall cut off her head and fill her mouth with garlic, and I shall drive a stake
through her body. It made me shudder to think of so mutilating the body of the
woman whom I had loved. And yet the feeling was not so strong as I had expected. I
was,
in fact, beginning to shudder at the presence of this being, this Un-Dead, as Van
Helsing called it, and to loathe it. Is it possible that love is all subjective, or
all
objective?

I waited a considerable time for Van Helsing to begin, but he stood as if wrapped
in
thought. Presently he closed the catch of his bag with a snap, and said:—

I have been thinking, and have made up my mind as to what is best. If I did simply
follow my inclining I would do now, at this moment, what is to be done; but there
are other things to follow, and things that are thousand times more difficult in
that them we do not know. This is simple. She have yet no life taken, though that
is
of time; and to act now would be to take danger from her for ever. But then we may
have to want Arthur, and how shall we tell him of this? If you, who saw the wounds
on Lucy’s throat, and saw the wounds so similar on the child’s at the hospital; if
you, who saw the coffin empty last night and full to-day with a woman who have not
change only to be more rose and more beautiful in a whole week, after she die—if you
know of this and know of the white figure last night that brought the child to the
churchyard, and yet of your own senses you did not believe, how, then, can I expect
Arthur, who know none of those things, to believe? He doubted me when I took him
from her kiss when she was dying. I know he has forgiven me because in some mistaken
idea I have done things that prevent him say good-bye as he ought; and he may think
that in some more mistaken idea this woman was buried alive; and that in most
mistake of all we have killed her. He will then argue back that it is we, mistaken
ones, that have killed her by our ideas; and so he will be much unhappy always. Yet
he never can be sure; and that is the worst of all. And he will sometimes think that
she he loved was buried alive, and that will paint his dreams with horrors of what
she must have suffered; and again, he will think that we may be right, and that his
so beloved was, after all, an Un-Dead. No! I told him once, and since then I learn
much. Now, since I know it is all true, a hundred thousand times more do I know that
he must pass through the bitter waters to reach the sweet. He, poor fellow, must
have one hour that will make the very face of heaven grow black to him; then we can
act for good all round and send him peace. My mind is made up. Let us go. You return
home for to-night to your asylum, and see that all be well. As for me, I shall spend
the night here in this churchyard in my own way. To-morrow night you will come to me
to the Berkeley Hotel at ten of the clock. I shall send for Arthur to come too, and
also that so fine young man of America that gave his blood. Later we shall all have
work to do. I come with you so far as Piccadilly and there dine, for I must be back
here before the sun set.

So we locked the tomb and came away, and got over the wall of the churchyard, which was
not much of a task, and drove back to Piccadilly.

Note left by Van Helsing in his portmanteau, Berkeley Hotel directed to John Seward, M.
D.

(Not delivered.)

"27 September.

"Friend John,—

"I write this in case anything should happen. I go alone to watch in that churchyard. It
pleases me that the Un-Dead, Miss Lucy, shall not leave to-night, that so on the morrow
night she may be more eager. Therefore I shall fix some things she like not—garlic
and a
crucifix—and so seal up the door of the tomb. She is young as Un-Dead, and will heed.
Moreover, these are only to prevent her coming out; they may not prevail on her wanting
to get in; for then the Un-Dead is desperate, and must find the line of least
resistance, whatsoever it may be. I shall be at hand all the night from sunset till
after the sunrise, and if there be aught that may be learned I shall learn it. For
Miss
Lucy or from her, I have no fear; but that other to whom is there that she is Un-Dead,
he have now the power to seek her tomb and find shelter. He is cunning, as I know
from
Mr. Jonathan and from the way that all along he have fooled us when he played with
us
for Miss Lucy’s life, and we lost; and in many ways the Un-Dead are strong. He have
always the strength in his hand of twenty men; even we four who gave our strength
to
Miss Lucy it also is all to him. Besides, he can summon his wolf and I know not what.
So
if it be that he come thither on this night he shall find me; but none other shall—until
it be too late. But it may be that he will not attempt the place. There is no reason
why
he should; his hunting ground is more full of game than the churchyard where the Un-Dead
woman sleep, and the one old man watch.

"Therefore I write this in case.... Take the papers that are with this, the diaries
of
Harker and the rest, and read them, and then find this great Un-Dead, and cut off
his
head and burn his heart or drive a stake through it, so that the world may rest from
him.

"If it be so, farewell.

Van Helsing.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

28 September.—It is wonderful what a good night’s sleep will do for one. Yesterday I was
almost willing to accept Van Helsing’s monstrous ideas; but now they seem to start
out
lurid before me as outrages on common sense. I have no doubt that he believes it all.
I
wonder if his mind can have become in any way unhinged. Surely there must be some
rational explanation of all these mysterious things. Is it possible that the Professor
can have done it himself? He is so abnormally clever that if he went off his head
he
would carry out his intent with regard to some fixed idea in a wonderful way. I am
loath
to think it, and indeed it would be almost as great a marvel as the other to find
that
Van Helsing was mad; but anyhow I shall watch him carefully. I may get some light
on the
mystery.29 September, morning..... Last night, at a little before ten o’clock, Arthur
and Quincey came into Van Helsing’s room; he told us all that he wanted us to do,
but
especially addressing himself to Arthur, as if all our wills were centred in his.
He
began by saying that he hoped we would all come with him too, for, he said,
there is a grave duty to be done there. You were doubtless surprised at my
letter? This query was directly addressed to Lord Godalming.

I was. It rather upset me for a bit. There has been so much trouble around my house
of late that I could do without any more. I have been curious, too, as to what you
mean. Quincey and I talked it over; but the more we talked, the more puzzled we got,
till now I can say for myself that I’m about up a tree as to any meaning about
anything.

Me too, said Quincey Morris laconically.

Oh, said the Professor, then you are nearer the beginning, both of you, than
friend John here, who has to go a long way back before he can even get so far as to
begin.

It was evident that he recognised my return to my old doubting frame of mind without
my
saying a word. Then, turning to the other two, he said with intense gravity:—

I want your permission to do what I think good this night. It is, I know, much to
ask; and when you know what it is I propose to do you will know, and only then, how
much. Therefore may I ask that you promise me in the dark, so that afterwards,
though you may be angry with me for a time—I must not disguise from myself the
possibility that such may be—you shall not blame yourselves for anything.

That’s frank anyhow, broke in Quincey. I’ll answer for the Professor. I don’t
quite see his drift, but I swear he’s honest; and that’s good enough for me.

I thank you, sir, said Van Helsing proudly. I have done myself the honour of
counting you one trusting friend, and such endorsement is dear to me. He held
out a hand, which Quincey took.

Then Arthur spoke out:—

Dr. Van Helsing, I don’t quite like to ‘buy a pig in a poke,’ as they say in
Scotland, and if it be anything in which my honour as a gentleman or my faith as a
Christian is concerned, I cannot make such a promise. If you can assure me that what
you intend does not violate either of these two, then I give my consent at once;
though for the life of me, I cannot understand what you are driving at.

I accept your limitation, said Van Helsing, and all I ask of you is that if you
feel it necessary to condemn any act of mine, you will first consider it well and
be
satisfied that it does not violate your reservations.

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

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

Arthur’s face fell as he said in an amazed sort of way:—

Where poor Lucy is buried? The Professor bowed. Arthur went on: And when
there?

To enter the tomb! Arthur stood up.

Professor, are you in earnest; or it is some monstrous joke? Pardon me, I see that
you
are in earnest. He sat down again, but I could see that he sat firmly and
proudly, as one who is on his dignity. There was silence until he asked again:—

And when in the tomb?

To open the coffin.

This is too much! he said, angrily rising again. I am willing to be patient in
all things that are reasonable; but in this—this desecration of the grave—of one
who—— He fairly choked with indignation. The Professor looked pityingly at
him.

If I could spare you one pang, my poor friend, he said, God knows I would. But
this night our feet must tread in thorny paths; or later, and for ever, the feet you
love must walk in paths of flame!

Arthur looked up with set white face and said:—

Take care, sir, take care!

Would it not be well to hear what I have to say? said Van Helsing. And then you
will at least know the limit of my purpose. Shall I go on?

That’s fair enough, broke in Morris.

After a pause Van Helsing went on, evidently with an effort:—

Miss Lucy is dead; is it not so? Yes! Then there can be no wrong to her. But if she
be not dead——

Arthur jumped to his feet.

Good God! he cried. What do you mean? Has there been any mistake; has she been
buried alive? He groaned in anguish that not even hope could soften.

I did not say she was alive, my child; I did not think it. I go no further than to
say that she might be Un-Dead.

Un-Dead! Not alive! What do you mean? Is this all a nightmare, or what is it?

There are mysteries which men can only guess at, which age by age they may solve only
in part. Believe me, we are now on the verge of one. But I have not done. May I cut
off the head of dead Miss Lucy?

Heavens and earth, no! cried Arthur in a storm of passion. Not for the wide
world will I consent to any mutilation of her dead body. Dr. Van Helsing, you try
me
too far. What have I done to you that you should torture me so? What did that poor,
sweet girl do that you should want to cast such dishonour on her grave? Are you mad
that speak such things, or am I mad to listen to them? Don’t dare to think more of
such a desecration; I shall not give my consent to anything you do. I have a duty
to
do in protecting her grave from outrage; and, by God, I shall do it!

Van Helsing rose up from where he had all the time been seated, and said, gravely
and
sternly:—

My Lord Godalming, I, too, have a duty to do, a duty to others, a duty to you, a duty
to the dead; and, by God, I shall do it! All I ask you now is that you come with me,
that you look and listen; and if when later I make the same request you do not be
more eager for its fulfilment even than I am, then—then I shall do my duty, whatever
it may seem to me. And then, to follow of your Lordship’s wishes I shall hold myself
at your disposal to render an account to you, when and where you will. His voice
broke a little, and he went on with a voice full of pity:—

But, I beseech you, do not go forth in anger with me. In a long life of acts which
were often not pleasant to do, and which sometimes did wring my heart, I have never
had so heavy a task as now. Believe me that if the time comes for you to change your
mind towards me, one look from you will wipe away all this so sad hour, for I would
do what a man can to save you from sorrow. Just think. For why should I give myself
so much of labour and so much of sorrow? I have come here from my own land to do
what I can of good; at the first to please my friend John, and then to help a sweet
young lady, whom, too, I came to love. For her—I am ashamed to say so much, but I
say it in kindness—I gave what you gave; the blood of my veins; I gave it, I, who
was not, like you, her lover, but only her physician and her friend. I gave to her
my nights and days—before death, after death; and if my death can do her good even
now, when she is the dead Un-Dead, she shall have it freely. He said this with a
very grave, sweet pride, and Arthur was much affected by it. He took the old man’s
hand
and said in a broken voice:—

Oh, it is hard to think of it, and I cannot understand; but at least I shall go with
you and wait.

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-16">CHAPTER XVI</h2>

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY—continued

IT was just a quarter before twelve o’clock when we got into the churchyard over the low
wall. The night was dark with occasional gleams of moonlight between the rents of
the
heavy clouds that scudded across the sky. We all kept somehow close together, with
Van
Helsing slightly in front as he led the way. When we had come close to the tomb I
looked
well at Arthur, for I feared that the proximity to a place laden with so sorrowful
a
memory would upset him; but he bore himself well. I took it that the very mystery
of the
proceeding was in some way a counteractant to his grief. The Professor unlocked the
door, and seeing a natural hesitation amongst us for various reasons, solved the
difficulty by entering first himself. The rest of us followed, and he closed the door.
He then lit a dark lantern and pointed to the coffin. Arthur stepped forward
hesitatingly; Van Helsing said to me:—

You were with me here yesterday. Was the body of Miss Lucy in that coffin?

It was. The Professor turned to the rest saying:—

You hear; and yet there is no one who does not believe with me. He took his
screwdriver and again took off the lid of the coffin. Arthur looked on, very pale
but
silent; when the lid was removed he stepped forward. He evidently did not know that
there was a leaden coffin, or, at any rate, had not thought of it. When he saw the
rent
in the lead, the blood rushed to his face for an instant, but as quickly fell away
again, so that he remained of a ghastly whiteness; he was still silent. Van Helsing
forced back the leaden flange, and we all looked in and recoiled.

The coffin was empty!

For several minutes no one spoke a word. The silence was broken by Quincey Morris:—

Professor, I answered for you. Your word is all I want. I wouldn’t ask such a thing
ordinarily—I wouldn’t so dishonour you as to imply a doubt; but this is a mystery
that goes beyond any honour or dishonour. Is this your doing?

I swear to you by all that I hold sacred that I have not removed nor touched her.
What happened was this: Two nights ago my friend Seward and I came here—with good
purpose, believe me. I opened that coffin, which was then sealed up, and we found
it, as now, empty. We then waited, and saw something white come through the trees.
The next day we came here in day-time, and she lay there. Did she not, friend
John?

Yes.

That night we were just in time. One more so small child was missing, and we find
it,
thank God, unharmed amongst the graves. Yesterday I came here before sundown, for
at
sundown the Un-Dead can move. I waited here all the night till the sun rose, but I
saw nothing. It was most probable that it was because I had laid over the clamps of
those doors garlic, which the Un-Dead cannot bear, and other things which they shun.
Last night there was no exodus, so to-night before the sundown I took away my garlic
and other things. And so it is we find this coffin empty. But bear with me. So far
there is much that is strange. Wait you with me outside, unseen and unheard, and
things much stranger are yet to be. So—here he shut the dark slide of his
lantern—now to the outside. He opened the door, and we filed out, he coming
last and locking the door behind him.

Oh! but it seemed fresh and pure in the night air after the terror of that vault.
How
sweet it was to see the clouds race by, and the passing gleams of the moonlight between
the scudding clouds crossing and passing—like the gladness and sorrow of a man’s life;
how sweet it was to breathe the fresh air, that had no taint of death and decay; how
humanising to see the red lighting of the sky beyond the hill, and to hear far away
the
muffled roar that marks the life of a great city. Each in his own way was solemn and
overcome. Arthur was silent, and was, I could see, striving to grasp the purpose and
the
inner meaning of the mystery. I was myself tolerably patient, and half inclined again
to
throw aside doubt and to accept Van Helsing’s conclusions. Quincey Morris was phlegmatic
in the way of a man who accepts all things, and accepts them in the spirit of cool
bravery, with hazard of all he has to stake. Not being able to smoke, he cut himself
a
good-sized plug of tobacco and began to chew. As to Van Helsing, he was employed in
a
definite way. First he took from his bag a mass of what looked like thin, wafer-like
biscuit, which was carefully rolled up in a white napkin; next he took out a
double-handful of some whitish stuff, like dough or putty. He crumbled the wafer up
fine
and worked it into the mass between his hands. This he then took, and rolling it into
thin strips, began to lay them into the crevices between the door and its setting
in the
tomb. I was somewhat puzzled at this, and being close, asked him what it was that
he was
doing. Arthur and Quincey drew near also, as they too were curious. He answered:—

I am closing the tomb, so that the Un-Dead may not enter.

And is that stuff you have put there going to do it? asked Quincey. Great
Scott! Is this a game?

It is.

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

The Host. I brought it from Amsterdam. I have an Indulgence. It was an answer that
appalled the most sceptical of us, and we felt individually that in the presence of
such
earnest purpose as the Professor’s, a purpose which could thus use the to him most
sacred of things, it was impossible to distrust. In respectful silence we took the
places assigned to us close round the tomb, but hidden from the sight of any one
approaching. I pitied the others, especially Arthur. I had myself been apprenticed
by my
former visits to this watching horror; and yet I, who had up to an hour ago repudiated
the proofs, felt my heart sink within me. Never did tombs look so ghastly white; never
did cypress, or yew, or juniper so seem the embodiment of funereal gloom; never did
tree
or grass wave or rustle so ominously; never did bough creak so mysteriously; and never
did the far-away howling of dogs send such a woeful presage through the night.

There was a long spell of silence, a big, aching void, and then from the Professor
a keen
S-s-s-s! He pointed; and far down the avenue of yews we saw a white figure
advance—a dim white figure, which held something dark at its breast. The figure stopped,
and at the moment a ray of moonlight fell upon the masses of driving clouds and showed
in startling prominence a dark-haired woman, dressed in the cerements of the grave.
We
could not see the face, for it was bent down over what we saw to be a fair-haired
child.
There was a pause and a sharp little cry, such as a child gives in sleep, or a dog
as it
lies before the fire and dreams. We were starting forward, but the Professor’s warning
hand, seen by us as he stood behind a yew-tree, kept us back; and then as we looked
the
white figure moved forwards again. It was now near enough for us to see clearly, and
the
moonlight still held. My own heart grew cold as ice, and I could hear the gasp of
Arthur, as we recognised the features of Lucy Westenra. Lucy Westenra, but yet how
changed. The sweetness was turned to adamantine, heartless cruelty, and the purity
to
voluptuous wantonness. Van Helsing stepped out, and, obedient to his gesture, we all
advanced too; the four of us ranged in a line before the door of the tomb. Van Helsing
raised his lantern and drew the slide; by the concentrated light that fell on Lucy’s
face we could see that the lips were crimson with fresh blood, and that the stream
had
trickled over her chin and stained the purity of her lawn death-robe.

We shuddered with horror. I could see by the tremulous light that even Van Helsing’s
iron
nerve had failed. Arthur was next to me, and if I had not seized his arm and held
him
up, he would have fallen.

When Lucy—I call the thing that was before us Lucy because it bore her shape—saw us
she
drew back with an angry snarl, such as a cat gives when taken unawares; then her eyes
ranged over us. Lucy’s eyes in form and colour; but Lucy’s eyes unclean and full of
hell-fire, instead of the pure, gentle orbs we knew. At that moment the remnant of
my
love passed into hate and loathing; had she then to be killed, I could have done it
with
savage delight. As she looked, her eyes blazed with unholy light, and the face became
wreathed with a voluptuous smile. Oh, God, how it made me shudder to see it! With
a
careless motion, she flung to the ground, callous as a devil, the child that up to
now
she had clutched strenuously to her breast, growling over it as a dog growls over
a
bone. The child gave a sharp cry, and lay there moaning. There was a cold-bloodedness
in
the act which wrung a groan from Arthur; when she advanced to him with outstretched
arms
and a wanton smile he fell back and hid his face in his hands.

She still advanced, however, and with a languorous, voluptuous grace, said:—

Come to me, Arthur. Leave these others and come to me. My arms are hungry for you.
Come, and we can rest together. Come, my husband, come!

There was something diabolically sweet in her tones—something of the tingling of glass
when struck—which rang through the brains even of us who heard the words addressed
to
another. As for Arthur, he seemed under a spell; moving his hands from his face, he
opened wide his arms. She was leaping for them, when Van Helsing sprang forward and
held
between them his little golden crucifix. She recoiled from it, and, with a suddenly
distorted face, full of rage, dashed past him as if to enter the tomb.

When within a foot or two of the door, however, she stopped, as if arrested by some
irresistible force. Then she turned, and her face was shown in the clear burst of
moonlight and by the lamp, which had now no quiver from Van Helsing’s iron nerves. Never
did I see such baffled malice on a face; and never, I trust, shall such ever be seen
again by mortal eyes. The beautiful colour became livid, the eyes seemed to throw
out
sparks of hell-fire, the brows were wrinkled as though the folds of the flesh were
the
coils of Medusa’s snakes, and the lovely, blood-stained mouth grew to an open square,
as
in the passion masks of the Greeks and Japanese. If ever a face meant death—if looks
could kill—we saw it at that moment.

And so for full half a minute, which seemed an eternity, she remained between the
lifted
crucifix and the sacred closing of her means of entry. Van Helsing broke the silence
by
asking Arthur:—

Answer me, oh my friend! Am I to proceed in my work?

Arthur threw himself on his knees, and hid his face in his hands, as he answered:—

Do as you will, friend; do as you will. There can be no horror like this ever any
more; and he groaned in spirit. Quincey and I simultaneously moved towards him,
and took his arms. We could hear the click of the closing lantern as Van Helsing held
it
down; coming close to the tomb, he began to remove from the chinks some of the sacred
emblem which he had placed there. We all looked on in horrified amazement as we saw,
when he stood back, the woman, with a corporeal body as real at that moment as our
own,
pass in through the interstice where scarce a knife-blade could have gone. We all
felt a
glad sense of relief when we saw the Professor calmly restoring the strings of putty
to
the edges of the door.

When this was done, he lifted the child and said:

Come now, my friends; we can do no more till to-morrow. There is a funeral at noon,
so
here we shall all come before long after that. The friends of the dead will all be
gone by two, and when the sexton lock the gate we shall remain. Then there is more
to do; but not like this of to-night. As for this little one, he is not much harm,
and by to-morrow night he shall be well. We shall leave him where the police will
find him, as on the other night; and then to home. Coming close to Arthur, he
said:—

My friend Arthur, you have had a sore trial; but after, when you look back, you will
see how it was necessary. You are now in the bitter waters, my child. By this time
to-morrow you will, please God, have passed them, and have drunk of the sweet
waters; so do not mourn overmuch. Till then I shall not ask you to forgive me.

Arthur and Quincey came home with me, and we tried to cheer each other on the way.
We had
left the child in safety, and were tired; so we all slept with more or less reality
of
sleep.29 September, night.—A little before twelve o’clock we three—Arthur, Quincey
Morris, and myself—called for the Professor. It was odd to notice that by common consent
we had all put on black clothes. Of course, Arthur wore black, for he was in deep
mourning, but the rest of us wore it by instinct. We got to the churchyard by half-past
one, and strolled about, keeping out of official observation, so that when the
gravediggers had completed their task and the sexton under the belief that every one
had
gone, had locked the gate, we had the place all to ourselves. Van Helsing, instead
of
his little black bag, had with him a long leather one, something like a cricketing
bag;
it was manifestly of fair weight.

When we were alone and had heard the last of the footsteps die out up the road, we
silently, and as if by ordered intention, followed the Professor to the tomb. He
unlocked the door, and we entered, closing it behind us. Then he took from his bag
the
lantern, which he lit, and also two wax candles, which, when lighted, he stuck, by
melting their own ends, on other coffins, so that they might give light sufficient
to
work by. When he again lifted the lid off Lucy’s coffin we all looked—Arthur trembling
like an aspen—and saw that the body lay there in all its death-beauty. But there was
no
love in my own heart, nothing but loathing for the foul Thing which had taken Lucy’s
shape without her soul. I could see even Arthur’s face grow hard as he looked. Presently
he said to Van Helsing:—

Is this really Lucy’s body, or only a demon in her shape?

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

She seemed like a nightmare of Lucy as she lay there; the pointed teeth, the
bloodstained, voluptuous mouth—which it made one shudder to see—the whole carnal and
unspiritual appearance, seeming like a devilish mockery of Lucy’s sweet purity. Van
Helsing, with his usual methodicalness, began taking the various contents from his
bag
and placing them ready for use. First he took out a soldering iron and some plumbing
solder, and then a small oil-lamp, which gave out, when lit in a corner of the tomb, gas
which burned at fierce heat with a blue flame; then his operating knives, which he
placed to hand; and last a round wooden stake, some two and a half or three inches
thick
and about three feet long. One end of it was hardened by charring in the fire, and
was
sharpened to a fine point. With this stake came a heavy hammer, such as in households
is
used in the coal-cellar for breaking the lumps. To me, a doctor’s preparations for
work
of any kind are stimulating and bracing, but the effect of these things on both Arthur
and Quincey was to cause them a sort of consternation. They both, however, kept their
courage, and remained silent and quiet.

When all was ready, Van Helsing said:—

Before we do anything, let me tell you this; it is out of the lore and experience
of
the ancients and of all those who have studied the powers of the Un-Dead. When they
become such, there comes with the change the curse of immortality; they cannot die,
but must go on age after age adding new victims and multiplying the evils of the
world; for all that die from the preying of the Un-Dead becomes themselves Un-Dead,
and prey on their kind. And so the circle goes on ever widening, like as the ripples
from a stone thrown in the water. Friend Arthur, if you had met that kiss which you
know of before poor Lucy die; or again, last night when you open your arms to her,
you would in time, when you had died, have become nosferatu, as they call it in
Eastern Europe, and would all time make more of those Un-Deads that so have fill us
with horror. The career of this so unhappy dear lady is but just begun. Those
children whose blood she suck are not as yet so much the worse; but if she live on,
Un-Dead, more and more they lose their blood and by her power over them they come
to
her; and so she draw their blood with that so wicked mouth. But if she die in truth,
then all cease; the tiny wounds of the throats disappear, and they go back to their
plays unknowing ever of what has been. But of the most blessed of all, when this now
Un-Dead be made to rest as true dead, then the soul of the poor lady whom we love
shall again be free. Instead of working wickedness by night and growing more debased
in the assimilating of it by day, she shall take her place with the other Angels.
So
that, my friend, it will be a blessed hand for her that shall strike the blow that
sets her free. To this I am willing; but is there none amongst us who has a better
right? Will it be no joy to think of hereafter in the silence of the night when
sleep is not: ‘It was my hand that sent her to the stars; it was the hand of him
that loved her best; the hand that of all she would herself have chosen, had it been
to her to choose?’ Tell me if there be such a one amongst us?

We all looked at Arthur. He saw, too, what we all did, the infinite kindness which
suggested that his should be the hand which would restore Lucy to us as a holy, and
not
an unholy, memory; he stepped forward and said bravely, though his hand trembled,
and
his face was as pale as snow:—

My true friend, from the bottom of my broken heart I thank you. Tell me what I am
to
do, and I shall not falter! Van Helsing laid a hand on his shoulder, and
said:—

Brave lad! A moment’s courage, and it is done. This stake must be driven through her.
It will be a fearful ordeal—be not deceived in that—but it will be only a short
time, and you will then rejoice more than your pain was great; from this grim tomb
you will emerge as though you tread on air. But you must not falter when once you
have begun. Only think that we, your true friends, are round you, and that we pray
for you all the time.

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

Take this stake in your left hand, ready to place the point over the heart, and the
hammer in your right. Then when we begin our prayer for the dead—I shall read him,
I
have here the book, and the others shall follow—strike in God’s name, that so all
may be well with the dead that we love and that the Un-Dead pass away.

Arthur took the stake and the hammer, and when once his mind was set on action his
hands
never trembled nor even quivered. Van Helsing opened his missal and began to read,
and
Quincey and I followed as well as we could. Arthur placed the point over the heart,
and
as I looked I could see its dint in the white flesh. Then he struck with all his
might.

The Thing in the coffin writhed; and a hideous, blood-curdling screech came from the
opened red lips. The body shook and quivered and twisted in wild contortions; the
sharp
white teeth champed together till the lips were cut, and the mouth was smeared with
a
crimson foam. But Arthur never faltered. He looked like a figure of Thor as his
untrembling arm rose and fell, driving deeper and deeper the mercy-bearing stake,
whilst
the blood from the pierced heart welled and spurted up around it. His face was set,
and
high duty seemed to shine through it; the sight of it gave us courage so that our
voices
seemed to ring through the little vault.

And then the writhing and quivering of the body became less, and the teeth seemed
to
champ, and the face to quiver. Finally it lay still. The terrible task was over.

The hammer fell from Arthur’s hand. He reeled and would have fallen had we not caught
him. The great drops of sweat sprang from his forehead, and his breath came in broken
gasps. It had indeed been an awful s train on him; and had he not been forced to his task
by more than human considerations he could never have gone through with it. For a
few
minutes we were so taken up with him that we did not look towards the coffin. When
we
did, however, a murmur of startled surprise ran from one to the other of us. We gazed
so
eagerly that Arthur rose, for he had been seated on the ground, and came and looked
too;
and then a glad, strange light broke over his face and dispelled altogether the gloom
of
horror that lay upon it.

There, in the coffin lay no longer the foul Thing that we had so dreaded and grown
to
hate that the work of her destruction was yielded as a privilege to the one best
entitled to it, but Lucy as we had seen her in her life, with her face of unequalled
sweetness and purity. True that there were there, as we had seen them in life, the
traces of care and pain and waste; but these were all dear to us, for they marked
her
truth to what we knew. One and all we felt that the holy calm that lay like sunshine
over the wasted face and form was only an earthly token and symbol of the calm that
was
to reign for ever.

Van Helsing came and laid his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, and said to him:—

And now, Arthur my friend, dear lad, am I not forgiven?

The reaction of the terrible s train came as he took the old man’s hand in his, and
raising it to his lips, pressed it, and said:—

Forgiven! God bless you that you have given my dear one her soul again, and me
peace. He put his hands on the Professor’s shoulder, and laying his head on his
breast, cried for a while silently, whilst we stood unmoving. When he raised his head
Van Helsing said to him:—

And now, my child, you may kiss her. Kiss her dead lips if you will, as she would
have you to, if for her to choose. For she is not a grinning devil now—not any more
a foul Thing for all eternity. No longer she is the devil’s Un-Dead. She is God’s
true dead, whose soul is with Him!

Arthur bent and kissed her, and then we sent him and Quincey out of the tomb; the
Professor and I sawed the top off the stake, leaving the point of it in the body.
Then
we cut off the head and filled the mouth with garlic. We soldered up the leaden coffin,
screwed on the coffin-lid, and gathering up our belongings, came away. When the
Professor locked the door he gave the key to Arthur.

Outside the air was sweet, the sun shone, and the birds sang, and it seemed as if
all
nature were tuned to a different pitch. There was gladness and mirth and peace
everywhere, for we were at rest ourselves on one account, and we were glad, though
it
was with a tempered joy.

Before we moved away Van Helsing said:—

Now, my friends, one step of our work is done, one the most harrowing to ourselves.
But there remains a greater task: to find out the author of all this our sorrow and
to stamp him out. I have clues which we can follow; but it is a long task, and a
difficult, and there is danger in it, and pain. Shall you not all help me? We have
learned to believe, all of us—is it not so? And since so, do we not see our duty?
Yes! And do we not promise to go on to the bitter end?

Each in turn, we took his hand, and the promise was made. Then said the Professor
as we
moved off:—

Two nights hence you shall meet with me and dine together at seven of the clock with
friend John. I shall entreat two others, two that you know not as yet; and I shall
be ready to all our work show and our plans unfold. Friend John, you come with me
home, for I have much to consult about, and you can help me. To-night I leave for
Amsterdam, but shall return to-morrow night. And then begins our great quest. But
first I shall have much to say, so that you may know what is to do and to dread.
Then our promise shall be made to each other anew; for there is a terrible task
before us, and once our feet are on the ploughshare we must not draw back.

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-17">CHAPTER XVII</h2>

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY—continued

WHEN we arrived at the Berkeley Hotel, Van Helsing found a telegram waiting for him:—

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

The Professor was delighted. Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina, he said, pearl
among women! She arrive, but I cannot stay. She must go to your house, friend John.
You must meet her at the station. Telegraph her en route, so that she may be
prepared.

When the wire was despatched he had a cup of tea; over it he told me of a diary kept by
Jonathan Harker when abroad, and gave me a typewritten copy of it, as also of Mrs.
Harker’s diary at Whitby. Take these, he said, and study them well. When I
have returned you will be master of all the facts, and we can then better enter on
our inquisition. Keep them safe, for there is in them much of treasure. You will
need all your faith, even you who have had such an experience as that of to-day.
What is here told, he laid his hand heavily and gravely on the packet of papers
as he spoke, may be the beginning of the end to you and me and many another; or it
may sound the knell of the Un-Dead who walk the earth. Read all, I pray you, with
the open mind; and if you can add in any way to the story here told do so, for it
is
all-important. You have kept diary of all these so strange things; is it not so?
Yes! Then we shall go through all these together when we meet. He then made
ready for his departure, and shortly after drove off to Liverpool Street. I took my
way
to Paddington, where I arrived about fifteen minutes before the train came in.

The crowd melted away, after the bustling fashion common to arrival platforms; and
I was
beginning to feel uneasy, lest I might miss my guest, when a sweet-faced, dainty-looking
girl stepped up to me, and, after a quick glance, said: Dr. Seward, is it
not?

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

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

The blush that rose to my own cheeks somehow set us both at ease, for it was a tacit
answer to her own. I got her luggage, which included a typewriter , and we took the
Underground to Fenchurch Street, after I had sent a wire to my housekeeper to have
a
sitting-room and bedroom prepared at once for Mrs. Harker.

In due time we arrived. She knew, of course, that the place was a lunatic asylum, but I
could see that she was unable to repress a shudder when we entered.

She told me that, if she might, she would come presently to my study, as she had much
to
say. So here I am finishing my entry in my phonograph diary whilst I await her. As yet I
have not had the chance of looking at the papers which Van Helsing left with me, though
they lie open before me. I must get her interested in something, so that I may have
an
opportunity of reading them. She does not know how precious time is, or what a task
we
have in hand. I must be careful not to frighten her. Here she is!

Mina Harker’s Journal.

29 September.—After I had tidied myself, I went down to Dr. Seward’s study. At the door I
paused a moment, for I thought I heard him talking with some one. As, however, he
had
pressed me to be quick, I knocked at the door, and on his calling out, Come in, I
entered.

To my intense surprise, there was no one with him. He was quite alone, and on the
table
opposite him was what I knew at once from the description to be a phonograph. I had
never seen one, and was much interested.

I hope I did not keep you waiting, I said; but I stayed at the door as I heard
you talking, and thought there was some one with you.

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

Your diary? I asked him in surprise.

Yes, he answered. I keep it in this. As he spoke he laid his hand on the
 phonograph. I felt quite excited over it, and blurted out:—

Why, this beats even shorthand! May I hear it say something?

Certainly, he replied with alacrity, and stood up to put it in train for speaking.
Then he paused, and a troubled look overspread his face.

The fact is, he began awkwardly, I only keep my diary in it; and as it is
entirely—almost entirely—about my cases, it may be awkward—that is, I mean—— He
stopped, and I tried to help him out of his embarrassment:—

You helped to attend dear Lucy at the end. Let me hear how she died; for all that
I
know of her, I shall be very grateful. She was very, very dear to me.

To my surprise, he answered, with a horrorstruck look in his face:—

Tell you of her death? Not for the wide world!

Why not? I asked, for some grave, terrible feeling was coming over me. Again he
paused, and I could see that he was trying to invent an excuse. At length he stammered
out:—

You see, I do not know how to pick out any particular part of the diary. Even
while he was speaking an idea dawned upon him, and he said with unconscious simplicity,
in a different voice, and with the naïveté of a child: That’s quite true, upon my
honour. Honest Indian! I could not but smile, at which he grimaced. I gave
myself away that time! he said. But do you know that, although I have kept
the diary for months past, it never once struck me how I was going to find any
particular part of it in case I wanted to look it up? By this time my mind was
made up that the diary of a doctor who attended Lucy might have something to add to
the
sum of our knowledge of that terrible Being, and I said boldly:—

Then, Dr. Seward, you had better let me copy it out for you on my typewriter . He
grew to a positively deathly pallor as he said:—

No! no! no! For all the world, I wouldn’t let you know that terrible story!

Then it was terrible; my intuition was right! For a moment I thought, and as my eyes
ranged the room, unconsciously looking for something or some opportunity to aid me,
they
lit on a great batch of typewriting on the table. His eyes caught the look in mine,
and,
without his thinking, followed their direction. As they saw the parcel he realised
my
meaning.

You do not know me, I said. When you have read those papers—my own diary and my
husband’s also, which I have typed—you will know me better. I have not faltered in
giving every thought of my own heart in this cause; but, of course, you do not know
me—yet; and I must not expect you to trust me so far.

He is certainly a man of noble nature; poor dear Lucy was right about him. He stood
up
and opened a large drawer, in which were arranged in order a number of hollow cylinders
of metal covered with dark wax, and said:—

You are quite right. I did not trust you because I did not know you. But I know you
now; and let me say that I should have known you long ago. I know that Lucy told you
of me; she told me of you too. May I make the only atonement in my power? Take the
cylinders and hear them—the first half-dozen of them are personal to me, and they
will not horrify you; then you will know me better. Dinner will by then be ready.
In
the meantime I shall read over some of these documents, and shall be better able to
understand certain things. He carried the phonograph himself up to my
sitting-room and adjusted it for me. Now I shall learn something pleasant, I am sure;
for it will tell me the other side of a true love episode of which I know one side
already....

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

29 September.—I was so absorbed in that wonderful diary of Jonathan Harker and that other
of his wife that I let the time run on without thinking. Mrs. Harker was not down
when
the maid came to announce dinner, so I said: She is possibly tired; let dinner wait
an hour, and I went on with my work. I had just finished Mrs. Harker’s diary,
when she came in. She looked sweetly pretty, but very sad, and her eyes were flushed
with crying. This somehow moved me much. Of late I have had cause for tears, God knows!
but the relief of them was denied me; and now the sight of those sweet eyes, brightened
with recent tears, went straight to my heart. So I said as gently as I could:—

I greatly fear I have distressed you.

Oh, no, not distressed me, she replied, but I have been more touched than I can
say by your grief. That is a wonderful machine, but it is cruelly true. It told me,
in its very tones, the anguish of your heart. It was like a soul crying out to
Almighty God. No one must hear them spoken ever again! See, I have tried to be
useful. I have copied out the words on my typewriter , and none other need now hear
your heart beat, as I did.

No one need ever know, shall ever know, I said in a low voice. She laid her hand
on mine and said very gravely:—

Ah, but they must!

Must! But why? I asked.

Because it is a part of the terrible story, a part of poor dear Lucy’s death and all
that led to it; because in the struggle which we have before us to rid the earth of
this terrible monster we must have all the knowledge and all the help which we can
get. I think that the cylinders which you gave me contained more than you intended
me to know; but I can see that there are in your record many lights to this dark
mystery. You will let me help, will you not? I know all up to a certain point; and
I
see already, though your diary only took me to 7 September, how poor Lucy was beset,
and how her terrible doom was being wrought out. Jonathan and I have been working
day and night since Professor Van Helsing saw us. He is gone to Whitby to get more
information, and he will be here to-morrow to help us. We need have no secrets
amongst us; working together and with absolute trust, we can surely be stronger than
if some of us were in the dark. She looked at me so appealingly, and at the same
time manifested such courage and resolution in her bearing, that I gave in at once
to
her wishes. You shall, I said, do as you like in the matter. God forgive me if
I do wrong! There are terrible things yet to learn of; but if you have so far
travelled on the road to poor Lucy’s death, you will not be content, I know, to
remain in the dark. Nay, the end—the very end—may give you a gleam of peace. Come,
there is dinner. We must keep one another strong for what is before us; we have a
cruel and dreadful task. When you have eaten you shall learn the rest, and I shall
answer any questions you ask—if there be anything which you do not understand,
though it was apparent to us who were present.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

29 September.—After dinner I came with Dr. Seward to his study. He brought back the
 phonograph from my room, and I took my typewriter . He placed me in a comfortable chair,
and arranged the phonograph so that I could touch it without getting up, and showed me
how to stop it in case I should want to pause. Then he very thoughtfully took a chair,
with his back to me, so that I might be as free as possible, and began to read. I
put
the forked metal to my ears and listened.

When the terrible story of Lucy’s death, and—and all that followed, was done, I lay
back
in my chair powerless. Fortunately I am not of a fainting disposition. When Dr. Seward
saw me he jumped up with a horrified exclamation, and hurriedly taking a case-bottle
from a cupboard, gave me some brandy, which in a few minutes somewhat restored me.
My
brain was all in a whirl, and only that there came through all the multitude of horrors,
the holy ray of light that my dear, dear Lucy was at last at peace, I do not think
I
could have borne it without making a scene. It is all so wild, and mysterious, and
strange that if I had not known Jonathan’s experience in Transylvania I could not have
believed. As it was, I didn’t know what to believe, and so got out of my difficulty
by
attending to something else. I took the cover off my typewriter , and said to Dr.
Seward:—

Let me write this all out now. We must be ready for Dr. Van Helsing when he comes.
I
have sent a telegram to Jonathan to come on here when he arrives in London from
Whitby. In this matter dates are everything, and I think that if we get all our
material ready, and have every item put in chronological order, we shall have done
much. You tell me that Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris are coming too. Let us be able
to tell him when they come. He accordingly set the phonograph at a slow pace,
and I began to typewrite from the beginning of the seventh cylinder. I used manifold,
and so took three copies of the diary, just as I had done with all the rest. It was
late
when I got through, but Dr. Seward went about his work of going his round of the
patients; when he had finished he came back and sat near me, reading, so that I did
not
feel too lonely whilst I worked. How good and thoughtful he is; the world seems full
of
good men—even if there are monsters in it. Before I left him I remembered what Jonathan
put in his diary of the Professor’s perturbation at reading something in an evening
paper at the station at Exeter; so, seeing that Dr. Seward keeps his newspapers, I
borrowed the files of The Westminster Gazette and The Pall Mall Gazette,
and took them to my room. I remember how much The Dailygraph and The Whitby
Gazette, of which I had made cuttings, helped us to understand the terrible
events at Whitby when Count Dracula landed, so I shall look through the evening papers
since then, and perhaps I shall get some new light. I am not sleepy, and the work
will
help to keep me quiet.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

30 September.—Mr. Harker arrived at nine o’clock. He had got his wife’s wire just before
starting. He is uncommonly clever, if one can judge from his face, and full of energy.
If this journal be true—and judging by one’s own wonderful experiences, it must be—he
is
also a man of great nerve. That going down to the vault a second time was a remarkable
piece of daring. After reading his account of it I was prepared to meet a good specimen
of manhood, but hardly the quiet, business-like gentleman who came here
to-day.Later.—After lunch Harker and his wife went back to their own room, and as
I
passed a while ago I heard the click of the typewriter . They are hard at it. Mrs. Harker
says that they are knitting together in chronological order every scrap of evidence
they
have. Harker has got the letters between the consignee of the boxes at Whitby and the
carriers in London who took charge of them. He is now reading his wife’s typescript of
my diary. I wonder what they make out of it. Here it is....

Strange that it never struck me that the very next house might be the Count’s
hiding-place! Goodness knows that we had enough clues from the conduct of the patient
Renfield! The bundle of letters relating to the purchase of the house were with the
typescript. Oh, if we had only had them earlier we might have saved poor Lucy! Stop;
that way madness lies! Harker has gone back, and is again collating his material.
He
says that by dinner-time they will be able to show a whole connected narrative. He
thinks that in the meantime I should see Renfield, as hitherto he has been a sort
of
index to the coming and going of the Count. I hardly see this yet, but when I get
at the
dates I suppose I shall. What a good thing that Mrs. Harker put my cylinders into
type!
We never could have found the dates otherwise....

I found Renfield sitting placidly in his room with his hands folded, smiling benignly.
At
the moment he seemed as sane as any one I ever saw. I sat down and talked with him
on a
lot of subjects, all of which he treated naturally. He then, of his own accord, spoke
of
going home, a subject he has never mentioned to my knowledge during his sojourn here.
In
fact, he spoke quite confidently of getting his discharge at once. I believe that,
had I
not had the chat with Harker and read the letters and the dates of his outbursts,
I
should have been prepared to sign for him after a brief time of observation. As it
is, I
am darkly suspicious. All those outbreaks were in some way linked with the proximity
of
the Count. What then does this absolute content mean? Can it be that his instinct
is
satisfied as to the vampire’s ultimate triumph? Stay; he is himself zoöphagous, and
in
his wild ravings outside the chapel door of the deserted house he always spoke of
master. This all seems confirmation of our idea. However, after a while I
came away; my friend is just a little too sane at present to make it safe to probe
him
too deep with questions. He might begin to think, and then—! So I came away. I mistrust
these quiet moods of his; so I have given the attendant a hint to look closely after
him, and to have a strait-waistcoat ready in case of need.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

29 September, in train to London.—When I received Mr. Billington’s courteous message that
he would give me any information in his power I thought it best to go down to Whitby and
make, on the spot, such inquiries as I wanted. It was now my object to trace that
horrid
cargo of the Count’s to its place in London. Later, we may be able to deal with it.
Billington junior, a nice lad, met me at the station, and brought me to his father’s
house, where they had decided that I must stay the night. They are hospitable, with
true
Yorkshire hospitality: give a guest everything, and leave him free to do as he likes.
They all knew that I was busy, and that my stay was short, and Mr. Billington had
ready
in his office all the papers concerning the consignment of boxes. It gave me almost
a
turn to see again one of the letters which I had seen on the Count’s table before
I knew
of his diabolical plans. Everything had been carefully thought out, and done
systematically and with precision. He seemed to have been prepared for every obstacle
which might be placed by accident in the way of his intentions being carried out.
To use
an Americanism, he had taken no chances, and the absolute accuracy with which his
instructions were fulfilled, was simply the logical result of his care. I saw the
invoice, and took note of it: Fifty cases of common earth, to be used for
experimental purposes. Also the copy of letter to Carter Paterson, and their
reply; of both of these I got copies. This was all the information Mr. Billington
could
give me, so I went down to the port and saw the coastguards, the Customs officers
and
the harbour-master. They had all something to say of the strange entry of the ship,
which is already taking its place in local tradition; but no one could add to the
simple
description Fifty cases of common earth. I then saw the station-master, who
kindly put me in communication with the men who had actually received the boxes. Their
tally was exact with the list, and they had nothing to add except that the boxes were
main and mortal heavy, and that shifting them was dry work. One of them added
that it was hard lines that there wasn’t any gentleman such-like as yourself,
squire, to show some sort of appreciation of their efforts in a liquid form;
another put in a rider that the thirst then generated was such that even the time
which
had elapsed had not completely allayed it. Needless to add, I took care before leaving
to lift, for ever and adequately, this source of reproach.30 September.—The
station-master was good enough to give me a line to his old companion the station-master
at King’s Cross, so that when I arrived there in the morning I was able to ask him
about
the arrival of the boxes. He, too, put me at once in communication with the proper
officials, and I saw that their tally was correct with the original invoice. The
opportunities of acquiring an abnormal thirst had been here limited; a noble use of
them
had, however, been made, and again I was compelled to deal with the result in an ex
post
facto manner.

From thence I went on to Carter Paterson’s central office, where I met with the utmost
courtesy. They looked up the transaction in their day-book and letter-book, and at
once
telephoned to their King’s Cross office for more details. By good fortune, the men
who
did the teaming were waiting for work, and the official at once sent them over, sending
also by one of them the way-bill and all the papers connected with the delivery of
the
boxes at Carfax. Here again I found the tally agreeing exactly; the carriers’ men were
able to supplement the paucity of the written words with a few details. These were,
I
shortly found, connected almost solely with the dusty nature of the job, and of the
consequent thirst engendered in the operators. On my affording an opportunity, through
the medium of the currency of the realm, of the allaying, at a later period, this
beneficial evil, one of the men remarked:—

That ’ere ’ouse, guv’nor, is the rummiest I ever was in. Blyme! but it ain’t been
touched sence a hundred years. There was dust that thick in the place that you might
have slep’ on it without ’urtin’ of yer bones; an’ the place was that neglected that
yer might ’ave smelled ole Jerusalem in it. But the ole chapel—that took the cike,
that did! Me and my mate, we thort we wouldn’t never git out quick enough. Lor’, I
wouldn’t take less nor a quid a moment to stay there arter dark.

Having been in the house, I could well believe him; but if he knew what I know, he
would,
I think, have raised his terms.

Of one thing I am now satisfied: that all the boxes which arrived at Whitby from Varna in
the Demeter were safely deposited in the old chapel at Carfax. There should be fifty of
them there, unless any have since been removed—as from Dr. Seward’s diary I fear.

I shall try to see the carter who took away the boxes from Carfax when Renfield attacked
them. By following up this clue we may learn a good deal.Later.—Mina and I have worked
all day, and we have put all the papers into order.

Mina Harker’s Journal

30 September.—I am so glad that I hardly know how to contain myself. It is, I suppose,
the reaction from the haunting fear which I have had: that this terrible affair and
the
reopening of his old wound might act detrimentally on Jonathan. I saw him leave for
Whitby with as brave a face as I could, but I was sick with apprehension. The effort
has, however, done him good. He was never so resolute, never so strong, never so full
of
volcanic energy, as at present. It is just as that dear, good Professor Van Helsing
said: he is true grit, and he improves under s train that would kill a weaker nature. He
came back full of life and hope and determination; we have got everything in order
for
to-night. I feel myself quite wild with excitement. I suppose one ought to pity any
thing so hunted as is the Count. That is just it: this Thing is not human—not even
beast. To read Dr. Seward’s account of poor Lucy’s death, and what followed, is enough
to dry up the springs of pity in one’s heart.Later.—Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris
arrived earlier than we expected. Dr. Seward was out on business, and had taken Jonathan
with him, so I had to see them. It was to me a painful meeting, for it brought back
all
poor dear Lucy’s hopes of only a few months ago. Of course they had heard Lucy speak
of
me, and it seemed that Dr. Van Helsing, too, has been quite blowing my trumpet,
as Mr. Morris expressed it. Poor fellows, neither of them is aware that I know all
about
the proposals they made to Lucy. They did not quite know what to say or do, as they
were
ignorant of the amount of my knowledge; so they had to keep on neutral subjects.
However, I thought the matter over, and came to the conclusion that the best thing
I
could do would be to post them in affairs right up to date. I knew from Dr. Seward’s
diary that they had been at Lucy’s death—her real death—and that I need not fear to
betray any secret before the time. So I told them, as well as I could, that I had
read
all the papers and diaries, and that my husband and I, having typewritten them, had
just
finished putting them in order. I gave them each a copy to read in the library. When
Lord Godalming got his and turned it over—it does make a pretty good pile—he said:—

Did you write all this, Mrs. Harker?

I nodded, and he went on:—

I don’t quite see the drift of it; but you people are all so good and kind, and have
been working so earnestly and so energetically, that all I can do is to accept your
ideas blindfold and try to help you. I have had one lesson already in accepting
facts that should make a man humble to the last hour of his life. Besides, I know
you loved my poor Lucy— Here he turned away and covered his face with his hands.
I could hear the tears in his voice. Mr. Morris, with instinctive delicacy, just laid
a
hand for a moment on his shoulder, and then walked quietly out of the room. I suppose
there is something in woman’s nature that makes a man free to break down before her
and
express his feelings on the tender or emotional side without feeling it derogatory
to
his manhood; for when Lord Godalming found himself alone with me he sat down on the
sofa
and gave way utterly and openly. I sat down beside him and took his hand. I hope he
didn’t think it forward of me, and that if he ever thinks of it afterwards he never
will
have such a thought. There I wrong him; I know he never will—he is too true a gentleman.
I said to him, for I could see that his heart was breaking:—

I loved dear Lucy, and I know what she was to you, and what you were to her. She and
I were like sisters; and now she is gone, will you not let me be like a sister to
you in your trouble? I know what sorrows you have had, though I cannot measure the
depth of them. If sympathy and pity can help in your affliction, won’t you let me
be
of some little service—for Lucy’s sake?

In an instant the poor dear fellow was overwhelmed with grief. It seemed to me that
all
that he had of late been suffering in silence found a vent at once. He grew quite
hysterical, and raising his open hands, beat his palms together in a perfect agony
of
grief. He stood up and then sat down again, and the tears rained down his cheeks.
I felt
an infinite pity for him, and opened my arms unthinkingly. With a sob he laid his
head
on my shoulder and cried like a wearied child, whilst he shook with emotion.

We women have something of the mother in us that makes us rise above smaller matters
when
the mother-spirit is invoked; I felt this big sorrowing man’s head resting on me,
as
though it were that of the baby that some day may lie on my bosom, and I stroked his
hair as though he were my own child. I never thought at the time how strange it all
was.

After a little bit his sobs ceased, and he raised himself with an apology, though
he made
no disguise of his emotion. He told me that for days and nights past—weary days and
sleepless nights—he had been unable to speak with any one, as a man must speak in
his
time of sorrow. There was no woman whose sympathy could be given to him, or with whom,
owing to the terrible circumstance with which his sorrow was surrounded, he could
speak
freely. I know now how I suffered, he said, as he dried his eyes, but I do not
know even yet—and none other can ever know—how much your sweet sympathy has been to
me to-day. I shall know better in time; and believe me that, though I am not
ungrateful now, my gratitude will grow with my understanding. You will let me be
like a brother, will you not, for all our lives—for dear Lucy’s sake?

For dear Lucy’s sake, I said as we clasped hands. Ay, and for your own
sake, he added, for if a man’s esteem and gratitude are ever worth the
winning, you have won mine to-day. If ever the future should bring to you a time
when you need a man’s help, believe me, you will not call in vain. God grant that
no
such time may ever come to you to break the sunshine of your life; but if it should
ever come, promise me that you will let me know. He was so earnest, and his
sorrow was so fresh, that I felt it would comfort him, so I said:—

I promise.

As I came along the corridor I saw Mr. Morris looking out of a window. He turned as
he
heard my footsteps. How is Art? he said. Then noticing my red eyes, he went on:
Ah, I see you have been comforting him. Poor old fellow! he needs it. No one but
a woman can help a man when he is in trouble of the heart; and he had no one to
comfort him.

He bore his own trouble so bravely that my heart bled for him. I saw the manuscript
in
his hand, and I knew that when he read it he would realise how much I knew; so I said
to
him:—

I wish I could comfort all who suffer from the heart. Will you let me be your friend,
and will you come to me for comfort if you need it? You will know, later on, why I
speak. He saw that I was in earnest, and stooping, took my hand, and raising it
to his lips, kissed it. It seemed but poor comfort to so brave and unselfish a soul,
and
impulsively I bent over and kissed him. The tears rose in his eyes, and there was
a
momentary choking in his throat; he said quite calmly:—

Little girl, you will never regret that true-hearted kindness, so long as ever you
live! Then he went into the study to his friend.

Little girl!—the very words he had used to Lucy, and oh, but he proved himself a
friend!

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-18">CHAPTER XVIII</h2>

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY

30 September.—I got home at five o’clock, and found that Godalming and Morris had not
only arrived, but had already studied the transcript of the various diaries and letters
which Harker and his wonderful wife had made and arranged. Harker had not yet returned
from his visit to the carriers’ men, of whom Dr. Hennessey had written to me. Mrs.
Harker gave us a cup of tea, and I can honestly say that, for the first time since
I
have lived in it, this old house seemed like home. When we had finished, Mrs. Harker
said:—

Dr. Seward, may I ask a favour? I want to see your patient, Mr. Renfield. Do let me
see him. What you have said of him in your diary interests me so much! She
looked so appealing and so pretty that I could not refuse her, and there was no possible
reason why I should; so I took her with me. When I went into the room, I told the
man
that a lady would like to see him; to which he simply answered: Why?

She is going through the house, and wants to see every one in it, I answered.
Oh, very well, he said; let her come in, by all means; but just wait a
minute till I tidy up the place. His method of tidying was peculiar: he simply
swallowed all the flies and spiders in the boxes before I could stop him. It was quite
evident that he feared, or was jealous of, some interference. When he had got through
his disgusting task, he said cheerfully: Let the lady come in, and sat down on
the edge of his bed with his head down, but with his eyelids raised so that he could
see
her as she entered. For a moment I thought that he might have some homicidal intent;
I
remembered how quiet he had been just before he attacked me in my own study, and I
took
care to stand where I could seize him at once if he attempted to make a spring at
her.
She came into the room with an easy gracefulness which would at once command the respect
of any lunatic—for easiness is one of the qualities mad people most respect. She walked
over to him, smiling pleasantly, and held out her hand.

Good-evening, Mr. Renfield, said she. You see, I know you, for Dr. Seward has
told me of you. He made no immediate reply, but eyed her all over intently with
a set frown on his face. This look gave way to one of wonder, which merged in doubt;
then, to my intense astonishment, he said:—

You’re not the girl the doctor wanted to marry, are you? You can’t be, you know, for
she’s dead. Mrs. Harker smiled sweetly as she replied:—

Oh no! I have a husband of my own, to whom I was married before I ever saw Dr.
Seward, or he me. I am Mrs. Harker.

Then what are you doing here?

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

Then don’t stay.

But why not? I thought that this style of conversation might not be pleasant to
Mrs. Harker, any more than it was to me, so I joined in:—

How did you know I wanted to marry any one? His reply was simply contemptuous,
given in a pause in which he turned his eyes from Mrs. Harker to me, instantly turning
them back again:—

What an asinine question!

I don’t see that at all, Mr. Renfield, said Mrs. Harker, at once championing me.
He replied to her with as much courtesy and respect as he had shown contempt to me:—

You will, of course, understand, Mrs. Harker, that when a man is so loved and honoured
as our host is, everything regarding him is of interest in our little community. Dr.
Seward is loved not only by his household and his friends, but even by his patients,
who, being some of them hardly in mental equilibrium, are apt to distort causes and
effects. Since I myself have been an inmate of a lunatic asylum, I cannot but notice
that the sophistic tendencies of some of its inmates lean towards the errors of non
causa and ignoratio elenchi. I positively opened my eyes at this new
development. Here was my own pet lunatic—the most pronounced of his type that I had
ever
met with—talking elemental philosophy, and with the manner of a polished gentleman.
I
wonder if it was Mrs. Harker’s presence which had touched some chord in his memory.
If
this new phase was spontaneous, or in any way due to her unconscious influence, she
must
have some rare gift or power.

We continued to talk for some time; and, seeing that he was seemingly quite reasonable,
she ventured, looking at me questioningly as she began, to lead him to his favourite
topic. I was again astonished, for he addressed himself to the question with the
impartiality of the completest sanity; he even took himself as an example when he
mentioned certain things.

Why, I myself am an instance of a man who had a strange belief. Indeed, it was no
wonder that my friends were alarmed, and insisted on my being put under control. I
used to fancy that life was a positive and perpetual entity, and that by consuming
a
multitude of live things, no matter how low in the scale of creation, one might
indefinitely prolong life. At times I held the belief so strongly that I actually
tried to take human life. The doctor here will bear me out that on one occasion I
tried to kill him for the purpose of strengthening my vital powers by the
assimilation with my own body of his life through the medium of his blood—relying,
of course, upon the Scriptural phrase, ‘For the blood is the life.’ Though, indeed,
the vendor of a certain nostrum has vulgarised the truism to the very point of
contempt. Isn’t that true, doctor? I nodded assent, for I was so amazed that I
hardly knew what to either think or say; it was hard to imagine that I had seen him
eat
up his spiders and flies not five minutes before. Looking at my watch, I saw that
I
should go to the station to meet Van Helsing, so I told Mrs. Harker that it was time
to
leave. She came at once, after saying pleasantly to Mr. Renfield: Good-bye, and I
hope I may see you often, under auspices pleasanter to yourself, to which, to my
astonishment, he replied:—

Good-bye, my dear. I pray God I may never see your sweet face again. May He bless
and
keep you!

When I went to the station to meet Van Helsing I left the boys behind me. Poor Art
seemed
more cheerful than he has been since Lucy first took ill, and Quincey is more like
his
own bright self than he has been for many a long day.

Van Helsing stepped from the carriage with the eager nimbleness of a boy. He saw me at
once, and rushed up to me, saying:—

Ah, friend John, how goes all? Well? So! I have been busy, for I come here to stay
if
need be. All affairs are settled with me, and I have much to tell. Madam Mina is
with you? Yes. And her so fine husband? And Arthur and my friend Quincey, they are
with you, too? Good!

As I drove to the house I told him of what had passed, and of how my own diary had
come
to be of some use through Mrs. Harker’s suggestion; at which the Professor interrupted
me:—

Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina! She has man’s brain—a brain that a man should have
were
he much gifted—and a woman’s heart. The good God fashioned her for a purpose,
believe me, when He made that so good combination. Friend John, up to now fortune
has made that woman of help to us; after to-night she must not have to do with this
so terrible affair. It is not good that she run a risk so great. We men are
determined—nay, are we not pledged?—to destroy this monster; but it is no part for
a
woman. Even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her in so much and so many
horrors; and hereafter she may suffer—both in waking, from her nerves, and in sleep,
from her dreams. And, besides, she is young woman and not so long married; there may
be other things to think of some time, if not now. You tell me she has wrote all,
then she must consult with us; but to-morrow she say good-bye to this work, and we
go alone. I agreed heartily with him, and then I told him what we had found in
his absence: that the house which Dracula had bought was the very next one to my own.
He
was amazed, and a great concern seemed to come on him. Oh that we had known it
before! he said, for then we might have reached him in time to save poor
Lucy. However, ‘the milk that is spilt cries not out afterwards,’ as you say. We
shall not think of that, but go on our way to the end. Then he fell into a
silence that lasted till we entered my own gateway. Before we went to prepare for
dinner
he said to Mrs. Harker:—

I am told, Madam Mina, by my friend John that you and your husband have put up in
exact order all things that have been, up to this moment.

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

But why not up to now? We have seen hitherto how good light all the little things
have made. We have told our secrets, and yet no one who has told is the worse for
it.

Mrs. Harker began to blush, and taking a paper from her pockets, she said:—

Dr. Van Helsing, will you read this, and tell me if it must go in. It is my record
of
to-day. I too have seen the need of putting down at present everything, however
trivial; but there is little in this except what is personal. Must it go in? The
Professor read it over gravely, and handed it back, saying:—

It need not go in if you do not wish it; but I pray that it may. It can but make your
husband love you the more, and all us, your friends, more honour you—as well as more
esteem and love. She took it back with another blush and a bright smile.

And so now, up to this very hour, all the records we have are complete and in order.
The
Professor took away one copy to study after dinner, and before our meeting, which
is
fixed for nine o’clock. The rest of us have already read everything; so when we meet
in
the study we shall all be informed as to facts, and can arrange our plan of battle
with
this terrible and mysterious enemy.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

30 September.—When we met in Dr. Seward’s study two hours after dinner, which had been at
six o’clock, we unconsciously formed a sort of board or committee. Professor Van Helsing
took the head of the table, to which Dr. Seward motioned him as he came into the room.
He made me sit next to him on his right, and asked me to act as secretary; Jonathan
sat
next to me. Opposite us were Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, and Mr. Morris—Lord Godalming
being next the Professor, and Dr. Seward in the centre. The Professor said:—

I may, I suppose, take it that we are all acquainted with the facts that are in these
papers. We all expressed assent, and he went on:—

"Then it were, I think good that I tell you something of the kind of enemy with which
we
have to deal. I shall then make known to you something of the history of this man,
which
has been ascertained for me. So we then can discuss how we shall act, and can take
our
measure according.

There are such beings as vampires; some of us have evidence that they exist. Even
had
we not the proof of our own unhappy experience, the teachings and the records of the
past give proof enough for sane peoples. I admit that at the first I was sceptic.
Were it not that through long years I have train myself to keep an open mind, I
could not have believe until such time as that fact thunder on my ear. ‘See! see!
I
prove; I prove.’ Alas! Had I known at the first what now I know—nay, had I even
guess at him—one so precious life had been spared to many of us who did love her.
But that is gone; and we must so work, that other poor souls perish not, whilst we
can save. The nosferatu do not die like the bee when he sting once. He is only
stronger; and being stronger, have yet more power to work evil. This vampire which
is amongst us is of himself so strong in person as twenty men; he is of cunning more
than mortal, for his cunning be the growth of ages; he have still the aids of
necromancy, which is, as his etymology imply, the divination by the dead, and all
the dead that he can come nigh to are for him at command; he is brute, and more than
brute; he is devil in callous, and the heart of him is not; he can, within
limitations, appear at will when, and where, and in any of the forms that are to
him; he can, within his range, direct the elements; the storm, the fog, the thunder;
he can command all the meaner things: the rat, and the owl, and the bat—the moth,
and the fox, and the wolf; he can grow and become small; and he can at times vanish
and come unknown. How then are we to begin our strike to destroy him? How shall we
find his where; and having found it, how can we destroy? My friends, this is much;
it is a terrible task that we undertake, and there may be consequence to make the
brave shudder. For if we fail in this our fight he must surely win; and then where
end we? Life is nothings; I heed him not. But to fail here, is not mere life or
death. It is that we become as him; that we henceforward become foul things of the
night like him—without heart or conscience, preying on the bodies and the souls of
those we love best. To us for ever are the gates of heaven shut; for who shall open
them to us again? We go on for all time abhorred by all; a blot on the face of God’s
sunshine; an arrow in the side of Him who died for man. But we are face to face with
duty; and in such case must we shrink? For me, I say, no; but then I am old, and
life, with his sunshine, his fair places, his song of birds, his music and his love,
lie far behind. You others are young. Some have seen sorrow; but there are fair days
yet in store. What say you?

Whilst he was speaking, Jonathan had taken my hand. I feared, oh so much, that the
appalling nature of our danger was overcoming him when I saw his hand stretch out;
but
it was life to me to feel its touch—so strong, so self-reliant, so resolute. A brave
man’s hand can speak for itself; it does not even need a woman’s love to hear its
music.

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

I answer for Mina and myself, he said.

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

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

Dr. Seward simply nodded. The Professor stood up and, after laying his golden crucifix
on
the table, held out his hand on either side. I took his right hand, and Lord Godalming
his left; Jonathan held my right with his left and stretched across to Mr. Morris.
So as
we all took hands our solemn compact was made. I felt my heart icy cold, but it did
not
even occur to me to draw back. We resumed our places, and Dr. Van Helsing went on
with a
sort of cheerfulness which showed that the serious work had begun. It was to be taken
as
gravely, and in as businesslike a way, as any other transaction of life:—

"Well, you know what we have to contend against; but we, too, are not without strength.
We have on our side power of combination—a power denied to the vampire kind; we have
sources of science; we are free to act and think; and the hours of the day and the
night
are ours equally. In fact, so far as our powers extend, they are unfettered, and we
are
free to use them. We have self-devotion in a cause, and an end to achieve which is
not a
selfish one. These things are much.

"Now let us see how far the general powers arrayed against us are restrict, and how
the
individual cannot. In fine, let us consider the limitations of the vampire in general,
and of this one in particular.

"All we have to go upon are traditions and superstitions. These do not at the first
appear much, when the matter is one of life and death—nay of more than either life
or
death. Yet must we be satisfied; in the first place because we have to be—no other
means
is at our control—and secondly, because, after all, these things—tradition and
superstition—are everything. Does not the belief in vampires rest for others—though
not,
alas! for us—on them? A year ago which of us would have received such a possibility,
in
the midst of our scientific, sceptical, matter-of-fact nineteenth century? We even
scouted a belief that we saw justified under our very eyes. Take it, then, that the
vampire, and the belief in his limitations and his cure, rest for the moment on the
same
base. For, let me tell you, he is known everywhere that men have been. In old Greece,
in
old Rome; he flourish in Germany all over, in France, in India, even in the Chernosese;
and in China, so far from us in all ways, there even is he, and the peoples fear him at
this day. He have follow the wake of the berserker Icelander, the devil-begotten Hun,
the Slav, the Saxon, the Magyar. So far, then, we have all we may act upon; and let
me
tell you that very much of the beliefs are justified by what we have seen in our own
so
unhappy experience. The vampire live on, and cannot die by mere passing of the time;
he
can flourish when that he can fatten on the blood of the living. Even more, we have
seen
amongst us that he can even grow younger; that his vital faculties grow strenuous,
and
seem as though they refresh themselves when his special pabulum is plenty. But he
cannot
flourish without this diet; he eat not as others. Even friend Jonathan, who lived
with
him for weeks, did never see him to eat, never! He throws no shadow; he make in the
mirror no reflect, as again Jonathan observe. He has the strength of many of his
hand—witness again Jonathan when he shut the door against the wolfs, and when he help
him from the diligence too. He can transform himself to wolf, as we gather from the
ship
arrival in Whitby, when he tear open the dog; he can be as bat, as Madam Mina saw him on
the window at Whitby, and as friend John saw him fly from this so near house, and as my
friend Quincey saw him at the window of Miss Lucy. He can come in mist which he
create—that noble ship’s captain proved him of this; but, from what we know, the
distance he can make this mist is limited, and it can only be round himself. He come
on
moonlight rays as elemental dust—as again Jonathan saw those sisters in the castle
of
Dracula. He become so small—we ourselves saw Miss Lucy, ere she was at peace, slip
through a hairbreadth space at the tomb door. He can, when once he find his way, come
out from anything or into anything, no matter how close it be bound or even fused
up
with fire—solder you call it. He can see in the dark—no small power this, in a world
which is one half shut from the light. Ah, but hear me through. He can do all these
things, yet he is not free. Nay; he is even more prisoner than the slave of the galley,
than the madman in his cell. He cannot go where he lists; he who is not of nature
has
yet to obey some of nature’s laws—why we know not. He may not enter anywhere at the
first, unless there be some one of the household who bid him to come; though afterwards
he can come as he please. His power ceases, as does that of all evil things, at the
coming of the day. Only at certain times can he have limited freedom. If he be not
at
the place whither he is bound, he can only change himself at noon or at exact sunrise
or
sunset. These things are we told, and in this record of ours we have proof by inference.
Thus, whereas he can do as he will within his limit, when he have his earth-home,
his
coffin-home, his hell-home, the place unhallowed, as we saw when he went to the grave
of
the suicide at Whitby; still at other time he can only change when the time come. It is
said, too, that he can only pass running water at the slack or the flood of the tide.
Then there are things which so afflict him that he has no power, as the garlic that
we
know of; and as for things sacred, as this symbol, my crucifix, that was amongst us
even
now when we resolve, to them he is nothing, but in their presence he take his place
far
off and silent with respect. There are others, too, which I shall tell you of, lest
in
our seeking we may need them. The branch of wild rose on his coffin keep him that
he
move not from it; a sacred bullet fired into the coffin kill him so that he be true
dead; and as for the stake through him, we know already of its peace; or the cut-off
head that giveth rest. We have seen it with our eyes.

Thus when we find the habitation of this man-that-was, we can confine him to his
coffin and destroy him, if we obey what we know. But he is clever. I have asked my
friend Arminius, of Buda-Pesth University, to make his record; and, from all the
means that are, he tell me of what he has been. He must, indeed, have been that
Voivode Dracula who won his name against the Turk, over the great river on the very
frontier of Turkey-land. If it be so, then was he no common man; for in that time,
and for centuries after, he was spoken of as the cleverest and the most cunning, as
well as the bravest of the sons of the ‘land beyond the forest.’ That mighty brain
and that iron resolution went with him to his grave, and are even now arrayed
against us. The Draculas were, says Arminius, a great and noble race, though now and
again were scions who were held by their coevals to have had dealings with the Evil
One. They learned his secrets in the Scholomance, amongst the mountains over Lake
Hermanstadt, where the devil claims the tenth scholar as his due. In the records are
such words as ‘stregoica’—witch, ‘ordog,’ and ‘pokol’—Satan and hell; and in one
manuscript this very Dracula is spoken of as ‘wampyr,’ which we all understand too
well. There have been from the loins of this very one great men and good women, and
their graves make sacred the earth where alone this foulness can dwell. For it is
not the least of its terrors that this evil thing is rooted deep in all good; in
soil barren of holy memories it cannot rest.

Whilst they were talking Mr. Morris was looking steadily at the window, and he now
got up
quietly, and went out of the room. There was a little pause, and then the Professor
went
on:—

And now we must settle what we do. We have here much data, and we must proceed to
lay
out our campaign. We know from the inquiry of Jonathan that from the castle to
Whitby came fifty boxes of earth, all of which were delivered at Carfax; we also
know that at least some of these boxes have been removed. It seems to me, that our
first step should be to ascertain whether all the rest remain in the house beyond
that wall where we look to-day; or whether any more have been removed. If the
latter, we must trace——

Here we were interrupted in a very startling way. Outside the house came the sound
of a
pistol-shot; the glass of the window was shattered with a bullet , which, ricochetting
from the top of the embrasure, struck the far wall of the room. I am afraid I am at
heart a coward, for I shrieked out. The men all jumped to their feet; Lord Godalming
flew over to the window and threw up the sash. As he did so we heard Mr. Morris’s
voice
without:—

Sorry! I fear I have alarmed you. I shall come in and tell you about it. A minute
later he came in and said:—

It was an idiotic thing of me to do, and I ask your pardon, Mrs. Harker, most
sincerely; I fear I must have frightened you terribly. But the fact is that whilst
the Professor was talking there came a big bat and sat on the window-sill. I have
got such a horror of the damned brutes from recent events that I cannot stand them,
and I went out to have a shot, as I have been doing of late of evenings, whenever
I
have seen one. You used to laugh at me for it then, Art.

Did you hit it? asked Dr. Van Helsing.

I don’t know; I fancy not, for it flew away into the wood. Without saying any more
he took his seat, and the Professor began to resume his statement:—

"We must trace each of these boxes; and when we are ready, we must either capture
or kill
this monster in his lair; or we must, so to speak, sterilise the earth, so that no
more
he can seek safety in it. Thus in the end we may find him in his form of man between
the
hours of noon and sunset, and so engage with him when he is at his most weak.

And now for you, Madam Mina, this night is the end until all be well. You are too
precious to us to have such risk. When we part to-night, you no more must question.
We shall tell you all in good time. We are men and are able to bear; but you must
be
our star and our hope, and we shall act all the more free that you are not in the
danger, such as we are.

All the men, even Jonathan, seemed relieved; but it did not seem to me good that they
should brave danger and, perhaps, lessen their safety—strength being the best
safety—through care of me; but their minds were made up, and, though it was a bitter
pill for me to swallow, I could say nothing, save to accept their chivalrous care
of
me.

Mr. Morris resumed the discussion:—

As there is no time to lose, I vote we have a look at his house right now. Time is
everything with him; and swift action on our part may save another victim.

I own that my heart began to fail me when the time for action came so close, but I
did
not say anything, for I had a greater fear that if I appeared as a drag or a hindrance
to their work, they might even leave me out of their counsels altogether. They have
now
gone off to Carfax, with means to get into the house.

Manlike, they had told me to go to bed and sleep; as if a woman can sleep when those
she
loves are in danger! I shall lie down and pretend to sleep, lest Jonathan have added
anxiety about me when he returns.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

1 October, 4 a. m.—Just as we were about to leave the house, an urgent message was
brought to me from Renfield to know if I would see him at once, as he had something
of
the utmost importance to say to me. I told the messenger to say that I would attend
to
his wishes in the morning; I was busy just at the moment. The attendant added:—

He seems very importunate, sir. I have never seen him so eager. I don’t know but what,
if you don’t see him soon, he will have one of his violent fits. I knew the man
would not have said this without some cause, so I said: All right; I’ll go now;
and I asked the others to wait a few minutes for me, as I had to go and see my
patient.

Take me with you, friend John, said the Professor. His case in your diary
interest me much, and it had bearing, too, now and again on our case. I should much
like to see him, and especial when his mind is disturbed.

May I come also? asked Lord Godalming.

Me too? said Quincey Morris. May I come? said Harker. I nodded, and we all
went down the passage together.

We found him in a state of considerable excitement, but far more rational in his speech
and manner than I had ever seen him. There was an unusual understanding of himself,
which was unlike anything I had ever met with in a lunatic; and he took it for granted
that his reasons would prevail with others entirely sane. We all four went into the
room, but none of the others at first said anything. His request was that I would
at
once release him from the asylum and send him home. This he backed up with arguments
regarding his complete recovery, and adduced his own existing sanity. I appeal to
your friends, he said, they will, perhaps, not mind sitting in judgment on my
case. By the way, you have not introduced me. I was so much astonished, that the
oddness of introducing a madman in an asylum did not strike me at the moment; and,
besides, there was a certain dignity in the man’s manner, so much of the habit of
equality, that I at once made the introduction: Lord Godalming; Professor Van
Helsing; Mr. Quincey Morris, of Texas; Mr. Renfield. He shook hands with each of
them, saying in turn:—

Lord Godalming, I had the honour of seconding your father at the Windham; I grieve
to
know, by your holding the title, that he is no more. He was a man loved and honoured
by all who knew him; and in his youth was, I have heard, the inventor of a burnt rum
punch, much patronised on Derby night. Mr. Morris, you should be proud of your great
state. Its reception into the Union was a precedent which may have far-reaching
effects hereafter, when the Pole and the Tropics may hold alliance to the Stars and
Stripes. The power of Treaty may yet prove a vast engine of enlargement, when the
Monroe doctrine takes its true place as a political fable. What shall any man say
of
his pleasure at meeting Van Helsing? Sir, I make no apology for dropping all forms
of conventional prefix. When an individual has revolutionised therapeutics by his
discovery of the continuous evolution of brain-matter, conventional forms are
unfitting, since they would seem to limit him to one of a class. You, gentlemen, who
by nationality, by heredity, or by the possession of natural gifts, are fitted to
hold your respective places in the moving world, I take to witness that I am as sane
as at least the majority of men who are in full possession of their liberties. And
I
am sure that you, Dr. Seward, humanitarian and medico-jurist as well as scientist,
will deem it a moral duty to deal with me as one to be considered as under
exceptional circumstances. He made this last appeal with a courtly air of
conviction which was not without its own charm.

I think we were all staggered. For my own part, I was under the conviction, despite
my
knowledge of the man’s character and history, that his reason had been restored; and
I
felt under a strong impulse to tell him that I was satisfied as to his sanity, and
would
see about the necessary formalities for his release in the morning. I thought it better
to wait, however, before making so grave a statement, for of old I knew the sudden
changes to which this particular patient was liable. So I contented myself with making
a
general statement that he appeared to be improving very rapidly; that I would have
a
longer chat with him in the morning, and would then see what I could do in the direction
of meeting his wishes. This did not at all satisfy him, for he said quickly:—

But I fear, Dr. Seward, that you hardly apprehend my wish. I desire to go at
once—here—now—this very hour—this very moment, if I may. Time presses, and in our
implied agreement with the old scytheman it is of the essence of the contract. I am
sure it is only necessary to put before so admirable a practitioner as Dr. Seward
so
simple, yet so momentous a wish, to ensure its fulfilment. He looked at me
keenly, and seeing the negative in my face, turned to the others, and scrutinised
them
closely. Not meeting any sufficient response, he went on:—

Is it possible that I have erred in my supposition?

You have, I said frankly, but at the same time, as I felt, brutally. There was a
considerable pause, and then he said slowly:—

Then I suppose I must only shift my ground of request. Let me ask for this
concession—boon, privilege, what you will. I am content to implore in such a case,
not on personal grounds, but for the sake of others. I am not at liberty to give you
the whole of my reasons; but you may, I assure you, take it from me that they are
good ones, sound and unselfish, and spring from the highest sense of duty. Could you
look, sir, into my heart, you would approve to the full the sentiments which animate
me. Nay, more, you would count me amongst the best and truest of your friends.
Again he looked at us all keenly. I had a growing conviction that this sudden change
of
his entire intellectual method was but yet another form or phase of his madness, and
so
determined to let him go on a little longer, knowing from experience that he would,
like
all lunatics, give himself away in the end. Van Helsing was gazing at him with a look
of
utmost intensity, his bushy eyebrows almost meeting with the fixed concentration of
his
look. He said to Renfield in a tone which did not surprise me at the time, but only
when
I thought of it afterwards—for it was as of one addressing an equal:—

Can you not tell frankly your real reason for wishing to be free to-night? I will
undertake that if you will satisfy even me—a stranger, without prejudice, and with
the habit of keeping an open mind—Dr. Seward will give you, at his own risk and on
his own responsibility, the privilege you seek. He shook his head sadly, and
with a look of poignant regret on his face. The Professor went on:—

Come, sir, bethink yourself. You claim the privilege of reason in the highest degree,
since you seek to impress us with your complete reasonableness. You do this, whose
sanity we have reason to doubt, since you are not yet released from medical
treatment for this very defect. If you will not help us in our effort to choose the
wisest course, how can we perform the duty which you yourself put upon us? Be wise,
and help us; and if we can we shall aid you to achieve your wish. He still shook
his head as he said:—

Dr. Van Helsing, I have nothing to say. Your argument is complete, and if I were free
to speak I should not hesitate a moment; but I am not my own master in the matter.
I
can only ask you to trust me. If I am refused, the responsibility does not rest with
me. I thought it was now time to end the scene, which was becoming too comically
grave, so I went towards the door, simply saying:—

Come, my friends, we have work to do. Good-night.

As, however, I got near the door, a new change came over the patient. He moved towards
me
so quickly that for the moment I feared that he was about to make another homicidal
attack. My fears, however, were groundless, for he held up his two hands imploringly,
and made his petition in a moving manner. As he saw that the very excess of his emotion
was militating against him, by restoring us more to our old relations, he became still
more demonstrative. I glanced at Van Helsing, and saw my conviction reflected in his
eyes; so I became a little more fixed in my manner, if not more stern, and motioned
to
him that his efforts were unavailing. I had previously seen something of the same
constantly growing excitement in him when he had to make some request of which at
the
time he had thought much, such, for instance, as when he wanted a cat; and I was
prepared to see the collapse into the same sullen acquiescence on this occasion. My
expectation was not realised, for, when he found that his appeal would not be
successful, he got into quite a frantic condition. He threw himself on his knees,
and
held up his hands, wringing them in plaintive supplication, and poured forth a torrent
of entreaty, with the tears rolling down his cheeks, and his whole face and form
expressive of the deepest emotion:—

Let me entreat you, Dr. Seward, oh, let me implore you, to let me out of this house
at once. Send me away how you will and where you will; send keepers with me with
whips and chains; let them take me in a strait-waistcoat, manacled and leg-ironed,
even to a gaol; but let me go out of this. You don’t know what you do by keeping me
here. I am speaking from the depths of my heart—of my very soul. You don’t know whom
you wrong, or how; and I may not tell. Woe is me! I may not tell. By all you hold
sacred—by all you hold dear—by your love that is lost—by your hope that lives—for
the sake of the Almighty, take me out of this and save my soul from guilt! Can’t you
hear me, man? Can’t you understand? Will you never learn? Don’t you know that I am
sane and earnest now; that I am no lunatic in a mad fit, but a sane man fighting for
his soul? Oh, hear me! hear me! Let me go! let me go! let me go!

I thought that the longer this went on the wilder he would get, and so would bring
on a
fit; so I took him by the hand and raised him up.

Come, I said sternly, no more of this; we have had quite enough already. Get to
your bed and try to behave more discreetly.

He suddenly stopped and looked at me intently for several moments. Then, without a
word,
he rose and moving over, sat down on the side of the bed. The collapse had come, as
on
former occasion, just as I had expected.

When I was leaving the room, last of our party, he said to me in a quiet, well-bred
voice:—

You will, I trust, Dr. Seward, do me the justice to bear in mind, later on, that I
did what I could to convince you to-night.

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-19">CHAPTER XIX</h2>

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

1 October, 5 a. m.—I went with the party to the search with an easy mind, for I think I
never saw Mina so absolutely strong and well. I am so glad that she consented to hold
back and let us men do the work. Somehow, it was a dread to me that she was in this
fearful business at all; but now that her work is done, and that it is due to her
energy
and brains and foresight that the whole story is put together in such a way that every
point tells, she may well feel that her part is finished, and that she can henceforth
leave the rest to us. We were, I think, all a little upset by the scene with Mr.
Renfield. When we came away from his room we were silent till we got back to the study.
Then Mr. Morris said to Dr. Seward:—

Say, Jack, if that man wasn’t attempting a bluff, he is about the sanest lunatic I
ever saw. I’m not sure, but I believe that he had some serious purpose, and if he
had, it was pretty rough on him not to get a chance. Lord Godalming and I were
silent, but Dr. Van Helsing added:—

Friend John, you know more of lunatics than I do, and I’m glad of it, for I fear that
if it had been to me to decide I would before that last hysterical outburst have
given him free. But we live and learn, and in our present task we must take no
chance, as my friend Quincey would say. All is best as they are. Dr. Seward
seemed to answer them both in a dreamy kind of way:—

I don’t know but that I agree with you. If that man had been an ordinary lunatic I
would have taken my chance of trusting him; but he seems so mixed up with the Count
in an indexy kind of way that I am afraid of doing anything wrong by helping his
fads. I can’t forget how he prayed with almost equal fervour for a cat, and then
tried to tear my throat out with his teeth. Besides, he called the Count ‘lord and
master,’ and he may want to get out to help him in some diabolical way. That horrid
thing has the wolves and the rats and his own kind to help him, so I suppose he
isn’t above trying to use a respectable lunatic. He certainly did seem earnest,
though. I only hope we have done what is best. These things, in conjunction with the
wild work we have in hand, help to unnerve a man. The Professor stepped over,
and laying his hand on his shoulder, said in his grave, kindly way:—

Friend John, have no fear. We are trying to do our duty in a very sad and terrible
case; we can only do as we deem best. What else have we to hope for, except the pity
of the good God? Lord Godalming had slipped away for a few minutes, but now he
returned. He held up a little silver whistle, as he remarked:—

That old place may be full of rats, and if so, I’ve got an antidote on call.
Having passed the wall, we took our way to the house, taking care to keep in the shadows
of the trees on the lawn when the moonlight shone out. When we got to the porch the
Professor opened his bag and took out a lot of things, which he laid on the step,
sorting them into four little groups, evidently one for each. Then he spoke:—

My friends, we are going into a terrible danger, and we need arms of many kinds. Our
enemy is not merely spiritual. Remember that he has the strength of twenty men, and
that, though our necks or our windpipes are of the common kind—and therefore
breakable or crushable—his are not amenable to mere strength. A stronger man, or a
body of men more strong in all than him, can at certain times hold him; but they
cannot hurt him as we can be hurt by him. We must, therefore, guard ourselves from
his touch. Keep this near your heart—as he spoke he lifted a little silver
crucifix and held it out to me, I being nearest to him—put these flowers round your
neck—here he handed to me a wreath of withered garlic blossoms—for other
enemies more mundane, this revolver and this knife; and for aid in all, these so
small electric lamps, which you can fasten to your breast; and for all, and above
all at the last, this, which we must not desecrate needless. This was a portion
of Sacred Wafer, which he put in an envelope and handed to me. Each of the others
was
similarly equipped. Now, he said, friend John, where are the skeleton keys? If
so that we can open the door, we need not break house by the window, as before at
Miss Lucy’s.

Dr. Seward tried one or two skeleton keys, his mechanical dexterity as a surgeon standing
him in good stead. Presently he got one to suit; after a little play back and forward
the bolt yielded, and, with a rusty clang, shot back. We pressed on the door, the
rusty
hinges creaked, and it slowly opened. It was startlingly like the image conveyed to
me
in Dr. Seward’s diary of the opening of Miss Westenra’s tomb; I fancy that the same
idea
seemed to strike the others, for with one accord they shrank back. The Professor was
the
first to move forward, and stepped into the open door.

In manus tuas, Domine! he said, crossing himself as he passed over the threshold.
We closed the door behind us, lest when we should have lit our lamps we should possibly
attract attention from the road. The Professor carefully tried the lock, lest we might
not be able to open it from within should we be in a hurry making our exit. Then we
all
lit our lamps and proceeded on our search.

The light from the tiny lamps fell in all sorts of odd forms, as the rays crossed each
other, or the opacity of our bodies threw great shadows. I could not for my life get
away from the feeling that there was some one else amongst us. I suppose it was the
recollection, so powerfully brought home to me by the grim surroundings, of that
terrible experience in Transylvania. I think the feeling was common to us all, for I
noticed that the others kept looking over their shoulders at every sound and every
new
shadow, just as I felt myself doing.

The whole place was thick with dust. The floor was seemingly inches deep, except where
there were recent footsteps, in which on holding down my lamp I could see marks of
hobnails where the dust was cracked. The walls were fluffy and heavy with dust, and
in
the corners were masses of spider’s webs, whereon the dust had gathered till they
looked
like old tattered rags as the weight had torn them partly down. On a table in the
hall
was a great bunch of keys, with a time-yellowed label on each. They had been used
several times, for on the table were several similar rents in the blanket of dust,
similar to that exposed when the Professor lifted them. He turned to me and said:—

You know this place, Jonathan. You have copied maps of it, and you know it at least
more than we do. Which is the way to the chapel? I had an idea of its direction,
though on my former visit I had not been able to get admission to it; so I led the
way,
and after a few wrong turnings found myself opposite a low, arched oaken door, ribbed
with iron bands. This is the spot, said the Professor as he turned his lamp on a
small map of the house, copied from the file of my original correspondence regarding
the
purchase. With a little trouble we found the key on the bunch and opened the door.
We
were prepared for some unpleasantness, for as we were opening the door a faint,
malodorous air seemed to exhale through the gaps, but none of us ever expected such
an
odour as we encountered. None of the others had met the Count at all at close quarters,
and when I had seen him he was either in the fasting stage of his existence in his
rooms
or, when he was gloated with fresh blood, in a ruined building open to the air; but
here
the place was small and close, and the long disuse had made the air stagnant and foul.
There was an earthy smell, as of some dry miasma, which came through the fouler air.
But
as to the odour itself, how shall I describe it? It was not alone that it was composed
of all the ills of mortality and with the pungent, acrid smell of blood, but it seemed
as though corruption had become itself corrupt. Faugh! it sickens me to think of it.
Every breath exhaled by that monster seemed to have clung to the place and intensified
its loathsomeness.

Under ordinary circumstances such a stench would have brought our enterprise to an
end;
but this was no ordinary case, and the high and terrible purpose in which we were
involved gave us a strength which rose above merely physical considerations. After
the
involuntary shrinking consequent on the first nauseous whiff, we one and all set about
our work as though that loathsome place were a garden of roses.

We made an accurate examination of the place, the Professor saying as we began:—

The first thing is to see how many of the boxes are left; we must then examine every
hole and corner and cranny and see if we cannot get some clue as to what has become
of the rest. A glance was sufficient to show how many remained, for the great
earth chests were bulky, and there was no mistaking them.

There were only twenty-nine left out of the fifty! Once I got a fright, for, seeing
Lord
Godalming suddenly turn and look out of the vaulted door into the dark passage beyond,
I
looked too, and for an instant my heart stood still. Somewhere, looking out from the
shadow, I seemed to see the high lights of the Count’s evil face, the ridge of the
nose,
the red eyes, the red lips, the awful pallor. It was only for a moment, for, as Lord
Godalming said, I thought I saw a face, but it was only the shadows, and resumed
his inquiry, I turned my lamp in the direction, and stepped into the passage. There was
no sign of any one; and as there were no corners, no doors, no aperture of any kind,
but
only the solid walls of the passage, there could be no hiding-place even for him.
I took
it that fear had helped imagination, and said nothing.

A few minutes later I saw Morris step suddenly back from a corner, which he was
examining. We all followed his movements with our eyes, for undoubtedly some nervousness
was growing on us, and we saw a whole mass of phosphorescence, which twinkled like
stars. We all instinctively drew back. The whole place was becoming alive with rats.

For a moment or two we stood appalled, all save Lord Godalming, who was seemingly
prepared for such an emergency. Rushing over to the great iron-bound oaken door, which
Dr. Seward had described from the outside, and which I had seen myself, he turned
the
key in the lock, drew the huge bolts, and swung the door open. Then, taking his little
silver whistle from his pocket, he blew a low, shrill call. It was answered from behind
Dr. Seward’s house by the yelping of dogs, and after about a minute three terriers
came
dashing round the corner of the house. Unconsciously we had all moved towards the
door,
and as we moved I noticed that the dust had been much disturbed: the boxes which had
been taken out had been brought this way. But even in the minute that had elapsed
the
number of the rats had vastly increased. They seemed to swarm over the place all at
once, till the lamplight, shining on their moving dark bodies and glittering, baleful
eyes, made the place look like a bank of earth set with fireflies. The dogs dashed
on,
but at the threshold suddenly stopped and snarled, and then, simultaneously lifting
their noses, began to howl in most lugubrious fashion. The rats were multiplying in
thousands, and we moved out.

Lord Godalming lifted one of the dogs, and carrying him in, placed him on the floor.
The
instant his feet touched the ground he seemed to recover his courage, and rushed at
his
natural enemies. They fled before him so fast that before he had shaken the life out
of
a score, the other dogs, who had by now been lifted in the same manner, had but small
prey ere the whole mass had vanished.

With their going it seemed as if some evil presence had departed, for the dogs frisked
about and barked merrily as they made sudden darts at their prostrate foes, and turned
them over and over and tossed them in the air with vicious shakes. We all seemed to
find
our spirits rise. Whether it was the purifying of the deadly atmosphere by the opening
of the chapel door, or the relief which we experienced by finding ourselves in the
open
I know not; but most certainly the shadow of dread seemed to slip from us like a robe,
and the occasion of our coming lost something of its grim significance, though we
did
not slacken a whit in our resolution. We closed the outer door and barred and locked
it,
and bringing the dogs with us, began our search of the house. We found nothing
throughout except dust in extraordinary proportions, and all untouched save for my
own
footsteps when I had made my first visit. Never once did the dogs exhibit any symptom
of
uneasiness, and even when we returned to the chapel they frisked about as though they
had been rabbit-hunting in a summer wood.

The morning was quickening in the east when we emerged from the front. Dr. Van Helsing
had taken the key of the hall-door from the bunch, and locked the door in orthodox
fashion, putting the key into his pocket when he had done.

So far, he said, our night has been eminently successful. No harm has come to
us such as I feared might be and yet we have ascertained how many boxes are missing.
More than all do I rejoice that this, our first—and perhaps our most difficult and
dangerous—step has been accomplished without the bringing thereinto our most sweet
Madam Mina or troubling her waking or sleeping thoughts with sights and sounds and
smells of horror which she might never forget. One lesson, too, we have learned, if
it be allowable to argue a particulari: that the brute beasts which are to the
Count’s command are yet themselves not amenable to his spiritual power; for look,
these rats that would come to his call, just as from his castle top he summon the
wolves to your going and to that poor mother’s cry, though they come to him, they
run pell-mell from the so little dogs of my friend Arthur. We have other matters
before us, other dangers, other fears; and that monster—he has not used his power
over the brute world for the only or the last time to-night. So be it that he has
gone elsewhere. Good! It has given us opportunity to cry ‘check’ in some ways in
this chess game, which we play for the stake of human souls. And now let us go home.
The dawn is close at hand, and we have reason to be content with our first night’s
work. It may be ordained that we have many nights and days to follow, if full of
peril; but we must go on, and from no danger shall we shrink.

The house was silent when we got back, save for some poor creature who was screaming
away
in one of the distant wards, and a low, moaning sound from Renfield’s room. The poor
wretch was doubtless torturing himself, after the manner of the insane, with needless
thoughts of pain.

I came tiptoe into our own room, and found Mina asleep, breathing so softly that I
had to
put my ear down to hear it. She looks paler than usual. I hope the meeting to-night
has
not upset her. I am truly thankful that she is to be left out of our future work,
and
even of our deliberations. It is too great a s train for a woman to bear. I did not think
so at first, but I know better now. Therefore I am glad that it is settled. There
may be
things which would frighten her to hear; and yet to conceal them from her might be
worse
than to tell her if once she suspected that there was any concealment. Henceforth
our
work is to be a sealed book to her, till at least such time as we can tell her that
all
is finished, and the earth free from a monster of the nether world. I daresay it will
be
difficult to begin to keep silence after such confidence as ours; but I must be
resolute, and to-morrow I shall keep dark over to-night’s doings, and shall refuse
to
speak of anything that has happened. I rest on the sofa, so as not to disturb her.1
October, later.—I suppose it was natural that we should have all overslept ourselves,
for the day was a busy one, and the night had no rest at all. Even Mina must have
felt
its exhaustion, for though I slept till the sun was high, I was awake before her,
and
had to call two or three times before she awoke. Indeed, she was so sound asleep that
for a few seconds she did not recognize me, but looked at me with a sort of blank
terror, as one looks who has been waked out of a bad dream. She complained a little
of
being tired, and I let her rest till later in the day. We now know of twenty-one boxes
having been removed, and if it be that several were taken in any of these removals
we
may be able to trace them all. Such will, of course, immensely simplify our labour,
and
the sooner the matter is attended to the better. I shall look up Thomas Snelling
to-day.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

1 October.—It was towards noon when I was awakened by the Professor walking into my room.
He was more jolly and cheerful than usual, and it is quite evident that last night’s
work has helped to take some of the brooding weight off his mind. After going over
the
adventure of the night he suddenly said:—

Your patient interests me much. May it be that with you I visit him this morning?
Or
if that you are too occupy, I can go alone if it may be. It is a new experience to
me to find a lunatic who talk philosophy, and reason so sound. I had some work
to do which pressed, so I told him that if he would go alone I would be glad, as then
I
should not have to keep him waiting; so I called an attendant and gave him the necessary
instructions. Before the Professor left the room I cautioned him against getting any
false impression from my patient. But, he answered, I want him to talk of
himself and of his delusion as to consuming live things. He said to Madam Mina, as
I
see in your diary of yesterday, that he had once had such a belief. Why do you
smile, friend John?

Excuse me, I said, but the answer is here. I laid my hand on the
type-written matter. When our sane and learned lunatic made that very statement of
how he used to consume life, his mouth was actually nauseous with the flies and
spiders which he had eaten just before Mrs. Harker entered the room. Van Helsing
smiled in turn. Good! he said. Your memory is true, friend John. I should have
remembered. And yet it is this very obliquity of thought and memory which makes
mental disease such a fascinating study. Perhaps I may gain more knowledge out of
the folly of this madman than I shall from the teaching of the most wise. Who
knows? I went on with my work, and before long was through that in hand. It
seemed that the time had been very short indeed, but there was Van Helsing back in
the
study. Do I interrupt? he asked politely as he stood at the door.

Not at all, I answered. "Come in. My work is finished, and I am free. I can go
with you now, if you like.

It is needless; I have seen him!

Well?

I fear that he does not appraise me at much. Our interview was short. When I entered
his room he was sitting on a stool in the centre, with his elbows on his knees, and
his face was the picture of sullen discontent. I spoke to him as cheerfully as I
could, and with such a measure of respect as I could assume. He made no reply
whatever. Don’t you know me? I asked. His answer was not reassuring: I
know you well enough; you are the old fool Van Helsing. I wish you would take yourself
and your idiotic brain theories somewhere else. Damn all thick-headed Dutchmen! Not
a
word more would he say, but sat in his implacable sullenness as indifferent to me
as
though I had not been in the room at all. Thus departed for this time my chance of
much learning from this so clever lunatic; so I shall go, if I may, and cheer myself
with a few happy words with that sweet soul Madam Mina. Friend John, it does rejoice
me unspeakable that she is no more to be pained, no more to be worried with our
terrible things. Though we shall much miss her help, it is better so.

I agree with you with all my heart, I answered earnestly, for I did not want him
to weaken in this matter. Mrs. Harker is better out of it. Things are quite bad
enough for us, all men of the world, and who have been in many tight places in our
time; but it is no place for a woman, and if she had remained in touch with the
affair, it would in time infallibly have wrecked her.

So Van Helsing has gone to confer with Mrs. Harker and Harker; Quincey and Art are
all
out following up the clues as to the earth-boxes. I shall finish my round of work
and we
shall meet to-night.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

1 October.—It is strange to me to be kept in the dark as I am to-day; after Jonathan’s
full confidence for so many years, to see him manifestly avoid certain matters, and
those the most vital of all. This morning I slept late after the fatigues of yesterday,
and though Jonathan was late too, he was the earlier. He spoke to me before he went
out,
never more sweetly or tenderly, but he never mentioned a word of what had happened
in
the visit to the Count’s house. And yet he must have known how terribly anxious I was.
Poor dear fellow! I suppose it must have distressed him even more than it did me.
They
all agreed that it was best that I should not be drawn further into this awful work,
and
I acquiesced. But to think that he keeps anything from me! And now I am crying like
a
silly fool, when I know it comes from my husband’s great love and from the good, good
wishes of those other strong men.

That has done me good. Well, some day Jonathan will tell me all; and lest it should
ever
be that he should think for a moment that I kept anything from him, I still keep my
journal as usual. Then if he has feared of my trust I shall show it to him, with every
thought of my heart put down for his dear eyes to read. I feel strangely sad and
low-spirited to-day. I suppose it is the reaction from the terrible excitement.

Last night I went to bed when the men had gone, simply because they told me to. I
didn’t
feel sleepy, and I did feel full of devouring anxiety. I kept thinking over everything
that has been ever since Jonathan came to see me in London, and it all seems like a
horrible tragedy, with fate pressing on relentlessly to some destined end. Everything
that one does seems, no matter how right it may be, to bring on the very thing which
is
most to be deplored. If I hadn’t gone to Whitby, perhaps poor dear Lucy would be with us
now. She hadn’t taken to visiting the churchyard till I came, and if she hadn’t come
there in the day-time with me she wouldn’t have walked there in her sleep; and if
she
hadn’t gone there at night and asleep, that monster couldn’t have destroyed her as
he
did. Oh, why did I ever go to Whitby? There now, crying again! I wonder what has come
over me to-day. I must hide it from Jonathan, for if he knew that I had been crying
twice in one morning—I, who never cried on my own account, and whom he has never caused
to shed a tear—the dear fellow would fret his heart out. I shall put a bold face on,
and
if I do feel weepy, he shall never see it. I suppose it is one of the lessons that
we
poor women have to learn....

I can’t quite remember how I fell asleep last night. I remember hearing the sudden
barking of the dogs and a lot of queer sounds, like praying on a very tumultuous scale,
from Mr. Renfield’s room, which is somewhere under this. And then there was silence
over
everything, silence so profound that it startled me, and I got up and looked out of
the
window. All was dark and silent, the black shadows thrown by the moonlight seeming
full
of a silent mystery of their own. Not a thing seemed to be stirring, but all to be
grim
and fixed as death or fate; so that a thin streak of white mist, that crept with almost
imperceptible slowness across the grass towards the house, seemed to have a sentience
and a vitality of its own. I think that the digression of my thoughts must have done
me
good, for when I got back to bed I found a lethargy creeping over me. I lay a while,
but
could not quite sleep, so I got out and looked out of the window again. The mist was
spreading, and was now close up to the house, so that I could see it lying thick against
the wall, as though it were stealing up to the windows. The poor man was more loud
than
ever, and though I could not distinguish a word he said, I could in some way recognise
in his tones some passionate entreaty on his part. Then there was the sound of a
struggle, and I knew that the attendants were dealing with him. I was so frightened
that
I crept into bed, and pulled the clothes over my head, putting my fingers in my ears.
I
was not then a bit sleepy, at least so I thought; but I must have fallen asleep, for,
except dreams, I do not remember anything until the morning, when Jonathan woke me.
I
think that it took me an effort and a little time to realise where I was, and that
it
was Jonathan who was bending over me. My dream was very peculiar, and was almost typical
of the way that waking thoughts become merged in, or continued in, dreams.

I thought that I was asleep, and waiting for Jonathan to come back. I was very anxious
about him, and I was powerless to act; my feet, and my hands, and my brain were
weighted, so that nothing could proceed at the usual pace. And so I slept uneasily
and
thought. Then it began to dawn upon me that the air was heavy, and dank, and cold.
I put
back the clothes from my face, and found, to my surprise, that all was dim around.
The
gaslight which I had left lit for Jonathan, but turned down, came only like a tiny
red
spark through the fog, which had evidently grown thicker and poured into the room.
Then
it occurred to me that I had shut the window before I had come to bed. I would have
got
out to make certain on the point, but some leaden lethargy seemed to chain my limbs
and
even my will. I lay still and endured; that was all. I closed my eyes, but could still
see through my eyelids. (It is wonderful what tricks our dreams play us, and how
conveniently we can imagine.) The mist grew thicker and thicker and I could see now
how
it came in, for I could see it like smoke—or with the white energy of boiling
water—pouring in, not through the window, but through the joinings of the door. It
got
thicker and thicker, till it seemed as if it became concentrated into a sort of pillar
of cloud in the room, through the top of which I could see the light of the gas shining
like a red eye. Things began to whirl through my brain just as the cloudy column was
now
whirling in the room, and through it all came the scriptural words a pillar of cloud
by day and of fire by night. Was it indeed some such spiritual guidance that was
coming to me in my sleep? But the pillar was composed of both the day and the
night-guiding, for the fire was in the red eye, which at the thought got a new
fascination for me; till, as I looked, the fire divided, and seemed to shine on me
through the fog like two red eyes, such as Lucy told me of in her momentary mental
wandering when, on the cliff, the dying sunlight struck the windows of St. Mary’s
Church. Suddenly the horror burst upon me that it was thus that Jonathan had seen
those
awful women growing into reality through the whirling mist in the moonlight, and in
my
dream I must have fainted, for all became black darkness. The last conscious effort
which imagination made was to show me a livid white face bending over me out of the
mist. I must be careful of such dreams, for they would unseat one’s reason if there
were
too much of them. I would get Dr. Van Helsing or Dr. Seward to prescribe something
for
me which would make me sleep, only that I fear to alarm them. Such a dream at the
present time would become woven into their fears for me. To-night I shall strive hard
to
sleep naturally. If I do not, I shall to-morrow night get them to give me a dose of
chloral; that cannot hurt me for once, and it will give me a good night’s sleep. Last
night tired me more than if I had not slept at all.2 October 10 p. m.—Last night I
slept, but did not dream. I must have slept soundly, for I was not waked by Jonathan
coming to bed; but the sleep has not refreshed me, for to-day I feel terribly weak
and
spiritless. I spent all yesterday trying to read, or lying down dozing. In the afternoon
Mr. Renfield asked if he might see me. Poor man, he was very gentle, and when I came
away he kissed my hand and bade God bless me. Some way it affected me much; I am crying
when I think of him. This is a new weakness, of which I must be careful. Jonathan
would
be miserable if he knew I had been crying. He and the others were out till dinner-time,
and they all came in tired. I did what I could to brighten them up, and I suppose
that
the effort did me good, for I forgot how tired I was. After dinner they sent me to
bed,
and all went off to smoke together, as they said, but I knew that they wanted to tell
each other of what had occurred to each during the day; I could see from Jonathan’s
manner that he had something important to communicate. I was not so sleepy as I should
have been; so before they went I asked Dr. Seward to give me a little opiate of some
kind, as I had not slept well the night before. He very kindly made me up a sleeping
draught, which he gave to me, telling me that it would do me no harm, as it was very
mild.... I have taken it, and am waiting for sleep, which still keeps aloof. I hope
I
have not done wrong, for as sleep begins to flirt with me, a new fear comes: that
I may
have been foolish in thus depriving myself of the power of waking. I might want it.
Here
comes sleep. Good-night.

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-20">CHAPTER XX</h2>

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

1 October, evening.—I found Thomas Snelling in his house at Bethnal Green, but unhappily
he was not in a condition to remember anything. The very prospect of beer which my
expected coming had opened to him had proved too much, and he had begun too early
on his
expected debauch. I learned, however, from his wife, who seemed a decent, poor soul,
that he was only the assistant to Smollet, who of the two mates was the responsible
person. So off I drove to Walworth, and found Mr. Joseph Smollet at home and in his
shirtsleeves, taking a late tea out of a saucer. He is a decent, intelligent fellow,
distinctly a good, reliable type of workman, and with a headpiece of his own. He
remembered all about the incident of the boxes, and from a wonderful dog’s-eared
notebook, which he produced from some mysterious receptacle about the seat of his
trousers, and which had hieroglyphical entries in thick, half-obliterated pencil,
he
gave me the destinations of the boxes. There were, he said, six in the cartload which
he
took from Carfax and left at 197, Chicksand Street, Mile End New Town, and another six
which he deposited at Jamaica Lane, Bermondsey. If then the Count meant to scatter
these
ghastly refuges of his over London, these places were chosen as the first of delivery,
so that later he might distribute more fully. The systematic manner in which this
was
done made me think that he could not mean to confine himself to two sides of London. He
was now fixed on the far east of the northern shore, on the east of the southern shore,
and on the south. The north and west were surely never meant to be left out of his
diabolical scheme—let alone the City itself and the very heart of fashionable London in
the south-west and west. I went back to Smollet, and asked him if he could tell us
if
any other boxes had been taken from Carfax.

He replied:—

Well, guv’nor, you’ve treated me wery ’an’some—I had given him half a
sovereign—an’ I’ll tell yer all I know. I heard a man by the name of Bloxam say
four nights ago in the ’Are an’ ’Ounds, in Pincher’s Alley, as ’ow he an’ his mate
’ad ’ad a rare dusty job in a old ’ouse at Purfect. There ain’t a-many such jobs as
this ’ere, an’ I’m thinkin’ that maybe Sam Bloxam could tell ye summut. I asked
if he could tell me where to find him. I told him that if he could get me the address
it
would be worth another half-sovereign to him. So he gulped down the rest of his tea
and
stood up, saying that he was going to begin the search then and there. At the door
he
stopped, and said:—

Look ’ere, guv’nor, there ain’t no sense in me a-keepin’ you ’ere. I may find Sam
soon, or I mayn’t; but anyhow he ain’t like to be in a way to tell ye much to-night.
Sam is a rare one when he starts on the booze. If you can give me a envelope with
a
stamp on it, and put yer address on it, I’ll find out where Sam is to be found and
post it ye to-night. But ye’d better be up arter ’im soon in the mornin’, or maybe
ye won’t ketch ’im; for Sam gets off main early, never mind the booze the night
afore.

This was all practical, so one of the children went off with a penny to buy an envelope
and a sheet of paper, and to keep the change. When she came back, I addressed the
envelope and stamped it, and when Smollet had again faithfully promised to post the
address when found, I took my way to home. We’re on the track anyhow. I am tired
to-night, and want sleep. Mina is fast asleep, and looks a little too pale; her eyes
look as though she had been crying. Poor dear, I’ve no doubt it frets her to be kept
in
the dark, and it may make her doubly anxious about me and the others. But it is best
as
it is. It is better to be disappointed and worried in such a way now than to have
her
nerve broken. The doctors were quite right to insist on her being kept out of this
dreadful business. I must be firm, for on me this particular burden of silence must
rest. I shall not ever enter on the subject with her under any circumstances. Indeed,
it
may not be a hard task, after all, for she herself has become reticent on the subject,
and has not spoken of the Count or his doings ever since we told her of our decision.2
October, evening.—A long and trying and exciting day. By the first post I got my
directed envelope with a dirty scrap of paper enclosed, on which was written with
a
carpenter’s pencil in a sprawling hand:—

Sam Bloxam, Korkrans, 4, Poters Cort, Bartel Street, Walworth. Arsk for the
depite.

I got the letter in bed, and rose without waking Mina. She looked heavy and sleepy
and
pale, and far from well. I determined not to wake her, but that, when I should return
from this new search, I would arrange for her going back to Exeter. I think she would be
happier in our own home, with her daily tasks to interest her, than in being here
amongst us and in ignorance. I only saw Dr. Seward for a moment, and told him where
I
was off to, promising to come back and tell the rest so soon as I should have found
out
anything. I drove to Walworth and found, with some difficulty, Potter’s Court. Mr.
Smollet’s spelling misled me, as I asked for Poter’s Court instead of Potter’s Court.
However, when I had found the court, I had no difficulty in discovering Corcoran’s
lodging-house. When I asked the man who came to the door for the depite, he shook
his head, and said: I dunno ’im. There ain’t no such a person ’ere; I never ’eard
of
’im in all my bloomin’ days. Don’t believe there ain’t nobody of that kind livin’
ere or anywheres. I took out Smollet’s letter, and as I read it it seemed to me
that the lesson of the spelling of the name of the court might guide me. What are
you? I asked.

I’m the depity, he answered. I saw at once that I was on the right track; phonetic
spelling had again misled me. A half-crown tip put the deputy’s knowledge at my
disposal, and I learned that Mr. Bloxam, who had slept off the remains of his beer
on
the previous night at Corcoran’s, had left for his work at Poplar at five o’clock
that
morning. He could not tell me where the place of work was situated, but he had a vague
idea that it was some kind of a new-fangled ware’us; and with this slender clue I
had to start for Poplar. It was twelve o’clock before I got any satisfactory hint
of
such a building, and this I got at a coffee-shop, where some workmen were having their
dinner. One of these suggested that there was being erected at Cross Angel Street
a new
cold storage building; and as this suited the condition of a new-fangled
ware’us, I at once drove to it. An interview with a surly gatekeeper and a
surlier foreman, both of whom were appeased with the coin of the realm, put me on
the
track of Bloxam; he was sent for on my suggesting that I was willing to pay his day’s
wages to his foreman for the privilege of asking him a few questions on a private
matter. He was a smart enough fellow, though rough of speech and bearing. When I had
promised to pay for his information and given him an earnest, he told me that he had
made two journeys between Carfax and a house in Piccadilly, and had taken from this
house to the latter nine great boxes—main heavy ones—with a horse and cart hired
by him for this purpose. I asked him if he could tell me the number of the house in
 Piccadilly, to which he replied:—

Well, guv’nor, I forgits the number, but it was only a few doors from a big white
church or somethink of the kind, not long built. It was a dusty old ’ouse, too,
though nothin’ to the dustiness of the ’ouse we tooked the bloomin’ boxes from.

How did you get into the houses if they were both empty?

There was the old party what engaged me a-waitin’ in the ’ouse at Purfleet. He ’elped
me to lift the boxes and put them in the dray. Curse me, but he was the strongest
chap I ever struck, an’ him a old feller, with a white moustache, one that thin you
would think he couldn’t throw a shadder.

How this phrase thrilled through me!

Why, ’e took up ’is end o’ the boxes like they was pounds of tea, and me a-puffin’
an’ a-blowin’ afore I could up-end mine anyhow—an’ I’m no chicken, neither.

How did you get into the house in Piccadilly? I asked.

He was there too. He must ’a’ started off and got there afore me, for when I rung
of
the bell he kem an’ opened the door ’isself an’ ’elped me to carry the boxes into
the ’all.

The whole nine? I asked.

Yus; there was five in the first load an’ four in the second. It was main dry work,
an’ I don’t so well remember ’ow I got ’ome. I interrupted him:—

Were the boxes left in the hall?

Yus; it was a big ’all, an’ there was nothin’ else in it. I made one more attempt
to further matters:—

You didn’t have any key?

Never used no key nor nothink. The old gent, he opened the door ’isself an’ shut it
again when I druv off. I don’t remember the last time—but that was the beer.

And you can’t remember the number of the house?

No, sir. But ye needn’t have no difficulty about that. It’s a ’igh ’un with a stone
front with a bow on it, an’ ’igh steps up to the door. I know them steps, ’avin’ ’ad
to carry the boxes up with three loafers what come round to earn a copper. The old
gent give them shillin’s, an’ they seein’ they got so much, they wanted more; but
’e
took one of them by the shoulder and was like to throw ’im down the steps, till the
lot of them went away cussin’. I thought that with this description I could find
the house, so, having paid my friend for his information, I started off for Piccadilly.
I had gained a new painful experience; the Count could, it was evident, handle the
earth-boxes himself. If so, time was precious; for, now that he had achieved a certain
amount of distribution, he could, by choosing his own time, complete the task
unobserved. At Piccadilly Circus I discharged my cab, and walked westward; beyond the
Junior Constitutional I came across the house described, and was satisfied that this
was
the next of the lairs arranged by Dracula. The house looked as though it had been
long
untenanted. The windows were encrusted with dust, and the shutters were up. All the
framework was black with time, and from the iron the paint had mostly scaled away.
It
was evident that up to lately there had been a large notice-board in front of the
balcony; it had, however, been roughly torn away, the uprights which had supported
it
still remaining. Behind the rails of the balcony I saw there were some loose boards,
whose raw edges looked white. I would have given a good deal to have been able to
see
the notice-board intact, as it would, perhaps, have given some clue to the ownership
of
the house. I remembered my experience of the investigation and purchase of Carfax, and I
could not but feel that if I could find the former owner there might be some means
discovered of gaining access to the house.

There was at present nothing to be learned from the Piccadilly side, and nothing could be
done; so I went round to the back to see if anything could be gathered from this
quarter. The mews were active, the Piccadilly houses being mostly in occupation. I asked
one or two of the grooms and helpers whom I saw around if they could tell me anything
about the empty house. One of them said that he heard it had lately been taken, but
he
couldn’t say from whom. He told me, however, that up to very lately there had been
a
notice-board of For Sale up, and that perhaps Mitchell, Sons, &amp; Candy, the
house agents, could tell me something, as he thought he remembered seeing the name
of
that firm on the board. I did not wish to seem too eager, or to let my informant know
or
guess too much, so, thanking him in the usual manner, I strolled away. It was now
growing dusk, and the autumn night was closing in, so I did not lose any time. Having
learned the address of Mitchell, Sons, &amp; Candy from a directory at the Berkeley, I
was soon at their office in Sackville Street.

The gentleman who saw me was particularly suave in manner, but uncommunicative in
equal
proportion. Having once told me that the Piccadilly house—which throughout our interview
he called a mansion—was sold, he considered my business as concluded. When I
asked who had purchased it, he opened his eyes a thought wider, and paused a few seconds
before replying:—

It is sold, sir.

Pardon me, I said, with equal politeness, but I have a special reason for
wishing to know who purchased it.

Again he paused longer, and raised his eyebrows still more. It is sold, sir, was
again his laconic reply.

Surely, I said, you do not mind letting me know so much.

But I do mind, he answered. The affairs of their clients are absolutely safe in
the hands of Mitchell, Sons, &amp; Candy. This was manifestly a prig of the
first water, and there was no use arguing with him. I thought I had best meet him
on his
own ground, so I said:—

Your clients, sir, are happy in having so resolute a guardian of their confidence.
I
am myself a professional man. Here I handed him my card. In this instance I
am not prompted by curiosity; I act on the part of Lord Godalming, who wishes to
know something of the property which was, he understood, lately for sale. These
words put a different complexion on affairs. He said:—

I would like to oblige you if I could, Mr. Harker, and especially would I like to
oblige his lordship. We once carried out a small matter of renting some chambers for
him when he was the Honourable Arthur Holmwood. If you will let me have his
lordship’s address I will consult the House on the subject, and will, in any case,
communicate with his lordship by to-night’s post. It will be a pleasure if we can
so
far deviate from our rules as to give the required information to his lordship.

I wanted to secure a friend, and not to make an enemy, so I thanked him, gave the
address
at Dr. Seward’s and came away. It was now dark, and I was tired and hungry. I got
a cup
of tea at the Aërated Bread Company and came down to Purfleet by the next train.

I found all the others at home. Mina was looking tired and pale, but she made a gallant
effort to be bright and cheerful, it wrung my heart to think that I had had to keep
anything from her and so caused her inquietude. Thank God, this will be the last night
of her looking on at our conferences, and feeling the sting of our not showing our
confidence. It took all my courage to hold to the wise resolution of keeping her out
of
our grim task. She seems somehow more reconciled; or else the very subject seems to
have
become repugnant to her, for when any accidental allusion is made she actually shudders.
I am glad we made our resolution in time, as with such a feeling as this, our growing
knowledge would be torture to her.

I could not tell the others of the day’s discovery till we were alone; so after
dinner—followed by a little music to save appearances even amongst ourselves—I took
Mina
to her room and left her to go to bed. The dear girl was more affectionate with me
than
ever, and clung to me as though she would detain me; but there was much to be talked
of
and I came away. Thank God, the ceasing of telling things has made no difference between
us.

When I came down again I found the others all gathered round the fire in the study.
In
the train I had written my diary so far, and simply read it off to them as the best
means of letting them get abreast of my own information; when I had finished Van Helsing
said:—

This has been a great day’s work, friend Jonathan. Doubtless we are on the track of
the missing boxes. If we find them all in that house, then our work is near the end.
But if there be some missing, we must search until we find them. Then shall we make
our final coup, and hunt the wretch to his real death. We all sat silent awhile
and all at once Mr. Morris spoke:—

Say! how are we going to get into that house?

We got into the other, answered Lord Godalming quickly.

But, Art, this is different. We broke house at Carfax, but we had night and a walled
park to protect us. It will be a mighty different thing to commit burglary in
 Piccadilly, either by day or night. I confess I don’t see how we are going to get in
unless that agency duck can find us a key of some sort; perhaps we shall know when
you get his letter in the morning. Lord Godalming’s brows contracted, and he
stood up and walked about the room. By-and-by he stopped and said, turning from one
to
another of us:—

Quincey’s head is level. This burglary business is getting serious; we got off once
all right; but we have now a rare job on hand—unless we can find the Count’s key
basket.

As nothing could well be done before morning, and as it would be at least advisable
to
wait till Lord Godalming should hear from Mitchell’s, we decided not to take any active
step before breakfast time. For a good while we sat and smoked, discussing the matter
in
its various lights and bearings; I took the opportunity of bringing this diary right
up
to the moment. I am very sleepy and shall go to bed....

Just a line. Mina sleeps soundly and her breathing is regular. Her forehead is puckered
up into little wrinkles, as though she thinks even in her sleep. She is still too
pale,
but does not look so haggard as she did this morning. To-morrow will, I hope, mend
all
this; she will be herself at home in Exeter. Oh, but I am sleepy!

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

1 October.—I am puzzled afresh about Renfield. His moods change so rapidly that I find it
difficult to keep touch of them, and as they always mean something more than his own
well-being, they form a more than interesting study. This morning, when I went to
see
him after his repulse of Van Helsing, his manner was that of a man commanding destiny.
He was, in fact, commanding destiny—subjectively. He did not really care for any of
the
things of mere earth; he was in the clouds and looked down on all the weaknesses and
wants of us poor mortals. I thought I would improve the occasion and learn something,
so
I asked him:—

What about the flies these times? He smiled on me in quite a superior sort of
way—such a smile as would have become the face of Malvolio—as he answered me:—

The fly, my dear sir, has one striking feature; its wings are typical of the aërial
powers of the psychic faculties. The ancients did well when they typified the soul
as a butterfly!

I thought I would push his analogy to its utmost logically, so I said quickly:—

Oh, it is a soul you are after now, is it? His madness foiled his reason, and a
puzzled look spread over his face as, shaking his head with a decision which I had
but
seldom seen in him, he said:—

Oh, no, oh no! I want no souls. Life is all I want. Here he brightened up; I am
pretty indifferent about it at present. Life is all right; I have all I want. You
must get a new patient, doctor, if you wish to study zoöphagy!

This puzzled me a little, so I drew him on:—

Then you command life; you are a god, I suppose? He smiled with an ineffably
benign superiority.

Oh no! Far be it from me to arrogate to myself the attributes of the Deity. I am not
even concerned in His especially spiritual doings. If I may state my intellectual
position I am, so far as concerns things purely terrestrial, somewhat in the
position which Enoch occupied spiritually! This was a poser to me. I could not
at the moment recall Enoch’s appositeness; so I had to ask a simple question, though
I
felt that by so doing I was lowering myself in the eyes of the lunatic:—

And why with Enoch?

Because he walked with God. I could not see the analogy, but did not like to admit
it; so I harked back to what he had denied:—

So you don’t care about life and you don’t want souls. Why not? I put my question
quickly and somewhat sternly, on purpose to disconcert him. The effort succeeded;
for an
instant he unconsciously relapsed into his old servile manner, bent low before me,
and
actually fawned upon me as he replied:—

I don’t want any souls, indeed, indeed! I don’t. I couldn’t use them if I had them;
they would be no manner of use to me. I couldn’t eat them or—— He suddenly
stopped and the old cunning look spread over his face, like a wind-sweep on the surface
of the water. And doctor, as to life, what is it after all? When you’ve got all you
require, and you know that you will never want, that is all. I have friends—good
friends—like you, Dr. Seward; this was said with a leer of inexpressible
cunning. I know that I shall never lack the means of life!

I think that through the cloudiness of his insanity he saw some antagonism in me,
for he
at once fell back on the last refuge of such as he—a dogged silence. After a short
time
I saw that for the present it was useless to speak to him. He was sulky, and so I
came
away.

Later in the day he sent for me. Ordinarily I would not have come without special
reason,
but just at present I am so interested in him that I would gladly make an effort.
Besides, I am glad to have anything to help to pass the time. Harker is out, following
up clues; and so are Lord Godalming and Quincey. Van Helsing sits in my study poring
over the record prepared by the Harkers; he seems to think that by accurate knowledge
of
all details he will light upon some clue. He does not wish to be disturbed in the
work,
without cause. I would have taken him with me to see the patient, only I thought that
after his last repulse he might not care to go again. There was also another reason:
Renfield might not speak so freely before a third person as when he and I were
alone.

I found him sitting out in the middle of the floor on his stool, a pose which is
generally indicative of some mental energy on his part. When I came in, he said at
once,
as though the question had been waiting on his lips:—

What about souls? It was evident then that my surmise had been correct.
Unconscious cerebration was doing its work, even with the lunatic. I determined to
have
the matter out. What about them yourself? I asked. He did not reply for a moment
but looked all round him, and up and down, as though he expected to find some
inspiration for an answer.

I don’t want any souls! he said in a feeble, apologetic way. The matter seemed
preying on his mind, and so I determined to use it—to be cruel only to be kind.
So I said:—

You like life, and you want life?

Oh yes! but that is all right; you needn’t worry about that!

But, I asked, how are we to get the life without getting the soul also?
This seemed to puzzle him, so I followed it up:—

A nice time you’ll have some time when you’re flying out there, with the souls of
thousands of flies and spiders and birds and cats buzzing and twittering and miauing
all round you. You’ve got their lives, you know, and you must put up with their
souls! Something seemed to affect his imagination, for he put his fingers to his
ears and shut his eyes, screwing them up tightly just as a small boy does when his
face
is being soaped. There was something pathetic in it that touched me; it also gave
me a
lesson, for it seemed that before me was a child—only a child, though the features
were
worn, and the stubble on the jaws was white. It was evident that he was undergoing
some
process of mental disturbance, and, knowing how his past moods had interpreted things
seemingly foreign to himself, I thought I would enter into his mind as well as I could
and go with him. The first step was to restore confidence, so I asked him, speaking
pretty loud so that he would hear me through his closed ears:—

Would you like some sugar to get your flies round again? He seemed to wake up all
at once, and shook his head. With a laugh he replied:—

Not much! flies are poor things, after all! After a pause he added, But I don’t
want their souls buzzing round me, all the same.

Or spiders? I went on.

Blow spiders! What’s the use of spiders? There isn’t anything in them to eat or—he
stopped suddenly, as though reminded of a forbidden topic.

So, so! I thought to myself, this is the second time he has suddenly stopped at
the word ‘drink’; what does it mean? Renfield seemed himself aware of having
made a lapse, for he hurried on, as though to distract my attention from it:—

I don’t take any stock at all in such matters. ‘Rats and mice and such small deer,’
as Shakespeare has it, ‘chicken-feed of the larder’ they might be called. I’m past
all that sort of nonsense. You might as well ask a man to eat molecules with a pair
of chop-sticks, as to try to interest me about the lesser carnivora, when I know of
what is before me.

I see, I said. You want big things that you can make your teeth meet in? How
would you like to breakfast on elephant?

What ridiculous nonsense you are talking! He was getting too wide awake, so I
thought I would press him hard. I wonder, I said reflectively, what an
elephant’s soul is like!

The effect I desired was obtained, for he at once fell from his high-horse and became
a
child again.

I don’t want an elephant’s soul, or any soul at all! he said. For a few moments he
sat despondently. Suddenly he jumped to his feet, with his eyes blazing and all the
signs of intense cerebral excitement. To hell with you and your souls! he
shouted. Why do you plague me about souls? Haven’t I got enough to worry, and pain,
and distract me already, without thinking of souls! He looked so hostile that I
thought he was in for another homicidal fit, so I blew my whistle. The instant, however,
that I did so he became calm, and said apologetically:—

Forgive me, Doctor; I forgot myself. You do not need any help. I am so worried in
my
mind that I am apt to be irritable. If you only knew the problem I have to face, and
that I am working out, you would pity, and tolerate, and pardon me. Pray do not put
me in a strait-waistcoat. I want to think and I cannot think freely when my body is
confined. I am sure you will understand! He had evidently self-control; so when
the attendants came I told them not to mind, and they withdrew. Renfield watched them
go; when the door was closed he said, with considerable dignity and sweetness:—

Dr. Seward, you have been very considerate towards me. Believe me that I am very,
very
grateful to you! I thought it well to leave him in this mood, and so I came
away. There is certainly something to ponder over in this man’s state. Several points
seem to make what the American interviewer calls a story, if one could only get
them in proper order. Here they are:—

Will not mention drinking.

Fears the thought of being burdened with the soul of anything.

Has no dread of wanting life in the future.

Despises the meaner forms of life altogether, though he dreads being haunted by their
souls.

Logically all these things point one way! he has assurance of some kind that he will
acquire some higher life. He dreads the consequence—the burden of a soul. Then it
is a
human life he looks to!

And the assurance—?

Merciful God! the Count has been to him, and there is some new scheme of terror
afoot!Later.—I went after my round to Van Helsing and told him my suspicion. He grew
very grave; and, after thinking the matter over for a while asked me to take him to
Renfield. I did so. As we came to the door we heard the lunatic within singing gaily,
as
he used to do in the time which now seems so long ago. When we entered we saw with
amazement that he had spread out his sugar as of old; the flies, lethargic with the
autumn, were beginning to buzz into the room. We tried to make him talk of the subject
of our previous conversation, but he would not attend. He went on with his singing,
just
as though we had not been present. He had got a scrap of paper and was folding it
into a
note-book. We had to come away as ignorant as we went in.

His is a curious case indeed; we must watch him to-night.

Letter, Mitchell, Sons and Candy to Lord Godalming.

"1 October.

"My Lord,

"We are at all times only too happy to meet your wishes. We beg, with regard to the
desire of your Lordship, expressed by Mr. Harker on your behalf, to supply the following
information concerning the sale and purchase of No. 347, Piccadilly. The original
vendors are the executors of the late Mr. Archibald Winter-Suffield. The purchaser
is a
foreign nobleman, Count de Ville, who effected the purchase himself paying the purchase
money in notes ‘over the counter,’ if your Lordship will pardon us using so vulgar
an
expression. Beyond this we know nothing whatever of him.

"We are, my Lord,

"Your Lordship’s humble servants,

Mitchell, Sons &amp; Candy.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

2 October.—I placed a man in the corridor last night, and told him to make an accurate
note of any sound he might hear from Renfield’s room, and gave him instructions that
if
there should be anything strange he was to call me. After dinner, when we had all
gathered round the fire in the study—Mrs. Harker having gone to bed—we discussed the
attempts and discoveries of the day. Harker was the only one who had any result, and
we
are in great hopes that his clue may be an important one.

Before going to bed I went round to the patient’s room and looked in through the
observation trap. He was sleeping soundly, and his heart rose and fell with regular
respiration.

This morning the man on duty reported to me that a little after midnight he was restless
and kept saying his prayers somewhat loudly. I asked him if that was all; he replied
that it was all he heard. There was something about his manner so suspicious that
I
asked him point blank if he had been asleep. He denied sleep, but admitted to having
dozed for a while. It is too bad that men cannot be trusted unless they are
watched.

To-day Harker is out following up his clue, and Art and Quincey are looking after
horses.
Godalming thinks that it will be well to have horses always in readiness, for when
we
get the information which we seek there will be no time to lose. We must sterilise
all
the imported earth between sunrise and sunset; we shall thus catch the Count at his
weakest, and without a refuge to fly to. Van Helsing is off to the British Museum
looking up some authorities on ancient medicine . The old physicians took account of
things which their followers do not accept, and the Professor is searching for witch
and
demon cures which may be useful to us later.

I sometimes think we must be all mad and that we shall wake to sanity in
strait-waistcoats.Later.—We have met again. We seem at last to be on the track, and
our
work of to-morrow may be the beginning of the end. I wonder if Renfield’s quiet has
anything to do with this. His moods have so followed the doings of the Count, that
the
coming destruction of the monster may be carried to him in some subtle way. If we
could
only get some hint as to what passed in his mind, between the time of my argument
with
him to-day and his resumption of fly-catching, it might afford us a valuable clue.
He is
now seemingly quiet for a spell.... Is he?—— That wild yell seemed to come from his
room....The attendant came bursting into my room and told me that Renfield had somehow
met with some accident. He had heard him yell; and when he went to him found him lying
on his face on the floor, all covered with blood. I must go at once....

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-21">CHAPTER XXI</h2>

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY

3 October.—Let me put down with exactness all that happened, as well as I can remember
it, since last I made an entry. Not a detail that I can recall must be forgotten;
in all
calmness I must proceed.

When I came to Renfield’s room I found him lying on the floor on his left side in
a
glittering pool of blood. When I went to move him, it became at once apparent that
he
had received some terrible injuries; there seemed none of that unity of purpose between
the parts of the body which marks even lethargic sanity. As the face was exposed I
could
see that it was horribly bruised, as though it had been beaten against the floor—indeed
it was from the face wounds that the pool of blood originated. The attendant who was
kneeling beside the body said to me as we turned him over:—

I think, sir, his back is broken. See, both his right arm and leg and the whole side
of his face are paralysed. How such a thing could have happened puzzled the
attendant beyond measure. He seemed quite bewildered, and his brows were gathered
in as
he said:—

I can’t understand the two things. He could mark his face like that by beating his
own
head on the floor. I saw a young woman do it once at the Eversfield Asylum before
anyone could lay hands on her. And I suppose he might have broke his neck by falling
out of bed, if he got in an awkward kink. But for the life of me I can’t imagine how
the two things occurred. If his back was broke, he couldn’t beat his head; and if
his face was like that before the fall out of bed, there would be marks of it. I
said to him:—

Go to Dr. Van Helsing, and ask him to kindly come here at once. I want him without
an
instant’s delay. The man ran off, and within a few minutes the Professor, in his
dressing gown and slippers, appeared. When he saw Renfield on the ground, he looked
keenly at him a moment, and then turned to me. I think he recognised my thought in
my
eyes, for he said very quietly, manifestly for the ears of the attendant:—

Ah, a sad accident! He will need very careful watching, and much attention. I shall
stay with you myself; but I shall first dress myself. If you will remain I shall in
a few minutes join you.

The patient was now breathing stertorously and it was easy to see that he had suffered
some terrible injury. Van Helsing returned with extraordinary celerity, bearing with
him
a surgical case. He had evidently been thinking and had his mind made up; for, almost
before he looked at the patient, he whispered to me:—

Send the attendant away. We must be alone with him when he becomes conscious, after
the operation. So I said:—

I think that will do now, Simmons. We have done all that we can at present. You had
better go your round, and Dr. Van Helsing will operate. Let me know instantly if
there be anything unusual anywhere.

The man withdrew, and we went into a strict examination of the patient. The wounds
of the
face was superficial; the real injury was a depressed fracture of the skull, extending
right up through the motor area. The Professor thought a moment and said:—

We must reduce the pressure and get back to normal conditions, as far as can be; the
rapidity of the suffusion shows the terrible nature of his injury. The whole motor
area seems affected. The suffusion of the brain will increase quickly, so we must
trephine at once or it may be too late. As he was speaking there was a soft
tapping at the door. I went over and opened it and found in the corridor without,
Arthur
and Quincey in pajamas and slippers: the former spoke:—

I heard your man call up Dr. Van Helsing and tell him of an accident. So I woke
Quincey or rather called for him as he was not asleep. Things are moving too quickly
and too strangely for sound sleep for any of us these times. I’ve been thinking that
to-morrow night will not see things as they have been. We’ll have to look back—and
forward a little more than we have done. May we come in? I nodded, and held the
door open till they had entered; then I closed it again. When Quincey saw the attitude
and state of the patient, and noted the horrible pool on the floor, he said softly:—

My God! what has happened to him? Poor, poor devil! I told him briefly, and added
that we expected he would recover consciousness after the operation—for a short time,
at
all events. He went at once and sat down on the edge of the bed, with Godalming beside
him; we all watched in patience.

We shall wait, said Van Helsing, just long enough to fix the best spot for
trephining, so that we may most quickly and perfectly remove the blood clot; for it
is evident that the hæmorrhage is increasing.

The minutes during which we waited passed with fearful slowness. I had a horrible
sinking
in my heart, and from Van Helsing’s face I gathered that he felt some fear or
apprehension as to what was to come. I dreaded the words that Renfield might speak.
I
was positively afraid to think; but the conviction of what was coming was on me, as
I
have read of men who have heard the death-watch. The poor man’s breathing came in
uncertain gasps. Each instant he seemed as though he would open his eyes and speak;
but
then would follow a prolonged stertorous breath, and he would relapse into a more
fixed
insensibility. Inured as I was to sick beds and death, this suspense grew, and grew
upon
me. I could almost hear the beating of my own heart; and the blood surging through
my
temples sounded like blows from a hammer. The silence finally became agonising. I
looked
at my companions, one after another, and saw from their flushed faces and damp brows
that they were enduring equal torture. There was a nervous suspense over us all, as
though overhead some dread bell would peal out powerfully when we should least expect
it.

At last there came a time when it was evident that the patient was sinking fast; he
might
die at any moment. I looked up at the Professor and caught his eyes fixed on mine.
His
face was sternly set as he spoke:—

There is no time to lose. His words may be worth many lives; I have been thinking
so,
as I stood here. It may be there is a soul at stake! We shall operate just above the
ear.

Without another word he made the operation. For a few moments the breathing continued
to
be stertorous. Then there came a breath so prolonged that it seemed as though it would
tear open his chest. Suddenly his eyes opened, and became fixed in a wild, helpless
stare. This was continued for a few moments; then it softened into a glad surprise,
and
from the lips came a sigh of relief. He moved convulsively, and as he did so, said:—

I’ll be quiet, Doctor. Tell them to take off the strait-waistcoat. I have had a
terrible dream, and it has left me so weak that I cannot move. What’s wrong with my
face? it feels all swollen, and it smarts dreadfully. He tried to turn his head;
but even with the effort his eyes seemed to grow glassy again so I gently put it back.
Then Van Helsing said in a quiet grave tone:—

Tell us your dream, Mr. Renfield. As he heard the voice his face brightened,
through its mutilation, and he said:—

That is Dr. Van Helsing. How good it is of you to be here. Give me some water, my
lips
are dry; and I shall try to tell you. I dreamed—he stopped and seemed fainting,
I called quietly to Quincey—The brandy—it is in my study—quick! He flew and
returned with a glass, the decanter of brandy and a carafe of water. We moistened
the
parched lips, and the patient quickly revived. It seemed, however, that his poor injured
brain had been working in the interval, for, when he was quite conscious, he looked
at
me piercingly with an agonised confusion which I shall never forget, and said:—

I must not deceive myself; it was no dream, but all a grim reality. Then his eyes
roved round the room; as they caught sight of the two figures sitting patiently on
the
edge of the bed he went on:—

If I were not sure already, I would know from them. For an instant his eyes
closed—not with pain or sleep but voluntarily, as though he were bringing all his
faculties to bear; when he opened them he said, hurriedly, and with more energy than
he
had yet displayed:—

Quick, Doctor, quick. I am dying! I feel that I have but a few minutes; and then I
must go back to death—or worse! Wet my lips with brandy again. I have something that
I must say before I die; or before my poor crushed brain dies anyhow. Thank you! It
was that night after you left me, when I implored you to let me go away. I couldn’t
speak then, for I felt my tongue was tied; but I was as sane then, except in that
way, as I am now. I was in an agony of despair for a long time after you left me;
it
seemed hours. Then there came a sudden peace to me. My brain seemed to become cool
again, and I realised where I was. I heard the dogs bark behind our house, but not
where He was! As he spoke, Van Helsing’s eyes never blinked, but his hand came
out and met mine and gripped it hard. He did not, however, betray himself; he nodded
slightly and said: Go on, in a low voice. Renfield proceeded:—

He came up to the window in the mist, as I had seen him often before; but he was solid
then—not a ghost, and his eyes were fierce like a man’s when angry. He was laughing
with his red mouth; the sharp white teeth glinted in the moonlight when he turned
to
look back over the belt of trees, to where the dogs were barking. I wouldn’t ask him
to come in at first, though I knew he wanted to—just as he had wanted all along.
Then he began promising me things—not in words but by doing them. He was
interrupted by a word from the Professor:—

How?

By making them happen; just as he used to send in the flies when the sun was shining.
Great big fat ones with steel and sapphire on their wings; and big moths, in the
night, with skull and cross-bones on their backs. Van Helsing nodded to him as
he whispered to me unconsciously:—

The Acherontia Aitetropos of the Sphinges—what you call the ‘Death’s-head Moth’?
The patient went on without stopping.

Then he began to whisper: ‘Rats, rats, rats! Hundreds, thousands, millions of them,
and every one a life; and dogs to eat them, and cats too. All lives! all red blood,
with years of life in it; and not merely buzzing flies!’ I laughed at him, for I
wanted to see what he could do. Then the dogs howled, away beyond the dark trees in
His house. He beckoned me to the window. I got up and looked out, and He raised his
hands, and seemed to call out without using any words. A dark mass spread over the
grass, coming on like the shape of a flame of fire; and then He moved the mist to
the right and left, and I could see that there were thousands of rats with their
eyes blazing red—like His, only smaller. He held up his hand, and they all stopped;
and I thought he seemed to be saying: ‘All these lives will I give you, ay, and many
more and greater, through countless ages, if you will fall down and worship me!’ And
then a red cloud, like the colour of blood, seemed to close over my eyes; and before
I knew what I was doing, I found myself opening the sash and saying to Him: ‘Come
in, Lord and Master!’ The rats were all gone, but He slid into the room through the
sash, though it was only open an inch wide—just as the Moon herself has often come
in through the tiniest crack and has stood before me in all her size and
splendour.

His voice was weaker, so I moistened his lips with the brandy again, and he continued;
but it seemed as though his memory had gone on working in the interval for his story
was
further advanced. I was about to call him back to the point, but Van Helsing whispered
to me: Let him go on. Do not interrupt him; he cannot go back, and maybe could not
proceed at all if once he lost the thread of his thought. He proceeded:—

All day I waited to hear from him, but he did not send me anything, not even a
blow-fly, and when the moon got up I was pretty angry with him. When he slid in
through the window, though it was shut, and did not even knock, I got mad with him.
He sneered at me, and his white face looked out of the mist with his red eyes
gleaming, and he went on as though he owned the whole place, and I was no one. He
didn’t even smell the same as he went by me. I couldn’t hold him. I thought that,
somehow, Mrs. Harker had come into the room.

The two men sitting on the bed stood up and came over, standing behind him so that
he
could not see them, but where they could hear better. They were both silent, but the
Professor started and quivered; his face, however, grew grimmer and sterner still.
Renfield went on without noticing:—

When Mrs. Harker came in to see me this afternoon she wasn’t the same; it was like
tea
after the teapot had been watered. Here we all moved, but no one said a word; he
went on:—

I didn’t know that she was here till she spoke; and she didn’t look the same. I don’t
care for the pale people; I like them with lots of blood in them, and hers had all
seemed to have run out. I didn’t think of it at the time; but when she went away I
began to think, and it made me mad to know that He had been taking the life out of
her. I could feel that the rest quivered, as I did, but we remained otherwise
still. So when He came to-night I was ready for Him. I saw the mist stealing in, and
I grabbed it tight. I had heard that madmen have unnatural strength; and as I knew
I
was a madman—at times anyhow—I resolved to use my power. Ay, and He felt it too, for
He had to come out of the mist to struggle with me. I held tight; and I thought I
was going to win, for I didn’t mean Him to take any more of her life, till I saw His
eyes. They burned into me, and my strength became like water. He slipped through it,
and when I tried to cling to Him, He raised me up and flung me down. There was a red
cloud before me, and a noise like thunder, and the mist seemed to steal away under
the door. His voice was becoming fainter and his breath more stertorous. Van
Helsing stood up instinctively.

We know the worst now, he said. He is here, and we know his purpose. It may not
be too late. Let us be armed—the same as we were the other night, but lose no time;
there is not an instant to spare. There was no need to put our fear, nay our
conviction, into words—we shared them in common. We all hurried and took from our
rooms
the same things that we had when we entered the Count’s house. The Professor had his
ready, and as we met in the corridor he pointed to them significantly as he said:—

They never leave me; and they shall not till this unhappy business is over. Be wise
also, my friends. It is no common enemy that we deal with. Alas! alas! that that
dear Madam Mina should suffer! He stopped; his voice was breaking, and I do not
know if rage or terror predominated in my own heart.

Outside the Harkers’ door we paused. Art and Quincey held back, and the latter said:—

Should we disturb her?

We must, said Van Helsing grimly. If the door be locked, I shall break it
in.

May it not frighten her terribly? It is unusual to break into a lady’s room!

Van Helsing said solemnly, You are always right; but this is life and death. All
chambers are alike to the doctor; and even were they not they are all as one to me
to-night. Friend John, when I turn the handle, if the door does not open, do you put
your shoulder down and shove; and you too, my friends. Now!

He turned the handle as he spoke, but the door did not yield. We threw ourselves against
it; with a crash it burst open, and we almost fell headlong into the room. The Professor
did actually fall, and I saw across him as he gathered himself up from hands and knees.
What I saw appalled me. I felt my hair rise like bristles on the back of my neck,
and my
heart seemed to stand still.

The moonlight was so bright that through the thick yellow blind the room was light
enough
to see. On the bed beside the window lay Jonathan Harker, his face flushed and breathing
heavily as though in a stupor. Kneeling on the near edge of the bed facing outwards
was
the white-clad figure of his wife. By her side stood a tall, thin man, clad in black.
His face was turned from us, but the instant we saw we all recognised the Count—in
every
way, even to the scar on his forehead. With his left hand he held both Mrs. Harker’s
hands, keeping them away with her arms at full tension; his right hand gripped her
by
the back of the neck, forcing her face down on his bosom. Her white nightdress was
smeared with blood, and a thin stream trickled down the man’s bare breast which was
shown by his torn-open dress. The attitude of the two had a terrible resemblance to
a
child forcing a kitten’s nose into a saucer of milk to compel it to drink. As we burst
into the room, the Count turned his face, and the hellish look that I had heard
described seemed to leap into it. His eyes flamed red with devilish passion; the great
nostrils of the white aquiline nose opened wide and quivered at the edge; and the
white
sharp teeth, behind the full lips of the blood-dripping mouth, champed together like
those of a wild beast. With a wrench, which threw his victim back upon the bed as
though
hurled from a height, he turned and sprang at us. But by this time the Professor had
gained his feet, and was holding towards him the envelope which contained the Sacred
Wafer. The Count suddenly stopped, just as poor Lucy had done outside the tomb, and
cowered back. Further and further back he cowered, as we, lifting our crucifixes,
advanced. The moonlight suddenly failed, as a great black cloud sailed across the
sky;
and when the gaslight sprang up under Quincey’s match, we saw nothing but a faint
vapour. This, as we looked, trailed under the door, which with the recoil from its
bursting open, had swung back to its old position. Van Helsing, Art, and I moved forward
to Mrs. Harker, who by this time had drawn her breath and with it had given a scream
so
wild, so ear-piercing, so despairing that it seems to me now that it will ring in
my
ears till my dying day. For a few seconds she lay in her helpless attitude and disarray.
Her face was ghastly, with a pallor which was accentuated by the blood which smeared
her
lips and cheeks and chin; from her throat trickled a thin stream of blood; her eyes
were
mad with terror. Then she put before her face her poor crushed hands, which bore on
their whiteness the red mark of the Count’s terrible grip, and from behind them came
a
low desolate wail which made the terrible scream seem only the quick expression of
an
endless grief. Van Helsing stepped forward and drew the coverlet gently over her body,
whilst Art, after looking at her face for an instant despairingly, ran out of the
room.
Van Helsing whispered to me:—

Jonathan is in a stupor such as we know the Vampire can produce. We can do nothing
with poor Madam Mina for a few moments till she recovers herself; I must wake
him! He dipped the end of a towel in cold water and with it began to flick him
on the face, his wife all the while holding her face between her hands and sobbing
in a
way that was heart-breaking to hear. I raised the blind, and looked out of the window.
There was much moonshine; and as I looked I could see Quincey Morris run across the
lawn
and hide himself in the shadow of a great yew-tree. It puzzled me to think why he
was
doing this; but at the instant I heard Harker’s quick exclamation as he woke to partial
consciousness, and turned to the bed. On his face, as there might well be, was a look
of
wild amazement. He seemed dazed for a few seconds, and then full consciousness seemed
to
burst upon him all at once, and he started up. His wife was aroused by the quick
movement, and turned to him with her arms stretched out, as though to embrace him;
instantly, however, she drew them in again, and putting her elbows together, held
her
hands before her face, and shuddered till the bed beneath her shook.

In God’s name what does this mean? Harker cried out. Dr. Seward, Dr. Van
Helsing, what is it? What has happened? What is wrong? Mina, dear, what is it? What
does that blood mean? My God, my God! has it come to this! and, raising himself
to his knees, he beat his hands wildly together. Good God help us! help her! oh, help
her! With a quick movement he jumped from bed, and began to pull on his
clothes,—all the man in him awake at the need for instant exertion. What has
happened? Tell me all about it! he cried without pausing. Dr. Van Helsing,
you love Mina, I know. Oh, do something to save her. It cannot have gone too far
yet. Guard her while I look for him! His wife, through her terror and horror and
distress, saw some sure danger to him: instantly forgetting her own grief, she seized
hold of him and cried out:—

No! no! Jonathan, you must not leave me. I have suffered enough to-night, God knows,
without the dread of his harming you. You must stay with me. Stay with these friends
who will watch over you! Her expression became frantic as she spoke; and, he
yielding to her, she pulled him down sitting on the bed side, and clung to him
fiercely.

Van Helsing and I tried to calm them both. The Professor held up his little golden
crucifix, and said with wonderful calmness:—

Do not fear, my dear. We are here; and whilst this is close to you no foul thing can
approach. You are safe for to-night; and we must be calm and take counsel
together. She shuddered and was silent, holding down her head on her husband’s
breast. When she raised it, his white night-robe was stained with blood where her
lips
had touched, and where the thin open wound in her neck had sent forth drops. The instant
she saw it she drew back, with a low wail, and whispered, amidst choking sobs:—

Unclean, unclean! I must touch him or kiss him no more. Oh, that it should be that
it
is I who am now his worst enemy, and whom he may have most cause to fear. To
this he spoke out resolutely:—

Nonsense, Mina. It is a shame to me to hear such a word. I would not hear it of you;
and I shall not hear it from you. May God judge me by my deserts, and punish me with
more bitter suffering than even this hour, if by any act or will of mine anything
ever come between us! He put out his arms and folded her to his breast; and for
a while she lay there sobbing. He looked at us over her bowed head, with eyes that
blinked damply above his quivering nostrils; his mouth was set as steel. After a while
her sobs became less frequent and more faint, and then he said to me, speaking with
a
studied calmness which I felt tried his nervous power to the utmost:—

And now, Dr. Seward, tell me all about it. Too well I know the broad fact; tell me
all
that has been. I told him exactly what had happened, and he listened with
seeming impassiveness; but his nostrils twitched and his eyes blazed as I told how
the
ruthless hands of the Count had held his wife in that terrible and horrid position,
with
her mouth to the open wound in his breast. It interested me, even at that moment,
to
see, that, whilst the face of white set passion worked convulsively over the bowed
head,
the hands tenderly and lovingly stroked the ruffled hair. Just as I had finished,
Quincey and Godalming knocked at the door. They entered in obedience to our summons.
Van
Helsing looked at me questioningly. I understood him to mean if we were to take
advantage of their coming to divert if possible the thoughts of the unhappy husband
and
wife from each other and from themselves; so on nodding acquiescence to him he asked
them what they had seen or done. To which Lord Godalming answered:—

I could not see him anywhere in the passage, or in any of our rooms. I looked in the
study but, though he had been there, he had gone. He had, however—— He stopped
suddenly, looking at the poor drooping figure on the bed. Van Helsing said gravely:—

Go on, friend Arthur. We want here no more concealments. Our hope now is in knowing
all. Tell freely! So Art went on:—

He had been there, and though it could only have been for a few seconds, he made rare
hay of the place. All the manuscript had been burned, and the blue flames were
flickering amongst the white ashes; the cylinders of your phonograph too were thrown
on the fire, and the wax had helped the flames. Here I interrupted. Thank God
there is the other copy in the safe! His face lit for a moment, but fell again
as he went on: I ran downstairs then, but could see no sign of him. I looked into
Renfield’s room; but there was no trace there except——! Again he paused. Go
on, said Harker hoarsely; so he bowed his head and moistening his lips with his
tongue, added: except that the poor fellow is dead. Mrs. Harker raised her head,
looking from one to the other of us she said solemnly:—

God’s will be done! I could not but feel that Art was keeping back something; but,
as I took it that it was with a purpose, I said nothing. Van Helsing turned to Morris
and asked:—

And you, friend Quincey, have you any to tell?

A little, he answered. It may be much eventually, but at present I can’t say. I
thought it well to know if possible where the Count would go when he left the house.
I did not see him; but I saw a bat rise from Renfield’s window, and flap westward.
I
expected to see him in some shape go back to Carfax; but he evidently sought some
other lair. He will not be back to-night; for the sky is reddening in the east, and
the dawn is close. We must work to-morrow!

He said the latter words through his shut teeth. For a space of perhaps a couple of
minutes there was silence, and I could fancy that I could hear the sound of our hearts
beating; then Van Helsing said, placing his hand very tenderly on Mrs. Harker’s
head:—

And now, Madam Mina—poor, dear, dear Madam Mina—tell us exactly what happened. God
knows that I do not want that you be pained; but it is need that we know all. For
now more than ever has all work to be done quick and sharp, and in deadly earnest.
The day is close to us that must end all, if it may be so; and now is the chance
that we may live and learn.

The poor, dear lady shivered, and I could see the tension of her nerves as she clasped
her husband closer to her and bent her head lower and lower still on his breast. Then
she raised her head proudly, and held out one hand to Van Helsing who took it in his,
and, after stooping and kissing it reverently, held it fast. The other hand was locked
in that of her husband, who held his other arm thrown round her protectingly. After
a
pause in which she was evidently ordering her thoughts, she began:—

I took the sleeping draught which you had so kindly given me, but for a long time
it
did not act. I seemed to become more wakeful, and myriads of horrible fancies began
to crowd in upon my mind—all of them connected with death, and vampires; with blood,
and pain, and trouble. Her husband involuntarily groaned as she turned to him
and said lovingly: "Do not fret, dear. You must be brave and strong, and help me through
the horrible task. If you only knew what an effort it is to me to tell of this fearful
thing at all, you would understand how much I need your help. Well, I saw I must try
to
help the medicine to its work with my will, if it was to do me any good, so I resolutely
set myself to sleep. Sure enough sleep must soon have come to me, for I remember no
more. Jonathan coming in had not waked me, for he lay by my side when next I remember.
There was in the room the same thin white mist that I had before noticed. But I forget
now if you know of this; you will find it in my diary which I shall show you later.
I
felt the same vague terror which had come to me before and the same sense of some
presence. I turned to wake Jonathan, but found that he slept so soundly that it seemed
as if it was he who had taken the sleeping draught, and not I. I tried, but I could
not
wake him. This caused me a great fear, and I looked around terrified. Then indeed,
my
heart sank within me: beside the bed, as if he had stepped out of the mist—or rather
as
if the mist had turned into his figure, for it had entirely disappeared—stood a tall,
thin man, all in black. I knew him at once from the description of the others. The
waxen
face; the high aquiline nose, on which the light fell in a thin white line; the parted
red lips, with the sharp white teeth showing between; and the red eyes that I had
seemed
to see in the sunset on the windows of St. Mary’s Church at Whitby. I knew, too, the red
scar on his forehead where Jonathan had struck him. For an instant my heart stood
still,
and I would have screamed out, only that I was paralysed. In the pause he spoke in
a
sort of keen, cutting whisper, pointing as he spoke to Jonathan:—

‘Silence! If you make a sound I shall take him and dash his brains out before your
very eyes.’ I was appalled and was too bewildered to do or say anything. With a
mocking smile, he placed one hand upon my shoulder and, holding me tight, bared my
throat with the other, saying as he did so, ‘First, a little refreshment to reward
my exertions. You may as well be quiet; it is not the first time, or the second,
that your veins have appeased my thirst!’ I was bewildered, and, strangely enough,
I
did not want to hinder him. I suppose it is a part of the horrible curse that such
is, when his touch is on his victim. And oh, my God, my God, pity me! He placed his
reeking lips upon my throat! Her husband groaned again. She clasped his hand
harder, and looked at him pityingly, as if he were the injured one, and went on:—

I felt my strength fading away, and I was in a half swoon. How long this horrible
thing lasted I know not; but it seemed that a long time must have passed before he
took his foul, awful, sneering mouth away. I saw it drip with the fresh blood!
The remembrance seemed for a while to overpower her, and she drooped and would have
sunk
down but for her husband’s sustaining arm. With a great effort she recovered herself
and
went on:—

Then he spoke to me mockingly, ‘And so you, like the others, would play your brains
against mine. You would help these men to hunt me and frustrate me in my designs!
You know now, and they know in part already, and will know in full before long, what
it is to cross my path. They should have kept their energies for use closer to home.
Whilst they played wits against me—against me who commanded nations, and intrigued
for them, and fought for them, hundreds of years before they were born—I was
countermining them. And you, their best beloved one, are now to me, flesh of my
flesh; blood of my blood; kin of my kin; my bountiful wine-press for a while; and
shall be later on my companion and my helper. You shall be avenged in turn; for not
one of them but shall minister to your needs. But as yet you are to be punished for
what you have done. You have aided in thwarting me; now you shall come to my call.
When my brain says Come! to you, you shall cross land or sea to do my
bidding; and to that end this!’ With that he pulled open his shirt, and with his
long sharp nails opened a vein in his breast. When the blood began to spurt out, he
took my hands in one of his, holding them tight, and with the other seized my neck
and pressed my mouth to the wound, so that I must either suffocate or swallow some
of the—— Oh my God! my God! what have I done? What have I done to deserve such a
fate, I who have tried to walk in meekness and righteousness all my days. God pity
me! Look down on a poor soul in worse than mortal peril; and in mercy pity those to
whom she is dear! Then she began to rub her lips as though to cleanse them from
pollution.

As she was telling her terrible story, the eastern sky began to quicken, and everything
became more and more clear. Harker was still and quiet; but over his face, as the
awful
narrative went on, came a grey look which deepened and deepened in the morning light,
till when the first red streak of the coming dawn shot up, the flesh stood darkly
out
against the whitening hair.

We have arranged that one of us is to stay within call of the unhappy pair till we
can
meet together and arrange about taking action.

Of this I am sure: the sun rises to-day on no more miserable house in all the great
round
of its daily course.

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-22">CHAPTER XXII</h2>

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

3 October.—As I must do something or go mad, I write this diary. It is now six o’clock,
and we are to meet in the study in half an hour and take something to eat; for Dr.
Van
Helsing and Dr. Seward are agreed that if we do not eat we cannot work our best. Our
best will be, God knows, required to-day. I must keep writing at every chance, for
I
dare not stop to think. All, big and little, must go down; perhaps at the end the
little
things may teach us most. The teaching, big or little, could not have landed Mina
or me
anywhere worse than we are to-day. However, we must trust and hope. Poor Mina told
me
just now, with the tears running down her dear cheeks, that it is in trouble and trial
that our faith is tested—that we must keep on trusting; and that God will aid us up
to
the end. The end! oh my God! what end?... To work! To work!

When Dr. Van Helsing and Dr. Seward had come back from seeing poor Renfield, we went
gravely into what was to be done. First, Dr. Seward told us that when he and Dr. Van
Helsing had gone down to the room below they had found Renfield lying on the floor,
all
in a heap. His face was all bruised and crushed in, and the bones of the neck were
broken.

Dr. Seward asked the attendant who was on duty in the passage if he had heard anything.
He said that he had been sitting down—he confessed to half dozing—when he heard loud
voices in the room, and then Renfield had called out loudly several times, God! God!
God! after that there was a sound of falling, and when he entered the room he
found him lying on the floor, face down, just as the doctors had seen him. Van Helsing
asked if he had heard voices or a voice, and he said he could not say;
that at first it had seemed to him as if there were two, but as there was no one in
the
room it could have been only one. He could swear to it, if required, that the word
God was spoken by the patient. Dr. Seward said to us, when we were alone,
that he did not wish to go into the matter; the question of an inquest had to be
considered, and it would never do to put forward the truth, as no one would believe
it.
As it was, he thought that on the attendant’s evidence he could give a certificate
of
death by misadventure in falling from bed. In case the coroner should demand it, there
would be a formal inquest, necessarily to the same result.

When the question began to be discussed as to what should be our next step, the very
first thing we decided was that Mina should be in full confidence; that nothing of
any
sort—no matter how painful—should be kept from her. She herself agreed as to its wisdom,
and it was pitiful to see her so brave and yet so sorrowful, and in such a depth of
despair. There must be no concealment, she said, Alas! we have had too much
already. And besides there is nothing in all the world that can give me more pain
than I have already endured—than I suffer now! Whatever may happen, it must be of
new hope or of new courage to me! Van Helsing was looking at her fixedly as she
spoke, and said, suddenly but quietly:—

But dear Madam Mina, are you not afraid; not for yourself, but for others from
yourself, after what has happened? Her face grew set in its lines, but her eyes
shone with the devotion of a martyr as she answered:—

Ah no! for my mind is made up!

To what? he asked gently, whilst we were all very still; for each in our own way
we had a sort of vague idea of what she meant. Her answer came with direct simplicity,
as though she were simply stating a fact:—

Because if I find in myself—and I shall watch keenly for it—a sign of harm to any
that I love, I shall die!

You would not kill yourself? he asked, hoarsely.

I would; if there were no friend who loved me, who would save me such a pain, and
so
desperate an effort! She looked at him meaningly as she spoke. He was sitting
down; but now he rose and came close to her and put his hand on her head as he said
solemnly:

My child, there is such an one if it were for your good. For myself I could hold it
in
my account with God to find such an euthanasia for you, even at this moment if it
were best. Nay, were it safe! But my child—— For a moment he seemed choked, and
a great sob rose in his throat; he gulped it down and went on:—

There are here some who would stand between you and death. You must not die. You must
not die by any hand; but least of all by your own. Until the other, who has fouled
your sweet life, is true dead you must not die; for if he is still with the quick
Un-Dead, your death would make you even as he is. No, you must live! You must
struggle and strive to live, though death would seem a boon unspeakable. You must
fight Death himself, though he come to you in pain or in joy; by the day, or the
night; in safety or in peril! On your living soul I charge you that you do not
die—nay, nor think of death—till this great evil be past. The poor dear grew
white as death, and shock and shivered, as I have seen a quicksand shake and shiver
at
the incoming of the tide. We were all silent; we could do nothing. At length she grew
more calm and turning to him said, sweetly, but oh! so sorrowfully, as she held out
her
hand:—

I promise you, my dear friend, that if God will let me live, I shall strive to do
so;
till, if it may be in His good time, this horror may have passed away from me.
She was so good and brave that we all felt that our hearts were strengthened to work
and
endure for her, and we began to discuss what we were to do. I told her that she was
to
have all the papers in the safe, and all the papers or diaries and phonographs we might
hereafter use; and was to keep the record as she had done before. She was pleased
with
the prospect of anything to do—if pleased could be used in connection with so
grim an interest.

As usual Van Helsing had thought ahead of everyone else, and was prepared with an
exact
ordering of our work.

It is perhaps well, he said, that at our meeting after our visit to Carfax we
decided not to do anything with the earth-boxes that lay there. Had we done so, the
Count must have guessed our purpose, and would doubtless have taken measures in
advance to frustrate such an effort with regard to the others; but now he does not
know our intentions. Nay, more, in all probability, he does not know that such a
power exists to us as can sterilise his lairs, so that he cannot use them as of old.
We are now so much further advanced in our knowledge as to their disposition that,
when we have examined the house in Piccadilly, we may track the very last of them.
To-day, then, is ours; and in it rests our hope. The sun that rose on our sorrow
this morning guards us in its course. Until it sets to-night, that monster must
retain whatever form he now has. He is confined within the limitations of his
earthly envelope. He cannot melt into thin air nor disappear through cracks or
chinks or crannies. If he go through a doorway, he must open the door like a mortal.
And so we have this day to hunt out all his lairs and sterilise them. So we shall,
if we have not yet catch him and destroy him, drive him to bay in some place where
the catching and the destroying shall be, in time, sure. Here I started up for I
could not contain myself at the thought that the minutes and seconds so preciously
laden
with Mina’s life and happiness were flying from us, since whilst we talked action
was
impossible. But Van Helsing held up his hand warningly. Nay, friend Jonathan, he
said, in this, the quickest way home is the longest way, so your proverb say. We
shall all act and act with desperate quick, when the time has come. But think, in
all probable the key of the situation is in that house in Piccadilly. The Count may
have many houses which he has bought. Of them he will have deeds of purchase, keys
and other things. He will have paper that he write on; he will have his book of
cheques. There are many belongings that he must have somewhere; why not in this
place so central, so quiet, where he come and go by the front or the back at all
hour, when in the very vast of the traffic there is none to notice. We shall go
there and search that house; and when we learn what it holds, then we do what our
friend Arthur call, in his phrases of hunt ‘stop the earths’ and so we run down our
old fox—so? is it not?

Then let us come at once, I cried, we are wasting the precious, precious
time! The Professor did not move, but simply said:—

And how are we to get into that house in Piccadilly?

Any way! I cried. We shall break in if need be.

And your police; where will they be, and what will they say?

I was staggered; but I knew that if he wished to delay he had a good reason for it.
So I
said, as quietly as I could:—

Don’t wait more than need be; you know, I am sure, what torture I am in.

Ah, my child, that I do; and indeed there is no wish of me to add to your anguish.
But
just think, what can we do, until all the world be at movement. Then will come our
time. I have thought and thought, and it seems to me that the simplest way is the
best of all. Now we wish to get into the house, but we have no key; is it not
so? I nodded.

Now suppose that you were, in truth, the owner of that house, and could not still
get
it; and think there was to you no conscience of the housebreaker, what would you
do?

I should get a respectable locksmith, and set him to work to pick the lock for
me.

And your police, they would interfere, would they not?

Oh, no! not if they knew the man was properly employed.

Then, he looked at me as keenly as he spoke, all that is in doubt is the
conscience of the employer, and the belief of your policemen as to whether or no
that employer has a good conscience or a bad one. Your police must indeed be zealous
men and clever—oh, so clever!—in reading the heart, that they trouble themselves in
such matter. No, no, my friend Jonathan, you go take the lock off a hundred empty
house in this your London, or of any city in the world; and if you do it as such
things are rightly done, and at the time such things are rightly done, no one will
interfere. I have read of a gentleman who owned a so fine house in London, and when
he went for months of summer to Switzerland and lock up his house, some burglar came
and broke window at back and got in. Then he went and made open the shutters in
front and walk out and in through the door, before the very eyes of the police. Then
he have an auction in that house, and advertise it, and put up big notice; and when
the day come he sell off by a great auctioneer all the goods of that other man who
own them. Then he go to a builder, and he sell him that house, making an agreement
that he pull it down and take all away within a certain time. And your police and
other authority help him all they can. And when that owner come back from his
holiday in Switzerland he find only an empty hole where his house had been. This was
all done en règle; and in our work we shall be en règle too. We shall not go so
early that the policemen who have then little to think of, shall deem it strange;
but we shall go after ten o’clock, when there are many about, and such things would
be done were we indeed owners of the house.

I could not but see how right he was and the terrible despair of Mina’s face became
relaxed a thought; there was hope in such good counsel. Van Helsing went on:—

When once within that house we may find more clues; at any rate some of us can remain
there whilst the rest find the other places where there be more earth-boxes—at
Bermondsey and Mile End.

Lord Godalming stood up. I can be of some use here, he said. I shall wire to my
people to have horses and carriages where they will be most convenient.

Look here, old fellow, said Morris, it is a capital idea to have all ready in
case we want to go horsebacking; but don’t you think that one of your snappy
 carriages with its heraldic adornments in a byway of Walworth or Mile End would
attract too much attention for our purposes? It seems to me that we ought to take
cabs when we go south or east; and even leave them somewhere near the neighbourhood
we are going to.

Friend Quincey is right! said the Professor. His head is what you call in plane
with the horizon. It is a difficult thing that we go to do, and we do not want no
peoples to watch us if so it may.

Mina took a growing interest in everything and I was rejoiced to see that the exigency
of
affairs was helping her to forget for a time the terrible experience of the night.
She
was very, very pale—almost ghastly, and so thin that her lips were drawn away, showing
her teeth in somewhat of prominence. I did not mention this last, lest it should give
her needless pain; but it made my blood run cold in my veins to think of what had
occurred with poor Lucy when the Count had sucked her blood. As yet there was no sign
of
the teeth growing sharper; but the time as yet was short, and there was time for
fear.

When we came to the discussion of the sequence of our efforts and of the disposition
of
our forces, there were new sources of doubt. It was finally agreed that before starting
for Piccadilly we should destroy the Count’s lair close at hand. In case he should find
it out too soon, we should thus be still ahead of him in our work of destruction;
and
his presence in his purely material shape, and at his weakest, might give us some
new
clue.

As to the disposal of forces, it was suggested by the Professor that, after our visit
to
Carfax, we should all enter the house in Piccadilly; that the two doctors and I should
remain there, whilst Lord Godalming and Quincey found the lairs at Walworth and Mile End
and destroyed them. It was possible, if not likely, the Professor urged, that the
Count
might appear in Piccadilly during the day, and that if so we might be able to cope with
him then and there. At any rate, we might be able to follow him in force. To this
plan I
strenuously objected, and so far as my going was concerned, for I said that I intended
to stay and protect Mina, I thought that my mind was made up on the subject; but Mina
would not listen to my objection. She said that there might be some law matter in
which
I could be useful; that amongst the Count’s papers might be some clue which I could
understand out of my experience in Transylvania; and that, as it was, all the strength
we could muster was required to cope with the Count’s extraordinary power. I had to
give
in, for Mina’s resolution was fixed; she said that it was the last hope for her that
we
should all work together. As for me, she said, I have no fear. Things have
been as bad as they can be; and whatever may happen must have in it some element of
hope or comfort. Go, my husband! God can, if He wishes it, guard me as well alone
as
with any one present. So I started up crying out: Then in God’s name let us
come at once, for we are losing time. The Count may come to Piccadilly earlier than
we think.

Not so! said Van Helsing, holding up his hand.

But why? I asked.

Do you forget, he said, with actually a smile, that last night he banqueted
heavily, and will sleep late?

Did I forget! shall I ever—can I ever! Can any of us ever forget that terrible scene!
Mina struggled hard to keep her brave countenance; but the pain overmastered her and
she
put her hands before her face, and shuddered whilst she moaned. Van Helsing had not
intended to recall her frightful experience. He had simply lost sight of her and her
part in the affair in his intellectual effort. When it struck him what he said, he
was
horrified at his thoughtlessness and tried to comfort her. Oh, Madam Mina, he
said, dear, dear Madam Mina, alas! that I of all who so reverence you should have
said anything so forgetful. These stupid old lips of mine and this stupid old head
do not deserve so; but you will forget it, will you not? He bent low beside her
as he spoke; she took his hand, and looking at him through her tears, said
hoarsely:—

No, I shall not forget, for it is well that I remember; and with it I have so much
in
memory of you that is sweet, that I take it all together. Now, you must all be going
soon. Breakfast is ready, and we must all eat that we may be strong.

Breakfast was a strange meal to us all. We tried to be cheerful and encourage each
other,
and Mina was the brightest and most cheerful of us. When it was over, Van Helsing
stood
up and said:—

Now, my dear friends, we go forth to our terrible enterprise. Are we all armed, as
we
were on that night when first we visited our enemy’s lair; armed against ghostly as
well as carnal attack? We all assured him. Then it is well. Now, Madam Mina,
you are in any case quite safe here until the sunset; and before then we shall
return—if—— We shall return! But before we go let me see you armed against personal
attack. I have myself, since you came down, prepared your chamber by the placing of
things of which we know, so that He may not enter. Now let me guard yourself. On
your forehead I touch this piece of Sacred Wafer in the name of the Father, the Son,
and——

There was a fearful scream which almost froze our hearts to hear. As he had placed
the
Wafer on Mina’s forehead, it had seared it—had burned into the flesh as though it
had
been a piece of white-hot metal. My poor darling’s brain had told her the significance
of the fact as quickly as her nerves received the pain of it; and the two so overwhelmed
her that her overwrought nature had its voice in that dreadful scream. But the words
to
her thought came quickly; the echo of the scream had not ceased to ring on the air
when
there came the reaction, and she sank on her knees on the floor in an agony of
abasement. Pulling her beautiful hair over her face, as the leper of old his mantle,
she
wailed out:—

Unclean! Unclean! Even the Almighty shuns my polluted flesh! I must bear this mark
of
shame upon my forehead until the Judgment Day. They all paused. I had thrown
myself beside her in an agony of helpless grief, and putting my arms around held her
tight. For a few minutes our sorrowful hearts beat together, whilst the friends around
us turned away their eyes that ran tears silently. Then Van Helsing turned and said
gravely; so gravely that I could not help feeling that he was in some way inspired,
and
was stating things outside himself:—

It may be that you may have to bear that mark till God himself see fit, as He most
surely shall, on the Judgment Day, to redress all wrongs of the earth and of His
children that He has placed thereon. And oh, Madam Mina, my dear, my dear, may we
who love you be there to see, when that red scar, the sign of God’s knowledge of
what has been, shall pass away, and leave your forehead as pure as the heart we
know. For so surely as we live, that scar shall pass away when God sees right to
lift the burden that is hard upon us. Till then we bear our Cross, as His Son did
in
obedience to His Will. It may be that we are chosen instruments of His good
pleasure, and that we ascend to His bidding as that other through stripes and shame;
through tears and blood; through doubts and fears, and all that makes the difference
between God and man.

There was hope in his words, and comfort; and they made for resignation. Mina and
I both
felt so, and simultaneously we each took one of the old man’s hands and bent over
and
kissed it. Then without a word we all knelt down together, and, all holding hands,
swore
to be true to each other. We men pledged ourselves to raise the veil of sorrow from
the
head of her whom, each in his own way, we loved; and we prayed for help and guidance
in
the terrible task which lay before us.

It was then time to start. So I said farewell to Mina, a parting which neither of
us
shall forget to our dying day; and we set out.

To one thing I have made up my mind: if we find out that Mina must be a vampire in
the
end, then she shall not go into that unknown and terrible land alone. I suppose it
is
thus that in old times one vampire meant many; just as their hideous bodies could
only
rest in sacred earth, so the holiest love was the recruiting sergeant for their ghastly
ranks.

We entered Carfax without trouble and found all things the same as on the first occasion.
It was hard to believe that amongst so prosaic surroundings of neglect and dust and
decay there was any ground for such fear as already we knew. Had not our minds been
made
up, and had there not been terrible memories to spur us on, we could hardly have
proceeded with our task. We found no papers, or any sign of use in the house; and
in the
old chapel the great boxes looked just as we had seen them last. Dr. Van Helsing said
to
us solemnly as we stood before them:—

And now, my friends, we have a duty here to do. We must sterilise this earth, so
sacred of holy memories, that he has brought from a far distant land for such fell
use. He has chosen this earth because it has been holy. Thus we defeat him with his
own weapon, for we make it more holy still. It was sanctified to such use of man,
now we sanctify it to God. As he spoke he took from his bag a screwdriver and a
wrench, and very soon the top of one of the cases was thrown open. The earth smelled
musty and close; but we did not somehow seem to mind, for our attention was concentrated
on the Professor. Taking from his box a piece of the Sacred Wafer he laid it reverently
on the earth, and then shutting down the lid began to screw it home, we aiding him
as he
worked.

One by one we treated in the same way each of the great boxes, and left them as we
had
found them to all appearance; but in each was a portion of the Host.

When we closed the door behind us, the Professor said solemnly:—

So much is already done. If it may be that with all the others we can be so
successful, then the sunset of this evening may shine on Madam Mina’s forehead all
white as ivory and with no stain!

As we passed across the lawn on our way to the station to catch our train we could see
the front of the asylum. I looked eagerly, and in the window of my own room saw Mina. I
waved my hand to her, and nodded to tell that our work there was successfully
accomplished. She nodded in reply to show that she understood. The last I saw, she
was
waving her hand in farewell. It was with a heavy heart that we sought the station
and
just caught the train, which was steaming in as we reached the platform.

I have written this in the train.Piccadilly, 12:30 o’clock.—Just before we reached
Fenchurch Street Lord Godalming said to me:—

Quincey and I will find a locksmith. You had better not come with us in case there
should be any difficulty; for under the circumstances it wouldn’t seem so bad for
us
to break into an empty house. But you are a solicitor and the Incorporated Law
Society might tell you that you should have known better. I demurred as to my
not sharing any danger even of odium, but he went on: Besides, it will attract less
attention if there are not too many of us. My title will make it all right with the
locksmith, and with any policeman that may come along. You had better go with Jack
and the Professor and stay in the Green Park, somewhere in sight of the house; and
when you see the door opened and the smith has gone away, do you all come across.
We
shall be on the lookout for you, and shall let you in.

The advice is good! said Van Helsing, so we said no more. Godalming and Morris
hurried off in a cab, we following in another. At the corner of Arlington Street our
contingent got out and strolled into the Green Park. My heart beat as I saw the house
on
which so much of our hope was centred, looming up grim and silent in its deserted
condition amongst its more lively and spruce-looking neighbours. We sat down on a
bench
within good view, and began to smoke cigars so as to attract as little attention as
possible. The minutes seemed to pass with leaden feet as we waited for the coming
of the
others.

At length we saw a four-wheeler drive up. Out of it, in leisurely fashion, got Lord
Godalming and Morris; and down from the box descended a thick-set working man with
his
rush-woven basket of tools. Morris paid the cabman, who touched his hat and drove
away.
Together the two ascended the steps, and Lord Godalming pointed out what he wanted
done.
The workman took off his coat leisurely and hung it on one of the spikes of the rail,
saying something to a policeman who just then sauntered along. The policeman nodded
acquiescence, and the man kneeling down placed his bag beside him. After searching
through it, he took out a selection of tools which he produced to lay beside him in
orderly fashion. Then he stood up, looked into the keyhole, blew into it, and turning
to
his employers, made some remark. Lord Godalming smiled, and the man lifted a good-sized
bunch of keys; selecting one of them, he began to probe the lock, as if feeling his
way
with it. After fumbling about for a bit he tried a second, and then a third. All at
once
the door opened under a slight push from him, and he and the two others entered the
hall. We sat still; my own cigar burnt furiously, but Van Helsing’s went cold
altogether. We waited patiently as we saw the workman come out and bring in his bag.
Then he held the door partly open, steadying it with his knees, whilst he fitted a
key
to the lock. This he finally handed to Lord Godalming, who took out his purse and
gave
him something. The man touched his hat, took his bag, put on his coat and departed;
not
a soul took the slightest notice of the whole transaction.

When the man had fairly gone, we three crossed the street and knocked at the door.
It was
immediately opened by Quincey Morris, beside whom stood Lord Godalming lighting a
cigar.

The place smells so vilely, said the latter as we came in. It did indeed smell
vilely—like the old chapel at Carfax—and with our previous experience it was plain to us
that the Count had been using the place pretty freely. We moved to explore the house,
all keeping together in case of attack; for we knew we had a strong and wily enemy
to
deal with, and as yet we did not know whether the Count might not be in the house.
In
the dining-room, which lay at the back of the hall, we found eight boxes of earth.
Eight
boxes only out of the nine, which we sought! Our work was not over, and would never
be
until we should have found the missing box. First we opened the shutters of the window
which looked out across a narrow stone-flagged yard at the blank face of a stable,
pointed to look like the front of a miniature house. There were no windows in it,
so we
were not afraid of being over-looked. We did not lose any time in examining the chests.
With the tools which we had brought with us we opened them, one by one, and treated
them
as we had treated those others in the old chapel. It was evident to us that the Count
was not at present in the house, and we proceeded to search for any of his effects.

After a cursory glance at the rest of the rooms, from basement to attic, we came to
the
conclusion that the dining-room contained any effects which might belong to the Count;
and so we proceeded to minutely examine them. They lay in a sort of orderly disorder
on
the great dining-room table. There were title deeds of the Piccadilly house in a great
bundle; deeds of the purchase of the houses at Mile End and Bermondsey; note-paper,
envelopes, and pens and ink. All were covered up in thin wrapping paper to keep them
from the dust. There were also a clothes brush, a brush and comb, and a jug and
basin—the latter containing dirty water which was reddened as if with blood. Last
of all
was a little heap of keys of all sorts and sizes, probably those belonging to the
other
houses. When we had examined this last find, Lord Godalming and Quincey Morris taking
accurate notes of the various addresses of the houses in the East and the South, took
with them the keys in a great bunch, and set out to destroy the boxes in these places.
The rest of us are, with what patience we can, waiting their return—or the coming
of the
Count.

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-23">CHAPTER XXIII</h2>

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY

3 October.—The time seemed terrible long whilst we were waiting for the coming of
Godalming and Quincey Morris. The Professor tried to keep our minds active by using
them
all the time. I could see his beneficent purpose, by the side glances which he threw
from time to time at Harker. The poor fellow is overwhelmed in a misery that is
appalling to see. Last night he was a frank, happy-looking man, with strong, youthful
face, full of energy, and with dark brown hair. To-day he is a drawn, haggard old
man,
whose white hair matches well with the hollow burning eyes and grief-written lines
of
his face. His energy is still intact; in fact, he is like a living flame. This may
yet
be his salvation, for, if all go well, it will tide him over the despairing period;
he
will then, in a kind of way, wake again to the realities of life. Poor fellow, I thought
my own trouble was bad enough, but his——! The Professor knows this well enough, and
is
doing his best to keep his mind active. What he has been saying was, under the
circumstances, of absorbing interest. So well as I can remember, here it is:—

I have studied, over and over again since they came into my hands, all the papers
relating to this monster; and the more I have studied, the greater seems the
necessity to utterly stamp him out. All through there are signs of his advance; not
only of his power, but of his knowledge of it. As I learned from the researches of
my friend Arminus of Buda-Pesth, he was in life a most wonderful man. Soldier,
statesman, and alchemist—which latter was the highest development of the
science-knowledge of his time. He had a mighty brain, a learning beyond compare, and
a heart that knew no fear and no remorse. He dared even to attend the Scholomance,
and there was no branch of knowledge of his time that he did not essay. Well, in him
the brain powers survived the physical death; though it would seem that memory was
not all complete. In some faculties of mind he has been, and is, only a child; but
he is growing, and some things that were childish at the first are now of man’s
stature. He is experimenting, and doing it well; and if it had not been that we have
crossed his path he would be yet—he may be yet if we fail—the father or furtherer
of
a new order of beings, whose road must lead through Death, not Life.

Harker groaned and said, And this is all arrayed against my darling! But how is he
experimenting? The knowledge may help us to defeat him!

He has all along, since his coming, been trying his power, slowly but surely; that
big child-brain of his is working. Well for us, it is, as yet, a child-brain; for
had he dared, at the first, to attempt certain things he would long ago have been
beyond our power. However, he means to succeed, and a man who has centuries before
him can afford to wait and to go slow. Festina lente may well be his motto.

I fail to understand, said Harker wearily. Oh, do be more plain to me! Perhaps
grief and trouble are dulling my brain.

The Professor laid his hand tenderly on his shoulder as he spoke:—

Ah, my child, I will be plain. Do you not see how, of late, this monster has been
creeping into knowledge experimentally. How he has been making use of the zoöphagous
patient to effect his entry into friend John’s home; for your Vampire, though in all
afterwards he can come when and how he will, must at the first make entry only when
asked thereto by an inmate. But these are not his most important experiments. Do we
not see how at the first all these so great boxes were moved by others. He knew not
then but that must be so. But all the time that so great child-brain of his was
growing, and he began to consider whether he might not himself move the box. So he
began to help; and then, when he found that this be all-right, he try to move them
all alone. And so he progress, and he scatter these graves of him; and none but he
know where they are hidden. He may have intend to bury them deep in the ground. So
that he only use them in the night, or at such time as he can change his form, they
do him equal well; and none may know these are his hiding-place! But, my child, do
not despair; this knowledge come to him just too late! Already all of his lairs but
one be sterilise as for him; and before the sunset this shall be so. Then he have
no
place where he can move and hide. I delayed this morning that so we might be sure.
Is there not more at stake for us than for him? Then why we not be even more careful
than him? By my clock it is one hour and already, if all be well, friend Arthur and
Quincey are on their way to us. To-day is our day, and we must go sure, if slow, and
lose no chance. See! there are five of us when those absent ones return.

Whilst he was speaking we were startled by a knock at the hall door, the double postman’s
knock of the telegraph boy. We all moved out to the hall with one impulse, and Van
Helsing, holding up his hand to us to keep silence, stepped to the door and opened
it.
The boy handed in a despatch. The Professor closed the door again, and, after looking
at
the direction, opened it and read aloud.

Look out for D. He has just now, 12:45, come from Carfax hurriedly and hastened
towards the South. He seems to be going the round and may want to see you: Mina.

There was a pause, broken by Jonathan Harker’s voice:—

Now, God be thanked, we shall soon meet! Van Helsing turned to him quickly and
said:—

God will act in His own way and time. Do not fear, and do not rejoice as yet; for
what we wish for at the moment may be our undoings.

I care for nothing now, he answered hotly, except to wipe out this brute from
the face of creation. I would sell my soul to do it!

Oh, hush, hush, my child! said Van Helsing. God does not purchase souls in this
wise; and the Devil, though he may purchase, does not keep faith. But God is
merciful and just, and knows your pain and your devotion to that dear Madam Mina.
Think you, how her pain would be doubled, did she but hear your wild words. Do not
fear any of us, we are all devoted to this cause, and to-day shall see the end. The
time is coming for action; to-day this Vampire is limit to the powers of man, and
till sunset he may not change. It will take him time to arrive here—see, it is
twenty minutes past one—and there are yet some times before he can hither come, be
he never so quick. What we must hope for is that my Lord Arthur and Quincey arrive
first.

About half an hour after we had received Mrs. Harker’s telegram , there came a quiet,
resolute knock at the hall door. It was just an ordinary knock, such as is given hourly
by thousands of gentlemen, but it made the Professor’s heart and mine beat loudly.
We
looked at each other, and together moved out into the hall; we each held ready to
use
our various armaments—the spiritual in the left hand, the mortal in the right. Van
Helsing pulled back the latch, and, holding the door half open, stood back, having
both
hands ready for action. The gladness of our hearts must have shown upon our faces
when
on the step, close to the door, we saw Lord Godalming and Quincey Morris. They came
quickly in and closed the door behind them, the former saying, as they moved along
the
hall:—

It is all right. We found both places; six boxes in each and we destroyed them
all!

Destroyed? asked the Professor.

For him! We were silent for a minute, and then Quincey said:—

There’s nothing to do but to wait here. If, however, he doesn’t turn up by five
o’clock, we must start off; for it won’t do to leave Mrs. Harker alone after
sunset.

He will be here before long now, said Van Helsing, who had been consulting his
pocket-book. Nota bene, in Madam’s telegram he went south from Carfax, that means he
went to cross the river, and he could only do so at slack of tide, which should be
something before one o’clock. That he went south has a meaning for us. He is as yet
only suspicious; and he went from Carfax first to the place where he would suspect
interference least. You must have been at Bermondsey only a short time before him.
That he is not here already shows that he went to Mile End next. This took him some
time; for he would then have to be carried over the river in some way. Believe me,
my friends, we shall not have long to wait now. We should have ready some plan of
attack, so that we may throw away no chance. Hush, there is no time now. Have all
your arms! Be ready! He held up a warning hand as he spoke, for we all could
hear a key softly inserted in the lock of the hall door.

I could not but admire, even at such a moment, the way in which a dominant spirit
asserted itself. In all our hunting parties and adventures in different parts of the
world, Quincey Morris had always been the one to arrange the plan of action, and Arthur
and I had been accustomed to obey him implicitly. Now, the old habit seemed to be
renewed instinctively. With a swift glance around the room, he at once laid out our
plan
of attack, and, without speaking a word, with a gesture, placed us each in position.
Van
Helsing, Harker, and I were just behind the door, so that when it was opened the
Professor could guard it whilst we two stepped between the incomer and the door.
Godalming behind and Quincey in front stood just out of sight ready to move in front
of
the window. We waited in a suspense that made the seconds pass with nightmare slowness.
The slow, careful steps came along the hall; the Count was evidently prepared for
some
surprise—at least he feared it.

Suddenly with a single bound he leaped into the room, winning a way past us before
any of
us could raise a hand to stay him. There was something so panther-like in the
movement—something so unhuman, that it seemed to sober us all from the shock of his
coming. The first to act was Harker, who, with a quick movement, threw himself before
the door leading into the room in the front of the house. As the Count saw us, a
horrible sort of snarl passed over his face, showing the eye-teeth long and pointed;
but
the evil smile as quickly passed into a cold stare of lion-like disdain. His expression
again changed as, with a single impulse, we all advanced upon him. It was a pity that
we
had not some better organised plan of attack, for even at the moment I wondered what
we
were to do. I did not myself know whether our lethal weapons would avail us anything.
Harker evidently meant to try the matter, for he had ready his great Kukri knife and
made a fierce and sudden cut at him. The blow was a powerful one; only the diabolical
quickness of the Count’s leap back saved him. A second less and the trenchant blade
had
shorne through his heart. As it was, the point just cut the cloth of his coat, making
a
wide gap whence a bundle of bank-notes and a stream of gold fell out. The expression
of
the Count’s face was so hellish, that for a moment I feared for Harker, though I saw
him
throw the terrible knife aloft again for another stroke. Instinctively I moved forward
with a protective impulse, holding the Crucifix and Wafer in my left hand. I felt
a
mighty power fly along my arm; and it was without surprise that I saw the monster
cower
back before a similar movement made spontaneously by each one of us. It would be
impossible to describe the expression of hate and baffled malignity—of anger and hellish
rage—which came over the Count’s face. His waxen hue became greenish-yellow by the
contrast of his burning eyes, and the red scar on the forehead showed on the pallid
skin
like a palpitating wound. The next instant, with a sinuous dive he swept under Harker’s
arm, ere his blow could fall, and, grasping a handful of the money from the floor,
dashed across the room, threw himself at the window. Amid the crash and glitter of
the
falling glass, he tumbled into the flagged area below. Through the sound of the
shivering glass I could hear the ting of the gold, as some of the sovereigns fell
on the flagging.

We ran over and saw him spring unhurt from the ground. He, rushing up the steps, crossed
the flagged yard, and pushed open the stable door. There he turned and spoke to us:—

You think to baffle me, you—with your pale faces all in a row, like sheep in a
butcher’s. You shall be sorry yet, each one of you! You think you have left me
without a place to rest; but I have more. My revenge is just begun! I spread it over
centuries, and time is on my side. Your girls that you all love are mine already;
and through them you and others shall yet be mine—my creatures, to do my bidding and
to be my jackals when I want to feed. Bah! With a contemptuous sneer, he passed
quickly through the door, and we heard the rusty bolt creak as he fastened it behind
him. A door beyond opened and shut. The first of us to speak was the Professor, as,
realising the difficulty of following him through the stable, we moved toward the
hall.

We have learnt something—much! Notwithstanding his brave words, he fears us; he fear
time, he fear want! For if not, why he hurry so? His very tone betray him, or my
ears deceive. Why take that money? You follow quick. You are hunters of wild beast,
and understand it so. For me, I make sure that nothing here may be of use to him,
if
so that he return. As he spoke he put the money remaining into his pocket; took
the title-deeds in the bundle as Harker had left them, and swept the remaining things
into the open fireplace, where he set fire to them with a match.

Godalming and Morris had rushed out into the yard, and Harker had lowered himself
from
the window to follow the Count. He had, however, bolted the stable door; and by the
time
they had forced it open there was no sign of him. Van Helsing and I tried to make
inquiry at the back of the house; but the mews was deserted and no one had seen him
depart.

It was now late in the afternoon, and sunset was not far off. We had to recognise
that
our game was up; with heavy hearts we agreed with the Professor when he said:—

Let us go back to Madam Mina—poor, poor dear Madam Mina. All we can do just now is
done; and we can there, at least, protect her. But we need not despair. There is but
one more earth-box, and we must try to find it; when that is done all may yet be
well. I could see that he spoke as bravely as he could to comfort Harker. The
poor fellow was quite broken down; now and again he gave a low groan which he could
not
suppress—he was thinking of his wife.

With sad hearts we came back to my house, where we found Mrs. Harker waiting us, with
an
appearance of cheerfulness which did honour to her bravery and unselfishness. When
she
saw our faces, her own became as pale as death: for a second or two her eyes were
closed
as if she were in secret prayer; and then she said cheerfully:—

I can never thank you all enough. Oh, my poor darling! As she spoke, she took her
husband’s grey head in her hands and kissed it—Lay your poor head here and rest it.
All will yet be well, dear! God will protect us if He so will it in His good
intent. The poor fellow groaned. There was no place for words in his sublime
misery.

We had a sort of perfunctory supper together, and I think it cheered us all up somewhat.
It was, perhaps, the mere animal heat of food to hungry people—for none of us had
eaten
anything since breakfast—or the sense of companionship may have helped us; but anyhow
we
were all less miserable, and saw the morrow as not altogether without hope. True to
our
promise, we told Mrs. Harker everything which had passed; and although she grew snowy
white at times when danger had seemed to threaten her husband, and red at others when
his devotion to her was manifested, she listened bravely and with calmness. When we
came
to the part where Harker had rushed at the Count so recklessly, she clung to her
husband’s arm, and held it tight as though her clinging could protect him from any
harm
that might come. She said nothing, however, till the narration was all done, and matters
had been brought right up to the present time. Then without letting go her husband’s
hand she stood up amongst us and spoke. Oh, that I could give any idea of the scene;
of
that sweet, sweet, good, good woman in all the radiant beauty of her youth and
animation, with the red scar on her forehead, of which she was conscious, and which
we
saw with grinding of our teeth—remembering whence and how it came; her loving kindness
against our grim hate; her tender faith against all our fears and doubting; and we,
knowing that so far as symbols went, she with all her goodness and purity and faith,
was
outcast from God.

Jonathan, she said, and the word sounded like music on her lips it was so full of
love and tenderness, Jonathan dear, and you all my true, true friends, I want you
to
bear something in mind through all this dreadful time. I know that you must
fight—that you must destroy even as you destroyed the false Lucy so that the true
Lucy might live hereafter; but it is not a work of hate. That poor soul who has
wrought all this misery is the saddest case of all. Just think what will be his joy
when he, too, is destroyed in his worser part that his better part may have
spiritual immortality. You must be pitiful to him, too, though it may not hold your
hands from his destruction.

As she spoke I could see her husband’s face darken and draw together, as though the
passion in him were shrivelling his being to its core. Instinctively the clasp on
his
wife’s hand grew closer, till his knuckles looked white. She did not flinch from the
pain which I knew she must have suffered, but looked at him with eyes that were more
appealing than ever. As she stopped speaking he leaped to his feet, almost tearing
his
hand from hers as he spoke:—

May God give him into my hand just for long enough to destroy that earthly life of
him which we are aiming at. If beyond it I could send his soul for ever and ever to
burning hell I would do it!

Oh, hush! oh, hush! in the name of the good God. Don’t say such things, Jonathan,
my
husband; or you will crush me with fear and horror. Just think, my dear—I have been
thinking all this long, long day of it—that ... perhaps ... some day ... I, too, may
need such pity; and that some other like you—and with equal cause for anger—may deny
it to me! Oh, my husband! my husband, indeed I would have spared you such a thought
had there been another way; but I pray that God may not have treasured your wild
words, except as the heart-broken wail of a very loving and sorely stricken man. Oh,
God, let these poor white hairs go in evidence of what he has suffered, who all his
life has done no wrong, and on whom so many sorrows have come.

We men were all in tears now. There was no resisting them, and we wept openly. She
wept,
too, to see that her sweeter counsels had prevailed. Her husband flung himself on
his
knees beside her, and putting his arms round her, hid his face in the folds of her
dress. Van Helsing beckoned to us and we stole out of the room, leaving the two loving
hearts alone with their God.

Before they retired the Professor fixed up the room against any coming of the Vampire,
and assured Mrs. Harker that she might rest in peace. She tried to school herself
to the
belief, and, manifestly for her husband’s sake, tried to seem content. It was a brave
struggle; and was, I think and believe, not without its reward. Van Helsing had placed
at hand a bell which either of them was to sound in case of any emergency. When they
had
retired, Quincey, Godalming, and I arranged that we should sit up, dividing the night
between us, and watch over the safety of the poor stricken lady. The first watch falls
to Quincey, so the rest of us shall be off to bed as soon as we can. Godalming has
already turned in, for his is the second watch. Now that my work is done I, too, shall
go to bed.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

3-4 October, close to midnight.—I thought yesterday would never end. There was over me a
yearning for sleep, in some sort of blind belief that to wake would be to find things
changed, and that any change must now be for the better. Before we parted, we discussed
what our next step was to be, but we could arrive at no result. All we knew was that
one
earth-box remained, and that the Count alone knew where it was. If he chooses to lie
hidden, he may baffle us for years; and in the meantime!—the thought is too horrible,
I
dare not think of it even now. This I know: that if ever there was a woman who was
all
perfection, that one is my poor wronged darling. I love her a thousand times more
for
her sweet pity of last night, a pity that made my own hate of the monster seem
despicable. Surely God will not permit the world to be the poorer by the loss of such
a
creature. This is hope to me. We are all drifting reefwards now, and faith is our
only
anchor. Thank God! Mina is sleeping, and sleeping without dreams. I fear what her
dreams
might be like, with such terrible memories to ground them in. She has not been so
calm,
within my seeing, since the sunset. Then, for a while, there came over her face a
repose
which was like spring after the blasts of March. I thought at the time that it was
the
softness of the red sunset on her face, but somehow now I think it has a deeper meaning.
I am not sleepy myself, though I am weary—weary to death. However, I must try to sleep;
for there is to-morrow to think of, and there is no rest for me until....Later.—I
must
have fallen asleep, for I was awaked by Mina, who was sitting up in bed, with a startled
look on her face. I could see easily, for we did not leave the room in darkness; she
had
placed a warning hand over my mouth, and now she whispered in my ear:—

Hush! there is someone in the corridor! I got up softly, and crossing the room,
gently opened the door.

Just outside, stretched on a mattress, lay Mr. Morris, wide awake. He raised a warning
hand for silence as he whispered to me:—

Hush! go back to bed; it is all right. One of us will be here all night. We don’t
mean to take any chances!

His look and gesture forbade discussion, so I came back and told Mina. She sighed
and
positively a shadow of a smile stole over her poor, pale face as she put her arms
round
me and said softly:—

Oh, thank God for good brave men! With a sigh she sank back again to sleep. I
write this now as I am not sleepy, though I must try again.4 October, morning.—Once
again during the night I was wakened by Mina. This time we had all had a good sleep,
for
the grey of the coming dawn was making the windows into sharp oblongs, and the gas
flame
was like a speck rather than a disc of light. She said to me hurriedly:—

Go, call the Professor. I want to see him at once.

Why? I asked.

I have an idea. I suppose it must have come in the night, and matured without my
knowing it. He must hypnotise me before the dawn, and then I shall be able to speak.
Go quick, dearest; the time is getting close. I went to the door. Dr. Seward was
resting on the mattress, and, seeing me, he sprang to his feet.

Is anything wrong? he asked, in alarm.

No, I replied; but Mina wants to see Dr. Van Helsing at once.

I will go, he said, and hurried into the Professor’s room.

In two or three minutes later Van Helsing was in the room in his dressing-gown, and
Mr.
Morris and Lord Godalming were with Dr. Seward at the door asking questions. When
the
Professor saw Mina a smile—a positive smile ousted the anxiety of his face; he rubbed
his hands as he said:—

Oh, my dear Madam Mina, this is indeed a change. See! friend Jonathan, we have got
our
dear Madam Mina, as of old, back to us to-day! Then turning to her, he said,
cheerfully: And what am I do for you? For at this hour you do not want me for
nothings.

I want you to hypnotise me! she said. Do it before the dawn, for I feel that
then I can speak, and speak freely. Be quick, for the time is short! Without a
word he motioned her to sit up in bed.

Looking fixedly at her, he commenced to make passes in front of her, from over the
top of
her head downward, with each hand in turn. Mina gazed at him fixedly for a few minutes,
during which my own heart beat like a trip hammer, for I felt that some crisis was
at
hand. Gradually her eyes closed, and she sat, stock still; only by the gentle heaving
of
her bosom could one know that she was alive. The Professor made a few more passes
and
then stopped, and I could see that his forehead was covered with great beads of
perspiration. Mina opened her eyes; but she did not seem the same woman. There was
a
far-away look in her eyes, and her voice had a sad dreaminess which was new to me.
Raising his hand to impose silence, the Professor motioned to me to bring the others
in.
They came on tip-toe, closing the door behind them, and stood at the foot of the bed,
looking on. Mina appeared not to see them. The stillness was broken by Van Helsing’s
voice speaking in a low level tone which would not break the current of her
thoughts:—

Where are you? The answer came in a neutral way:—

I do not know. Sleep has no place it can call its own. For several minutes there
was silence. Mina sat rigid, and the Professor stood staring at her fixedly; the rest
of
us hardly dared to breathe. The room was growing lighter; without taking his eyes
from
Mina’s face, Dr. Van Helsing motioned me to pull up the blind. I did so, and the day
seemed just upon us. A red streak shot up, and a rosy light seemed to diffuse itself
through the room. On the instant the Professor spoke again:—

Where are you now? The answer came dreamily, but with intention; it were as though
she were interpreting something. I have heard her use the same tone when reading her
shorthand notes.

I do not know. It is all strange to me!

What do you see?

I can see nothing; it is all dark.

What do you hear? I could detect the s train in the Professor’s patient voice.

The lapping of water. It is gurgling by, and little waves leap. I can hear them on
the outside.

Then you are on a ship? We all looked at each other, trying to glean something
each from the other. We were afraid to think. The answer came quick:—

Oh, yes!

What else do you hear?

The sound of men stamping overhead as they run about. There is the creaking of a
chain, and the loud tinkle as the check of the capstan falls into the rachet.

What are you doing?

I am still—oh, so still. It is like death! The voice faded away into a deep breath
as of one sleeping, and the open eyes closed again.

By this time the sun had risen, and we were all in the full light of day. Dr. Van
Helsing
placed his hands on Mina’s shoulders, and laid her head down softly on her pillow.
She
lay like a sleeping child for a few moments, and then, with a long sigh, awoke and
stared in wonder to see us all around her. Have I been talking in my sleep? was
all she said. She seemed, however, to know the situation without telling, though she
was
eager to know what she had told. The Professor repeated the conversation, and she
said:—

Then there is not a moment to lose: it may not be yet too late! Mr. Morris and
Lord Godalming started for the door but the Professor’s calm voice called them
back:—

Stay, my friends. That ship, wherever it was, was weighing anchor whilst she spoke.
There are many ships weighing anchor at the moment in your so great Port of London.
Which of them is it that you seek? God be thanked that we have once again a clue,
though whither it may lead us we know not. We have been blind somewhat; blind after
the manner of men, since when we can look back we see what we might have seen
looking forward if we had been able to see what we might have seen! Alas, but that
sentence is a puddle; is it not? We can know now what was in the Count’s mind, when
he seize that money, though Jonathan’s so fierce knife put him in the danger that
even he dread. He meant escape. Hear me, ESCAPE! He saw that with but one earth-box
left, and a pack of men following like dogs after a fox, this London was no place
for him. He have take his last earth-box on board a ship, and he leave the land. He
think to escape, but no! we follow him. Tally Ho! as friend Arthur would say when
he
put on his red frock! Our old fox is wily; oh! so wily, and we must follow with
wile. I, too, am wily and I think his mind in a little while. In meantime we may
rest and in peace, for there are waters between us which he do not want to pass, and
which he could not if he would—unless the ship were to touch the land, and then only
at full or slack tide. See, and the sun is just rose, and all day to sunset is to
us. Let us take bath, and dress, and have breakfast which we all need, and which we
can eat comfortably since he be not in the same land with us. Mina looked at him
appealingly as she asked:—

But why need we seek him further, when he is gone away from us? He took her hand
and patted it as he replied:—

Ask me nothings as yet. When we have breakfast, then I answer all questions. He
would say no more, and we separated to dress.

After breakfast Mina repeated her question. He looked at her gravely for a minute
and
then said sorrowfully:—

Because my dear, dear Madam Mina, now more than ever must we find him even if we have
to follow him to the jaws of Hell! She grew paler as she asked faintly:—

Why?

Because, he answered solemnly, he can live for centuries, and you are but
mortal woman. Time is now to be dreaded—since once he put that mark upon your
throat.

I was just in time to catch her as she fell forward in a faint.

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-24">CHAPTER XXIV</h2>

DR. SEWARD’S PHONOGRAPH DIARY, SPOKEN BY VAN HELSING

THIS to Jonathan Harker.

You are to stay with your dear Madam Mina. We shall go to make our search—if I can
call
it so, for it is not search but knowing, and we seek confirmation only. But do you
stay
and take care of her to-day. This is your best and most holiest office. This day nothing
can find him here. Let me tell you that so you will know what we four know already,
for
I have tell them. He, our enemy, have gone away; he have gone back to his Castle in
Transylvania. I know it so well, as if a great hand of fire wrote it on the wall. He
have prepare for this in some way, and that last earth-box was ready to ship somewheres.
For this he took the money; for this he hurry at the last, lest we catch him before
the
sun go down. It was his last hope, save that he might hide in the tomb that he think
poor Miss Lucy, being as he thought like him, keep open to him. But there was not
of
time. When that fail he make straight for his last resource—his last earth-work I
might
say did I wish double entente. He is clever, oh, so clever! he know that his game
here
was finish; and so he decide he go back home. He find ship going by the route he came,
and he go in it. We go off now to find what ship, and whither bound; when we have
discover that, we come back and tell you all. Then we will comfort you and poor dear
Madam Mina with new hope. For it will be hope when you think it over: that all is
not
lost. This very creature that we pursue, he take hundreds of years to get so far as
London; and yet in one day, when we know of the disposal of him we drive him out. He is
finite, though he is powerful to do much harm and suffers not as we do. But we are
strong, each in our purpose; and we are all more strong together. Take heart afresh,
dear husband of Madam Mina. This battle is but begun, and in the end we shall win—so
sure as that God sits on high to watch over His children. Therefore be of much comfort
till we return.

Van Helsing.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

4 October.—When I read to Mina, Van Helsing’s message in the phonograph, the poor girl
brightened up considerably. Already the certainty that the Count is out of the country
has given her comfort; and comfort is strength to her. For my own part, now that his
horrible danger is not face to face with us, it seems almost impossible to believe
in
it. Even my own terrible experiences in Castle Dracula seem like a long-forgotten dream.
Here in the crisp autumn air in the bright sunlight——

Alas! how can I disbelieve! In the midst of my thought my eye fell on the red scar
on my
poor darling’s white forehead. Whilst that lasts, there can be no disbelief. And
afterwards the very memory of it will keep faith crystal clear. Mina and I fear to
be
idle, so we have been over all the diaries again and again. Somehow, although the
reality seems greater each time, the pain and the fear seem less. There is something
of
a guiding purpose manifest throughout, which is comforting. Mina says that perhaps
we
are the instruments of ultimate good. It may be! I shall try to think as she does.
We
have never spoken to each other yet of the future. It is better to wait till we see
the
Professor and the others after their investigations.

The day is running by more quickly than I ever thought a day could run for me again.
It
is now three o’clock.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

5 October, 5 p. m.—Our meeting for report. Present: Professor Van Helsing, Lord
Godalming, Dr. Seward, Mr. Quincey Morris, Jonathan Harker, Mina Harker.

Dr. Van Helsing described what steps were taken during the day to discover on what
boat
and whither bound Count Dracula made his escape:—

"As I knew that he wanted to get back to Transylvania, I felt sure that he must go by the
Danube mouth; or by somewhere in the Black Sea, since by that way he come. It was
a
dreary blank that was before us. Omne ignotum pro magnifico; and so with heavy hearts
we
start to find what ships leave for the Black Sea last night. He was in sailing ship,
since Madam Mina tell of sails being set. These not so important as to go in your
list
of the shipping in the Times, and so we go, by suggestion of Lord Godalming, to your
Lloyd’s, where are note of all ships that sail, however so small. There we find that
only one Black-Sea-bound ship go out with the tide. She is the Czarina Catherine, and
she sail from Doolittle’s Wharf for Varna, and thence on to other parts and up the
Danube. ‘Soh!’ said I, ‘this is the ship whereon is the Count.’ So off we go to
Doolittle’s Wharf, and there we find a man in an office of wood so small that the
man
look bigger than the office. From him we inquire of the goings of the Czarina Catherine.
He swear much, and he red face and loud of voice, but he good fellow all the same;
and
when Quincey give him something from his pocket which crackle as he roll it up, and
put
it in a so small bag which he have hid deep in his clothing, he still better fellow
and
humble servant to us. He come with us, and ask many men who are rough and hot; these
be
better fellows too when they have been no more thirsty. They say much of blood and
bloom, and of others which I comprehend not, though I guess what they mean; but
nevertheless they tell us all things which we want to know.

"They make known to us among them, how last afternoon at about five o’clock comes
a man
so hurry. A tall man, thin and pale, with high nose and teeth so white, and eyes that
seem to be burning. That he be all in black, except that he have a hat of straw which
suit not him or the time. That he scatter his money in making quick inquiry as to
what
ship sails for the Black Sea and for where. Some took him to the office and then to
the
ship, where he will not go aboard but halt at shore end of gang-plank, and ask that
the
captain come to him. The captain come, when told that he will be pay well; and though
he
swear much at the first he agree to term. Then the thin man go and some one tell him
where horse and cart can be hired. He go there and soon he come again, himself driving
cart on which a great box; this he himself lift down, though it take several to put
it
on truck for the ship. He give much talk to captain as to how and where his box is
to be
place; but the captain like it not and swear at him in many tongues, and tell him
that
if he like he can come and see where it shall be. But he say ‘no’; that he come not
yet,
for that he have much to do. Whereupon the captain tell him that he had better be
quick—with blood—for that his ship will leave the place—of blood—before the turn of
the
tide—with blood. Then the thin man smile and say that of course he must go when he
think
fit; but he will be surprise if he go quite so soon. The captain swear again, polyglot,
and the thin man make him bow, and thank him, and say that he will so far intrude
on his
kindness as to come aboard before the sailing. Final the captain, more red than ever,
and in more tongues tell him that he doesn’t want no Frenchmen—with bloom upon them
and
also with blood—in his ship—with blood on her also. And so, after asking where there
might be close at hand a ship where he might purchase ship forms, he departed.

"No one knew where he went ‘or bloomin’ well cared,’ as they said, for they had something
else to think of—well with blood again; for it soon became apparent to all that the
Czarina Catherine would not sail as was expected. A thin mist began to creep up from the
river, and it grew, and grew; till soon a dense fog enveloped the ship and all around
her. The captain swore polyglot—very polyglot—polyglot with bloom and blood; but he
could do nothing. The water rose and rose; and he began to fear that he would lose
the
tide altogether. He was in no friendly mood, when just at full tide, the thin man
came
up the gang-plank again and asked to see where his box had been stowed. Then the captain
replied that he wished that he and his box—old and with much bloom and blood—were
in
hell. But the thin man did not be offend, and went down with the mate and saw where
it
was place, and came up and stood awhile on deck in fog. He must have come off by
himself, for none notice him. Indeed they thought not of him; for soon the fog begin
to
melt away, and all was clear again. My friends of the thirst and the language that
was
of bloom and blood laughed, as they told how the captain’s swears exceeded even his
usual polyglot, and was more than ever full of picturesque, when on questioning other
mariners who were on movement up and down on the river that hour, he found that few
of
them had seen any of fog at all, except where it lay round the wharf. However, the
ship
went out on the ebb tide; and was doubtless by morning far down the river mouth. She
was
by then, when they told us, well out to sea.

And so, my dear Madam Mina, it is that we have to rest for a time, for our enemy is
on the sea, with the fog at his command, on his way to the Danube mouth. To sail a
ship takes time, go she never so quick; and when we start we go on land more quick,
and we meet him there. Our best hope is to come on him when in the box between
sunrise and sunset; for then he can make no struggle, and we may deal with him as
we
should. There are days for us, in which we can make ready our plan. We know all
about where he go; for we have seen the owner of the ship, who have shown us
invoices and all papers that can be. The box we seek is to be landed in Varna, and
to be given to an agent, one Ristics who will there present his credentials; and so
our merchant friend will have done his part. When he ask if there be any wrong, for
that so, he can telegraph and have inquiry made at Varna, we say ‘no’; for what is
to be done is not for police or of the customs. It must be done by us alone and in
our own way.

When Dr. Van Helsing had done speaking, I asked him if he were certain that the Count
had
remained on board the ship. He replied: We have the best proof of that: your own
evidence, when in the hypnotic trance this morning. I asked him again if it were
really necessary that they should pursue the Count, for oh! I dread Jonathan leaving
me,
and I know that he would surely go if the others went. He answered in growing passion,
at first quietly. As he went on, however, he grew more angry and more forceful, till
in
the end we could not but see wherein was at least some of that personal dominance
which
made him so long a master amongst men:—

Yes, it is necessary—necessary—necessary! For your sake in the first, and then for
the
sake of humanity. This monster has done much harm already, in the narrow scope where
he find himself, and in the short time when as yet he was only as a body groping his
so small measure in darkness and not knowing. All this have I told these others;
you, my dear Madam Mina, will learn it in the phonograph of my friend John, or in
that of your husband. I have told them how the measure of leaving his own barren
land—barren of peoples—and coming to a new land where life of man teems till they
are like the multitude of standing corn, was the work of centuries. Were another of
the Un-Dead, like him, to try to do what he has done, perhaps not all the centuries
of the world that have been, or that will be, could aid him. With this one, all the
forces of nature that are occult and deep and strong must have worked together in
some wondrous way. The very place, where he have been alive, Un-Dead for all these
centuries, is full of strangeness of the geologic and chemical world. There are deep
caverns and fissures that reach none know whither. There have been volcanoes, some
of whose openings still send out waters of strange properties, and gases that kill
or make to vivify. Doubtless, there is something magnetic or electric in some of
these combinations of occult forces which work for physical life in strange way; and
in himself were from the first some great qualities. In a hard and warlike time he
was celebrate that he have more iron nerve, more subtle brain, more braver heart,
than any man. In him some vital principle have in strange way found their utmost;
and as his body keep strong and grow and thrive, so his brain grow too. All this
without that diabolic aid which is surely to him; for it have to yield to the powers
that come from, and are, symbolic of good. And now this is what he is to us. He have
infect you—oh, forgive me, my dear, that I must say such; but it is for good of you
that I speak. He infect you in such wise, that even if he do no more, you have only
to live—to live in your own old, sweet way; and so in time, death, which is of man’s
common lot and with God’s sanction, shall make you like to him. This must not be!
We
have sworn together that it must not. Thus are we ministers of God’s own wish: that
the world, and men for whom His Son die, will not be given over to monsters, whose
very existence would defame Him. He have allowed us to redeem one soul already, and
we go out as the old knights of the Cross to redeem more. Like them we shall travel
towards the sunrise; and like them, if we fall, we fall in good cause. He paused
and I said:—

But will not the Count take his rebuff wisely? Since he has been driven from England,
will he not avoid it, as a tiger does the village from which he has been hunted?

Aha! he said, your simile of the tiger good, for me, and I shall adopt him.
Your man-eater, as they of India call the tiger who has once tasted blood of the
human, care no more for the other prey, but prowl unceasing till he get him. This
that we hunt from our village is a tiger, too, a man-eater, and he never cease to
prowl. Nay, in himself he is not one to retire and stay afar. In his life, his
living life, he go over the Turkey frontier and attack his enemy on his own ground;
he be beaten back, but did he stay? No! He come again, and again, and again. Look
at
his persistence and endurance. With the child-brain that was to him he have long
since conceive the idea of coming to a great city. What does he do? He find out the
place of all the world most of promise for him. Then he deliberately set himself
down to prepare for the task. He find in patience just how is his strength, and what
are his powers. He study new tongues. He learn new social life; new environment of
old ways, the politic, the law, the finance, the science, the habit of a new land
and a new people who have come to be since he was. His glimpse that he have had,
whet his appetite only and enkeen his desire. Nay, it help him to grow as to his
brain; for it all prove to him how right he was at the first in his surmises. He
have done this alone; all alone! from a ruin tomb in a forgotten land. What more may
he not do when the greater world of thought is open to him. He that can smile at
death, as we know him; who can flourish in the midst of diseases that kill off whole
peoples. Oh, if such an one was to come from God, and not the Devil, what a force
for good might he not be in this old world of ours. But we are pledged to set the
world free. Our toil must be in silence, and our efforts all in secret; for in this
enlightened age, when men believe not even what they see, the doubting of wise men
would be his greatest strength. It would be at once his sheath and his armour, and
his weapons to destroy us, his enemies, who are willing to peril even our own souls
for the safety of one we love—for the good of mankind, and for the honour and glory
of God.

After a general discussion it was determined that for to-night nothing be definitely
settled; that we should all sleep on the facts, and try to think out the proper
conclusions. To-morrow, at breakfast, we are to meet again, and, after making our
conclusions known to one another, we shall decide on some definite cause of action.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I feel a wonderful peace and rest to-night. It is as if some haunting presence were
removed from me. Perhaps ...

My surmise was not finished, could not be; for I caught sight in the mirror of the
red
mark upon my forehead; and I knew that I was still unclean.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

5 October.—We all rose early, and I think that sleep did much for each and all of us.
When we met at early breakfast there was more general cheerfulness than any of us
had
ever expected to experience again.

It is really wonderful how much resilience there is in human nature. Let any obstructing
cause, no matter what, be removed in any way—even by death—and we fly back to first
principles of hope and enjoyment. More than once as we sat around the table, my eyes
opened in wonder whether the whole of the past days had not been a dream. It was only
when I caught sight of the red blotch on Mrs. Harker’s forehead that I was brought
back
to reality. Even now, when I am gravely revolving the matter, it is almost impossible
to
realise that the cause of all our trouble is still existent. Even Mrs. Harker seems
to
lose sight of her trouble for whole spells; it is only now and again, when something
recalls it to her mind, that she thinks of her terrible scar. We are to meet here
in my
study in half an hour and decide on our course of action. I see only one immediate
difficulty, I know it by instinct rather than reason: we shall all have to speak
frankly; and yet I fear that in some mysterious way poor Mrs. Harker’s tongue is tied.
I
know that she forms conclusions of her own, and from all that has been I can guess
how
brilliant and how true they must be; but she will not, or cannot, give them utterance.
I
have mentioned this to Van Helsing, and he and I are to talk it over when we are alone.
I suppose it is some of that horrid poison which has got into her veins beginning
to
work. The Count had his own purposes when he gave her what Van Helsing called the
Vampire’s baptism of blood. Well, there may be a poison that distils itself out
of good things; in an age when the existence of ptomaines is a mystery we should not
wonder at anything! One thing I know: that if my instinct be true regarding poor Mrs.
Harker’s silences, then there is a terrible difficulty—an unknown danger—in the work
before us. The same power that compels her silence may compel her speech. I dare not
think further; for so I should in my thoughts dishonour a noble woman!

Van Helsing is coming to my study a little before the others. I shall try to open
the
subject with him.Later.—When the Professor came in, we talked over the state of things.
I could see that he had something on his mind which he wanted to say, but felt some
hesitancy about broaching the subject. After beating about the bush a little, he said
suddenly:—

Friend John, there is something that you and I must talk of alone, just at the first
at any rate. Later, we may have to take the others into our confidence; then he
stopped, so I waited; he went on:—

Madam Mina, our poor, dear Madam Mina is changing. A cold shiver ran through me to
find my worst fears thus endorsed. Van Helsing continued:—

With the sad experience of Miss Lucy, we must this time be warned before things go
too
far. Our task is now in reality more difficult than ever, and this new trouble makes
every hour of the direst importance. I can see the characteristics of the vampire
coming in her face. It is now but very, very slight; but it is to be seen if we have
eyes to notice without to prejudge. Her teeth are some sharper, and at times her
eyes are more hard. But these are not all, there is to her the silence now often;
as
so it was with Miss Lucy. She did not speak, even when she wrote that which she
wished to be known later. Now my fear is this. If it be that she can, by our
hypnotic trance, tell what the Count see and hear, is it not more true that he who
have hypnotise her first, and who have drink of her very blood and make her drink
of
his, should, if he will, compel her mind to disclose to him that which she know?
I nodded acquiescence; he went on:—

Then, what we must do is to prevent this; we must keep her ignorant of our intent,
and
so she cannot tell what she know not. This is a painful task! Oh, so painful that
it
heart-break me to think of; but it must be. When to-day we meet, I must tell her
that for reason which we will not to speak she must not more be of our council, but
be simply guarded by us. He wiped his forehead, which had broken out in profuse
perspiration at the thought of the pain which he might have to inflict upon the poor
soul already so tortured. I knew that it would be some sort of comfort to him if I
told
him that I also had come to the same conclusion; for at any rate it would take away
the
pain of doubt. I told him, and the effect was as I expected.

It is now close to the time of our general gathering. Van Helsing has gone away to
prepare for the meeting, and his painful part of it. I really believe his purpose
is to
be able to pray alone.Later.—At the very outset of our meeting a great personal relief
was experienced by both Van Helsing and myself. Mrs. Harker had sent a message by
her
husband to say that she would not join us at present, as she thought it better that
we
should be free to discuss our movements without her presence to embarrass us. The
Professor and I looked at each other for an instant, and somehow we both seemed
relieved. For my own part, I thought that if Mrs. Harker realised the danger herself,
it
was much pain as well as much danger averted. Under the circumstances we agreed, by
a
questioning look and answer, with finger on lip, to preserve silence in our suspicions,
until we should have been able to confer alone again. We went at once into our Plan
of
Campaign. Van Helsing roughly put the facts before us first:—

The Czarina Catherine left the Thames yesterday morning. It will take her at the
quickest speed she has ever made at least three weeks to reach Varna; but we can
travel overland to the same place in three days. Now, if we allow for two days less
for the ship’s voyage, owing to such weather influences as we know that the Count
can bring to bear; and if we allow a whole day and night for any delays which may
occur to us, then we have a margin of nearly two weeks. Thus, in order to be quite
safe, we must leave here on 17th at latest. Then we shall at any rate be in Varna
a
day before the ship arrives, and able to make such preparations as may be necessary.
Of course we shall all go armed—armed against evil things, spiritual as well as
physical. Here Quincey Morris added:—

I understand that the Count comes from a wolf country, and it may be that he shall
get there before us. I propose that we add Winchesters to our armament. I have a
kind of belief in a Winchester when there is any trouble of that sort around. Do you
remember, Art, when we had the pack after us at Tobolsk? What wouldn’t we have given
then for a repeater apiece!

Good! said Van Helsing, Winchesters it shall be. Quincey’s head is level at all
times, but most so when there is to hunt, metaphor be more dishonour to science than
wolves be of danger to man. In the meantime we can do nothing here; and as I think
that Varna is not familiar to any of us, why not go there more soon? It is as long
to wait here as there. To-night and to-morrow we can get ready, and then, if all be
well, we four can set out on our journey.

We four? said Harker interrogatively, looking from one to another of us.

Of course! answered the Professor quickly, you must remain to take care of your
so sweet wife! Harker was silent for awhile and then said in a hollow
voice:—

Let us talk of that part of it in the morning. I want to consult with Mina. I
thought that now was the time for Van Helsing to warn him not to disclose our plans
to
her; but he took no notice. I looked at him significantly and coughed. For answer
he put
his finger on his lips and turned away.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

5 October, afternoon.—For some time after our meeting this morning I could not think. The
new phases of things leave my mind in a state of wonder which allows no room for active
thought. Mina’s determination not to take any part in the discussion set me thinking;
and as I could not argue the matter with her, I could only guess. I am as far as ever
from a solution now. The way the others received it, too, puzzled me; the last time
we
talked of the subject we agreed that there was to be no more concealment of anything
amongst us. Mina is sleeping now, calmly and sweetly like a little child. Her lips
are
curved and her face beams with happiness. Thank God, there are such moments still
for
her.Later.—How strange it all is. I sat watching Mina’s happy sleep, and came as near
to
being happy myself as I suppose I shall ever be. As the evening drew on, and the earth
took its shadows from the sun sinking lower, the silence of the room grew more and
more
solemn to me. All at once Mina opened her eyes, and looking at me tenderly, said:—

Jonathan, I want you to promise me something on your word of honour. A promise made
to me, but made holily in God’s hearing, and not to be broken though I should go
down on my knees and implore you with bitter tears. Quick, you must make it to me
at
once.

Mina, I said, a promise like that, I cannot make at once. I may have no right
to make it.

But, dear one, she said, with such spiritual intensity that her eyes were like
pole stars, it is I who wish it; and it is not for myself. You can ask Dr. Van
Helsing if I am not right; if he disagrees you may do as you will. Nay, more, if you
all agree, later, you are absolved from the promise.

I promise! I said, and for a moment she looked supremely happy; though to me all
happiness for her was denied by the red scar on her forehead. She said:—

Promise me that you will not tell me anything of the plans formed for the campaign
against the Count. Not by word, or inference, or implication; not at any time whilst
this remains to me! and she solemnly pointed to the scar. I saw that she was in
earnest, and said solemnly:—

I promise! and as I said it I felt that from that instant a door had been shut
between us.Later, midnight.—Mina has been bright and cheerful all the evening. So
much
so that all the rest seemed to take courage, as if infected somewhat with her gaiety;
as
a result even I myself felt as if the pall of gloom which weighs us down were somewhat
lifted. We all retired early. Mina is now sleeping like a little child; it is a
wonderful thing that her faculty of sleep remains to her in the midst of her terrible
trouble. Thank God for it, for then at least she can forget her care. Perhaps her
example may affect me as her gaiety did to-night. I shall try it. Oh! for a dreamless
sleep.6 October, morning.—Another surprise. Mina woke me early, about the same time as
yesterday, and asked me to bring Dr. Van Helsing. I thought that it was another occasion
for hypnotism, and without question went for the Professor. He had evidently expected
some such call, for I found him dressed in his room. His door was ajar, so that he
could
hear the opening of the door of our room. He came at once; as he passed into the room,
he asked Mina if the others might come, too.

No, she said quite simply, it will not be necessary. You can tell them just as
well. I must go with you on your journey.

Dr. Van Helsing was as startled as I was. After a moment’s pause he asked:—

But why?

You must take me with you. I am safer with you, and you shall be safer, too.

But why, dear Madam Mina? You know that your safety is our solemnest duty. We go into
danger, to which you are, or may be, more liable than any of us from—from
circumstances—things that have been. He paused, embarrassed.

As she replied, she raised her finger and pointed to her forehead:—

I know. That is why I must go. I can tell you now, whilst the sun is coming up; I
may
not be able again. I know that when the Count wills me I must go. I know that if he
tells me to come in secret, I must come by wile; by any device to hoodwink—even
Jonathan. God saw the look that she turned on me as she spoke, and if there be
indeed a Recording Angel that look is noted to her everlasting honour. I could only
clasp her hand. I could not speak; my emotion was too great for even the relief of
tears. She went on:—

You men are brave and strong. You are strong in your numbers, for you can defy that
which would break down the human endurance of one who had to guard alone. Besides,
I
may be of service, since you can hypnotise me and so learn that which even I myself
do not know. Dr. Van Helsing said very gravely:—

Madam Mina, you are, as always, most wise. You shall with us come; and together we
shall do that which we go forth to achieve. When he had spoken, Mina’s long
spell of silence made me look at her. She had fallen back on her pillow asleep; she
did
not even wake when I had pulled up the blind and let in the sunlight which flooded
the
room. Van Helsing motioned to me to come with him quietly. We went to his room, and
within a minute Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, and Mr. Morris were with us also. He told
them what Mina had said, and went on:—

In the morning we shall leave for Varna. We have now to deal with a new factor: Madam
Mina. Oh, but her soul is true. It is to her an agony to tell us so much as she has
done; but it is most right, and we are warned in time. There must be no chance lost,
and in Varna we must be ready to act the instant when that ship arrives.

What shall we do exactly? asked Mr. Morris laconically. The Professor paused
before replying:—

We shall at the first board that ship; then, when we have identified the box, we
shall place a branch of the wild rose on it. This we shall fasten, for when it is
there none can emerge; so at least says the superstition. And to superstition must
we trust at the first; it was man’s faith in the early, and it have its root in
faith still. Then, when we get the opportunity that we seek, when none are near to
see, we shall open the box, and—and all will be well.

I shall not wait for any opportunity, said Morris. When I see the box I shall
open it and destroy the monster, though there were a thousand men looking on, and
if
I am to be wiped out for it the next moment! I grasped his hand instinctively
and found it as firm as a piece of steel. I think he understood my look; I hope he
did.

Good boy, said Dr. Van Helsing. Brave boy. Quincey is all man. God bless him
for it. My child, believe me none of us shall lag behind or pause from any fear. I
do but say what we may do—what we must do. But, indeed, indeed we cannot say what
we
shall do. There are so many things which may happen, and their ways and their ends
are so various that until the moment we may not say. We shall all be armed, in all
ways; and when the time for the end has come, our effort shall not be lack. Now let
us to-day put all our affairs in order. Let all things which touch on others dear
to
us, and who on us depend, be complete; for none of us can tell what, or when, or
how, the end may be. As for me, my own affairs are regulate; and as I have nothing
else to do, I shall go make arrangements for the travel. I shall have all tickets
and so forth for our journey.

There was nothing further to be said, and we parted. I shall now settle up all my
affairs
of earth, and be ready for whatever may come....Later.—It is all done; my will is
made,
and all complete. Mina if she survive is my sole heir. If it should not be so, then
the
others who have been so good to us shall have remainder.

It is now drawing towards the sunset; Mina’s uneasiness calls my attention to it.
I am
sure that there is something on her mind which the time of exact sunset will reveal.
These occasions are becoming harrowing times for us all, for each sunrise and sunset
opens up some new danger—some new pain, which, however, may in God’s will be means
to a
good end. I write all these things in the diary since my darling must not hear them
now;
but if it may be that she can see them again, they shall be ready.

She is calling to me.

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-25">CHAPTER XXV</h2>

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY

11 October, Evening.—Jonathan Harker has asked me to note this, as he says he is hardly
equal to the task, and he wants an exact record kept.

I think that none of us were surprised when we were asked to see Mrs. Harker a little
before the time of sunset. We have of late come to understand that sunrise and sunset
are to her times of peculiar freedom; when her old self can be manifest without any
controlling force subduing or restraining her, or inciting her to action. This mood
or
condition begins some half hour or more before actual sunrise or sunset, and lasts
till
either the sun is high, or whilst the clouds are still aglow with the rays streaming
above the horizon. At first there is a sort of negative condition, as if some tie
were
loosened, and then the absolute freedom quickly follows; when, however, the freedom
ceases the change-back or relapse comes quickly, preceded only by a spell of warning
silence.

To-night, when we met, she was somewhat constrained, and bore all the signs of an
internal struggle. I put it down myself to her making a violent effort at the earliest
instant she could do so. A very few minutes, however, gave her complete control of
herself; then, motioning her husband to sit beside her on the sofa where she was half
reclining, she made the rest of us bring chairs up close. Taking her husband’s hand
in
hers began:—

We are all here together in freedom, for perhaps the last time! I know, dear; I know
that you will always be with me to the end. This was to her husband whose hand
had, as we could see, tightened upon hers. In the morning we go out upon our task,
and God alone knows what may be in store for any of us. You are going to be so good
to me as to take me with you. I know that all that brave earnest men can do for a
poor weak woman, whose soul perhaps is lost—no, no, not yet, but is at any rate at
stake—you will do. But you must remember that I am not as you are. There is a poison
in my blood, in my soul, which may destroy me; which must destroy me, unless some
relief comes to us. Oh, my friends, you know as well as I do, that my soul is at
stake; and though I know there is one way out for me, you must not and I must not
take it! She looked appealingly to us all in turn, beginning and ending with her
husband.

What is that way? asked Van Helsing in a hoarse voice. What is that way, which
we must not—may not—take?

That I may die now, either by my own hand or that of another, before the greater evil
is entirely wrought. I know, and you know, that were I once dead you could and would
set free my immortal spirit, even as you did my poor Lucy’s. Were death, or the fear
of death, the only thing that stood in the way I would not shrink to die here, now,
amidst the friends who love me. But death is not all. I cannot believe that to die
in such a case, when there is hope before us and a bitter task to be done, is God’s
will. Therefore, I, on my part, give up here the certainty of eternal rest, and go
out into the dark where may be the blackest things that the world or the nether
world holds! We were all silent, for we knew instinctively that this was only a
prelude. The faces of the others were set and Harker’s grew ashen grey; perhaps he
guessed better than any of us what was coming. She continued:—

This is what I can give into the hotch-pot. I could not but note the quaint legal
phrase which she used in such a place, and with all seriousness. What will each of
you give? Your lives I know, she went on quickly, that is easy for brave men.
Your lives are God’s, and you can give them back to Him; but what will you give to
me? She looked again questioningly, but this time avoided her husband’s face.
Quincey seemed to understand; he nodded, and her face lit up. Then I shall tell you
plainly what I want, for there must be no doubtful matter in this connection between
us now. You must promise me, one and all—even you, my beloved husband—that, should
the time come, you will kill me.

What is that time? The voice was Quincey’s, but it was low and strained.

When you shall be convinced that I am so changed that it is better that I die that
I
may live. When I am thus dead in the flesh, then you will, without a moment’s delay,
drive a stake through me and cut off my head; or do whatever else may be wanting to
give me rest!

Quincey was the first to rise after the pause. He knelt down before her and taking
her
hand in his said solemnly:—

I’m only a rough fellow, who hasn’t, perhaps, lived as a man should to win such a
distinction, but I swear to you by all that I hold sacred and dear that, should the
time ever come, I shall not flinch from the duty that you have set us. And I promise
you, too, that I shall make all certain, for if I am only doubtful I shall take it
that the time has come!

My true friend! was all she could say amid her fast-falling tears, as, bending
over, she kissed his hand.

I swear the same, my dear Madam Mina! said Van Helsing.

And I! said Lord Godalming, each of them in turn kneeling to her to take the oath.
I followed, myself. Then her husband turned to her wan-eyed and with a greenish pallor
which subdued the snowy whiteness of his hair, and asked:—

And must I, too, make such a promise, oh, my wife?

You too, my dearest, she said, with infinite yearning of pity in her voice and
eyes. You must not shrink. You are nearest and dearest and all the world to me; our
souls are knit into one, for all life and all time. Think, dear, that there have
been times when brave men have killed their wives and their womenkind, to keep them
from falling into the hands of the enemy. Their hands did not falter any the more
because those that they loved implored them to slay them. It is men’s duty towards
those whom they love, in such times of sore trial! And oh, my dear, if it is to be
that I must meet death at any hand, let it be at the hand of him that loves me best.
Dr. Van Helsing, I have not forgotten your mercy in poor Lucy’s case to him who
loved—she stopped with a flying blush, and changed her phrase—to him who had
best right to give her peace. If that time shall come again, I look to you to make
it a happy memory of my husband’s life that it was his loving hand which set me free
from the awful thrall upon me.

Again I swear! came the Professor’s resonant voice. Mrs. Harker smiled, positively
smiled, as with a sigh of relief she leaned back and said:—

And now one word of warning, a warning which you must never forget: this time, if
it
ever come, may come quickly and unexpectedly, and in such case you must lose no time
in using your opportunity. At such a time I myself might be—nay! if the time ever
comes, shall be—leagued with your enemy against you.

One more request; she became very solemn as she said this, it is not vital and
necessary like the other, but I want you to do one thing for me, if you will. We
all acquiesced, but no one spoke; there was no need to speak:—

I want you to read the Burial Service. She was interrupted by a deep groan from
her husband; taking his hand in hers, she held it over her heart, and continued: You
must read it over me some day. Whatever may be the issue of all this fearful state
of things, it will be a sweet thought to all or some of us. You, my dearest, will
I
hope read it, for then it will be in your voice in my memory for ever—come what
may!

But oh, my dear one, he pleaded, death is afar off from you.

Nay, she said, holding up a warning hand. I am deeper in death at this moment
than if the weight of an earthly grave lay heavy upon me!

Oh, my wife, must I read it? he said, before he began.

It would comfort me, my husband! was all she said; and he began to read when she
had got the book ready.

How can I—how could any one—tell of that strange scene, its solemnity, its gloom,
its
sadness, its horror; and, withal, its sweetness. Even a sceptic, who can see nothing
but a travesty of bitter truth in anything holy or emotional, would have been melted
to the heart had he seen that little group of loving and devoted friends kneeling
round that stricken and sorrowing lady; or heard the tender passion of her husband’s
voice, as in tones so broken with emotion that often he had to pause, he read the
simple and beautiful service from the Burial of the Dead. I—I cannot go
on—words—and—v-voice—f-fail m-me!She was right in her instinct. Strange as it
all was, bizarre as it may hereafter seem even to us who felt its potent influence
at
the time, it comforted us much; and the silence, which showed Mrs. Harker’s coming
relapse from her freedom of soul, did not seem so full of despair to any of us as
we had
dreaded.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

15 October, Varna.—We left Charing Cross on the morning of the 12th, got to Paris the
same night, and took the places secured for us in the Orient Express. We travelled
night
and day, arriving here at about five o’clock. Lord Godalming went to the Consulate
to
see if any telegram had arrived for him, whilst the rest of us came on to this
hotel—the Odessus. The journey may have had incidents; I was, however, too
eager to get on, to care for them. Until the Czarina Catherine comes into port there
will be no interest for me in anything in the wide world. Thank God! Mina is well,
and
looks to be getting stronger; her colour is coming back. She sleeps a great deal;
throughout the journey she slept nearly all the time. Before sunrise and sunset,
however, she is very wakeful and alert; and it has become a habit for Van Helsing
to
hypnotise her at such times. At first, some effort was needed, and he had to make
many
passes; but now, she seems to yield at once, as if by habit, and scarcely any action
is
needed. He seems to have power at these particular moments to simply will, and her
thoughts obey him. He always asks her what she can see and hear. She answers to the
first:—

Nothing; all is dark. And to the second:—

I can hear the waves lapping against the ship, and the water rushing by. Canvas and
cordage s train and masts and yards creak. The wind is high—I can hear it in the
shrouds, and the bow throws back the foam. It is evident that the Czarina
Catherine is still at sea, hastening on her way to Varna. Lord Godalming has just
returned. He had four telegrams , one each day since we started, and all to the same
effect: that the Czarina Catherine had not been reported to Lloyd’s from anywhere. He
had arranged before leaving London that his agent should send him every day a telegram 
saying if the ship had been reported. He was to have a message even if she were not
reported, so that he might be sure that there was a watch being kept at the other
end of
the wire.

We had dinner and went to bed early. To-morrow we are to see the Vice-Consul, and
to
arrange, if we can, about getting on board the ship as soon as she arrives. Van Helsing
says that our chance will be to get on the boat between sunrise and sunset. The Count,
even if he takes the form of a bat, cannot cross the running water of his own volition,
and so cannot leave the ship. As he dare not change to man’s form without
suspicion—which he evidently wishes to avoid—he must remain in the box. If, then,
we can
come on board after sunrise, he is at our mercy; for we can open the box and make
sure
of him, as we did of poor Lucy, before he wakes. What mercy he shall get from us will
not count for much. We think that we shall not have much trouble with officials or
the
seamen. Thank God! this is the country where bribery can do anything, and we are well
supplied with money. We have only to make sure that the ship cannot come into port
between sunset and sunrise without our being warned, and we shall be safe. Judge
Moneybag will settle this case, I think!16 October.—Mina’s report still the same:
lapping waves and rushing water, darkness and favouring winds. We are evidently in
good
time, and when we hear of the Czarina Catherine we shall be ready. As she must pass the
Dardanelles we are sure to have some report.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

17 October.—Everything is pretty well fixed now, I think, to welcome the Count on his
return from his tour. Godalming told the shippers that he fancied that the box sent
aboard might contain something stolen from a friend of his, and got a half consent
that
he might open it at his own risk. The owner gave him a paper telling the Captain to
give
him every facility in doing whatever he chose on board the ship, and also a similar
authorisation to his agent at Varna. We have seen the agent, who was much impressed
with
Godalming’s kindly manner to him, and we are all satisfied that whatever he can do
to
aid our wishes will be done. We have already arranged what to do in case we get the
box
open. If the Count is there, Van Helsing and Seward will cut off his head at once
and
drive a stake through his heart. Morris and Godalming and I shall prevent interference,
even if we have to use the arms which we shall have ready. The Professor says that
if we
can so treat the Count’s body, it will soon after fall into dust. In such case there
would be no evidence against us, in case any suspicion of murder were aroused. But
even
if it were not, we should stand or fall by our act, and perhaps some day this very
script may be evidence to come between some of us and a rope. For myself, I should
take
the chance only too thankfully if it were to come. We mean to leave no stone unturned
to
carry out our intent. We have arranged with certain officials that the instant the
Czarina Catherine is seen, we are to be informed by a special messenger.24 October.—A
whole week of waiting. Daily telegrams to Godalming, but only the same story: Not yet
reported. Mina’s morning and evening hypnotic answer is unvaried: lapping waves,
rushing water, and creaking masts.

Telegram, October 24th.

Rufus Smith, Lloyd’s, London, to Lord Godalming, care of H. B. M.

Vice-Consul, Varna.

Czarina Catherine reported this morning from Dardanelles.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

25 October.—How I miss my phonograph! To write diary with a pen is irksome to me; but Van
Helsing says I must. We were all wild with excitement yesterday when Godalming got
his
 telegram from Lloyd’s. I know now what men feel in battle when the call to action is
heard. Mrs. Harker, alone of our party, did not show any signs of emotion. After all,
it
is not strange that she did not; for we took special care not to let her know anything
about it, and we all tried not to show any excitement when we were in her presence.
In
old days she would, I am sure, have noticed, no matter how we might have tried to
conceal it; but in this way she is greatly changed during the past three weeks. The
lethargy grows upon her, and though she seems strong and well, and is getting back
some
of her colour, Van Helsing and I are not satisfied. We talk of her often; we have
not,
however, said a word to the others. It would break poor Harker’s heart—certainly his
nerve—if he knew that we had even a suspicion on the subject. Van Helsing examines,
he
tells me, her teeth very carefully, whilst she is in the hypnotic condition, for he
says
that so long as they do not begin to sharpen there is no active danger of a change
in
her. If this change should come, it would be necessary to take steps!... We both know
what those steps would have to be, though we do not mention our thoughts to each other.
We should neither of us shrink from the task—awful though it be to contemplate.
Euthanasia is an excellent and a comforting word! I am grateful to whoever
invented it.

It is only about 24 hours’ sail from the Dardanelles to here, at the rate the Czarina
Catherine has come from London. She should therefore arrive some time in the morning;
but as she cannot possibly get in before then, we are all about to retire early. We
shall get up at one o’clock, so as to be ready.25 October, Noon.—No news yet of the
ship’s arrival. Mrs. Harker’s hypnotic report this morning was the same as usual,
so it
is possible that we may get news at any moment. We men are all in a fever of excitement,
except Harker, who is calm; his hands are cold as ice, and an hour ago I found him
whetting the edge of the great Ghoorka knife which he now always carries with him.
It
will be a bad lookout for the Count if the edge of that Kukri ever touches his
throat, driven by that stern, ice-cold hand!

Van Helsing and I were a little alarmed about Mrs. Harker to-day. About noon she got
into
a sort of lethargy which we did not like; although we kept silence to the others,
we
were neither of us happy about it. She had been restless all the morning, so that
we
were at first glad to know that she was sleeping. When, however, her husband mentioned
casually that she was sleeping so soundly that he could not wake her, we went to her
room to see for ourselves. She was breathing naturally and looked so well and peaceful
that we agreed that the sleep was better for her than anything else. Poor girl, she
has
so much to forget that it is no wonder that sleep, if it brings oblivion to her, does
her good.Later.—Our opinion was justified, for when after a refreshing sleep of some
hours she woke up, she seemed brighter and better than she had been for days. At sunset
she made the usual hypnotic report. Wherever he may be in the Black Sea, the Count
is
hurrying to his destination. To his doom, I trust!26 October.—Another day and no tidings
of the Czarina Catherine. She ought to be here by now. That she is still journeying
somewhere is apparent, for Mrs. Harker’s hypnotic report at sunrise was still the
same.
It is possible that the vessel may be lying by, at times, for fog; some of the steamers
which came in last evening reported patches of fog both to north and south of the
port.
We must continue our watching, as the ship may now be signalled any moment.27 October,
Noon.—Most strange; no news yet of the ship we wait for. Mrs. Harker reported last
night
and this morning as usual: lapping waves and rushing water, though she added that
the waves were very faint. The telegrams from London have been the same:
no further report. Van Helsing is terribly anxious, and told me just now that
he fears the Count is escaping us. He added significantly:—

I did not like that lethargy of Madam Mina’s. Souls and memories can do strange things
during trance. I was about to ask him more, but Harker just then came in, and he
held up a warning hand. We must try to-night at sunset to make her speak more fully
when
in her hypnotic state.28 October.—Telegram. Rufus Smith, London, to Lord Godalming, care
H. B. M. Vice Consul, Varna.

Czarina Catherine reported entering Galatz at one o’clock to-day.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

28 October.—When the telegram came announcing the arrival in Galatz I do not think it was
such a shock to any of us as might have been expected. True, we did not know whence,
or
how, or when, the bolt would come; but I think we all expected that something strange
would happen. The delay of arrival at Varna made us individually satisfied that things
would not be just as we had expected; we only waited to learn where the change would
occur. None the less, however, was it a surprise. I suppose that nature works on such
a
hopeful basis that we believe against ourselves that things will be as they ought
to be,
not as we should know that they will be. Transcendentalism is a beacon to the angels,
even if it be a will-o’-the-wisp to man. It was an odd experience and we all took
it
differently. Van Helsing raised his hand over his head for a moment, as though in
remonstrance with the Almighty; but he said not a word, and in a few seconds stood
up
with his face sternly set. Lord Godalming grew very pale, and sat breathing heavily.
I
was myself half stunned and looked in wonder at one after another. Quincey Morris
tightened his belt with that quick movement which I knew so well; in our old wandering
days it meant action. Mrs. Harker grew ghastly white, so that the scar on her
forehead seemed to burn, but she folded her hands meekly and looked up in prayer.
Harker
smiled—actually smiled—the dark, bitter smile of one who is without hope; but at the
same time his action belied his words, for his hands instinctively sought the hilt
of
the great Kukri knife and rested there. When does the next train start for
Galatz? said Van Helsing to us generally.

At 6:30 to-morrow morning! We all started, for the answer came from Mrs.
Harker.

How on earth do you know? said Art.

You forget—or perhaps you do not know, though Jonathan does and so does Dr. Van
Helsing—that I am the train fiend. At home in Exeter I always used to make up the
time-tables, so as to be helpful to my husband. I found it so useful sometimes, that
I always make a study of the time-tables now. I knew that if anything were to take
us to Castle Dracula we should go by Galatz, or at any rate through Bucharest, so I
learned the times very carefully. Unhappily there are not many to learn, as the only
 train to-morrow leaves as I say.

Wonderful woman! murmured the Professor.

Can’t we get a special? asked Lord Godalming. Van Helsing shook his head: I
fear not. This land is very different from yours or mine; even if we did have a
special, it would probably not arrive as soon as our regular train. Moreover, we
have something to prepare. We must think. Now let us organize. You, friend Arthur,
go to the train and get the tickets and arrange that all be ready for us to go in
the morning. Do you, friend Jonathan, go to the agent of the ship and get from him
letters to the agent in Galatz, with authority to make search the ship just as it
was here. Morris Quincey, you see the Vice-Consul, and get his aid with his fellow
in Galatz and all he can do to make our way smooth, so that no times be lost when
over the Danube. John will stay with Madam Mina and me, and we shall consult. For
so
if time be long you may be delayed; and it will not matter when the sun set, since
I
am here with Madam to make report.

And I, said Mrs. Harker brightly, and more like her old self than she had been for
many a long day, shall try to be of use in all ways, and shall think and write for
you as I used to do. Something is shifting from me in some strange way, and I feel
freer than I have been of late! The three younger men looked happier at the
moment as they seemed to realise the significance of her words; but Van Helsing and
I,
turning to each other, met each a grave and troubled glance. We said nothing at the
time, however.

When the three men had gone out to their tasks Van Helsing asked Mrs. Harker to look
up
the copy of the diaries and find him the part of Harker’s journal at the Castle. She
went away to get it; when the door was shut upon her he said to me:—

We mean the same! speak out!

There is some change. It is a hope that makes me sick, for it may deceive us.

Quite so. Do you know why I asked her to get the manuscript?

No! said I, unless it was to get an opportunity of seeing me alone.

"You are in part right, friend John, but only in part. I want to tell you something.
And
oh, my friend, I am taking a great—a terrible—risk; but I believe it is right. In
the
moment when Madam Mina said those words that arrest both our understanding, an
inspiration came to me. In the trance of three days ago the Count sent her his spirit
to
read her mind; or more like he took her to see him in his earth-box in the ship with
water rushing, just as it go free at rise and set of sun. He learn then that we are
here; for she have more to tell in her open life with eyes to see and ears to hear
than
he, shut, as he is, in his coffin-box. Now he make his most effort to escape us. At
present he want her not.

He is sure with his so great knowledge that she will come at his call; but he cut
her
off—take her, as he can do, out of his own power, that so she come not to him. Ah!
there I have hope that our man-brains that have been of man so long and that have
not lost the grace of God, will come higher than his child-brain that lie in his
tomb for centuries, that grow not yet to our stature, and that do only work selfish
and therefore small. Here comes Madam Mina; not a word to her of her trance! She
know it not; and it would overwhelm her and make despair just when we want all her
hope, all her courage; when most we want all her great brain which is trained like
man’s brain, but is of sweet woman and have a special power which the Count give
her, and which he may not take away altogether—though he think not so. Hush! let me
speak, and you shall learn. Oh, John, my friend, we are in awful straits. I fear,
as
I never feared before. We can only trust the good God. Silence! here she comes!

I thought that the Professor was going to break down and have hysterics, just as he
had
when Lucy died, but with a great effort he controlled himself and was at perfect nervous
poise when Mrs. Harker tripped into the room, bright and happy-looking and, in the
doing
of work, seemingly forgetful of her misery. As she came in, she handed a number of
sheets of typewriting to Van Helsing. He looked over them gravely, his face brightening
up as he read. Then holding the pages between his finger and thumb he said:—

Friend John, to you with so much of experience already—and you, too, dear Madam Mina,
that are young—here is a lesson: do not fear ever to think. A half-thought has been
buzzing often in my brain, but I fear to let him loose his wings. Here now, with
more knowledge, I go back to where that half-thought come from and I find that he
be
no half-thought at all; that be a whole thought, though so young that he is not yet
strong to use his little wings. Nay, like the Ugly Duck" of my friend Hans
Andersen, he be no duck-thought at all, but a big swan-thought that sail nobly on
big
wings, when the time come for him to try them. See I read here what Jonathan have
written:—

That other of his race who, in a later age, again and again, brought his forces over
The Great River into Turkey Land; who, when he was beaten back, came again, and
again, and again, though he had to come alone from the bloody field where his troops
were being slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph.

What does this tell us? Not much? no! The Count’s child-thought see nothing; therefore
he speak so free. Your man-thought see nothing; my man-thought see nothing, till
just now. No! But there comes another word from some one who speak without thought
because she, too, know not what it mean—what it might mean. Just as there are
elements which rest, yet when in nature’s course they move on their way and they
touch—then pouf! and there comes a flash of light, heaven wide, that blind and kill
and destroy some; but that show up all earth below for leagues and leagues. Is it
not so? Well, I shall explain. To begin, have you ever study the philosophy of
crime? ‘Yes’ and ‘No.’ You, John, yes; for it is a study of insanity. You, no, Madam
Mina; for crime touch you not—not but once. Still, your mind works true, and argues
not a particulari ad universale. There is this peculiarity in criminals. It is so
constant, in all countries and at all times, that even police, who know not much
from philosophy, come to know it empirically, that it is. That is to be empiric. The
criminal always work at one crime—that is the true criminal who seems predestinate
to crime, and who will of none other. This criminal has not full man-brain. He is
clever and cunning and resourceful; but he be not of man-stature as to brain. He be
of child-brain in much. Now this criminal of ours is predestinate to crime also; he,
too, have child-brain, and it is of the child to do what he have done. The little
bird, the little fish, the little animal learn not by principle, but empirically;
and when he learn to do, then there is to him the ground to start from to do more.
‘Dos pou sto,’ said Archimedes. ‘Give me a fulcrum, and I shall move the world!’ To
do once, is the fulcrum whereby child-brain become man-brain; and until he have the
purpose to do more, he continue to do the same again every time, just as he have
done before! Oh, my dear, I see that your eyes are opened, and that to you the
lightning flash show all the leagues, for Mrs. Harker began to clap her hands
and her eyes sparkled. He went on:—

Now you shall speak. Tell us two dry men of science what you see with those so bright
eyes. He took her hand and held it whilst she spoke. His finger and thumb closed
on her pulse, as I thought instinctively and unconsciously, as she spoke:—

The Count is a criminal and of criminal type. Nordau and Lombroso would so classify
him, and quâ criminal he is of imperfectly formed mind. Thus, in a difficulty he has
to seek resource in habit. His past is a clue, and the one page of it that we
know—and that from his own lips—tells that once before, when in what Mr. Morris
would call a ‘tight place,’ he went back to his own country from the land he had
tried to invade, and thence, without losing purpose, prepared himself for a new
effort. He came again better equipped for his work; and won. So he came to London to
invade a new land. He was beaten, and when all hope of success was lost, and his
existence in danger, he fled back over the sea to his home; just as formerly he had
fled back over the Danube from Turkey Land.

Good, good! oh, you so clever lady! said Van Helsing, enthusiastically, as he
stooped and kissed her hand. A moment later he said to me, as calmly as though we
had
been having a sick-room consultation:—

Seventy-two only; and in all this excitement. I have hope. Turning to her again,
he said with keen expectation:—

But go on. Go on! there is more to tell if you will. Be not afraid; John and I know.
I do in any case, and shall tell you if you are right. Speak, without fear!

I will try to; but you will forgive me if I seem egotistical.

Nay! fear not, you must be egotist, for it is of you that we think.

Then, as he is criminal he is selfish; and as his intellect is small and his action
is
based on selfishness, he confines himself to one purpose. That purpose is
remorseless. As he fled back over the Danube, leaving his forces to be cut to
pieces, so now he is intent on being safe, careless of all. So his own selfishness
frees my soul somewhat from the terrible power which he acquired over me on that
dreadful night. I felt it! Oh, I felt it! Thank God, for His great mercy! My soul
is
freer than it has been since that awful hour; and all that haunts me is a fear lest
in some trance or dream he may have used my knowledge for his ends. The
Professor stood up:—

He has so used your mind; and by it he has left us here in Varna, whilst the ship
that carried him rushed through enveloping fog up to Galatz, where, doubtless, he
had made preparation for escaping from us. But his child-mind only saw so far; and
it may be that, as ever is in God’s Providence, the very thing that the evil-doer
most reckoned on for his selfish good, turns out to be his chiefest harm. The hunter
is taken in his own snare, as the great Psalmist says. For now that he think he is
free from every trace of us all, and that he has escaped us with so many hours to
him, then his selfish child-brain will whisper him to sleep. He think, too, that as
he cut himself off from knowing your mind, there can be no knowledge of him to you;
there is where he fail! That terrible baptism of blood which he give you makes you
free to go to him in spirit, as you have as yet done in your times of freedom, when
the sun rise and set. At such times you go by my volition and not by his; and this
power to good of you and others, as you have won from your suffering at his hands.
This is now all the more precious that he know it not, and to guard himself have
even cut himself off from his knowledge of our where. We, however, are not selfish,
and we believe that God is with us through all this blackness, and these many dark
hours. We shall follow him; and we shall not flinch; even if we peril ourselves that
we become like him. Friend John, this has been a great hour; and it have done much
to advance us on our way. You must be scribe and write him all down, so that when
the others return from their work you can give it to them; then they shall know as
we do.

And so I have written it whilst we wait their return, and Mrs. Harker has written
with
her typewriter all since she brought the MS. to us.

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-26">CHAPTER XXVI</h2>

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY

29 October.—This is written in the train from Varna to Galatz. Last night we all
assembled a little before the time of sunset. Each of us had done his work as well
as he
could; so far as thought, and endeavour, and opportunity go, we are prepared for the
whole of our journey, and for our work when we get to Galatz. When the usual time came
round Mrs. Harker prepared herself for her hypnotic effort; and after a longer and
more
serious effort on the part of Van Helsing than has been usually necessary, she sank
into
the trance. Usually she speaks on a hint; but this time the Professor had to ask her
questions, and to ask them pretty resolutely, before we could learn anything; at last
her answer came:—

I can see nothing; we are still; there are no waves lapping, but only a steady swirl
of water softly running against the hawser. I can hear men’s voices calling, near
and far, and the roll and creak of oars in the rowlocks. A gun is fired somewhere;
the echo of it seems far away. There is tramping of feet overhead, and ropes and
chains are dragged along. What is this? There is a gleam of light; I can feel the
air blowing upon me.

Here she stopped. She had risen, as if impulsively, from where she lay on the sofa,
and
raised both her hands, palms upwards, as if lifting a weight. Van Helsing and I looked
at each other with understanding. Quincey raised his eyebrows slightly and looked
at her
intently, whilst Harker’s hand instinctively closed round the hilt of his Kukri. There
was a long pause. We all knew that the time when she could speak was passing; but
we
felt that it was useless to say anything. Suddenly she sat up, and, as she opened
her
eyes, said sweetly:—

Would none of you like a cup of tea? You must all be so tired! We could only make
her happy, and so acquiesced. She bustled off to get tea; when she had gone Van Helsing
said:—

You see, my friends. He is close to land: he has left his earth-chest. But he has
yet
to get on shore. In the night he may lie hidden somewhere; but if he be not carried
on shore, or if the ship do not touch it, he cannot achieve the land. In such case
he can, if it be in the night, change his form and can jump or fly on shore, as he
did at =Whitby. But if the day come before he get on shore, then, unless he be
carried he cannot escape. And if he be carried, then the customs men may discover
what the box contain. Thus, in fine, if he escape not on shore to-night, or before
dawn, there will be the whole day lost to him. We may then arrive in time; for if
he
escape not at night we shall come on him in daytime, boxed up and at our mercy; for
he dare not be his true self, awake and visible, lest he be discovered.

There was no more to be said, so we waited in patience until the dawn; at which time
we
might learn more from Mrs. Harker.

Early this morning we listened, with breathless anxiety, for her response in her trance.
The hypnotic stage was even longer in coming than before; and when it came the time
remaining until full sunrise was so short that we began to despair. Van Helsing seemed
to throw his whole soul into the effort; at last, in obedience to his will she made
reply:—

All is dark. I hear lapping water, level with me, and some creaking as of wood on
wood. She paused, and the red sun shot up. We must wait till to-night.

And so it is that we are travelling towards Galatz in an agony of expectation. We are due
to arrive between two and three in the morning; but already, at Bucharest, we are
three
hours late, so we cannot possibly get in till well after sun-up. Thus we shall have
two
more hypnotic messages from Mrs. Harker; either or both may possibly throw more light
on
what is happening.Later.—Sunset has come and gone. Fortunately it came at a time when
there was no distraction; for had it occurred whilst we were at a station, we might
not
have secured the necessary calm and isolation. Mrs. Harker yielded to the hypnotic
influence even less readily than this morning. I am in fear that her power of reading
the Count’s sensations may die away, just when we want it most. It seems to me that
her
imagination is beginning to work. Whilst she has been in the trance hitherto she has
confined herself to the simplest of facts. If this goes on it may ultimately mislead
us.
If I thought that the Count’s power over her would die away equally with her power
of
knowledge it would be a happy thought; but I am afraid that it may not be so. When
she
did speak, her words were enigmatical:—

Something is going out; I can feel it pass me like a cold wind. I can hear, far off,
confused sounds—as of men talking in strange tongues, fierce-falling water, and the
howling of wolves. She stopped and a shudder ran through her, increasing in
intensity for a few seconds, till, at the end, she shook as though in a palsy. She
said
no more, even in answer to the Professor’s imperative questioning. When she woke from
the trance, she was cold, and exhausted, and languid; but her mind was all alert.
She
could not remember anything, but asked what she had said; when she was told, she
pondered over it deeply for a long time and in silence.30 October, 7 a. m.—We are near
Galatz now, and I may not have time to write later. Sunrise this morning was anxiously
looked for by us all. Knowing of the increasing difficulty of procuring the hypnotic
trance, Van Helsing began his passes earlier than usual. They produced no effect,
however, until the regular time, when she yielded with a still greater difficulty,
only
a minute before the sun rose. The Professor lost no time in his questioning; her answer
came with equal quickness:—

All is dark. I hear water swirling by, level with my ears, and the creaking of wood
on
wood. Cattle low far off. There is another sound, a queer one like—— She stopped
and grew white, and whiter still.

Go on; go on! Speak, I command you! said Van Helsing in an agonised voice. At the
same time there was despair in his eyes, for the risen sun was reddening even Mrs.
Harker’s pale face. She opened her eyes, and we all started as she said, sweetly and
seemingly with the utmost unconcern:—

Oh, Professor, why ask me to do what you know I can’t? I don’t remember anything.
Then, seeing the look of amazement on our faces, she said, turning from one to the
other
with a troubled look:—

What have I said? What have I done? I know nothing, only that I was lying here, half
asleep, and heard you say go on! speak, I command you!’ It seemed so funny to hear
you order me about, as if I were a bad child!

Oh, Madam Mina, he said, sadly, it is proof, if proof be needed, of how I love
and honour you, when a word for your good, spoken more earnest than ever, can seem
so strange because it is to order her whom I am proud to obey!

The whistles are sounding; we are nearing Galatz. We are on fire with anxiety and
eagerness.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

30 October.—Mr. Morris took me to the hotel where our rooms had been ordered by
telegraph, he being the one who could best be spared, since he does not speak any
foreign language. The forces were distributed much as they had been at Varna, except
that Lord Godalming went to the Vice-Consul, as his rank might serve as an immediate
guarantee of some sort to the official, we being in extreme hurry. Jonathan and the
two
doctors went to the shipping agent to learn particulars of the arrival of the Czarina
Catherine.Later.—Lord Godalming has returned. The Consul is away, and the Vice-Consul
sick; so the routine work has been attended to by a clerk. He was very obliging, and
offered to do anything in his power.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

30 October.—At nine o’clock Dr. Van Helsing, Dr. Seward, and I called on Messrs.
Mackenzie &amp; Steinkoff, the agents of the London firm of Hapgood. They had received a
wire from London, in answer to Lord Godalming’s telegraphed request, asking us to show
them any civility in their power. They were more than kind and courteous, and took
us at
once on board the Czarina Catherine, which lay at anchor out in the river harbour. There
we saw the Captain, Donelson by name, who told us of his voyage. He said that in all
his
life he had never had so favourable a run.

Man! he said, but it made us afeard, for we expeckit that we should have to pay
for it wi’ some rare piece o’ ill luck, so as to keep up the average. It’s no canny
to run frae London to the Black Sea wi’ a wind ahint ye, as though the Deil himself
were blawin’ on yer sail for his ain purpose. An’ a’ the time we could no speer a
thing. Gin we were nigh a ship, or a port, or a headland, a fog fell on us and
travelled wi’ us, till when after it had lifted and we looked out, the deil a thing
could we see. We ran by Gibraltar wi’oot bein’ able to signal; an’ till we came to
the Dardanelles and had to wait to get our permit to pass, we never were within hail
o’ aught. At first I inclined to slack off sail and beat about till the fog was
lifted; but whiles, I thocht that if the Deil was minded to get us into the Black
Sea quick, he was like to do it whether we would or no. If we had a quick voyage it
would be no to our miscredit wi’ the owners, or no hurt to our traffic; an’ the Old
Mon who had served his ain purpose wad be decently grateful to us for no hinderin’
him. This mixture of simplicity and cunning, of superstition and commercial
reasoning, aroused Van Helsing, who said:—

Mine friend, that Devil is more clever than he is thought by some; and he know when
he
meet his match! The skipper was not displeased with the compliment, and went
on:—

When we got past the Bosphorus the men began to grumble; some o’ them, the
Roumanians, came and asked me to heave overboard a big box which had been put on
board by a queer lookin’ old man just before we had started frae London. I had seen
them speer at the fellow, and put out their twa fingers when they saw him, to guard
against the evil eye. Man! but the supersteetion of foreigners is pairfectly
rideeculous! I sent them aboot their business pretty quick; but as just after a fog
closed in on us I felt a wee bit as they did anent something, though I wouldn’t say
it was agin the big box. Well, on we went, and as the fog didn’t let up for five
days I joost let the wind carry us; for if the Deil wanted to get somewheres—well,
he would fetch it up a’reet. An’ if he didn’t, well, we’d keep a sharp lookout
anyhow. Sure eneuch, we had a fair way and deep water all the time; and two days
ago, when the mornin’ sun came through the fog, we found ourselves just in the river
opposite Galatz. The Roumanians were wild, and wanted me right or wrong to take out
the box and fling it in the river. I had to argy wi’ them aboot it wi’ a handspike;
an’ when the last o’ them rose off the deck wi’ his head in his hand, I had
convinced them that, evil eye or no evil eye, the property and the trust of my
owners were better in my hands than in the river Danube. They had, mind ye, taken
the box on the deck ready to fling in, and as it was marked Galatz via Varna, I
thocht I’d let it lie till we discharged in the port an’ get rid o’t althegither.
We
didn’t do much clearin’ that day, an’ had to remain the nicht at anchor; but in the
mornin’, braw an’ airly, an hour before sun-up, a man came aboard wi’ an order,
written to him from England, to receive a box marked for one Count Dracula. Sure
eneuch the matter was one ready to his hand. He had his papers a’ reet, an’ glad I
was to be rid o’ the dam’ thing, for I was beginnin’ masel’ to feel uneasy at it.
If
the Deil did have any luggage aboord the ship, I’m thinkin’ it was nane ither than
that same!

What was the name of the man who took it? asked Dr. Van Helsing with restrained
eagerness.

I’ll be tellin’ ye quick! he answered, and, stepping down to his cabin, produced a
receipt signed Immanuel Hildesheim. Burgen-strasse 16 was the address. We found
out that this was all the Captain knew; so with thanks we came away.

We found Hildesheim in his office, a Hebrew of rather the Adelphi Theatre type, with
a
nose like a sheep, and a fez. His arguments were pointed with specie—we doing the
punctuation—and with a little bargaining he told us what he knew. This turned out
to be
simple but important. He had received a letter from Mr. de Ville of London, telling him
to receive, if possible before sunrise so as to avoid customs, a box which would arrive
at Galatz in the Czarina Catherine. This he was to give in charge to a certain Petrof
Skinsky, who dealt with the Slovaks who traded down the river to the port. He had
been
paid for his work by an English bank note, which had been duly cashed for gold at
the
Danube International Bank. When Skinsky had come to him, he had taken him to the ship
and handed over the box, so as to save porterage. That was all he knew.

We then sought for Skinsky, but were unable to find him. One of his neighbours, who
did
not seem to bear him any affection, said that he had gone away two days before, no
one
knew whither. This was corroborated by his landlord, who had received by messenger
the
key of the house together with the rent due, in English money. This had been between
ten
and eleven o’clock last night. We were at a standstill again.

Whilst we were talking one came running and breathlessly gasped out that the body
of
Skinsky had been found inside the wall of the churchyard of St. Peter, and that the
throat had been torn open as if by some wild animal. Those we had been speaking with
ran
off to see the horror, the women crying out This is the work of a Slovak! We
hurried away lest we should have been in some way drawn into the affair, and so
detained.

As we came home we could arrive at no definite conclusion. We were all convinced that
the
box was on its way, by water, to somewhere; but where that might be we would have
to
discover. With heavy hearts we came home to the hotel to Mina.

When we met together, the first thing was to consult as to taking Mina again into
our
confidence. Things are getting desperate, and it is at least a chance, though a
hazardous one. As a preliminary step, I was released from my promise to her.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

30 October, evening.—They were so tired and worn out and dispirited that there was
nothing to be done till they had some rest; so I asked them all to lie down for half
an
hour whilst I should enter everything up to the moment. I feel so grateful to the
man
who invented the Traveller’s typewriter , and to Mr. Morris for getting this one
for me. I should have felt quite; astray doing the work if I had to write with a
pen....

It is all done; poor dear, dear Jonathan, what he must have suffered, what must he
be
suffering now. He lies on the sofa hardly seeming to breathe, and his whole body appears
in collapse. His brows are knit; his face is drawn with pain. Poor fellow, maybe he
is
thinking, and I can see his face all wrinkled up with the concentration of his thoughts.
Oh! if I could only help at all.... I shall do what I can.

I have asked Dr. Van Helsing, and he has got me all the papers that I have not yet
seen.... Whilst they are resting, I shall go over all carefully, and perhaps I may
arrive at some conclusion. I shall try to follow the Professor’s example, and think
without prejudice on the facts before me....I do believe that under God’s providence
I
have made a discovery. I shall get the maps and look over them....I am more than ever
sure that I am right. My new conclusion is ready, so I shall get our party together
and
read it. They can judge it; it is well to be accurate, and every minute is precious.

Mina Harker’s Memorandum.

(Entered in her Journal.)

Ground of inquiry.—Count Dracula’s problem is to get back to his own place.

(a) He must be brought back by some one. This is evident; for had he power to move
himself as he wished he could go either as man, or wolf, or bat, or in some other
way.
He evidently fears discovery or interference, in the state of helplessness in which
he
must be—confined as he is between dawn and sunset in his wooden box.

(b) How is he to be taken?—Here a process of exclusions may help us. By road, by rail,
by
water?

1. By Road.—There are endless difficulties, especially in leaving the city.

(x) There are people; and people are curious, and investigate. A hint, a surmise,
a doubt
as to what might be in the box, would destroy him.

(y) There are, or there may be, customs and octroi officers to pass.

(z) His pursuers might follow. This is his highest fear; and in order to prevent his
being betrayed he has repelled, so far as he can, even his victim—me!

2. By Rail.—There is no one in charge of the box. It would have to take its chance
of
being delayed; and delay would be fatal, with enemies on the track. True, he might
escape at night; but what would he be, if left in a strange place with no refuge that
he
could fly to? This is not what he intends; and he does not mean to risk it.

3. By Water.—Here is the safest way, in one respect, but with most danger in another.
On
the water he is powerless except at night; even then he can only summon fog and storm
and snow and his wolves. But were he wrecked, the living water would engulf him,
helpless; and he would indeed be lost. He could have the vessel drive to land; but
if it
were unfriendly land, wherein he was not free to move, his position would still be
desperate.

We know from the record that he was on the water; so what we have to do is to ascertain
what water.

The first thing is to realise exactly what he has done as yet; we may, then, get a
light
on what his later task is to be.

Firstly.—We must differentiate between what he did in London as part of his general plan
of action, when he was pressed for moments and had to arrange as best he could.

Secondly we must see, as well as we can surmise it from the facts we know of, what
he has
done here.

As to the first, he evidently intended to arrive at Galatz, and sent invoice to Varna to
deceive us lest we should ascertain his means of exit from England; his immediate and
sole purpose then was to escape. The proof of this, is the letter of instructions
sent
to Immanuel Hildesheim to clear and take away the box before sunrise. There is also
the
instruction to Petrof Skinsky. These we must only guess at; but there must have been
some letter or message, since Skinsky came to Hildesheim.

That, so far, his plans were successful we know. The Czarina Catherine made a
phenomenally quick journey—so much so that Captain Donelson’s suspicions were aroused;
but his superstition united with his canniness played the Count’s game for him, and
he
ran with his favouring wind through fogs and all till he brought up blindfold at Galatz.
That the Count’s arrangements were well made, has been proved. Hildesheim cleared
the
box, took it off, and gave it to Skinsky. Skinsky took it—and here we lose the trail.
We
only know that the box is somewhere on the water, moving along. The customs and the
octroi, if there be any, have been avoided.

Now we come to what the Count must have done after his arrival—on land, at Galatz.

The box was given to Skinsky before sunrise. At sunrise the Count could appear in
his own
form. Here, we ask why Skinsky was chosen at all to aid in the work? In my husband’s
diary, Skinsky is mentioned as dealing with the Slovaks who trade down the river to
the
port; and the man’s remark, that the murder was the work of a Slovak, showed the general
feeling against his class. The Count wanted isolation.

My surmise is, this: that in London the Count decided to get back to his castle by water,
as the most safe and secret way. He was brought from the castle by Szgany, and probably
they delivered their cargo to Slovaks who took the boxes to Varna, for there they
were
shipped for London. Thus the Count had knowledge of the persons who could arrange this
service. When the box was on land, before sunrise or after sunset, he came out from
his
box, met Skinsky and instructed him what to do as to arranging the carriage of the box
up some river. When this was done, and he knew that all was in train, he blotted out
his
traces, as he thought, by murdering his agent.

I have examined the map and find that the river most suitable for the Slovaks to have
ascended is either the Pruth or the Sereth. I read in the typescript that in my trance
I
heard cows low and water swirling level with my ears and the creaking of wood. The
Count
in his box, then, was on a river in an open boat—propelled probably either by oars
or
poles, for the banks are near and it is working against stream. There would be no
such
sound if floating down stream.

Of course it may not be either the Sereth or the Pruth, but we may possibly investigate
further. Now of these two, the Pruth is the more easily navigated, but the Sereth
is, at
Fundu, joined by the Bistritza which runs up round the Borgo Pass. The loop it makes is
manifestly as close to Dracula’s castle as can be got by water.

Mina Harker’s Journal—continued.

When I had done reading, Jonathan took me in his arms and kissed me. The others kept
shaking me by both hands, and Dr. Van Helsing said:—

Our dear Madam Mina is once more our teacher. Her eyes have been where we were
blinded. Now we are on the track once again, and this time we may succeed. Our enemy
is at his most helpless; and if we can come on him by day, on the water, our task
will be over. He has a start, but he is powerless to hasten, as he may not leave his
box lest those who carry him may suspect; for them to suspect would be to prompt
them to throw him in the stream where he perish. This he knows, and will not. Now
men, to our Council of War; for, here and now, we must plan what each and all shall
do.

I shall get a steam launch and follow him, said Lord Godalming.

And I, horses to follow on the bank lest by chance he land, said Mr. Morris.

Good! said the Professor, both good. But neither must go alone. There must be
force to overcome force if need be; the Slovak is strong and rough, and he carries
rude arms. All the men smiled, for amongst them they carried a small arsenal.
Said Mr. Morris:—

I have brought some Winchesters; they are pretty handy in a crowd, and there may be
wolves. The Count, if you remember, took some other precautions; he made some
requisitions on others that Mrs. Harker could not quite hear or understand. We must
be ready at all points. Dr. Seward said:—

I think I had better go with Quincey. We have been accustomed to hunt together, and
we
two, well armed, will be a match for whatever may come along. You must not be alone,
Art. It may be necessary to fight the Slovaks, and a chance thrust—for I don’t
suppose these fellows carry guns —would undo all our plans. There must be no chances,
this time; we shall, not rest until the Count’s head and body have been separated,
and we are sure that he cannot re-incarnate. He looked at Jonathan as he spoke,
and Jonathan looked at me. I could see that the poor dear was torn about in his mind.
Of
course he wanted to be with me; but then the boat service would, most likely, be the
one
which would destroy the ... the ... the ... Vampire. (Why did I hesitate to write
the
word?) He was silent awhile, and during his silence Dr. Van Helsing spoke:—

Friend Jonathan, this is to you for twice reasons. First, because you are young and
brave and can fight, and all energies may be needed at the last; and again that it
is your right to destroy him—that—which has wrought such woe to you and yours. Be
not afraid for Madam Mina; she will be my care, if I may. I am old. My legs are not
so quick to run as once; and I am not used to ride so long or to pursue as need be,
or to fight with lethal weapons. But I can be of other service; I can fight in other
way. And I can die, if need be, as well as younger men. Now let me say that what I
would is this: while you, my Lord Godalming and friend Jonathan go in your so swift
little steamboat up the river, and whilst John and Quincey guard the bank where
perchance he might be landed, I will take Madam Mina right into the heart of the
enemy’s country. Whilst the old fox is tied in his box, floating on the running
stream whence he cannot escape to land—where he dares not raise the lid of his
coffin-box lest his Slovak carriers should in fear leave him to perish—we shall go
in the track where Jonathan went,—from Bistritz over the Borgo, and find our way to
the Castle of Dracula. Here, Madam Mina’s hypnotic power will surely help, and we
shall find our way—all dark and unknown otherwise—after the first sunrise when we
are near that fateful place. There is much to be done, and other places to be made
sanctify, so that that nest of vipers be obliterated. Here Jonathan interrupted
him hotly:—

Do you mean to say, Professor Van Helsing, that you would bring Mina, in her sad case
and tainted as she is with that devil’s illness, right into the jaws of his
death-trap? Not for the world! Not for Heaven or Hell! He became almost
speechless for a minute, and then went on:—

Do you know what the place is? Have you seen that awful den of hellish infamy—with
the
very moonlight alive with grisly shapes, and every speck of dust that whirls in the
wind a devouring monster in embryo? Have you felt the Vampire’s lips upon your
throat? Here he turned to me, and as his eyes lit on my forehead he threw up his
arms with a cry: Oh, my God, what have we done to have this terror upon us! and
he sank down on the sofa in a collapse of misery. The Professor’s voice, as he spoke
in
clear, sweet tones, which seemed to vibrate in the air, calmed us all:—

Oh, my friend, it is because I would save Madam Mina from that awful place that I
would go. God forbid that I should take her into that place. There is work—wild
work—to be done there, that her eyes may not see. We men here, all save Jonathan,
have seen with their own eyes what is to be done before that place can be purify.
Remember that we are in terrible straits. If the Count escape us this time—and he
is
strong and subtle and cunning—he may choose to sleep him for a century, and then in
time our dear one—he took my hand—would come to him to keep him company, and
would be as those others that you, Jonathan, saw. You have told us of their gloating
lips; you heard their ribald laugh as they clutched the moving bag that the Count
threw to them. You shudder; and well may it be. Forgive me that I make you so much
pain, but it is necessary. My friend, is it not a dire need for the which I am
giving, possibly my life? If it were that any one went into that place to stay, it
is I who would have to go to keep them company.

Do as you will, said Jonathan, with a sob that shook him all over, we are in
the hands of God!Later.—Oh, it did me good to see the way that these brave men
worked. How can women help loving men when they are so earnest, and so true, and so
brave! And, too, it made me think of the wonderful power of money! What can it not
do
when it is properly applied; and what might it do when basely used. I felt so thankful
that Lord Godalming is rich, and that both he and Mr. Morris, who also has plenty
of
money, are willing to spend it so freely. For if they did not, our little expedition
could not start, either so promptly or so well equipped, as it will within another
hour.
It is not three hours since it was arranged what part each of us was to do; and now
Lord
Godalming and Jonathan have a lovely steam launch, with steam up ready to start at
a
moment’s notice. Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris have half a dozen good horses, well
appointed. We have all the maps and appliances of various kinds that can be had.
Professor Van Helsing and I are to leave by the 11:40 train to-night for Veresti, where
we are to get a carriage to drive to the Borgo Pass. We are bringing a good deal of
ready money, as we are to buy a carriage and horses. We shall drive ourselves, for we
have no one whom we can trust in the matter. The Professor knows something of a great
many languages, so we shall get on all right. We have all got arms, even for me a
large-bore revolver; Jonathan would not be happy unless I was armed like the rest.
Alas!
I cannot carry one arm that the rest do; the scar on my forehead forbids that. Dear
Dr.
Van Helsing comforts me by telling me that I am fully armed as there may be wolves;
the
weather is getting colder every hour, and there are snow-flurries which come and go
as
warnings.Later.—It took all my courage to say good-bye to my darling. We may never
meet
again. Courage, Mina! the Professor is looking at you keenly; his look is a warning.
There must be no tears now—unless it may be that God will let them fall in gladness.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

October 30. Night.—I am writing this in the light from the furnace door of the steam
launch: Lord Godalming is firing up. He is an experienced hand at the work, as he
has
had for years a launch of his own on the Thames, and another on the Norfolk Broads.
Regarding our plans, we finally decided that Mina’s guess was correct, and that if
any
waterway was chosen for the Count’s escape back to his Castle, the Sereth and then the
Bistritza at its junction, would be the one. We took it, that somewhere about the 47th
degree, north latitude, would be the place chosen for the crossing the country between
the river and the Carpathians. We have no fear in running at good speed up the river at
night; there is plenty of water, and the banks are wide enough apart to make steaming,
even in the dark, easy enough. Lord Godalming tells me to sleep for a while, as it
is
enough for the present for one to be on watch. But I cannot sleep—how can I with the
terrible danger hanging over my darling, and her going out into that awful place....
My
only comfort is that we are in the hands of God. Only for that faith it would be easier
to die than to live, and so be quit of all the trouble. Mr. Morris and Dr. Seward
were
off on their long ride before we started; they are to keep up the right bank, far
enough
off to get on higher lands where they can see a good stretch of river and avoid the
following of its curves. They have, for the first stages, two men to ride and lead
their
spare horses—four in all, so as not to excite curiosity. When they dismiss the men,
which shall be shortly, they shall themselves look after the horses. It may be necessary
for us to join forces; if so they can mount our whole party. One of the saddles has
a
movable horn, and can be easily adapted for Mina, if required.

It is a wild adventure we are on. Here, as we are rushing along through the darkness,
with the cold from the river seeming to rise up and strike us; with all the mysterious
voices of the night around us, it all comes home. We seem to be drifting into unknown
places and unknown ways; into a whole world of dark and dreadful things. Godalming
is
shutting the furnace door....31 October.—Still hurrying along. The day has come, and
Godalming is sleeping. I am on watch. The morning is bitterly cold; the furnace heat
is
grateful, though we have heavy fur coats. As yet we have passed only a few open boats,
but none of them had on board any box or package of anything like the size of the
one we
seek. The men were scared every time we turned our electric lamp on them, and fell on
their knees and prayed.1 November, evening.—No news all day; we have found nothing of
the kind we seek. We have now passed into the Bistritza; and if we are wrong in our
surmise our chance is gone. We have over-hauled every boat, big and little. Early
this
morning, one crew took us for a Government boat, and treated us accordingly. We saw
in
this a way of smoothing matters, so at Fundu, where the Bistritza runs into the Sereth,
we got a Roumanian flag which we now fly conspicuously. With every boat which we have
over-hauled since then this trick has succeeded; we have had every deference shown
to
us, and not once any objection to whatever we chose to ask or do. Some of the Slovaks
tell us that a big boat passed them, going at more than usual speed as she had a double
crew on board. This was before they came to Fundu, so they could not tell us whether the
boat turned into the Bistritza or continued on up the Sereth. At Fundu we could not hear
of any such boat, so she must have passed there in the night. I am feeling very sleepy;
the cold is perhaps beginning to tell upon me, and nature must have rest some time.
Godalming insists that he shall keep the first watch. God bless him for all his goodness
to poor dear Mina and me.2 November, morning.—It is broad daylight. That good fellow
would not wake me. He says it would have been a sin to, for I slept peacefully and
was
forgetting my trouble. It seems brutally selfish to me to have slept so long, and
let
him watch all night; but he was quite right. I am a new man this morning; and, as
I sit
here and watch him sleeping, I can do all that is necessary both as to minding the
engine, steering, and keeping watch. I can feel that my strength and energy are coming
back to me. I wonder where Mina is now, and Van Helsing. They should have got to Veresti
about noon on Wednesday. It would take them some time to get the carriage and horses; so
if they had started and travelled hard, they would be about now at the Borgo Pass. God
guide and help them! I am afraid to think what may happen. If we could only go faster!
but we cannot; the engines are throbbing and doing their utmost. I wonder how Dr. Seward
and Mr. Morris are getting on. There seem to be endless streams running down the
mountains into this river, but as none of them are very large—at present, at all events,
though they are terrible doubtless in winter and when the snow melts—the horsemen
may
not have met much obstruction. I hope that before we get to Strasba we may see them; for
if by that time we have not overtaken the Count, it may be necessary to take counsel
together what to do next.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

2 November.—Three days on the road. No news, and no time to write it if there had been,
for every moment is precious. We have had only the rest needful for the horses; but
we
are both bearing it wonderfully. Those adventurous days of ours are turning up useful.
We must push on; we shall never feel happy till we get the launch in sight again.3
November.—We heard at Fundu that the launch had gone up the Bistritza. I wish it wasn’t
so cold. There are signs of snow coming; and if it falls heavy it will stop us. In
such
case we must get a sledge and go on, Russian fashion.4 November.—To-day we heard of the
launch having been detained by an accident when trying to force a way up the rapids.
The
Slovak boats get up all right, by aid of a rope and steering with knowledge. Some
went
up only a few hours before. Godalming is an amateur fitter himself, and evidently
it was
he who put the launch in trim again. Finally, they got up the rapids all right, with
local help, and are off on the chase afresh. I fear that the boat is not any better
for
the accident; the peasantry tell us that after she got upon smooth water again, she
kept
stopping every now and again so long as she was in sight. We must push on harder than
ever; our help may be wanted soon.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

31 October.—Arrived at Veresti at noon. The Professor tells me that this morning at dawn
he could hardly hypnotise me at all, and that all I could say was: dark and
quiet. He is off now buying a carriage and horses. He says that he will later on
try to buy additional horses, so that we may be able to change them on the way. We
have
something more than 70 miles before us. The country is lovely, and most interesting;
if
only we were under different conditions, how delightful it would be to see it all.
If
Jonathan and I were driving through it alone what a pleasure it would be. To stop
and
see people, and learn something of their life, and to fill our minds and memories
with
all the colour and picturesqueness of the whole wild, beautiful country and the quaint
people! But, alas!—Later.—Dr. Van Helsing has returned. He has got the carriage and
horses; we are to have some dinner, and to start in an hour. The landlady is putting
us
up a huge basket of provisions; it seems enough for a company of soldiers. The Professor
encourages her, and whispers to me that it may be a week before we can get any good
food
again. He has been shopping too, and has sent home such a wonderful lot of fur coats
and
wraps, and all sorts of warm things. There will not be any chance of our being cold.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

We shall soon be off. I am afraid to think what may happen to us. We are truly in
the
hands of God. He alone knows what may be, and I pray Him, with all the strength of
my
sad and humble soul, that He will watch over my beloved husband; that whatever may
happen, Jonathan may know that I loved him and honoured him more than I can say, and
that my latest and truest thought will be always for him.

</section>
<section class="chapter">

<h2 id="ch-27">CHAPTER XXVII</h2>

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

1 November.—All day long we have travelled, and at a good speed. The horses seem to know
that they are being kindly treated, for they go willingly their full stage at best
speed. We have now had so many changes and find the same thing so constantly that
we are
encouraged to think that the journey will be an easy one. Dr. Van Helsing is laconic;
he
tells the farmers that he is hurrying to Bistritz, and pays them well to make the
exchange of horses. We get hot soup, or coffee, or tea; and off we go. It is a lovely
country; full of beauties of all imaginable kinds, and the people are brave, and strong,
and simple, and seem full of nice qualities. They are very, very superstitious. In
the
first house where we stopped, when the woman who served us saw the scar on my forehead,
she crossed herself and put out two fingers towards me, to keep off the evil eye.
I
believe they went to the trouble of putting an extra amount of garlic into our food;
and
I can’t abide garlic. Ever since then I have taken care not to take off my hat or
veil,
and so have escaped their suspicions. We are travelling fast, and as we have no driver
with us to carry tales, we go ahead of scandal; but I daresay that fear of the evil
eye
will follow hard behind us all the way. The Professor seems tireless; all day he would
not take any rest, though he made me sleep for a long spell. At sunset time he
hypnotised me, and he says that I answered as usual darkness, lapping water and
creaking wood; so our enemy is still on the river. I am afraid to think of
Jonathan, but somehow I have now no fear for him, or for myself. I write this whilst
we
wait in a farmhouse for the horses to be got ready. Dr. Van Helsing is sleeping, Poor
dear, he looks very tired and old and grey, but his mouth is set as firmly as a
conqueror’s; even in his sleep he is instinct with resolution. When we have well started
I must make him rest whilst I drive. I shall tell him that we have days before us,
and
we must not break down when most of all his strength will be needed.... All is ready;
we
are off shortly.2 November, morning.—I was successful, and we took turns driving all
night; now the day is on us, bright though cold. There is a strange heaviness in the
air—I say heaviness for want of a better word; I mean that it oppresses us both. It
is
very cold, and only our warm furs keep us comfortable. At dawn Van Helsing hypnotised
me; he says I answered darkness, creaking wood and roaring water, so the river is
changing as they ascend. I do hope that my darling will not run any chance of
danger—more than need be; but we are in God’s hands.2 November, night.—All day long
driving. The country gets wilder as we go, and the great spurs of the Carpathians, which
at Veresti seemed so far from us and so low on the horizon, now seem to gather round us
and tower in front. We both seem in good spirits; I think we make an effort each to
cheer the other; in the doing so we cheer ourselves. Dr. Van Helsing says that by
morning we shall reach the Borgo Pass. The houses are very few here now, and the
Professor says that the last horse we got will have to go on with us, as we may not
be
able to change. He got two in addition to the two we changed, so that now we have
a rude
four-in-hand. The dear horses are patient and good, and they give us no trouble. We
are
not worried with other travellers, and so even I can drive. We shall get to the Pass in
daylight; we do not want to arrive before. So we take it easy, and have each a long
rest
in turn. Oh, what will to-morrow bring to us? We go to seek the place where my poor
darling suffered so much. God grant that we may be guided aright, and that He will
deign
to watch over my husband and those dear to us both, and who are in such deadly peril.
As
for me, I am not worthy in His sight. Alas! I am unclean to His eyes, and shall be
until
He may deign to let me stand forth in His sight as one of those who have not incurred
His wrath.

Memorandum by Abraham Van Helsing.

4 November.—This to my old and true friend John Seward, M.D., of Purfleet, London, in
case I may not see him. It may explain. It is morning, and I write by a fire which
all
the night I have kept alive—Madam Mina aiding me. It is cold, cold; so cold that the
grey heavy sky is full of snow, which when it falls will settle for all winter as
the
ground is hardening to receive it. It seems to have affected Madam Mina; she has been
so
heavy of head all day that she was not like herself. She sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps!
She who is usual so alert, have done literally nothing all the day; she even have
lost
her appetite. She make no entry into her little diary, she who write so faithful at
every pause. Something whisper to me that all is not well. However, to-night she is
more
vif. Her long sleep all day have refresh and restore her, for now she is all sweet
and
bright as ever. At sunset I try to hypnotise her, but alas! with no effect; the power
has grown less and less with each day, and to-night it fail me altogether. Well, God’s
will be done—whatever it may be, and whithersoever it may lead!

Now to the historical, for as Madam Mina write not in her stenography, I must, in
my
cumbrous old fashion, that so each day of us may not go unrecorded.

We got to the Borgo Pass just after sunrise yesterday morning. When I saw the signs of
the dawn I got ready for the hypnotism. We stopped our carriage, and got down so that
there might be no disturbance. I made a couch with furs, and Madam Mina, lying down,
yield herself as usual, but more slow and more short time than ever, to the hypnotic
sleep. As before, came the answer: darkness and the swirling of water. Then she
woke, bright and radiant and we go on our way and soon reach the Pass. At this time and
place, she become all on fire with zeal; some new guiding power be in her manifested,
for she point to a road and say:—

This is the way.

How know you it? I ask.

Of course I know it, she answer, and with a pause, add: Have not my Jonathan
travelled it and wrote of his travel?

At first I think somewhat strange, but soon I see that there be only one such by-road.
It
is used but little, and very different from the coach road from the Bukovina to
Bistritz, which is more wide and hard, and more of use.

So we came down this road; when we meet other ways—not always were we sure that they
were
roads at all, for they be neglect and light snow have fallen—the horses know and they
only. I give rein to them, and they go on so patient. By-and-by we find all the things
which Jonathan have note in that wonderful diary of him. Then we go on for long, long
hours and hours. At the first, I tell Madam Mina to sleep; she try, and she succeed.
She
sleep all the time; till at the last, I feel myself to suspicious grow, and attempt
to
wake her. But she sleep on, and I may not wake her though I try. I do not wish to
try
too hard lest I harm her; for I know that she have suffer much, and sleep at times
be
all-in-all to her. I think I drowse myself, for all of sudden I feel guilt, as though
I
have done something; I find myself bolt up, with the reins in my hand, and the good
horses go along jog, jog, just as ever. I look down and find Madam Mina still sleep.
It
is now not far off sunset time, and over the snow the light of the sun flow in big
yellow flood, so that we throw great long shadow on where the mountain rise so steep.
For we are going up, and up; and all is oh! so wild and rocky, as though it were the
end
of the world.

Then I arouse Madam Mina. This time she wake with not much trouble, and then I try
to put
her to hypnotic sleep. But she sleep not, being as though I were not. Still I try
and
try, till all at once I find her and myself in dark; so I look round, and find that
the
sun have gone down. Madam Mina laugh, and I turn and look at her. She is now quite
awake, and look so well as I never saw her since that night at Carfax when we first
enter the Count’s house. I am amaze, and not at ease then; but she is so bright and
tender and thoughtful for me that I forget all fear. I light a fire, for we have brought
supply of wood with us, and she prepare food while I undo the horses and set them,
tethered in shelter, to feed. Then when I return to the fire she have my supper ready.
I
go to help her; but she smile, and tell me that she have eat already—that she was
so
hungry that she would not wait. I like it not, and I have grave doubts; but I fear
to
affright her, and so I am silent of it. She help me and I eat alone; and then we wrap
in
fur and lie beside the fire, and I tell her to sleep while I watch. But presently
I
forget all of watching; and when I sudden remember that I watch, I find her lying
quiet,
but awake, and looking at me with so bright eyes. Once, twice more the same occur,
and I
get much sleep till before morning. When I wake I try to hypnotise her; but alas!
though
she shut her eyes obedient, she may not sleep. The sun rise up, and up, and up; and
then
sleep come to her too late, but so heavy that she will not wake. I have to lift her
up,
and place her sleeping in the carriage when I have harnessed the horses and made all
ready. Madam still sleep, and she look in her sleep more healthy and more redder than
before. And I like it not. And I am afraid, afraid, afraid!—I am afraid of all
things—even to think but I must go on my way. The stake we play for is life and death,
or more than these, and we must not flinch.5 November, morning.—Let me be accurate in
everything, for though you and I have seen some strange things together, you may at
the
first think that I, Van Helsing, am mad—that the many horrors and the so long s train on
nerves has at the last turn my brain.

All yesterday we travel, ever getting closer to the mountains, and moving into a more
and
more wild and desert land. There are great, frowning precipices and much falling water,
and Nature seem to have held sometime her carnival. Madam Mina still sleep and sleep;
and though I did have hunger and appeased it, I could not waken her—even for food.
I
began to fear that the fatal spell of the place was upon her, tainted as she is with
that Vampire baptism. Well, said I to myself, if it be that she sleep all the
day, it shall also be that I do not sleep at night. As we travel on the rough
road, for a road of an ancient and imperfect kind there was, I held down my head and
slept. Again I waked with a sense of guilt and of time passed, and found Madam Mina
still sleeping, and the sun low down. But all was indeed changed; the frowning mountains
seemed further away, and we were near the top of a steep-rising hill, on summit of
which
was such a castle as Jonathan tell of in his diary. At once I exulted and feared;
for
now, for good or ill, the end was near.

I woke Madam Mina, and again tried to hypnotise her; but alas! unavailing till too
late.
Then, ere the great dark came upon us—for even after down-sun the heavens reflected
the
gone sun on the snow, and all was for a time in a great twilight—I took out the horses
and fed them in what shelter I could. Then I make a fire; and near it I make Madam
Mina,
now awake and more charming than ever, sit comfortable amid her rugs. I got ready
food:
but she would not eat, simply saying that she had not hunger. I did not press her,
knowing her unavailingness. But I myself eat, for I must needs now be strong for all.
Then, with the fear on me of what might be, I drew a ring so big for her comfort,
round
where Madam Mina sat; and over the ring I passed some of the wafer, and I broke it
fine
so that all was well guarded. She sat still all the time—so still as one dead; and
she
grew whiter and ever whiter till the snow was not more pale; and no word she said.
But
when I drew near, she clung to me, and I could know that the poor soul shook her from
head to feet with a tremor that was pain to feel. I said to her presently, when she
had
grown more quiet:—

Will you not come over to the fire? for I wished to make a test of what she could.
She rose obedient, but when she have made a step she stopped, and stood as one
stricken.

Why not go on? I asked. She shook her head, and, coming back, sat down in her
place. Then, looking at me with open eyes, as of one waked from sleep, she said
simply:—

I cannot! and remained silent. I rejoiced, for I knew that what she could not,
none of those that we dreaded could. Though there might be danger to her body, yet
her
soul was safe!

Presently the horses began to scream, and tore at their tethers till I came to them
and
quieted them. When they did feel my hands on them, they whinnied low as in joy, and
licked at my hands and were quiet for a time. Many times through the night did I come
to
them, till it arrive to the cold hour when all nature is at lowest; and every time
my
coming was with quiet of them. In the cold hour the fire began to die, and I was about
stepping forth to replenish it, for now the snow came in flying sweeps and with it
a
chill mist. Even in the dark there was a light of some kind, as there ever is over
snow;
and it seemed as though the snow-flurries and the wreaths of mist took shape as of
women
with trailing garments. All was in dead, grim silence only that the horses whinnied
and
cowered, as if in terror of the worst. I began to fear—horrible fears; but then came
to
me the sense of safety in that ring wherein I stood. I began, too, to think that my
imaginings were of the night, and the gloom, and the unrest that I have gone through,
and all the terrible anxiety. It was as though my memories of all Jonathan’s horrid
experience were befooling me; for the snow flakes and the mist began to wheel and
circle
round, till I could get as though a shadowy glimpse of those women that would have
kissed him. And then the horses cowered lower and lower, and moaned in terror as men
do
in pain. Even the madness of fright was not to them, so that they could break away.
I
feared for my dear Madam Mina when these weird figures drew near and circled round.
I
looked at her, but she sat calm, and smiled at me; when I would have stepped to the
fire
to replenish it, she caught me and held me back, and whispered, like a voice that
one
hears in a dream, so low it was:—

No! No! Do not go without. Here you are safe! I turned to her, and looking in her
eyes, said:—

But you? It is for you that I fear! whereat she laughed—a laugh, low and unreal,
and said:—

Fear for me! Why fear for me? None safer in all the world from them than I am, and
as I wondered at the meaning of her words, a puff of wind made the flame leap up,
and I
see the red scar on her forehead. Then, alas! I knew. Did I not, I would soon have
learned, for the wheeling figures of mist and snow came closer, but keeping ever without
the Holy circle. Then they began to materialise till—if God have not take away my
reason, for I saw it through my eyes—there were before me in actual flesh the same
three
women that Jonathan saw in the room, when they would have kissed his throat. I knew
the
swaying round forms, the bright hard eyes, the white teeth, the ruddy colour, the
voluptuous lips. They smiled ever at poor dear Madam Mina; and as their laugh came
through the silence of the night, they twined their arms and pointed to her, and said
in
those so sweet tingling tones that Jonathan said were of the intolerable sweetness
of
the water-glasses:—

Come, sister. Come to us. Come! Come! In fear I turned to my poor Madam Mina, and
my heart with gladness leapt like flame; for oh! the terror in her sweet eyes, the
repulsion, the horror, told a story to my heart that was all of hope. God be thanked
she
was not, yet, of them. I seized some of the firewood which was by me, and holding
out
some of the Wafer, advanced on them towards the fire. They drew back before me, and
laughed their low horrid laugh. I fed the fire, and feared them not; for I knew that
we
were safe within our protections. They could not approach, me, whilst so armed, nor
Madam Mina whilst she remained within the ring, which she could not leave no more
than
they could enter. The horses had ceased to moan, and lay still on the ground; the
snow
fell on them softly, and they grew whiter. I knew that there was for the poor beasts
no
more of terror.

And so we remained till the red of the dawn to fall through the snow-gloom. I was
desolate and afraid, and full of woe and terror; but when that beautiful sun began
to
climb the horizon life was to me again. At the first coming of the dawn the horrid
figures melted in the whirling mist and snow; the wreaths of transparent gloom moved
away towards the castle, and were lost.

Instinctively, with the dawn coming, I turned to Madam Mina, intending to hypnotise
her;
but she lay in a deep and sudden sleep, from which I could not wake her. I tried to
hypnotise through her sleep, but she made no response, none at all; and the day broke.
I
fear yet to stir. I have made my fire and have seen the horses, they are all dead.
To-day I have much to do here, and I keep waiting till the sun is up high; for there
may
be places where I must go, where that sunlight, though snow and mist obscure it, will
be
to me a safety.

I will strengthen me with breakfast, and then I will to my terrible work. Madam Mina
still sleeps; and, God be thanked! she is calm in her sleep....

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

4 November, evening.—The accident to the launch has been a terrible thing for us. Only
for it we should have overtaken the boat long ago; and by now my dear Mina would have
been free. I fear to think of her, off on the wolds near that horrid place. We have
got
horses, and we follow on the track. I note this whilst Godalming is getting ready.
We
have our arms. The Szgany must look out if they mean fight. Oh, if only Morris and
Seward were with us. We must only hope! If I write no more Good-bye, Mina! God bless
and
keep you.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

5 November.—With the dawn we saw the body of Szgany before us dashing away from the river
with their leiter-wagon. They surrounded it in a cluster, and hurried along as though
beset. The snow is falling lightly and there is a strange excitement in the air. It
may
be our own feelings, but the depression is strange. Far off I hear the howling of
wolves; the snow brings them down from the mountains, and there are dangers to all
of
us, and from all sides. The horses are nearly ready, and we are soon off. We ride
to
death of some one. God alone knows who, or where, or what, or when, or how it may
be....

Dr. Van Helsing’s Memorandum.

5 November, afternoon.—I am at least sane. Thank God for that mercy at all events, though
the proving it has been dreadful. When I left Madam Mina sleeping within the Holy
circle, I took my way to the castle. The blacksmith hammer which I took in the carriage
from Veresti was useful; though the doors were all open I broke them off the rusty
hinges, lest some ill-intent or ill-chance should close them, so that being entered
I
might not get out. Jonathan’s bitter experience served me here. By memory of his diary
I
found my way to the old chapel, for I knew that here my work lay. The air was
oppressive; it seemed as if there was some sulphurous fume, which at times made me
dizzy. Either there was a roaring in my ears or I heard afar off the howl of wolves.
Then I bethought me of my dear Madam Mina, and I was in terrible plight. The dilemma
had
me between his horns.

Her, I had not dare to take into this place, but left safe from the Vampire in that
Holy
circle; and yet even there would be the wolf! I resolve me that my work lay here,
and
that as to the wolves we must submit, if it were God’s will. At any rate it was only
death and freedom beyond. So did I choose for her. Had it but been for myself the
choice
had been easy, the maw of the wolf were better to rest in than the grave of the Vampire!
So I make my choice to go on with my work.

I knew that there were at least three graves to find—graves that are inhabit; so I
search, and search, and I find one of them. She lay in her Vampire sleep, so full
of
life and voluptuous beauty that I shudder as though I have come to do murder. Ah,
I
doubt not that in old time, when such things were, many a man who set forth to do
such a
task as mine, found at the last his heart fail him, and then his nerve. So he delay,
and
delay, and delay, till the mere beauty and the fascination of the wanton Un-Dead have
hypnotise him; and he remain on and on, till sunset come, and the Vampire sleep be
over.
Then the beautiful eyes of the fair woman open and look love, and the voluptuous mouth
present to a kiss—and man is weak. And there remain one more victim in the Vampire
fold;
one more to swell the grim and grisly ranks of the Un-Dead!...

There is some fascination, surely, when I am moved by the mere presence of such an
one,
even lying as she lay in a tomb fretted with age and heavy with the dust of centuries,
though there be that horrid odour such as the lairs of the Count have had. Yes, I
was
moved—I, Van Helsing, with all my purpose and with my motive for hate—I was moved
to a
yearning for delay which seemed to paralyse my faculties and to clog my very soul.
It
may have been that the need of natural sleep, and the strange oppression of the air
were
beginning to overcome me. Certain it was that I was lapsing into sleep, the open-eyed
sleep of one who yields to a sweet fascination, when there came through the snow-stilled
air a long, low wail, so full of woe and pity that it woke me like the sound of a
clarion. For it was the voice of my dear Madam Mina that I heard.

Then I braced myself again to my horrid task, and found by wrenching away tomb-tops
one
other of the sisters, the other dark one. I dared not pause to look on her as I had
on
her sister, lest once more I should begin to be enthrall; but I go on searching until,
presently, I find in a high great tomb as if made to one much beloved that other fair
sister which, like Jonathan I had seen to gather herself out of the atoms of the mist.
She was so fair to look on, so radiantly beautiful, so exquisitely voluptuous, that
the
very instinct of man in me, which calls some of my sex to love and to protect one
of
hers, made my head whirl with new emotion. But God be thanked, that soul-wail of my
dear
Madam Mina had not died out of my ears; and, before the spell could be wrought further
upon me, I had nerved myself to my wild work. By this time I had searched all the
tombs
in the chapel, so far as I could tell; and as there had been only three of these Un-Dead
phantoms around us in the night, I took it that there were no more of active Un-Dead
existent. There was one great tomb more lordly than all the rest; huge it was, and
nobly
proportioned. On it was but one word

DRACULA.

This then was the Un-Dead home of the King-Vampire, to whom so many more were due.
Its
emptiness spoke eloquent to make certain what I knew. Before I began to restore these
women to their dead selves through my awful work, I laid in Dracula’s tomb some of
the
Wafer, and so banished him from it, Un-Dead, for ever.

Then began my terrible task, and I dreaded it. Had it been but one, it had been easy,
comparative. But three! To begin twice more after I had been through a deed of horror;
for if it was terrible with the sweet Miss Lucy, what would it not be with these strange
ones who had survived through centuries, and who had been strengthened by the passing
of
the years; who would, if they could, have fought for their foul lives....

Oh, my friend John, but it was butcher work; had I not been nerved by thoughts of
other
dead, and of the living over whom hung such a pall of fear, I could not have gone
on. I
tremble and tremble even yet, though till all was over, God be thanked, my nerve did
stand. Had I not seen the repose in the first place, and the gladness that stole over
it
just ere the final dissolution came, as realisation that the soul had been won, I
could
not have gone further with my butchery. I could not have endured the horrid screeching
as the stake drove home; the plunging of writhing form, and lips of bloody foam. I
should have fled in terror and left my work undone. But it is over! And the poor souls,
I can pity them now and weep, as I think of them placid each in her full sleep of
death
for a short moment ere fading. For, friend John, hardly had my knife severed the head
of
each, before the whole body began to melt away and crumble in to its native dust,
as
though the death that should have come centuries agone had at last assert himself
and
say at once and loud I am here!

Before I left the castle I so fixed its entrances that never more can the Count enter
there Un-Dead.

When I stepped into the circle where Madam Mina slept, she woke from her sleep, and,
seeing, me, cried out in pain that I had endured too much.

Come! she said, come away from this awful place! Let us go to meet my husband
who is, I know, coming towards us. She was looking thin and pale and weak; but
her eyes were pure and glowed with fervour. I was glad to see her paleness and her
illness, for my mind was full of the fresh horror of that ruddy vampire sleep.

And so with trust and hope, and yet full of fear, we go eastward to meet our friends—and
him—whom Madam Mina tell me that she know are coming to meet us.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

6 November.—It was late in the afternoon when the Professor and I took our way towards
the east whence I knew Jonathan was coming. We did not go fast, though the way was
steeply downhill, for we had to take heavy rugs and wraps with us; we dared not face
the
possibility of being left without warmth in the cold and the snow. We had to take
some
of our provisions, too, for we were in a perfect desolation, and, so far as we could
see
through the snowfall, there was not even the sign of habitation. When we had gone
about
a mile, I was tired with the heavy walking and sat down to rest. Then we looked back
and
saw where the clear line of Dracula’s castle cut the sky; for we were so deep under
the
hill whereon it was set that the angle of perspective of the Carpathian mountains was
far below it. We saw it in all its grandeur, perched a thousand feet on the summit
of a
sheer precipice, and with seemingly a great gap between it and the steep of the adjacent
mountain on any side. There was something wild and uncanny about the place. We could
hear the distant howling of wolves. They were far off, but the sound, even though
coming
muffled through the deadening snowfall, was full of terror. I knew from the way Dr.
Van
Helsing was searching about that he was trying to seek some strategic point, where
we
would be less exposed in case of attack. The rough roadway still led downwards; we
could
trace it through the drifted snow.

In a little while the Professor signalled to me, so I got up and joined him. He had
found
a wonderful spot, a sort of natural hollow in a rock, with an entrance like a doorway
between two boulders. He took me by the hand and drew me in: See! he said,
here you will be in shelter; and if the wolves do come I can meet them one by
one. He brought in our furs, and made a snug nest for me, and got out some
provisions and forced them upon me. But I could not eat; to even try to do so was
repulsive to me, and, much as I would have liked to please him, I could not bring
myself
to the attempt. He looked very sad, but did not reproach me. Taking his field-glasses
from the case, he stood on the top of the rock, and began to search the horizon.
Suddenly he called out:—

Look! Madam Mina, look! look! I sprang up and stood beside him on the rock; he
handed me his glasses and pointed. The snow was now falling more heavily, and swirled
about fiercely, for a high wind was beginning to blow. However, there were times when
there were pauses between the snow flurries and I could see a long way round. From
the
height where we were it was possible to see a great distance; and far off, beyond
the
white waste of snow, I could see the river lying like a black ribbon in kinks and
curls
as it wound its way. Straight in front of us and not far off—in fact, so near that
I
wondered we had not noticed before—came a group of mounted men hurrying along. In
the
midst of them was a cart, a long leiter-wagon which swept from side to side, like a
dog’s tail wagging, with each stern inequality of the road. Outlined against the snow
as
they were, I could see from the men’s clothes that they were peasants or gypsies of
some
kind.

On the cart was a great square chest. My heart leaped as I saw it, for I felt that
the
end was coming. The evening was now drawing close, and well I knew that at sunset
the
Thing, which was till then imprisoned there, would take new freedom and could in any
of
many forms elude all pursuit. In fear I turned to the Professor; to my consternation,
however, he was not there. An instant later, I saw him below me. Round the rock he
had
drawn a circle, such as we had found shelter in last night. When he had completed
it he
stood beside me again, saying:—

At least you shall be safe here from him! He took the glasses from me, and at the
next lull of the snow swept the whole space below us. See, he said, they come
quickly; they are flogging the horses, and galloping as hard as they can. He
paused and went on in a hollow voice:—

They are racing for the sunset. We may be too late. God’s will be done! Down came
another blinding rush of driving snow, and the whole landscape was blotted out. It
soon
passed, however, and once more his glasses were fixed on the plain. Then came a sudden
cry:—

Look! Look! Look! See, two horsemen follow fast, coming up from the south. It must
be
Quincey and John. Take the glass. Look before the snow blots it all out! I took
it and looked. The two men might be Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris. I knew at all events
that
neither of them was Jonathan. At the same time I knew that Jonathan was not far off;
looking around I saw on the north side of the coming party two other men, riding at
break-neck speed. One of them I knew was Jonathan, and the other I took, of course,
to
be Lord Godalming. They, too, were pursuing the party with the cart. When I told the
Professor he shouted in glee like a schoolboy, and, after looking intently till a
snow
fall made sight impossible, he laid his Winchester rifle ready for use against the
boulder at the opening of our shelter. They are all converging, he said. When
the time comes we shall have gypsies on all sides. I got out my revolver ready
to hand, for whilst we were speaking the howling of wolves came louder and closer.
When
the snow storm abated a moment we looked again. It was strange to see the snow falling
in such heavy flakes close to us, and beyond, the sun shining more and more brightly
as
it sank down towards the far mountain tops. Sweeping the glass all around us I could
see
here and there dots moving singly and in twos and threes and larger numbers—the wolves
were gathering for their prey.

Every instant seemed an age whilst we waited. The wind came now in fierce bursts,
and the
snow was driven with fury as it swept upon us in circling eddies. At times we could
not
see an arm’s length before us; but at others, as the hollow-sounding wind swept by
us,
it seemed to clear the air-space around us so that we could see afar off. We had of
late
been so accustomed to watch for sunrise and sunset, that we knew with fair accuracy
when
it would be; and we knew that before long the sun would set. It was hard to believe
that
by our watches it was less than an hour that we waited in that rocky shelter before
the
various bodies began to converge close upon us. The wind came now with fiercer and
more
bitter sweeps, and more steadily from the north. It seemingly had driven the snow
clouds
from us, for, with only occasional bursts, the snow fell. We could distinguish clearly
the individuals of each party, the pursued and the pursuers. Strangely enough those
pursued did not seem to realise, or at least to care, that they were pursued; they
seemed, however, to hasten with redoubled speed as the sun dropped lower and lower
on
the mountain tops.

Closer and closer they drew. The Professor and I crouched down behind our rock, and
held
our weapons ready; I could see that he was determined that they should not pass. One
and
all were quite unaware of our presence.

All at once two voices shouted out to: Halt! One was my Jonathan’s, raised in a
high key of passion; the other Mr. Morris’ strong resolute tone of quiet command.
The
gypsies may not have known the language, but there was no mistaking the tone, in
whatever tongue the words were spoken. Instinctively they reined in, and at the instant
Lord Godalming and Jonathan dashed up at one side and Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris on
the
other. The leader of the gypsies, a splendid-looking fellow who sat his horse like
a
centaur, waved them back, and in a fierce voice gave to his companions some word to
proceed. They lashed the horses which sprang forward; but the four men raised their
Winchester rifles, and in an unmistakable way commanded them to stop. At the same
moment
Dr. Van Helsing and I rose behind the rock and pointed our weapons at them. Seeing
that
they were surrounded the men tightened their reins and drew up. The leader turned
to
them and gave a word at which every man of the gypsy party drew what weapon he carried,
knife or pistol, and held himself in readiness to attack. Issue was joined in an
instant.

The leader, with a quick movement of his rein, threw his horse out in front, and pointing
first to the sun—now close down on the hill tops—and then to the castle, said something
which I did not understand. For answer, all four men of our party threw themselves
from
their horses and dashed towards the cart. I should have felt terrible fear at seeing
Jonathan in such danger, but that the ardour of battle must have been upon me as well
as
the rest of them; I felt no fear, but only a wild, surging desire to do something.
Seeing the quick movement of our parties, the leader of the gypsies gave a command;
his
men instantly formed round the cart in a sort of undisciplined endeavour, each one
shouldering and pushing the other in his eagerness to carry out the order.

In the midst of this I could see that Jonathan on one side of the ring of men, and
Quincey on the other, were forcing a way to the cart; it was evident that they were
bent
on finishing their task before the sun should set. Nothing seemed to stop or even
to
hinder them. Neither the levelled weapons nor the flashing knives of the gypsies in
front, nor the howling of the wolves behind, appeared to even attract their attention.
Jonathan’s impetuosity, and the manifest singleness of his purpose, seemed to overawe
those in front of him; instinctively they cowered, aside and let him pass. In an instant
he had jumped upon the cart, and, with a strength which seemed incredible, raised
the
great box, and flung it over the wheel to the ground. In the meantime, Mr. Morris
had
had to use force to pass through his side of the ring of Szgany. All the time I had
been
breathlessly watching Jonathan I had, with the tail of my eye, seen him pressing
desperately forward, and had seen the knives of the gypsies flash as he won a way
through them, and they cut at him. He had parried with his great bowie knife, and
at
first I thought that he too had come through in safety; but as he sprang beside
Jonathan, who had by now jumped from the cart, I could see that with his left hand
he
was clutching at his side, and that the blood was spurting through his fingers. He
did
not delay notwithstanding this, for as Jonathan, with desperate energy, attacked one
end
of the chest, attempting to prize off the lid with his great Kukri knife, he attacked
the other frantically with his bowie. Under the efforts of both men the lid began
to
yield; the nails drew with a quick screeching sound, and the top of the box was thrown
back.

By this time the gypsies, seeing themselves covered by the Winchesters, and at the
mercy
of Lord Godalming and Dr. Seward, had given in and made no resistance. The sun was
almost down on the mountain tops, and the shadows of the whole group fell long upon
the
snow. I saw the Count lying within the box upon the earth, some of which the rude
falling from the cart had scattered over him. He was deathly pale, just like a waxen
image, and the red eyes glared with the horrible vindictive look which I knew too
well.

As I looked, the eyes saw the sinking sun, and the look of hate in them turned to
triumph.

But, on the instant, came the sweep and flash of Jonathan’s great knife. I shrieked
as I
saw it shear through the throat; whilst at the same moment Mr. Morris’s bowie knife
plunged into the heart.

It was like a miracle; but before our very eyes, and almost in the drawing of a breath,
the whole body crumble into dust and passed from our sight.

I shall be glad as long as I live that even in that moment of final dissolution, there
was in the face a look of peace, such as I never could have imagined might have rested
there.

The Castle of Dracula now stood out against the red sky, and every stone of its broken
battlements was articulated against the light of the setting sun.

The gypsies, taking us as in some way the cause of the extraordinary disappearance
of the
dead man, turned, without a word, and rode away as if for their lives. Those who were
unmounted jumped upon the leiter-wagon and shouted to the horsemen not to desert them.
The wolves, which had withdrawn to a safe distance, followed in their wake, leaving
us
alone.

Mr. Morris, who had sunk to the ground, leaned on his elbow, holding his hand pressed
to
his side; the blood still gushed through his fingers. I flew to him, for the Holy
circle
did not now keep me back; so did the two doctors. Jonathan knelt behind him and the
wounded man laid back his head on his shoulder. With a sigh he took, with a feeble
effort, my hand in that of his own which was unstained. He must have seen the anguish
of
my heart in my face, for he smiled at me and said:—

I am only too happy to have been of any service! Oh, God! he cried suddenly,
struggling up to a sitting posture and pointing to me, It was worth for this to die!
Look! look!

The sun was now right down upon the mountain top, and the red gleams fell upon my
face,
so that it was bathed in rosy light. With one impulse the men sank on their knees
and a
deep and earnest Amen broke from all as their eyes followed the pointing of his
finger. The dying man spoke:—

Now God be thanked that all has not been in vain! See! the snow is not more stainless
than her forehead! The curse has passed away!

And, to our bitter grief, with a smile and in silence, he died, a gallant gentleman.

NOTE

Seven years ago we all went through the flames; and the happiness of some of us since
then is, we think, well worth the pain we endured. It is an added joy to Mina and
to me
that our boy’s birthday is the same day as that on which Quincey Morris died. His
mother
holds, I know, the secret belief that some of our brave friend’s spirit has passed
into
him. His bundle of names links all our little band of men together; but we call him
Quincey.

In the summer of this year we made a journey to Transylvania, and went over the old
ground which was, and is, to us so full of vivid and terrible memories. It was almost
impossible to believe that the things which we had seen with our own eyes and heard
with
our own ears were living truths. Every trace of all that had been was blotted out.
The
castle stood as before, reared high above a waste of desolation.

When we got home we were talking of the old time—which we could all look back on without
despair, for Godalming and Seward are both happily married. I took the papers from
the
safe where they had been ever since our return so long ago. We were struck with the
fact, that in all the mass of material of which the record is composed, there is hardly
one authentic document; nothing but a mass of typewriting, except the later note-books
of Mina and Seward and myself, and Van Helsing’s memorandum. We could hardly ask any
one, even did we wish to, to accept these as proofs of so wild a story. Van Helsing
summed it all up as he said, with our boy on his knee:—

We want no proofs; we ask none to believe us! This boy will some day know what a
brave and gallant woman his mother is. Already he knows her sweetness and loving
care; later on he will understand how some men so loved her, that they did dare much
for her sake.

Jonathan Harker.
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