

                                  Bram Stoker

                                    Dracula

                                       To
                                 My Dear Friend
                                        
                                   HOMMY-BEG
                                        
How these papers have been placed in sequence will be made clear in the reading
of them. All needless matters have been eliminated, so that a history almost at
 variance with the possibilities of latter-day belief may stand forth as simple
 fact. There is throughout no statement of past events wherein memory may err,
for all the records chosen are exactly contemporary, given from the standpoints
           and within the range of knowledge of those who made them.

                                   Chapter I

 

                           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 Hôtel 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 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 noble 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 petticoats under them. The strangest
figures we saw were the Slovaks, who are more barbarian than the rest, with
their big cowboy 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 anyone else, for it was all very
mysterious and not by any means comforting.
    Just before I was leaving, the old lady came up to my room and said in a
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, I do not know, but I am not feeling nearly as easy in my mind as usual. If
this book should ever reach Mina before I do, let it bring my good-bye. Here
comes the coach!
    5 May. - The Castle. - The grey of the morning has passed, and the sun is
high over the distant horizon, which seems jagged, whether with trees or hills I
know not, for it is so far off that big things and little are mixed. I am not
sleepy, and, as I am not to be called till I awake, naturally I write till sleep
comes. There are many odd things to put down, and, lest who reads them may fancy
that I dined too well before I left Bistritz, let me put down my dinner exactly.
I dined on what they call robber steak - bits of bacon, onion, and beef,
seasoned with red pepper, and strung on sticks and roasted over the fire, in the
simple style of the London cat's-meat! The wine was Golden Mediasch, which
produces a queer sting on the tongue, which is, however, not disagreeable. I had
only a couple of glasses of this, and nothing else.
    When I got on the coach the driver had not taken his seat, and I saw him
talking with the landlady. They were evidently talking of me, for every now and
then they looked at me, and some of the people who were sitting on the bench
outside the door - which they call by a name meaning word-bearer - came and
listened, and then looked at me, most of them pityingly. I could hear a lot of
words often repeated, queer words, for there were many nationalities in the
crowd; so I quietly got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked them out.
I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them were Ordog - Satan,
pokol - hell, stregoica - witch, vrolok and vlkoslak - both of which mean the
same thing, one being Slovak and the other Servian for something that is either
were-wolf or vampire. (Mem., I must ask the Count about these superstitions.)
    When we started, the crowd round the inn door, which had by this time
swelled to a considerable size, all made the sign of the cross and pointed two
fingers towards me. With some difficulty I got a fellow-passenger to tell me
what they meant; he would not answer at first, but on learning that I was
English, he explained that it was a charm or guard against the evil eye. This
was not very pleasant for me, just starting for an unknown place to meet an
unknown man; but everyone seemed so kind-hearted, and so sorrowful, and so
sympathetic that I could not but be touched. I shall never forget the last
glimpse which I had of the inn-yard and its crowd of picturesque figures, all
crossing themselves, as they stood round the wide archway, with its background
of rich foliage of oleander and orange trees in green tubs clustered in the
centre of the yard. Then our driver, whose wide linen drawers covered the whole
front of the 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 summer-time excellent, but that it had not yet been put in order
after the winter snows. In this respect it is different from the general run of
roads in the Carpathians, for it is an old tradition that they are not to be
kept in too good order. Of old the Hospadars would not repair them, lest the
Turk should think that they were preparing to bring in foreign troops, and so
hasten the war which was always really at loading point.
    Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty slopes of
forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians themselves. Right and left of
us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling full upon them and bringing out
all the glorious colours of this beautiful range, deep blue and purple in the
shadows of the peaks, green and brown where grass and rock mingled, and an
endless perspective of jagged rock and pointed crags, till these were themselves
lost in the distance, where the snowy peaks rose grandly. Here and there seemed
mighty rifts in the mountains, through which, as the sun began to sink, we saw
now and again the white gleam of falling water. One of my companions touched my
arm as we swept round the base of a hill and opened up the lofty, snow-covered
peak of a mountain, which seemed, as we wound on our serpentine way, to be right
before us: -
    »Look! Isten szek!« - »God's seat!« - and he crossed himself reverently. As
we wound on our endless way, and the sun sank lower and lower behind us, the
shadows of the evening began to creep round us. This was emphasized by the fact
that the snowy mountain-top still held the sunset, and seemed to glow out with a
delicate cool pink. Here and there we passed Cszeks and Slovaks, all in
picturesque attire, but I noticed that goitre was painfully prevalent. By the
roadside were many crosses, and as we swept by, my companions all crossed
themselves. Here and there was a peasant man or woman kneeling before a shrine,
who did not even turn round as we approached, but seemed in the self-surrender
of devotion to have neither eyes nor ears for the outer world. There were many
things new to me: for instance, hay-ricks in the trees, and here and there very
beautiful masses of weeping birch, their white stems shining like silver through
the delicate green of the leaves. Now and again we passed a leiter-wagon - the
ordinary 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 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 steam from our hard-driven horses
rose in a white cloud. We could now see the sandy road lying white before us,
but there was on it no sign of a vehicle. The passengers drew back with a sigh
of gladness, which seemed to mock my own disappointment. I was already thinking
what I had best do, when the driver, looking at his watch, said to the others
something which I could hardly hear, it was spoken so quietly and in so low a
tone; I thought it was, An hour less than the time. Then, turning to me, he said
in German worse than my own: -
    »There is no carriage here. The Herr is not expected, after all. He will now
come on to Bukovina, and return 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, 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 strange, and not a
little frightened. I think had there been any alternative I should have taken
it, instead of prosecuting that unknown night journey. The carriage went at a
hard pace straight along, then we made a complete turn and went along another
straight road. It seemed to me that we were simply going over and over the same
ground again; and so I took note of some salient point, and found that this was
so. I would have liked to have asked the driver what this all meant, but I
really feared to do so, for I thought that, placed as I was, any protest would
have had no effect in case there had been an intention to delay. By and by,
however, as I was curious to know how time was passing, I struck a match, and by
its flame looked at my watch; it was within a few minutes of midnight. This gave
me a sort of shock, for I suppose the general superstition about midnight was
increased by my recent experiences. I waited with a sick feeling of suspense.
    Then a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far down the road - a
long, agonized wailing, as if from fear. The sound was taken up by another dog,
and then another and another, till, borne on the wind which now sighed softly
through the Pass, a wild howling began, which seemed to come from all over the
country, as far as the imagination could grasp it through the gloom of the
night. At the first howl the horses began to strain and rear, but the driver
spoke to them soothingly, and they quieted down, but shivered and sweated as
though after a runaway from sudden fright. Then, far off in the distance, from
the mountains on each side of us began a louder and a sharper howling - that of
wolves - which affected both the horses and myself in the same way - for I was
minded to jump from the 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; but the driver
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 done, 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.
 

                                   Chapter II

                     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 to 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 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, 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 stone-work, made a graceful wave of his hand to
the table, and said: -
    »I pray you, be seated and sup how you please. You will, I trust, excuse me
that I do not join you; but I have dined already, and I do not sup.«
    I handed to him the sealed letter which Mr. Hawkins had entrusted to me. He
opened it and read it gravely; then, with a charming smile, he handed it to me
to read. One passage of it, at least, gave me a thrill of pleasure: -
    »I much regret that an attack of gout, from which malady I am a constant
sufferer, forbids absolutely any travelling on my part for some time to come;
but I am happy to say I can send a sufficient substitute, one in whom I have
every possible confidence. He is a young man, full of energy and talent in his
own way, and of a very faithful disposition. He is discreet and silent, and has
grown into manhood in my service. He shall be ready to attend on you when you
will during his stay, and shall take your instructions in all matters.«
    The Count himself came forward and took off the cover of a dish, and I fell
to at once on an excellent roast chicken. This, with some cheese and a salad and
a bottle of old Tokay, of which I had two glasses, was my supper. During the
time I was eating it the Count asked me many questions as to my journey, and I
told him by degrees all I had experienced.
    By this time I had finished my supper, and by my host's desire had drawn up
a chair by the fire and begun to smoke a cigar which he offered me, at the same
time excusing himself that he did not smoke. I had now an opportunity of
observing him, and found him of a very marked physiognomy.
    His face was a strong - a very strong - aquiline, with high bridge of the
thin nose and peculiarly arched nostrils; with lofty domed forehead, and hair
growing scantily round the temples, but profusely elsewhere. His eyebrows were
very massive, almost meeting over the nose, and with bushy hair that seemed to
curl in its own profusion. The mouth, so far as I could see it under the heavy
moustache, was fixed and rather cruel-looking, with peculiarly sharp white
teeth; these protruded over the lips, whose remarkable ruddiness showed
astonishing vitality in a man of his years. For the rest, his ears were pale and
at the tops extremely pointed; the chin was broad and strong, and the cheeks
firm though thin. The general effect was one of extraordinary pallor.
    Hitherto I had noticed the backs of his hands as they lay on his knees in
the firelight, and they had seemed rather white and fine; but seeing them now
close to me, I could not but notice that they were rather coarse - broad, with
squat fingers. Strange to say, there were hairs in the centre of the palm. The
nails were long and fine, and cut to a sharp point. As the Count 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!« and, 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.« So 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. When 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 Almanack, 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 friends« - 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 sees me, or pause in his speaking if he hear my words, to say, Ha, ha! a
stranger! I have been so long master that I would be master still - or at least
that none other should be master of me. You come to me not alone as agent of my
friend Peter Hawkins, of Exeter, to tell me all about my new estate in London.
You shall, I trust, rest here with me a while, so that by our talking I may
learn the English intonation; and I would that you tell me when I make error,
even of the smallest, in my speaking. I am sorry that I had to be away so long
to-day; but you will, I know, forgive one who has so many important affairs in
hand.«
    Of course I said all I could about being willing, and asked if I might come
into that room when I chose. He answered, »Yes, certainly,« and added: -
    »You may go anywhere you wish in the castle, except where the doors are
locked, where of course you will not wish to go. There is reason that all things
are as they are, and did you see with my eyes and know with my knowledge, you
would perhaps better understand.« I said I was sure of this, and then he went
on: -
    »We are in Transylvania; and Transylvania is not England. Our ways are not
your ways, and there shall be to you many strange things. Nay, from what you
have told me of your experiences already, you know something of what strange
things here 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 we had seen
the blue flames. Was it indeed true that they showed where gold was hidden? 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. 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
were 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 medieval 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 be 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; anyone who has, when tired, and tied as it were to his
post, experienced this change in the atmosphere can well believe it. All at once
we heard the crow of 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 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 anyone 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 that instant I saw that the cut had
bled a little, and the blood was trickling over my chin. I laid down the razor,
turning as I did so half-round to look for some sticking-plaster. When the Count
saw my face, his eyes blazed with a sort of demoniac fury, and he suddenly made
a grab at my throat. I drew away, and his hand touched the string of beads which
held the crucifix. It made an instant change in him, for the fury passed so
quickly that I could hardly believe that it was ever there.
    »Take care,« he said, »take care how you cut yourself. It is more dangerous
than you think in this country.« Then seizing the shaving-glass, he went on:
»And this is the wretched thing that has done the mischief. It is a foul bauble
of man's vanity. Away with it!« and opening the heavy window with one wrench of
his terrible hand, he flung out the glass, which was shattered into a thousand
pieces on the stones of the courtyard far below. Then he withdrew without a
word. It is very annoying, for I do not see how I am to shave, unless in my
watch-case or the bottom of the shaving-pot, which is, fortunately, of metal.
    When I went into the dining-room, breakfast was prepared; but I could not
find the Count anywhere. So I breakfasted alone. It is strange that as yet I
have not seen the Count eat or drink. He must be a very peculiar man! After
breakfast I did a little exploring in the castle. I went out on the stairs and
found a room looking towards the south. The view was magnificent, and from where
I stood there was every opportunity of seeing it. The castle is on the very edge
of a terrible precipice. A stone falling from the window would fall a thousand
feet without touching anything! As far as the eye can reach is a sea of green
tree-tops, with occasionally a deep rift where there is a chasm. Here and there
are silver threads where the rivers wind in deep gorges through the forests.
    But I am not in heart to describe beauty, for when I had seen the view I
explored further; doors, doors, doors everywhere, and all locked and bolted. In
no place save from the windows in the castle walls is there an available exit.
    The castle is a veritable prison, and I am a prisoner!
 

                                  Chapter III

                     Jonathan Harker's Journal (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 things. 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 Transylvanian 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, aye, 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; aye, 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. Who was it that
his own unworthy brother, when he had fallen, sold his people to the Turk and
brought the shame of slavery on them! Was it not this Dracula, indeed, who
inspired that other of his race who in a later age again and again brought his
forces over the great river into Turkey-land; who, when he was beaten back, came
again, and again, and again, though he had to come alone from the bloody field
where his troops were being slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could
ultimately triumph? They said that he thought only of himself. Bah! what good
are peasants without a leader? Where ends the war without a brain and heart to
conduct it? Again, when, after the battle of Mohacs, we threw off the Hungarian
yoke, we of the Dracula blood were amongst their leaders, for our spirit would
not brook that we were not free. Ah, young sir, the Szekelys - and the Dracula
as their heart's blood, their brains, and their swords - can boast a record that
mushroom growths like the Hapsburgs and the Romanoffs can never reach. The
warlike days are over. Blood is too precious a thing in these days of
dishonourable peace; and the glories of the great races are as a tale that is
told.«
    It was by this time close on morning, and we went to bed. (Mem., this diary
seems horribly like the beginning of the Arabian Nights, for everything has to
break off at cockcrow - or like the ghost of Hamlet's father.)
    12 May. - Let me begin with facts - bare, meagre facts, verified by books
and figures, and of which there can be no doubt. I must not confuse them with
experiences which will have to rest on my own observation or my memory of them.
Last evening when the Count came from his room he began by asking me questions
on legal matters and on the doing of certain kinds of business. I had spent the
day wearily over books, and, simply to keep my mind occupied, went over some of
the matters I had been examined in at Lincoln's Inn. There was a certain method
in the Count's inquiries, so I shall try to put them down in sequence; the
knowledge may somehow or some time be useful to me.
    First, he asked if a man in England might have two solicitors, or more. I
told him he might have a dozen if he wished, but that it would not be wise to
have more than one solicitor engaged in one transaction, as only one could act
at a time, and that to change would be certain to militate against his interest.
He seemed thoroughly to understand, and went on to ask if there would be any
practical difficulty in having one man to attend, say, to banking, and another
to look after shipping, in case local help were needed in a place far from the
home of the banking solicitor. I asked him to explain more fully, so that I
might not by any chance mislead him, so he said: -
    »I shall illustrate. Your friend and mine, Mr. Peter Hawkins, from under the
shadow of your beautiful cathedral at Exeter, which is far from London, buys for
me through your good self my place at London. Good! Now here let me say frankly,
lest you should think it strange that I have sought the services of one so far
off from London instead of someone resident there, that my motive was that no
local interest might be served save my wish only; and as one of London resident
might, perhaps, have some purpose of himself or friend to serve I went thus
afield to seek my agent, whose labours should be only to my interest. Now,
suppose I, who have much of affairs, wish to ship goods, say, to Newcastle, or
Durham, or Harwich, or Dover, might it not be that it could with more ease be
done by consigning to one in these ports?« I answered that certainly it would be
most easy, but that we solicitors had a system of agency one for the other, so
that local work could be done locally on instruction from any solicitor, so that
the client, simply placing himself in the hands of one man, could have his
wishes carried out by him without further trouble.
    »But,« said he, »I could be at liberty to direct myself. Is it not so?«
    »Of course,« I replied; »and such is often done by men of business, who do
not like the whole of their affairs to be known by any one person.«
    »Good!« he said, and then went on to ask about the means of making
consignments and the forms to be gone through, and of all sorts of difficulties
which might arise, but by 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 notepaper 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
under-lip, 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 round me.
    Later. - I endorse the last words written, but this time there is no doubt
in question. I shall not fear to sleep in any place where he is not. I have
placed the crucifix over the head of my bed - I imagine that my rest is thus
freer from dreams; and there it shall remain.
    When he left me I went to my room. After a little while, not hearing any
sound, I came out and went up the stone stair to where I could look out towards
the south. There was some sense of freedom in the vast expanse, inaccessible
though it was to me, as compared with the narrow darkness of the courtyard.
Looking out on this, I felt that I was indeed in prison, and I seemed to want a
breath of fresh air, though it were of the night. I am beginning to feel this
nocturnal existence tell on me. It is destroying my nerve. I start at my own
shadow, and am full of all sorts of horrible imaginings. God knows that there is
ground for any 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 story below me, and somewhat to my left,
where I imagined, from the lie 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 weather-worn, 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 a 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 story 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 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's, 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 fair girl went on her knees and bent over me, fairly 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 supersensitive 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 in 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 a whisper, seemed to cut through the air and then ring
round the room, he exclaimed: -
    »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.
 

                                   Chapter IV

                     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 the Count that 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 to them through my window to begin an
acquaintanceship. They took their hats off and made obeisance and many signs,
which, however, I could not understand any more than I could their spoken
language. ...
    I have written the letters. Mina's is in shorthand, and I simply ask Mr.
Hawkins to communicate with her. To her I have explained my situation, but
without the horrors which I may only surmise. It would shock and frighten her to
death were I to expose my heart to her. Should the letters not carry, then the
Count shall not yet know my secret or the extent of my knowledge. ...
    I have given the letters; I threw them through the bars of my window with a
gold piece, and made what signs I could to have them posted. The man who took
them pressed them to his heart and bowed, and then put them in his cap. I could
do no more. I stole back to the study and began to read. As the Count did not
come in, I have written here. ...
    The Count has come. He sat down beside me, and said in his smoothest voice
as he opened two letters: -
    »The Szgany has given me these, of which, though I know not whence they
come, I shall, of course, take care. See!« - he must have looked at it - »one is
from you, and to my friend Peter Hawkins; the other« - here he caught sight of
the strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and the dark look came into his
face, and his eyes blazed wickedly - »the other is a vile thing, an outrage upon
friendship and hospitality! It is not signed. Well! so it cannot matter to us.«
And he calmly held letter and envelope in the flame of the lamp till they were
consumed. Then he went on: -
    »The letter to Hawkins - that I shall, of course, send on, since it is
yours. Your letters are sacred to me. Your pardon, my friend, that unknowingly I
did break the seal. Will you not cover it again?« He held out the letter to me,
and with a courteous bow handed me a clean envelope. I could only redirect it
and hand it to him in silence. When he went out of the room I could hear the key
turn softly. A minute later I went over and tried it, and the door was locked.
    When, an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into the room, his coming
wakened me, for I had gone to sleep on the sofa. He was very courteous and very
cheery in his manner, and seeing that I had been sleeping, he said:
    »So, my friend, you are tired? Get to bed. There is the surest rest. I may
not have the pleasure to talk to-night, since there are many labours to me; but
you will sleep, I pray.« I passed to my room and went to bed, and, strange to
say, slept without dreaming. Despair has its own calms.
    31 May. - This morning when I woke I thought I would provide myself with
some paper and envelopes from my bag and keep them in my pocket, so that I might
write in case I should get an opportunity; but again a surprise, again a shock!
    Every scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes, my memoranda
relating to railways and travel, my letter of credit, in fact, all that might be
useful to me were I once outside the castle. I sat and pondered a while, and
then some thought occurred to me, and I made search of my portmanteau and in the
wardrobe where I had placed my clothes.
    The suit in which I had travelled was gone, and also my overcoat and rug; I
could find no trace of them anywhere. This looked like some new scheme of
villainy. ...
    17 June. - This morning, as I was sitting on the edge of my bed cudgelling
my brains, I heard without a cracking of whips and pounding and scraping of
horses' feet up the rocky path beyond the courtyard. With joy I hurried to the
window, and saw drive into the yard two great leiter-wagons, each drawn by eight
sturdy horses, and at the head of each pair a Slovak, with his wide hat, great,
nail-studded belt, dirty sheepskin, and high boots. They had also their long
staves in hand. I ran to the door, intending to descend and try and join them
through the main hall, as I thought that way might be opened for them. Again a
shock: my door was fastened on the outside.
    Then I ran to the window and cried to them. They looked up at me stupidly
and pointed, but just then the hetman of the Szgany came out, and seeing them
pointing to my window, said something, at which they laughed. Henceforth, no
effort of mine, no piteous cry or agonized entreaty, would make them even look
at me. They resolutely turned away. The leiter-wagons contained great, square
boxes, with handles of thick rope; these were evidently empty by the ease with
which the Slovaks handled them, and by their resonance as they were roughly
moved. When they were all unloaded and packed in a great heap in one corner of
the yard, the Slovaks were given some money by the Szgany, and spitting on it
for luck, lazily went each to his horse's head. Shortly afterwards I heard the
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 to the end of some ruthless villainy.
    I had been at the window somewhat less than half an hour, when I saw
something coming out of the Count's window. I drew back and watched carefully,
and saw the whole man emerge. It was a new shock to me to find that he had on
the suit of clothes which I had worn whilst travelling here, and slung over his
shoulder the terrible bag which I had seen the women take away. There could be
no doubt as to his quest, and in my garb, too! This, then, is his new scheme of
evil: that he will allow others to see me, as they think, so that he may both
leave evidence that I have been seen in the towns or villages posting my own
letters, and that any wickedness which he may do shall by the local people be
attributed to me.
    It makes me rage to think that this can go on, and whilst I am shut up here,
a veritable prisoner, but without that protection of the law which is even a
criminal's right and consolation.
    I thought I would watch for the Count's return, and for a long time sat
doggedly at the window. Then I began to notice that there were some quaint
little specks floating in the rays of the moonlight. They were like the tiniest
grains of dust, and they whirled round and gathered in clusters in a nebulous
sort of way. I watched them with a sense of soothing, and a sort of calm stole
over me. I leaned back in the embrasure in a more comfortable position, so that
I could enjoy more fully the aerial gambolling.
    Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs somewhere far
below in the valley, which was hidden from my sight. Louder it seemed to ring in
my ears, and the floating motes of dust to take new shapes to the sound as they
danced in the moonlight. I felt myself struggling to awake to some call of my
instincts; nay, my very soul was struggling, and my half-remembered
sensibilities were striving to answer the call. I was becoming hypnotized!
Quicker and quicker danced the dust, and 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 materialized 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 agonized 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
thew herself forward, and, though I could not see her, I could hear the beating
of her naked hands against the door.
    Somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard the voice of the
Count calling in his harsh, metallic whisper. His call seemed to be answered
from far and wide by the howling of wolves. Before many minutes had passed a
pack of them poured, like a pent-up dam when liberated, through the wide
entrance into the courtyard.
    There was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the wolves was but
short. Before long they streamed away singly, licking their lips.
    I could not pity her, for I knew now what had become of her child, and she
was better dead.
    What shall I do? what can I do? How can I escape from this dreadful thrall
of night and gloom and fear?
    25 June, morning. - No man knows till he has suffered from the night how
sweet and how dear to his heart and eye the morning can be. When the sun grew so
high this morning that it struck the top of the great gateway opposite my
window, the high spot which it touched seemed to me as if the dove from the ark
had lighted there. My fear fell from me as if it had been a vaporous garment
which dissolved in the warmth. I must take action of some sort while 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 dread Hereafter may still
be open to me. God help me in my task! Good-bye, Mina, if I fail; good-bye, my
faithful friend and second father; good-bye, all, and last of all Mina!
    Same day, later. - I have made the effort, and, God helping me, have come
safely back to this room. I must put down every detail in order. I went whilst
my courage was fresh straight to the window on the south side, and at once got
outside on the narrow ledge of stone which runs round the building on this side.
The stones were big and roughly cut, and the mortar had 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 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, and 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 own chamber, I threw myself panting upon the bed and tried to
think. ...
    29 June. - To-day is the date of my last letter, and the Count has taken
steps to prove that it was genuine, for again I saw him leave the castle by the
same window, and in my clothes. As he went down the wall, lizard fashion, I
wished I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that I might destroy him; but I fear
that no weapon wrought alone by man's hand would have any effect on him. I dared
not wait to see him return, for I feared to see those weird sisters. I came back
to the library, and read there till I fell asleep.
    I was awakened by the Count, who looked at me as grimly as a man can look as
he said: -
    »To-morrow, my friend, we must part. You return to your beautiful England, I
to some work which may have such an end that we may never meet. Your letter home
has been despatched; to-morrow I shall not be here, but all shall be ready for
your journey. In the morning come the Szgany, who have some labours of their own
here, and also come some Slovaks. When they have gone, my carriage shall come
for you, and shall bear you to the Borgo Pass to meet the diligence from
Bukovina to Bistritz. But I am in hopes that I shall see more of you at Castle
Dracula.« I suspected him, and determined to test his sincerity. Sincerity! It
seems like a profanation of the word to write it in connection with such a
monster, so I 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 raising of his hand, just as the music of a great orchestra
seems to leap under the baton of the conductor. After a pause of a moment, he
proceeded, in his stately way, to the door, drew back the ponderous bolts,
unhooked the heavy chains, and began to draw it open.
    To my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked. Suspiciously I looked
all round, but could see no key of any kind.
    As the door began to open, the howling of the wolves without grew louder and
angrier; their red jaws, with champing teeth, and their blunt-clawed feet as
they leaped, came in through the opening door. I knew 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 the 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-morrow night, 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. Is it 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 search the body for the key, so I raised the lid
and laid it back against the wall; and then I saw something which filled my very
soul with horror. There lay the Count, but looking as if his youth had been
half-renewed, for the white hair and moustache were changed to dark iron-grey;
the cheeks were fuller, and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath; the mouth
was redder than ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled
from the corners of the mouth and ran over the chin and neck. Even the deep,
burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches
underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature were simply
gorged with blood; he lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his repletion. I
shuddered as I bent over to touch him, and every sense in me revolted at the
contact; but I had to search, or I was lost. The coming night might see my own
body a banquet in a similar way to those horrid three. I felt all over the body,
but no sign could I find of the key. Then I stopped and looked at the Count.
There was a mocking smile on the bloated face which seemed to drive me mad. This
was the being I was helping to transfer to London, where, perhaps for centuries
to come, he might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate his lust for blood, and
create a new and ever widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the helpless.
The very thought drove me mad. A terrible desire came upon me to rid the world
of such a monster. There was no lethal weapon at hand, but I seized a shovel
which the workmen had been using to fill the cases, and lifting it high, struck,
with the edge downward, at the hateful face. But as I did so the head turned,
and the eyes fell full upon me, with all their blaze of basilisk horror. The
sight seemed to paralyse me, and the shovel turned in my hand and glanced from
the face, merely making a deep gash above the forehead. The shovel fell from my
hand across the box, and as I pulled it away the flange of the blade caught the
edge of the lid, which fell over again, and hid the horrid thing from my sight.
The last glimpse I had was of the bloated face, bloodstained and fixed with a
grin of malice which would have held its own in the nethermost hell.
    I thought and thought what should be my next move, but my brain seemed on
fire, and I waited with a despairing feeling growing over me. As I waited I
heard in the distance a gipsy song sung by merry voices coming closer, and
through their song the rolling of heavy wheels and the cracking of whips; the
Szgany and the Slovaks of whom the Count had spoken were coming. With a last
look around and at the box which contained the vile body, I ran from the place
and gained the Count's room, determined to rush out at the moment the door
should be opened. With strained ears I listened, and heard downstairs the
grinding of the key in the great lock and the falling back of the heavy door.
There must have been some other means of entry, or someone 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 that 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 withdrawn; then another door opens and shuts; I
hear the creaking of lock and bolt.
    Hark! in the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of heavy wheels, the
crack of whips, and the chorus of the Szgany as they pass into the distance.
    I am alone in the castle with those awful women. Faugh! Mina is a woman, and
there is naught in common. They are devils of the Pit!
    I shall not remain alone with them; I shall try to scale the castle wall
farther than I have yet attempted. I shall take some of the gold with me, lest I
want it later. I may find a way from this dreadful place.
    And then away for home! away to the quickest and nearest train! away from
this cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his children still
walk with earthly feet!
    At least God's mercy is better than that of these monsters, and the
precipice is steep and high. At its foot a man may sleep - as a man. Good-bye,
all! Mina!
 

                                   Chapter V

               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 I am also 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 shall tell you all 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. Someone has evidently been telling
tales. That was Mr. Holmwood. He often comes to see us, and he and mamma get on
very well together; they have so many things to talk about in common. We met
some time ago a man that would just do for you, if you were not already engaged
to Jonathan. He is an 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 will 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
everyone, 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 anyone 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 it a sort of duty to tell him that there was someone. 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'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'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'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
anyone 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 is 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 someone 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'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'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 till 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 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 April. - Ebb tide in appetite to-day. Cannot eat, cannot rest, so diary
instead. Since my rebuff of yesterday I have a sort of empty feeling; nothing in
the world seems of sufficient importance to be worth the doing. ... As I knew
that the only cure for this sort of thing was work, I went down amongst the
patients. I picked out one who has afforded me a study of much interest. He is
so quaint in his ideas, and so unlike the normal lunatic, that I have 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 vernalia 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.«
 

                                   Chapter VI

                             Mina Murray's Journal

24 July. Whitby. - Lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter and lovelier than
ever, and we drove up to the house at the Crescent, in which they have rooms.
This is a lovely place. The little river, the Esk, runs through a deep valley,
which broadens out as it comes near the harbour. A great viaduct runs across,
with high piers, through which the view seems, somehow, farther 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 tide; 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 they never was, but I do say that they wasn't'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' looking' out to buy cheap jet would creed aught. I
wonder masel' who'd be bothered telling' 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 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 granddaughter doesn't't like to be
kept waiting' when the tea is ready, for it takes me time to crammle aboon the
grees, for there be a many of 'em; an', miss, I lack belly-timber sairly by the
clock.«
    He hobbled away, and I could see him hurrying, as well as he could, down the
steps. The steps are a great feature of the place. They lead from the town up to
the church; there are hundreds of them - I do not know how many - and they wind
up in a delicate curve; the slope is so gentle that a horse could easily walk up
and down them. I think they must originally have had something to do with the
Abbey. I shall go home too. Lucy went out visiting with her mother, and as they
were only duty calls, I did not go. They will be home by this.
    1 August. - I came up here an hour ago with Lucy, and we had a most
interesting talk with my old friend and the two others who always come and join
him. He is evidently the Sir Oracle of them, and I should think must have been
in his time a most dictatorial person. He will not admit anything, and downfaces
everybody. If he can't out-argue them he bullies them, and then takes their
silence for agreement with his views. Lucy was looking sweetly pretty in her
white lawn frock; she has got a beautiful colour since she has been here. I
noticed that the old men did not lose any time in coming up and sitting near her
when we sat down. She is so sweet with old people; I think they all fell in love
with her on the spot. Even my old man succumbed and did not contradict her, but
gave me double share instead. I got him on the subject of the legends, and he
went off at once into a sort of sermon. I must try to remember it and put it
down:
    »It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel; that's what it be, an' nowt
else. These bans an' wafts an' boh-ghosts an' bar-guests and 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 something' 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 round 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, nothing' but lies of one kind or
another! My gog, but it'll be a quare scowderment at the Day of judgement when
they come tumblin' up here 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 there 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, saving' 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 about it!
I tell ye that when they got here they'd be jommlin' an' jostlin' one another
that way that it 'ud be like a fight up on the ice in the old days, when we'd be
at one another from daylight to dark, an' tryin' to tie up our cuts by the light
of the aurora borealis.« This was evidently local pleasantry, for the old man
cackled over it, and his cronies joined in with gusto.
    »But,« I said, »surely you are not quite correct, for you start on the
assumption that all the poor people, or their spirits, will have to take their
tombstones with them on the Day of judgement. Do you think that will be really
necessary?«
    »Well, what else be they tombsteans 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 lines on that thruff-stean,« he said. The
letters were upside down to me from where I sat, but Lucy was more opposite to
them, so she leant over and read:
    »Sacred to the memory of George Canon, who died, in the hope of a glorious
resurrection, on July 29, 1873, falling from the rocks at Kettleness. This tomb
is erected by his sorrowing mother to her dearly beloved son. He was the only
son of his mother, and she was a widow. Really, Mr. Swales, I don't see anything
very funny in that!« She spoke her comment very gravely and somewhat severely.
    »Ye don't see aught funny! Ha! ha! But that's because ye don't gawm the
sorrowin' mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was acrewk'd - a
regular lamiter he was - an' he hated her so that he committed suicide in order
that she mightn't get an insurance she put on his life. He blew 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't' 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 farther 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 exultingly 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
focusing 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 cheerfully and with a good grace. I looked around for his
birds, and not seeing them, asked him where they were. He replied, without
turning round, that they had all flown away. There were a few feathers about the
room and on his pillow a drop of blood. I said nothing, but went and told the
keeper to report to me if there were anything odd about him during the day.
    11 a.m. - The attendant has just been to me to say that Renfield has been
very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of feathers. »My belief is, doctor,« he
said, »that he has eaten his birds, and that he just took and ate them raw!«
    11 p.m. - I gave Renfield a strong opiate to-night, enough to make even him
sleep, and took away his pocket-book to look at it. The thought that has been
buzzing about my brain lately is complete, and the theory proved. My homicidal
maniac is of a peculiar kind. I shall have to invent a new classification for
him, and call him a zoophagous (life-eating) maniac; what he desires is to
absorb as many lives as he can, and he has laid himself out to achieve it in a
cumulative way. He gave many flies to one spider and many spiders to one bird,
and then wanted a cat to eat the many birds. What would have been his later
steps? It would almost be worth while to complete the experiment. It might be
done if there were only a sufficient cause. Men sneered at vivisection, and yet
look at its results to-day! Why not advance science in its most difficult and
vital aspect - the knowledge of the brain? Had I even the secret of one such
mind - did I hold the key to the fancy of even one lunatic - I might advance my
own branch of science to a pitch compared with which Burdon-Sanderson's
physiology or Ferrier's brain knowledge would be as nothing. If only there were
a sufficient cause! I must not think too much of this, or I may be tempted; a
good cause might turn the scale with me, for may not I too be of an exceptional
brain, congenitally?
    How well the man reasoned; lunatics always do within their own scope. I
wonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at only one. He has closed the
account most accurately, and to-day begun a new record. How many of us begin a
new record with each day of our lives?
    To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new hope, and
that truly I began a new record. So it will be until the Great Recorder sums me
up and closes my ledger account with a balance to profit or loss. Oh, Lucy,
Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be angry with my friend whose
happiness is yours; but I must only wait on hopeless and work. Work! work!
    If I only could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there, a good,
unselfish cause to make me work, that would be indeed happiness.
 

                             Mina Murray's Journal

26 July. - I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here; it is like
whispering to one's self and listening at the same time. And there is also
something about the shorthand symbols that makes it different from writing. I am
unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan. I had not heard from Jonathan for some
time, and was very concerned; but yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so
kind, sent me a letter from him. I had written asking him if he had heard, and
he said the enclosed had just been received. It is only a line dated from Castle
Dracula, and says that he is just starting for home. That is not like Jonathan;
I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy. Then, too, Lucy, although she is
so well, has lately taken to her old habit of walking in her sleep. Her mother
has spoken to me about it, and we have decided that I am to lock the door of our
room every night. Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep- always go out on
roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs, and then get suddenly awakened
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 saying' about the dead, and suchlike, for weeks past; but I didn't mean
them, and I want ye to remember that when I've 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 making'
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 waiting' for something' else than what
we're doing'; 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
looking' 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'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't mind the hand on the wheel; changes about with every puff of wind.
We'll hear more of her before this time to-morrow.«
 

                                  Chapter VII

                    Cutting from »The Dailygraph,« 8 August

                       (Pasted in Mina Murray's Journal)

                              From a Correspondent
 
                                                                         Whitby.
One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been experienced
here, with results both strange and unique. The weather had been somewhat
sultry, but not to any degree uncommon in the month of August. Saturday evening
was as fine as was ever known, and the great body of holiday-makers set 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 excursions along 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 manyfold. 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
realized 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 to 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
the 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 that 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 the 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 emblem-ship, 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; the
crowds are scattering homewards, 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 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- 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 greater interest, however, is with regard to the paper found in
the bottle, which was to-day produced at the inquest; and a more strange
narrative than the two between them unfold it has not been my lot to come
across. As there is no motive for concealment, I am permitted to use them, and
accordingly send you a rescript, simply omitting technical details of seamanship
and supercargo. It almost seems as though the captain had been seized with some
kind of mania before he had got well into blue water, and that this had
developed persistently throughout the voyage. Of course my statement must be
taken cum grano, since I am writing from the dictation of a clerk of the Russian
consul, who kindly translated for me, time being short.
 



                              Log of the »Demeter«

 

                                Varna to Whitby

Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I shall keep accurate note
henceforth till we land.
    On 6 July we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and boxes of earth. At
noon set sail. East wind, fresh. Crew, five hands ... two mates, cook, and
myself (captain).
    On 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus. Boarded by Turkish Customs officers.
Backsheesh. All correct. Under way at 4 p.m.
    On 12 July through Dardanelles. More Customs officers and flagboat of
guarding squadron. Backsheesh again. Work of officers thorough, but quick. Want
us off soon. At dark passed into Archipelago.
    On 13 July passed Cape Matapan. Crew dissatisfied about something. Seemed
scared, but would not speak out.
    On 14 July was somewhat anxious about crew. Men all steady fellows, who
sailed with me before. Mate could not make out what was wrong; they only told
him there was something, and crossed themselves. Mate lost temper with one of
them that day and struck him. Expected fierce quarrel, but all was quiet.
    On 16 July mate reported in the morning that one of crew, Petrofsky, was
missing. Could not account for it. Took larboard watch eight bells last night;
was relieved by Abramoff, but did not go to bunk. Men more downcast than ever.
All said they expected something of the kind, but would not say more than that
there was something aboard. Mate getting very impatient with them; feared some
trouble ahead.
    On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came to my cabin, and in an
awestruck way confided to me that he thought there was a strange man aboard the
ship. He said that in his watch he had been sheltering behind the deck-house, as
there was a rain-storm, when he saw a tall, thin man, who was not like any of
the crew, come up the companion way, and go along the deck forward, and
disappear. He followed cautiously, but when he got to bows found no one, and the
hatchways were all closed. He was in a panic of superstitious fear, and I am
afraid the panic may spread. To allay it, I shall to-day search entire ship
carefully from stem to stern.
    Later in the day I got together the whole crew, and told them, as they
evidently thought there was someone in the ship, we should search from stem to
stern. First mate angry; said it was folly, and to yield to such foolish ideas
would demoralise the men; said he would engage to keep them out of trouble with
a handspike. I let him take the helm, while the rest began thorough search, all
keeping abreast, with lanterns; we left no corner unsearched. As there were only
the big wooden boxes, there were no odd corners where a man could hide. Men much
relieved when search over, and went back to work cheerfully. First mate scowled,
but said nothing.
    22 July. - Rough weather last three days, and all hands busy with sails - no
time to be frightened. Men seem to have forgotten their dread. Mate cheerful
again, and all on good terms. Praised men for work in bad weather. Passed
Gibraltar and out through Straits. All well.
    24 July. - There seems some doom over this ship. Already a hand short, and
entering on the Bay of Biscay with wild weather ahead, and yet last night
another man lost - disappeared. Like the first, he came off his watch and was
not seen again. Men all in a panic of fear; sent a round robin, asking to have
double watch, as they fear to be alone. Mate violent. 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; awake by mate telling me that both
men 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 them. 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, but 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 is 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 hold almost universally here 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 come 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.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

                             Mina Murray's Journal

Same day, 11 o'clock p.m. - Oh, but I am tired! If it were not that I have 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 Woman 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 round 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 anyone, 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
awakened 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 woke 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 someone 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 have 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 seemed
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 to say it, now that I know. Mr. Hawkins sent me on the letter, and
wrote himself, oh, so kindly. I am to leave in the morning and to 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 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 farthest station on the way thither that the
train reached.
    Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all hearts by his sweetness
and gentleness. He is truly getting on well, and I have no doubt will in a few
weeks be all himself. But be careful of him for safety's sake. There are, I pray
God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary, many, many happy years for you both.«
 



                               Dr. Seward's Diary

 
19 August. - Strange and sudden change in Renfield last night. About eight
o'clock he began to get excited and to sniff about as a dog does when setting.
The attendant was struck by his manner, and knowing my interest in him,
encouraged him to talk. He is usually respectful to the attendant, and at times
servile; but to-night, the man tells me, he was quite haughty. Would not
condescend to talk with him at all. All he would say was: -
    »I don't want to talk to you: you don't count now; the Master is at hand.«
    The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania which has
seized him. If so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong man with homicidal
and religious mania at once might be dangerous. The combination is a dreadful
one. At nine o'clock I visited him myself. His attitude to me was the same as
that to the attendant; in his sublime self-feeling the difference between myself
and attendant seemed to him as nothing. It looks like religious mania, and he
will soon think that he himself is God. These infinitesimal distinctions between
man and man are too paltry for an Omnipotent being. How these madmen give
themselves away! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall; but the God
created from human vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a sparrow. Oh,
if men only knew!
    For half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in greater and
greater degree. I did not pretend to be watching him, but I kept strict
observation all the same. All at once that shifty look came into his eyes which
we always see when a madman has seized an idea, and with it the shifty movement
of the head and back which asylum attendants come to know so well. He became
quite quiet, and went and sat on the edge of his bed resignedly, and looked into
space with lack-lustre eyes. I thought I would find out if his apathy were real
or only assumed, and tried to lead him to talk of his pets, a theme which had
never failed to excite his attention. At first he made no reply, but at length
said testily: -
    »Bother them all! I don't care a pin about them.«
    »What?« I said. »You don't mean to tell me that 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. ...
    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, and told the watchman to get three or four men
immediately and follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case our friend might
be dangerous. I got a ladder myself, and crossing the wall, dropped down on the
other side. I could see Renfield's figure just disappearing behind the angle of
the house, so I ran after him. On the far side of the house I found him pressed
close against the old iron-bound oak door of the chapel. He was talking,
apparently to someone, but I was afraid to go near enough to hear what he was
saying, lest I might frighten him, and he should run off. Chasing an errant
swarm of bees is nothing to following a naked lunatic when the fit of escaping
is upon him! After a few minutes, however, I could see that he did not take note
of anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearer to him - the more so as
my men had now crossed the wall and were closing him in. I heard him say: -
    »I am here to do Your bidding, Master. I am Your slave, and You will reward
me, for I shall be faithful. I have worshipped You long and afar off. Now that
You are near, I await Your commands, and You will not pass me by, will You, dear
Master, in Your distribution of good things?«
    He is a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the loaves and fishes even
when he believes he is in a Real Presence. His manias make a startling
combination. When we closed in on him he fought like a tiger. He is immensely
strong, and he was more like a wild beast than a man. I never saw a lunatic in
such a paroxysm of rage before; and I hope I shall not again. It is a mercy that
we have found out his strength and his danger in good time. With strength and
determination like his, he might have done wild work before he was caged. He is
safe now at any rate. Jack Sheppard himself couldn't get free from the
strait-waistcoat that keeps him restrained, and he's chained to the wall in the
padded room. His cries are at times awful, but the silences that follow are more
deadly still, for he means murder in every turn and movement.
    Just now he spoke coherent words for the first time: -
    »I shall be patient, Master. It is coming - coming - coming!«
    So I took the hint, and came too. I was too excited to sleep, but this diary
has quieted me, and I feel I shall get some sleep to-night.
 

                                   Chapter IX

                      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 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 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 these 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 wound 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. This 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 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
went for naught. 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 bond
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 we went into
the ground 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 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 the East Cliff, where Miss Murray found
her: but she assures me that of late the habit has not returned. I am in doubt,
and so have done the best thing I know of: I have written to my old friend and
master, Professor Van Helsing, of Amsterdam, who knows as much about obscure
diseases as anyone 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 only 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 anyone 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.Litt., 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 him, 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 pretence of animation merge
into reality. Then, without any seeming change, he brought the conversation
gently round to his visit, and suavely said: -
    My dear young miss, I have the so great pleasure because you are much
beloved. That is much, my dear, even were there that which I do not see. They
told me you were 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 madmans 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 asked just one or two questions, that so I
may not chance to miss nothing. I know well what she will say. And yet there is
cause; there is always cause for everything. I must go back home and think. You
must send to me the telegram every day; and if there be cause I shall come
again. The disease - for not to be all well is a disease - interest me, and the
sweet young dear, she interest me too. She charm me, and for her, if not for you
or disease, I come.
    As I tell you, he would not say a word more, even when we were alone. And so
now, Art, you know all I know. I shall keep stern watch. I trust your poor
father is rallying. It must be a terrible thing to you, my dear old fellow, to
be placed in such a position between two people who are both so dear to you. I
know your idea of duty to your father, and you are right to stick to it; but, if
need be, I shall send you word to come at once to Lucy; so do not be
over-anxious unless you hear from me.«
 

                               Dr. Seward's Diary

4 September. - Zoophagous patient still keeps up our interest in him. He had
only one outburst, and that was yesterday at an unusual time. Just before the
stroke of noon he began to grow restless. The attendant knew the symptoms, and
at once summoned aid. Fortunately the men came at a run, and were just in time,
for at the stroke of noon he became so violent that it took all their strength
to hold him. In about five minutes, however, he began to get more and more
quiet, and finally sank into a sort of melancholy, in which state he has
remained up to now. The attendant tells me that his screams whilst in the
paroxysm were really appalling; I found my hands full when I got in, attending
to some of the other patients who were frightened by him. Indeed, I can quite
understand the effect, for the sounds disturbed even me, though I was some
distance away. It is now after the dinner-hour of the asylum, and as yet my
patient sits in a corner brooding, with a dull, sullen, woebegone 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 windowsill, and is reaping quite a harvest of
flies. He is not now eating them, but putting them in a box, as of old, and is
already examining the corners of his room to find a spider. I tried to get him
to talk about the past few days, for any clue to his thoughts would be of
immense help to me; but he would not rise. For a moment or two he looked very
sad, and said in a sort of far-away voice, as though saying it rather to himself
than to me: -
    »All over! all over! He has deserted me. No hope for me now unless I do it
for myself!« Then suddenly turning to me in a resolute way, he said: »Doctor,
won't you be very good to me and let me have a little more sugar? I think it
would be good for me.«
    »And the flies?« I said.
    »Yes! The flies like it, too, and I like the flies; therefore I like it.«
And there are people who know so little as to think that madmen do not argue. I
procured him a double supply, and left him as happy a man as, I suppose, any in
the world. I wish I could fathom his mind.
    Midnight. - Another change in him. I had been to see Miss Westenra, whom I
found much better, and had just returned, and was standing at our own gate
looking at the sunset, when once more I heard him yelling. As his room is on
this side of the house, I could hear it better than in the morning. It was a
shock to me to turn from the wonderful smoky beauty of a sunset over London,
with its lurid lights and inky shadows and all the marvellous tints that come on
foul clouds even as on foul water, and to realise all the grim sternness of my
own cold stone building, with its wealth of breathing misery, and my own
desolate heart to endure it all. I reached him just as the sun was going down,
and from his window saw the red disc sink. As it sank he became less and less
frenzied; and just as it dipped he slid from the hands that held him, an inert
mass, on the floor. It is wonderful, however, what intellectual recuperative
power lunatics have, for within a few minutes he stood up quite calmly and
looked around him. I signalled to the attendants not to hold him, for I was
anxious to see what he would do. He went straight over to the window and brushed
out the crumbs of sugar; then he took his fly-box and emptied it outside, and
threw away the box; then he shut the window, and crossing over, sat down on his
bed. All this surprised me, so I asked him: »Are you not going to keep flies any
more?«
    »No,« said he; »I am sick of all that rubbish!« He certainly is a
wonderfully interesting study. I wish I could get some glimpse of his mind or of
the cause of his sudden passion. Stop; there may be a clue after all, if we can
find why to-day his paroxysms came on at high noon and at sunset. Can it be that
there is a malign influence of the sun at periods which affects certain natures
- as at times the moon does others? We shall see.
 

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

»4 September. - Patient still better to-day.«
 



              Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam

 
»5 September. - Patient greatly improved. Good appetite; sleeps naturally; good
spirits, colour coming back.«
 

              Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam

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

                                   Chapter X

                   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
practice, let me tell you that this case of our dear miss is one that may be -
mind, I say may be - of such interest to us and others that all the rest may not
make him kick the beam, as your peoples say. Take then good note of it. Nothing
is too small. I counsel you, put down in record even your doubts and surmises.
Hereafter it may be of interest to you to see how true you guess. We learn from
failure, not from success!«
    When I described Lucy's symptoms - the same as before, but infinitely more
marked - he looked very grave, but said nothing. He took with him a bag in which
were many instruments and drugs, »the ghastly paraphernalia of our beneficial
trade,« as he once called, in one of his lectures, the equipment of a professor
of the healing craft. When we were shown in, Mrs. Westenra met us. She was
alarmed, but not nearly so much as I expected to find her. Nature in one of her
beneficent moods has ordained that even death has some antidote to its own
terrors. Here, in a case where any shock may prove fatal, matters are so ordered
that, from some cause or other, the things not personal - even the terrible
change in her daughter to whom she is so attached - do not seem to reach her. It
is something like the way Dame Nature gathers round a foreign body an envelope
of some insensitive tissue which can protect from evil that which it would
otherwise harm by contact. If this be an ordered selfishness, then we should
pause before we condemn any one for the vice of egoism, for there may be deeper
roots for its causes than we have knowledge of.
    I used my knowledge of this phase of spiritual pathology, and laid down a
rule that she should not be present with Lucy or think of her illness more than
was absolutely required. She assented readily, so readily that I saw again the
hand of Nature fighting for life. Van Helsing and I were shown up to Lucy's
room. If I was shocked when I saw her yesterday, I was horrified when I saw her
to-day. She was ghastly, chalkily pale; the red seemed to have gone even from
her lips and gums, and the bones of her face stood out prominently; her
breathing was painful to see or hear. Van Helsing's face grew set as marble, and
his eyebrows converged till they almost touched over his nose. Lucy lay
motionless and did not seem to have strength to speak, so for a while we were
all silent. Then Van Helsing beckoned to me, and we went gently out of the room.
The instant we had closed the door he stepped quickly along the passage to the
next door, which was open. Then he pulled me quickly in with him and closed the
door.
    »My God!« he said; »this is dreadful. There is no time to be lost. She will
die for sheer want of blood to keep the heart's action as it should be. There
must be transfusion of blood at once. Is it you or me?«
    »I am younger and stronger, Professor. It must be me.«
    »Then get ready at once. I will bring up my bag. I am prepared.«
    I went downstairs with him and as we were going there was a knock at the
hall-door. When we reached the hall the maid had just opened the door, and
Arthur was stepping quickly in. He rushed up to me, saying in an eager whisper:
-
    »Jack, I was so anxious. I read between the lines of your letter, and have
been in an agony. The dad was better, so I ran down here to see for myself. Is
not that gentleman Dr. Van Helsing? I am so thankful to you, sir, for coming.«
When first the Professor's eye had lit upon him he had been angry at any
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 nostrils
quivered with intent. Van Helsing slapped him on the shoulder. »Come!« he said.
»You are a man, and it is a man we want. You are better than me, better than my
friend John.« Arthur looked bewildered, and the Professor went on by explaining
in a kindly way: -
    »Young miss is bad, very bad. She wants blood, and blood she must have or
die. My friend John and I have consulted; and we are about to perform what we
call transfusion of blood - to transfer from full veins of one to the empty
veins which pine for him. John was to give his blood, as he is the more young
and strong than me« - here Arthur took my hand and wrung it hard in silence -
»but, now you are here, you are more good than us, old or young, who toil much
in the world of thought. Our nerves are not so calm and our blood 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.
    »God boy!« said Van Helsing. »In the not-so-far-off you will be happy that
you have done all for her you love. Come now and be silent. You shall kiss her
once before it is done, but then you must go; and you must leave at my sign. Say
no word to Madame; you know how it is with her! There must be no shock; any
knowledge of this would be one. Come!«
    We all went up to Lucy's room. Arthur by direction remained outside. Lucy
turned her head and looked at us, but said nothing. She was not asleep, but she
was simply too weak to make the effort. Her eyes spoke to us; that was all. Van
Helsing took some things from his bag and laid them on a little table out of
sight. Then he mixed a narcotic, and coming over to the bed, said cheerily: -
    »Now, little miss, here is your medicine. Drink it off, like a good child.
See, I lift you so that to swallow is easy. Yes.« She had made the effort with
success.
    It astonished me how long the drug took to act. This, in fact, marked the
extent of her weakness. The time seemed endless until sleep began to flicker in
her eyelids. At last, however, the narcotic began to manifest its potency; and
she fell into a deep sleep. When the Professor was satisfied he called Arthur
into the room, and bade him strip off his coat. Then he added: »You may take
that one little kiss whiles I bring over the table. Friend John, help to me!« So
neither of us looked whilst he bent over her.
    Van Helsing, turning to me, said: -
    »He is so young and strong and of blood so pure that we need not defibrinate
it.«
    Then with swiftness, but with absolute method, Van Helsing performed the
operation. As the transfusion went on something like life seemed to come back to
poor Lucy's cheeks, and through Arthur's growing pallor the joy of his face
seemed absolutely to shine. After a bit I began to grow anxious, for the loss of
blood was telling on Arthur, strong man as he was. It gave me an idea of what a
terrible strain Lucy's system must have undergone that what weakened Arthur only
partially restored her. But the Professor's face was set, and he stood watch in
hand and with his eyes fixed now on the patient and now on Arthur. I could hear
my own heart beat. Presently he said in a soft voice: »Do not stir an instant.
It is enough. You attend him; I will look to her.« When all was over I could see
how much Arthur was weakened. I dressed the wound and took his arm to bring him
away, when Van Helsing spoke without turning round - the man seems to have eyes
in the back of his head: -
    »The brave lover I think deserve another kiss, which he shall have
presently.« And as he had now finished his operation, he adjusted the pillow to
the patient's head. As he did so the narrow black velvet band which she seemed
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 seen it yet,« I answered, and then and there proceeded to loose
the band. Just over the external jugular vein there were two punctures, not
large, but not wholesome-looking. There was no sign of disease, but the edges
were white and worn-looking, as if by some trituration. It at once occurred to
me that this wound, or whatever it was, might be the means of that manifest loss
of blood; but I abandoned the idea as soon as formed, for such a thing could not
be. The whole bed would have been drenched to a scarlet with the blood which the
girl must have lost to leave such a pallor as she had before the transfusion.
    »Well?« said Van Helsing.
    »Well,« said I, »I can make nothing of it.« The Professor stood up. »I must
go back to Amsterdam to-night,« he said. »There are books and things there which
I want. You must remain here all the night, and you must not let your sight pass
from her.«
    »Shall I have a nurse?« I asked.
    »We are the best nurses, you and I. You keep watch all night; see that she
is well fed, and that nothing disturbs her. You must not sleep all the night.
Later on we can sleep, you and I. I shall be back as soon as possible. And then
we may begin.«
    »May begin?« I said. »What on earth do you mean?«
    »We shall see!« he answered as he hurried out. He came back a moment later
and put his head inside the door, and said, with warning finger held up: -
    »Remember, she is your charge. If you leave her, and harm befall, you shall
not sleep easy hereafter!«
 

                         Dr. Seward's Diary (continued)

8 September. - I sat up all night with Lucy. The opiate worked itself off
towards dusk, and she waked naturally; she looked a different being from what
she had been before the operation. Her spirits even were good, and she was full
of a happy vivacity, but I could see evidences of the absolute prostration which
she had undergone. When I told Mrs. Westenra that Dr. Van Helsing had directed
that I should sit up with her she almost pooh-poohed the idea, pointing out her
daughter's renewed strength and excellent spirits. I was firm, however, and made
preparations for my long vigil. When her maid had prepared her for the night I
came in, having in the meantime had supper, and took a seat by the bedside. She
did not in any way make objection, but looked at me gratefully whenever I caught
her eye. After a long spell she seemed sinking off to sleep, but with an effort
seemed to pull herself together and shook it off. This was repeated several
times, with greater effort and with shorter pauses as the time moved on. It was
apparent that she did not want to sleep, so I tackled the subject at once: -
    »You do not want to go to sleep?«
    »No; I am afraid.«
    »Afraid to go to sleep! Why so? It is the boon we all crave for.«
    »Ah, not if you were like me - if sleep was to you a presage of horror!«
    »A presage of horror! What on earth do you mean?«
    »I don't know; oh, I don't know. And that is what is so terrible. All this
weakness comes to me in sleep; until I dread the very thought.«
    »But, my dear girl, you may sleep to-night. I am here watching you, and I
can promise that nothing will happen.«
    »Ah, I can trust you!« I seized the opportunity, and said: »I promise you
that if I see any evidence of bad dreams I will wake you at once.«
    »You will? Oh, will you really? How good you are to me! Then I will sleep!«
And almost at the word she gave a deep sigh of relief, and sank back, asleep.
    All night long I watched by her. She never stirred, but slept on and on in a
deep, tranquil, life-giving, health-giving sleep. Her lips were slightly parted,
and her breast rose and fell with the regularity of a pendulum. There was a
smile on her face, and it was evident that no bad dreams had come to disturb her
peace of mind.
    In the early morning her maid came, and I left her in her care and took
myself back home, for I was anxious about many things. I sent a short wire to
Van Helsing and to Arthur, telling them of the excellent result of the
operation. My own work, with its manifold arrears, took me all day to clear off;
it was dark when I was able to inquire about my zoophagous patient. The report
was good: he had been quite quiet for the past day and night. A telegram came
from Van Helsing at Amsterdam whilst I was at dinner, suggesting that I should
be at Hillingham to-night, as it might be well to be at hand, and stating that
he was leaving by the night mail and would join me early in the morning.
    9 September. - I was pretty tired and worn-out when I got to Hillingham. For
two nights I had hardly had a wink of sleep, and my brain was beginning to feel
that numbness which marks cerebral exhaustion. Lucy was up and in cheerful
spirits. When she shook hands with me she looked sharply in my face and said: -
    »No sitting up to-night for you. You are worn-out. I am quite well again;
indeed, I am; and if there is to be any sitting up, it is I who will sit up with
you.« I would not argue the point, but went and had my supper. Lucy came with
me, and, enlivened by her charming presence, I made an excellent meal, and had a
couple of glasses of the more than excellent port. Then Lucy took me upstairs
and showed me a room next her own, where a cosy 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 lay 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 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 flower. 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 glasshouses all the year.
I had to telegraph yesterday, or they would not have been here.«
    We went into the room, taking the flowers with us. The Professor's actions
were certainly odd, and not to be found in any pharmacopoeia that I ever heard
of. First he fastened up the windows and latched them securely; next, taking a
handful of the flowers, he rubbed them all over the sashes, as though to ensure
that every whiff of air that might get in would be laden with the garlic smell.
Then with the wisp he rubbed all over the jamb of the door, above, below, and at
each side, and round the fireplace in the same way. It all seemed grotesque to
me, and presently I said: -
    »Well, Professor, I know you always have a reason for what you do, but this
certainly puzzles me. It is well we have no sceptic here, or he would say that
you were working some spell to keep out an evil spirit.«
    »Perhaps I am!« he answered quietly as he began to make the wreath which
Lucy was to wear round her neck.
    We then waited whilst Lucy made her toilet for the night, and when she was
in bed he came and himself fixed the wreath of garlic round her neck. The last
words he said to her were: -
    »Take care you do not disturb it; and even if the room feel close, do not
to-night open the window or the door.«
    »I promise,« said Lucy, »and thank you both a thousand times for all your
kindness to me! Oh, what have I done to be blessed with such friends?«
    As we left the house in my fly, which was waiting, Van Helsing said: -
    »To-night I can sleep in peace, and sleep I want - two nights of travel,
much reading in the day between, and much anxiety on the day to follow, and a
night to sit up, without to wink. To-morrow in the morning early you call for
me, and we come together to see our pretty miss, so much more strong for my
spell which I have work. Ho! ho!«
    He seemed so confident that I, remembering my own confidence two nights
before and with the baneful result, felt awe and vague terror. It must have been
my weakness that made me hesitate to tell it to my friend, but I felt it all the
more, like unshed tears.
 

                                   Chapter XI

                             Lucy Westenra's Diary

12 September. - How good they all are to me! I quite love that dear Dr. Van
Helsing. I wonder why he was so anxious about these flowers. He positively
frightened me, he was so fierce. And yet he must have been right, for I feel
comfort from them already. Somehow, I do not dread being alone tonight, and I
can go to sleep without fear. I shall not mind any flapping outside the window.
Oh, the terrible struggle that I have had against sleep so often of late; the
pain of 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.
    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 do you mean, ma'am?« asked the Professor.
    »Well, I was anxious about the dear child in the night, and went into her
room. She was sleeping soundly - so soundly that even my coming did not wake
her. But the room was awfully stuffy. There were a lot of those horrible,
strong-smelling flowers about everywhere, and she had actually a bunch of them
round her neck. I feared that the heavy odour would be too much for the dear
child in her weak state, so I took them all away and opened a bit of the window
to let in a little fresh air. You will be pleased with her, I am sure.«
    She moved off into her boudoir, where she usually breakfasted early. As she
had spoken, I watched the Professor's face, and saw it turn ashen grey. He had
been able to retain his self-command whilst the poor lady was present, for he
knew her state and how mischievous a shock would be; he actually smiled on her
as he held open the door for her to pass into her room. But the instant she had
disappeared he pulled me, suddenly and forcibly, into the dining-room and closed
the door.
    Then, for the first time in my life, I saw Van Helsing break down. He raised
his hands over his head in a sort of mute despair, and then beat his palms
together in a helpless way; finally he sat down on a chair, and putting his
hands before his face, began to sob, with loud, dry sobs that seemed to come
from the very racking of his heart. Then he raised his arms again, as though
appealing to the whole universe. »God! God! God!« he said. »What have we done,
what has this poor thing done, that we are so sore beset? Is there fate amongst
us still, sent down from the pagan world of old, that such things must be, and
in such a 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 floor, 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.
    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 flapped almost angrily against the window-panes.
 



                     »The Pall Mall Gazette,« 18 September

 

                                The Escaped Wolf

                     Perilous Adventure of Our Interviewer

              Interview with the Keeper in the Zoological Gardens

After many inquiries and almost as many refusals, and perpetually using the
words Pall Mall Gazette as a sort of talisman, I managed to find the keeper of
the section of the Zoological Gardens in which the wolf department is included.
Thomas Bilder lives in one of the cottages in the enclosure behind the
elephant-house, and was just sitting down to his tea when I found him. Thomas
and his wife are hospitable folk, elderly, and without children, and if the
specimen I enjoyed of their hospitality be of the average kind, their lives must
be pretty comfortable.
    The keeper would not enter on what he called business until the supper was
over, and we were all satisfied. Then when the table was cleared, and he had lit
his pipe, he said: -
    »Now, sir, you can go on and arsk me what you want. You'll excoose me
refoosin' to talk of perfeshunal subjects afore meals. I gives the wolves and
the jackals and the hyenas in all our section their tea afore I begins to arsk
them questions.«
    »How do you mean, ask them questions?« I queried, wishing 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 there
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
'itten' 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 up, you may scratch my ears for all you're worth, and won't
get 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 'old 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 year ago. He was a nice well-behaved
wolf, that never gave no trouble to talk of. I'm more surprised at 'im for
wantin' to get out nor any other animile in the place. But, there, you can't
trust wolves no more nor women.«
    »Don't you mind him, sir!« broke in Mrs. Tom, with a cheery laugh. »'E's got
mindin' the animiles so long that blessed 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
any disturbance. I was making' 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't much people about that day, and close at hand was only one
man, a tall, thin chap, with a 'ook nose and a pointed beard, with a few white
hairs runnin' through it. He had a 'ard, cold look and red eyes, and I took a
sort of mislike to him, for it seemed as if it was 'im as they was hirritated
at. He 'ad white kid gloves on 'is 'ands, and he pointed out the animiles to me
and says: Keeper, these wolves seem upset at something.
    Maybe it's you, says I, for I did not like the airs as he give 'isself. He
didn't get angry, as I 'oped he would but he smiled a kind of insolent smile,
with a mouth full of white, sharp teeth. Oh no, they wouldn't like me, 'e says.
    Ow yes, they would, says I, a-imitatin' of him. They always 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-talking' 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 kept' a-looking' arter 'im till 'e was out of sight, and then went and
lay down in a corner, and wouldn't come hout the 'old 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 someone
that was evidently a-callin' a dog somewhere 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 anyone 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 gardin '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, somewhere. 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 than
dogs does, they not bein' built that way. Wolves is fine things in a story-book,
and I dessay when they gets in packs and does be chivvin' something' 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 fighting' or even to providin' for himself, 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'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 seeking 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- 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.
    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 the then prolonged strain of Lucy's illness and its
horrible phases is telling on me. I am over-excited and weary, and I need rest,
rest, rest. Happily Van Helsing has not summoned me, so I need not forgo 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 any 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 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 awhile 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 simoom in the desert. I tried to stir, but there was some spell
upon me, and dear mother's poor body, which seemed to grow cold already - for
her dear heart had ceased to beat - weighed me down; and I remembered no more
for a while.
    The time did not seem long, but very, very awful, till I recovered
consciousness again. Somewhere near, a passing bell was tolling; the dogs all
round the 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
dosed 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 someone has drugged. Alone
with the dead! I dare not go out, for I can hear the low howl of the wolf
through the broken window.
    The air seems full of specks, floating and circling in the draught from the
window, and the lights burn blue and dim. What am I to do? God shield me from
harm this night! I shall hide this paper in my breast, where they shall find it
when they come to lay me out. My dear mother gone! It is time that I go too.
Good-bye, dear Arthur, if I should not survive this night. God keep you, dear,
and God help me!
 

                                  Chapter XII

                               Dr. Seward's Diary

18 September. - I drove at once to Hillingham and arrived early. Keeping my cab
at the gate, I went up the avenue alone. I knocked gently and rang as quietly as
possible, for I feared to disturb Lucy or her mother, and hoped to bring only 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, and 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-
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 anyone 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
someone 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'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 round the room, and seeing where she was,
shuddered; she gave a loud cry, and put her poor thin hands before her pale
face. We both understood what that meant - that she had realized to the full her
mother's death; so we tried what we could to comfort her. Doubtless sympathy
eased her somewhat, but she was very low in thought and spirit, and wept
silently and weakly for a long time. We told her that either or both of us would
now remain with her all the time, and that seemed to comfort her. Towards dusk
she fell into a doze. Here a very odd thing occurred. Whilst still asleep she
took the paper from her breast and tore it in two. Van Helsing stepped over and
took the pieces from her. All the same, however, she went on with the action of
tearing, as though the material were still in her hands; finally she lifted her
hands and opened them as though scattering the fragments. Van Helsing seemed
surprised, and his brows gathered as if in thought, but he said nothing.
    19 September. - All last night she slept fitfully, being always afraid to
sleep, and something weaker when she woke from it. The Professor and I took 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 choked with emotion, and
none of us could speak. In the hours that had passed, the fits of sleep, or the
comatose condition that passed for it, had grown more frequent, so that the
pauses when conversation was possible were shortened. Arthur's presence,
however, seemed to act as a stimulant; she rallied a little, and spoke to him
more brightly than she had done since we arrived. He too pulled himself
together, and spoke as cheerily as he could, so that the best was made of
everything.
    It is now nearly one o'clock, and he and Van Helsing are sitting with her. I
am to relieve them in a quarter of an hour, and I am entering this on Lucy's
phonograph. Until six o'clock they are to try to rest. I fear that 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 own 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 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
of Hawkins and 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 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 having' to live in the house with a wild
beast like that. Then he asked the 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 Parley'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 someone, for the strain of keeping up a brave and
cheerful appearance to Jonathan tries me, and I have no one here that I can
confide in. I dread coming up to London, as we must do 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 wings to some
purpose of late - Lucy's mother and Arthur's father, and now ... Let me get on
with my work.
    I duly relieved Van Helsing in his watch over Lucy. We wanted Arthur to go
to rest also, but he refused at first. It was only when I told him that we
should want him to help us during the day, and that we must not all break down
for want of rest, lest Lucy should suffer, that he agreed to go. Van Helsing was
very kind to him. »Come, my child,« he said; »come with me. You are sick and
weak, and have had much sorrow and much mental pain, as well as that tax on your
strength that we know of. You must not be alone; for to be alone is to be full
of fears and alarms. Come to the drawing-room, where there is a big fire, and
there are two sofas. You shall lie on one, and I on the other, and our sympathy
will be comfort to each other, even though we do not speak, and even if we
sleep.« Arthur went off with him, casting back a longing look on Lucy's face,
which lay on her pillow, almost whiter than the lawn. She lay quite still, and I
looked round the room to see that all was as it should be. I could see that the
Professor had carried out in this room, as in the other, his purpose of using
the garlic; the whole of the window-sashes reeked with it, and round Lucy's
neck, over the silk handkerchief which Van Helsing made her keep on, was a rough
chaplet of the same odorous flowers. Lucy was breathing somewhat stertorously,
and her face was at its worst, for the open mouth showed the pale gums. Her
teeth, in the dim, uncertain light, seemed longer and sharper than they had been
in the morning. In particular, by some trick of the light, the canine teeth
looked longer and sharper than the rest. I sat down by her, and presently she
moved uneasily. At the same moment there came a sort of dull flapping or
buffeting at the window. I went over to it softly, and peeped out by the corner
of the blind. There was a full moonlight, and I could see that the noise was
made by a great bat, which wheeled round - doubtless attracted by the light,
although so dim - and every now and again struck the window with its wings. When
I came back to my seat I found that Lucy had moved slightly, and had torn away
the garlic flowers from her throat. I replaced them as well as I could, and sat
watching her.
    Presently she woke, and I gave her food, as Van Helsing had prescribed. She
took but a little, and that languidly. There did not seem to be with her now the
unconscious struggle for life and strength that had hitherto so marked her
illness. It struck me as curious that the moment she became conscious she
pressed the garlic flowers close to her. It was certainly odd that whenever she
got into that lethargic state, with the stertorous breathing, she put the
flowers from her; but that when she waked she clutched them close. There was no
possibility of making any mistake about this, for in the long hours that
followed, she had many spells of sleeping and waking, and repeated both actions
many times.
    At six o'clock Van Helsing came to relieve me. Arthur had then fallen into a
doze, and he mercifully let him sleep on. When he saw Lucy's face I could hear
the hissing 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 shiny 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 realized the place
and the occasion, and he 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 him peace!«
    »I swear it!« said he solemnly, kneeling beside her and holding up his hand,
as one who registers an oath. Then he turned to Arthur, and said to him: »Come,
my child, take her hand in yours, and kiss her on the forehead, and only once.«
    Their eyes met instead of their lips; and so they parted.
    Lucy's eyes closed; and Van Helsing, who had been watching closely, took
Arthur's arm, and drew him away.
    And then Lucy's breathing became stertorous again, and all at once it
ceased.
    »It is all over,« said Van Helsing. »She is dead!«
    I took Arthur by the arm, and led him away to the drawing-room, where he sat
down, and covered his face with his hands sobbing in a way that nearly broke me
down to see.
    I went back to the room, and found Van Helsing looking at poor Lucy, and his
face was sterner than ever. Some change had come over her body. Death had given
back part of her beauty, for her brow and cheeks had recovered some of their
flowing lines; even the lips had lost their deadly pallor. It was as if the
blood, no longer needed for the working of the heart, had gone to make the
harshness of death as little rude as might be.
 
»We thought her dying whilst she slept
And sleeping when she died.«
 
I stood beside Van Helsing, and said: -
    »Ah, well, poor girl, there is peace for her at last. It is the end!«
    He turned to me, and said with grave solemnity: -
    »Not so; alas! not so. It is only the beginning!«
    When I asked him what he meant, he only shook his head and answered: -
    »We can do nothing as yet. Wait and see.«
 

                                  Chapter XIII

                         Dr. Seward's Diary (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 anyone 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 golden 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 and 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 fiancé quite alone.
The undertaker seemed shocked at his own stupidity, and exerted himself to
restore things to the condition in which we left them the night before, so that
when Arthur came such shocks to his feelings as we could avoid were saved.
    Poor fellow! He looked desperately sad and broken; even his stalwart manhood
seemed to have shrunk somewhat under the strain of his much-tried emotions. He
had, I knew, been very genuinely and devotedly attached to his father; and to
lose him, and at such a time, was a bitter blow to him. With me he was warm as
ever, and to Van Helsing he was sweetly courteous; but I could not help seeing
that there was some constraint with him. The Professor noticed it, too, and
motioned me to bring him upstairs. I did so, and left him at the door of the
room, as I felt he would like to be quite alone with her; but he took my arm and
led me in, saying huskily: -
    »You loved her too, old fellow; she told me all about it, and there was no
friend had a closer place in her heart than you. I don't know how to thank you
for all you have done for her. I can't think yet ...«
    Here he suddenly broke down, and threw his arms round my shoulders and laid
his head on my breast, crying: -
    »Oh, Jack, Jack! What shall I do? The whole of life seems gone from me all
at once, and there is nothing in the wide world for me to live for.«
    I comforted him as well as I could. In such cases men do not need much
expression. A grip of the hand, the tightening of an arm over the shoulder, a
sob in unison, are expressions of sympathy dear to a man's heart. I stood still
and silent till his sobs died away, and then I said softly to him: -
    »Come and look at her.«
    Together we moved over to the bed, and I lifted the lawn from her face. God!
how beautiful she was. Every hour seemed to be enhancing her loveliness. It
frightened and amazed me somewhat; and as for Arthur, he fell a-trembling, and
finally was shaken with doubt as with an ague. At last, after a long pause, he
said to me in a faint whisper: -
    »Jack, is she really dead?«
    I assured him sadly that it was so, and went on to suggest - for I felt that
such a horrible doubt should not have life for a moment longer than I could help
- that it often happened that after death faces became softened and even
resolved into their youthful beauty; that this was especially so when death had
been preceded by any acute or prolonged suffering. It seemed to quite do away
with any doubt, and, after kneeling beside the couch for a while and looking at
her lovingly and long, he turned aside. I told him that that must be good-bye,
as the coffin had to be prepared; so he went back and took her dead hand in his
and kissed it, and bent over and kissed her forehead. He came away, fondly
looking back over his shoulder at her as he came.
    I left him in the drawing-room, and told Van Helsing that he had said
good-bye; so the latter went to the kitchen to tell the undertaker's men to
proceed with the preparations and to screw up the coffin. When he came out of
the room again I told him of Arthur's question, and he replied: -
    »I am not surprised. Just now I doubted for a moment myself!«
    We all dined together, and I could see that poor Art was trying to make the
best of things. Van Helsing had been silent all dinner-time, but when we had lit
our cigars he said: -
    »Lord --«; but Arthur interrupted him: -
    »No, no, not that, for God's sake! not yet at any rate. Forgive me, sir: I
did not mean to speak offensively; it is only because my loss is so recent.«
    The Professor answered very sweetly: -
    »I only used that name because I was in doubt. I must not call you Mr., and
I have grown to love you - yes, my dear boy, to love you - as Arthur.«
    Arthur held out his hand, and took the old man's warmly.
    »Call me what you will,« he said. »I hope I may always have the title of a
friend. And let me say that I am at a loss for words to thank you for your
goodness to my poor dear.« He paused a moment, and went on: »I know that she
understood your goodness even better than I do; and if I was rude or in any way
wanting at that time you acted so - you remember« - the Professor nodded - »you
must forgive me.«
    He answered with a grave kindness: -
    »I know it was hard for you to quite trust me then, for to trust such
violence needs to understand; and I take it that you do not - that you cannot -
trust me now, for you do not yet understand. And there may be more times when I
shall want you to trust when you cannot - and may not - and must not yet
understand. But the time will come when your trust shall be whole and complete
in me, and when you shall understand as though the sunlight himself shone
through. Then you shall bless me from first to last for your own sake, and for
the sake of others and for her dear sake to whom I swore to protect.«
    »And, indeed, indeed, sir,« said Arthur warmly, »I shall in all ways trust
you. I know and believe you have a very noble heart, and you are Jack's friend,
and you were hers. You shall do what you like.«
    The Professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as though about to
speak, and finally said: -
    »May I ask you something now?«
    »Certainly.«
    »You know that Mrs. Westenra left you all her property?«
    »No, poor dear; I never thought of it.«
    »And as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with it as you will. I
want you to give me permission to read all Miss Lucy's papers and letters.
Believe me, it is no idle curiosity. I have a motive of which, be sure, she
would have approved. I have them all here. I took them before we knew that all
was yours, so that no strange hand might touch them - no strange eye look
through words into her soul. I shall keep them, if I may; even you may not see
them yet, but I shall keep them safe. No word shall be lost; and in the good
time I shall give them back to you. It's a hard thing I ask, but you will do it,
will you not, for Lucy's sake?«
    Arthur spoke out heartily, like his old self: -
    »Dr. Van Helsing, you may do what you will. I feel that in saying this I am
doing what my dear one would have approved. I shall not trouble you with
questions till the time comes.«
    The old Professor stood up as he said solemnly: -
    »And you are right. There will be pain for us all; but it will not be all
pain, nor will this pain be the last. We and you too - you most of all, my dear
boy - will have to pass through the bitter water before we reach the sweet. But
we must be brave of heart and unselfish, and do our duty, and all will be well!«
    I slept on a sofa in Arthur's room that night. Van Helsing did not go to bed
at all. He went to and fro, as if patrolling the house, and was never out of
sight of the room where Lucy lay in her coffin, strewn with the wild garlic
flowers, which sent, through the odour of lily and rose, a heavy, overpowering
smell into the night.
 

                             Mina Harker's Journal

22 September. - In the train to Exeter. Jonathan sleeping. It seems only
yesterday that the last entry was made, and yet how much between them, 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 Giuliano's, when I felt Jonathan clutch my
arm so tight that he hurt me, and he said under his breath: »My God!« I am
always anxious about Jonathan, for I fear that some nervous fit may upset him
again; so I turned to him quickly, and asked him what it was that disturbed him.
    He was very pale, and his eyes seemed bulging out as, half in terror and
half in amazement, he gazed at a tall, thin man, with a beaky nose and black
moustache and pointed beard, who was also observing the pretty girl. He was
looking at her so hard that he did not see either of us, and so I had a good
view of him. His face was not a good face; it was hard, and cruel, and sensual,
and his big white teeth, that looked all the whiter because his lips were so
red, were pointed like an animal's. Jonathan kept staring at him, till I was
afraid he would notice. I feared he might take it ill, he looked so fierce and
nasty. I asked Jonathan why he was disturbed, and he answered, evidently
thinking 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 strain of the past week has broken down even his iron strength. All the
time of the burial he was, I could see, putting some terrible restraint on
himself. When it was all over, we were standing beside Arthur, who, poor fellow,
was speaking of his part in the operation where his blood had been transfused to
his Lucy's veins; I could see Van Helsing's face grow white and purple by turns.
Arthur was saying that he felt since then as if they two had been really
married, and that she was his wife in the sight of God. None of us said a word
of the other operations, and none of us ever shall. Arthur and Quincey went away
together to the station, and Van Helsing and I came on here. The moment we were
alone in the carriage he gave way to a regular fit of hysterics. He has denied
to me since that it was hysterics, and insisted that it was only his sense of
humour asserting itself under very terrible conditions. He laughed till he cried
and I had to draw down the blinds lest anyone 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 she may have all. And yet I can laugh at her very
grave - laugh when the clay from the spade of the sexton drop upon her coffin
and say: Thud! thud! to my heart, till it send back the blood from my cheek. My
heart bleed for that poor boy - that dear boy, so of the age of mine own boy had
I been so blessed that he live, and with his hair and eyes the same. There, you
know now why I love him so. And yet when he say things that touch my
husband-heart to the quick, and make my father-heart yearn to him as to no other
man - not even to you, friend John, for we are more level in experiences than
father and son - yet even at such moment King Laugh he come to me and shout and
bellow in my ear: Here I am! Here I am! till the blood come dance back and bring
some of the sunshine that he carry with him to my cheek. Oh, friend John, it is
a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and troubles;
and yet when King Laugh come he make them all dance to the tune he play.
Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and tears that burn as they
fall - all dance together to the music that he make with that smileless mouth of
him. And believe me, friend John, that he is good to come, and kind. Ah, we men
and women are like ropes drawn tight with strain that pull us different ways.
Then tears come; and, like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until
perhaps the strain become too great, and we break. But King Laugh he come like
the sunshine, and he ease off the strain again; and we bear to go on with our
labour, what it may be.«
    I did not like to wound him by pretending not to see his idea; but, as I did
not yet understand the cause of his laughter, I asked him. As he answered 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 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 ever 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 lookout for straying children,
especially when very young, in and around Hampstead Heath, and for any stray dog
which may be about.
 

                    The »Westminster Gazette,« 25 September

                                 Extra Special

                              The Hampstead Horror

                             Another Child Injured

                               The »Bloofer Lady«

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

                                  Chapter XIV

                             Mina Harker's Journal

23 September. - Jonathan is better after a bad night. I am so glad that he has
plenty of work to do, for that keeps his mind off the terrible things; and oh, I
am rejoiced that he is not now weighed down with the responsibility of his new
position. I knew he would be true to himself, and now how proud I am to see my
Jonathan rising to the height of his advancement and keeping pace in all ways
with the duties that come upon him. He will be away all day till late, for he
said he could not lunch at home. My household work is done, so I shall take his
foreign journal, and lock myself up in my room and read it. ...
    24 September. - I hadn't the heart to write last night; that terrible record
of Jonathan's upset me so. Poor dear! How he must have suffered, whether it be
true or only imagination. I wonder if there is any truth in it at all. Did he
get his brain fever, and then write all those terrible things; or had he some
cause for it all? I suppose I shall never know, for I dare not open the subject
to him. ... And yet that man we saw yesterday! He seemed quite certain of him.
... Poor fellow! I suppose it was the funeral upset him and sent his mind back
on some train of thought. ... He believes it all himself. I remember how on our
wedding-day he said: »Unless some solemn duty come upon me to go back to the
bitter hours, asleep or awake, mad or sane.« There seems to be through it all
some thread of continuity. ... That fearful Count was coming to London. ... »If
it should be, and he came to London, with its teeming millions.« ... There may
be a solemn duty; and if it come we must not shrink from it. ... I shall be
prepared. I shall get my typewriter this very hour and begin transcribing. Then
we shall be ready for other eyes if required. And if it be wanted, then,
perhaps, if I am ready, poor Jonathan may not be upset, for I can speak for him
and never let him be troubled or worried with it 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 a
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 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. Or 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- adventure on the
cliff, and that I knew all about it; and now he wants me to tell him about it,
so that he may understand. I hope I did right in not saying anything of it to
Mrs. Westenra; I should never forgive myself if any act of mine, were it even a
negative one, brought harm on poor dear Lucy. I hope, too. Dr. Van Helsing will
not blame me; I have had so much trouble and anxiety of late that I feel I
cannot bear more just at present.
    I suppose a cry does us all good at times - clears the air as other rain
does. Perhaps it was reading the journal yesterday that upset me, and then
Jonathan went away this morning to stay away from me a whole day and night, the
first time we have been parted since our marriage. I do hope the dear fellow
will take care of himself, and that nothing will occur to upset him. It is two
o'clock, and the doctor will be here soon now. I shall say nothing of Jonathan's
journal unless he asks me. I am so glad I have typewritten out my own journal,
so that, in case he asks about Lucy, I can hand it to him; it will save much
questioning.
    Later. - He has come and gone. Oh, what a strange meeting, and how it all
makes my head whirl round! I feel like one in a dream. Can it be all possible,
or even a part of it? If I had not read Jonathan's journal first, I should never
have accepted even a possibility. Poor, poor, dear Jonathan! How he must have
suffered. Please the good God all this may not upset him again. I shall try to
save him from it; but it may be even a consolation and a help to him - terrible
though it be and awful in its consequences - to know for certain that his eyes
and ears and brain did not deceive him, and that it is all true. It may be that
it is the doubt which haunts him; that when the doubt is removed, no matter
which - waking or dreaming - may prove the truth, he will be more satisfied and
better able to bear the shock. Dr. Van Helsing must be a good man as well as a
clever one if he is Arthur's friend and Dr. Seward's, and if they brought him
all the way from Holland to look after Lucy. I feel from having seen him that he
is good and kind and of a noble nature. When he comes 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 height, 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 eyebrows
come down and the mouth tightens. The forehead is broad and fine, rising at
first almost straight and then sloping back above two bumps or ridges wide
apart; such a forehead that the reddish hair cannot possibly tumble over it, but
falls naturally back and to the sides. Big, dark blue eyes are set widely apart,
and are quick and tender or stern with the man's moods. He said to me: -
    »Mrs. Harker, is it not?« I bowed assent.
    »That was Miss Mina Murray?« Again I assented.
    »It is Mina Murray that I came to see, that was friend of that poor dear
child Lucy Westenra. Madam Mina, it is on account of the dead I come.«
    »Sir,« I said, »you could have no better claim on me than that you were a
friend and helper of Lucy Westenra.« And I held out my hand. He took it and said
tenderly: -
    »Oh, Madam Mina, I knew that the friend of that poor lily girl must be good,
but I had yet to learn -« He finished his speech with a courtly bow. I asked him
what it was that he wanted to see me about, so he at once began: -
    »I have read your letters to Miss Lucy. Forgive me, but I had to begin to
inquire somewhere, and there was none to ask. I know that you were with her at
Whitby. She sometimes kept a diary - you need not look surprised, Madam Mina; it
was begun after you had left, and was made in imitation of you - and in that
diary she traces by inference certain things to a sleep-walking in which she
puts down that you saved her. In great perplexity then I come to you, and ask
you out of your so much kindness to tell me all of it that you remember.«
    »I can tell you, I think, Dr. Van Helsing, all about it.«
    »Ah, then you have a 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 the
instant his face fell. Then he stood up and bowed.
    »Oh, you so clever woman!« he said. »I long knew that Mr. Jonathan was a man
of much thankfulness; but see, his wife have all the good things. And will you
not so much honour me and so help me as to read it for me? Alas! I know not the
shorthand.« By this time my little joke was over, and I was almost ashamed; so I
took the typewritten copy from my work-basket and handed it to him.
    »Forgive me,« I said: »I could not help it; but I had been thinking that it
was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you might not have 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 speciality 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 angel's eyes. Your husband is noble nature, and you are noble too,
for you trust, and trust cannot be where there is mean nature. And your husband
- tell me of him. Is he quite well? Is all that fever gone, and is he strong and
hearty?« I saw here an opening to ask him about Jonathan, so I said: -
    »He was almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by Mr. Hawkins'
death.« He interrupted: -
    »Oh yes, I know, I know. I have read your last two letters.« I went on: -
    »I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on Thursday last he had
a sort of shock.«
    »A shock, and after brain fever so soon! That was not good. What kind of
shock was it?«
    »He thought he saw someone who recalled something terrible, something which
led to his brain fever.« And here the whole thing seemed to overwhelm me in a
rush. The pity for Jonathan, the horror which he experienced, the whole fearful
mystery of his diary, and the fear that has been brooding over me ever since,
all came in a tumult. I suppose I was hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees
and held up my hands to him, and implored him to make my husband well again. He
took my hands and raised me up, and made me sit on the sofa, and sat by me; he
held my hand in his, and said to me with, oh, such infinite sweetness -
    »My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that I have not had
much time for friendships; but since I have been summoned to here by my friend
John Seward I have known so many good people and seen such nobility that I feel
more than ever - and it has grown with my advancing years - the loneliness of my
life. Believe me, then, that I come here full of respect for you, and you have
given me hope - hope, not in what I am seeking of, but that there are good women
still left to make life happy - good women, whose lives and whose truths may
make good lesson for the children that are to be. I am glad, glad, that I may
here be of some use to you; for if your husband suffer, he suffer within the
range of my study and experience. I promise you that I will gladly do all for
him that I can - all to make his life strong and manly, and your life a happy
one. Now you must eat. You are overwrought and perhaps over-anxious. Husband
Jonathan would not like to see you so pale; and what he like not where he love,
is not to his good. Therefore for his sake you must eat and smile. You have told
me all about Lucy, and so now we shall not speak of it, lest it distress. I
shall stay in Exeter to-night, for I want to think much over what you have told
me, and when I have thought I will ask you questions, if I may. And then, too,
you will tell me of husband Jonathan's trouble so far as you can, but not yet.
You must eat now; afterwards you shall tell me all.«
    After lunch, when we went back to the drawing-room he said to me: -
    »And now tell me all about him.« When it came to speaking to this great,
learned man, I began to fear that he would think me a weak fool, and Jonathan a
madman - that journal is all so strange - and I hesitated to go on. But he was
so sweet and kind, and he had promised to help, and I trusted him, so I said: -
    »Dr. Van Helsing, what I have to tell you is so queer that you must not
laugh at me or at my husband. I have been since yesterday in a sort of fever of
doubt; you must be kind to me, and not think me foolish that I have even half
believed some very strange things.« He reassured me by his manner as well as his
words when he said: -
    »Oh, my dear, if you only knew how strange is the matter regarding which I
am here, it is you who would laugh. I have learned not to think little of any
one's belief, no matter how strange it be. I have tried to keep an open mind;
and it is not the ordinary things of life that could close it, but the strange
things, the extraordinary things, the things that make one doubt if they be mad
or sane.«
    »Thank you, thank you, a thousand times! You have taken a weight off my
mind. If you will let me, I shall give you a paper to read. It is long, but I
have typewritten it out. It will tell you my trouble and Jonathan's. It is the
copy of his journal when abroad, and all that happened. I 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
offhand, but he does not know that I have made up all the trains to and from
Exeter, so that I may help Jonathan in case he is in a hurry.
    So he took the papers with him and went away, and I sit here thinking -
thinking I don't know what.
 

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

                                                       »25 September, 6 o'clock.
Dear Madam Mina,
    I have read your husband's so wonderful diary. You may sleep without doubt.
Strange and terrible as it is, it is true! I will pledge my life on it. It may
be worse for others; but for him and you there is no dread. He is a noble
fellow; and let me tell you from experience of men, that one who would do as he
did in going down that wall and to that room - 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 had been about me. She showed me in the
doctor's letter that all I wrote down was true. It seems to have made a new man
of me. It was the doubt as to the reality of the whole thing that knocked me
over. I felt impotent, and in the dark, and distrustful. But, now that I know, I
am not afraid, even of the Count. He has succeeded after all, then, in his
design in getting to London, and it was he I saw. He has got younger, and how?
Van Helsing is the man to unmask him and hunt him out, if he is anything like
what Mina says. We sat late, and talked it all over. Mina is dressing, and I
shall call at the hotel in a few minutes and bring him over. ...
    He was, I think, surprised to see me. When I came into the room where he
was, and introduced myself, he took me by the shoulder and turned my face round
to the light, and said, after a sharp scrutiny: -
    »But Madam Mina told me you were ill, that you had had a shock.« It was so
funny to hear my wife called »Madam Mina« by this kindly, strong-faced old man.
I smiled, and said: -
    »I was ill, I have had a shock: but you have cured me already.«
    »And how?«
    »By your letter to Mina last night. I was in doubt, and then everything took
a hue of unreality, and I did not know what to trust, even the evidence of my
own senses. Not knowing what to trust, I did not know what to do; and so had
only to keep on working in what had hitherto been the groove of my life. The
groove ceased to avail me, and I mistrusted myself. Doctor, you don't know what
it is to doubt everything, even yourself. No, you don't; you couldn't with
eyebrows like yours.« He seemed pleased, and laughed as he said:
    »So! You are physiognomist. I learn more here with each hour. I am with so
much pleasure coming to you to breakfast; and, oh, sir, you will pardon praise
from an old man, but you are blessed in your wife.« I would listen to him go on
praising Mina for a day, so I simply nodded and stood silent.
    »She is one of God's women fashioned by His own hand to show us men and
other women that there is a heaven where we can enter, and that its light can be
here on earth. So true, so sweet, so noble, so little an egoist - and that, let
me tell you, is much in this age, so sceptical and selfish. And you, sir - I
have read all the letters to poor Miss Lucy and some of them speak of you, so I
know you since some days from the knowing of others; but I have seen your true
self since last night. You will give me your hand, will you not? And let us be
friends for all our lives.«
    We shook hands, and he was so earnest and so kind that it made me quite
choky.
    »And now,« he said, »may I ask you for some more help? I have a great task
to do, and at the beginning it is to know. You can help me here. Can you tell me
what went before your going to Transylvania? Later on I may ask more help and of
a different kind; but at first this will do.«
    »Look here, sir,« I said, »does what you have to do concern the Count?«
    »It does,« he said solemnly.
    »Then I am with you heart and soul. As you go by the 10.30 train, you will
not have time to read them; but I shall get the bundle of papers. You can take
them with you and read them in the train.«
    After breakfast I saw him to the station. When we were parting he said:
»Perhaps you will come to town if I send to you, and take Madam Mina too.«
    »We shall both come when you will,« I said.
    I had got him the morning papers and the London papers of the previous
night, and while we were talking at the carriage window, waiting for the train
to start, he was turning them over. His eye suddenly seemed to catch something
in one of them, the Westminster Gazette - I knew it by the colour - and he grew
quite white. He read something intently, groaning to himself: »Mein Gott! Mein
Gott! So soon! so soon!« I do not think he remembered me at the moment. Just
then the whistle blew, and the train moved off. This recalled him to himself,
and he leaned out of the window and waved his hand, calling out: »Love to Madam
Mina; I shall write so soon as ever I can.«
 

                               Dr. Seward's Diary

26 September. - Truly there is no such thing as finality. Not a week since I
said »Finis,« and yet here I am starting fresh again, or rather going on with
the same record. Until this afternoon I had no cause to think of what is done.
Renfield had become, to all intents, as sane as he ever was. He was already well
ahead with his fly business; and he had just started in the spider line also; so
he had not been 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 materialization. No? Nor in
astral bodies. No? Nor in the reading of thought. No? Nor in hypnotism -«
    »Yes,« I said. »Charcot has proved that pretty well.« He smiled as he went
on: »Then you are satisfied as to it. Yes? And of course then you understand how
it act, and can follow the mind of the great Charcot - alas that he is no more!
- into the very soul of the patient that he influence. No? Then, friend John, am
I to take it that you simply accept fact, and are satisfied to let from premise
to conclusion be a blank? No? Then tell me - for I am student of the brain - how
you accept the hypnotism and reject the thought-reading. Let me tell you, my
friend, that there are things done to-day in electrical science which would have
been deemed unholy by the very men who discovered electricity - who would
themselves not so long before have been burned as wizards. There are always
mysteries in life. Why was it that Methuselah lived nine hundred years, and Old
Parr one hundred and sixty-nine, and yet that poor Lucy, with four men's blood
in her poor veins, could not live even one day! For, had she live one more day,
we could have save her. Do you know all the mystery of life and death? Do you
know the altogether of comparative anatomy, and can say wherefore the qualities
of brutes are in some men, and not in others? Can you tell me why, when other
spiders die small and soon, that one great spider lived for centuries in the
tower of the old Spanish church and grew and grew, till, on descending, he could
drink the oil of all the church lamps? Can you tell me why in the Pampas, ay and
elsewhere, there are bats that come at night and open the veins of cattle and
horses and suck dry their veins; how in some islands of the Western seas there
are bats which hang on the trees all day, that those who have seen describe as
like giant nuts or pods, and that when the sailors sleep on the deck, because
that it is hot, flit down on them, and then - and then in the morning are found
dead men, white as even Miss Lucy was?«
    »Good God, Professor!« I said, starting up. »Do you mean to tell me that
Lucy was bitten by such a bat; and that such a thing is here in London in the
nineteenth century?« He waved his hand for silence, and went on: -
    »Can you tell me why the tortoise lives more long than generations of men;
why the elephant goes on and on till he have seen dynasties; and why the parrot
never die only of bite of cat or dog or other complaint? Can you tell me why men
believe in all ages and places that there are some few who live on always if
they be permit; that there are men and women who cannot die? We all know -
because science has vouched for the fact - that there have been toads shut up in
rocks for thousands of years, shut in one so small hole that only hold him since
the youth of the world. Can you tell me how the Indian fakir 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 his help, yet I
wanted to follow him, so I said:
    »Professor, let me be your pet student again. Tell me the thesis, so that I
may apply your knowledge as you go on. At present I am going in my mind from
point to point as a mad man, and not a sane one, follows an idea. I feel like a
novice blundering through a bog in a mist, jumping from one tussock to another
in the mere blind effort to move on without knowing where I am going.«
    »That is good image,« he said. »Well, I shall tell you. My thesis is this: I
want you to believe.«
    »To believe what?«
    »To believe in things that you cannot. Let me illustrate. I heard once of an
American who so defined faith: that which enables us to believe things which we
know to be untrue. For one, I follow that man. He meant that we shall have an
open mind, and not let a little bit of truth check the rush of a big truth, like
a small rock does a railway truck. We get the small truth first. Good! We keep
him, and we value him; but all the same we must not let him think himself all
the truth in the universe.«
    »Then you want me not to let some previous conviction injure the receptivity
of my mind with regard to some strange matter. Do I read your lesson aright?«
    »Ah, you are my favourite pupil still. It is worth to teach you. Now that
you are willing to understand, you have taken the first step to understand. You
think then that those so small holes in the children's throats were made by the
same that made the hole in Miss Lucy?«
    »I suppose so.« He stood up and said solemnly: -
    »Then you are wrong. Oh, would it were so! but alas! no. It is worse, far,
far worse.«
    »In God's name, Professor Van Helsing, what do you mean?« I cried.
    He threw himself with a despairing gesture into a chair, and placed his
elbows on the table, covering his face with his hands as he spoke: - »They were
made by Miss Lucy!«
 

                                   Chapter XV

                         Dr. Seward's Diary (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 that 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 fog. 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 Zoological
Gardens a young one may have got loose, or one be bred there from a vampire.
These things do occur, you know. Only ten days ago a wolf got out, and was, I
believe, traced up in this direction. For a week after, the children were
playing nothing but Red Riding Hood on the Heath and in every alley in the place
until this bloofer lady scare came along, since when it has been quite a
gala-time with them. Even this poor little mite, when he woke up to-day, asked
the nurse if he might go away. When she asked him why he wanted to go, he said
he wanted to play with the bloofer lady.«
    »I hope,« said Van Helsing, »that when you are sending the child home you
will caution its parents to keep strict watch over it. These fancies to stray
are most dangerous; and if the child were to remain out another night, it would
probably be fatal. But in any case I suppose you will not let it away for some
days?«
    »Certainly not, not for a week at least; longer if the wound is not healed.«
    Our visit to the hospital took more time than we had reckoned on, and the
sun had dipped before we came out. When Van Helsing saw how dark it was, he
said: -
    »There is no hurry. It is more late than I thought. Come, let us seek
somewhere that we may eat, and then we shall go on our way.«
    We dined at Jack Straw's Castle along with a little crowd of bicyclists and
others who were genially noisy. About ten o'clock we started from the inn. It
was then very dark, and the scattered lamps made the darkness greater when we
were once outside their individual radius. The Professor had evidently noted the
road we were to go, for he went on unhesitatingly; but as for me, I was in quite
a mix-up as to locality. As we went further, we met fewer and fewer people, till
at last we were somewhat surprised when we met even the patrol of horse police
going their usual suburban round. At last we reached the wall of the 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 match-box and a piece of candle, proceeded to make a light. The
tomb in the daytime, and when wreathed with fresh flowers, had looked grim and
gruesome enough; but now, some days afterwards, when the flowers hung lank and
dead, their whites turning to rust and their greens to browns; when the spider
and the beetle had resumed their accustomed dominance; when 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
talking 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 the
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 realized distinctly the perils of the law
which we were incurring in our unhallowed work. Besides, I felt it was all so
useless. Outrageous as it was to open a leaden coffin, to see if a woman dead
nearly a week were really dead, it now seemed the height of folly to open the
tomb again, when we knew, from the evidence of our own eyesight, that the coffin
was empty. I shrugged my shoulders, however, and rested silent, for Van Helsing
had a way of going on his own road, no matter who remonstrated. He took the key,
opened the vault, and again courteously motioned me to precede. The place was
not so gruesome as last night, but oh, how unutterably mean-looking when the
sunshine streamed in. Van Helsing walked over to Lucy's coffin, and I followed.
He bent over and again forced back the leaden flange; and 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. Someone has done it.«
    »And yet she has been dead one week. Most peoples in that time would not
look so.« I had no answer for this, so was silent. Van Helsing did not seem to
notice my silence; at any rate, he showed neither chagrin nor triumph. He was
looking intently at the face of the dead woman, raising the eyelids and looking
at the eyes, and once more opening the lips and examining the teeth. Then he
turned to me and said: -
    »Here, there is one thing which is different from all recorded: here is some
dual life that is not as the common. She was bitten by the vampire when she was
in a trance, sleep-walking - oh, you start; you do not know that, friend John,
but you shall know it all later - and in trance could he best come to take more
blood. In trance she died, and in trance she is Un-Dead, too. So it is that she
differ from all other. Usually when the Un-Dead sleep at home« - as he spoke he
made a comprehensive sweep of his arm to designate what to a vampire was home -
»their face show what they are, but this so sweet that-was when she not Un-Dead
she go back to the nothings of the common dead. There is no malign there, see,
and so it make hard that I must kill her in her sleep.« This turned my blood
cold, and it began to dawn upon me that I was accepting Van Helsing's theories;
but if she were really dead, what was there of terror in the idea of killing
her? He looked up at me, and evidently saw the change in my face, for he said
almost joyously: -
    »Ah, you believe now?«
    I answered: »Do not press me too hard all at once. I am willing to accept.
How will you do this bloody work?«
    »I shall cut off her head and fill her mouth with garlic, and I shall drive
a stake through her body.« It made me shudder to think of so mutilating the body
of the woman whom I had loved. And yet the feeling was not so strong as I had
expected. I was, in fact, beginning to shudder at the presence of this being,
this Un-Dead, as Van Helsing called it, and to loathe it. Is it possible that
love is all subjective, or all objective?
    I waited a considerable time for Van Helsing to begin, but he stood as if
wrapped in thought. Presently he closed the catch of his bag with a snap, and
said: -
    »I have been thinking, and have made up my mind as to what is best. If I did
simply follow my inclining I would do now, at this moment, what is to be done;
but there are other things to follow, and things that are thousand times more
difficult in that them we do not know. This is simple. She have yet no life
taken, though that is of time; and to act now would be to take danger from her
for ever. But then we may have to want Arthur, and how shall we tell him of
this? If you, who saw the wounds on Lucy's throat, and saw the wounds so similar
on the child's at the hospital; if you, who saw the coffin empty last night and
full to-day with a woman who have not change only to be more rose and more
beautiful in a whole week after she die - if you know of this and know of the
white figure last night that brought the child to the churchyard, and yet of
your own senses you did not believe, how, then, can I expect Arthur, who know
none of those things, to believe? He doubted me when I took him from her kiss
when she was dying. I know he has forgiven me because in some mistaken idea I
have done things that prevent him say good-bye as he ought; and he may think
that in some more mistaken idea this woman was buried alive; and that in most
mistake of all we have killed her. He will then argue back that it is we,
mistaken ones, that have killed her by our ideas; and so he will be much unhappy
always. Yet he never can be sure; and that is the worst of all. And he will
sometimes think that she he loved was buried alive, and that will paint his
dreams with horrors of what she must have suffered; and, again, he will think
that we may be right, and that his so beloved was, after all, an Un-Dead. No! I
told him once, and since then I learn much. Now, since I know it is all true, a
hundred thousand times more do I know that he must pass through the bitter
waters to reach the sweet. He, poor fellow, must have one hour that will make
the very face of heaven grow black to him; then we can act for good all round
and send him peace. My mind is made up. Let us go. You return home for to-night
to your asylum, and see that all be well. As for me, I shall spend the night
here in this churchyard in my own way. To-morrow night you will come to me to
the Berkeley Hotel at ten of the clock. I shall send for Arthur to come too, and
also that so fine young man of America that gave his blood. Later we shall all
have work to do. I come with you so far as Piccadilly and there dine, for I must
be back here before the sun set.«
    So we locked the tomb and came away, and got over the wall of the
churchyard, which was not much of a task, and drove back to Piccadilly.
 

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

                                (Not delivered)

                                                                  »27 September.
Friend John, -
    I write this in case anything should happen. I go alone to watch in that
churchyard. It pleases me that the Un-Dead, Miss Lucy, shall not leave to-night,
that so on the morrow night she may be more eager. Therefore I shall fix some
things she like not - garlic and a crucifix - and so seal up the door of the
tomb. She is young as Un-Dead, and will heed. Moreover, these are only to
prevent her coming out; they may not prevail on her wanting to get in; for then
the Un-Dead is desperate, and must find the line of least resistance, whatsoever
it may be. I shall be at hand all the night from sunset till after the sunrise,
and if there be aught that may be learned I shall learn it. For Miss Lucy, or
from her, I have no fear: but that other to whom is there that she is Un-Dead,
he have now the power to seek her tomb and find shelter. He is cunning, as I
know from Mr. Jonathan and from the way that all along he have fooled us when he
played with us for Miss Lucy's life, and we lost; and in many ways the Un-Dead
are strong. He have always the strength in his hand of twenty men; even we four
who gave our strength to Miss Lucy it also is all to him. Besides, he can summon
his wolf and I know not what. So if it be that he come thither on this night he
shall find me; but none other shall - until it be too late. But it may be that
he will not attempt the place. There is no reason why he should; his hunting
ground is more full of game than the churchyard where the Un-Dead woman sleep,
and one old man watch.
    Therefore I write this in case ... Take the papers that are with this, the
diaries of Harker and the rest, and read them, and then find this great Un-Dead,
and cut off his head and burn his heart or drive a stake through it, so that the
world may rest from him.
    If it be so, farewell.
                                                                   VAN HELSING.«
 
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 what 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 recognized my return to my old doubting frame of mind
without my saying a word. Then, turning to the other two, he said with intense
gravity: -
    »I want your permission to do what I think good this night. It is, I know,
much to ask; and when you know what it is I propose to do you will know, and
only then, how much. Therefore may I ask that you promise me in the dark, so
that afterwards, though you may be angry with me for a time - I must not
disguise from myself the possibility that such may be - you shall not blame
yourselves for anything.«
    »That's frank anyhow,« broke in Quincey. »I'll answer for the Professor. I
don't quite see his drift, but I swear he's honest; and that's good enough for
me.«
    »I thank you, sir,« said Van Helsing proudly. »I have done myself the 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 is it some monstrous joke? Pardon me, I
see that you are in earnest.« He sat down again, but I could see that he sat
firmly and proudly, as one who is on his dignity. There was silence until he
asked again: -
    »And when in the tomb?«
    »To open the coffin.«
    »This is too much!« he said, angrily rising again. »I am willing to be
patient in all things that are reasonable; but in this - this desecration of the
grave - of one who -« He fairly choked with indignation. The Professor looked
pityingly at him.
    »If I could spare you one pang, my poor friend,« he said, »God knows I
would. But this night our feet must tread in thorny paths; or later, and for
ever, the feet you love must walk in paths of flame!«
    Arthur looked up with set, white face and said: -
    »Take care, sir, take care!«
    »Would it not be well to hear what I have to say?« said Van Helsing. »And
then you will at least know the limit of my purpose. Shall I go on?«
    »That's fair enough,« broke in Morris.
    After a pause Van Helsing went on, evidently with an effort: -
    »Miss Lucy is dead; is it not so? Yes! Then there can be no wrong to her.
But if she be not dead -«
    Arthur jumped to his feet.
    »Good God!« he cried. »What do you mean? Has there been any mistake; has she
been buried alive?« He groaned in anguish that not even hope could soften.
    »I did not say she was alive, my child; I did not think it. I go no further
than to say that she might be Un-Dead.«
    »Un-Dead! Not alive! What do you mean? Is this all a nightmare, or what is
it?«
    »There are mysteries which men can only guess at, which age by age they may
solve only in part. Believe me, we are now on the verge of one. But I have not
done. May I cut off the head of dead Miss Lucy?«
    »Heavens and earth, no!« cried Arthur in a storm of passion. »Not for the
wide world will I consent to any mutilation of her dead body. Dr. Van Helsing,
you try me too far. What have I done to you that you should torture me so? What
did that poor, sweet girl do that you should want to cast such dishonour on her
grave? Are you mad that speak such things, or am I mad that listen to them?
Don't dare to think more of such a desecration; I shall not give my consent to
anything you do. I have a duty to do in protecting her grave from outrage; and,
by God, I shall do it!«
    Van Helsing rose up from where he had all the time been seated, and said,
gravely and sternly: -
    »My Lord Godalming, I, too, have a duty to do, a duty to others, a duty to
you, a duty to the dead; and, by God, I shall do it! All I ask you now is that
you come with me, that you look and listen; and if when later I make the same
request you do not be more eager for its fulfilment even than I am, then - then
I shall do my duty, whatever it may seem to me. And then, to follow of your
Lordship's wishes, I shall hold myself at your disposal to render an account to
you, when and where you will.« His voice broke a little, and he went on with an
accent 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 will
go with you and wait.«
 

                                  Chapter XVI

                         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 tended in
some way to counteract 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 one who does not believe with me.« He took his
screwdriver and again took on 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 daytime, and she lay
there. Did she not, friend John?«
    »Yes.«
    »That night we were just in time. One more so small child was missing, and
we find it, thank God, unharmed amongst the graves. Yesterday I came here before
sundown, for at sundown the 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 brief 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 anyone 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 between
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 forward again. It was now near enough for us to see
clearly, and the moonlight still held. My own heart grew cold as ice, and I
could hear the gasp of Arthur as we recognized the features of Lucy Westenra.
Lucy Westenra, but yet how changed. The sweetness was turned to adamantine,
heartless cruelty, and the purity to voluptuous wantonness. Van Helsing stepped
out, and, obedient to his gesture, we all advanced too; the four of us ranged in
a line before the door of the tomb. Van Helsing raised his lantern and drew the
slide; by the concentrated light that fell on Lucy's face we could see that the
lips were crimson with fresh blood, and that the stream had trickled over her
chin and stained the purity of her lawn death-robe.
    We shuddered with horror. I could see by the tremulous light that even Van
Helsing's iron nerve had failed. Arthur was next to me, and if I had not seized
his arm and held him up, he would have fallen.
    When Lucy - I call the thing that was before us Lucy because it bore her
shape - saw us she drew back with an angry snarl, such as a cat gives when taken
unawares; then her eyes ranged over us. Lucy's eyes in form and 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 the moment as our own, pass in through the interstice
where scarce a knife-blade could have gone. We all felt a glad sense of relief
when we saw the Professor calmly restoring the strings of putty to the edges of
the door.
    When this was done, he lifted the child and said: -
    »Come now, my friends; we can do no more till to-morrow. There is a funeral
at noon, so here we shall all come before long after that. The friends of the
dead will all be gone by two, and when the sexton lock the gate we shall remain.
Then there is more to do; but not like this of to-night. As for this little one,
he is not much harm, and by to-morrow night he shall be well. We shall leave him
where the police will find him, as on the other night; and then to home. Coming
close to Arthur, he said: -
    My friend Arthur, you have had sore trial; but after, when you will look
back, you will see how it was necessary. You are now in the bitter waters, my
child. By this time 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 everyone had gone, had locked the gate, we had the
place all to ourselves. Van Helsing, instead of his little black bag, had with
him a long leather one, something like a cricketing bag; it was manifestly of
fair weight.
    When we were alone and had heard the last of the footsteps die out up the
road, we silently, and as if by ordered intention, followed the Professor to the
tomb. He unlocked the door, and we entered, closing it behind us. Then he took
from his bag the lantern, which he lit, and also two wax candles, which, when
lighted, he stuck, by melting their own ends, on other coffins, so that they
might give light sufficient to work by. When he again lifted the lid off Lucy's
coffin we all looked - Arthur trembling like an aspen - and saw that the body
lay there in all its death-beauty. But there was no love in my own heart,
nothing but loathing for the foul Thing which had taken Lucy's shape without her
soul. I could see even Arthur's face grow hard as he looked. Presently he said
to Van Helsing: -
    »Is this really Lucy's body, or only a demon in her shape?«
    »It is her body, and yet not it. But wait a while, and you shall see her as
she was, and is.«
    She seemed like a nightmare of Lucy as she lay there; the pointed teeth, the
bloodstained, voluptuous mouth - which it made one shudder to see - the whole
carnal and unspiritual appearance, seeming like a devilish mockery of Lucy's
sweet purity. Van Helsing, in his methodical manner, began taking the various
contents from his bag and placing them ready for use. First he took out a
soldering iron and some plumbing solder, and then a small oil-lamp, which gave
out, when lit in a corner of the tomb, gas which burned at fierce heat with a
blue flame; then his operating knives, which he placed to hand; and last a round
wooden stake, some two and a half or three inches thick and about three feet
long. One end of it was hardened by charring in the fire, and was sharpened to a
fine point. With this stake came a heavy hammer, such as in households is used
in the coal-cellar for breaking the lumps. To me, a doctor's preparations for
work of any kind are stimulating and bracing, but the effect of these things on
both Arthur and Quincey was to cause them a sort of consternation. They both,
however, kept their courage, and remained silent and quiet.
    When all was ready, Van Helsing said: -
    »Before we do anything, let me tell you this; it is out of the lore and
experience of the ancients and of all those who have studied the powers of the
Un-Dead. When they become such, there comes with the change the curse of
immortality; they cannot die, but must go on age after age adding new victims
and multiplying the evils of the world; for all that die from the preying of the
Un-Dead become themselves Un-Dead, and prey on their kind. And so the circle
goes on ever widening, like as the ripples from a stone thrown in the water.
Friend Arthur, if you had met that kiss which you know of before poor Lucy die;
or again, last night when you open your arms to her, you would in time, when you
had died, have become nosferatu, as they call it in Eastern Europe, and would
all time make more of those Un-Deads that so have filled us with horror. The
career of this so unhappy dear lady is but just begun. Those children whose
blood she suck are not as yet so much the worse; but if she live on, Un-Dead,
more and more they lose their blood, and by her power over them they come to
her; and so she draw their blood with that so wicked mouth. But if she die in
truth, then all cease; the tiny wounds of the throats disappear, and they go
back to their plays unknowing ever of what has been. But of the most blessed of
all, when this now Un-Dead be made to rest as true dead, then the soul of the
poor lady whom we love shall again be free. Instead of working wickedness by
night and growing more debased in the assimilation of it by day, she shall take
her place with the other Angels. So that, my friend, it will be a blessed hand
for her that shall strike the blow that sets her free. To this I am willing; but
is there none amongst us who has a better right? Will it be no joy to think of
hereafter in the silence of the night when sleep is not: It was my hand that
sent her to the stars; it was the hand of him that loved her best; the hand that
of all she would herself have chosen, had it been to her to choose? Tell me if
there be such a one amongst us.«
    We all looked at Arthur. He saw, too, what we all did, the infinite kindness
which suggested that his should be the hand which would restore Lucy to us as a
holy, and not an unholy, memory; he stepped forward and said bravely, though his
hand trembled, and his face was as pale as snow: -
    »My true friend, from the bottom of my broken heart I thank you. Tell me
what I am to do, and I shall not falter!« Van Helsing laid a hand on his
shoulder, and said: -
    »Brave lad! A moment's courage, and it is done. This stake must be driven
through her. It will be a fearful ordeal - be not deceived in that - but it will
be only a short time, and you will then rejoice more than your pain was great;
from this grim tomb you will emerge as though you tread on air. But you must not
falter when once you have begun. Only think that we, your true friends, are
round you, and that we pray for you all the time.«
    »Go on,« said Arthur hoarsely. »Tell me what I am to do.«
    »Take this stake in your left hand, ready to place the point over the heart,
and the hammer in your right. Then when we begin our prayer for the dead - I
shall read him. I have here the book, and the others shall follow - strike in
God's name, that so all may be well with the dead that we love, and that the
Un-Dead pass away.«
    Arthur took the stake and the hammer, and when once his mind was set on
action his hands never trembled nor even quivered. Van Helsing opened his missal
and began to read, and Quincey and I followed as well as we could. Arthur placed
the point over the heart, and as I looked I could see its dint in the white
flesh. Then he struck with all his might.
    The Thing in the coffin writhed; and a hideous, bloodcurdling 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,
ceased 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. Great drops of sweat sprang out on his forehead, and his breath
came in broken gasps. It had indeed been an awful strain on him; and had he not
been forced to his task by more than human considerations he could never have
gone through with it. For a few minutes we were so taken up with him that we did
not look towards the coffin. When we did, however, a murmur of startled surprise
ran from one to the other of us. We gazed so eagerly that Arthur rose, for he
had been seated on the ground, and came and looked too; and then a glad, strange
light broke over his face and dispelled altogether the gloom of horror that lay
upon it.
    There in the coffin lay no longer the foul Thing that we had so dreaded and
grown to hate that the work of her destruction was yielded as a privilege to the
one best entitled to it, but Lucy as we had seen her in her life, with her face
of unequalled sweetness and purity. True that there were there, as we had seen
them in life, the traces of care and pain and waste; but these were all dear to
us, for they marked her truth to what we knew. One and all we felt that the holy
calm that lay like sunshine over the wasted face and form was only an earthly
token and symbol of the calm that was to reign for ever.
    Van Helsing came and laid his hand on Arthur's shoulder, and said to him: -
    »And now, Arthur, my friend, dear lad, am I not forgiven?«
    The reaction of the terrible strain came as he took the old man's hand in
his, and raising it to his lips, pressed it, saying: -
    »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.«
 

                                  Chapter XVII

                         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 that we meet.« He then made ready for his departure, and shortly
after drove off to Liverpool Street. I took my way to Paddington, where I
arrived about fifteen minutes before the train came in.
    The crowd melted away after the bustling fashion common to arrival
platforms; and I was beginning to feel uneasy, 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 slight 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 someone. As,
however, he had pressed me to be quick, I knocked at the door, and on his
calling out, »Come in,« I entered.
    To my intense surprise, there was no one with him. He was quite alone, and
on the table opposite him was what I knew at once from the description to be a
phonograph. I had never seen one, and was much interested.
    »I hope I did not keep you waiting,« I said; »but I stayed at the door as I
heard you talking, and thought there was someone with you.«
    »Oh,« he replied, with a smile, »I was only entering my diary.«
    »Your diary?« I asked him in surprise.
    »Yes,« he answered. »I keep it in this.« As he spoke he laid his hand on the
phonograph. I felt quite excited over it, and blurted out: -
    »Why, this beats even shorthand! May I hear it say something?«
    »Certainly,« he replied with alacrity, and stood up to put it in train for
speaking. Then he paused, and a troubled look overspread his face.
    »The fact is,« he began awkwardly, »I only keep my diary in it; and as it is
entirely - almost entirely - about my cases, it may be awkward - that is, I mean
-« He stopped, and I tried to help him out of his embarrassment: -
    »You helped to attend dear Lucy at the end. Let me hear how she died; for
all that I can 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 the great batch of typewriting on the table. His eyes
caught the look in mine, and, without his thinking, followed their direction. As
they saw the parcel he realized my meaning.
    »You do not know me,« I said. »When you have read those papers - my own
diary and my husband's also, which I have typed - you will know me better. I
have not faltered in giving every thought of my own heart in this cause; but, of
course, you do not know me - yet; and I must not expect you to trust me so far.«
    He is certainly a man of noble nature; poor dear Lucy was right about him.
He stood up and opened a large drawer, in which were arranged in order a number
of hollow cylinders of metal covered with dark wax, and said: -
    »You are quite right. I did not trust you because I did not know you. But I
know you know; 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 will 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 if we get
all our material ready, and have every item put in chronological order, we shall
have done much. You tell me that Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris are coming too.
Let us be able to tell them when they come.« He accordingly set the phonograph
at a slow pace, and I began to typewrite from the beginning of the seventh
cylinder. I used manifold, and so took three copies of the diary, just as I had
done with all the rest. It was late when I got through, but Dr. Seward went
about his work of going his round of the patients; when he had finished he came
back and sat near me, reading, so that I did not feel too lonely whilst I
worked. How good and thoughtful he is; the world seems full of good men - even
if there are monsters in it. Before I left him I remembered what Jonathan put in
his diary of the Professor's perturbation at reading something in an evening
paper at the station at Exeter; so, seeing that Dr. Seward keeps his newspapers,
I borrowed the files of the 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 his journal be true - and judging by one's own wonderful
experiences it must be - he is also a man of great nerve. That going down to the
vault a second time was a remarkable piece of daring. After reading his account
of it I was prepared to meet a good specimen of manhood, but hardly the quiet,
business-like gentleman who came here to-day.
    Later. - After lunch Harker and his wife went back to their own room, and as
I passed a while ago I heard the click of the typewriter. They are hard at it.
Mrs. Harker says that they are knitting together in chronological order every
scrap of evidence they have. Harker has got the letters between the consignee of
the boxes at Whitby and the carriers in London who took charge of them. He is
now reading his wife's typescript of my diary. I wonder what they make out of
it. Here he 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 anyone 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 zoophagous, and in his wild ravings outside the chapel door of the
deserted house he always spoke of master. This all seems confirmation of our
idea. However, after a while I came away; my friend is just a little too sane at
present to make it safe to probe him too deep with questions. He might begin to
think, and then -! So I came away. I mistrust these quiet moods of his; so I
have given the attendant a hint to look closely after him, and to have a
strait-waistcoat ready in case of need.
 

                           Jonathan Harker's Journal

29 September, in train to London. - When I received Mr. Billington's courteous
message that he would give me any information in his power, I thought it best to
go down to Whitby and make, on the spot, such inquiries as I wanted. It was now
my object to trace that horrid cargo of the Count's to its place in London.
Later, we may be able to deal with it. Billington junior, a nice lad, met me at
the station, and brought me to his father's house, where they had decided that I
must stay the night. They are hospitable, with true Yorkshire hospitality: give
a guest everything, and leave him free to do as he likes. They all knew that I
was busy, and that my stay was short, and Mr. Billington had ready in his office
all the papers concerning the consignment of boxes. It gave me almost a turn to
see again one of the letters which I had seen on the Count's table before I knew
of his diabolical plans. Everything had been carefully thought out, and done
systematically and with precision. He seemed to have been prepared for every
obstacle which might be placed by accident in the way of his intentions being
carried out. To use an Americanism, he had taken no chances, and the absolute
accuracy with which his instructions were fulfilled was simply the logical
result of his care. I saw the invoice, and took note of it: »Fifty cases of
common earth, to be used for experimental purposes.« Also the copy of letter to
Carter Paterson, and their reply; of both of these I got copies. This was all
the information Mr. Billington could give me, so I went down to the port and saw
the coastguards, the Customs officers, and the harbour-master. They had all
something to say of the strange entry of the ship, which is already taking its
place in local tradition; but no one could add to the simple description: »Fifty
cases of common earth.« I then saw the station-master, who kindly put me in
communication with the men who had actually received the boxes. Their tally was
exact with the list, and they had nothing to add except that the boxes were main
and mortal heavy, and that shifting them was dry work. One of them added that it
was hard lines that there wasn't'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 beneficent 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 old Jerusalem in it. But the old
chapel - that took the cike, that did! Me and my mate, we thort we wouldn't
never git out quick enough. Lor', I wouldn't take less nor a quid a moment to
stay there arter dark.« Having been in the house, I could well believe him; but
if he knew what I know, he would, I think, have raised his terms.
    Of one thing I am now satisfied: that all the boxes which arrived at Whitby
from Varna in the Demeter were safely deposited in the old chapel of 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 strain 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 anything 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, had been quite »blowing my trumpet,« as Mr.
Morris expressed it. Poor fellows, neither of them is aware that I know all
about the proposals they made to Lucy. They did not quite know what to say or
do, as they were ignorant of the amount of my knowledge; so they had to keep on
neutral subjects. However, I thought the matter over, and came to the conclusion
that the best thing I could do would be to post them 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
anyone, 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
circumstances 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 realize how
much I knew; so I said to him: -
    »I wish I could comfort all who suffer from the heart. Will you let me be
your friend, and will you come to me for comfort if you need it? You will know,
later 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!
 

                                 Chapter XVIII

                               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 anyone?« His reply was simply
contemptuous, given in a pause in which he turned his eyes from Mrs. Harker to
me, instantly turning them back again: -
    »What an asinine question!«
    »I don't see that at all, Mr. Renfield,« said Mrs. Harker, at once
championing me. He replied to her with as much courtesy and respect as he had
shown contempt to me: -
    »You will, of course, understand, Mrs. Harker, that when a man is 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 causæ 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 vulgarized the
truism to the very point of contempt. Isn't that true, doctor?« I nodded assent,
for I was so amazed that I hardly knew what I ought to 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 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 a
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- 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. »O 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 pocket, 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 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 an 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 trained myself
to keep an open mind, I could not have believed until such time as that fact
thunder on my ear: See! see! I prove; I prove. Alas! Had I known at 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 strife 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 resources 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 Chersonese; 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 in 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 hair-breadth 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 someone 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, sterilize 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 have 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
interested me much, and it had bearing, too, now and again on our case. I should
much like to see him, and especially when his mind is disturbed.«
    »May I come also?« asked Lord Godalming.
    »Me too?« said Quincey Morris. 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 allegiance 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 springing 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 the 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 legironed, 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 occasions, 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.«
 

                                  Chapter XIX

                           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'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 work we have in hand, help to unnerve a man.«
The Professor stepped over, and laying a 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 he now 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 is 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 yet 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 might possibly attract attention from the road. The Professor carefully tried
the lock, in case we might not be able to open it from within should we be in a
hurry to make 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 someone 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 caked. The walls were fluffy and
heavy with dust, and in the corners were masses of spiders' 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, like that exposed when the
Professor lifted the keys. He turned to me and said: -
    »You know this place, Jonathan. You have copied maps of it, and you know 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 glutted 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 anyone; 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 get 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 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 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 way 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 strain
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 tomorrow 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
recognise 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
today.
 

                               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
typewritten 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 the 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
thickheaded 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 both 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 today; 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 doubted 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 daytime 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
awhile, 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 me. The gas-light 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 occured 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 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 was 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. Tonight 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 until 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.
 

                                   Chapter XX

                           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 shirt-sleeves, 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'seared 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 at 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 very 'an'some« - I had given him half a
sovereign - »an' I'll tell yer all I know. I heeard 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 Purfleet. There ain't a-many
such jobs as this 'ere, an' I'm thinking' 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, 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 person 'ere; I never 'eard of 'im in all
my bloomin' days. Don't believe there ain't nobody of that kind living' '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 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 something of the kind, not long built. It was a dusty old 'ouse,
too, though nothing' to the dustiness of the 'ouse we tooked the bloomin' boxes
from.«
    »How did you get into the house if they were both empty?«
    »There was the old party what engaged me a-waiting' 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 nothing' else in it.« I made one more
attempt to further matters: -
    »You didn't have any key?«
    »Never used no key nor nothing. 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, and '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 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 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 he
had 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 Aerated 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 disquietude. 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 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 with 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 aerial 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 zoophagy!«
    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 doing so I was lowering myself in the
eyes of the lunatic: -
    »And why 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, Doctor Seward,« he
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 &amp; 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 chest 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 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 yesterday 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. ...
 

                                  Chapter XXI

                               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 ground. 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 back 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 very 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 were 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 pyjamas 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 should 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 atropos of the Sphinges - what you call the Death's-head
moth!« The patient went on without stopping.
    »Then he began to whisper: Rat, 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'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 it 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 night-dress 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 edges; 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 as he yielded to her, she pulled him down sitting on the bedside,
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 my 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 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 as 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 so be;
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 do 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 remembered 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 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 descriptions 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 this happens 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.
 

                                  Chapter XXII

                           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 more
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 shook 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 probabilty 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
possible. 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
earth, 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 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 houses 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 your London, and when he went for months of summer to
Zwitzerland 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 Zwitzerland 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 policeman 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 when
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 byeway 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 somewhat prominently. 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, in 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 anyone 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 had 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 hands, 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 the 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
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 judgement 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 judgement 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
see 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 we already
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,
nor 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 screw-driver 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
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 open and the
smith has gone away, do you all come across. We shall be on the look-out for
you, and will 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 cab man, 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 railing, 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 proceeded 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 take 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 overlooked. 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 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; notepaper, 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, awaiting their
return - or the coming of the Count.
 

                                 Chapter XXIII

                               Dr. Seward's Diary

3 October. - The time seemed terribly 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 goes
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. As 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 Arminius 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 zoophagous 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 begin 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 it 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
mind 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 moral 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'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 been, 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 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 on 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 round 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 organized 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 shorn 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 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, and
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 towards 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 beasts, 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
recognize 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
awaiting 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 only 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. O 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 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 will 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 had 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 awakened 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 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 hypnotize 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. Helsing at once.«
    »I will go,« he said, and hurried into the Professor's room.
    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 hypnotize 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 faraway 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 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 was as
though she were interpreting something. I have heard her use the same tone when
reading her 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 strain 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
ratchet.«
    »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 comfortable 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 nothing 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.
 

                                  Chapter XXIV

              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 prepared for this in
some way, and that last earth-box was ready to ship somewhere. For this he took
the money; for this he hurried 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 discovered 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 this 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 my 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 someone tell him where
horse and cart can be hired. He go there, and soon he come again, himself
driving cart on which is 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 placed; 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'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
shop where he might purchase ships 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.
He must have come off by himself, for none notice him, 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 in movement up and down
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 it 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 people - 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, 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- 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 taste blood of
the human, care no more for 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 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 course 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 resolving 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 unkown 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 heartbreak 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 dagger averted.
Under the circumstances we agreed, by a questioning look and answer, with finger
on lip, to preserve silence of 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 will 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, though my 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 familar 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 a while 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 lip 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 hood-wink - 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
arrangement 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 will 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.
 

                                  Chapter XXV

                               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 manifested 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, preceeded 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 she 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 at 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 better 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 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 anyone - 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 for
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 strain 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 board 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 will 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 did 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 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

24 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 to-day 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 am 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 as 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 look-out 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 silent
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 has 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 of 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 hands 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 stared, 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 a 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 organise. 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.
Quincey Morris, 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 said those words that arrest both
our understanding, an inspiration come 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 he 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 someone 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's 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 philosphy 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- 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 qua 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 of 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, you have won from your suffering at his hands. This is now all 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 all 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.
 

                                  Chapter XXVI

                               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 strenuous 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 contains. 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 enigmatic: -
    »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 the 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 concern: -
    »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: -
    »What have I said? What have I done? I know nothing, only that I was lying
here, half asleep, and I 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 them to show us 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 afeared, 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 thought 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-looking' 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 about 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 again the bit 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 somewhere - well, he would fetch it up a' reet. An' if he didn't,
well, we'd keep a sharp look-out anyhow. Sure enuch, 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 about 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 thought I'd let it lie till we
discharged in the port an' get rid o't athegither. 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 aboord wi' an order, written to him
from England, to receive a box marked for one Count Dracula. Sure enuch 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 thinking' 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 telling' 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 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 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 someone. 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 exclusion may help us. By
road, by rail, by water?
    1. By Road. - There are endless difficulties, especially in leaving a city.
    (a) 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.
    (b) There are, or there might be, customs and octroi officers to pass.
    (c) His pursuers might follow. This is his greatest 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 where 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 consider 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. This 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 if 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 seen 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 - or I don't suppose these fell ows 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
reincarnate.« 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 Bistriz 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 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 our 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, if need be, my life? If it were
that anyone 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; 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 beautiful 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 this 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 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 horse - four in
all, so as not to excite curiosity. When they dismiss the men, which will be
shortly, they will 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 overhauled 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 overhauled 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 so peacefully and was
forgetting my trouble. It seems brutally selfish of 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 from 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 on 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'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. - Today 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 the
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 hypnotize 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 seventy 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.
 

                                 Chapter XXVII

                             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 he
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 wider 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 horses 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 travel 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
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 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 strain 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 seemed 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 wake 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
snowflakes 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 began 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 excited 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
someone. 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 enthral;
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, Undead, 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
face, 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
into 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 her!«
    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 a 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 gipsies
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 snowfall 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 the gipsies 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 snowstorm 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's strong resolute tone of quiet
command. The gipsies 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 gipsies, 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 gipsy 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 gipsies 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 or the
flashing knives of the gipsies in front, or 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 gipsies flash as he
won a way through them, and they cut at him. He 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 prise 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 gipsies, seeing themselves covered by the Winchesters, and
at the mercy of Lord Godalming and Dr. Seward, had given in and made no further
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 crumbled 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 gipsies, 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
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 as 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 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 got to 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 have 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 type-writing, except the later note-books of Mina and Seward and myself, and
Van Helsing's memorandum. We could hardly ask anyone, 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.
