 CHAPTER 7 Red by Kara Schellenberg Chuck Burke Elizabeth Clutt Cutting from The Daily Graph, 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 laid out yesterday for visits to Mulgrave Woods, Robin Hood's Bay, Rigg Mill, Runswick, Stathes, and the various trips in the neighbourhood of Whitby. The steamers Emma and Scarborough made trips up and down the coast, and there was an unusual amount of tripping both to and from Whitby. The day was unusually fine till the afternoon, when some of the gossips who frequent the East Cliff Churchyard, and from the commanding eminence watch the wide sweep of sea visible to the north and east, called attention to a sudden show of mayors' tales high in the sky to the northwest. The wind was then blowing from the southwest in the mild degree which in barometrical language is ranked number two, 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 at thwart 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 RA and RI walls in May next. More than one captain made up his mind then and there that his cobble, or his mule, as they termed 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 hugged 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 the 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 spoons swept the lanterns of the lighthouses, which rise from the end of either pier of Whitby Harbour. The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such force that it was with difficulty that even strong men kept their feet, or clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. It was found necessary to clear the entire pier from the mass of onlookers, or else the fatalities of the night would have increased manifold. To add to the difficulties and dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog came drifting inland. White wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly fashion, so dank and damp and cold that it needed by 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 came thick and fast, followed by such peals of thunder that the whole sky overhead seemed trembling under the shock of the footsteps of the storm. Some of the scenes thus revealed were of immeasurable grandeur and of absorbing interest. The sea, running mountains high, threw skywards with each way of mighty masses of white foam which the tempest seemed to snatch at, and hurl 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 search-light was ready for experiment but had not yet been tried. The officers in charge of it got it into working order, and in the pauses of onrushing mist swept with it the surface of the sea. Once or twice its service was most effective, as when a fishing-boat, with gun-whale underwater, rushed into the harbour, able, by the guidance of the sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against the piers. As each boat achieved the safety of the port there was a shout of joy from the mass of people on the shore, a shout which for a moment seemed to cleave the gale, and was then swept away in its rush. Therelong the search-light discovered some distance away a schooner with all sail 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 sail 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 hither, too, a mass of dank mist, which seemed to close on all things like a grey paw, 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 search-light were kept fixed on the harbour mouth across the east pier, where the shock was expected, and men waited breathless. The wind suddenly shifted to the northeast, and the remnant of the sea-fog melted in the blast, and then, mirabile dictu, between the pieres, leaping from wave to wave as it rushed at headlong speed, swept the strange schooner before the blast, with all sail set, and gained the safety of the harbour. The search-light followed her, and a shudder ran through all who saw her, for lashed to the helm was a corpse, with drooping head, which swung horribly to and fro at each motion of the ship. No other form could be seen on the deck at all. A great awe came on all as they realised that the ship, as if by a miracle, had found the harbour unsteered, saved by the hand of a dead man. However, all took place more quickly than it takes to write these words. The schooner paused not, but, rushing across the harbour, pitched herself on that accumulation of sand and gravel washed by many tides and many storms into the southeast corner of the pier jutting under the east cliff, known locally as Tate Hill Pier. There was, of course, a considerable concussion as the vessel drove up on the sand-heap. Every spar, rope, and stay was strained, and some of the top-hammer came crashing down. But strangest of all, the very instant the shore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck from below, as if shot up by the concussion, and, running forward, jumped from the bow on the sand. Making straight for the steep cliff where the churchyard hangs over the laneway to the east pier so steeply that some of the flat tombstones, throsteens or thruestones, as they call them in 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 Coast Guard on duty on the eastern side of the harbour, who at once ran down to the little pier, was the first to climb aboard. The men working the searchlight, after scouring the entrance of the harbour without seeing anything, then turned the light on the derelict, and kept it there. The Coast Guard 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 peak 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 Coast Guard and police refused to allow to come on board. By the courtesy of the chief boatman, I was, as your correspondent, permitted to climb on deck, and was one of a small group who saw the dead seaman whilst actually lashed to the wheel. It was no wonder that the Coast Guard was surprised, or even odd, for not often can such a sight have been seen. The man was simply fastened by his hands, tied one over the other to a spoke of the wheel. Between the inner hand and the wood was a crucifix, the set of beads on which it was fastened, being around both wrists and wheel, and all kept fast by the binding cords. The poor fellow may have been seated at one time, but the flapping and buffeting of the sails had worked through the rudder of the wheel, and had dragged him to and fro, so that the cords with which he was tied had cut the flesh to the bone. Accurate note was made of the state of things, and a doctor, Surgeon J. M. Caffin, 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 Coast Guard said the man must have tied up his own hands, fastening the knots with his teeth. The fact that a Coast Guard was the first on board may save some complications later on, in the Admiralty Court, for Coast Guards 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 statues of Mormain, since the tiller, as emblemship, if not proof, of delegated possession, is held in a dead hand. It is needless to say that the dead steersman has been reverently removed from the place where he held his honourable watch and ward till death. A steadfastness, as noble as that of the young Casabianca, and placed in the mortuary to await inquest. Already the sudden storm is passing, and its fierceness is abating, crowds are scattering backward, and the sky is beginning to redden over the Yorkshire Wolves. I shall send, in time for your next issue, further details of the derelict's ship, which found her way so miraculously, into harbour in the storm. 9 August The sequel to the strange arrival of the derelict in the storm last night is almost more startling than the thing itself. It turns out that the schooner is Russian, from Varna, and is called the Demeter. She is almost entirely embalmed 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 Seven, the Crescent, who this morning went aboard and took formal possession of the goods consigned to him. The Russian consul, too, acting for the charter-party, took formal possession of the ship, and paid all harbour dues, etc. Nothing is talked about here 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 eight, nine days wonder, they are evidently determined that there shall be no cause of other complaint. A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog which landed when the ship struck, and more than a few of the members of the SPCA, 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-book of the Demeter, which was in order up to within three days, but contained nothing of special interest except as to facts of missing men. The greatest interest, however, is with regard to the paper found in the bottle, which was to-day produced at the inquest. And a more strange narrative than the two between them unfold, it has not been my lot to come across. As there is no motive for concealment I am permitted to use them, and accordingly send you a transcript, simply omitting technical details of seamanship and supercargo. It almost seems as though the Captain had been seized with some kind of mania, before he had got well into blue water, and that this had developed persistently throughout the voyage. Of course my statement must be taken, come grano, since I am writing from the dictation of a clerk of the Russian Consul, who kindly translated for me, time being short. Varnita Witby Written 18 July, things so strange happening that I shall keep accurate note henceforth till we land. On 6 July we finish 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 a boss for us, boarded by Turkish customs officers, Bakşiş, all correct, underway at 4 p.m. On 12 July through Dardanelles, more customs officers and flag boat of guarding squadron, Bakşiş 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 the crew, Petrovsky, was missing. Could not account for it. Took larbored watch eight bells last night, was relieved by amrum off, but did not go to bunk. Men moored downcast than ever, all said they expected something of the kind, but would not say more than there was something aboard. Mate getting very impatient with them, feared some trouble ahead. On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Ulgerin, 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 rainstorm, 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 the bowels found no one, and the hatchways were all closed. He was in a panic of superstitious fear, and I'm afraid the panic may spread. To allay it I shall today search the entire ship carefully from stem to stern. Later in the day I got together the whole crew and told them, as they evidently thought there was someone in the ship, we would search from stem to stern. First mate angry, said it was folly and to yield to such foolish ideas would demoralize the men, said he would engage to keep them out of trouble with the hand-spike. I let him take the helm, while the rest began a thorough search, all keeping abreast with lanterns. We left no corner unsearched. As there were only 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 sales, no time to be frightened. Men seemed 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 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 around Robin, asking to have double watch as they fear to be alone. Mate angry. Fear there will be some trouble as either he or the men will do some violence. 28 July. Four days in hell knocking about in a sort of maelstrom and the wind at Tempest. No sleep for anyone. 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. Men debating, seas still terrific, but feel them less as ship is steadier. 29 July. Another tragedy. Had single watch tonight as crew too tired to double. When morning watch came on deck could find no one except Steersman. Raised outcry and all came on deck. Thore of 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, awakened by mate telling me that both man of watch and Steersman missing. Only self and mate and two hands left to work ship. 29 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 seemed to be drifting to some terrible doom. Mate now more demoralized than either of men. His stronger nature seems to have worked inwardly against himself. Men are beyond fear, working stolidly and patiently with minds made up to worst. They are Russian, he Romanian. 2 August, midnight. Woke up from few minutes sleep by hearing a cry, seemingly outside my port. Could see nothing in fog. Rushed on deck and ran against mate. Tells me he heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on watch. One more gone. Could help us. Mate says we must be past straits of Dover, as in a moment of fog lifting he saw North Forland, just as he heard the man cry out. If so, we are now off in the North Sea, and only God can guide us in the fog. Which seems to move with us, and God seems to have deserted us. 3 August. At midnight I went to relieve the man at the wheel, and when I got to it found no one there. The wind was steady, and as we ran before it there was no yawing. I dared not leave it, so shouted for the mate. After a few seconds he rushed up on deck in his flannels. He looked wild-eyed and haggard, and I greatly fear his reason as 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 boughs and looking out. I crept behind it and gave up my knife, but the knife went through it empty as the air. And as he spoke he took the knife and drove it savagely into space. Then he went on. But it is here, and I'll find it. It is in the hole, 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 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're invoiced as clay, and to pull them about is as harmless a thing as he can do. So here I stay in 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 harbor with the wind that is, I shall cut down sails and lie by and signal for help. It is nearly 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 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 around on the blanket of fog. His horror turned to despair, and in a steady voice he said, You had better come to, Captain, before it is too late. He's there. I know the secret now. The sea will save me from him, and it's 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? For August. Still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce. I know there is sunrise because I'm a sailor. Why else I know not? I dared not go below. I dared not leave the helm, so here all night I stayed, and in the dimness of the night I saw it—him. God forgive me, but the mate was right to jump overboard. It was better to die like a man. To die like a sailor in blue water no man can object. But I am Captain, and I must not leave my ship. But I shall baffle this fiend or monster, for I shall tie my hands to the wheel when my strength begins to fail, and along with them I shall tie that which he, it, dare not touch. And then, come good wind or foul, I shall save my soul and my honor as 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, may have this bottle may be found, and those who find it may understand. If not, well then all men shall know that I have been true to my trust. God, and the Blessed Virgin, and the Saints, help a poor, ignorant soul trying to do his duty. Of course the verdict was an open one. There is no evidence to adduce, and whether or not the man himself committed the murders there is now none to say. The folk here hold almost universally that the Captain is simply a hero, and he is to be given a public funeral. Already it is arranged that his body is to be taken with a train of boats up the Esk for a piece, and then brought back to take Hill Peer and up the Abbey Steps, for he is to be buried in the churchyard on the cliff. The owners of more than a hundred boats have already given in their names as wishing to follow him to the grave. No trace has ever been found of the great dog, at which there is much mourning, for with public opinion in its present state he would, I believe, be adopted by the town. Tomorrow we'll see the funeral, and so we'll end this one more mystery of the sea. Mena 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 in bed. It is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as her will is thwarted at 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 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. 10th August. The funeral of the poor sea-captain today was most touching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffin was carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to the churchyard. Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old seat, whilst the cortege of boats went up the river to the viaduct and came down again. We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly all the way. The poor fellow was laid to rest near our seat, so that we stood on it when the time came, and saw everything. Poor Lucy seemed much upset. She was restless and uneasy all the time, and I cannot but think that her dreaming at night is telling on her. She is quite odd in one thing. She will not admit to me that there is any cause for restlessness, or if there be, she does not understand it herself. There is an additional cause, in that poor Mr. Swales was found dead this morning on our seat, his neck being broken. He had evidently, as the doctor said, fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, for there was a look of fear and horror on his face that the men said made them shudder. Poor dear old man. Lucy is so sweet and sensitive that she feels 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 myself am very fond of animals. One of the men who came up here often to look for the boats was followed by his dog—the dog is always with him. They are both quiet persons, and I never saw the man angry, nor heard the dog bark. During the service the dog would not come to its master, who was on the seat with us, but kept a few yards off, barking and howling. Its master spoke to it gently, and then harshly, and then angrily. But it would neither come nor cease to make a noise. It was in a fury, with its eyes savage, and all its hair bristling out like a cat's tail, when puss is on the wall-path. Finally the man too got angry and jumped down and kicked the dog, and then took it by the scruff of the neck, and half dragged, and half threw it on the tombstone on which the seat is fixed. The moment it touched the stone, the poor thing began to tremble. It did not try to get away, but crouched down, quivering and cowering, and was in such a pitiable state of terror that I tried, though without effect, to comfort it. Lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt to touch the dog, but looked at it in an agonised sort of way. I greatly fear that she is of too super-scentative a nature to go through the world without trouble. She'll be dreaming of this to-night, I am sure. The whole agglomeration of things, the ships steered into port by a dead man, his attitude, tied to the wheel with the crucifix and beads, the touching funeral, the dog, now furious and now in terror, will all afford material for her dreams. I think it would be best for her to go to bed tired out physically, so I shall take her for a long walk by the cliffs to Robbins Hood Bay and back. She ought not to have much inclination for sleep-walking, then. CHAPTER VIII Cassie and Watts Robert Barton Dennis Sayers Avahi Nina Murray's Journal Same day, eleven o'clock p.m.—oh, but I am tired. If it were not that I had made my diary a duty, I should not open it to-night. We had a lovely walk. Lucy, after a while, was in gaze 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 Robbins Hood Bay in a sweet and lulled-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. When 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, had Mrs. Westonra 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 hard they may be pressed to, and who will know when girls are tired. Lucy is asleep and breathing softly. She has more colour in her cheeks than usual, and looks oh so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in love with her, seeing her only in the drawing-room, I wonder what he would say if he saw her now. Some of the new women writers will some day start an idea that men and women should be allowed to see each other asleep, before proposing and 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. 11th August Diary Again No sleep now, so I may as well write. I am too agitated to sleep. We have had such an adventure, such an 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 as 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 night-dress. I ran downstairs, and looked in the sitting-room. Not there. Then I looked in all the other rooms of the house, with an ever-growing fear chilling my heart. Finally I came to the whole door, and found it open. It was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not caught. The people of the house were 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 the tales. 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 I expected. At the edge of the west cliff above the pier, I looked across the harbour to the east cliff. In the hope, or fear, I don't know which, of seeing Lucy in our favourite seat. There was a bright full moon, with heavy, black, driving clouds, which threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama of light and shade as they sailed across. For a moment or two I could see nothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary's church and all around it. Then as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of the abbey coming into view, and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharp as a sword-cut moved along, the church and churchyard became gradually visible. Whatever my expectation was, it was not disappointed, for there on our favourite seat, the silver light of the moon struck a half-proclining figure, snowy white. The coming of the cloud was too quick for me to see much, for shadows 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. Not it was, whether man or beast, I could not tell. I did not wait to catch it at the 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 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-proclining white figure. I called in fright, Lucy, Lucy—and something raised ahead, 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-proclining with her head lying over the back of the seat. She was quite alone, and there was not a sign of any living thing about. When I bent over her, I could see that she was still asleep. Her lips were parted, and she was breathing, not softly as usual with her, but in long, heavy gasps as though striving to get her lungs full at every breath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her sleep, and pulled the collar of her nightdress close around her, as though she felt the cold. I flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight 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 to help her, I fastened the shawl at her throat with a big safety pin. But I must have been clumsy in my anxiety, and pinched or pricked her with it, for by and by, when her breathing became quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and moaned. When I had her carefully wrapped up, I put my shoes on her feet, and then began very gently to wake her. At first she did not respond, but gradually she became more and more uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing occasionally. At last, as time was passing fast, and for many other reasons, I wished to get her home at once, I shook her forcibly, till finally she opened her eyes and woke. She did not seem surprised to see me, as, of course, she did not realize all at once where she was. Lucy always wakes prettily, and evened 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 dawled my feet with mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that, as we went home, no one in case we should meet any one, should notice my bare feet. Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul. Once we saw a man who seemed not quite sober, passing along a street in front of us. But we hid, and adorterly he disappeared up an opening such as there are here, steep little closes, or winds, as they call them in Scotland. My heart beat so loud all the time sometimes I thought I should faint. I was filled with anxiety about Lucy. Not only for her health, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her reputation in case this story should get wind. When we got in and washed our feet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, I tucked her into bed. Before falling asleep, she asked, even implored me not to say a word to any one, even her mother about her sleep-walking adventure. I hesitated at first to promise, but on thinking of the state of her mother's health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her, and think, too, of how such a story might become distorted, nay, infallibly would, in case it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do so. I hope I did right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied to my wrist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is sleeping soundly. The reflex of the dawn is high and far over the sea. Same day, noon. All goes well. Lucy slept till I woke her, and seemed not to have even changed her side. The adventure of the night does not seem to have harmed her. On the contrary, it has benefited her, for she looks better this morning than she has done for weeks. I was sorry to notice that my clumsiness with the safety pin hurt her. Indeed, it might have been serious, for the skin of her throat was pierced. I must have pinched up a piece of loose skin and have transfixed it, for there are two little red points like pinpricks, and on the band of her night-dress was a drop of blood. When I apologized 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. Weston were driving by the road, and Lucy and I were 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 Spore and Mackenzie, and went to bed early. Lucy seemed 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. 12th August. My expectations were wrong, for twice during the night I was wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in her sleep, to be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bed under a sort of protest. I woke at the door, and heard the birds chirping out of the window. Lucy woke too, and I was glad to see was even better than on the previous morning. All her old gaity of manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled in beside me and told me all about Arthur. I told her how anxious I was about Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she succeeded somewhat, for though sympathy can't alter facts, it can make them more bearable. 13th 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 a brilliant moonlight, and a 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. 14th 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 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 Kettle Ness. The red light was thrown over 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 at proposed nothing, that it quite startled me. I slowed round a little as to see Lucy well without seeming to stare at her, and saw that she was in a half dreamy state, with an odd look on her face that I could not quite make out. So I said nothing, but followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at our own seat, whereon was a dark figure seated alone. I was quite a little startled myself, for it seemed for an instant as if the stranger had great eyes like burning flames. But a second look dispelled the illusion. The red sunlight was shining on the windows of St. Mary's Church behind our seat, and as the sun dipped there was just sufficient change in the reflection and refraction to make it appear as if the light moved. I called Lucy's attention to the peculiar effect, and she became herself for the 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 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 windowsill, and her eyes shut. She was fast asleep, and by her, seated on the windowsill, 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 the cold. I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly. I have taken care that the door is locked and the window securely fastened. She looks so sweet as she sleeps, but she is paler than is her won't, 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." 15th 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 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 has made me promise secrecy. Her doctor told her that within a few months, at most, she must die, for her heart is weakening. Not 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 sleepwalking. 17th August. No diary for two whole days. I have not had the heart to write. Some sort of shadowy pause 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 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 centers. Unless they heal within a day or two, I shall insist on the doctor seeing about them. Letter Samuel F. Billington and Son, solicitors Whitby to Mr. Carter, Paterson and Co, London, 17th August. Dear Sirs, herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great Northern Railway. Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near Perfleet, 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 are pleased to posit the boxes, 15 number, which form the consignment in the partially ruined building, forming part of the house, and marked A on rough diagrams enclosed. Your agent will easily recognise the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. The goods leave by the train at 9.30 tonight, and will be due at King's Cross at 4.30 tomorrow afternoon. As our client wishes the delivery made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by your having teams ready at King's Cross, at the time named, and forthwith conveying the goods to destination. In order to obvia any delays possible, through any routine requirements as to payment in your departments, we enclose check herewith for ten pounds, receipt of which please acknowledge. Should the charge be lessened this amount, you can return balance. If greater, we shall at once send check 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, and pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition. We are dissers, faithfully yours, Samuel F. Billington and son. Letter, Mr. Scarter, Patterson and Company, London, to Mr. Billington and son, Whitby. Twenty-one, August. Dear sirs, we beg to acknowledge ten pounds received and to return check of one pound, seventeen S, nine D, amount of over-plus, 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, Patterson and Company. Mina Murray's Journal. Eighteenth, August. I am happy today, and right 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 seemed coming back already to her cheeks, though she is still sadly pale and one-looking. If she were in any way anemic, I could understand it, but she is not. She is in gaze, 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 dreamt at all that night. Before she answered, that sweet puckered look came into her forehead, which Arthur, I call him Arthur from a 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 leapt as I went by, and I leaned over to look at it, and I had a lot of dogs howling. The whole town seemed as if it must be full of dogs, all howling at once as I went up the steps. Then I had a vague memory of something long and dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and something very sweet and very bitter all around me at once. And then I seemed sinking into deep green water, and there was a singing in my ears, as I have heard there is to drowning men, and then everything seemed passing away from me. My soul seemed to go out from my body, and float about the air. I 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 fell to you. Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I listened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and thought it better not to keep her mind on the subject. So we drifted on to another subject, and Lucy was like her old self again. When we got home the fresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were really more rosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very happy evening together. 19th August. Joy! Joy! Joy! Although not all joy. At last news of Jonathan! The dear fellow has been ill. That is why he did not write. I am not afraid to think it or to say it now that I know. Mr. Hawkins sent me on the letter, and wrote himself, oh, so kindly! I am to leave in the morning and go over to Jonathan, and to help to nurse him, if necessary, and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says it would not be a bad thing if we were to be married out there. I have cried over the good sister's letter till I can feel it wet against my bosom where it lies. It is of Jonathan, and must be near my heart, for he is in my heart. My journey is all mapped out, and my luggage ready. I am only taking one change of dress. Lucy will bring my trunk to London, and keep it till I send for it, for it may be that. I must write no more. I must keep it to say to Jonathan, my husband. The letter that he is seen and touched must comfort me till we meet. Later, Sister Agatha, Hospital of St. Joseph, and St. Mary, Budapest, to Miss Wilhelmina Murray. 12th 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 in St. Mary. He has been under our care for nearly six weeks, suffering from a violent brain fever. He wishes me to convey his love, and to say that by this post I write for him to Mr. Peter Hawkins, Exeter, to say, with his dutiful respects, that he is sorry for his delay and that all of his work is completed. He will require some few weeks' rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but will then return. He wishes me to say that he has not sufficient money with him, and that he would like to pay for his staying here, so that others who need shall not be wanting for help. Leave me, yours with sympathy and all blessings, Sister Agatha. P.S. My patient being asleep, I open this to let you know something more. He has told me all about you, and that you are shortly to be his wife. All blessings to you both. He has had some fearful shock, so says our doctor, and in his delirium his ravings have been dreadful, of wolves and poison and blood, of ghosts and demons, and I fear to say of what. Be careful of him always, that there may be nothing to excite him of this kind for a long time to come. The traces of such an illness as his do not lightly die away. We should have written long ago, but we knew nothing of his friends, and there was nothing on him, nothing that anyone could understand. He came in a train from Klausenburg, and the guard was told by the station master there that he rushed into the station shouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from his violent demeanor that he was English, they gave him a ticket for the furthest station on the way dither 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 to God and St. Joseph and St. Mary, many, many happy years for you both. Dr. Seward's Diary 19 August Strange and sudden change in Ringfield last night. About eight o'clock he began to get excited and sniff about as a dog does when setting. The attendant was struck by his manner, and knowing my interest in him encouraged him to talk. He is usually respectful to the attendant and at times servile, but tonight the man tells me he was quite haughty, would not condescend to talk with him at all. All he would say was, I don't want to talk to you, you don't count now, the master is at hand. The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of 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 the attendant seemed to him as nothing. It looks like religious mania, and he will soon think that he himself is God. These infinitesimal distinctions between man and man are too paltry for an omnipotent being. How these madmen give themselves away. The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall. But the God created from human vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a sparrow. Oh, if men only knew. For half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in greater and greater degree. I did not pretend to be watching him, but I kept strict observation all the same. All at once that shifty look came into his eyes, which we 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 lackluster 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 pen about them. What? I said. You don't mean to tell me you don't care about spiders? Spiders at present are his hobby, and his notebook is filling up with columns of small figures. To this he answered enigmatically. The bride-maidens rejoiced the eyes that wait the coming of the bride. But when the bride draweth nigh, then the maidens shine not to the eyes that are filled. He would not explain himself, but remained obstinately seated on his bed all the time I remained with him. I am weary tonight, and low in spirits. I cannot but think of Lucy, and how different things might have been. If I don't sleep at once, clorough the modern Morpheus. I must be careful not to let it grow into a habit. No, I shall take none tonight. I have thought of Lucy, and I shall not dishonor her by mixing the two. If need be, tonight shall be sleepless, later. Glad I made the resolution, gladder that I kept to it. I had lain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice. When the night watchman came to me, sent up from the ward to say that Renfield had escaped. I threw on my clothes, and ran down at once. My patient is too dangerous a person to be roaming about. Those ideas of his might work out dangerously with strangers. The attendant was waiting for me. He said he had seen him not ten minutes before, seemingly asleep in his bed, when he looked through the observation trap in the door. His attention was called by the sound of the window, being wrenched out. He ran back and saw his feet disappear through the window, and had at once sent up for me. He was only in his night gear, and cannot be far off. The attendant thought it would be more useful to watch where he should go than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst getting out of the building by the door. He is a bulky man, and couldn't get through the window. I am thin, so with his aid I got out, but feet foremost, and as we were only a few feet above ground, landed unhurt. The attendant told me the patient had gone to the left, and had taken a straight line, so I ran as quickly as I could. As I got through the belt of trees I saw a white figure scale the high wall which separates our grounds from those of the deserted house. I ran back at once, told the watchmen 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'm 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, 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 many is make a startling combination. When we closed in on him, he fought like a tiger. He is immensely strong, for he was more like a wild beast than a man. I never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before, and I hope I shall not again. It is a mercy that we have found out his strength and his danger in good time. With strength and determination like his he might have done wild work before he was caged. He is safe now at any rate. Jack Shepard himself couldn't get free from the straight waistcoat that keeps him restrained, and he 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 to. I was too excited to sleep, but this diary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get some sleep. CHAPTER 9 RED BY ELIZABETH CLETT ARIEL LIPSHAW DENIS SAIRS Brett W. Downey Robert Smith Letter, Mina Harker, to Lucy Westenra. Budapest, 24th August. My dearest Lucy, I know you'll be anxious to hear all that has happened since we parted at the railway station at Whitby. Well, my dear, I got to Hallall Wright and caught the boat to Hamburg, and then the train on here. I feel that I can hardly recall anything of the journey, except that I knew I was coming to Jonathan, and that as I should have to do some nursing, I'd 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 was a good creature and a born nurse, tells me that he wanted her to tell me what they were, but she would only cross herself, and say she would never tell, that the ravings of the sick were the secrets of God, and that if a nurse through her vocation should hear them, she should respect her trust. She is a sweet good soul, and the next day when she saw I was troubled, she opened up on the subject my poor dear raved about, added, I can tell you this much, my dear, that it was not about anything which he has done wrong himself, and you, as his wife-to-be, have no cause to be concerned. He has not forgotten you, or what he owes to you. His fear was of great and terrible things which no mortal can treat of. I do believe the dear soul thought I might be jealous, lest my poor dear should have fallen in love with another girl. The idea of my being jealous about Jonathan! And yet, my dear, let me whisper. I felt a thrill of joy through me when I knew that no other woman was a cause for trouble. I am now sitting by his bedside, where I can see his face while he sleeps. He is waking. When he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to get something from the pocket. I asked sister Agatha, and she bought all his things. I saw amongst them was his note-book, and was going to ask him to let me look at it, for I knew that I might find some clue to his trouble, but I suppose he must have seen my wish in my eyes, for he sent me over to the window, saying he wanted to be quite alone for a moment. Then he called me back, and he said to me very solemnly, Wilhelmina. I knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for he has never called me by that name since he asked me to marry him. You know, dear, my ideas of the trust between husband and wife. There should be no secret, no concealment. I have had a great shock, and when I try to think of what it is, I feel my head spin round, and I do not know if it was real or the dreaming of a madman. You know I had brain fever, and that is to be mad. The secret is here, and I do not want to know it. I want to take up my life here with our marriage. For my dear, we had decided to be married as soon as the formalities are complete. Are you willing, Wilhelmina, to share my ignorance? Here is the book. Take it, and keep it. Read it, if you will, but never let me know, unless indeed some solemn duty should come upon me to go back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake, sane or mad, recorded here. He fell back, exhausted, and I put the book under his pillow, and kissed him. I have asked Sister Agatha to beg the superior to let our wedding be this afternoon, and in 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 was all ready, and he sat up in bed, propped up with pillows. He answered his, I will, firmly and strong. I could hardly speak. My heart was so full that even those words seemed to choke me. The dear sisters were so kind. Please God, I shall never, never forget them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities I have taken upon me. I must tell you of my wedding present, when the chaplain and the sisters had left me alone with my husband. Oh, Lucy, it is the first time I have written the words, my husband. Left me alone with my husband, I took the book from under his pillow, and wrapped it up in white paper, and tied it with a little bit of pale blue ribbon which was around 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 was 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 seemed like a solemn pledge between us. Lucy, dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is not only because it is all sweet to me, but because you have been, and are, very dear to me. It was my privilege to be your friend and guide when you came from the schoolroom to prepare for the world of life. I want you to see now, and with the eyes of a very happy wife, with a 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'll 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, my husband. You're ever-loving, Mina Harker." Letter. Lucy Weston wrote to Mina Harker. Whitby. 30th of August. My dearest Mina, oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you soon be in your own home with your husband. I wish you were coming home soon enough to stay with us here. The strong air would soon restore, Jonathan. It has quite restored me. I have an appetite like a cormorant, and 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 the twenty-eighth of 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 straight wiscuit 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 page had had humor enough to see their distrust for coming close to me. He said, in a whisper, all the while looking furtively at them, They think I could hurt you, fancy me hurting you, the fools. It was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself disassociated even in the mind of this poor madman from the others. But all the same I do not follow his thought. Am I to take it that I have anything in common with him, so that we are, as it were, To stand together? Or has he to gain from me some good so stupendous that my well-being is needful to him? I must find out later on. Tonight he will not speak. In 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 that he began to get uneasy, and at length violent, until at last he fell into a paroxysm which exhausted him so that he swooned into a sort of coma. Three nights has the same thing happened, violent all day, then quiet from moonrise to sunrise. I wish I could get some clue to the cause. It would almost seem as if there was some influence which came and went. Happy thought, we shall tonight play sane wits against mad ones. He escaped before without our help. Tonight he shall escape with it. We shall give him a chance, and have the men ready to follow in case they are required. 23 August. Quote, the expected always happens. Close quote. How well does Rayleigh knew life. Our bird, when he found the cage open, would not fly, so all our subtle arrangements were 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 bonds for a few hours each day. I have given orders to the night attendant merely to shut him in the padded room, when once he is quiet, until the hour before sunrise. The poor soul's body will enjoy the relief, even if his mind cannot appreciate it. Hark! The unexpected again. I am called. The patient has once more escaped. Later. Another night-adventure. Brentfield 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. Then he went into the grounds of the deserted house, and we found him in the same place, pressed against the old chapel door. When he saw me, he became furious, and had not the attendant 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 a suddenly grew calm. I looked round instinctively, but could see nothing. Then I caught the patient's eye and followed it, but could trace nothing as it looked into the moonlight sky, except a big bat, which was flapping its silent and ghostly way to the west. A bat's usually wheel about, but this one seemed to go straight on, as if it knew where it was bound for, or had some intention of its own. The patient grew calmer every instant, and presently said, You needn't tie me. I shall go quietly. Without trouble we came back to the house. I feel there is something ominous in his calm, and shall not forget this night. Lucy Western Razz Diary Hillingham, 24th of August. I must imitate Mina and keep writing things down, then we can have long talks when we do meet. I wonder when it will be. I wish she were with me again, for I feel so unhappy. Last night I seemed to be dreaming again just as I was at Whitby. Perhaps it is the change of air, or getting home again. It is all dark and horrid to me, for I can remember nothing. But I am full of vague fear, and I feel so weak and worn out. When Arthur came to lunch he looked quite grieved when he saw me, and I hadn't the spirit to try to be cheerful. I wonder if I could sleep in mother's room to-night. I shall make an excuse to try. 25th of 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 dose, so I must have been falling asleep. There was a sort of scratching or flapping at the window, but I did not mind it, and as I remember no more I suppose I must have fallen asleep. More bad dreams. I wish I could remember them. This morning I am horribly weak. My face is ghastly pale, and my throat pains me. It must be something wrong with my lungs, but I don't seem to be getting air enough. I shall try to cheer up when Arthur comes, or else I know he will be miserable to see me so. Later. Arthur to Dr. Seward. Albomoral Hotel. 31 August. My dear Jack, I want you to do me a favour. Lucy is ill. That is, she has no special disease, but she looks awful and is getting worse every day. I have asked her if there is any cause. I not dare to ask her mother, for to disturb the poor lady's mind about her daughter in her present state of health would be fatal. Mrs. Westonra 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 at lunch at Hillingham tomorrow, two o'clock, so as not to arouse any suspicion in Mrs. Westonra. And after lunch, Lucy will take an opportunity of being alone with you. I am filled with anxiety and want to consult with you alone as soon as I can after you have seen her. Do not fail! Arthur. Telegram, Arthur Holmwood, to Seward. One September. Am summoned to see my father, who is worse. Am riding. Write me foley by tonight's post to ring. Wire me, if necessary. Letter from Dr. Seward to Arthur Holmwood. To September. My dear old fellow. With regard to Mrs. Westonra'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 Mrs. Westonra 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 so some kind of reward for our labours, some real cheerfulness amongst us. Then Mrs. Westonra went to lie down, and Lucy was left with me. We went into her boudoir, and, till we got there, her deity 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 meeting at once, and settled that matter in a word. Tell Arthur everything you choose. I do not care for myself, but for him. So I am quite free. I could easily see that she was somewhat bloodless, but I could not see the usual endemic signs, and by the chance I was able to test the actual quality of her blood for, in opening a window which was stiff, a cord gave way, and she cut her hand slightly with broken glass. It was a slight matter in itself, but it gave me an evident chance, and I secured a few drops of the blood, and have analyzed them. The qualitative analysis give a quite normal condition, and shows, I should infer, in itself, a vigorous state of health. In other physical matters, I was quite satisfied that there is no need for anxiety, but as there must be a cause somewhere, I have come to the conclusion that it must be something mental. She complains of difficulty breathing satisfactorily at times, and of heavy lethargic sleep, with dreams that frighten her, but regarding which she can remember nothing. She says that as a child she used to walk in her sleep, and that when in wittby, the habit came back, and that once she walked out in the night, and went to East Cliff, where Miss Murray found her, but she assures me that, of late, the habit has not returned. I am in doubt, and so have done the best thing I know of. I have written to my old friend and master, Professor von Hilsing, 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 Wistenra. This, my dear fellow, is in obedience to your wishes, for I am only too proud and happy to do anything I can for her. van Hilsing would, I know, do anything for me, for a personal reason, so no matter on what ground he comes, we must accept his wishes. He is a seemingly arbitrary man. This is because he knows what he is talking about better than 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 and 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 Wistenra tomorrow again. She is to meet me at the stores, so that I may not alarm her mother by too early a repetition of my call. Yours always, John Seward. Letter Abraham Wim Helsing, M.D., D.P.H., D.L.I.T., etc., etc., to Dr. Seward. To September My good friend, when I receive 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. With fortune other than it were bad for those who have trusted, for I come to my friend when he called me to aid those he holds dear. Tell your friend that when that time you sucked 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 near hand, and please at sore range, that we may see the young lady not too late on tomorrow, for it is likely that I may have to return here that night. But if need be, I shall come again in three days and stay longer if it must. Till then, good-bye, my friend John, when Helsing. Dr. Seward to Honorable 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 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. He must not be angry with me, Art, because his very reticence means that all his brains are working for her good. He will speak plainly enough when the time comes, to be sure. So I told him I would simply write an account of our visit, just as if I were doing a descriptive special article for the Daily Telegraph. He seemed not to notice, but remarked that the smuts of London were not quite so bad as they used to be when he was a student here. I am to get his report tomorrow, if he can possibly make it. In any case, I am to have a letter. Well, as to the visit, Lucy was more cheerful than on the day I first saw her, and certainly looked better. She had lost something of the ghastly look that so upset you, and her breathing was normal. She was very sweet to the professor, as she always is, and tried to make him feel at ease, though I could see the poor girl was making a hard struggle for it. I believe Van Helsing saw it too, for I saw the quick look under his bushy brows that I knew of old. Then he began to chat of all things, except ourselves, and diseases, and with such an infinite geniality, that I could see poor Lucy's pretense of animation merge into reality. Then without any seeming change, he brought the conversation gently round to his visit, and swively said, My dear young miss, I have the so great pleasure, because you are so much beloved. That is much, my dear, even worther, that which I do not see. They told me you were down in the spirit, and that you were of a ghastly pale. To them I say, Poof! And he snapped his fingers at me, and went on. But you and I shall show them how wrong they are. How can he, and he pointed at me with the same look and gesture as that with which he pointed me out in his class, on, or rather after, a particular occasion, which he never fails to remind me of? How can he know anything of a young lady? He has his madmen 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, while 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 anemic. I have asked her to send me, her maid, that I may ask just one or two questions, that so I may not chance to miss nothing. I know well what she will say, and yet there is cause. There is always cause for everything. I must go back home and think. You must send me the telegram every day, and if there be cause, I shall come again. The disease, for not to be well, is a disease, interest me. And the sweet young dear, she interests 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 fellow. You 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 Zoophagus' 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 quiet, and finally sank into a sort of melancholy, in which state he has remained up to now. The attendant tells me that his screams, whilst in the paroxysm, were really appalling. I found my hands full when I got in, attending to some of the other patients who were frightened by him. Indeed, I can quite understand the effect, for the sounds disturbed even me, though I was some distance away. It is now after the dinner hour of the asylum, and as yet my patient sits in a corner, brooding with a dull sullen, woe-begone look in his face, which seems rather to indicate than to show something directly. I cannot quite understand it. Later. Another change in my patient. At five o'clock I looked in on him, and found him seemingly as happy and contented as he used to be. He was catching flies and eating them, and was keeping note of his capture by making nail marks on the edge of the door between the ridges of padding. When he saw me, he came over and apologized for his bad conduct, and asked me in a very humble, cringing way to be led back to his own room, and to have his notebook again. I thought it well to humor 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 into a box, as of old, and is already examining the corners of his room to find a spider. I tried to get him to talk about the past few days, for any clue to his thoughts would be of immense help to me, but he would not rise. For a moment or two he looked very sad, and said in a sort of far away voice, as though saying it rather to himself than to me, all over, all over, he has deserted me, no hope for me now, unless I do it myself. Then suddenly, turning to me in a resolute way, he said, Doctor, won't you be very good to me, and let me have a little more sugar? I think it would be very good for me. And the flies, I said, yes, the flies like it too, and I like the flies, therefore I like it. And there are people who know so little as to think that madmen do not argue. I procured him a double supply, and left him as happy a man as, I suppose, any in the world. I wish I could fathom his mind. Midnight. Another change in him. I had been to see Miss Westenra, whom I found much better, and had just returned, and was standing at our own gate, looking at the sunset, when once more I heard him yelling, as his room is on this side of the house, I could hear it better than in the morning. It was a shock to me to turn from the wonderful smoky beauty of a sunset over London, with its lurid lights and inky shadows, and all the marvellous tents that come on foul clouds, even as on foul water, and to realize all the grim sternness of my own cold stone building, with its wealth of breathing misery, and my own desolate heart to endure it all. I reached him just as the sun was going down, and from his window saw the red disk sank. 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 signaled to the attendance, not to hold him, for I was anxious to see what he would do. He went straight over to the window, and brushed out the crumbs of sugar. Then he took his fly-box, and emptied it outside, and threw away the box. Then he shut the window, and, crossing over, sat down on his bed. All this surprised me, so I asked him, Are you going to keep flies any more? No, said he, I am sick of all that rubbish. He certainly is a wonderfully interesting study. I wish I could get some glimpse of his mind, or of the cause of his sudden passion. Stop. There may be a clue, after all, if we can find why today his paroxysms came on at high noon and at sunset. Can it be that there is a malign influence of the sun at periods which affects certain natures, as at times the moon does others? We shall see. Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam. Four September. Patient still better today. Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam. Five September. Patient greatly improved. Good appetite sleeps naturally. Good spirits, color coming back. Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam. Six September. Terrible change for the worse. Come at once. Do not lose an hour. I hold over Telegram to Homewood. Still have seen you. End of Chapter 9