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foreigner, might not be quite aware of English legal requirements, and

so might in ignorance make some unnecessary trouble. He answered me:--

 

"I know; I know. You forget that I am a lawyer as well as a doctor. But

this is not altogether for the law. You knew that, when you avoided the

coroner. I have more than him to avoid. There may be papers more--such

as this."

 

As he spoke he took from his pocket-book the memorandum which had been

in Lucy's breast, and which she had torn in her sleep.

 

"When you find anything of the solicitor who is for the late Mrs.

Westenra, seal all her papers, and write him to-night. For me, I watch

here in the room and in Miss Lucy's old room all night, and I myself

search for what may be. It is not well that her very thoughts go into

the hands of strangers."

 

I went on with my part of the work, and in another half hour had found

the name and address of Mrs. Westenra's solicitor and had written to

him. All the poor lady's papers were in order; explicit directions

regarding the place of burial were given. I had hardly sealed the

letter, when, to my surprise, Van Helsing walked into the room,

saying:--

 

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

you."

 

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

 

"I did not look for any specific thing. I only hoped to find, and find I

have, all that there was--only some letters and a few memoranda, and a

diary new begun. But I have them here, and we shall for the present say

nothing of them. I shall see that poor lad to-morrow evening, and, with

his sanction, I shall use some."

 

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

 

"And now, friend John, I think we may to bed. We want sleep, both you

and I, and rest to recuperate. To-morrow we shall have much to do, but

for the to-night there is no need of us. Alas!"

 

Before turning in we went to look at poor Lucy. The undertaker had

certainly done his work well, for the room was turned into a small

_chapelle ardente_. There was a wilderness of beautiful white flowers,

and death was made as little repulsive as might be. The end of the

winding-sheet was laid over the face; when the Professor bent over and

turned it gently back, we both started at the beauty before us, the tall

wax candles showing a sufficient light to note it well. All Lucy's

loveliness had come back to her in death, and the hours that had passed,

instead of leaving traces of "decay's effacing fingers," had but

restored the beauty of life, till positively I could not believe my eyes

that I was looking at a corpse.

 

The Professor looked sternly grave. He had not loved her as I had, and

there was no need for tears in his eyes. He said to me: "Remain till I

return," and left the room. He came back with a handful of wild garlic

from the box waiting in the hall, but which had not been opened, and

placed the flowers amongst the others on and around the bed. Then he

took from his neck, inside his collar, a little gold crucifix, and

placed it over the mouth. He restored the sheet to its place, and we

came away.

 

I was undressing in my own room, when, with a premonitory tap at the

door, he entered, and at once began to speak:--

 

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

knives."

 

"Must we make an autopsy?" I asked.

 

"Yes and no. I want to operate, but not as you think. Let me tell you

now, but not a word to another. I want to cut off her head and take out

her heart. Ah! you a surgeon, and so shocked! You, whom I have seen with

no tremble of hand or heart, do operations of life and death that make

the rest shudder. Oh, but I must not forget, my dear friend John, that

you loved her; and I have not forgotten it, for it is I that shall

operate, and you must only help. I would like to do it to-night, but for

Arthur I must not; he will be free after his father's funeral to-morrow,

and he will want to see her--to see _it_. Then, when she is coffined

ready for the next day, you and I shall come when all sleep. We shall

unscrew the coffin-lid, and shall do our operation: and then replace

all, so that none know, save we alone."

 

"But why do it at all? The girl is dead. Why mutilate her poor body

without need? And if there is no necessity for a post-mortem and nothing

to gain by it--no good to her, to us, to science, to human

knowledge--why do it? Without such it is monstrous."

 

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

tenderness:--

 

"Friend John, I pity your poor bleeding heart; and I love you the more

because it does so bleed. If I could, I would take on myself the burden

that you do bear. But there are things that you know not, but that you

shall know, and bless me for knowing, though they are not pleasant

things. John, my child, you have been my friend now many years, and yet

did you ever know me to do any without good cause? I may err--I am but

man; but I believe in all I do. Was it not for these causes that you

send for me when the great trouble came? Yes! Were you not amazed, nay

horrified, when I would not let Arthur kiss his love--though she was

dying--and snatched him away by all my strength? Yes! And yet you saw

how she thanked me, with her so beautiful dying eyes, her voice, too, so

weak, and she kiss my rough old hand and bless me? Yes! And did you not

hear me swear promise to her, that so she closed her eyes grateful? Yes!

 

"Well, I have good reason now for all I want to do. You have for many

years trust me; you have believe me weeks past, when there be things so

strange that you might have well doubt. Believe me yet a little, friend

John. If you trust me not, then I must tell what I think; and that is

not perhaps well. And if I work--as work I shall, no matter trust or no

trust--without my friend trust in me, I work with heavy heart and feel,

oh! so lonely when I want all help and courage that may be!" He paused a

moment and went on solemnly: "Friend John, there are strange and

terrible days before us. Let us not be two, but one, that so we work to

a good end. Will you not have faith in me?"

 

I took his hand, and promised him. I held my door open as he went away,

and watched him go into his room and close the door. As I stood without

moving, I saw one of the maids pass silently along the passage--she had

her back towards me, so did not see me--and go into the room where Lucy

lay. The sight touched me. Devotion is so rare, and we are so grateful

to those who show it unasked to those we love. Here was a poor girl

putting aside the terrors which she naturally had of death to go watch

alone by the bier of the mistress whom she loved, so that the poor clay

might not be lonely till laid to eternal rest....

 

* * * * *

 

I must have slept long and soundly, for it was broad daylight when Van

Helsing waked me by coming into my room. He came over to my bedside and

said:--

 

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

 

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

impressed me.

 

"Because," he said sternly, "it is too late--or too early. See!" Here he

held up the little golden crucifix. "This was stolen in the night."

 

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

 

"Because I get it back from the worthless wretch who stole it, from the

woman who robbed the dead and the living. Her punishment will surely

come, but not through me; she knew not altogether what she did and thus

unknowing, she only stole. Now we must wait."

 

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

new puzzle to grapple with.

 

The forenoon was a dreary time, but at noon the solicitor came: Mr.

Marquand, of Wholeman, Sons, Marquand & 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 cf a certain

entailed property of Lucy's father's which now, in default of direct

issue, went back to a distant branch of the family, the whole estate,

real and personal, was left absolutely to Arthur Holmwood. When he had

told us so much he went on:--

 

"Frankly we did our best to prevent such a testamentary disposition, and

pointed out certain contingencies that might leave her daughter either

penniless or not so free as she should be to act regarding a matrimonial

alliance. Indeed, we pressed the matter so far that we almost came into

collision, for she asked us if we were or were not prepared to carry out

her wishes. Of course, we had then no alternative but to accept. We were

right in principle, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred we should

have proved, by the logic of events, the accuracy of our judgment.

Frankly, however, I must admit that in this case any other form of

disposition would have rendered impossible the carrying out of her

wishes. For by her predeceasing her daughter the latter would have come

into possession of the property, and, even had she only survived her

mother by five minutes, her property would, in case there were no

will--and a will was a practical impossibility in such a case--have been

treated at her decease as under intestacy. In which case Lord Godalming,

though so dear a friend, would have had no claim in the world; and the

inheritors, being remote, would not be likely to abandon their just

rights, for sentimental reasons regarding an entire stranger. I assure

you, my dear sirs, I am rejoiced at the result, perfectly rejoiced."

 

He was a good fellow, but his rejoicing at the one little part--in which

he was officially interested--of so great a tragedy, was an

object-lesson in the limitations of sympathetic understanding.

 

He did not remain long, but said he would look in later in the day and

see Lord Godalming. His coming, however, had been a certain comfort to

us, since it assured us that we should not have to dread hostile

criticism as to any of our acts. Arthur was expected at five o'clock, so

a little before that time we visited the death-chamber. It was so in

very truth, for now both mother and daughter lay in it. The undertaker,

true to his craft, had made the best display he could of his goods, and

there was a mortuary air about the place that lowered our spirits at

once. Van Helsing ordered the former arrangement to be adhered to,

explaining that, as Lord Godalming was coming very soon, it would be

less harrowing to his feelings to see all that was left of his _fiancee_

quite alone. The undertaker seemed shocked at his own stupidity and

exerted himself to restore things to the condition in which we left them

the night before, so that when Arthur came such shocks to his feelings

as we could avoid were saved.

 

Poor fellow! He looked desperately sad and broken; even his stalwart

manhood seemed to have shrunk somewhat under the strain of his

much-tried emotions. He had, I knew, been very genuinely and devotedly

attached to his father; and to lose him, and at such a time, was a

bitter blow to him. With me he was warm as ever, and to Van Helsing he

was sweetly courteous; but I could not help seeing that there was some

constraint with him. The Professor noticed it, too, and motioned me to

bring him upstairs. I did so, and left him at the door of the room, as I

felt he would like to be quite alone with her, but he took my arm and

led me in, saying huskily:--

 

"You loved her too, old fellow; she told me all about it, and there was

no friend had a closer place in her heart than you. I don't know how to

thank you for all you have done for her. I can't think yet...."

 

Here he suddenly broke down, and threw his arms round my shoulders and

laid his head on my breast, crying:--

 

"Oh, Jack! Jack! What shall I do! The whole of life seems gone from me

all at once, and there is nothing in the wide world for me to live for."

 

I comforted him as well as I could. In such cases men do not need much

expression. A grip of the hand, the tightening of an arm over the

shoulder, a sob in unison, are expressions of sympathy dear to a man's

heart. I stood still and silent till his sobs died away, and then I said

softly to him:--

 

"Come and look at her."

 

Together we moved over to the bed, and I lifted the lawn from her face.

God! how beautiful she was. Every hour seemed to be enhancing her

loveliness. It frightened and amazed me somewhat; and as for Arthur, he

fell a-trembling, and finally was shaken with doubt as with an ague. At

last, after a long pause, he said to me in a faint whisper:--

 

"Jack, is she really dead?"

 

I assured him sadly that it was so, and went on to suggest--for I felt

that such a horrible doubt should not have life for a moment longer than

I could help--that it often happened that after death faces became

softened and even resolved into their youthful beauty; that this was

especially so when death had been preceded by any acute or prolonged

suffering. It seemed to quite do away with any doubt, and, after

kneeling beside the couch for a while and looking at her lovingly and

long, he turned aside. I told him that that must be good-bye, as the

coffin had to be prepared; so he went back and took her dead hand in his

and kissed it, and bent over and kissed her forehead. He came away,

fondly looking back over his shoulder at her as he came.

 

I left him in the drawing-room, and told Van Helsing that he had said

good-bye; so the latter went to the kitchen to tell the undertaker's men

to proceed with the preparations and to screw up the coffin. When he

came out of the room again I told him of Arthur's question, and he

replied:--

 

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

 

We all dined together, and I could see that poor Art was trying to make

the best of things. Van Helsing had been silent all dinner-time; but

when we had lit our cigars he said--

 

"Lord----"; but Arthur interrupted him:--

 

"No, no, not that, for God's sake! not yet at any rate. Forgive me, sir:

I did not mean to speak offensively; it is only because my loss is so

recent."

 

The Professor answered very sweetly:--

 

"I only used that name because I was in doubt. I must not call you

'Mr.,' and I have grown to love you--yes, my dear boy, to love you--as

Arthur."

 

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

 

"Call me what you will," he said. "I hope I may always have the title of

a friend. And let me say that I am at a loss for words to thank you for

your goodness to my poor dear." He paused a moment, and went on: "I know

that she understood your goodness even better than I do; and if I was

rude or in any way wanting at that time you acted so--you remember"--the

Professor nodded--"you must forgive me."

 

He answered with a grave kindness:--

 

"I know it was hard for you to quite trust me then, for to trust such

violence needs to understand; and I take it that you do not--that you

cannot--trust me now, for you do not yet understand. And there may be

more times when I shall want you to trust when you cannot--and may

not--and must not yet understand. But the time will come when your trust

shall be whole and complete in me, and when you shall understand as

though the sunlight himself shone through. Then you shall bless me from

first to last for your own sake, and for the sake of others and for her

dear sake to whom I swore to protect."

 

"And, indeed, indeed, sir," said Arthur warmly, "I shall in all ways

trust you. I know and believe you have a very noble heart, and you are

Jack's friend, and you were hers. You shall do what you like."

 

The Professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as though about to

speak, and finally said:--

 

"May I ask you something now?"

 

"Certainly."

 

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

 

"No, poor dear; I never thought of it."

 

"And as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with it as you will. I

want you to give me permission to read all Miss Lucy's papers and

letters. Believe me, it is no idle curiosity. I have a motive of which,

be sure, she would have approved. I have them all here. I took them

before we knew that all was yours, so that no strange hand might touch

them--no strange eye look through words into her soul. I shall keep

them, if I may; even you may not see them yet, but I shall keep them

safe. No word shall be lost; and in the good time I shall give them back

to you. It's a hard thing I ask, but you will do it, will you not, for

Lucy's sake?"

 

Arthur spoke out heartily, like his old self:--

 

"Dr. Van Helsing, you may do what you will. I feel that in saying this I

am doing what my dear one would have approved. I shall not trouble you

with questions till the time comes."

 

The old Professor stood up as he said solemnly:--

 

"And you are right. There will be pain for us all; but it will not be

all pain, nor will this pain be the last. We and you too--you most of

all, my dear boy--will have to pass through the bitter water before we

reach the sweet. But we must be brave of heart and unselfish, and do our

duty, and all will be well!"

 

I slept on a sofa in Arthur's room that night. Van Helsing did not go to

bed at all. He went to and fro, as if patrolling the house, and was

never out of sight of the room where Lucy lay in her coffin, strewn with

the wild garlic flowers, which sent, through the odour of lily and rose,

a heavy, overpowering smell into the night.

 

 

_Mina Harker's Journal._

 

_22 September._--In the train to Exeter. Jonathan sleeping.

 

It seems only yesterday that the last entry was made, and yet how much

between then, in Whitby and all the world before me, Jonathan away and

no news of him; and now, married to Jonathan, Jonathan a solicitor, a

partner, rich, master of his business, Mr. Hawkins dead and buried, and

Jonathan with another attack that may harm him. Some day he may ask me

about it. Down it all goes. I am rusty in my shorthand--see what

unexpected prosperity does for us--so it may be as well to freshen it up

again with an exercise anyhow....

 

The service was very simple and very solemn. There were only ourselves

and the servants there, one or two old friends of his from Exeter, his

London agent, and a gentleman representing Sir John Paxton, the

President of the Incorporated Law Society. Jonathan and I stood hand in

hand, and we felt that our best and dearest friend was gone from us....

 

We came back to town quietly, taking a 'bus to Hyde Park Corner.

Jonathan thought it would interest me to go into the Row for a while, so

we sat down; but there were very few people there, and it was

sad-looking and desolate to see so many empty chairs. It made us think

of the empty chair at home; so we got up and walked down Piccadilly.

Jonathan was holding me by the arm, the way he used to in old days

before I went to school. I felt it very improper, for you can't go on

for some years teaching etiquette and decorum to other girls without the

pedantry of it biting into yourself a bit; but it was Jonathan, and he

was my husband, and we didn't know anybody who saw us--and we didn't

care if they did--so on we walked. I was looking at a very beautiful

girl, in a big cart-wheel hat, sitting in a victoria outside Guiliano's,

when I felt Jonathan clutch my arm so tight that he hurt me, and he said

under his breath: "My God!" I am always anxious about Jonathan, for I

fear that some nervous fit may upset him again; so I turned to him

quickly, and asked him what it was that disturbed him.

 

He was very pale, and his eyes seemed bulging out as, half in terror and

half in amazement, he gazed at a tall, thin man, with a beaky nose and

black moustache and pointed beard, who was also observing the pretty

girl. He was looking at her so hard that he did not see either of us,

and so I had a good view of him. His face was not a good face; it was

hard, and cruel, and sensual, and his big white teeth, that looked all

the whiter because his lips were so red, were pointed like an animal's.

Jonathan kept staring at him, till I was afraid he would notice. I

feared he might take it ill, he looked so fierce and nasty. I asked

Jonathan why he was disturbed, and he answered, evidently thinking that

I knew as much about it as he did: "Do you see who it is?"

 

"No, dear," I said; "I don't know him; who is it?" His answer seemed to

shock and thrill me, for it was said as if he did not know that it was

to me, Mina, to whom he was speaking:--

 

"It is the man himself!"

 

The poor dear was evidently terrified at something--very greatly

terrified; I do believe that if he had not had me to lean on and to

support him he would have sunk down. He kept staring; a man came out of

the shop with a small parcel, and gave it to the lady, who then drove

off. The dark man kept his eyes fixed on her, and when the carriage

moved up Piccadilly he followed in the same direction, and hailed a

hansom. Jonathan kept looking after him, and said, as if to himself:--

 

"I believe it is the Count, but he has grown young. My God, if this be

so! Oh, my God! my God! If I only knew! if I only knew!" He was

distressing himself so much that I feared to keep his mind on the

subject by asking him any questions, so I remained silent. I drew him

away quietly, and he, holding my arm, came easily. We walked a little

further, and then went in and sat for a while in the Green Park. It was

a hot day for autumn, and there was a comfortable seat in a shady place.

After a few minutes' staring at nothing, Jonathan's eyes closed, and he

went quietly into a sleep, with his head on my shoulder. I thought it

was the best thing for him, so did not disturb him. In about twenty

minutes he woke up, and said to me quite cheerfully:--

 

"Why, Mina, have I been asleep! Oh, do forgive me for being so rude.

Come, and we'll have a cup of tea somewhere." He had evidently forgotten

all about the dark stranger, as in his illness he had forgotten all that

this episode had reminded him of. I don't like this lapsing into

forgetfulness; it may make or continue some injury to the brain. I must

not ask him, for fear I shall do more harm than good; but I must somehow

learn the facts of his journey abroad. The time is come, I fear, when I

must open that parcel, and know what is written. Oh, Jonathan, you will,

I know, forgive me if I do wrong, but it is for your own dear sake.

 

* * * * *

 

_Later._--A sad home-coming in every way--the house empty of the dear

soul who was so good to us; Jonathan still pale and dizzy under a slight

relapse of his malady; and now a telegram from Van Helsing, whoever he

may be:--

 

"You will be grieved to hear that Mrs. Westenra died five days ago, and

that Lucy died the day before yesterday. They were both buried to-day."

 

Oh, what a wealth of sorrow in a few words! Poor Mrs. Westenra! poor

Lucy! Gone, gone, never to return to us! And poor, poor Arthur, to have

lost such sweetness out of his life! God help us all to bear our

troubles.

 

 

_Dr. Seward's Diary._

 

_22 September._--It is all over. Arthur has gone back to Ring, and has

taken Quincey Morris with him. What a fine fellow is Quincey! I believe

in my heart of hearts that he suffered as much about Lucy's death as any

of us; but he bore himself through it like a moral Viking. If America

can go on breeding men like that, she will be a power in the world

indeed. Van Helsing is lying down, having a rest preparatory to his

journey. He goes over to Amsterdam to-night, but says he returns

to-morrow night; that he only wants to make some arrangements which can

only be made personally. He is to stop with me then, if he can; he says

he has work to do in London which may take him some time. Poor old

fellow! I fear that the strain of the past week has broken down even his

iron strength. All the time of the burial he was, I could see, putting

some terrible restraint on himself. When it was all over, we were

standing beside Arthur, who, poor fellow, was speaking of his part in

the operation where his blood had been transfused to his Lucy's veins; I

could see Van Helsing's face grow white and purple by turns. Arthur was

saying that he felt since then as if they two had been really married

and that she was his wife in the sight of God. None of us said a word of

the other operations, and none of us ever shall. Arthur and Quincey went

away together to the station, and Van Helsing and I came on here. The

moment we were alone in the carriage he gave way to a regular fit of

hysterics. He has denied to me since that it was hysterics, and insisted

that it was only his sense of humour asserting itself under very

terrible conditions. He laughed till he cried, and I had to draw down

the blinds lest any one should see us and misjudge; and then he cried,

till he laughed again; and laughed and cried together, just as a woman

does. I tried to be stern with him, as one is to a woman under the

circumstances; but it had no effect. Men and women are so different in

manifestations of nervous strength or weakness! Then 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:--