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in case the story should get wind. When we got in, and had washed our

feet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, I tucked her into

bed. Before falling asleep she asked--even implored--me not to say a

word to any one, even her mother, about her sleep-walking adventure. I

hesitated at first to promise; but on thinking of the state of her

mother's health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her,

and thinking, too, of how such a story might become distorted--nay,

infallibly would--in case it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do

so. I hope I did right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied to

my wrist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is sleeping

soundly; the reflex of the dawn is high and far over the sea....

 

* * * * *

 

_Same day, noon._--All goes well. Lucy slept till I woke her and seemed

not to have even changed her side. The adventure of the night does not

seem to have harmed her; on the contrary, it has benefited her, for she

looks better this morning than she has done for weeks. I was sorry to

notice that my clumsiness with the safety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it might

have been serious, for the skin of her throat was pierced. I must have

pinched up a piece of loose skin and have transfixed it, for there are

two little red points like pin-pricks, and on the band of her nightdress

was a drop of blood. When I apologised and was concerned about it, she

laughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it. Fortunately it

cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny.

 

* * * * *

 

_Same day, night._--We passed a happy day. The air was clear, and the

sun bright, and there was a cool breeze. We took our lunch to Mulgrave

Woods, Mrs. Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I walking by the

cliff-path and joining her at the gate. I felt a little sad myself, for

I could not but feel how _absolutely_ happy it would have been had

Jonathan been with me. But there! I must only be patient. In the evening

we strolled in the Casino Terrace, and heard some good music by Spohr

and Mackenzie, and went to bed early. Lucy seems more restful than she

has been for some time, and fell asleep at once. I shall lock the door

and secure the key the same as before, though I do not expect any

trouble to-night.

 

* * * * *

 

_12 August._--My expectations were wrong, for twice during the night I

was wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in her sleep, to

be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bed

under a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and heard the birds

chirping outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and, I was glad to see,

was even better than on the previous morning. All her old gaiety of

manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled in beside me

and told me all about Arthur. I told her how anxious I was about

Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she succeeded

somewhat, for, though sympathy can't alter facts, it can help to make

them more bearable.

 

* * * * *

 

_13 August._--Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist as

before. Again I awoke in the night, and found Lucy sitting up in bed,

still asleep, pointing to the window. I got up quietly, and pulling

aside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant moonlight, and the soft

effect of the light over the sea and sky--merged together in one great,

silent mystery--was beautiful beyond words. Between me and the moonlight

flitted a great bat, coming and going in great whirling circles. Once or

twice it came quite close, but was, I suppose, frightened at seeing me,

and flitted away across the harbour towards the abbey. When I came back

from the window Lucy had lain down again, and was sleeping peacefully.

She did not stir again all night.

 

* * * * *

 

_14 August._--On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day. Lucy seems

to have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it is hard to

get her away from it when it is time to come home for lunch or tea or

dinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We were coming home for

dinner, and had come to the top of the steps up from the West Pier and

stopped to look at the view, as we generally do. The setting sun, low

down in the sky, was just dropping behind Kettleness; the red light was

thrown over on the East Cliff and the old abbey, and seemed to bathe

everything in a beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a while, and

suddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself:--

 

"His red eyes again! They are just the same." It was such an odd

expression, coming _apropos_ of nothing, that it quite startled me. I

slewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without seeming to stare

at her, and saw that she was in a half-dreamy state, with an odd look on

her face that I could not quite make out; so I said nothing, but

followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at our own seat,

whereon was a dark figure seated alone. I was a little startled myself,

for it seemed for an instant as if the stranger had great eyes like

burning flames; but a second look dispelled the illusion. The red

sunlight was shining on the windows of St. Mary's Church behind our

seat, and as the sun dipped there was just sufficient change in the

refraction and reflection to make it appear as if the light moved. I

called Lucy's attention to the peculiar effect, and she became herself

with a start, but she looked sad all the same; it may have been that she

was thinking of that terrible night up there. We never refer to it; so I

said nothing, and we went home to dinner. Lucy had a headache and went

early to bed. I saw her asleep, and went out for a little stroll myself;

I walked along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet

sadness, for I was thinking of Jonathan. When coming home--it was then

bright moonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part of the

Crescent was in shadow, everything could be well seen--I threw a glance

up at our window, and saw Lucy's head leaning out. I thought that

perhaps she was looking out for me, so I opened my handkerchief and

waved it. She did not notice or make any movement whatever. Just then,

the moonlight crept round an angle of the building, and the light fell

on the window. There distinctly was Lucy with her head lying up against

the side of the window-sill and her eyes shut. She was fast asleep, and

by her, seated on the window-sill, was something that looked like a

good-sized bird. I was afraid she might get a chill, so I ran upstairs,

but as I came into the room she was moving back to her bed, fast

asleep, and breathing heavily; she was holding her hand to her throat,

as though to protect it from cold.

 

I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly; I have taken care that the

door is locked and the window securely fastened.

 

She looks so sweet as she sleeps; but she is paler than is her wont, and

there is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes which I do not like. I

fear she is fretting about something. I wish I could find out what it

is.

 

* * * * *

 

_15 August._--Rose later than usual. Lucy was languid and tired, and

slept on after we had been called. We had a happy surprise at breakfast.

Arthur's father is better, and wants the marriage to come off soon. Lucy

is full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad and sorry at once. Later on

in the day she told me the cause. She is grieved to lose Lucy as her

very own, but she is rejoiced that she is soon to have some one to

protect her. Poor dear, sweet lady! She confided to me that she has got

her death-warrant. She has not told Lucy, and made me promise secrecy;

her doctor told her that within a few months, at most, she must die, for

her heart is weakening. At any time, even now, a sudden shock would be

almost sure to kill her. Ah, we were wise to keep from her the affair of

the dreadful night of Lucy's sleep-walking.

 

* * * * *

 

_17 August._--No diary for two whole days. I have not had the heart to

write. Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our happiness.

No news from Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be growing weaker, whilst her

mother's hours are numbering to a close. I do not understand Lucy's

fading away as she is doing. She eats well and sleeps well, and enjoys

the fresh air; but all the time the roses in her cheeks are fading, and

she gets weaker and more languid day by day; at night I hear her gasping

as if for air. I keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist at

night, but she gets up and walks about the room, and sits at the open

window. Last night I found her leaning out when I woke up, and when I

tried to wake her I could not; she was in a faint. When I managed to

restore her she was as weak as water, and cried silently between long,

painful struggles for breath. When I asked her how she came to be at the

window she shook her head and turned away. I trust her feeling ill may

not be from that unlucky prick of the safety-pin. I looked at her throat

just now as she lay asleep, and the tiny wounds seem not to have healed.

They are still open, and, if anything, larger than before, and the

edges of them are faintly white. They are like little white dots with

red centres. Unless they heal within a day or two, I shall insist on the

doctor seeing about them.

 

 

_Letter, Samuel F. Billington & Son, Solicitors, Whitby, to Messrs.

Carter, Paterson & Co., London._

 

"_17 August._

 

"Dear Sirs,--

 

"Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great Northern

Railway. Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near Purfleet, immediately

on receipt at goods station King's Cross. The house is at present empty,

but enclosed please find keys, all of which are labelled.

 

"You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form the

consignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of the house

and marked 'A' on rough diagram enclosed. Your agent will easily

recognise the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. The

goods leave by the train at 9:30 to-night, and will be due at King's

Cross at 4:30 to-morrow afternoon. As our client wishes the delivery

made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by your having teams ready

at King's Cross at the time named and forthwith conveying the goods to

destination. In order to obviate any delays possible through any routine

requirements as to payment in your departments, we enclose cheque

herewith for ten pounds (L10), receipt of which please acknowledge.

Should the charge be less than this amount, you can return balance; if

greater, we shall at once send cheque for difference on hearing from

you. You are to leave the keys on coming away in the main hall of the

house, where the proprietor may get them on his entering the house by

means of his duplicate key.

 

"Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business courtesy in

pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition.

 

_"We are, dear Sirs,

 

"Faithfully yours,

 

"SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON."_

 

 

_Letter, Messrs. Carter, Paterson & Co., London, to Messrs. Billington &

Son, Whitby._

 

"_21 August._

 

"Dear Sirs,--

 

"We beg to acknowledge L10 received and to return cheque L1 17s. 9d,

amount of overplus, as shown in receipted account herewith. Goods are

delivered in exact accordance with instructions, and keys left in parcel

in main hall, as directed.

 

"We are, dear Sirs,

 

"Yours respectfully.

 

"_Pro_ CARTER, PATERSON & CO."

 

 

_Mina Murray's Journal._

 

_18 August._--I am happy to-day, and write sitting on the seat in the

churchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last night she slept well all

night, and did not disturb me once. The roses seem coming back already

to her cheeks, though she is still sadly pale and wan-looking. If she

were in any way anaemic I could understand it, but she is not. She is in

gay spirits and full of life and cheerfulness. All the morbid reticence

seems to have passed from her, and she has just reminded me, as if I

needed any reminding, of _that_ night, and that it was here, on this

very seat, I found her asleep. As she told me she tapped playfully with

the heel of her boot on the stone slab and said:--

 

"My poor little feet didn't make much noise then! I daresay poor old Mr.

Swales would have told me that it was because I didn't want to wake up

Geordie." As she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her if she

had dreamed at all that night. Before she answered, that sweet, puckered

look came into her forehead, which Arthur--I call him Arthur from her

habit--says he loves; and, indeed, I don't wonder that he does. Then she

went on in a half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it to

herself:--

 

"I didn't quite dream; but it all seemed to be real. I only wanted to be

here in this spot--I don't know why, for I was afraid of something--I

don't know what. I remember, though I suppose I was asleep, passing

through the streets and over the bridge. A fish leaped as I went by, and

I leaned over to look at it, and I heard a lot of dogs howling--the

whole town seemed as if it must be full of dogs all howling at once--as

I went up the steps. Then I had a vague memory of something long and

dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and something very

sweet and very bitter all around me at once; and then I seemed sinking

into deep green water, and there was a singing in my ears, as I have

heard there is to drowning men; and then everything seemed passing away

from me; my soul seemed to go out from my body and float about the air.

I seem to remember that once the West Lighthouse was right under me,

and then there was a sort of agonising feeling, as if I were in an

earthquake, and I came back and found you shaking my body. I saw you do

it before I felt you."

 

Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I

listened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and thought it

better not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to other

subjects, and Lucy was like her old self again. When we got home the

fresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were really more

rosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very

happy evening together.

 

* * * * *

 

_19 August._--Joy, joy, joy! although not all joy. At last, news of

Jonathan. The dear fellow has been ill; that is why he did not write. I

am not afraid to think it or say it, now that I know. Mr. Hawkins sent

me on the letter, and wrote himself, oh, so kindly. I am to leave in the

morning and go over to Jonathan, and to help to nurse him if necessary,

and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says it would not be a bad thing if

we were to be married out there. I have cried over the good Sister's

letter till I can feel it wet against my bosom, where it lies. It is of

Jonathan, and must be next my heart, for he is _in_ my heart. My journey

is all mapped out, and my luggage ready. I am only taking one change of

dress; Lucy will bring my trunk to London and keep it till I send for

it, for it may be that... I must write no more; I must keep it to say

to Jonathan, my husband. The letter that he has seen and touched must

comfort me till we meet.

 

 

_Letter, Sister Agatha, Hospital of St. Joseph and Ste. Mary,

Buda-Pesth, to Miss Wilhelmina Murray._

 

"_12 August._

 

"Dear Madam,--

 

"I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is himself not strong

enough to write, though progressing well, thanks to God and St. Joseph

and Ste. Mary. He has been under our care for nearly six weeks,

suffering from a violent brain fever. He wishes me to convey his love,

and to say that by this post I write for him to Mr. Peter Hawkins,

Exeter, to say, with his dutiful respects, that he is sorry for his

delay, and that all of his work is completed. He will require some few

weeks' rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but will then return. He

wishes me to say that he has not sufficient money with him, and that he

would like to pay for his staying here, so that others who need shall

not be wanting for help.

 

"Believe me,

 

"Yours, with sympathy and all blessings,

 

"SISTER AGATHA.

 

"P. S.--My patient being asleep, I open this to let you know something

more. He has told me all about you, and that you are shortly to be his

wife. All blessings to you both! He has had some fearful shock--so says

our doctor--and in his delirium his ravings have been dreadful; of

wolves and poison and blood; of ghosts and demons; and I fear to say of

what. Be careful with him always that there may be nothing to excite him

of this kind for a long time to come; the traces of such an illness as

his do not lightly die away. We should have written long ago, but we

knew nothing of his friends, and there was on him nothing that any one

could understand. He came in the train from Klausenburg, and the guard

was told by the station-master there that he rushed into the station

shouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from his violent demeanour that

he was English, they gave him a ticket for the furthest station on the

way thither that the train reached.

 

"Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all hearts by his

sweetness and gentleness. He is truly getting on well, and I have no

doubt will in a few weeks be all himself. But be careful of him for

safety's sake. There are, I pray God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary, many,

many, happy years for you both."

 

 

_Dr. Seward's Diary._

 

_19 August._--Strange and sudden change in Renfield last night. About

eight o'clock he began to get excited and sniff about as a dog does when

setting. The attendant was struck by his manner, and knowing my interest

in him, encouraged him to talk. He is usually respectful to the

attendant and at times servile; but to-night, the man tells me, he was

quite haughty. Would not condescend to talk with him at all. All he

would say was:--

 

"I don't want to talk to you: you don't count now; the Master is at

hand."

 

The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania which has

seized him. If so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong man with

homicidal and religious mania at once might be dangerous. The

combination is a dreadful one. At nine o'clock I visited him myself. His

attitude to me was the same as that to the attendant; in his sublime

self-feeling the difference between myself and attendant seemed to him

as nothing. It looks like religious mania, and he will soon think that

he himself is God. These infinitesimal distinctions between man and man

are too paltry for an Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give themselves

away! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall; but the God created

from human vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a sparrow. Oh,

if men only knew!

 

For half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in greater and

greater degree. I did not pretend to be watching him, but I kept strict

observation all the same. All at once that shifty look came into his

eyes which we always see when a madman has seized an idea, and with it

the shifty movement of the head and back which asylum attendants come to

know so well. He became quite quiet, and went and sat on the edge of his

bed resignedly, and looked into space with lack-lustre eyes. I thought I

would find out if his apathy were real or only assumed, and tried to

lead him to talk of his pets, a theme which had never failed to excite

his attention. At first he made no reply, but at length said testily:--

 

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

 

"What?" I said. "You don't mean to tell me you don't care about

spiders?" (Spiders at present are his hobby and the note-book is filling

up with columns of small figures.) To this he answered enigmatically:--

 

"The bride-maidens rejoice the eyes that wait the coming of the bride;

but when the bride draweth nigh, then the maidens shine not to the eyes

that are filled."

 

He would not explain himself, but remained obstinately seated on his bed

all the time I remained with him.

 

I am weary to-night and low in spirits. I cannot but think of Lucy, and

how different things might have been. If I don't sleep at once, chloral,

the modern Morpheus--C_{2}HCl_{3}O. H_{2}O! I must be careful not to let

it grow into a habit. No, I shall take none to-night! I have thought of

Lucy, and I shall not dishonour her by mixing the two. If need be,

to-night shall be sleepless....

 

* * * * *

 

_Later._--Glad I made the resolution; gladder that I kept to it. I had

lain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice, when the

night-watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that Renfield

had escaped. I threw on my clothes and ran down at once; my patient is

too dangerous a person to be roaming about. Those ideas of his might

work out dangerously with strangers. The attendant was waiting for me.

He said he had seen him not ten minutes before, seemingly asleep in his

bed, when he had looked through the observation-trap in the door. His

attention was called by the sound of the window being wrenched out. He

ran back and saw his feet disappear through the window, and had at once

sent up for me. He was only in his night-gear, and cannot be far off.

The attendant thought it would be more useful to watch where he should

go than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst getting out

of the building by the door. He is a bulky man, and couldn't get through

the window. I am thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feet foremost,

and, as we were only a few feet above ground, landed unhurt. The

attendant told me the patient had gone to the left, and had taken a

straight line, so I ran as quickly as I could. As I got through the belt

of trees I saw a white figure scale the high wall which separates our

grounds from those of the deserted house.

 

I ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four men

immediately and follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case our friend

might be dangerous. I got a ladder myself, and crossing the wall,

dropped down on the other side. I could see Renfield's figure just

disappearing behind the angle of the house, so I ran after him. On the

far side of the house I found him pressed close against the old

ironbound oak door of the chapel. He was talking, apparently to some

one, but I was afraid to go near enough to hear what he was saying, lest

I might frighten him, and he should run off. Chasing an errant swarm of

bees is nothing to following a naked lunatic, when the fit of escaping

is upon him! After a few minutes, however, I could see that he did not

take note of anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearer to

him--the more so as my men had now crossed the wall and were closing him

in. I heard him say:--

 

"I am here to do Your bidding, Master. I am Your slave, and You will

reward me, for I shall be faithful. I have worshipped You long and afar

off. Now that You are near, I await Your commands, and You will not pass

me by, will You, dear Master, in Your distribution of good things?"

 

He _is_ a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the loaves and fishes

even when he believes he is in a Real Presence. His manias make a

startling combination. When we closed in on him he fought like a tiger.

He is immensely strong, for he was more like a wild beast than a man. I

never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before; and I hope I

shall not again. It is a mercy that we have found out his strength and

his danger in good time. With strength and determination like his, he

might have done wild work before he was caged. He is safe now at any

rate. Jack Sheppard himself couldn't get free from the strait-waistcoat

that keeps him restrained, and he's chained to the wall in the padded

room. His cries are at times awful, but the silences that follow are

more deadly still, for he means murder in every turn and movement.

 

Just now he spoke coherent words for the first time:--

 

"I shall be patient, Master. It is coming--coming--coming!"

 

So I took the hint, and came too. I was too excited to sleep, but this

diary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get some sleep to-night.

 

 

CHAPTER IX

 

 

_Letter, Mina Harker to Lucy Westenra._

 

"_Buda-Pesth, 24 August._

 

"My dearest Lucy,--

 

"I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened since we

parted at the railway station at Whitby. Well, my dear, I got to Hull

all right, and caught the boat to Hamburg, and then the train on here. I

feel that I can hardly recall anything of the journey, except that I

knew I was coming to Jonathan, and, that as I should have to do some

nursing, I had better get all the sleep I could.... I found my dear one,

oh, so thin and pale and weak-looking. All the resolution has gone out

of his dear eyes, and that quiet dignity which I told you was in his

face has vanished. He is only a wreck of himself, and he does not

remember anything that has happened to him for a long time past. At

least, he wants me to believe so, and I shall never ask. He has had some

terrible shock, and I fear it might tax his poor brain if he were to try

to recall it. Sister Agatha, who is a good creature and a born nurse,

tells me that he raved of dreadful things whilst he was off his head. I

wanted her to tell me what they were; but she would only cross herself,

and say she would never tell; that the ravings of the sick were the

secrets of God, and that if a nurse through her vocation should hear

them, she should respect her trust. She is a sweet, good soul, and the

next day, when she saw I was troubled, she opened up the subject again,

and after saying that she could never mention what my poor dear raved

about, added: 'I can tell you this much, my dear: that it was not about