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"Ah, you don't comprehend, friend John. Do not think that I am not sad,

though I laugh. See, I have cried even when the laugh did choke me. But

no more think that I am all sorry when I cry, for the laugh he come

just the same. Keep it always with you that laughter who knock at your

door and say, 'May I come in?' is not the true laughter. No! he is a

king, and he come when and how he like. He ask no person; he choose no

time of suitability. He say, 'I am here.' Behold, in example I grieve my

heart out for that so sweet young girl; I give my blood for her, though

I am old and worn; I give my time, my skill, my sleep; I let my other

sufferers want that so she may have all. And yet I can laugh at her very

grave--laugh when the clay from the spade of the sexton drop upon her

coffin and say 'Thud! thud!' to my heart, till it send back the blood

from my cheek. My heart bleed for that poor boy--that dear boy, so of

the age of mine own boy had I been so blessed that he live, and with his

hair and eyes the same. There, you know now why I love him so. And yet

when he say things that touch my husband-heart to the quick, and make my

father-heart yearn to him as to no other man--not even to you, friend

John, for we are more level in experiences than father and son--yet even

at such moment King Laugh he come to me and shout and bellow in my ear,

'Here I am! here I am!' till the blood come dance back and bring some of

the sunshine that he carry with him to my cheek. Oh, friend John, it is

a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and

troubles; and yet when King Laugh come he make them all dance to the

tune he play. Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and

tears that burn as they fall--all dance together to the music that he

make with that smileless mouth of him. And believe me, friend John, that

he is good to come, and kind. Ah, we men and women are like ropes drawn

tight with strain that pull us different ways. Then tears come; and,

like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until perhaps the strain

become too great, and we break. But King Laugh he come like the

sunshine, and he ease off the strain again; and we bear to go on with

our labour, what it may be."

 

I did not like to wound him by pretending not to see his idea; but, as I

did not yet understand the cause of his laughter, I asked him. As he

answered me his face grew stern, and he said in quite a different

tone:--

 

"Oh, it was the grim irony of it all--this so lovely lady garlanded with

flowers, that looked so fair as life, till one by one we wondered if she

were truly dead; she laid in that so fine marble house in that lonely

churchyard, where rest so many of her kin, laid there with the mother

who loved her, and whom she loved; and that sacred bell going 'Toll!

toll! toll!' so sad and slow; and those holy men, with the white

garments of the angel, pretending to read books, and yet all the time

their eyes never on the page; and all of us with the bowed head. And all

for what? She is dead; so! Is it not?"

 

"Well, for the life of me, Professor," I said, "I can't see anything to

laugh at in all that. Why, your explanation makes it a harder puzzle

than before. But even if the burial service was comic, what about poor

Art and his trouble? Why, his heart was simply breaking."

 

"Just so. Said he not that the transfusion of his blood to her veins had

made her truly his bride?"

 

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

 

"Quite so. But there was a difficulty, friend John. If so that, then

what about the others? Ho, ho! Then this so sweet maid is a polyandrist,

and me, with my poor wife dead to me, but alive by Church's law, though

no wits, all gone--even I, who am faithful husband to this now-no-wife,

am bigamist."

 

"I don't see where the joke comes in there either!" I said; and I did

not feel particularly pleased with him for saying such things. He laid

his hand on my arm, and said:--

 

"Friend John, forgive me if I pain. I showed not my feeling to others

when it would wound, but only to you, my old friend, whom I can trust.

If you could have looked into my very heart then when I want to laugh;

if you could have done so when the laugh arrived; if you could do so

now, when King Laugh have pack up his crown, and all that is to him--for

he go far, far away from me, and for a long, long time--maybe you would

perhaps pity me the most of all."

 

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

 

"Because I know!"

 

And now we are all scattered; and for many a long day loneliness will

sit over our roofs with brooding wings. Lucy lies in the tomb of her

kin, a lordly death-house in a lonely churchyard, away from teeming

London; where the air is fresh, and the sun rises over Hampstead Hill,

and where wild flowers grow of their own accord.

 

So I can finish this diary; and God only knows if I shall ever begin

another. If I do, or if I even open this again, it will be to deal with

different people and different themes; for here at the end, where the

romance of my life is told, ere I go back to take up the thread of my

life-work, I say sadly and without hope,

 

"FINIS."

 

 

_"The Westminster Gazette," 25 September._

 

A HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY.

 

 

The neighbourhood of Hampstead is just at present exercised with a

series of events which seem to run on lines parallel to those of what

was known to the writers of headlines as "The Kensington Horror," or

"The Stabbing Woman," or "The Woman in Black." During the past two or

three days several cases have occurred of young children straying from

home or neglecting to return from their playing on the Heath. In all

these cases the children were too young to give any properly

intelligible account of themselves, but the consensus of their excuses

is that they had been with a "bloofer lady." It has always been late in

the evening when they have been missed, and on two occasions the

children have not been found until early in the following morning. It is

generally supposed in the neighbourhood that, as the first child missed

gave as his reason for being away that a "bloofer lady" had asked him to

come for a walk, the others had picked up the phrase and used it as

occasion served. This is the more natural as the favourite game of the

little ones at present is luring each other away by wiles. A

correspondent writes us that to see some of the tiny tots pretending to

be the "bloofer lady" is supremely funny. Some of our caricaturists

might, he says, take a lesson in the irony of grotesque by comparing the

reality and the picture. It is only in accordance with general

principles of human nature that the "bloofer lady" should be the popular

role at these _al fresco_ performances. Our correspondent naively says

that even Ellen Terry could not be so winningly attractive as some of

these grubby-faced little children pretend--and even imagine

themselves--to be.

 

There is, however, possibly a serious side to the question, for some of

the children, indeed all who have been missed at night, have been

slightly torn or wounded in the throat. The wounds seem such as might be

made by a rat or a small dog, and although of not much importance

individually, would tend to show that whatever animal inflicts them has

a system or method of its own. The police of the division have been

instructed to keep a sharp look-out for straying children, especially

when very young, in and around Hampstead Heath, and for any stray dog

which may be about.

 

 

_"The Westminster Gazette," 25 September._

 

_Extra Special._

 

THE HAMPSTEAD HORROR.

 

ANOTHER CHILD INJURED.

 

_The "Bloofer Lady."_

 

We have just received intelligence that another child, missed last

night, was only discovered late in the morning under a furze bush at the

Shooter's Hill side of Hampstead Heath, which is, perhaps, less

frequented than the other parts. It has the same tiny wound in the

throat as has been noticed in other cases. It was terribly weak, and

looked quite emaciated. It too, when partially restored, had the common

story to tell of being lured away by the "bloofer lady."

 

 

CHAPTER XIV

 

MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL

 

 

_23 September_.--Jonathan is better after a bad night. I am so glad that

he has plenty of work to do, for that keeps his mind off the terrible

things; and oh, I am rejoiced that he is not now weighed down with the

responsibility of his new position. I knew he would be true to himself,

and now how proud I am to see my Jonathan rising to the height of his

advancement and keeping pace in all ways with the duties that come upon

him. He will be away all day till late, for he said he could not lunch

at home. My household work is done, so I shall take his foreign journal,

and lock myself up in my room and read it....

 

 

_24 September_.--I hadn't the heart to write last night; that terrible

record of Jonathan's upset me so. Poor dear! How he must have suffered,

whether it be true or only imagination. I wonder if there is any truth

in it at all. Did he get his brain fever, and then write all those

terrible things, or had he some cause for it all? I suppose I shall

never know, for I dare not open the subject to him.... And yet that man

we saw yesterday! He seemed quite certain of him.... Poor fellow! I

suppose it was the funeral upset him and sent his mind back on some

train of thought.... He believes it all himself. I remember how on our

wedding-day he said: "Unless some solemn duty come upon me to go back to

the bitter hours, asleep or awake, mad or sane." There seems to be

through it all some thread of continuity.... That fearful Count was

coming to London.... If it should be, and he came to London, with his

teeming millions.... There may be a solemn duty; and if it come we must

not shrink from it.... I shall be prepared. I shall get my typewriter

this very hour and begin transcribing. Then we shall be ready for other

eyes if required. And if it be wanted; then, perhaps, if I am ready,

poor Jonathan may not be upset, for I can speak for him and never let

him be troubled or worried with it at all. If ever Jonathan quite gets

over the nervousness he may want to tell me of it all, and I can ask him

questions and find out things, and see how I may comfort him.

 

 

_Letter, Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker._

 

"_24 September._

 

(_Confidence_)

 

"Dear Madam,--

 

"I pray you to pardon my writing, in that I am so far friend as that I

sent to you sad news of Miss Lucy Westenra's death. By the kindness of

Lord Godalming, I am empowered to read her letters and papers, for I am

deeply concerned about certain matters vitally important. In them I find

some letters from you, which show how great friends you were and how you

love her. Oh, Madam Mina, by that love, I implore you, help me. It is

for others' good that I ask--to redress great wrong, and to lift much

and terrible troubles--that may be more great than you can know. May it

be that I see you? You can trust me. I am friend of Dr. John Seward and

of Lord Godalming (that was Arthur of Miss Lucy). I must keep it private

for the present from all. I should come to Exeter to see you at once if

you tell me I am privilege to come, and where and when. I implore your

pardon, madam. I have read your letters to poor Lucy, and know how good

you are and how your husband suffer; so I pray you, if it may be,

enlighten him not, lest it may harm. Again your pardon, and forgive me.

 

"VAN HELSING."

 

 

_Telegram, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing._

 

"_25 September._--Come to-day by quarter-past ten train if you can catch

it. Can see you any time you call.

 

"WILHELMINA HARKER."

 

MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL.

 

_25 September._--I cannot help feeling terribly excited as the time

draws near for the visit of Dr. Van Helsing, for somehow I expect that

it will throw some light upon Jonathan's sad experience; and as he

attended poor dear Lucy in her last illness, he can tell me all about

her. That is the reason of his coming; it is concerning Lucy and her

sleep-walking, and not about Jonathan. Then I shall never know the real

truth now! How silly I am. That awful journal gets hold of my

imagination and tinges everything with something of its own colour. Of

course it is about Lucy. That habit came back to the poor dear, and that

awful night on the cliff must have made her ill. I had almost forgotten

in my own affairs how ill she was afterwards. Sheils? She have told him

of her sleep-walking adventure on the cliff, and that I knew all about

it; and now he wants me to tell him what she knows, so that he may

understand. I hope I did right in not saying anything of it to Mrs.

Westenra; I should never forgive myself if any act of mine, were it even

a negative one, brought harm on poor dear Lucy. I hope, too, Dr. Van

Helsing will not blame me; I have had so much trouble and anxiety of

late that I feel I cannot bear more just at present.

 

I suppose a cry does us all good at times--clears the air as other rain

does. Perhaps it was reading the journal yesterday that upset me, and

then Jonathan went away this morning to stay away from me a whole day

and night, the first time we have been parted since our marriage. I do

hope the dear fellow will take care of himself, and that nothing will

occur to upset him. It is two o'clock, and the doctor will be here soon

now. I shall say nothing of Jonathan's journal unless he asks me. I am

so glad I have type-written out my own journal, so that, in case he asks

about Lucy, I can hand it to him; it will save much questioning.

 

* * * * *

 

_Later._--He has come and gone. Oh, what a strange meeting, and how it

all makes my head whirl round! I feel like one in a dream. Can it be all

possible, or even a part of it? If I had not read Jonathan's journal

first, I should never have accepted even a possibility. Poor, poor, dear

Jonathan! How he must have suffered. Please the good God, all this may

not upset him again. I shall try to save him from it; but it may be even

a consolation and a help to him--terrible though it be and awful in its

consequences--to know for certain that his eyes and ears and brain did

not deceive him, and that it is all true. It may be that it is the doubt

which haunts him; that when the doubt is removed, no matter

which--waking or dreaming--may prove the truth, he will be more

satisfied and better able to bear the shock. Dr. Van Helsing must be a

good man as well as a clever one if he is Arthur's friend and Dr.

Seward's, and if they brought him all the way from Holland to look after

Lucy. I feel from having seen him that he _is_ good and kind and of a

noble nature. When he comes to-morrow I shall ask him about Jonathan;

and then, please God, all this sorrow and anxiety may lead to a good

end. I used to think I would like to practise interviewing; Jonathan's

friend on "The Exeter News" told him that memory was everything in such

work--that you must be able to put down exactly almost every word

spoken, even if you had to refine some of it afterwards. Here was a rare

interview; I shall try to record it _verbatim_.

 

It was half-past two o'clock when the knock came. I took my courage _a

deux mains_ and waited. In a few minutes Mary opened the door, and

announced "Dr. Van Helsing."

 

I rose and bowed, and he came towards me; a man of medium weight,

strongly built, with his shoulders set back over a broad, deep chest and

a neck well balanced on the trunk as the head is on the neck. The poise

of the head strikes one at once as indicative of thought and power; the

head is noble, well-sized, broad, and large behind the ears. The face,

clean-shaven, shows a hard, square chin, a large, resolute, mobile

mouth, a good-sized nose, rather straight, but with quick, sensitive

nostrils, that seem to broaden as the big, bushy brows come down and the

mouth tightens. The forehead is broad and fine, rising at first almost

straight and then sloping back above two bumps or ridges wide apart;

such a forehead that the reddish hair cannot possibly tumble over it,

but falls naturally back and to the sides. Big, dark blue eyes are set

widely apart, and are quick and tender or stern with the man's moods. He

said to me:--

 

"Mrs. Harker, is it not?" I bowed assent.

 

"That was Miss Mina Murray?" Again I assented.

 

"It is Mina Murray that I came to see that was friend of that poor dear

child Lucy Westenra. Madam Mina, it is on account of the dead I come."

 

"Sir," I said, "you could have no better claim on me than that you were

a friend and helper of Lucy Westenra." And I held out my hand. He took

it and said tenderly:--

 

"Oh, Madam Mina, I knew that the friend of that poor lily girl must be

good, but I had yet to learn----" He finished his speech with a courtly

bow. I asked him what it was that he wanted to see me about, so he at

once began:--

 

"I have read your letters to Miss Lucy. Forgive me, but I had to begin

to inquire somewhere, and there was none to ask. I know that you were

with her at Whitby. She sometimes kept a diary--you need not look

surprised, Madam Mina; it was begun after you had left, and was in

imitation of you--and in that diary she traces by inference certain

things to a sleep-walking in which she puts down that you saved her. In

great perplexity then I come to you, and ask you out of your so much

kindness to tell me all of it that you can remember."

 

"I can tell you, I think, Dr. Van Helsing, all about it."

 

"Ah, then you have good memory for facts, for details? It is not always

so with young ladies."

 

"No, doctor, but I wrote it all down at the time. I can show it to you

if you like."

 

"Oh, Madam Mina, I will be grateful; you will do me much favour." I

could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit--I suppose it is

some of the taste of the original apple that remains still in our

mouths--so I handed him the shorthand diary. He took it with a grateful

bow, and said:--

 

"May I read it?"

 

"If you wish," I answered as demurely as I could. He opened it, and for

an instant his face fell. Then he stood up and bowed.

 

"Oh, you so clever woman!" he said. "I knew long that Mr. Jonathan was a

man of much thankfulness; but see, his wife have all the good things.

And will you not so much honour me and so help me as to read it for me?

Alas! I know not the shorthand." By this time my little joke was over,

and I was almost ashamed; so I took the typewritten copy from my

workbasket and handed it to him.

 

"Forgive me," I said: "I could not help it; but I had been thinking that

it was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you might not

have time to wait--not on my account, but because I know your time must

be precious--I have written it out on the typewriter for you."

 

He took it and his eyes glistened. "You are so good," he said. "And may

I read it now? I may want to ask you some things when I have read."

 

"By all means," I said, "read it over whilst I order lunch; and then you

can ask me questions whilst we eat." He bowed and settled himself in a

chair with his back to the light, and became absorbed in the papers,

whilst I went to see after lunch chiefly in order that he might not be

disturbed. When I came back, I found him walking hurriedly up and down

the room, his face all ablaze with excitement. He rushed up to me and

took me by both hands.

 

"Oh, Madam Mina," he said, "how can I say what I owe to you? This paper

is as sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I am daze, I am dazzle, with so

much light, and yet clouds roll in behind the light every time. But that

you do not, cannot, comprehend. Oh, but I am grateful to you, you so

clever woman. Madam"--he said this very solemnly--"if ever Abraham Van

Helsing can do anything for you or yours, I trust you will let me know.

It will be pleasure and delight if I may serve you as a friend; as a

friend, but all I have ever learned, all I can ever do, shall be for you

and those you love. There are darknesses in life, and there are lights;

you are one of the lights. You will have happy life and good life, and

your husband will be blessed in you."

 

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

 

"Not know you--I, who am old, and who have studied all my life men and

women; I, who have made my specialty the brain and all that belongs to

him and all that follow from him! And I have read your diary that you

have so goodly written for me, and which breathes out truth in every

line. I, who have read your so sweet letter to poor Lucy of your

marriage and your trust, not know you! Oh, Madam Mina, good women tell

all their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute, such things that

angels can read; and we men who wish to know have in us something of

angels' eyes. Your husband is noble nature, and you are noble too, for

you trust, and trust cannot be where there is mean nature. And your

husband--tell me of him. Is he quite well? Is all that fever gone, and

is he strong and hearty?" I saw here an opening to ask him about

Jonathan, so I said:--

 

"He was almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by Mr. Hawkins's

death." He interrupted:--

 

"Oh, yes, I know, I know. I have read your last two letters." I went

on:--

 

"I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on Thursday last he

had a sort of shock."

 

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

a shock was it?"

 

"He thought he saw some one who recalled something terrible, something

which led to his brain fever." And here the whole thing seemed to

overwhelm me in a rush. The pity for Jonathan, the horror which he

experienced, the whole fearful mystery of his diary, and the fear that

has been brooding over me ever since, all came in a tumult. I suppose I

was hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees and held up my hands to

him, and implored him to make my husband well again. He took my hands

and raised me up, and made me sit on the sofa, and sat by me; he held my

hand in his, and said to me with, oh, such infinite sweetness:--

 

"My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that I have not

had much time for friendships; but since I have been summoned to here by

my friend John Seward I have known so many good people and seen such

nobility that I feel more than ever--and it has grown with my advancing

years--the loneliness of my life. Believe, me, then, that I come here

full of respect for you, and you have given me hope--hope, not in what I

am seeking of, but that there are good women still left to make life

happy--good women, whose lives and whose truths may make good lesson for

the children that are to be. I am glad, glad, that I may here be of some

use to you; for if your husband suffer, he suffer within the range of my

study and experience. I promise you that I will gladly do _all_ for him

that I can--all to make his life strong and manly, and your life a happy

one. Now you must eat. You are overwrought and perhaps over-anxious.

Husband Jonathan would not like to see you so pale; and what he like not

where he love, is not to his good. Therefore for his sake you must eat

and smile. You have told me all about Lucy, and so now we shall not

speak of it, lest it distress. I shall stay in Exeter to-night, for I

want to think much over what you have told me, and when I have thought I

will ask you questions, if I may. And then, too, you will tell me of

husband Jonathan's trouble so far as you can, but not yet. You must eat

now; afterwards you shall tell me all."

 

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

 

"And now tell me all about him." When it came to speaking to this great

learned man, I began to fear that he would think me a weak fool, and

Jonathan a madman--that journal is all so strange--and I hesitated to go

on. But he was so sweet and kind, and he had promised to help, and I

trusted him, so I said:--

 

"Dr. Van Helsing, what I have to tell you is so queer that you must not

laugh at me or at my husband. I have been since yesterday in a sort of

fever of doubt; you must be kind to me, and not think me foolish that I

have even half believed some very strange things." He reassured me by

his manner as well as his words when he said:--

 

"Oh, my dear, if you only know how strange is the matter regarding which

I am here, it is you who would laugh. I have learned not to think little

of any one's belief, no matter how strange it be. I have tried to keep

an open mind; and it is not the ordinary things of life that could close

it, but the strange things, the extraordinary things, the things that

make one doubt if they be mad or sane."

 

"Thank you, thank you, a thousand times! You have taken a weight off my

mind. If you will let me, I shall give you a paper to read. It is long,

but I have typewritten it out. It will tell you my trouble and

Jonathan's. It is the copy of his journal when abroad, and all that

happened. I dare not say anything of it; you will read for yourself and

judge. And then when I see you, perhaps, you will be very kind and tell

me what you think."

 

"I promise," he said as I gave him the papers; "I shall in the morning,

so soon as I can, come to see you and your husband, if I may."

 

"Jonathan will be here at half-past eleven, and you must come to lunch