Same day, 11 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 tonight. We
had a lovely walk. Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing,
I think, to some dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field
close to the lighthouse, and frightened the wits out of us. I
believe we forgot everything, except of course, personal fear, and
it seemed to wipe the slate clean and give us a fresh start. We had
a capital `severe tea’ at Robin Hood’s Bay in a sweet little
oldfashioned inn, with a bow window right over the seaweedcovered
rocks of the strand. I believe we should have shocked the `New
Woman’ with our appetites. Men are more tolerant, bless them! Then
we walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages to rest, and
with our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls.
Lucy was really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as
soon as we could. The young curate came in, however, and Mrs.
Westenra asked him to stay for supper. Lucy and I had both a fight
for it with the dusty miller. I know it was a hard fight on my
part, and I am quite heroic. I think that some day the bishops must
get together and see about breeding up a new class of curates, who
don’t take supper, no matter how hard they may be pressed to, and
who will know when girls are tired.
Lucy is asleep and breathing softly. She has more color 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 or accepting. But I suppose the
`New Woman’ won’t condescend in future to accept. She will do the
proposing herself. And a nice job she will make of it too! There’s
some consolation in that. I am so happy tonight, because dear Lucy
seems better. I really believe she has turned the corner, and that
we are over her troubles with dreaming. I should be quite happy if
I only knew if Jonathan … God bless and keep him.
11 August.—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
agonizing experience. I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my
diary … Suddenly I became broad awake, and sat up, with a
horrible sense of fear upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness
around me. The room was dark, so I could not see Lucy’s bed. I
stole across and felt for her. The bed was empty. I lit a match and
found that she was not in the room. The door was shut, but not
locked, as I had left it. I feared to wake her mother, who has been
more than usually ill lately, so threw on some clothes and got
ready to look for her. As I was leaving the room it struck me that
the clothes she wore might give me some clue to her dreaming
intention. Dressing-gown would mean house, dress outside.
Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places. “Thank God,” I
said to myself, “she cannot be far, as she is only in her
nightdress.”
I ran downstairs and looked in the sitting room. Not there! Then
I looked in all the other rooms of the house, with an ever-growing
fear chilling my heart. Finally, I came to the hall door and found
it open. It was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not
caught. The people of the house are careful to lock the door every
night, so I feared that Lucy must have gone out as she was. There
was no time to think of what might happen. A vague over-mastering
fear obscured all details.
I took a big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was striking
one as I was in the Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I
ran along the North Terrace, but could see no sign of the white
figure which I expected. At the edge of the West Cliff above the
pier I looked across the harbour to the East Cliff, in the hope or
fear, I don’t know which, of seeing Lucy in our favorite 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 favorite seat, the
silver light of the moon struck a half-reclining figure, snowy
white. The coming of the cloud was too quick for me to see much,
for shadow shut down on light almost immediately, but it seemed to
me as though something dark stood behind the seat where the white
figure shone, and bent over it. What it was, whether man or beast,
I could not tell.
I did not wait to catch another glance, but flew down the steep
steps to the pier and along by the fish-market to the bridge, which
was the only way to reach the East Cliff. The town seemed as dead,
for not a soul did I see. I rejoiced that it was so, for I wanted
no witness of poor Lucy’s condition. The time and distance seemed
endless, and my knees trembled and my breath came laboured as I
toiled up the endless steps to the abbey. I must have gone fast,
and yet it seemed to me as if my feet were weighted with lead, and
as though every joint in my body were rusty.
When I got almost to the top I could see the seat and the white
figure, for I was now close enough to distinguish it even through
the spells of shadow. There was undoubtedly something, long and
black, bending over the half-reclining white figure. I called in
fright, “Lucy! Lucy!” and something raised a head, and from where I
was I could see a white face and red, gleaming eyes.
Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to the entrance of the
churchyard. As I entered, the church was between me and the seat,
and for a minute or so I lost sight of her. When I came in view
again the cloud had passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly
that I could see Lucy half reclining with her head lying over the
back of the seat. She was quite alone, and there was not a sign of
any living thing about.
When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her
lips were parted, and she was breathing, not softly as usual with
her, but in long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs
full at every breath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her
sleep and pulled the collar of her nightdress close around her, as
though she felt the cold. I flung the warm shawl over her, and drew
the edges tight around 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 awoke. 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 even at such a time,when her
body must have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat
appalled at waking unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not
lose her grace. She trembled a little, and clung to me. When I told
her to come at once with me home, she rose without a word, with the
obedience of a child. As we passed along, the gravel hurt my feet,
and Lucy noticed me wince. She stopped and wanted to insist upon my
taking my shoes, but I would not. However, when we got to the
pathway outside the chruchyard, where there was a puddle of water,
remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet with mud, using each
foot in turn on the other, so that as we went home, no one, in case
we should meet 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 in a door till he had disappeared
up an opening such as there are here, steep little closes, or
`wynds’, as they call them in Scotland. My heart beat so loud all
the time sometimes I thought I should faint. I was filled with
anxiety about Lucy, not only for her health, lest she should suffer
from the exposure, but for her reputation in case the story should
get wind. When we got in, and had washed our feet, and had said a
prayer of thankfulness together, I tucked her into bed. Before
falling asleep she asked, even implored, me not to say a word to
any one, even her mother, about her sleepwalking 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 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 tonight.
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 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 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 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
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 if 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
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 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 diagrams enclosed. Your agent
will easily recognize 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 obviate
any delays possible through any routine requirements as to payment
in your departments, we enclose cheque herewith for ten pounds,
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 10 pounds received and to return cheque
of 1 pound, 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 today, 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 anemic 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 agonizing 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
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.
19 August.—Joy, joy, joy! Although not all joy. At last, news of
Jonathan. The dear fellow has been ill, that is why he did not
write. I am not afraid to think it or to say it, now that I know.
Mr. Hawkins sent me on the letter, and wrote himself, oh so kindly.
I am to leave in the morning and 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 has seen and touched
must comfort me till we meet.
LETTER, SISTER AGATHA, HOSPITAL OF ST. JOSEPH AND STE. MARY
BUDA-PESTH, TO MISS WILLHELMINA 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 belp.
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 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 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
demeanor 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 Agust.—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 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 selffeeling 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 lack-luster 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 notebook 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 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, chloral, 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 dishonour her by mixing the two. If need by,
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 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, les t 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 his 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
tonight.