When we arrived at the Berkely Hotel, Van Helsing found a
telegram waiting for him.
“Am coming up by train. Jonathan at Whitby. Important news. Mina
Harker.”
The Professor was delighted. “Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina,” he
said, “pearl among women! She arrive, but I cannot stay. She must
go to your house, friend John. You must meet her at the station.
Telegraph her en route so that she may be prepared.”
When the wire was dispatched he had a cup of tea. Over it he
told me of a diary kept by Jonathan Harker when abroad, and gave me
a typewritten copy of it, as also of Mrs. Harker’s diary at Whitby.
“Take these,” he said,”and study them well. When I have returned
you will be master of all the facts, and we can then better enter
on our inquisition. Keep them safe, for there is in them much of
treasure. You will need all your faith, even you who have had such
an experience as that of today. What is here told,” he laid his
hand heavily and gravely on the packet of papers as he spoke, “may
be the beginning of the end to you and me and many another, or it
may sound the knell of the Un-Dead who walk the earth. Read all, I
pray you, with the open mind, and if you can add in any way to the
story here told do so, for it is all important. You have kept a
diary of all these so strange things, is it not so? Yes! Then we
shall go through all these together when we meet.” He then made
ready for his departure and shortly drove off to Liverpool Street.
I took my way to Paddington, where I arrived about fifteen minutes
before the train came in.
The crowd melted away, after the bustling fashion common to
arrival platforms, and I was beginning to feel uneasy, lest I might
miss my guest, when a sweet-faced, dainty looking girl stepped up
to me, and after a quick glance said, “Dr. Seward, is it not?”
“And you are Mrs. Harker!” I answered at once, whereupon she
held out her hand.
“I knew you from the description of poor dear Lucy, but… ” She
stopped suddenly, and a quick blush overspread her face.
The blush that rose to my own cheeks somehow set us both at
ease, for it was a tacit answer to her own. I got her luggage,
which included a typewriter, and we took the Underground to
Fenchurch Street, after I had sent a wire to my housekeeper to have
a sitting room and a bedroom prepared at once for Mrs. Harker.
In due time we arrived. She knew, of course, that the place was
a lunatic asylum, but I could see that she was unable to repress a
shudder when we entered.
She told me that, if she might, she would come presently to my
study, as she had much to say. So here I am finishing my entry in
my phonograph diary whilst I await her. As yet I have not had the
chance of looking at the papers which Van Helsing left with me,
though they lie open before me. I must get her interested in
something, so that I may have an opportunity of reading them. She
does not know how precious time is, or what a task we have in hand.
I must be careful not to frighten her. Here she is!
MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL
29 September.—After I had tidied myself, I went down to Dr.
Seward’s study. At the door I paused a moment, for I thought I
heard him talking with some one. As, however, he had pressed me to
be quick, I knocked at the door, and on his calling out, “Come in,”
I entered.
To my intense surprise, there was no one with him. He was quite
alone, and on the table opposite him was what I knew at once from
the description to be a phonograph. I had never seen one, and was
much interested.
“I hope I did not keep you waiting,” I said, “but I stayed at
the door as I heard you talking, and thought there was someone with
you.”
“Oh,” he replied with a smile, “I was only entering my
diary.”
“Your diary?” I asked him in surprise.
“Yes,” he answered. “I keep it in this.” As he spoke he laid his
hand on the phonograph. I felt quite excited over it, and blurted
out, “Why, this beats even shorthand! May I hear it say
something?”
“Certainly,” he replied with alacrity, and stood up to put it in
train for speaking. Then he paused, and a troubled look overspread
his face.
“The fact is,” he began awkwardly.”I only keep my diary in it,
and as it is entirely, almost entirely, about my cases it may be
awkward, that is, I mean … ” He stopped, and I tried to help
him out of his embarrassment.
“You helped to attend dear Lucy at the end. Let me hear how she
died, for all that I know of her, I shall be very grateful. She was
very, very dear to me.”
To my surprise, he answered, with a horrorstruck look in his
face, “Tell you of her death? Not for the wide world!”
“Why not?” I asked, for some grave, terrible feeling was coming
over me.
Again he paused, and I could see that he was trying to invent an
excuse. At length, he stammered out, “You see, I do not know how to
pick out any particular part of the diary.”
Even while he was speaking an idea dawned upon him, and he said
with unconscious simplicity, in a different voice, and with the
naivete of a child, “that’s quite true, upon my honor. Honest
Indian!”
I could not but smile, at which he grimaced.”I gave myself away
that time!” he said. “But do you know that, although I have kept
the diary for months past, it never once struck me how I was going
to find any particular part of it in case I wanted to look it
up?”
By this time my mind was made up that the diary of a doctor who
attended Lucy might have something to add to the sum of our
knowledge of that terrible Being, and I said boldly, “Then, Dr.
Seward, you had better let me copy it out for you on my
typewriter.”
He grew to a positively deathly pallor as he said, “No! No! No!
For all the world. I wouldn’t let you know that terrible
story.!”
Then it was terrible. My intuition was right! For a moment, I
thought, and as my eyes ranged the room, unconsciously looking for
something or some opportunity to aid me, they lit on a great batch
of typewriting on the table. His eyes caught the look in mine, and
without his thinking, followed their direction. As they saw the
parcel he realized my meaning.
“You do not know me,” I said. “When you have read those papers,
my own diary and my husband’s also, which I have typed, you will
know me better. I have not faltered in giving every thought of my
own heart in this cause. But, of course, you do not know me, yet,
and I must not expect you to trust me so far.”
He is certainly a man of noble nature. Poor dear Lucy was right
about him. He stood up and opened a large drawer, in which were
arranged in order a number of hollow cylinders of metal covered
with dark wax, and said,
“You are quite right. I did not trust you because I did not know
you. But I know you now, and let me say that I should have known
you long ago. I know that Lucy told you of me. She told me of you
too. May I make the only atonement in my power? Take the cylinders
and hear them. The first half-dozen of them are personal to me, and
they will not horrify you. Then you will know me better. Dinner
will by then be ready. In the meantime I shall read over some of
these documents, and shall be better able to understand certain
things.”
He carried the phonograph himself up to my sitting room and
adjusted it for me. Now I shall learn something pleasant, I am
sure. For it will tell me the other side of a true love episode of
which I know one side already.
DR. SEWARD’S DIARY
29 September.—I was so absorbed in that wonderful diary of
Jonathan Harker and that other of his wife that I let the time run
on without thinking. Mrs. Harker was not down when the maid came to
announce dinner, so I said, “She is possibly tired. Let dinner wait
an hour,” and I went on with my work. I had just finished Mrs.
Harker’s diary, when she came in. She looked sweetly pretty, but
very sad, and her eyes were flushed with crying. This somehow moved
me much. Of late I have had cause for tears, God knows! But the
relief of them was denied me, and now the sight of those sweet
eyes, brightened by recent tears, went straight to my heart. So I
said as gently as I could, “I greatly fear I have distressed
you.”
“Oh, no, not distressed me,” she replied. “But I have been more
touched than I can say by your grief. That is a wonderful machine,
but it is cruelly true. It told me, in its very tones, the anguish
of your heart. It was like a soul crying out to Almighty God. No
one must hear them spoken ever again! See, I have tried to be
useful. I have copied out the words on my typewriter, and none
other need now hear your heart beat, as I did.”
“No one need ever know, shall ever know,” I said in a low voice.
She laid her hand on mine and said very gravely, “Ah, but they
must!”
“Must! but why?” I asked.
“Because it is a part of the terrible story, a part of poor
Lucy’s death and all that led to it. Because in the struggle which
we have before us to rid the earth of this terrible monster we must
have all the knowledge and all the help which we can get. I think
that the cylinders which you gave me contained more than you
intended me to know. But I can see that there are in your record
many lights to this dark mystery. You will let me help, will you
not? I know all up to a certain point, and I see already, though
your diary only took me to 7 September, how poor Lucy was beset,
and how her terrible doom was being wrought out. Jonathan and I
have been working day and night since Professor Van Helsing saw us.
He is gone to Whitby to get more information, and he will be here
tomorrow to help us. We need have no secrets amongst us. Working
together and with absolute trust, we can surely be stronger than if
some of us were in the dark.”
She looked at me so appealingly, and at the same time manifested
such courage and resolution in her bearing, that I gave in at once
to her wishes. “You shall,” I said, “do as you like in the matter.
God forgive me if I do wrong! There are terrible things yet to
learn of. But if you have so far traveled on the road to poor
Lucy’s death, you will not be content, I know, to remain in the
dark. Nay, the end, the very end, may give you a gleam of peace.
Come, there is dinner. We must keep one another strong for what is
before us. We have a cruel and dreadful task. When you have eaten
you shall learn the rest, and I shall answer any questions you ask,
if there be anything which you do not understand, though it was
apparent to us who were present.”
MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL
29 September.—After dinner I came with Dr. Seward to his study.
He brought back the phonograph from my room, and I took a chair,
and arranged the phonograph so that I could touch it without
getting up, and showed me how to stop it in case I should want to
pause. Then he very thoughtfully took a chair, with his back to me,
so that I might be as free as possible, and began to read. I put
the forked metal to my ears and listened.
When the terrible story of Lucy’s death, and all that followed,
was done, I lay back in my chair powerless. Fortunately I am not of
a fainting disposition. When Dr. Seward saw me he jumped up with a
horrified exclamation, and hurriedly taking a case bottle from the
cupboard, gave me some brandy, which in a few minutes somewhat
restored me. My brain was all in a whirl, and only that there came
through all the multitude of horrors, the holy ray of light that my
dear Lucy was at last at peace, I do not think I could have borne
it without making a scene. It is all so wild and mysterious, and
strange that if I had not known Jonathan’s experience in
Transylvania I could not have believed. As it was, I didn’t know
what to believe, and so got out of my difficulty by attending to
something else. I took the cover off my typewriter, and said to Dr.
Seward,
“Let me write this all out now. We must be ready for Dr. Van
Helsing when he comes. I have sent a telegram to Jonathan to come
on here when he arrives in London from Whitby. In this matter dates
are everything, and I think that if we get all of our material
ready, and have every item put in chronological order, we shall
have done much.
“You tell me that Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris are coming too.
Let us be able to tell them when they come.”
He accordingly set the phonograph at a slow pace, and I began to
typewrite from the beginning of the seventeenth cylinder. I used
manifold, and so took three copies of the diary, just as I had done
with the rest. It was late when I got through, but Dr. Seward went
about his work of going his round of the patients. When he had
finished he came back and sat near me, reading, so that I did not
feel too lonely whilst I worked. How good and thoughtful he is. The
world seems full of good men, even if there are monsters in it.
Before I left him I remembered what Jonathan put in his diary of
the Professor’s perturbation at reading something in an evening
paper at the station at Exeter, so, seeing that Dr. Seward keeps
his newspapers, I borrowed the files of `The Westminster Gazette’
and `The Pall Mall Gazette’ and took them to my room. I remember
how much the `Dailygraph’ and `The Whitby Gazette’, of which I had
made cuttings, had helped us to understand the terrible events at
Whitby when Count Dracula landed, so I shall look through the
evening papers since then, and perhaps I shall get some new light.
I am not sleepy, and the work will help to keep me quiet.
DR. SEWARD’S DIARY
30 September.—Mr. Harker arrived at nine o’clock. He got his
wife’s wire just before starting. He is uncommonly clever, if one
can judge from his face, and full of energy. If this journal be
true, and judging by one’s own wonderful experiences, it must be,
he is also a man of great nerve. That going down to the vault a
second time was a remarkable piece of daring. After reading his
account of it I was prepared to meet a good specimen of manhood,
but hardly the quiet, business-like gentleman who came here
today.
LATER.—After lunch Harker and his wife went back to their own
room, and as I passed a while ago I heard the click of the
typewriter. They are hard at it. Mrs. Harker says that knitting
together in chronological order every scrap of evidence they have.
Harker has got the letters between the consignee of the boxes at
Whitby and the carriers in London who took charge of them. He is
now reading his wife’s transcript of my diary. I wonder what they
make out of it. Here it is …
Strange that it never struck me that the very next house might
be the Count’s hiding place! Goodness knows that we had enough
clues from the conduct of the patient Renfield! The bundle of
letters relating to the purchase of the house were with the
transcript. Oh, if we had only had them earlier we might have saved
poor Lucy! Stop! That way madness lies! Harker has gone back, and
is again collecting material. He says that by dinner time they will
be able to show a whole connected narrative. He thinks that in the
meantime I should see Renfield, as hitherto he has been a sort of
index to the coming and going of the Count. I hardly see this yet,
but when I get at the dates I suppose I shall. What a good thing
that Mrs. Harker put my cylinders into type! We never could have
found the dates otherwise.
I found Renfield sitting placidly in his room with his hands
folded, smiling benignly. At the moment he seemed as sane as any
one I ever saw. I sat down and talked with him on a lot of
subjects, all of which he treated naturally. He then, of his own
accord, spoke of going home, a subject he has never mentioned to my
knowledge during his sojourn here. In fact, he spoke quite
confidently of getting his discharge at once. I believe that, had I
not had the chat with Harker and read the letters and the dates of
his outbursts, I should have been prepared to sign for him after a
brief time of observation. As it is, I am darkly suspicious. All
those outbreaks were in some way linked with the proximity of the
Count. What then does this absolute content mean? Can it be that
his instinct is satisfied as to the vampire’s ultimate triumph?
Stay. He is himself zoophagous, and in his wild ravings outside the
chapel door of the deserted house he always spoke of `master’. This
all seems confirmation of our idea. However, after a while I came
away. My friend is just a little too sane at present to make it
safe to probe him too deep with questions. He might begin to think,
and then … So I came away. I mistrust these quiet moods of of
his, so I have given the attendant a hint to look closely after
him, and to have a strait waistcoat ready in case of need.
JOHNATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL
29 September, in train to London.—When I received Mr.
Billington’s courteous message that he would give me any
information in his power I thought it best to go down to Whitby and
make, on the spot, such inquiries as I wanted. It was now my object
to trace that horrid cargo of the Count’s to its place in London.
Later, we may be able to deal with it. Billington junior, a nice
lad, met me at the station, and brought me to his father’s house,
where they had decided that I must spend the night. They are
hospitable, with true Yorkshire hospitality, give a guest
everything and leave him to do as he likes. They all knew that I
was busy, and that my stay was short, and Mr. Billington had ready
in his office all the papers concerning the consignment of boxes.
It gave me almost a turn to see again one of the letters which I
had seen on the Count’s table before I knew of his diabolical
plans. Everything had been carefully thought out, and done
systematically and with precision. He seemed to have been prepared
for every obstacle which might be placed by accident in the way of
his intentions being carried out. To use an Americanism, he had
`taken no chances’, and the absolute accuracy with which his
instructions were fulfilled was simply the logical result of his
care. I saw the invoice, and took note of it.`Fifty cases of common
earth, to be used for experimental purposes’. Also the copy of the
letter to Carter Paterson, and their reply. Of both these I got
copies. This was all the information Mr. Billington could give me,
so I went down to the port and saw the coastguards, the Customs
Officers and the harbor master, who kindly put me in communication
with the men who had actually received the boxes. Their tally was
exact with the list, and they had nothing to add to the simple
description `fifty cases of common earth’, except that the boxes
were `main and mortal heavy’, and that shifting them was dry work.
One of them added that it was hard lines that there wasn’t any
gentleman `such like as like yourself, squire’, to show some sort
of appreciation of their efforts in a liquid form. Another put in a
rider that the thirst then generated was such that even the time
which had elapsed had not completely allayed it. Needless to add, I
took care before leaving to lift, forever and adequately, this
source of reproach.
30 September.—The station master was good enough to give me a
line to his old companion the station master at King’s Cross, so
that when I arrived there in the morning I was able to ask him
about the arrival of the boxes. He, too put me at once in
communication with the proper officials, and I saw that their tally
was correct with the original invoice. The opportunities of
acquiring an abnormal thirst had been here limited. A noble use of
them had, however, been made, and again I was compelled to deal
with the result in ex post facto manner.
From thence I went to Carter Paterson’s central office, where I
met with the utmost courtesy. They looked up the transaction in
their day book and letter book, and at once telephoned to their
King’s Cross office for more details. By good fortune, the men who
did the teaming were waiting for work, and the official at once
sent them over, sending also by one of them the way-bill and all
the papers connected with the delivery of the boxes at Carfax. Here
again I found the tally agreeing exactly. The carriers’ men were
able to supplement the paucity of the written words with a few more
details. These were, I shortly found, connected almost solely with
the dusty nature of the job, and the consequent thirst engendered
in the operators. On my affording an opportunity, through the
medium of the currency of the realm, of the allaying, at a later
period, this beneficial evil, one of the men remarked,
“That `ere `ouse, guv’nor, is the rummiest I ever was in. Blyme!
But it ain’t been touched sence a hundred years. There was dust
that thick in the place that you might have slep’ on it without
`urtin’ of yer bones. An’ the place was that neglected that yer
might `ave smelled ole Jerusalem in it. But the old chapel, that
took the cike, that did!Me and my mate, we thort we wouldn’t never
git out quick enough. Lor’, I wouldn’t take less nor a quid a
moment to stay there arter dark.”
Having been in the house, I could well believe him, but if he
knew what I know, he would, I think have raised his terms.
Of one thing I am now satisfied. That all those boxes which
arrived at Whitby from Varna in the Demeter were safely deposited
in the old chapel at Carfax. There should be fifty of them there,
unless any have since been removed, as from Dr. Seward’s diary I
fear.
Later.—Mina and I have worked all day, and we have put all the
papers into order.
MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL
30 September.—I am so glad that I hardly know how to contain
myself. It is, I suppose, the reaction from the haunting fear which
I have had, that this terrible affair and the reopening of his old
wound might act detrimentally on Jonathan. I saw him leave for
Whitby with as brave a face as could, but I was sick with
apprehension. The effort has, however, done him good. He was never
so resolute, never so strong, never so full of volcanic energy, as
at present. It is just as that dear, good Professor Van Helsing
said, he is true grit, and he improves under strain that would kill
a weaker nature. He came back full of life and hope and
determination. We have got everything in order for tonight. I feel
myself quite wild with excitement. I suppose one ought to pity
anything so hunted as the Count. That is just it. This thing is not
human, not even a beast. To read Dr. Seward’s account of poor
Lucy’s death, and what followed, is enough to dry up the springs of
pity in one’s heart.
Later.—Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris arrived earlier than we
expected. Dr. Seward was out on business, and had taken Jonathan
with him, so I had to see them. It was to me a painful meeting, for
it brought back all poor dear Lucy’s hopes of only a few months
ago. Of course they had heard Lucy speak of me, and it seemed that
Dr. Van Helsing, too, had been quite `blowing my trumpet’, as Mr.
Morris expressed it. Poor fellows, neither of them is aware that I
know all about the proposals they made to Lucy. They did not quite
know what to say or do, as they were ignorant of the amount of my
knowledge. So they had to keep on neutral subjects. However, I
thought the matter over, and came to the conclusion that the best
thing I could do would be to post them on affairs right up to date.
I knew from Dr. Seward’s diary that they had been at Lucy’s death,
her real death, and that I need not fear to betray any secret
before the time. So I told them, as well as I could, that I had
read all the papers and diaries, and that my husband and I, having
typewritten them, had just finished putting them in order. I gave
them each a copy to read in the library. When Lord Godalming got
his and turned it over, it does make a pretty good pile, he said,
“Did you write all this, Mrs. Harker?”
I nodded, and he went on.
“I don’t quite see the drift of it, but you people are all so
good and kind, and have been working so earnestly and so
energetically, that all I can do is to accept your ideas blindfold
and try to help you. I have had one lesson already in accepting
facts that should make a man humble to the last hour of his life.
Besides, I know you loved my Lucy … ”
Here he turned away and covered his face with his hands. I could
hear the tears in his voice. Mr. Morris, with instinctive delicacy,
just laid a hand for a moment on his shoulder, and then walked
quietly out of the room. I suppose there is something in a woman’s
nature that makes a man free to break down before her and express
his feelings on the tender or emotional side without feeling it
derogatory to his manhood. For when Lord Godalming found himself
alone with me he sat down on the sofa and gave way utterly and
openly. I sat down beside him and took his hand. I hope he didn’t
think it forward of me, and that if her ever thinks of it
afterwards he never will have such a thought. There I wrong him. I
know he never will. He is too true a gentleman. I said to him, for
I could see that his heart was breaking, “I loved dear Lucy, and I
know what she was to you, and what you were to her. She and I were
like sisters, and now she is gone, will you not let me be like a
sister to you in your trouble? I know what sorrows you have had,
though I cannot measure the depth of them. If sympathy and pity can
help in your affliction, won’t you let me be of some little
service, for Lucy’s sake?”
In an instant the poor dear fellow was overwhelmed with grief.
It seemed to me that all that he had of late been suffering in
silence found a vent at once. He grew quite hysterical, and raising
his open hands, beat his palms together in a perfect agony of
grief. He stood up and then sat down again, and the tears rained
down his cheeks. I felt an infinite pity for him, and opened my
arms unthinkingly. With a sob he laid his head on my shoulder and
cried like a wearied child, whilst he shook with emotion.
We women have something of the mother in us that makes us rise
above smaller matters when the mother spirit is invoked. I felt
this big sorrowing man’s head resting on me, as though it were that
of a baby that some day may lie on my bosom, and I stroked his hair
as though he were my own child. I never thought at the time how
strange it all was.
After a little bit his sobs ceased, and he raised himself with
an apology, though he made no disguise of his emotion. He told me
that for days and nights past, weary days and sleepless nights, he
had been unable to speak with any one, as a man must speak in his
time of sorrow. There was no woman whose sympathy could be given to
him, or with whom, owing to the terrible circumstance with which
his sorrow was surrounded, he could speak freely.
“I know now how I suffered,” he said, as he dried his eyes, “but
I do not know even yet, and none other can ever know, how much your
sweet sympathy has been to me today. I shall know better in time,
and believe me that, though I am not ungrateful now, my gratitude
will grow with my understanding. You will let me be like a brother,
will you not, for all our lives, for dear Lucy’s sake?”
“For dear Lucy’s sake,” I said as we clasped hands.”Ay, and for
your own sake,” he added, “for if a man’s esteem and gratitude are
ever worth the winning, you have won mine today. If ever the future
should bring to you a time when you need a man’s help, believe me,
you will not call in vain. God grant that no such time may ever
come to you to break the sunshine of your life, but if it should
ever come, promise me that you will let me know.”
He was so earnest, and his sorrow was so fresh, that I felt it
would comfort him, so I said, “I promise.”
As I came along the corridor I say Mr. Morris looking out of a
window. He turned as he heard my footsteps. “How is Art?” he said.
Then noticing my red eyes, he went on,”Ah, I see you have been
comforting him. Poor old fellow! He needs it. No one but a woman
can help a man when he is in trouble of the heart, and he had no
one to comfort him.”
He bore his own trouble so bravely that my heart bled for him. I
saw the manuscript in his hand, and I knew that when he read it he
would realize how much I knew, so I said to him,”I wish I could
comfort all who suffer from the heart. Will you let me be your
friend, and will you come to me for comfort if you need it? You
will know later why I speak.”
He saw that I was in earnest, and stooping, took my hand, and
raising it to his lips, kissed it. It seemed but poor comfort to so
brave and unselfish a soul, and impulsively I bent over and kissed
him. The tears rose in his eyes, and there was a momentary choking
in his throat. He said quite calmly,”Little girl, you will never
forget that true hearted kindness, so long as ever you live!” Then
he went into the study to his friend.
“Little girl!” The very words he had used to Lucy, and, oh, but
he proved himself a friend.
