{"id":32,"date":"2019-02-25T20:46:59","date_gmt":"2019-02-25T20:46:59","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.ryerson.ca\/dracula\/chapter\/dracula-8\/"},"modified":"2019-02-26T22:03:32","modified_gmt":"2019-02-26T22:03:32","slug":"8","status":"publish","type":"chapter","link":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/chapter\/8\/","title":{"raw":"Chapter 8 - Mina Murray's Journal","rendered":"Chapter 8 – Mina Murray’s Journal"},"content":{"raw":"
\r\n\r\nSame day, 11 o'clock p. m..\u2014Oh, but I am tired! If it were not\r\nthat I had made my diary a duty I should not open it tonight. We\r\nhad a lovely walk. Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing,\r\nI think, to some dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field\r\nclose to the lighthouse, and frightened the wits out of us. I\r\nbelieve we forgot everything, except of course, personal fear, and\r\nit seemed to wipe the slate clean and give us a fresh start. We had\r\na capital `severe tea' at Robin Hood's Bay in a sweet little\r\noldfashioned inn, with a bow window right over the seaweedcovered\r\nrocks of the strand. I believe we should have shocked the `New\r\nWoman' with our appetites. Men are more tolerant, bless them! Then\r\nwe walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages to rest, and\r\nwith our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls.\r\n\r\nLucy was really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as\r\nsoon as we could. The young curate came in, however, and Mrs.\r\nWestenra asked him to stay for supper. Lucy and I had both a fight\r\nfor it with the dusty miller. I know it was a hard fight on my\r\npart, and I am quite heroic. I think that some day the bishops must\r\nget together and see about breeding up a new class of curates, who\r\ndon't take supper, no matter how hard they may be pressed to, and\r\nwho will know when girls are tired.\r\n\r\nLucy is asleep and breathing softly. She has more color in her\r\ncheeks than usual, and looks, oh so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in\r\nlove with her seeing her only in the drawing room, I wonder what he\r\nwould say if he saw her now. Some of the `New Women' writers will\r\nsome day start an idea that men and women should be allowed to see\r\neach other asleep before proposing or accepting. But I suppose the\r\n`New Woman' won't condescend in future to accept. She will do the\r\nproposing herself. And a nice job she will make of it too! There's\r\nsome consolation in that. I am so happy tonight, because dear Lucy\r\nseems better. I really believe she has turned the corner, and that\r\nwe are over her troubles with dreaming. I should be quite happy if\r\nI only knew if Jonathan\u00a0\u2026 God bless and keep him.\r\n\r\n11 August.\u2014Diary again. No sleep now, so I may as well write. I\r\nam too agitated to sleep. We have had such an adventure, such an\r\nagonizing experience. I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my\r\ndiary\u00a0\u2026 Suddenly I became broad awake, and sat up, with a\r\nhorrible sense of fear upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness\r\naround me. The room was dark, so I could not see Lucy's bed. I\r\nstole across and felt for her. The bed was empty. I lit a match and\r\nfound that she was not in the room. The door was shut, but not\r\nlocked, as I had left it. I feared to wake her mother, who has been\r\nmore than usually ill lately, so threw on some clothes and got\r\nready to look for her. As I was leaving the room it struck me that\r\nthe clothes she wore might give me some clue to her dreaming\r\nintention. Dressing-gown would mean house, dress outside.\r\nDressing-gown and dress were both in their places. \"Thank God,\" I\r\nsaid to myself, \"she cannot be far, as she is only in her\r\nnightdress.\"\r\n\r\nI ran downstairs and looked in the sitting room. Not there! Then\r\nI looked in all the other rooms of the house, with an ever-growing\r\nfear chilling my heart. Finally, I came to the hall door and found\r\nit open. It was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not\r\ncaught. The people of the house are careful to lock the door every\r\nnight, so I feared that Lucy must have gone out as she was. There\r\nwas no time to think of what might happen. A vague over-mastering\r\nfear obscured all details.\r\n\r\nI took a big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was striking\r\none as I was in the Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I\r\nran along the North Terrace, but could see no sign of the white\r\nfigure which I expected. At the edge of the West Cliff above the\r\npier I looked across the harbour to the East Cliff, in the hope or\r\nfear, I don't know which, of seeing Lucy in our favorite seat.\r\n\r\nThere was a bright full moon, with heavy black, driving clouds,\r\nwhich threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama of light and\r\nshade as they sailed across. For a moment or two I could see\r\nnothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary's Church and\r\nall around it. Then as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of\r\nthe abbey coming into view, and as the edge of a narrow band of\r\nlight as sharp as a sword-cut moved along, the church and\r\nchurchyard became gradually visible. Whatever my expectation was,\r\nit was not disappointed, for there, on our favorite seat, the\r\nsilver light of the moon struck a half-reclining figure, snowy\r\nwhite. The coming of the cloud was too quick for me to see much,\r\nfor shadow shut down on light almost immediately, but it seemed to\r\nme as though something dark stood behind the seat where the white\r\nfigure shone, and bent over it. What it was, whether man or beast,\r\nI could not tell.\r\n\r\nI did not wait to catch another glance, but flew down the steep\r\nsteps to the pier and along by the fish-market to the bridge, which\r\nwas the only way to reach the East Cliff. The town seemed as dead,\r\nfor not a soul did I see. I rejoiced that it was so, for I wanted\r\nno witness of poor Lucy's condition. The time and distance seemed\r\nendless, and my knees trembled and my breath came laboured as I\r\ntoiled up the endless steps to the abbey. I must have gone fast,\r\nand yet it seemed to me as if my feet were weighted with lead, and\r\nas though every joint in my body were rusty.\r\n\r\nWhen I got almost to the top I could see the seat and the white\r\nfigure, for I was now close enough to distinguish it even through\r\nthe spells of shadow. There was undoubtedly something, long and\r\nblack, bending over the half-reclining white figure. I called in\r\nfright, \"Lucy! Lucy!\" and something raised a head, and from where I\r\nwas I could see a white face and red, gleaming eyes.\r\n\r\nLucy did not answer, and I ran on to the entrance of the\r\nchurchyard. As I entered, the church was between me and the seat,\r\nand for a minute or so I lost sight of her. When I came in view\r\nagain the cloud had passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly\r\nthat I could see Lucy half reclining with her head lying over the\r\nback of the seat. She was quite alone, and there was not a sign of\r\nany living thing about.\r\n\r\nWhen I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her\r\nlips were parted, and she was breathing, not softly as usual with\r\nher, but in long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs\r\nfull at every breath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her\r\nsleep and pulled the collar of her nightdress close around her, as\r\nthough she felt the cold. I flung the warm shawl over her, and drew\r\nthe edges tight around her neck, for I dreaded lest she should get\r\nsome deadly chill from the night air, unclad as she was. I feared\r\nto wake her all at once, so, in order to have my hands free to help\r\nher, I fastened the shawl at her throat with a big safety pin. But\r\nI must have been clumsy in my anxiety and pinched or pricked her\r\nwith it, for by-and-by, when her breathing became quieter, she put\r\nher hand to her throat again and moaned. When I had her carefully\r\nwrapped up I put my shoes on her feet, and then began very gently\r\nto wake her.\r\n\r\nAt first she did not respond, but gradually she became more and\r\nmore uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing occasionally. At\r\nlast, as time was passing fast, and for many other reasons, I\r\nwished to get her home at once, I shook her forcibly, till finally\r\nshe opened her eyes and awoke. She did not seem surprised to see\r\nme, as, of course, she did not realize all at once where she\r\nwas.\r\n\r\nLucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time,when her\r\nbody must have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat\r\nappalled at waking unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not\r\nlose her grace. She trembled a little, and clung to me. When I told\r\nher to come at once with me home, she rose without a word, with the\r\nobedience of a child. As we passed along, the gravel hurt my feet,\r\nand Lucy noticed me wince. She stopped and wanted to insist upon my\r\ntaking my shoes, but I would not. However, when we got to the\r\npathway outside the chruchyard, where there was a puddle of water,\r\nremaining from the storm, I daubed my feet with mud, using each\r\nfoot in turn on the other, so that as we went home, no one, in case\r\nwe should meet any one, should notice my bare feet.\r\n\r\nFortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul.\r\nOnce we saw a man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a\r\nstreet in front of us. But we hid in a door till he had disappeared\r\nup an opening such as there are here, steep little closes, or\r\n`wynds', as they call them in Scotland. My heart beat so loud all\r\nthe time sometimes I thought I should faint. I was filled with\r\nanxiety about Lucy, not only for her health, lest she should suffer\r\nfrom the exposure, but for her reputation in case the story should\r\nget wind. When we got in, and had washed our feet, and had said a\r\nprayer of thankfulness together, I tucked her into bed. Before\r\nfalling asleep she asked, even implored, me not to say a word to\r\nany one, even her mother, about her sleepwalking adventure.\r\n\r\nI hesitated at first, to promise, but on thinking of the state\r\nof her mother's health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would\r\nfret her, and think too, of how such a story might become\r\ndistorted, nay, infallibly would, in case it should leak out, I\r\nthought it wiser to do so. I hope I did right. I have locked the\r\ndoor, and the key is tied to my wrist, so perhaps I shall not be\r\nagain disturbed. Lucy is sleeping soundly. The reflex of the dawn\r\nis high and far over the sea\u00a0\u2026\r\n\r\nSame day, noon.\u2014All goes well. Lucy slept till I woke her and\r\nseemed not to have even changed her side. The adventure of the\r\nnight does not seem to have harmed her, on the contrary, it has\r\nbenefited her, for she looks better this morning than she has done\r\nfor weeks. I was sorry to notice that my clumsiness with the\r\nsafety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it might have been serious, for the\r\nskin of her throat was pierced. I must have pinched up a piece of\r\nloose skin and have transfixed it, for there are two little red\r\npoints like pin-pricks, and on the band of her nightdress was a\r\ndrop of blood. When I apologised and was concerned about it, she\r\nlaughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it.\r\nFortunately it cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny.\r\n\r\nSame day, night.\u2014We passed a happy day. The air was clear, and\r\nthe sun bright, and there was a cool breeze. We took our lunch to\r\nMulgrave Woods, Mrs. Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I\r\nwalking by the cliff-path and joining her at the gate. I felt a\r\nlittle sad myself, for I could not but feel how absolutely happy it\r\nwould have been had Jonathan been with me. But there! I must only\r\nbe patient. In the evening we strolled in the Casino Terrace, and\r\nheard some good music by Spohr and Mackenzie, and went to bed\r\nearly. Lucy seems more restful than she has been for some time, and\r\nfell asleep at once. I shall lock the door and secure the key the\r\nsame as before, though I do not expect any trouble tonight.\r\n\r\n12 August.\u2014My expectations were wrong, for twice during the\r\nnight I was wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in\r\nher sleep, to be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and\r\nwent back to bed under a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and\r\nheard the birds chirping outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and\r\nI was glad to see, was even better than on the previous morning.\r\nAll her old gaiety of manner seemed to have come back, and she came\r\nand snuggled in beside me and told me all about Arthur. I told her\r\nhow anxious I was about Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me.\r\nWell, she succeeded somewhat, for, though sympathy can't alter\r\nfacts, it can make them more bearable.\r\n\r\n13 August.\u2014Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my\r\nwrist as before. Again I awoke in the night, and found Lucy sitting\r\nup in bed, still asleep, pointing to the window. I got up quietly,\r\nand pulling aside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant\r\nmoonlight, and the soft effect of the light over the sea and sky,\r\nmerged together in one great silent mystery, was beautiful beyond\r\nwords. Between me and the moonlight flitted a great bat, coming and\r\ngoing in great whirling circles. Once or twice it came quite close,\r\nbut was, I suppose, frightened at seeing me, and flitted away\r\nacross the harbour towards the abbey. When I came back from the\r\nwindow Lucy had lain down again, and was sleeping peacefully. She\r\ndid not stir again all night.\r\n\r\n14 August.\u2014On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day. Lucy\r\nseems to have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it\r\nis hard to get her away from it when it is time to come home for\r\nlunch or tea or dinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We\r\nwere coming home for dinner, and had come to the top of the steps\r\nup from the West Pier and stopped to look at the view, as we\r\ngenerally do. The setting sun, low down in the sky, was just\r\ndropping behind Kettleness. The red light was thrown over on the\r\nEast Cliff and the old abbey, and seemed to bathe everything in a\r\nbeautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a while, and suddenly Lucy\r\nmurmured as if to herself\u00a0\u2026\r\n\r\n\"His red eyes again! They are just the same.\" It was such an odd\r\nexpression, coming apropos of nothing, that it quite startled me. I\r\nslewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without seeming to\r\nstare at her, and saw that she was in a half dreamy state, with an\r\nodd look on her face that I could not quite make out, so I said\r\nnothing, but followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at\r\nour own seat, whereon was a dark figure seated alone. I was quite a\r\nlittle startled myself, for it seemed for an instant as if the\r\nstranger had great eyes like burning flames, but a second look\r\ndispelled the illusion. The red sunlight was shining on the windows\r\nof St. Mary's Church behind our seat, and as the sun dipped there\r\nwas just sufficient change in the refraction and reflection to make\r\nit appear as if the light moved. I called Lucy's attention to the\r\npeculiar effect, and she became herself with a start, but she\r\nlooked sad all the same. It may have been that she was thinking of\r\nthat terrible night up there. We never refer to it, so I said\r\nnothing, and we went home to dinner. Lucy had a headache and went\r\nearly to bed. I saw her asleep, and went out for a little stroll\r\nmyself.\r\n\r\nI walked along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet\r\nsadness, for I was thinking of Jonathan. When coming home, it was\r\nthen bright moonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part\r\nof the Crescent was in shadow, everything could be well seen, I\r\nthrew a glance up at our window, and saw Lucy's head leaning out. I\r\nopened my handkerchief and waved it. She did not notice or make any\r\nmovement whatever. Just then, the moonlight crept round an angle of\r\nthe building, and the light fell on the window. There distinctly\r\nwas Lucy with her head lying up against the side of the window sill\r\nand her eyes shut. She was fast asleep, and by her, seated on the\r\nwindow sill, was something that looked like a good-sized bird. I\r\nwas afraid she might get a chill, so I ran upstairs, but as I came\r\ninto the room she was moving back to her bed, fast asleep, and\r\nbreathing heavily. She was holding her hand to her throat, as\r\nthough to protect if from the cold.\r\n\r\nI did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly. I have taken care\r\nthat the door is locked and the window securely fastened.\r\n\r\nShe looks so sweet as she sleeps, but she is paler than is her\r\nwont, and there is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes which I do\r\nnot like. I fear she is fretting about something. I wish I could\r\nfind out what it is.\r\n\r\n15 August.\u2014Rose later than usual. Lucy was languid and tired,\r\nand slept on after we had been called. We had a happy surprise at\r\nbreakfast. Arthur's father is better, and wants the marriage to\r\ncome off soon. Lucy is full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad\r\nand sorry at once. Later on in the day she told me the cause. She\r\nis grieved to lose Lucy as her very own, but she is rejoiced that\r\nshe is soon to have some one to protect her. Poor dear, sweet lady!\r\nShe confided to me that she has got her death warrant. She has not\r\ntold Lucy, and made me promise secrecy. Her doctor told her that\r\nwithin a few months, at most, she must die, for her heart is\r\nweakening. At any time, even now, a sudden shock would be almost\r\nsure to kill her. Ah, we were wise to keep from her the affair of\r\nthe dreadful night of Lucy's sleep-walking.\r\n\r\n17 August.\u2014No diary for two whole days. I have not had the heart\r\nto write. Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our\r\nhappiness. No news from Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be growing\r\nweaker, whilst her mother's hours are numbering to a close. I do\r\nnot understand Lucy's fading away as she is doing. She eats well\r\nand sleeps well, and enjoys the fresh air, but all the time the\r\nroses in her cheeks are fading, and she gets weaker and more\r\nlanguid day by day. At night I hear her gasping as if for air.\r\n\r\nI keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist at night,\r\nbut she gets up and walks about the room, and sits at the open\r\nwindow. Last night I found her leaning out when I woke up, and when\r\nI tried to wake her I could not.\r\n\r\nShe was in a faint. When I managed to restore her, she was weak\r\nas water, and cried silently between long, painful struggles for\r\nbreath. When I asked her how she came to be at the window she shook\r\nher head and turned away.\r\n\r\nI trust her feeling ill may not be from that unlucky prick of\r\nthe safety-pin. I looked at her throat just now as she lay asleep,\r\nand the tiny wounds seem not to have healed. They are still open,\r\nand, if anything, larger than before, and the edges of them are\r\nfaintly white. They are like little white dots with red centres.\r\nUnless they heal within a day or two, I shall insist on the doctor\r\nseeing about them.\r\n\r\nLETTER, SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON, SOLICITORS WHITBY, TO\r\nMESSRS. CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON.\r\n\r\n17 August\r\n\r\n\"Dear Sirs, \u2014\r\n\r\n\"Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great Northern\r\nRailway. Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near Purfleet,\r\nimmediately on receipt at goods station King's Cross. The house is\r\nat present empty, but enclosed please find keys, all of which are\r\nlabelled.\r\n\r\n\"You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form\r\nthe consignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of\r\nthe house and marked `A' on rough diagrams enclosed. Your agent\r\nwill easily recognize the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of\r\nthe mansion. The goods leave by the train at 9:30 tonight, and will\r\nbe due at King's Cross at 4:30 tomorrow afternoon. As our client\r\nwishes the delivery made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged\r\nby your having teams ready at King's Cross at the time named and\r\nforthwith conveying the goods to destination. In order to obviate\r\nany delays possible through any routine requirements as to payment\r\nin your departments, we enclose cheque herewith for ten pounds,\r\nreceipt of which please acknowledge. Should the charge be less than\r\nthis amount, you can return balance, if greater, we shall at once\r\nsend cheque for difference on hearing from you. You are to leave\r\nthe keys on coming away in the main hall of the house, where the\r\nproprietor may get them on his entering the house by means of his\r\nduplicate key.\r\n\r\n\"Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business\r\ncourtesy in pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition.\r\n\"We are, dear Sirs, \"Faithfully yours, \"SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON &\r\nSON\"\r\n\r\nLETTER, MESSRS. CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON, TO MESSRS.\r\nBILLINGTON & SON, WHITBY.\r\n\r\n21 August.\r\n\r\n\"Dear Sirs,\u2014\r\n\r\n\"We beg to acknowledge 10 pounds received and to return cheque\r\nof 1 pound, 17s, 9d, amount of overplus, as shown in receipted\r\naccount herewith. Goods are delivered in exact accordance with\r\ninstructions, and keys left in parcel in main hall, as directed.\r\n\"We are, dear Sirs, \"Yours respectfully, \"Pro CARTER, PATERSON\r\n& CO.\"\r\n\r\nMINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL.\r\n\r\n18 August.\u2014I am happy today, and write sitting on the seat in\r\nthe churchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last night she slept\r\nwell all night, and did not disturb me once.\r\n\r\nThe roses seem coming back already to her cheeks, though she is\r\nstill sadly pale and wan-looking. If she were in any way anemic I\r\ncould understand it, but she is not. She is in gay spirits and full\r\nof life and cheerfulness. All the morbid reticence seems to have\r\npassed from her, and she has just reminded me, as if I needed any\r\nreminding, of that night, and that it was here, on this very seat,\r\nI found her asleep.\r\n\r\nAs she told me she tapped playfully with the heel of her boot on\r\nthe stone slab and said,\r\n\r\n\"My poor little feet didn't make much noise then! I daresay poor\r\nold Mr. Swales would have told me that it was because I didn't want\r\nto wake up Geordie.\"\r\n\r\nAs she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her if she\r\nhad dreamed at all that night.\r\n\r\nBefore she answered, that sweet, puckered look came into her\r\nforehead, which Arthur, I call him Arthur from her habit, says he\r\nloves, and indeed, I don't wonder that he does. Then she went on in\r\na half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it to\r\nherself.\r\n\r\n\"I didn't quite dream, but it all seemed to be real. I only\r\nwanted to be here in this spot. I don't know why, for I was afraid\r\nof something, I don't know what. I remember, though I suppose I was\r\nasleep, passing through the streets and over the bridge. A fish\r\nleaped as I went by, and I leaned over to look at it, and I heard a\r\nlot of dogs howling. The whole town seemed as if it must be full of\r\ndogs all howling at once, as I went up the steps. Then I had a\r\nvague memory of something long and dark with red eyes, just as we\r\nsaw in the sunset, and something very sweet and very bitter all\r\naround me at once. And then I seemed sinking into deep green water,\r\nand there was a singing in my ears, as I have heard there is to\r\ndrowning men, and then everything seemed passing away from me. My\r\nsoul seemed to go out from my body and float about the air. I seem\r\nto remember that once the West Lighthouse was right under me, and\r\nthen there was a sort of agonizing feeling, as if I were in an\r\nearthquake, and I came back and found you shaking my body. I saw\r\nyou do it before I felt you.\"\r\n\r\nThen she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I\r\nlistened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and thought\r\nit better not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to\r\nanother subject, and Lucy was like her old self again. When we got\r\nhome the fresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were\r\nreally more rosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all\r\nspent a very happy evening together.\r\n\r\n19 August.\u2014Joy, joy, joy! Although not all joy. At last, news of\r\nJonathan. The dear fellow has been ill, that is why he did not\r\nwrite. I am not afraid to think it or to say it, now that I know.\r\nMr. Hawkins sent me on the letter, and wrote himself, oh so kindly.\r\nI am to leave in the morning and go over to Jonathan, and to help\r\nto nurse him if necessary, and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says\r\nit would not be a bad thing if we were to be married out there. I\r\nhave cried over the good Sister's letter till I can feel it wet\r\nagainst my bosom, where it lies. It is of Jonathan, and must be\r\nnear my heart, for he is in my heart. My journey is all mapped out,\r\nand my luggage ready. I am only taking one change of dress. Lucy\r\nwill bring my trunk to London and keep it till I send for it, for\r\nit may be that\u00a0\u2026 I must write no more. I must keep it to say\r\nto Jonathan, my husband. The letter that he has seen and touched\r\nmust comfort me till we meet.\r\n\r\nLETTER, SISTER AGATHA, HOSPITAL OF ST. JOSEPH AND STE. MARY\r\nBUDA-PESTH, TO MISS WILLHELMINA MURRAY\r\n\r\n12 August,\r\n\r\n\"Dear Madam.\r\n\r\n\"I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is himself not\r\nstrong enough to write, though progressing well, thanks to God and\r\nSt. Joseph and Ste. Mary. He has been under our care for nearly six\r\nweeks, suffering from a violent brain fever. He wishes me to convey\r\nhis love, and to say that by this post I write for him to Mr. Peter\r\nHawkins, Exeter, to say, with his dutiful respects, that he is\r\nsorry for his delay, and that all of his work is completed. He will\r\nrequire some few weeks' rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but\r\nwill then return. He wishes me to say that he has not sufficient\r\nmoney with him, and that he would like to pay for his staying here,\r\nso that others who need shall not be wanting for belp.\r\n\r\nBelieve me,\r\n\r\nYours, with sympathy\r\n\r\nand all blessings. Sister Agatha\"\r\n\r\n\"P. S.\u2014My patient being asleep, I open this to let you know\r\nsomething more. He has told me all about you, and that you are\r\nshortly to be his wife. All blessings to you both! He has had some\r\nfearful shock, so says our doctor, and in his delirium his ravings\r\nhave been dreadful, of wolves and poison and blood, of ghosts and\r\ndemons, and I fear to say of what. Be careful of him always that\r\nthere may be nothing to excite him of this kind for a long time to\r\ncome. The traces of such an illness as his do not lightly die away.\r\nWe should have written long ago, but we knew nothing of his\r\nfriends, and there was nothing on him, nothing that anyone could\r\nunderstand. He came in the train from Klausenburg, and the guard\r\nwas told by the station master there that he rushed into the\r\nstation shouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from his violent\r\ndemeanor that he was English, they gave him a ticket for the\r\nfurthest station on the way thither that the train reached.\r\n\r\n\"Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all hearts by\r\nhis sweetness and gentleness. He is truly getting on well, and I\r\nhave no doubt will in a few weeks be all himself. But be careful of\r\nhim for safety's sake. There are, I pray God and St. Joseph and\r\nSte.Mary, many, many, happy years for you both.\"\r\n\r\nDR. SEWARD'S DIARY\r\n\r\n19 Agust.\u2014Strange and sudden change in Renfield last night.\r\nAbout eight o'clock he began to get excited and sniff about as a\r\ndog does when setting. The attendant was struck by his manner, and\r\nknowing my interest in him, encouraged him to talk. He is usually\r\nrespectful to the attendant and at times servile, but tonight, the\r\nman tells me, he was quite haughty. Would not condescend to talk\r\nwith him at all.\r\n\r\nAll he would say was, \"I don't want to talk to you. You don't\r\ncount now. The master is at hand.\"\r\n\r\nThe attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania\r\nwhich has seized him. If so, we must look out for squalls, for a\r\nstrong man with homicidal and religious mania at once might be\r\ndangerous. The combination is a dreadful one.\r\n\r\nAt Nine o'clock I visited him myself. His attitude to me was the\r\nsame as that to the attendant. In his sublime selffeeling the\r\ndifference between myself and the attendant seemed to him as\r\nnothing. It looks like religious mania, and he will soon think that\r\nhe himself is God.\r\n\r\nThese infinitesimal distinctions between man and man are too\r\npaltry for an Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give themselves\r\naway! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall. But the God\r\ncreated from human vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a\r\nsparrow. Oh, if men only knew!\r\n\r\nFor half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in\r\ngreater and greater degree. I did not pretend to be watching him,\r\nbut I kept strict observation all the same. All at once that shifty\r\nlook came into his eyes which we always see when a madman has\r\nseized an idea, and with it the shifty movement of the head and\r\nback which asylum attendants come to know so well. He became quite\r\nquiet, and went and sat on the edge of his bed resignedly, and\r\nlooked into space with lack-luster eyes.\r\n\r\nI thought I would find out if his apathy were real or only\r\nassumed, and tried to lead him to talk of his pets, a theme which\r\nhad never failed to excite his attention.\r\n\r\nAt first he made no reply, but at length said testily, \"Bother\r\nthem all! I don't care a pin about them.\"\r\n\r\n\"What\" I said. \"You don't mean to tell me you don't care about\r\nspiders?\" (Spiders at present are his hobby and the notebook is\r\nfilling up with columns of small figures.)\r\n\r\nTo this he answered enigmatically, \"The Bride maidens rejoice\r\nthe eyes that wait the coming of the bride. But when the bride\r\ndraweth nigh, then the maidens shine not to the eyes that are\r\nfilled.\"\r\n\r\nHe would not explain himself, but remained obstinately seated on\r\nhis bed all the time I remained with him.\r\n\r\nI am weary tonight and low in spirits. I cannot but think of\r\nLucy, and how different things might have been. If I don't sleep at\r\nonce, chloral, the modern Morpheus! I must be careful not to let it\r\ngrow into a habit. No, I shall take none tonight! I have thought of\r\nLucy, and I shall not dishonour her by mixing the two. If need by,\r\ntonight shall be sleepless.\r\n\r\nLater.\u2014Glad I made the resolution, gladder that I kept to it. I\r\nhad lain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice,\r\nwhen the night watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say\r\nthat Renfield had escaped. I threw on my clothes and ran down at\r\nonce. My patient is too dangerous a person to be roaming about.\r\nThose ideas of his might work out dangerously with strangers.\r\n\r\nThe attendant was waiting for me. He said he had seen him not\r\nten minutes before, seemingly asleep in his bed, when he had looked\r\nthrough the observation trap in the door. His attention was called\r\nby the sound of the window being wrenched out. He ran back and saw\r\nhis feet disappear through the window, and had at once sent up for\r\nme. He was only in his night gear, and cannot be far off.\r\n\r\nThe attendant thought it would be more useful to watch where he\r\nshould go than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst\r\ngetting out of the building by the door. He is a bulky man, and\r\ncouldn't get through the window.\r\n\r\nI am thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feet foremost, and\r\nas we were only a few feet above ground landed unhurt.\r\n\r\nThe attendant told me the patient had gone to the left, and had\r\ntaken a straight line, so I ran as quickly as I could. As I got\r\nthrough the belt of trees I saw a white figure scale the high wall\r\nwhich separates our grounds from those of the deserted house.\r\n\r\nI ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four men\r\nimmediately and follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case our\r\nfriend might be dangerous. I got a ladder myself, and crossing the\r\nwall, dropped down on the other side. I could see Renfield's figure\r\njust disappearing behind the angle of the house, so I ran after\r\nhim. On the far side of the house I found him pressed close against\r\nthe old ironbound oak door of the chapel.\r\n\r\nHe was talking, apparently to some one, but I was afraid to go\r\nnear enough to hear what he was saying, les t I might frighten him,\r\nand he should run off.\r\n\r\nChasing an errant swarm of bees is nothing to following a naked\r\nlunatic, when the fit of escaping is upon him! After a few minutes,\r\nhowever, I could see that he did not take note of anything around\r\nhim, and so ventured to draw nearer to him, the more so as my men\r\nhad now crossed the wall and were closing him in. I heard him\r\nsay\u00a0\u2026\r\n\r\n\"I am here to do your bidding, Master. I am your slave, and you\r\nwill reward me, for I shall be faithful. I have worshipped you long\r\nand afar off. Now that you are near, I await your commands, and you\r\nwill not pass me by, will you, dear Master, in your distribution of\r\ngood things?\"\r\n\r\nHe is a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the loaves and\r\nfishes even when he believes his is in a real Presence. His manias\r\nmake a startling combination. When we closed in on him he fought\r\nlike a tiger. He is immensely strong, for he was more like a wild\r\nbeast than a man.\r\n\r\nI never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before, and I\r\nhope I shall not again. It is a mercy that we have found out his\r\nstrength and his danger in good time. With strength and\r\ndetermination like his, he might have done wild work before he was\r\ncaged.\r\n\r\nHe is safe now, at any rate. Jack Sheppard himself couldn't get\r\nfree from the strait waistcoat that keeps him restrained, and he's\r\nchained to the wall in the padded room.\r\n\r\nHis cries are at times awful, but the silences that follow are\r\nmore deadly still, for he means murder in every turn and\r\nmovement.\r\n\r\nJust now he spoke coherent words for the first time. \"I shall be\r\npatient, Master. It is coming, coming, coming!\"\r\n\r\nSo I took the hint, and came too. I was too excited to sleep,\r\nbut this diary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get some sleep\r\ntonight.\r\n\r\n<\/div>","rendered":"
\n

Same day, 11 o’clock p. m..\u2014Oh, but I am tired! If it were not
\nthat I had made my diary a duty I should not open it tonight. We
\nhad a lovely walk. Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing,
\nI think, to some dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field
\nclose to the lighthouse, and frightened the wits out of us. I
\nbelieve we forgot everything, except of course, personal fear, and
\nit seemed to wipe the slate clean and give us a fresh start. We had
\na capital `severe tea’ at Robin Hood’s Bay in a sweet little
\noldfashioned inn, with a bow window right over the seaweedcovered
\nrocks of the strand. I believe we should have shocked the `New
\nWoman’ with our appetites. Men are more tolerant, bless them! Then
\nwe walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages to rest, and
\nwith our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls.<\/p>\n

Lucy was really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as
\nsoon as we could. The young curate came in, however, and Mrs.
\nWestenra asked him to stay for supper. Lucy and I had both a fight
\nfor it with the dusty miller. I know it was a hard fight on my
\npart, and I am quite heroic. I think that some day the bishops must
\nget together and see about breeding up a new class of curates, who
\ndon’t take supper, no matter how hard they may be pressed to, and
\nwho will know when girls are tired.<\/p>\n

Lucy is asleep and breathing softly. She has more color in her
\ncheeks than usual, and looks, oh so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in
\nlove with her seeing her only in the drawing room, I wonder what he
\nwould say if he saw her now. Some of the `New Women’ writers will
\nsome day start an idea that men and women should be allowed to see
\neach other asleep before proposing or accepting. But I suppose the
\n`New Woman’ won’t condescend in future to accept. She will do the
\nproposing herself. And a nice job she will make of it too! There’s
\nsome consolation in that. I am so happy tonight, because dear Lucy
\nseems better. I really believe she has turned the corner, and that
\nwe are over her troubles with dreaming. I should be quite happy if
\nI only knew if Jonathan\u00a0\u2026 God bless and keep him.<\/p>\n

11 August.\u2014Diary again. No sleep now, so I may as well write. I
\nam too agitated to sleep. We have had such an adventure, such an
\nagonizing experience. I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my
\ndiary\u00a0\u2026 Suddenly I became broad awake, and sat up, with a
\nhorrible sense of fear upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness
\naround me. The room was dark, so I could not see Lucy’s bed. I
\nstole across and felt for her. The bed was empty. I lit a match and
\nfound that she was not in the room. The door was shut, but not
\nlocked, as I had left it. I feared to wake her mother, who has been
\nmore than usually ill lately, so threw on some clothes and got
\nready to look for her. As I was leaving the room it struck me that
\nthe clothes she wore might give me some clue to her dreaming
\nintention. Dressing-gown would mean house, dress outside.
\nDressing-gown and dress were both in their places. “Thank God,” I
\nsaid to myself, “she cannot be far, as she is only in her
\nnightdress.”<\/p>\n

I ran downstairs and looked in the sitting room. Not there! Then
\nI looked in all the other rooms of the house, with an ever-growing
\nfear chilling my heart. Finally, I came to the hall door and found
\nit open. It was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not
\ncaught. The people of the house are careful to lock the door every
\nnight, so I feared that Lucy must have gone out as she was. There
\nwas no time to think of what might happen. A vague over-mastering
\nfear obscured all details.<\/p>\n

I took a big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was striking
\none as I was in the Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I
\nran along the North Terrace, but could see no sign of the white
\nfigure which I expected. At the edge of the West Cliff above the
\npier I looked across the harbour to the East Cliff, in the hope or
\nfear, I don’t know which, of seeing Lucy in our favorite seat.<\/p>\n

There was a bright full moon, with heavy black, driving clouds,
\nwhich threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama of light and
\nshade as they sailed across. For a moment or two I could see
\nnothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary’s Church and
\nall around it. Then as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of
\nthe abbey coming into view, and as the edge of a narrow band of
\nlight as sharp as a sword-cut moved along, the church and
\nchurchyard became gradually visible. Whatever my expectation was,
\nit was not disappointed, for there, on our favorite seat, the
\nsilver light of the moon struck a half-reclining figure, snowy
\nwhite. The coming of the cloud was too quick for me to see much,
\nfor shadow shut down on light almost immediately, but it seemed to
\nme as though something dark stood behind the seat where the white
\nfigure shone, and bent over it. What it was, whether man or beast,
\nI could not tell.<\/p>\n

I did not wait to catch another glance, but flew down the steep
\nsteps to the pier and along by the fish-market to the bridge, which
\nwas the only way to reach the East Cliff. The town seemed as dead,
\nfor not a soul did I see. I rejoiced that it was so, for I wanted
\nno witness of poor Lucy’s condition. The time and distance seemed
\nendless, and my knees trembled and my breath came laboured as I
\ntoiled up the endless steps to the abbey. I must have gone fast,
\nand yet it seemed to me as if my feet were weighted with lead, and
\nas though every joint in my body were rusty.<\/p>\n

When I got almost to the top I could see the seat and the white
\nfigure, for I was now close enough to distinguish it even through
\nthe spells of shadow. There was undoubtedly something, long and
\nblack, bending over the half-reclining white figure. I called in
\nfright, “Lucy! Lucy!” and something raised a head, and from where I
\nwas I could see a white face and red, gleaming eyes.<\/p>\n

Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to the entrance of the
\nchurchyard. As I entered, the church was between me and the seat,
\nand for a minute or so I lost sight of her. When I came in view
\nagain the cloud had passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly
\nthat I could see Lucy half reclining with her head lying over the
\nback of the seat. She was quite alone, and there was not a sign of
\nany living thing about.<\/p>\n

When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her
\nlips were parted, and she was breathing, not softly as usual with
\nher, but in long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs
\nfull at every breath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her
\nsleep and pulled the collar of her nightdress close around her, as
\nthough she felt the cold. I flung the warm shawl over her, and drew
\nthe edges tight around her neck, for I dreaded lest she should get
\nsome deadly chill from the night air, unclad as she was. I feared
\nto wake her all at once, so, in order to have my hands free to help
\nher, I fastened the shawl at her throat with a big safety pin. But
\nI must have been clumsy in my anxiety and pinched or pricked her
\nwith it, for by-and-by, when her breathing became quieter, she put
\nher hand to her throat again and moaned. When I had her carefully
\nwrapped up I put my shoes on her feet, and then began very gently
\nto wake her.<\/p>\n

At first she did not respond, but gradually she became more and
\nmore uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing occasionally. At
\nlast, as time was passing fast, and for many other reasons, I
\nwished to get her home at once, I shook her forcibly, till finally
\nshe opened her eyes and awoke. She did not seem surprised to see
\nme, as, of course, she did not realize all at once where she
\nwas.<\/p>\n

Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time,when her
\nbody must have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat
\nappalled at waking unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not
\nlose her grace. She trembled a little, and clung to me. When I told
\nher to come at once with me home, she rose without a word, with the
\nobedience of a child. As we passed along, the gravel hurt my feet,
\nand Lucy noticed me wince. She stopped and wanted to insist upon my
\ntaking my shoes, but I would not. However, when we got to the
\npathway outside the chruchyard, where there was a puddle of water,
\nremaining from the storm, I daubed my feet with mud, using each
\nfoot in turn on the other, so that as we went home, no one, in case
\nwe should meet any one, should notice my bare feet.<\/p>\n

Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul.
\nOnce we saw a man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a
\nstreet in front of us. But we hid in a door till he had disappeared
\nup an opening such as there are here, steep little closes, or
\n`wynds’, as they call them in Scotland. My heart beat so loud all
\nthe time sometimes I thought I should faint. I was filled with
\nanxiety about Lucy, not only for her health, lest she should suffer
\nfrom the exposure, but for her reputation in case the story should
\nget wind. When we got in, and had washed our feet, and had said a
\nprayer of thankfulness together, I tucked her into bed. Before
\nfalling asleep she asked, even implored, me not to say a word to
\nany one, even her mother, about her sleepwalking adventure.<\/p>\n

I hesitated at first, to promise, but on thinking of the state
\nof her mother’s health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would
\nfret her, and think too, of how such a story might become
\ndistorted, nay, infallibly would, in case it should leak out, I
\nthought it wiser to do so. I hope I did right. I have locked the
\ndoor, and the key is tied to my wrist, so perhaps I shall not be
\nagain disturbed. Lucy is sleeping soundly. The reflex of the dawn
\nis high and far over the sea\u00a0\u2026<\/p>\n

Same day, noon.\u2014All goes well. Lucy slept till I woke her and
\nseemed not to have even changed her side. The adventure of the
\nnight does not seem to have harmed her, on the contrary, it has
\nbenefited her, for she looks better this morning than she has done
\nfor weeks. I was sorry to notice that my clumsiness with the
\nsafety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it might have been serious, for the
\nskin of her throat was pierced. I must have pinched up a piece of
\nloose skin and have transfixed it, for there are two little red
\npoints like pin-pricks, and on the band of her nightdress was a
\ndrop of blood. When I apologised and was concerned about it, she
\nlaughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it.
\nFortunately it cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny.<\/p>\n

Same day, night.\u2014We passed a happy day. The air was clear, and
\nthe sun bright, and there was a cool breeze. We took our lunch to
\nMulgrave Woods, Mrs. Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I
\nwalking by the cliff-path and joining her at the gate. I felt a
\nlittle sad myself, for I could not but feel how absolutely happy it
\nwould have been had Jonathan been with me. But there! I must only
\nbe patient. In the evening we strolled in the Casino Terrace, and
\nheard some good music by Spohr and Mackenzie, and went to bed
\nearly. Lucy seems more restful than she has been for some time, and
\nfell asleep at once. I shall lock the door and secure the key the
\nsame as before, though I do not expect any trouble tonight.<\/p>\n

12 August.\u2014My expectations were wrong, for twice during the
\nnight I was wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in
\nher sleep, to be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and
\nwent back to bed under a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and
\nheard the birds chirping outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and
\nI was glad to see, was even better than on the previous morning.
\nAll her old gaiety of manner seemed to have come back, and she came
\nand snuggled in beside me and told me all about Arthur. I told her
\nhow anxious I was about Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me.
\nWell, she succeeded somewhat, for, though sympathy can’t alter
\nfacts, it can make them more bearable.<\/p>\n

13 August.\u2014Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my
\nwrist as before. Again I awoke in the night, and found Lucy sitting
\nup in bed, still asleep, pointing to the window. I got up quietly,
\nand pulling aside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant
\nmoonlight, and the soft effect of the light over the sea and sky,
\nmerged together in one great silent mystery, was beautiful beyond
\nwords. Between me and the moonlight flitted a great bat, coming and
\ngoing in great whirling circles. Once or twice it came quite close,
\nbut was, I suppose, frightened at seeing me, and flitted away
\nacross the harbour towards the abbey. When I came back from the
\nwindow Lucy had lain down again, and was sleeping peacefully. She
\ndid not stir again all night.<\/p>\n

14 August.\u2014On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day. Lucy
\nseems to have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it
\nis hard to get her away from it when it is time to come home for
\nlunch or tea or dinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We
\nwere coming home for dinner, and had come to the top of the steps
\nup from the West Pier and stopped to look at the view, as we
\ngenerally do. The setting sun, low down in the sky, was just
\ndropping behind Kettleness. The red light was thrown over on the
\nEast Cliff and the old abbey, and seemed to bathe everything in a
\nbeautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a while, and suddenly Lucy
\nmurmured as if to herself\u00a0\u2026<\/p>\n

“His red eyes again! They are just the same.” It was such an odd
\nexpression, coming apropos of nothing, that it quite startled me. I
\nslewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without seeming to
\nstare at her, and saw that she was in a half dreamy state, with an
\nodd look on her face that I could not quite make out, so I said
\nnothing, but followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at
\nour own seat, whereon was a dark figure seated alone. I was quite a
\nlittle startled myself, for it seemed for an instant as if the
\nstranger had great eyes like burning flames, but a second look
\ndispelled the illusion. The red sunlight was shining on the windows
\nof St. Mary’s Church behind our seat, and as the sun dipped there
\nwas just sufficient change in the refraction and reflection to make
\nit appear as if the light moved. I called Lucy’s attention to the
\npeculiar effect, and she became herself with a start, but she
\nlooked sad all the same. It may have been that she was thinking of
\nthat terrible night up there. We never refer to it, so I said
\nnothing, and we went home to dinner. Lucy had a headache and went
\nearly to bed. I saw her asleep, and went out for a little stroll
\nmyself.<\/p>\n

I walked along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet
\nsadness, for I was thinking of Jonathan. When coming home, it was
\nthen bright moonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part
\nof the Crescent was in shadow, everything could be well seen, I
\nthrew a glance up at our window, and saw Lucy’s head leaning out. I
\nopened my handkerchief and waved it. She did not notice or make any
\nmovement whatever. Just then, the moonlight crept round an angle of
\nthe building, and the light fell on the window. There distinctly
\nwas Lucy with her head lying up against the side of the window sill
\nand her eyes shut. She was fast asleep, and by her, seated on the
\nwindow sill, was something that looked like a good-sized bird. I
\nwas afraid she might get a chill, so I ran upstairs, but as I came
\ninto the room she was moving back to her bed, fast asleep, and
\nbreathing heavily. She was holding her hand to her throat, as
\nthough to protect if from the cold.<\/p>\n

I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly. I have taken care
\nthat the door is locked and the window securely fastened.<\/p>\n

She looks so sweet as she sleeps, but she is paler than is her
\nwont, and there is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes which I do
\nnot like. I fear she is fretting about something. I wish I could
\nfind out what it is.<\/p>\n

15 August.\u2014Rose later than usual. Lucy was languid and tired,
\nand slept on after we had been called. We had a happy surprise at
\nbreakfast. Arthur’s father is better, and wants the marriage to
\ncome off soon. Lucy is full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad
\nand sorry at once. Later on in the day she told me the cause. She
\nis grieved to lose Lucy as her very own, but she is rejoiced that
\nshe is soon to have some one to protect her. Poor dear, sweet lady!
\nShe confided to me that she has got her death warrant. She has not
\ntold Lucy, and made me promise secrecy. Her doctor told her that
\nwithin a few months, at most, she must die, for her heart is
\nweakening. At any time, even now, a sudden shock would be almost
\nsure to kill her. Ah, we were wise to keep from her the affair of
\nthe dreadful night of Lucy’s sleep-walking.<\/p>\n

17 August.\u2014No diary for two whole days. I have not had the heart
\nto write. Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our
\nhappiness. No news from Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be growing
\nweaker, whilst her mother’s hours are numbering to a close. I do
\nnot understand Lucy’s fading away as she is doing. She eats well
\nand sleeps well, and enjoys the fresh air, but all the time the
\nroses in her cheeks are fading, and she gets weaker and more
\nlanguid day by day. At night I hear her gasping as if for air.<\/p>\n

I keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist at night,
\nbut she gets up and walks about the room, and sits at the open
\nwindow. Last night I found her leaning out when I woke up, and when
\nI tried to wake her I could not.<\/p>\n

She was in a faint. When I managed to restore her, she was weak
\nas water, and cried silently between long, painful struggles for
\nbreath. When I asked her how she came to be at the window she shook
\nher head and turned away.<\/p>\n

I trust her feeling ill may not be from that unlucky prick of
\nthe safety-pin. I looked at her throat just now as she lay asleep,
\nand the tiny wounds seem not to have healed. They are still open,
\nand, if anything, larger than before, and the edges of them are
\nfaintly white. They are like little white dots with red centres.
\nUnless they heal within a day or two, I shall insist on the doctor
\nseeing about them.<\/p>\n

LETTER, SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON, SOLICITORS WHITBY, TO
\nMESSRS. CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON.<\/p>\n

17 August<\/p>\n

“Dear Sirs, \u2014<\/p>\n

“Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great Northern
\nRailway. Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near Purfleet,
\nimmediately on receipt at goods station King’s Cross. The house is
\nat present empty, but enclosed please find keys, all of which are
\nlabelled.<\/p>\n

“You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form
\nthe consignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of
\nthe house and marked `A’ on rough diagrams enclosed. Your agent
\nwill easily recognize the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of
\nthe mansion. The goods leave by the train at 9:30 tonight, and will
\nbe due at King’s Cross at 4:30 tomorrow afternoon. As our client
\nwishes the delivery made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged
\nby your having teams ready at King’s Cross at the time named and
\nforthwith conveying the goods to destination. In order to obviate
\nany delays possible through any routine requirements as to payment
\nin your departments, we enclose cheque herewith for ten pounds,
\nreceipt of which please acknowledge. Should the charge be less than
\nthis amount, you can return balance, if greater, we shall at once
\nsend cheque for difference on hearing from you. You are to leave
\nthe keys on coming away in the main hall of the house, where the
\nproprietor may get them on his entering the house by means of his
\nduplicate key.<\/p>\n

“Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business
\ncourtesy in pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition.
\n“We are, dear Sirs, “Faithfully yours, “SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON &
\nSON”<\/p>\n

LETTER, MESSRS. CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON, TO MESSRS.
\nBILLINGTON & SON, WHITBY.<\/p>\n

21 August.<\/p>\n

“Dear Sirs,\u2014<\/p>\n

“We beg to acknowledge 10 pounds received and to return cheque
\nof 1 pound, 17s, 9d, amount of overplus, as shown in receipted
\naccount herewith. Goods are delivered in exact accordance with
\ninstructions, and keys left in parcel in main hall, as directed.
\n“We are, dear Sirs, “Yours respectfully, “Pro CARTER, PATERSON
\n& CO.”<\/p>\n

MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL.<\/p>\n

18 August.\u2014I am happy today, and write sitting on the seat in
\nthe churchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last night she slept
\nwell all night, and did not disturb me once.<\/p>\n

The roses seem coming back already to her cheeks, though she is
\nstill sadly pale and wan-looking. If she were in any way anemic I
\ncould understand it, but she is not. She is in gay spirits and full
\nof life and cheerfulness. All the morbid reticence seems to have
\npassed from her, and she has just reminded me, as if I needed any
\nreminding, of that night, and that it was here, on this very seat,
\nI found her asleep.<\/p>\n

As she told me she tapped playfully with the heel of her boot on
\nthe stone slab and said,<\/p>\n

“My poor little feet didn’t make much noise then! I daresay poor
\nold Mr. Swales would have told me that it was because I didn’t want
\nto wake up Geordie.”<\/p>\n

As she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her if she
\nhad dreamed at all that night.<\/p>\n

Before she answered, that sweet, puckered look came into her
\nforehead, which Arthur, I call him Arthur from her habit, says he
\nloves, and indeed, I don’t wonder that he does. Then she went on in
\na half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it to
\nherself.<\/p>\n

“I didn’t quite dream, but it all seemed to be real. I only
\nwanted to be here in this spot. I don’t know why, for I was afraid
\nof something, I don’t know what. I remember, though I suppose I was
\nasleep, passing through the streets and over the bridge. A fish
\nleaped as I went by, and I leaned over to look at it, and I heard a
\nlot of dogs howling. The whole town seemed as if it must be full of
\ndogs all howling at once, as I went up the steps. Then I had a
\nvague memory of something long and dark with red eyes, just as we
\nsaw in the sunset, and something very sweet and very bitter all
\naround me at once. And then I seemed sinking into deep green water,
\nand there was a singing in my ears, as I have heard there is to
\ndrowning men, and then everything seemed passing away from me. My
\nsoul seemed to go out from my body and float about the air. I seem
\nto remember that once the West Lighthouse was right under me, and
\nthen there was a sort of agonizing feeling, as if I were in an
\nearthquake, and I came back and found you shaking my body. I saw
\nyou do it before I felt you.”<\/p>\n

Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I
\nlistened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and thought
\nit better not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to
\nanother subject, and Lucy was like her old self again. When we got
\nhome the fresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were
\nreally more rosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all
\nspent a very happy evening together.<\/p>\n

19 August.\u2014Joy, joy, joy! Although not all joy. At last, news of
\nJonathan. The dear fellow has been ill, that is why he did not
\nwrite. I am not afraid to think it or to say it, now that I know.
\nMr. Hawkins sent me on the letter, and wrote himself, oh so kindly.
\nI am to leave in the morning and go over to Jonathan, and to help
\nto nurse him if necessary, and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says
\nit would not be a bad thing if we were to be married out there. I
\nhave cried over the good Sister’s letter till I can feel it wet
\nagainst my bosom, where it lies. It is of Jonathan, and must be
\nnear my heart, for he is in my heart. My journey is all mapped out,
\nand my luggage ready. I am only taking one change of dress. Lucy
\nwill bring my trunk to London and keep it till I send for it, for
\nit may be that\u00a0\u2026 I must write no more. I must keep it to say
\nto Jonathan, my husband. The letter that he has seen and touched
\nmust comfort me till we meet.<\/p>\n

LETTER, SISTER AGATHA, HOSPITAL OF ST. JOSEPH AND STE. MARY
\nBUDA-PESTH, TO MISS WILLHELMINA MURRAY<\/p>\n

12 August,<\/p>\n

“Dear Madam.<\/p>\n

“I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is himself not
\nstrong enough to write, though progressing well, thanks to God and
\nSt. Joseph and Ste. Mary. He has been under our care for nearly six
\nweeks, suffering from a violent brain fever. He wishes me to convey
\nhis love, and to say that by this post I write for him to Mr. Peter
\nHawkins, Exeter, to say, with his dutiful respects, that he is
\nsorry for his delay, and that all of his work is completed. He will
\nrequire some few weeks’ rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but
\nwill then return. He wishes me to say that he has not sufficient
\nmoney with him, and that he would like to pay for his staying here,
\nso that others who need shall not be wanting for belp.<\/p>\n

Believe me,<\/p>\n

Yours, with sympathy<\/p>\n

and all blessings. Sister Agatha”<\/p>\n

“P. S.\u2014My patient being asleep, I open this to let you know
\nsomething more. He has told me all about you, and that you are
\nshortly to be his wife. All blessings to you both! He has had some
\nfearful shock, so says our doctor, and in his delirium his ravings
\nhave been dreadful, of wolves and poison and blood, of ghosts and
\ndemons, and I fear to say of what. Be careful of him always that
\nthere may be nothing to excite him of this kind for a long time to
\ncome. The traces of such an illness as his do not lightly die away.
\nWe should have written long ago, but we knew nothing of his
\nfriends, and there was nothing on him, nothing that anyone could
\nunderstand. He came in the train from Klausenburg, and the guard
\nwas told by the station master there that he rushed into the
\nstation shouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from his violent
\ndemeanor that he was English, they gave him a ticket for the
\nfurthest station on the way thither that the train reached.<\/p>\n

“Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all hearts by
\nhis sweetness and gentleness. He is truly getting on well, and I
\nhave no doubt will in a few weeks be all himself. But be careful of
\nhim for safety’s sake. There are, I pray God and St. Joseph and
\nSte.Mary, many, many, happy years for you both.”<\/p>\n

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY<\/p>\n

19 Agust.\u2014Strange and sudden change in Renfield last night.
\nAbout eight o’clock he began to get excited and sniff about as a
\ndog does when setting. The attendant was struck by his manner, and
\nknowing my interest in him, encouraged him to talk. He is usually
\nrespectful to the attendant and at times servile, but tonight, the
\nman tells me, he was quite haughty. Would not condescend to talk
\nwith him at all.<\/p>\n

All he would say was, “I don’t want to talk to you. You don’t
\ncount now. The master is at hand.”<\/p>\n

The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania
\nwhich has seized him. If so, we must look out for squalls, for a
\nstrong man with homicidal and religious mania at once might be
\ndangerous. The combination is a dreadful one.<\/p>\n

At Nine o’clock I visited him myself. His attitude to me was the
\nsame as that to the attendant. In his sublime selffeeling the
\ndifference between myself and the attendant seemed to him as
\nnothing. It looks like religious mania, and he will soon think that
\nhe himself is God.<\/p>\n

These infinitesimal distinctions between man and man are too
\npaltry for an Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give themselves
\naway! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall. But the God
\ncreated from human vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a
\nsparrow. Oh, if men only knew!<\/p>\n

For half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in
\ngreater and greater degree. I did not pretend to be watching him,
\nbut I kept strict observation all the same. All at once that shifty
\nlook came into his eyes which we always see when a madman has
\nseized an idea, and with it the shifty movement of the head and
\nback which asylum attendants come to know so well. He became quite
\nquiet, and went and sat on the edge of his bed resignedly, and
\nlooked into space with lack-luster eyes.<\/p>\n

I thought I would find out if his apathy were real or only
\nassumed, and tried to lead him to talk of his pets, a theme which
\nhad never failed to excite his attention.<\/p>\n

At first he made no reply, but at length said testily, “Bother
\nthem all! I don’t care a pin about them.”<\/p>\n

“What” I said. “You don’t mean to tell me you don’t care about
\nspiders?” (Spiders at present are his hobby and the notebook is
\nfilling up with columns of small figures.)<\/p>\n

To this he answered enigmatically, “The Bride maidens rejoice
\nthe eyes that wait the coming of the bride. But when the bride
\ndraweth nigh, then the maidens shine not to the eyes that are
\nfilled.”<\/p>\n

He would not explain himself, but remained obstinately seated on
\nhis bed all the time I remained with him.<\/p>\n

I am weary tonight and low in spirits. I cannot but think of
\nLucy, and how different things might have been. If I don’t sleep at
\nonce, chloral, the modern Morpheus! I must be careful not to let it
\ngrow into a habit. No, I shall take none tonight! I have thought of
\nLucy, and I shall not dishonour her by mixing the two. If need by,
\ntonight shall be sleepless.<\/p>\n

Later.\u2014Glad I made the resolution, gladder that I kept to it. I
\nhad lain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice,
\nwhen the night watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say
\nthat Renfield had escaped. I threw on my clothes and ran down at
\nonce. My patient is too dangerous a person to be roaming about.
\nThose ideas of his might work out dangerously with strangers.<\/p>\n

The attendant was waiting for me. He said he had seen him not
\nten minutes before, seemingly asleep in his bed, when he had looked
\nthrough the observation trap in the door. His attention was called
\nby the sound of the window being wrenched out. He ran back and saw
\nhis feet disappear through the window, and had at once sent up for
\nme. He was only in his night gear, and cannot be far off.<\/p>\n

The attendant thought it would be more useful to watch where he
\nshould go than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst
\ngetting out of the building by the door. He is a bulky man, and
\ncouldn’t get through the window.<\/p>\n

I am thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feet foremost, and
\nas we were only a few feet above ground landed unhurt.<\/p>\n

The attendant told me the patient had gone to the left, and had
\ntaken a straight line, so I ran as quickly as I could. As I got
\nthrough the belt of trees I saw a white figure scale the high wall
\nwhich separates our grounds from those of the deserted house.<\/p>\n

I ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four men
\nimmediately and follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case our
\nfriend might be dangerous. I got a ladder myself, and crossing the
\nwall, dropped down on the other side. I could see Renfield’s figure
\njust disappearing behind the angle of the house, so I ran after
\nhim. On the far side of the house I found him pressed close against
\nthe old ironbound oak door of the chapel.<\/p>\n

He was talking, apparently to some one, but I was afraid to go
\nnear enough to hear what he was saying, les t I might frighten him,
\nand he should run off.<\/p>\n

Chasing an errant swarm of bees is nothing to following a naked
\nlunatic, when the fit of escaping is upon him! After a few minutes,
\nhowever, I could see that he did not take note of anything around
\nhim, and so ventured to draw nearer to him, the more so as my men
\nhad now crossed the wall and were closing him in. I heard him
\nsay\u00a0\u2026<\/p>\n

“I am here to do your bidding, Master. I am your slave, and you
\nwill reward me, for I shall be faithful. I have worshipped you long
\nand afar off. Now that you are near, I await your commands, and you
\nwill not pass me by, will you, dear Master, in your distribution of
\ngood things?”<\/p>\n

He is a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the loaves and
\nfishes even when he believes his is in a real Presence. His manias
\nmake a startling combination. When we closed in on him he fought
\nlike a tiger. He is immensely strong, for he was more like a wild
\nbeast than a man.<\/p>\n

I never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before, and I
\nhope I shall not again. It is a mercy that we have found out his
\nstrength and his danger in good time. With strength and
\ndetermination like his, he might have done wild work before he was
\ncaged.<\/p>\n

He is safe now, at any rate. Jack Sheppard himself couldn’t get
\nfree from the strait waistcoat that keeps him restrained, and he’s
\nchained to the wall in the padded room.<\/p>\n

His cries are at times awful, but the silences that follow are
\nmore deadly still, for he means murder in every turn and
\nmovement.<\/p>\n

Just now he spoke coherent words for the first time. “I shall be
\npatient, Master. It is coming, coming, coming!”<\/p>\n

So I took the hint, and came too. I was too excited to sleep,
\nbut this diary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get some sleep
\ntonight.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"menu_order":8,"template":"","meta":{"pb_show_title":"on","pb_short_title":"","pb_subtitle":"","pb_authors":[],"pb_section_license":""},"chapter-type":[],"contributor":[],"license":[],"class_list":["post-32","chapter","type-chapter","status-publish","hentry"],"part":3,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/32","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/chapter"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/32\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":104,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/32\/revisions\/104"}],"part":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/parts\/3"}],"metadata":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/32\/metadata\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=32"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"chapter-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapter-type?post=32"},{"taxonomy":"contributor","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/contributor?post=32"},{"taxonomy":"license","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/license?post=32"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}