No More Learning

Hawkins to communicate with her. To her I have explained my
situation, but without the horrors which I may only surmise. It would
shock and frighten her to death were I to expose my heart to her.
Should the letters not carry, then the Count shall not yet know my
secret or the extent of my knowledge. . . .

I have given the letters; I threw them through the bars of my window
with a gold piece, and made what signs I could to have them posted.
The man who took them pressed them to his heart and bowed, and then
put them in his cap. I could do no more. I stole back to the study and
began to read. As the Count did not come in, I have written here. . . .

The Count has come. He sat down beside me, and said in his smoothest
voice as he opened two letters:--

"The Szgany has given me these, of which, though I know not whence they
come, I shall, of course, take care. See! "--he must have looked at
it--"one is from you, and to my friend Peter Hawkins; the other"--here
he caught sight of the strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and
the dark look came into his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly--"the
other is a vile thing, an outrage upon friendship and hospitality! It
is not signed. Well! so it cannot matter to us. " And he calmly held
letter and envelope in the flame of the lamp till they were consumed.
Then he went on:--

"The letter to Hawkins--that I shall, of course, send on, since it is
yours. Your letters are sacred to me. Your pardon, my friend, that
unknowingly I did break the seal. Will you not cover it again? " He
held out the letter to me, and with a courteous bow handed me a clean
envelope. I could only redirect it and hand it to him in silence. When
he went out of the room I could hear the key turn softly. A minute
later I went over and tried it, and the door was locked.

When, an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into the room, his
coming wakened me, for I had gone to sleep on the sofa. He was very
courteous and very cheery in his manner, and seeing that I had been
sleeping, he said:

"So, my friend, you are tired? Get to bed. There is the surest rest.
I may not have the pleasure to talk to-night, since there are many
labours to me; but you will sleep, I pray. " I passed to my room and
went to bed, and, strange to say, slept without dreaming. Despair has
its own calms.

_31 May. _--This morning when I woke I thought I would provide myself
with some paper and envelopes from my bag and keep them in my pocket,
so that I might write in case I should get an opportunity; but again a
surprise, again a shock!

Every scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes, my memoranda
relating to railways and travel, my letter of credit, in fact, all
that might be useful to me were I once outside the castle. I sat and
pondered a while, and then some thought occurred to me, and I made
search of my portmanteau and in the wardrobe where I had placed my
clothes.

The suit in which I had travelled was gone, and also my overcoat and
rug; I could find no trace of them anywhere. This looked like some new
scheme of villainy. . . .

_17 June. _--This morning, as I was sitting on the edge of my bed
cudgelling my brains, I heard without a cracking of whips and pounding
and scraping of horses' feet up the rocky path beyond the courtyard.
With joy I hurried to the window, and saw drive into the yard two great
leiter-waggons, each drawn by eight sturdy horses, and at the head of
each pair a Slovak, with his wide hat, great, nail-studded belt, dirty
sheepskin, and high boots. They had also their long staves in hand. I
ran to the door, intending to descend and try and join them through
the main hall, as I thought that way might be opened for them. Again a
shock: my door was fastened on the outside.

Then I ran to the window and cried to them. They looked up at me
stupidly and pointed, but just then the "hetman" of the Szgany came
out, and seeing them pointing to my window, said something, at which
they laughed. Henceforth, no effort of mine, no piteous cry or agonised
entreaty, would make them even look at me. They resolutely turned away.
The leiter-waggons contained great, square boxes, with handles of thick
rope; these were evidently empty by the ease with which the Slovaks
handled them, and by their resonance as they were roughly moved. When
they were all unloaded and backed in a great heap in one corner of the
yard, the Slovaks were given some money by the Szgany, and spitting on
it for luck, lazily went each to his horse's head. Shortly afterwards I
heard the cracking of their whips die away in the distance.

_24 June, before morning. _--Last night the Count left me early, and
locked himself into his own room. As soon as I dared, I ran up the
winding stair, and looked out of the window which opened south. I
thought I would watch for the Count, for there is something going on.
The Szgany are quartered somewhere in the castle, and are doing work of
some kind. I know it, for now and then I hear a far-away, muffled sound
as of mattock and spade, and, whatever it is, it must be to the end of
some ruthless villainy.

I had been at the window somewhat less than half an hour, when I saw
something coming out of the Count's window. I drew back and watched
carefully, and saw the whole man emerge. It was a new shock to me
to find that he had on the suit of clothes which I had worn whilst
travelling here, and slung over his shoulder the terrible bag which I
had seen the women take away. There could be no doubt as to his quest,
and in my garb, too! This, then, is his new scheme of evil: that he
will allow others to see me, as they think, so that he may both leave
evidence that I have been seen in the towns or villages posting my own
letters, and that any wickedness which he may do shall by the local
people be attributed to me.

It makes me rage to think that this can go on, and whilst I am shut
up here, a veritable prisoner, but without that protection of the law
which is even a criminal's right and consolation.

I thought I would watch for the Count's return, and for a long time sat
doggedly at the window. Then I began to notice that there were some
quaint little specks floating in the rays of the moonlight. They were
like the tiniest grains of dust, and they whirled round and gathered
in clusters in a nebulous sort of way. I watched them with a sense
of soothing, and a sort of calm stole over me. I leaned back in the
embrasure in a more comfortable position, so that I could enjoy more
fully the aerial gambolling.

Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs somewhere
far below in the valley, which was hidden from my sight. Louder it
seemed to ring in my ears, and the floating motes of dust to take new
shapes to the sound as they danced in the moonlight. I felt myself
struggling to awake to some call of my instincts; nay, my very soul
was struggling, and my half-remembered sensibilities were striving to
answer the call. I was becoming hypnotised! Quicker and quicker danced
the dust, and the moonbeams seemed to quiver as they went by me into
the mass of gloom beyond. More and more they gathered till they seemed
to take dim phantom shapes. And then I started, broad awake and in full
possession of my senses, and ran screaming from the place. The phantom
shapes, which were becoming gradually materialised from the moonbeams,
were those of the three ghostly women to whom I was doomed. I fled, and
felt somewhat safer in my own room, where there was no moonlight and
where the lamp was burning brightly.

When a couple of hours had passed I heard something stirring in the
Count's room, something like a sharp wail quickly suppressed; and
then there was silence, deep, awful silence, which chilled me. With
a beating heart, I tried the door; but I was locked in my prison, and
could do nothing. I sat down and simply cried.

As I sat I heard a sound in the courtyard without--the agonised cry of
a woman. I rushed to the window, and throwing it up, peered out between
the bars. There, indeed, was a woman with dishevelled hair, holding her
hands over her heart as one distressed with running. She was leaning
against a corner of the gateway. When she saw my face at the window she
threw herself forward, and shouted in a voice laden with menace:--

"Monster, give me my child! "

She threw herself on her knees, and raising up her hands, cried the
same words in tones which wrung my heart. Then she tore her hair
and beat her breast, and abandoned herself to all the violences of
extravagant emotion. Finally, she threw herself forward, and, though I
could not see her, I could hear the beating of her naked hands against
the door.

Somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard the voice of
the Count calling in his harsh, metallic whisper. His call seemed to
be answered from far and wide by the howling of wolves. Before many
minutes had passed a pack of them poured, like a pent-up dam when
liberated, through the wide entrance into the courtyard.

There was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the wolves was but
short. Before long they streamed away singly, licking their lips.

I could not pity her, for I knew now what had become of her child, and
she was better dead.

What shall I do? What can I do? How can I escape from this dreadful
thrall of night and gloom and fear?

_25 June, morning. _--No man knows till he has suffered from the night
how sweet and how dear to his heart and eye the morning can be. When
the sun grew so high this morning that it struck the top of the great
gateway opposite my window, the high spot which it touched seemed to
me as if the dove from the ark had lighted there. My fear fell from me
as if it had been a vaporous garment which dissolved in the warmth. I
must take action of some sort while the courage of the day is upon me.
Last night one of my post-dated letters went to post, the first of that
fatal series which is to blot out the very traces of my existence from
the earth.

Let me not think of it. Action!

It has always been at night-time that I have been molested or
threatened, or in some way in danger or in fear. I have not yet seen
the Count in the daylight. Can it be that he sleeps when others wake,
that he may be awake whilst they sleep? If I could only get into his
room! But there is no possible way. The door is always locked, no way
for me.

Yes, there is a way, if one dares to take it. Where his body has gone
why may not another body go? I have seen him myself crawl from his
window; why should not I imitate him, and go in by his window? The
chances are desperate, but my need is more desperate still. I shall
risk it. At the worst it can only be death; and a man's death is not a
calf's, and the dreaded Hereafter may still be open to me. God help me
in my task! Good-bye, Mina, if I fail; good-bye, my faithful friend and
second father; good-bye, all, and last of all Mina!

_Same day, later. _--I have made the effort, and, God helping me, have
come safely back to this room. I must put down every detail in order.
I went whilst my courage was fresh straight to the window on the south
side, and at once got outside on the narrow ledge of stone which runs
round the building on this side. The stones were big and roughly cut,
and the mortar had by process of time been washed away between them.
I took off my boots, and ventured out on the desperate way. I looked
down once, so as to make sure that a sudden glimpse of the awful depth
would not overcome me, but after that kept my eyes away from it. I
knew pretty well the direction and distance of the Count's window, and
made for it as well as I could, having regard to the opportunities
available. I did not feel dizzy--I suppose I was too excited--and
the time seemed ridiculously short till I found myself standing on
the windowsill and trying to raise up the sash. I was filled with
agitation, however, when I bent down and slid feet foremost in through
the window. Then I looked round for the Count, but, with surprise and
gladness, made a discovery. The room was empty! It was barely furnished
with odd things, which seemed to have never been used; the furniture
was something the same style as that in the south rooms, and was
covered with dust. I looked for the key, but it was not in the lock,
and I could not find it anywhere. The only thing I found was a great
heap of gold in one corner--gold of all kinds, Roman, and British, and
Austrian, and Hungarian, and Greek and Turkish money, covered with a
film of dust, as though it had lain long in the ground. None of it that
I noticed was less than three hundred years old. There were also chains
and ornaments, some jewelled, but all of them old and stained.

At one corner of the room was a heavy door. I tried it, for, since I
could not find the key of the room or the key of the outer door, which
was the main object of my search, I must make further examination, or
all my efforts would be in vain. It was open, and led through a stone
passage to a circular stairway, which went steeply down. I descended,
minding carefully where I went, for the stairs were dark, being only
lit by loopholes in the heavy masonry. At the bottom there was a dark,
tunnel-like passage, through which came a deathly, sickly odour, the
odour of old earth newly turned. As I went through the passage the
smell grew closer and heavier. At last I pulled open a heavy door
which stood ajar, and found myself in an old, ruined chapel, which had
evidently been used as a graveyard. The roof was broken, and in two
places were steps leading to vaults, but the ground had recently been
dug over, and the earth placed in great wooden boxes, manifestly those
which had been brought by the Slovaks. There was nobody about, and I
made search for any further outlet, but there was none. Then I went
over every inch of the ground, so as not to lose a chance. I went down
even into the vaults, where the dim light struggled, although to do so
was dread to my very soul. Into two of these I went, but saw nothing
except fragments of old coffins and piles of dust; in the third,
however, I made a discovery.

There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on
a pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count! He was either dead or asleep,
I could not say which--for the eyes were open and stony, but without
the glassiness of death--and the cheeks had the warmth of life through
all their pallor, and the lips were as red as ever. But there was no
sign of movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart. I bent
over him, and tried to find any sign of life, but in vain. He could not
have lain there long, for the earthy smell would have passed away in
a few hours. By the side of the box was its cover, pierced with holes
here and there. I thought he might have the keys on him, but when I
went to search I saw the dead eyes, and in them, dead though they were,
such a look of hate, though unconscious of me or my presence, that
I fled from the place, and leaving the Count's room by the window,
crawled again up the castle wall. Regaining my own chamber, I threw
myself panting upon the bed and tried to think. . . .

_29 June. _--To-day is the date of my last letter, and the Count has
taken steps to prove that it was genuine, for again I saw him leave
the castle by the same window, and in my clothes. As he went down the
wall, lizard fashion, I wished I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that
I might destroy him; but I fear that no weapon wrought alone by man's
hand would have any effect on him. I dared not wait to see him return,
for I feared to see those weird sisters. I came back to the library,
and read there till I fell asleep.

I was awakened by the Count, who looked at me as grimly as a man can
look as he said:--

"To-morrow, my friend, we must part. You return to your beautiful
England, I to some work which may have such an end that we may never
meet. Your letter home has been despatched; to-morrow I shall not be
here, but all shall be ready for your journey. In the morning come
the Szgany, who have some labours of their own here, and also come
some Slovaks. When they have gone, my carriage shall come for you, and
shall bear you to the Borgo Pass to meet the diligence from Bukovina
to Bistritz. But I am in hopes that I shall see more of you at Castle
Dracula. " I suspected him, and determined to test his sincerity.
Sincerity! It seems like a profanation of the word to write it in
connection with such a monster, so I asked him point-blank:--

"Why may I not go to-night? "

"Because, dear sir, my coachman and horses are away on a mission. "

"But I would walk with pleasure. I want to get away at once. " He
smiled, such a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I knew there was
some trick behind his smoothness. He said:--

"And your baggage? "

"I do not care about it. I can send for it some other time. "

The Count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy which made me rub
my eyes, it seemed so real:--

"You English have a saying which is close to my heart, for its spirit
is that which rules our _boyars_: 'Welcome the coming, speed the
parting guest. ' Come with me, my dear young friend. Not an hour shall
you wait in my house against your will, though sad am I at your going,
and that you so suddenly desire it. Come! " With a stately gravity, he,
with the lamp, preceded me down the stairs and along the hall. Suddenly
he stopped.

"Hark! "

Close at hand came the howling of many wolves. It was almost as if the
sound sprang up at the raising of his hand, just as the music of a
great orchestra seems to leap under the baton of the conductor. After a
pause of a moment, he proceeded in his stately way, to the door, drew
back the ponderous bolts, unhooked the heavy chains, and began to draw
it open.

To my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked.
Suspiciously I
looked all round, but could see no key of any kind.

As the door began to open, the howling of the wolves without grew
louder and angrier; their red jaws, with champing teeth, and their
blunt-clawed feet as they leaped, came in through the opening door. I
knew that to struggle at the moment against the Count was useless. With
such allies as these at his command, I could do nothing. But still the
door continued slowly to open, and only the Count's body stood in the
gap. Suddenly it struck me that this might be the moment and the means
of my doom; I was to be given to the wolves, and at my own instigation.
There was a diabolical wickedness in the idea great enough for the
Count, and as a last chance I cried out:--

"Shut the door; I shall wait till morning! " and covered my face with
my hands to hide my tears of bitter disappointment. With one sweep of
his powerful arm, the Count threw the door shut, and the great bolts
clanged and echoed through the hall as they shot back into their
places.

In silence we returned to the library, and after a minute or two I went
to my own room. The last I saw of Count Dracula was his kissing his
hand to me; with a red light of triumph in his eyes, and with a smile
that Judas in hell might be proud of.

When I was in my room and about to lie down, I thought I heard a
whispering at my door. I went to it softly and listened. Unless my ears
deceived me, I heard the voice of the Count:--

"Back, back, to your own place! Your time is not yet come. Wait. Have
patience. To-morrow night, to-morrow night, is yours! " There was a low,
sweet ripple of laughter, and in a rage I threw open the door, and saw
without the three terrible women licking their lips. As I appeared they
all joined in a horrible laugh, and ran away.

I came back to my room and threw myself on my knees. Is it then so near
the end? To-morrow! to-morrow! Lord, help me, and those to whom I am
dear!

_30 June, morning. _--These may be the last words I ever write in this
diary. I slept till just before the dawn, and when I woke threw myself
on my knees, for I determined that if Death came he should find me
ready.

At last I felt that subtle change in the air and knew that the morning
had come. Then came the welcome cock-crow, and I felt that I was safe.
With a glad heart, I opened my door and ran down the hall. I had seen
that the door was unlocked and now escape was before me. With hands
that trembled with eagerness, I unhooked the chains and drew back the
massive bolts.

But the door would not move. Despair seized me. I pulled and pulled
at the door, and shook it till, massive as it was, it rattled in its
casement. I could see the bolt shot. It had been locked after I left
the Count.

Then a wild desire took me to obtain that key at any risk, and I
determined then and there to scale the wall again and gain the Count's
room. He might kill me, but death now seemed the happier choice of
evils. Without a pause I rushed up to the east window and scrambled
down the wall, as before, into the Count's room. It was empty, but
that was as I expected. I could not see a key anywhere, but the heap
of gold remained. I went through the door in the corner and down the
winding stair and along the dark passage to the old chapel. I knew now
well enough where to find the monster I sought.

The great box was in the same place, close against the wall, but the
lid was laid on it, not fastened down, but with the nails ready in
their places to be hammered home. I knew I must search the body for
the key, so I raised the lid and laid it back against the wall; and
then I saw something which filled my very soul with horror. There lay
the Count, but looking as if his youth had been half-renewed, for the
white hair and moustache were changed to dark iron-grey; the cheeks
were fuller, and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath; the mouth
was redder than ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which
trickled from the corners of the mouth and ran over the chin and neck.
Even the deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the
lids and pouches underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole
awful creature were simply gorged with blood; he lay like a filthy
leech, exhausted with his repletion. I shuddered as I bent over to
touch him, and every sense in me revolted at the contact; but I had
to search, or I was lost. The coming night might see my own body a
banquet in a similar way to those horrid three. I felt all over the
body, but no sign could I find of the key. Then I stopped and looked
at the Count. There was a mocking smile on the bloated face which
seemed to drive me mad. This was the being I was helping to transfer
to London, where, perhaps for centuries to come, he might, amongst its
teeming millions, satiate his lust for blood, and create a new and ever
widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the helpless. The very
thought drove me mad. A terrible desire came upon me to rid the world
of such a monster. There was no lethal weapon at hand, but I seized a
shovel which the workmen had been using to fill the cases, and lifting
it high, struck, with the edge downward, at the hateful face. But as I
did so the head turned, and the eyes fell full upon me, with all their
blaze of basilisk horror. The sight seemed to paralyse me, and the
shovel turned in my hand and glanced from the face, merely making a
deep gash above the forehead. The shovel fell from my hand across the
box, and as I pulled it away the flange of the blade caught the edge
of the lid, which fell over again, and hid the horrid thing from my
sight. The last glimpse I had was of the bloated face, blood-stained
and fixed with a grin of malice which would have held its own in the
nethermost hell.

I thought and thought what should be my next move, but my brain seemed
on fire, and I waited with a despairing feeling growing over me. As
I waited I heard in the distance a gipsy song sung by merry voices
coming closer, and through their song the rolling of heavy wheels and
the cracking of whips; the Szgany and the Slovaks of whom the Count
had spoken were coming. With a last look round and at the box which
contained the vile body, I ran from the place and gained the Count's
room, determined to rush out at the moment the door should be opened.
With strained ears I listened, and heard downstairs the grinding of
the key in the great lock and the falling back of the heavy door.
There must have been some other means of entry, or some one had a key
for one of the locked doors. Then there came the sound of many feet
tramping and dying away in some passage which sent up a clanging echo.
I turned to run down again towards the vault, where I might find the
new entrance; but at that moment there seemed to come a violent puff of
wind, and the door to the winding stair blew to with a shock that set
the dust from the lintels flying. When I ran to push it open, I found
that it was hopelessly fast. I was again a prisoner, and the net of
doom was closing round me more closely.

As I write there is in the passage below a sound of many tramping feet
and the crash of weights being set down heavily, doubtless the boxes,
with their freight of earth. There is a sound of hammering; it is the
box being nailed down. Now I can hear the heavy feet tramping again
along the hall, with many other idle feet coming behind them.

The door is shut, and the chains rattle; there is a grinding of the key
in the lock; I can hear the key withdrawn; then another door opens and
shuts; I hear the creaking of lock and bolt.

Hark! in the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of heavy wheels,
the crack of whips, and the chorus of the Szgany as they pass into the
distance.

I am alone in the castle with those awful women. Faugh! Mina is a
woman, and there is naught in common. They are devils of the Pit!

I shall not remain alone with them; I shall try to scale the castle
wall farther than I have yet attempted. I shall take some of the gold
with me, lest I want it later. I may find a way from this dreadful
place.

And then away for home! away to the quickest and nearest train! away
from this cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his
children still walk with earthly feet!

At least God's mercy is better than that of these monsters, and the
precipice is steep and high. At its foot a man may sleep--as a man.
Good-bye, all! Mina!




CHAPTER V.

_Letter from Miss Mina Murray to Miss Lucy Westenra. _


"_9 May. _

"My dearest Lucy,--

"Forgive my long delay in writing, but I have been simply overwhelmed
with work. The life of an assistant schoolmistress is sometimes
trying. I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can
walk together freely and build our castles in the air. I have been
working very hard lately, because I want to keep up with Jonathan's
studies, and I have been practising shorthand very assiduously. When
we are married I shall be able to be useful to Jonathan, and if I can
stenograph well enough I can take down what he wants to say in this
way and write it out for him on the typewriter, at which I am also
practising very hard. He and I sometimes write letters in shorthand,
and he is keeping a stenographic journal of his travels abroad. When I
am with you I shall keep a diary in the same way. I don't mean one of
those two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner diaries,
but a sort of journal which I can write in whenever I feel inclined. I
do not suppose there will be much of interest to other people; but it
is not intended for them. I may show it to Jonathan some day if there
is in it anything worth sharing, but it is really an exercise book.
I shall try to do what I see lady journalists do: interviewing and
writing descriptions and trying to remember conversations. I am told
that, with a little practice, one can remember all that goes on or that
one hears said during a day. However, we shall see. I shall tell you
all my little plans when we meet. I have just had a few hurried lines
from Jonathan from Transylvania. He is well, and will be returning in
about a week. I am longing to hear all his news. It must be so nice to
see strange countries, I wonder if we--I mean Jonathan and I--shall
ever see them together. There is the ten o'clock bell ringing. Goodbye.

"Your loving
"/Mina. /

"Tell me all the news when you write. You have not told me anything
for a long time. I hear rumours, and especially of a tall, handsome,
curly-haired man? ? ? "


_Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray. _

"_17, Chatham Street,

"Wednesday. _

"My dearest Mina,--

"I must say you tax me _very_ unfairly with being a bad correspondent.
I wrote to you _twice_ since we parted, and your last letter was only
your _second_. Besides, I have nothing to tell you. There is really
nothing to interest you. Town is very pleasant just now, and we go a
good deal to picture-galleries and for walks and rides in the park.
As to the tall, curly-haired man, I suppose it was the one who was
with me at the last Pop. Some one has evidently been telling tales.
That was Mr. Holmwood. He often comes to see us, and he and mamma
get on very well together; they have so many things to talk about in
common. We met some time ago a man that would just _do for you_, if
you were not already engaged to Jonathan. He is an excellent _parti_,
being handsome, well off, and of good birth. He is a doctor and really
clever. Just fancy! He is only nine-and-twenty, and he has an immense
lunatic asylum all under his own care. Mr. Holmwood introduced him to
me, and he called here to see us, and often comes now. I think he is
one of the most resolute men I ever saw, and yet the most calm. He
seems absolutely imperturbable. I can fancy what a wonderful power he
must have over his patients. He has a curious habit of looking one
straight in the face, as if trying to read one's thoughts. He tries
this on very much with me, but I flatter myself he has got a tough
nut to crack. I know that from my glass. Do you ever try to read your
own face? _I do_, and I can tell you it is not a bad study, and gives
you more trouble than you can well fancy if you have never tried it.
He says that I afford him a curious psychological study, and I humbly
think I do. I do not, as you know, take sufficient interest in dress to
be able to describe the new fashions. Dress is a bore. That is slang
again, but never mind; Arthur says that every day. There, it is all
out. Mina, we have told all our secrets to each other since we were
_children_; we have slept together and eaten together; and laughed
and cried together; and now, though I have spoken, I would like to
speak more. Oh, Mina, couldn't you guess? I love him. I am blushing
as I write, for although I _think_ he loves me, he has not told me so
in words. But, oh, Mina, I love him; I love him; I love him! There,
that does me good. I wish I were with you, dear, sitting by the fire
undressing, as we used to sit; and I would try to tell you what I feel.
I do not know how I am writing this even to you. I am afraid to stop,
or I should tear up the letter, and I don't want to stop, for I _do so_
want to tell you all. Let me hear from you _at once_, and tell me all
that you think about it. Mina, I must stop. Good-night. Bless me in
your prayers; and, Mina, pray for my happiness.

"/Lucy. /

"P. S. --I need not tell you this is a secret. Good-night again.

"L. "


_Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray. _

"24 _May. _

"My dearest Mina,--

"Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter! It was so
nice to be able to tell you and to have your sympathy.

"My dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old proverbs are.
Here am I, who will be twenty in September, and yet I never had a
proposal till to-day, not a real proposal, and to-day I have had three.
Just fancy! /Three/ proposals in one day! Isn't it awful! I feel sorry,
really and truly sorry, for two of the poor fellows. Oh, Mina, I am so
happy that I don't know what to do with myself. And three proposals!
But, for goodness' sake, don't tell any of the girls, or they would be
getting all sorts of extravagant ideas and imagining themselves injured
and slighted if in their very first day at home they did not get six at
least. Some girls are so vain. You and I, Mina dear, who are engaged
and are going to settle down soon soberly into old married women, can
despise vanity. Well, I must tell you about the three, but you must
keep it a secret, dear, from _every one_, except, of course, Jonathan.
You will tell him, because I would, if I were in your place, certainly
tell Arthur. A woman ought to tell her husband everything--don't you
think so, dear? --and I must be fair. Men like women, certainly their
wives, to be quite as fair as they are; and women, I am afraid, are
not always quite as fair as they should be. Well, my dear, number
one came just before lunch. I told you of him, Dr. John Seward, the
lunatic-asylum man, with the strong jaw and the good forehead. He was
very cool outwardly, but was nervous all the same. He had evidently
been schooling himself as to all sorts of little things, and remembered
them; but he almost managed to sit down on his silk hat, which men
don't generally do when they are cool, and then when he wanted to
appear at ease he kept playing with a lancet in a way that made me
nearly scream. He spoke to me, Mina, very straightforwardly. He told
me how dear I was to him, though he had known me so little, and what
his life would be with me to help and cheer him. He was going to tell
me how unhappy he would be if I did not care for him, but when he saw
me cry he said that he was a brute and would not add to my present
trouble.