No More Learning

The red sunlight was
shining on the windows of St. Mary's Church behind our seat, and as
the sun dipped there was just sufficient change in the refraction and
reflection to make it appear as if the light moved. I called Lucy's
attention to the peculiar effect, and she became herself with a start,
but she looked sad all the same; it may have been that she was thinking
of that terrible night up there. We never refer to it; so I said
nothing, and we went home to dinner. Lucy had a headache and went early
to bed. I saw her asleep, and went out for a little stroll myself; I
walked along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet sadness,
for I was thinking of Jonathan. When coming home--it was then bright
moonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part of the Crescent
was in shadow, everything could be well seen--I threw a glance up at
our window, and saw Lucy's head leaning out. I thought that perhaps she
was looking out for me, so I opened my handkerchief and waved it. She
did not notice or make any movement whatever. Just then, the moonlight
crept round an angle of the building, and the light fell on the window.
There distinctly was Lucy with her head lying up against the side of the
window-sill and her eyes shut. She was fast asleep, and by her, seated
on the window-sill, was something that looked like a good-sized bird.
I was afraid she might get a chill, so I ran upstairs, but as I came
into the room she was moving back to her bed, fast asleep, and breathing
heavily; she was holding her hand to her throat, as though to protect it
from cold.

I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly; I have taken care that
the door is locked and the window securely fastened.

She looks so sweet as she sleeps; but she is paler than is her wont,
and there is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes which I do not like.
I fear she is fretting about something. I wish I could find out what it
is.

_15 August. _--Rose later than usual. Lucy was languid and tired, and
slept on after we had been called. We had a happy surprise at breakfast.
Arthur's father is better, and wants the marriage to come off soon. Lucy
is full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad and sorry at once. Later
on in the day she told me the cause. She is grieved to lose Lucy as
her very own, but she is rejoiced that she is soon to have some one to
protect her. Poor dear, sweet lady! She confided to me that she has got
her death-warrant. She has not told Lucy, and made me promise secrecy;
her doctor told her that within a few months, at most, she must die, for
her heart is weakening. At any time, even now, a sudden shock would be
almost sure to kill her. Ah, we were wise to keep from her the affair of
the dreadful night of Lucy's sleep-walking.

_17 August. _--No diary for two whole days. I have not had the heart to
write. Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our happiness.
No news from Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be growing weaker, whilst her
mother's hours are numbering to a close. I do not understand Lucy's
fading away as she is doing. She eats well and sleeps well, and enjoys
the fresh air; but all the time the roses in her cheeks are fading, and
she gets weaker and more languid day by day; at night I hear her gasping
as if for air. I keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist at
night, but she gets up and walks about the room, and sits at the open
window. Last night I found her leaning out when I woke up, and when I
tried to wake her I could not; she was in a faint. When I managed to
restore her she was as weak as water, and cried silently between long,
painful struggles for breath. When I asked her how she came to be at the
window she shook her head and turned away. I trust her feeling ill may
not be from that unlucky prick of the safety-pin. I looked at her throat
just now as she lay asleep, and the tiny wounds seem not to have healed.
They are still open, and, if anything, larger, than before, and the
edges of them are faintly white. They are like little white dots with
red centres. Unless they heal within a day or two, I shall insist on the
doctor seeing about them.


_Letter, Samuel F. Billington & Son, Solicitors, Whitby, to Messrs.
Carter, Paterson & Co. , London. _

"_17 August. _

"Dear Sirs,--

"Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great Northern
Railway. Same are to be delivered to Carfax, near Purfleet, immediately
on receipt at goods station King's Cross. The house is at present empty,
but enclosed please find keys, all of which are labelled.

"You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form the
consignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of the
house and marked 'A' on rough diagram enclosed. Your agent will easily
recognise the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. The
goods leave by the train at 9. 30 to-night, and will be due at King's
Cross at 4. 30 to-morrow afternoon. As our client wishes the delivery
made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by your having teams ready
at King's Cross at the time named and forthwith conveying the goods to
destination. In order to obviate any delays possible through any routine
requirements as to payment in your departments, we enclose cheque
herewith for ten pounds (? 10), receipt of which please acknowledge.
Should the charge be less than this amount, you can return balance; if
greater, we shall at once send cheque for difference on hearing from
you. You are to leave the keys on coming away in the main hall of the
house, where the proprietor may get them on his entering the house by
means of his duplicate key.

"Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business courtesy in
pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition.

"We are, dear Sirs,
"Faithfully yours,
"/Samuel F. Billington & Son. /"


_Letter, Messrs. Carter, Paterson & Co. , London, to Messrs. Billington &
Son, Whitby_

"_21 August. _

"Dear Sirs,--


"We beg to acknowledge ? 10 received and to return cheque ? 1 17_s. _
9_d. _, amount of overplus, as shown in receipted account herewith. Goods
are delivered in exact accordance with instructions, and keys left in
parcel in main hall, as directed.

"We are, dear Sirs,
"Yours respectfully,
"_Pro_ /Carter, Paterson & Co. /"

/Mina Murray's Journal. /

_18 August. _--I am happy to-day, and write sitting on the seat in the
churchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last night she slept well all
night, and did not disturb me once. The roses seem coming back already
to her cheeks, though she is still sadly pale and wan-looking. If she
were in any way anaemic I could understand it, but she is not. She is in
gay spirits and full of life and cheerfulness. All the morbid reticence
seems to have passed from her, and she has just reminded me, as if I
needed any reminding, of _that_ night, and that it was here, on this
very seat, I found her asleep. As she told me she tapped playfully with
the heel of her boot on the stone slab and said:--

"My poor little feet didn't make much noise then! I daresay poor old Mr.
Swales would have told me that it was because I didn't want to wake up
Geordie. " As she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her if she
had dreamed at all that night. Before she answered, that sweet, puckered
look came into her forehead, which Arthur--I call him Arthur from her
habit--says he loves; and, indeed, I don't wonder that he does. Then she
went on in a half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it to
herself:--

"I didn't quite dream; but it all seemed to be real. I only wanted to be
here in this spot--I don't know why, for I was afraid of something--I
don't know what. I remember, though I suppose I was asleep, passing
through the streets and over the bridge. A fish leaped as I went by,
and I leaned over to look at it, and I heard a lot of dogs howling--the
whole town seemed as if it must be full of dogs all howling at once--as
I went up the steps. Then I have a vague memory of something long and
dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and something very
sweet and very bitter all around me at once; and then I seemed sinking
into deep green water, and there was a singing in my ears, as I have
heard there is to drowning men; and then everything seemed passing away
from me; my soul seemed to go out from my body and float about the air.
I seemed to remember that once the West Lighthouse was right under me,
and then there was a sort of agonising feeling, as if I were in an
earthquake, and I came back and found you shaking my body. I saw you do
it before I felt you. "

Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I
listened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and thought it
better not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to other
subjects, and Lucy was like her old self again. When we got home the
fresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were really more
rosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very
happy evening together.

_19 August. _--Joy, joy, joy! although not all joy. At last, news of
Jonathan. The dear fellow has been ill; that is why he did not write.
I am not afraid to think it or to say it, now that I know. Mr. Hawkins
sent me on the letter, and wrote himself oh, so kindly. I am to leave
in the morning and to go over to Jonathan, and to help nurse him if
necessary, and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says it would not be a bad
thing if we were to be married out there. I have cried over the good
Sister's letter till I can feel it wet against my bosom, where it lies.
It is of Jonathan, and must be next my heart, for he is _in_ my heart.
My journey is all mapped out, and my luggage ready. I am only taking one
change of dress; Lucy will bring my trunk to London and keep it till I
send for it, for it may be that. . . . I must write no more; I must keep it
to say to Jonathan, my husband. The letter that he has seen and touched
must comfort me till we meet.


_Letter, Sister Agatha, Hospital of St. Joseph and Ste. Mary,
Buda-Pesth, to Miss Wilhelmina Murray. _

"_12 August. _

"Dear Madam,--

"I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is himself not strong
enough to write, though progressing well, thanks to God and St. Joseph
and Ste. Mary. He has been under our care for nearly six weeks,
suffering from a violent brain fever. He wishes me to convey his love,
and to say that by this post I write for him to Mr. Peter Hawkins,
Exeter, to say, with his dutiful respects, that he is sorry for his
delay, and that all his work is completed. He will require some few
weeks' rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but will then return. He
wishes me to say that he has not sufficient money with him, and that he
would like to pay for his staying here, so that others who need shall
not be wanting for help.

"Believe me,
"Yours, with sympathy and all blessings,
"/Sister Agatha. /

"P. S. --My patient being asleep, I open this to let you know something
more. He has told me all about you, and that you are shortly to be his
wife. All blessings to you both! He has had some fearful shock--so says
our doctor--and in his delirium his ravings have been dreadful; of
wolves and poison and blood; of ghosts and demons; and I fear to say of
what. Be careful with him always that there may be nothing to excite
him of this kind for a long time to come; the traces of such an illness
as his do not lightly die away. We should have written long ago, but we
knew nothing of his friends, and there was on him nothing that any one
could understand. He came in the train from Klausenburgh, and the guard
was told by the station-master there that he rushed into the station
shouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from his violent demeanour that
he was English, they gave him a ticket for the farthest station on the
way thither that the train reached.

"Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all hearts by his
sweetness and gentleness. He is truly getting on well, and I have no
doubt will in a few weeks be all himself. But be careful of him for
safety's sake. There are, I pray God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary, many,
many happy years for you both. "


_Dr. Seward's Diary. _

_19 August. _--Strange and sudden change in Renfield last night. About
eight o'clock he began to get excited and to sniff about as a dog does
when setting. The attendant was struck by his manner, and knowing my
interest in him, encouraged him to talk. He is usually respectful to
the attendant, and at times servile; but to-night, the man tells me, he
was quite haughty. Would not condescend to talk with him at all. All he
would say was:--

"I don't want to talk to you: you don't count now; the Master is at
hand. "

The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania which
has seized him. If so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong man
with homicidal and religious mania at once might be dangerous. The
combination is a dreadful one. At nine o'clock I visited him myself. His
attitude to me was the same as that to the attendant; in his sublime
self-feeling the difference between myself and attendant seemed to him
as nothing. It looks like religious mania, and he will soon think that
he himself is God. These infinitesimal distinctions between man and man
are too paltry for an Omnipotent being. How these madmen give themselves
away! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall; but the God created
from human vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a sparrow. Oh,
if men only knew!

For half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in greater and
greater degree. I did not pretend to be watching him, but I kept strict
observation all the same. All at once that shifty look came into his
eyes which we always see when a madman has seized an idea, and with it
the shifty movement of the head and back which asylum attendants come to
know so well. He became quite quiet, and went and sat on the edge of his
bed resignedly, and looked into space with lack-lustre eyes. I thought
I would find out if his apathy were real or only assumed, and tried to
lead him to talk of his pets, a theme which never failed to excite his
attention. At first he made no reply, but at length said testily:--

"Bother them all! I don't care a pin about them. "

"What? " I said. "You don't mean to tell me that you don't care about
spiders? " (Spiders at present are his hobby, and the note-book is
filling up with columns of small figures. ) To this he answered
enigmatically:--

"The bride-maidens rejoice the eyes that wait the coming of the bride;
but when the bride draweth nigh, then the maidens shine not to the eyes
that are filled. "

He would not explain himself, but remained obstinately seated on his bed
all the time I remained with him.

I am weary to-night and low in spirits. I cannot but think of Lucy, and
how different things might have been. If I don't sleep at once, chloral,
the modern Morpheus--C_{2}HCl_{3}O? H_{2}O! I must be careful not to let
it grow into a habit. No, I shall take none to-night! I have thought
of Lucy, and I shall not dishonour her by mixing the two. If need be,
to-night shall be sleepless. . . .

Glad I made the resolution; gladder that I kept to it. I had lain
tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice, when the
night-watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that Renfield
had escaped.
I threw on my clothes and ran down at once; my patient is
too dangerous a person to be roaming about. Those ideas of his might
work out dangerously with strangers. The attendant was waiting for me.
He said he had seen him not ten minutes before, seemingly asleep in his
bed, when he had looked through the observation-trap in the door. His
attention was called by the sound of the window being wrenched out. He
ran back and saw his feet disappear through the window, and had at once
sent up for me. He was only in his night-gear, and cannot be far off.
The attendant thought it would be more useful to watch where he should
go than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst getting
out of the building by the door. He is a bulky man, and couldn't get
through the window. I am thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feet
foremost, and, as we were only a few feet above ground, landed unhurt.
The attendant told me the patient had gone to the left and had taken a
straight line, so I ran as quickly as I could. As I got through the belt
of trees I saw a white figure scale the high wall which separates our
grounds from those of the deserted house.

I ran back at once, and told the watchman to get three or four men
immediately and follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case our
friend might be dangerous. I got a ladder myself, and crossing the
wall, dropped down on the other side. I could see Renfield's figure
just disappearing behind the angle of the house, so I ran after him.
On the far side of the house I found him pressed close against the old
iron-bound oak door of the chapel. He was talking, apparently to some
one, but I was afraid to go near enough to hear what he was saying, lest
I might frighten him, and he should run off. Chasing an errant swarm of
bees is nothing to following a naked lunatic when the fit of escaping is
upon him! After a few minutes, however, I could see that he did not take
note of anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearer to him--the
more so as my men had now crossed the wall and were closing him in. I
heard him say:--

"I am here to do Your bidding, Master. I am Your slave, and You will
reward me, for I shall be faithful. I have worshipped You long and afar
off. Now that You are near, I await Your commands, and You will not pass
me by, will You, dear Master, in Your distribution of good things? "

He _is_ a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the loaves and fishes
even when he believes he is in a Real Presence. His manias make a
startling combination. When we closed in on him he fought like a tiger.
He is immensely strong, and he was more like a wild beast than a man.
I never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before; and I hope I
shall not again. It is a mercy that we have found out his strength and
his danger in good time. With strength and determination like his, he
might have done wild work before he was caged. He is safe now at any
rate. Jack Sheppard himself couldn't get free from the strait-waistcoat
that keeps him restrained, and he's chained to the wall in the padded
room. His cries are at times awful, but the silences that follow are
more deadly still, for he means murder in every turn and movement.

Just now he spoke coherent words for the first time:--

"I shall be patient, Master. It is coming--coming--coming! "

So I took the hint, and came too. I was too excited to sleep, but this
diary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get some sleep to-night.




CHAPTER IX.

_Letter, Mina Harker to Lucy Westenra. _


_"Buda-Pesth, 24 August. _

"My dearest Lucy,--

"I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened since we
parted at the railway station at Whitby. Well, my dear, I got to Hull
all right, and caught the boat to Hamburg, and then the train on here. I
feel I can hardly recall anything of the journey, except that I knew I
was coming to Jonathan, and, that as I should have to do some nursing,
I had better get all the sleep I could. . . . I found my dear one, oh,
so thin and pale and weak-looking. All the resolution has gone out of
his dear eyes, and that quiet dignity which I told you was in his face
has vanished. He is only a wreck of himself, and he does not remember
anything that has happened to him for a long time past. At least, he
wants me to believe so, and I shall never ask. He has had some terrible
shock, and I fear it might tax his poor brain if he were to try to
recall it. Sister Agatha, who is a good creature and a born nurse,
tells me that he raved of dreadful things whilst he was off his head. I
wanted her to tell me what they were; but she would only cross herself,
and say she would never tell; that the ravings of the sick were the
secrets of God, and that if a nurse through her vocation should hear
them, she should respect her trust. She is a sweet, good soul, and the
next day, when she saw I was troubled, she opened up the subject again,
and after saying that she could never mention what my poor dear raved
about, added: 'I can tell you this much, my dear: that it was not about
anything which he has done wrong himself; and you, as his wife to be,
have no cause to be concerned. He has not forgotten you or what he owes
to you. His fear was of great and terrible things, which no mortal can
treat of. ' I do believe the dear soul thought I might be jealous lest my
poor dear should have fallen in love with any other girl. The idea of
_my_ being jealous about Jonathan! And yet, my dear, let me whisper, I
felt a thrill of joy through me when I _knew_ that no other woman was a
cause of trouble. I am now sitting by his bedside, where I can see his
face while he sleeps. He is waking! . . . When he woke he asked me for
his coat, as he wanted to get something from the pocket; I asked Sister
Agatha, and she brought all his things. I saw that amongst them was his
note-book, and was going to ask him to let me look at it--for I knew
then that I might find some clue to his trouble--but I suppose he must
have seen my wish in my eyes, for he sent me over to the window, saying
he wanted to be quite alone for a moment. Then he called me back, and
when I came he had his hand over the note-book, and he said to me very
solemnly:--

"'Wilhelmina'--I knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for he has
never called me by that name since he asked me to marry him--'you know,
dear, my ideas of the trust between husband and wife: there should be
no secret, no concealment. I have had a great shock, and when I try to
think of what it is I feel my head spin round, and I do not know if it
was all real or the dreaming of a madman. You know I have had brain
fever, and that is to be mad. The secret is here, and I do not want
to know it. I want to take up my life here, with our marriage. ' For,
my dear, we had decided to be married as soon as the formalities are
complete. 'Are you willing, Wilhelmina, to share my ignorance? Here is
the book. Take it and keep it, read it if you will, but never let me
know; unless, indeed, some solemn duty should come upon me to go back to
the bitter hours, asleep or awake, sane or mad, recorded here. ' He fell
back, exhausted, and I put the book under his pillow, and kissed him. I
have asked Sister Agatha to beg the Superior to let our wedding be this
afternoon, and am waiting her reply. . . .

"She has come and told me that the chaplain of the English mission
church has been sent for. We are to be married in an hour, or as soon
after as Jonathan awakes. . . .

"Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but very, very
happy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all was ready, and he
sat up in bed, propped up with pillows. He answered his 'I will' firmly
and strongly. I could hardly speak; my heart was so full that even these
words seemed to choke me. The dear Sisters were so kind. Please God, I
shall never, never forget them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities
I have taken upon me. I must tell you of my wedding present. When the
chaplain and the Sisters had left me alone with my husband--oh, Lucy,
it is the first time I have written the words 'my husband'--left me
alone with my husband, I took the book from under his pillow, and
wrapped it up in white paper, and tied it with a little bit of pale blue
ribbon which was wound round my neck, and sealed it over the knot with
sealing-wax, and for my seal I used my wedding ring. Then I kissed it
and showed it to my husband, and told him that I would keep it so, and
then it would be an outward and visible sign for us all our lives that
we trusted each other; that I would never open it unless it were for his
own dear sake or for the sake of some stern duty. Then he took my hand
in his, and oh, Lucy, it was the first time he took _his wife's_ hand,
and said that it was the dearest thing in all the wide world, and that
he would go through all the past again to win it, if need be. The poor
dear meant to have said a part of the past; but he cannot think of time
yet, and I shall not wonder if at first he mixes up not only the month,
but the year.

"Well, my dear, what could I say? I could only tell him that I was the
happiest woman in all the wide world, and that I had nothing to give him
except myself, my life, and my trust, and that with these went my love
and duty for all the days of my life. And, my dear, when he kissed me,
and drew me to him with his poor weak hands, it was like a very solemn
pledge between us. . . .

"Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is not only because
it is all sweet to me, but because you have been, and are, very dear
to me. It was my privilege to be your friend and guide when you came
from the schoolroom to prepare for the world of life. I want you to see
now, and with the eyes of a very happy wife, whither duty has led me;
so that in your own married life you too may be all happy as I am. My
dear, please Almighty God, your life may be all it promises: a long day
of sunshine, with no harsh wind, no forgetting duty, no distrust. I must
not wish you no pain, for that can never be; but I do hope you will be
always as happy as I am _now_. Good-bye, my dear. I shall post this at
once, and, perhaps, write you very soon again. I must stop, for Jonathan
is waking--I must attend to my husband!

"Your ever-loving
"/Mina Harker. /"


_Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Harker. _

"_Whitby, 30 August. _

"My dearest Mina,--

"Oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you soon be in your own
home with your husband. I wish you could be coming home soon enough
to stay with us here. This strong air would soon restore Jonathan; it
has quite restored me. I have an appetite like a cormorant, am full of
life, and sleep well. You will be glad to know that I have quite given
up walking in my sleep. I think I have not stirred out of my bed for a
week, that is when I once got into it at night. Arthur says I am getting
fat. By the way, I forgot to tell you that Arthur is here. We have
such walks and drives, and rides, and rowing, and tennis, and fishing
together; and I love him more than ever. He _tells me_ that he loves me
more, but I doubt that, for at first he told me that he couldn't love me
more than he did then. But this is nonsense. There he is, calling to me.
So no more just at present from your loving

"/Lucy. /

"P. S. --Mother sends her love. She seems better, poor dear.

"P. P. S. --We are to be married on 28 September. "


_Dr. Seward's Diary_

_20 August. _--The case of Renfield grows even more interesting. He has
now so far quieted that there are spells of cessation from his passion.
For the first week after his attack he was perpetually violent. Then
one night, just as the moon rose, he grew quiet, and kept murmuring to
himself: "Now I can wait; now I can wait. " The attendant came to tell
me, so I ran down at once to have a look at him. He was still in the
strait-waistcoat and in the padded room, but the suffused look had
gone from his face, and his eyes had something of their old pleading--I
might almost say, "cringing"--softness. I was satisfied with his
present condition, and directed him to be relieved. The attendants
hesitated, but finally carried out my wishes without protest. It was a
strange thing that the patient had humour enough to see their distrust,
for, coming close to me, he said in a whisper, all the while looking
furtively at them:--

"They think I could hurt you! Fancy _me_ hurting _you_! The fools! "

It was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself dissociated
even in the mind of this poor madman from the others; but all the same
I do not follow his thought. Am I to take it that I have anything in
common with him, so that we are, as it were, to stand together; or has
he to gain from me some good so stupendous that my well-being is needful
to him? I must find out later on. To-night he will not speak. Even the
offer of a kitten or even a full-grown cat will not tempt him. He will
only say: "I don't take any stock in cats. I have more to think of now,
and I can wait; I can wait. "

After a while I left him. The attendant tells me that he was quiet
until just before dawn, and then he began to get uneasy, and at length
violent, until at last he fell into a paroxysm which exhausted him so
that he swooned into a sort of coma.

. . . Three nights has the same thing happened--violent all day, then
quiet from moonrise to sunrise. I wish I could get some clue to the
cause. It would almost seem as if there was some influence which came
and went. Happy thought! We shall to-night play sane wits against mad
ones. He escaped before without our help; to-night he shall escape with
it. We shall give him a chance, and have the men ready to follow in case
they are required. . . .

_23 August. _--"The unexpected always happens. " How well Disraeli knew
life! Our bird when he found the cage open would not fly, so all our
subtle arrangements went for naught. At any rate, we have proved one
thing: that the spells of quietness last a reasonable time. We shall in
future be able to ease his bond for a few hours each day. I have given
orders to the night attendant merely to shut him in the padded room,
when once he is quiet, until an hour before sunrise. The poor soul's
body will enjoy the relief even if his mind cannot appreciate it. Hark!
The unexpected again! I am called; the patient has once more escaped.

_Later. _--Another night adventure. Renfield artfully waited until the
attendant was entering the room to inspect. Then he dashed out past him
and flew down the passage. I sent word for the attendants to follow.
Again we went into the ground of the deserted house, and we found him
in the same place, pressed against the old chapel door. When he saw me
he became furious, and had not the attendants seized him in time, he
would have tried to kill me. As we were holding him a strange thing
happened. He suddenly redoubled his efforts, and then he suddenly grew
calm. I looked round instinctively, but could see nothing. Then I caught
the patient's eye and followed it, but could trace nothing as it looked
into the moonlit sky except a big bat, which was flapping its silent and
ghostly way to the west. Bats usually wheel and flit about but this one
seemed to go straight on, as if it knew where it was bound for or had
some intention of its own. The patient grew calmer every instant, and
presently said:--

"You needn't tie me; I shall go quietly! " Without trouble we came back
to the house. I feel there is something ominous in his calm, and shall
not forget this night. . . .