When he comes
tomorrow
I shall ask him about Jonathan;
and then, please God, all this sorrow and anxiety may lead to a good
end.
and then, please God, all this sorrow and anxiety may lead to a good
end.
Dracula by Bram Stoker
I tried to be stern with him, as one is to a woman under the
circumstances; but it had no effect. Men and women are so different in
manifestations of nervous strength or weakness! Then when his face grew
grave and stern again I asked him why his mirth, and why at such a time.
His reply was in a way characteristic of him, for it was logical and
forceful and mysterious. He said:--
"Ah, you don't comprehend, friend John. Do not think that I am not sad,
though I laugh. See, I have cried even when the laugh did choke me. But
no more think that I am all sorry when I cry, for the laugh he come just
the same. Keep it always with you that laughter who knock at your door
and say, 'May I come in? ' is not the true laughter. No! he is a king,
and he come when and how he like. He ask no person; he choose no time
of suitability. He say: 'I am here. ' Behold, in example, I grieve my
heart out for that so sweet young girl; I give my blood for her, though
I am old and worn; I give my time, my skill, my sleep; I let my other
sufferers want that she may have all. And yet I can laugh at her very
grave--laugh when the clay from the spade of the sexton drop upon her
coffin and say, 'Thud! thud! ' to my heart, till it send back the blood
from my cheek. My heart bleed for that poor boy--that dear boy, so of
the age of mine own boy had I been so blessed that he live, and with his
hair and eyes the same. There, you know now why I love him so. And yet
when he say things that touch my husband-heart to the quick, and make my
father-heart yearn to him as to no other man--not even to you, friend
John, for we are more level in experiences than father and son--yet
even at such moment King Laugh he come to me and shout and bellow in my
ear, 'Here I am! Here I am! ' till the blood come dance back and bring
some of the sunshine that he carry with him to my cheek. Oh, friend
John, it is a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and
woes, and troubles; and yet when King Laugh come he make them all dance
to the tune he play. Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard,
and tears that burn as they fall--all dance together to the music that
he make with that smileless mouth of him. And believe me, friend John,
that he is good to come, and kind. Ah, we men and women are like ropes
drawn tight with strain that pull us different ways. Then tears come;
and, like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until perhaps the
strain become too great, and we break. But King Laugh he come like the
sunshine, and he ease off the strain again; and we bear to go on with
our labour, what it may be. "
I did not like to wound him by pretending not to see his idea; but, as
I did not yet understand the cause of his laughter, I asked him. As
he answered me his face grew stern, and he said in quite a different
tone:--
"Oh, it was the grim irony of it all--this so lovely lady garlanded
with flowers, that looked so fair as life, till one by one we wondered
if she were truly dead; she laid in that so fine marble house in that
lonely churchyard, where rest so many of her kin, laid there with the
mother who loved her, and whom she loved; and that sacred bell going
'Toll! toll! toll! ' so sad and slow; and those holy men, with the white
garments of the angel, pretending to read books, and yet all the time
their eyes never on the page; and all us with the bowed head. And all
for what? She is dead; so! Is it not? "
"Well, for the life of me, Professor," I said, "I can't see anything to
laugh at in all that. Why, your explanation makes it a harder puzzle
than before. But even if the burial service was comic, what about poor
Art and his trouble? Why, his heart was simply breaking. "
"Just so. Said he not that the transfusion of his blood to her veins had
made her truly his bride? "
"Yes, and it was a sweet and comforting idea for him. "
"Quite so. But there was a difficulty, friend John. If so that, then
what about the others? Ho, ho! Then this so sweet maid is a polyandrist,
and me, with my poor wife dead to me, but alive by Church's law, though
no wits, all gone--even I, who am faithful husband to this now-no-wife,
am bigamist. "
"I don't see where the joke comes in there either! " I said; and I did
not feel particularly pleased with him for saying such things. He laid
his hand on my arm, and said:--
"Friend John, forgive me if I pain. I showed not my feeling to others
when it would wound, but only to you, my old friend, whom I can trust.
If you could have looked into my very heart then when I want to laugh;
if you could have done so when the laugh arrived; if you could do so
now, when King Laugh have pack up his crown and all that is to him--for
he go far, far away from me, and for a long, long time--maybe you would
perhaps pity me the most of all. "
I was touched by the tenderness of his tone, and asked why.
"Because I know! "
And now we are all scattered; and for many a long day loneliness will
sit over our roofs with brooding wings. Lucy lies in the tomb of her
kin, a lordly death-house in a lonely churchyard, away from teeming
London; where the air is fresh, and the sun rises over Hampstead Hill,
and where wild flowers grow of their own accord.
So I can finish this diary; and God only knows if I shall ever begin
another. If I do, or if I ever open this again, it will be to deal with
different people and different themes; for here at the end, where the
romance of my life is told, ere I go back to take up the thread of my
life-work, I say sadly and without hope,
"/Finis. /"
_The "Westminster Gazette," 25 September. _
/A Hampstead Mystery. /
The neighbourhood of Hampstead is just at present exercised with a
series of events which seem to run on lines parallel to those of what
was known to the writers of headlines as "The Kensington Horror," or
"The Stabbing Woman," or "The Woman in Black. " During the past two
or three days several cases have occurred of young children straying
from home or neglecting to return from their playing on the Heath.
In all these cases the children were too young to give any properly
intelligible account of themselves, but the consensus of their excuses
is that they had been with a "bloofer lady. " It has always been late
in the evening when they have been missed, and on two occasions the
children have not been found until early in the following morning. It
is generally supposed in the neighbourhood that, as the first child
missed gave as his reason for being away that a "bloofer lady" had
asked him to come for a walk, the others had picked up the phrase and
used it as occasion served. This is the more natural as the favourite
game of the little ones at present is luring each other away by wiles.
A correspondent writes us that to see some of the tiny tots pretending
to be the "bloofer lady" is supremely funny. Some of our caricaturists
might, he says, take a lesson in the irony of grotesque by comparing
the reality and the picture. It is only in accordance with general
principles of human nature that the "bloofer lady" should be the popular
role at these _al fresco_ performances. Our correspondent naively
says that even Ellen Terry could not be so winningly attractive as
some of these grubby-faced little children pretend--and even imagine
themselves--to be.
There is, however, possibly a serious side to the question, for some
of the children, indeed all who have been missed at night, have been
slightly torn or wounded in the throat. The wounds seem such as might
be made by a rat or a small dog, and although of not much importance
individually, would tend to show that whatever animal inflicts them has
a system or method of its own. The police of the division have been
instructed to keep a sharp lookout for straying children, especially
when very young, in and around Hampstead Heath, and for any stray dog
which may be about.
_"The Westminster Gazette," 25 September. _
_Extra Special. _
THE HAMPSTEAD HORROR.
/Another Child Injured. /
_The "Bloofer Lady. "_
We have just received intelligence that another child, missed last
night, was only discovered late in the morning under a furze bush at
the Shooter's Hill side of Hampstead Heath, which is, perhaps, less
frequented than the other parts. It has the same tiny wound in the
throat as has been noticed in other cases. It was terribly weak, and
looked quite emaciated. It too, when partially restored, had the common
story to tell of being lured away by the "bloofer lady. "
CHAPTER XIV.
/Mina Harker's Journal. /
_23 September. _--Jonathan is better after a bad night. I am so glad that
he has plenty of work to do, for that keeps his mind off the terrible
things; and oh, I am rejoiced that he is not now weighed down with the
responsibility of his new position. I knew he would be true to himself,
and now how proud I am to see my Jonathan rising to the height of his
advancement and keeping pace in all ways with the duties that come upon
him. He will be away all day till late, for he said he could not lunch
at home. My household work is done, so I shall take his foreign journal,
and lock myself up in my room and read it. . . .
_24 September. _--I hadn't the heart to write last night; that terrible
record of Jonathan's upset me so. Poor dear! How he must have suffered,
whether it be true or only imagination. I wonder if there is any truth
in it at all. Did he get his brain fever, and then write all those
terrible things; or had he some cause for it all? I suppose I shall
never know, for I dare not open the subject to him. . . . And yet that
man we saw yesterday! He seemed quite certain of him. . . . Poor fellow!
I suppose it was the funeral upset him and sent his mind back on some
train of thought. . . . He believes it all himself. I remember how on
our wedding-day he said: "Unless some solemn duty come upon me to go
back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake, mad or sane. " There seems
to be through it all some thread of continuity. . . . That fearful Count
was coming to London. . . . "If it should be, and he came to London, with
its teeming millions. " . . . There may be a solemn duty; and if it come
we must not shrink from it. . . . I shall be prepared. I shall get my
typewriter this very hour and begin transcribing. Then we shall be ready
for other eyes if required. And if it be wanted; then, perhaps, if I am
ready, poor Jonathan may not be upset, for I can speak for him and never
let him be troubled or worried with it all. If ever Jonathan quite gets
over the nervousness he may want to tell me of it all, and I can ask him
questions and find out things, and see how I may comfort him.
_Letter, Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker. _
"_24 September. _
(_Confidence. _)
"Dear Madam,--
"I pray you to pardon my writing, in that I am so far friend as that I
send to you sad news of Miss Lucy Westenra's death. By the kindness of
Lord Godalming, I am empowered to read her letters and papers, for I
am deeply concerned about certain matters vitally important. In them I
find some letters from you, which show how great friends you were and
how you love her. Oh, Madam Mina, by that love, I implore you, help me.
It is for others' good that I ask--to redress great wrong, and to lift
much and terrible troubles--that may be more great than you can know.
May it be that I see you? You can trust me. I am a friend of Dr. John
Seward and of Lord Godalming (that was Arthur of Miss Lucy). I must keep
it private for the present from all. I should come to Exeter to see you
at once if you tell me I am privilege to come, and where and when. I
implore your pardon, madam. I have read your letters to poor Lucy, and
know how good you are and how your husband suffer; so I pray you, if
it may be, enlighten him not, lest it may harm. Again your pardon, and
forgive me.
"/Van Helsing. /"
_Telegram, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing. _
"_25 September. _--Come to-day by quarter-past ten train if you can catch
it. Can see you any time you call.
"/Wilhelmina Harker. /"
/Mina Harker's Journal. /
_25 September. _--I cannot help feeling terribly excited as the time
draws near for the visit of Dr. Van Helsing, for somehow I expect
it will throw some light upon Jonathan's sad experience; and as he
attended poor dear Lucy in her last illness, he can tell me all about
her. That is the reason for his coming; it is concerning Lucy and her
sleep-walking, and not about Jonathan. Then I shall never know the
real truth now! How silly I am. That awful journal gets hold of my
imagination and tinges everything with something of its own colour. Of
course it is about Lucy. That habit came back to the poor dear, and that
awful night on the cliff must have made her ill. I had almost forgotten
in my own affairs how ill she was afterwards. She must have told him of
her sleep-walking adventure on the cliff, and that I knew all about it;
and now he wants me to tell him about it, so that he may understand. I
hope I did right in not saying anything of it to Mrs. Westenra; I should
never forgive myself if any act of mine, were it even a negative one,
brought harm on poor dear Lucy. I hope, too, Dr. Van Helsing will not
blame me; I have had so much trouble and anxiety of late that I feel I
cannot bear more just at present.
I suppose a cry does us all good at times--clears the air as other rain
does. Perhaps it was reading the journal yesterday that upset me, and
then Jonathan went away this morning to stay away from me a whole day
and night, the first time we have been parted since our marriage. I do
hope the dear fellow will take care of himself, and that nothing will
occur to upset him. It is two o'clock and the doctor will be here soon
now. I shall say nothing of Jonathan's journal unless he asks me. I am
so glad I have typewritten out my own journal, so that, in case he asks
about Lucy, I can hand it to him; it will save much questioning.
_Later. _--He has come and gone. Oh, what a strange meeting, and how
it all makes my head whirl round! I feel like one in a dream. Can it
be all possible, or even a part of it? If I had not read Jonathan's
journal first, I should never have accepted even a possibility. Poor,
poor, dear Jonathan! How he must have suffered. Please the good God all
this may not upset him again. I shall try to save him from it; but it
may be even a consolation and a help to him--terrible though it be and
awful in its consequences--to know for certain that his eyes and ears
and brain did not deceive him, and that it is all true. It may be that
it is the doubt which haunts him; that when the doubt is removed, no
matter which--waking or dreaming--may prove the truth, he will be more
satisfied and better able to bear the shock. Dr. Van Helsing must be
a good man as well as a clever one if he is Arthur's friend and Dr.
Seward's, and if they brought him all the way from Holland to look after
Lucy. I feel from having seen him that he is good and kind and of a
noble nature.
When he comes tomorrow I shall ask him about Jonathan;
and then, please God, all this sorrow and anxiety may lead to a good
end. I used to think I would like to practise interviewing; Jonathan's
friend on "The Exeter News" told him that memory was everything in
such work--that you must be able to put down exactly almost every word
spoken, even if you had to refine some of it afterwards. Here was a rare
interview; I shall try to record it _verbatim_.
It was half-past two o'clock when the knock came. I took my courage
_a deux mains_ and waited. In a few minutes Mary opened the door, and
announced "Dr. Van Helsing. "
I rose and bowed, and he came towards me; a man of medium height,
strongly built, with his shoulders set back over a broad, deep chest and
a neck well balanced on the trunk as the head is on the neck. The poise
of the head strikes one at once as indicative of thought and power; the
head is noble, well-sized, broad, and large behind the ears. The face,
clean-shaven, shows a hard, square chin, a large, resolute, mobile
mouth, a good-sized nose, rather straight, but with quick, sensitive
nostrils, that seem to broaden as the big, bushy eyebrows come down and
the mouth tightens. The forehead is broad and fine, rising at first
almost straight and then sloping back above two bumps or ridges wide
apart; such a forehead that the reddish hair cannot possibly tumble
over it, but falls naturally back and to the sides. Big, dark blue eyes
are set widely apart, and are quick and tender or stern with the man's
moods. He said to me:--
"Mrs. Harker, is it not? " I bowed assent.
"That was Miss Mina Murray? " Again I assented.
"It is Mina Murray that I came to see that was friend of that poor dear
child Lucy Westenra. Madam Mina, it is on account of the dead I come. "
"Sir," I said, "you could have no better claim on me than that you were
a friend and helper of Lucy Westenra. " And I held out my hand. He took
it and said tenderly:--
"Oh, Madam Mina, I knew that the friend of that poor lily girl must be
good, but I had yet to learn----" He finished his speech with a courtly
bow. I asked him what it was that he wanted to see me about, so he at
once began:--
"I have read your letters to Miss Lucy. Forgive me, but I had to begin
to inquire somewhere, and there was none to ask. I know that you were
with her at Whitby. She sometimes kept a diary--you need not look
surprised, Madam Mina; it was begun after you left, and was made in
imitation of you--and in that diary she traces by inference certain
things to a sleep-walking in which she puts down that you saved her. In
great perplexity then I come to you, and ask you out of your so much
kindness to tell me all of it that you remember. "
"I can tell you, I think, Dr. Van Helsing, all about it. "
"Ah, then you have a good memory for facts, for details? It is not
always so with young ladies. "
"No, doctor, but I wrote it all down at the time. I can show it to you
if you like. "
"Oh, Madam Mina, I will be grateful; you will do me much favour. " I
could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit--I suppose it
is some of the taste of the original apple that remains still in our
mouths--so I handed him the shorthand diary. He took it with a grateful
bow, and said:--
"May I read it? "
"If you wish," I answered as demurely as I could. He opened it, and for
the instant his face fell. Then he stood up and bowed.
"Oh, you so clever woman! " he said. "I long knew that Mr. Jonathan was
a man of much thankfulness; but see, his wife have all the good things.
And will you not so much honour me and so help me as to read it for
me? Alas! I know not the shorthand. " By this time my little joke was
over, and I was almost ashamed; so I took the typewritten copy from my
work-basket and handed it to him.
"Forgive me," I said: "I could not help it; but I had been thinking
that it was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you might
not have to wait--not on my account, but because I know your time must
be precious--I have written it out on the typewriter for you. "
He took it, and his eyes glistened. "You are so good," he said. "And may
I read it now? I may want to ask you some things when I have read. "
"By all means," I said, "read it over whilst I order lunch; and then you
can ask me questions whilst we eat. " He bowed and settled himself in a
chair with his back to the light, and became absorbed in the papers,
whilst I went to see after lunch, chiefly in order that he might not be
disturbed. When I came back I found him walking hurriedly up and down
the room, his face all ablaze with excitement. He rushed up to me and
took me by both hands.
"Oh, Madam Mina," he said, "how can I say what I owe to you? This paper
is as sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I am daze, I am dazzle, with so
much light; and yet clouds roll in behind the light every time. But that
you do not, cannot, comprehend. Oh, but I am grateful to you, you so
clever woman. Madam"--he said this very solemnly--"if ever Abraham Van
Helsing can do anything for you or yours, I trust you will let me know.
It will be pleasure and delight if I may serve you as a friend; as a
friend, but all I have ever learned, all I can ever do, shall be for you
and those you love. There are darknesses in life, and there are lights;
you are one of the lights. You will have happy life and good life, and
your husband will be blessed in you. "
"But, doctor, you praise me too much, and--and you do not know me. "
"Not know you--I, who am old, and who have studied all my life men and
women; I, who have made my speciality the brain and all that belongs
to him and all that follow from him! And I have read your diary that
you have so goodly written for me, and which breathes out truth in
every line. I, who have read your so sweet letter to poor Lucy of your
marriage and your trust, not know you! Oh, Madam Mina, good women tell
all their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute, such things that
angels can read; and we men who wish to know have in us something of
angels' eyes. Your husband is noble nature, and you are noble too, for
you trust, and trust cannot be where there is mean nature. And your
husband--tell me of him. Is he quite well? Is all that fever gone,
and is he strong and hearty? " I saw here an opening to ask him about
Jonathan, so I said:--
"He has almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by Mr.
Hawkins's death. " He interrupted:--
"Oh yes, I know, I know. I have read your last two letters. " I went
on:--
"I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on Thursday last he
had a sort of shock. "
"A shock, and after brain fever so soon! That was not good. What kind of
shock was it? "
"He thought he saw some one who recalled something terrible, something
which led to his brain fever. " And here the whole thing seemed to
overwhelm me in a rush. The pity for Jonathan, the horror which he
experienced, the whole fearful mystery of his diary, and the fear that
has been brooding over me ever since, all came in a tumult. I suppose I
was hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees and held up my hands to
him, and implored him to make my husband well again. He took my hands
and raised me up, and made me sit on the sofa, and sat by me; he held my
hand in his, and said to me with, oh, such infinite sweetness:--
"My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that I have not
had much time for friendships; but since I have been summoned to here
by my friend John Seward I have known so many good people and seen such
nobility that I feel more than ever--and it has grown with my advancing
years--the loneliness of my life. Believe me, then, that I come here
full of respect for you, and you have given me hope--hope, not in what
I am seeking of, but that there are good women still left to make life
happy--good women, whose lives and whose truths may make good lesson for
the children that are to be. I am glad, glad, that I may here be of some
use to you; for if your husband suffer, he suffer within the range of my
study and experience. I promise you that I will gladly do _all_ for him
that I can--all to make his life strong and manly, and your life a happy
one. Now you must eat. You are overwrought and perhaps over-anxious.
Husband Jonathan would not like to see you so pale; and what he like
not where he love, is not to his good. Therefore for his sake you must
eat and smile. You have told me all about Lucy, and so now we shall not
speak of it, lest it distress. I shall stay in Exeter to-night, for I
want to think over what you have told me, and when I have thought I will
ask you questions, if I may. And then, too, you will tell me of husband
Jonathan's trouble so far as you can, but not yet. You must eat now;
afterwards you shall tell me all. "
After lunch, when we went back to the drawing-room, he said to me:--
"And now tell me all about him. " When it came to speaking to this great,
learned man, I began to fear that he would think me a weak fool, and
Jonathan a madman--that journal is all so strange--and I hesitated to
go on. But he was so sweet and kind, and he had promised to help, and I
trusted him, so I said:--
"Dr. Van Helsing, what I have to tell you is so queer that you must not
laugh at me or at my husband. I have been since yesterday in a sort of
fever of doubt; you must be kind to me, and not think me foolish that I
have even half believed some very strange things. " He reassured me by
his manner as well as his words when he said:--
"Oh, my dear, if you only knew how strange is the matter regarding which
I am here, it is you who would laugh. I have learned not to think little
of any one's belief, no matter how strange it be. I have tried to keep
an open mind; and it is not the ordinary things of life that could close
it, but the strange things, the extraordinary things, the things that
make one doubt if they be mad or sane. "
"Thank you, thank you, a thousand times! You have taken a weight off
my mind. If you will let me, I shall give you a paper to read. It is
long, but I have typewritten it out. It will tell you my trouble and
Jonathan's. It is the copy of his journal when abroad, and all that
happened. I dare not say anything of it; you will read for yourself and
judge. And then when I see you, perhaps, you will be very kind and tell
me what you think. "
"I promise," he said as I gave him the papers; "I shall in the morning,
so soon as I can, come to see you and your husband, if I may. "
"Jonathan will be here at half-past eleven, and you must come to lunch
with us and see him then; you could catch the quick 3. 34 train, which
will leave you at Paddington before eight. " He was surprised at my
knowledge of the trains offhand, but he does not know that I have made
up all the trains to and from Exeter, so that I may help Jonathan in
case he is in a hurry.
So he took the papers with him and went away, and I sit here
thinking--thinking I don't know what.
_Letter (by hand), Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker. _
"_25 September, 6 o'clock. _
"Dear Madam Mina,--
"I have read your husband's so wonderful diary. You may sleep without
doubt. Strange and terrible as it is, it is _true_! I will pledge my
life on it. It may be worse for others; but for him and you there is
no dread. He is a noble fellow; and let me tell you from experience of
men, that one who would do as he did in going down that wall and to
that room--ay, and going a second time--is not one to be injured in
permanence by a shock. His brain and his heart are all right; this I
swear, before I have even seen him; so be at rest. I shall have much to
ask him of other things. I am blessed that to-day I come to see you, for
I have learn all at once so much that again I am dazzle--dazzle more
than ever, and I must think.
"Yours the most faithful,
"/Abraham Van Helsing. /"
_Letter, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing. _
"_25 September_, 6. 30 _p. m. _
"My dear Dr. Van Helsing,--
"A thousand thanks for your kind letter, which has taken a great weight
off my mind. And yet, if it be true, what terrible things there are
in the world, and what an awful thing if that man, that monster, be
really in London! I fear to think. I have this moment, whilst writing,
had a wire from Jonathan, saying that he leaves by the 6. 25 to-night
from Launceston and will be here at 10. 18, so that I shall have no fear
to-night. Will you therefore, instead of lunching with us, please come
to breakfast, at eight o'clock, if this be not too early for you? You
can get away, if you are in a hurry, by the 10. 30 train, which will
bring you to Paddington by 2. 35. Do not answer this, as I shall take it
that, if I do not hear, you will come to breakfast.
"Believe me,
"Your faithful and grateful friend,
"/Mina Harker. /"
/Jonathan Harker's Journal. /
_26 September. _--I thought never to write in this diary again, but the
time has come. When I got home last night Mina had supper ready, and
when we had supped she told me of Van Helsing's visit, and of her having
given him the two diaries copied out, and of how anxious she had been
about me. She showed me in the doctor's letter that all I wrote down was
true. It seems to have made a new man of me. It was the doubt as to the
reality of the whole thing that knocked me over. I felt impotent, and in
the dark, and distrustful. But, now that I _know_, I am not afraid, even
of the Count. He has succeeded after all, then, in his design in getting
to London, and it was he I saw. He has got younger, and how? Van Helsing
is the man to unmask him and hunt him out, if he is anything like what
Mina says. We sat late, and talked it all over. Mina is dressing, and I
shall call at the hotel in a few minutes and bring him over. . . .
He was, I think, surprised to see me. When I came into the room where
he was, and introduced myself, he took me by the shoulder and turned my
face round to the light, and said, after a sharp scrutiny:--
"But Madam Mina told me you were ill, that you had had a shock. " It
was so funny to hear my wife called "Madam Mina" by this kindly,
strong-faced old man. I smiled, and said:--
"I _was_ ill, I _have_ had a shock; but you have cured me already. "
"And how? "
"By your letter to Mina last night. I was in doubt, and then everything
took a hue of unreality, and I did not know what to trust, even the
evidence of my own senses. Not knowing what to trust, I did not know
what to do; and so had only to keep on working in what had hitherto been
the groove of my life. The groove ceased to avail me, and I mistrusted
myself. Doctor, you don't know what it is to doubt everything, even
yourself. No, you don't; you couldn't with eyebrows like yours. " He
seemed pleased, and laughed as he said:--
"So! You are physiognomist. I learn more here with each hour. I am with
so much pleasure coming to you to breakfast; and, oh, sir, you will
pardon praise from an old man, but you are blessed in your wife. " I
would listen to him go on praising Mina for a day, so I simply nodded
and stood silent.
"She is one of God's women, fashioned by His own hand to show us men
and other women that there is a heaven where we can enter, and that its
light can be here on earth. So true, so sweet, so noble, so little an
egoist--and that, let me tell you, is much in this age, so sceptical and
selfish. And you, sir--I have read all the letters to poor Miss Lucy
and some of them speak of you, so I know you since some days from the
knowing of others; but I have seen your true self since last night. You
will give me your hand, will you not? And let us be friends for all our
lives. "
We shook hands, and he was so earnest and so kind that it made me quite
choky.
"And now," he said, "may I ask you for some more help? I have a great
task to do, and at the beginning it is to know. You can help me here.
Can you tell me what went before your going to Transylvania? Later on I
may ask more help, and of a different kind; but at first this will do. "
"Look here, sir," I said, "does what you have to do concern the Count? "
"It does," he said solemnly.
"Then I am with you heart and soul. As you go by the 10. 30 train, you
will not have time to read them; but I shall get the bundle of papers.
You can take them with you and read them in the train.
circumstances; but it had no effect. Men and women are so different in
manifestations of nervous strength or weakness! Then when his face grew
grave and stern again I asked him why his mirth, and why at such a time.
His reply was in a way characteristic of him, for it was logical and
forceful and mysterious. He said:--
"Ah, you don't comprehend, friend John. Do not think that I am not sad,
though I laugh. See, I have cried even when the laugh did choke me. But
no more think that I am all sorry when I cry, for the laugh he come just
the same. Keep it always with you that laughter who knock at your door
and say, 'May I come in? ' is not the true laughter. No! he is a king,
and he come when and how he like. He ask no person; he choose no time
of suitability. He say: 'I am here. ' Behold, in example, I grieve my
heart out for that so sweet young girl; I give my blood for her, though
I am old and worn; I give my time, my skill, my sleep; I let my other
sufferers want that she may have all. And yet I can laugh at her very
grave--laugh when the clay from the spade of the sexton drop upon her
coffin and say, 'Thud! thud! ' to my heart, till it send back the blood
from my cheek. My heart bleed for that poor boy--that dear boy, so of
the age of mine own boy had I been so blessed that he live, and with his
hair and eyes the same. There, you know now why I love him so. And yet
when he say things that touch my husband-heart to the quick, and make my
father-heart yearn to him as to no other man--not even to you, friend
John, for we are more level in experiences than father and son--yet
even at such moment King Laugh he come to me and shout and bellow in my
ear, 'Here I am! Here I am! ' till the blood come dance back and bring
some of the sunshine that he carry with him to my cheek. Oh, friend
John, it is a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and
woes, and troubles; and yet when King Laugh come he make them all dance
to the tune he play. Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard,
and tears that burn as they fall--all dance together to the music that
he make with that smileless mouth of him. And believe me, friend John,
that he is good to come, and kind. Ah, we men and women are like ropes
drawn tight with strain that pull us different ways. Then tears come;
and, like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until perhaps the
strain become too great, and we break. But King Laugh he come like the
sunshine, and he ease off the strain again; and we bear to go on with
our labour, what it may be. "
I did not like to wound him by pretending not to see his idea; but, as
I did not yet understand the cause of his laughter, I asked him. As
he answered me his face grew stern, and he said in quite a different
tone:--
"Oh, it was the grim irony of it all--this so lovely lady garlanded
with flowers, that looked so fair as life, till one by one we wondered
if she were truly dead; she laid in that so fine marble house in that
lonely churchyard, where rest so many of her kin, laid there with the
mother who loved her, and whom she loved; and that sacred bell going
'Toll! toll! toll! ' so sad and slow; and those holy men, with the white
garments of the angel, pretending to read books, and yet all the time
their eyes never on the page; and all us with the bowed head. And all
for what? She is dead; so! Is it not? "
"Well, for the life of me, Professor," I said, "I can't see anything to
laugh at in all that. Why, your explanation makes it a harder puzzle
than before. But even if the burial service was comic, what about poor
Art and his trouble? Why, his heart was simply breaking. "
"Just so. Said he not that the transfusion of his blood to her veins had
made her truly his bride? "
"Yes, and it was a sweet and comforting idea for him. "
"Quite so. But there was a difficulty, friend John. If so that, then
what about the others? Ho, ho! Then this so sweet maid is a polyandrist,
and me, with my poor wife dead to me, but alive by Church's law, though
no wits, all gone--even I, who am faithful husband to this now-no-wife,
am bigamist. "
"I don't see where the joke comes in there either! " I said; and I did
not feel particularly pleased with him for saying such things. He laid
his hand on my arm, and said:--
"Friend John, forgive me if I pain. I showed not my feeling to others
when it would wound, but only to you, my old friend, whom I can trust.
If you could have looked into my very heart then when I want to laugh;
if you could have done so when the laugh arrived; if you could do so
now, when King Laugh have pack up his crown and all that is to him--for
he go far, far away from me, and for a long, long time--maybe you would
perhaps pity me the most of all. "
I was touched by the tenderness of his tone, and asked why.
"Because I know! "
And now we are all scattered; and for many a long day loneliness will
sit over our roofs with brooding wings. Lucy lies in the tomb of her
kin, a lordly death-house in a lonely churchyard, away from teeming
London; where the air is fresh, and the sun rises over Hampstead Hill,
and where wild flowers grow of their own accord.
So I can finish this diary; and God only knows if I shall ever begin
another. If I do, or if I ever open this again, it will be to deal with
different people and different themes; for here at the end, where the
romance of my life is told, ere I go back to take up the thread of my
life-work, I say sadly and without hope,
"/Finis. /"
_The "Westminster Gazette," 25 September. _
/A Hampstead Mystery. /
The neighbourhood of Hampstead is just at present exercised with a
series of events which seem to run on lines parallel to those of what
was known to the writers of headlines as "The Kensington Horror," or
"The Stabbing Woman," or "The Woman in Black. " During the past two
or three days several cases have occurred of young children straying
from home or neglecting to return from their playing on the Heath.
In all these cases the children were too young to give any properly
intelligible account of themselves, but the consensus of their excuses
is that they had been with a "bloofer lady. " It has always been late
in the evening when they have been missed, and on two occasions the
children have not been found until early in the following morning. It
is generally supposed in the neighbourhood that, as the first child
missed gave as his reason for being away that a "bloofer lady" had
asked him to come for a walk, the others had picked up the phrase and
used it as occasion served. This is the more natural as the favourite
game of the little ones at present is luring each other away by wiles.
A correspondent writes us that to see some of the tiny tots pretending
to be the "bloofer lady" is supremely funny. Some of our caricaturists
might, he says, take a lesson in the irony of grotesque by comparing
the reality and the picture. It is only in accordance with general
principles of human nature that the "bloofer lady" should be the popular
role at these _al fresco_ performances. Our correspondent naively
says that even Ellen Terry could not be so winningly attractive as
some of these grubby-faced little children pretend--and even imagine
themselves--to be.
There is, however, possibly a serious side to the question, for some
of the children, indeed all who have been missed at night, have been
slightly torn or wounded in the throat. The wounds seem such as might
be made by a rat or a small dog, and although of not much importance
individually, would tend to show that whatever animal inflicts them has
a system or method of its own. The police of the division have been
instructed to keep a sharp lookout for straying children, especially
when very young, in and around Hampstead Heath, and for any stray dog
which may be about.
_"The Westminster Gazette," 25 September. _
_Extra Special. _
THE HAMPSTEAD HORROR.
/Another Child Injured. /
_The "Bloofer Lady. "_
We have just received intelligence that another child, missed last
night, was only discovered late in the morning under a furze bush at
the Shooter's Hill side of Hampstead Heath, which is, perhaps, less
frequented than the other parts. It has the same tiny wound in the
throat as has been noticed in other cases. It was terribly weak, and
looked quite emaciated. It too, when partially restored, had the common
story to tell of being lured away by the "bloofer lady. "
CHAPTER XIV.
/Mina Harker's Journal. /
_23 September. _--Jonathan is better after a bad night. I am so glad that
he has plenty of work to do, for that keeps his mind off the terrible
things; and oh, I am rejoiced that he is not now weighed down with the
responsibility of his new position. I knew he would be true to himself,
and now how proud I am to see my Jonathan rising to the height of his
advancement and keeping pace in all ways with the duties that come upon
him. He will be away all day till late, for he said he could not lunch
at home. My household work is done, so I shall take his foreign journal,
and lock myself up in my room and read it. . . .
_24 September. _--I hadn't the heart to write last night; that terrible
record of Jonathan's upset me so. Poor dear! How he must have suffered,
whether it be true or only imagination. I wonder if there is any truth
in it at all. Did he get his brain fever, and then write all those
terrible things; or had he some cause for it all? I suppose I shall
never know, for I dare not open the subject to him. . . . And yet that
man we saw yesterday! He seemed quite certain of him. . . . Poor fellow!
I suppose it was the funeral upset him and sent his mind back on some
train of thought. . . . He believes it all himself. I remember how on
our wedding-day he said: "Unless some solemn duty come upon me to go
back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake, mad or sane. " There seems
to be through it all some thread of continuity. . . . That fearful Count
was coming to London. . . . "If it should be, and he came to London, with
its teeming millions. " . . . There may be a solemn duty; and if it come
we must not shrink from it. . . . I shall be prepared. I shall get my
typewriter this very hour and begin transcribing. Then we shall be ready
for other eyes if required. And if it be wanted; then, perhaps, if I am
ready, poor Jonathan may not be upset, for I can speak for him and never
let him be troubled or worried with it all. If ever Jonathan quite gets
over the nervousness he may want to tell me of it all, and I can ask him
questions and find out things, and see how I may comfort him.
_Letter, Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker. _
"_24 September. _
(_Confidence. _)
"Dear Madam,--
"I pray you to pardon my writing, in that I am so far friend as that I
send to you sad news of Miss Lucy Westenra's death. By the kindness of
Lord Godalming, I am empowered to read her letters and papers, for I
am deeply concerned about certain matters vitally important. In them I
find some letters from you, which show how great friends you were and
how you love her. Oh, Madam Mina, by that love, I implore you, help me.
It is for others' good that I ask--to redress great wrong, and to lift
much and terrible troubles--that may be more great than you can know.
May it be that I see you? You can trust me. I am a friend of Dr. John
Seward and of Lord Godalming (that was Arthur of Miss Lucy). I must keep
it private for the present from all. I should come to Exeter to see you
at once if you tell me I am privilege to come, and where and when. I
implore your pardon, madam. I have read your letters to poor Lucy, and
know how good you are and how your husband suffer; so I pray you, if
it may be, enlighten him not, lest it may harm. Again your pardon, and
forgive me.
"/Van Helsing. /"
_Telegram, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing. _
"_25 September. _--Come to-day by quarter-past ten train if you can catch
it. Can see you any time you call.
"/Wilhelmina Harker. /"
/Mina Harker's Journal. /
_25 September. _--I cannot help feeling terribly excited as the time
draws near for the visit of Dr. Van Helsing, for somehow I expect
it will throw some light upon Jonathan's sad experience; and as he
attended poor dear Lucy in her last illness, he can tell me all about
her. That is the reason for his coming; it is concerning Lucy and her
sleep-walking, and not about Jonathan. Then I shall never know the
real truth now! How silly I am. That awful journal gets hold of my
imagination and tinges everything with something of its own colour. Of
course it is about Lucy. That habit came back to the poor dear, and that
awful night on the cliff must have made her ill. I had almost forgotten
in my own affairs how ill she was afterwards. She must have told him of
her sleep-walking adventure on the cliff, and that I knew all about it;
and now he wants me to tell him about it, so that he may understand. I
hope I did right in not saying anything of it to Mrs. Westenra; I should
never forgive myself if any act of mine, were it even a negative one,
brought harm on poor dear Lucy. I hope, too, Dr. Van Helsing will not
blame me; I have had so much trouble and anxiety of late that I feel I
cannot bear more just at present.
I suppose a cry does us all good at times--clears the air as other rain
does. Perhaps it was reading the journal yesterday that upset me, and
then Jonathan went away this morning to stay away from me a whole day
and night, the first time we have been parted since our marriage. I do
hope the dear fellow will take care of himself, and that nothing will
occur to upset him. It is two o'clock and the doctor will be here soon
now. I shall say nothing of Jonathan's journal unless he asks me. I am
so glad I have typewritten out my own journal, so that, in case he asks
about Lucy, I can hand it to him; it will save much questioning.
_Later. _--He has come and gone. Oh, what a strange meeting, and how
it all makes my head whirl round! I feel like one in a dream. Can it
be all possible, or even a part of it? If I had not read Jonathan's
journal first, I should never have accepted even a possibility. Poor,
poor, dear Jonathan! How he must have suffered. Please the good God all
this may not upset him again. I shall try to save him from it; but it
may be even a consolation and a help to him--terrible though it be and
awful in its consequences--to know for certain that his eyes and ears
and brain did not deceive him, and that it is all true. It may be that
it is the doubt which haunts him; that when the doubt is removed, no
matter which--waking or dreaming--may prove the truth, he will be more
satisfied and better able to bear the shock. Dr. Van Helsing must be
a good man as well as a clever one if he is Arthur's friend and Dr.
Seward's, and if they brought him all the way from Holland to look after
Lucy. I feel from having seen him that he is good and kind and of a
noble nature.
When he comes tomorrow I shall ask him about Jonathan;
and then, please God, all this sorrow and anxiety may lead to a good
end. I used to think I would like to practise interviewing; Jonathan's
friend on "The Exeter News" told him that memory was everything in
such work--that you must be able to put down exactly almost every word
spoken, even if you had to refine some of it afterwards. Here was a rare
interview; I shall try to record it _verbatim_.
It was half-past two o'clock when the knock came. I took my courage
_a deux mains_ and waited. In a few minutes Mary opened the door, and
announced "Dr. Van Helsing. "
I rose and bowed, and he came towards me; a man of medium height,
strongly built, with his shoulders set back over a broad, deep chest and
a neck well balanced on the trunk as the head is on the neck. The poise
of the head strikes one at once as indicative of thought and power; the
head is noble, well-sized, broad, and large behind the ears. The face,
clean-shaven, shows a hard, square chin, a large, resolute, mobile
mouth, a good-sized nose, rather straight, but with quick, sensitive
nostrils, that seem to broaden as the big, bushy eyebrows come down and
the mouth tightens. The forehead is broad and fine, rising at first
almost straight and then sloping back above two bumps or ridges wide
apart; such a forehead that the reddish hair cannot possibly tumble
over it, but falls naturally back and to the sides. Big, dark blue eyes
are set widely apart, and are quick and tender or stern with the man's
moods. He said to me:--
"Mrs. Harker, is it not? " I bowed assent.
"That was Miss Mina Murray? " Again I assented.
"It is Mina Murray that I came to see that was friend of that poor dear
child Lucy Westenra. Madam Mina, it is on account of the dead I come. "
"Sir," I said, "you could have no better claim on me than that you were
a friend and helper of Lucy Westenra. " And I held out my hand. He took
it and said tenderly:--
"Oh, Madam Mina, I knew that the friend of that poor lily girl must be
good, but I had yet to learn----" He finished his speech with a courtly
bow. I asked him what it was that he wanted to see me about, so he at
once began:--
"I have read your letters to Miss Lucy. Forgive me, but I had to begin
to inquire somewhere, and there was none to ask. I know that you were
with her at Whitby. She sometimes kept a diary--you need not look
surprised, Madam Mina; it was begun after you left, and was made in
imitation of you--and in that diary she traces by inference certain
things to a sleep-walking in which she puts down that you saved her. In
great perplexity then I come to you, and ask you out of your so much
kindness to tell me all of it that you remember. "
"I can tell you, I think, Dr. Van Helsing, all about it. "
"Ah, then you have a good memory for facts, for details? It is not
always so with young ladies. "
"No, doctor, but I wrote it all down at the time. I can show it to you
if you like. "
"Oh, Madam Mina, I will be grateful; you will do me much favour. " I
could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit--I suppose it
is some of the taste of the original apple that remains still in our
mouths--so I handed him the shorthand diary. He took it with a grateful
bow, and said:--
"May I read it? "
"If you wish," I answered as demurely as I could. He opened it, and for
the instant his face fell. Then he stood up and bowed.
"Oh, you so clever woman! " he said. "I long knew that Mr. Jonathan was
a man of much thankfulness; but see, his wife have all the good things.
And will you not so much honour me and so help me as to read it for
me? Alas! I know not the shorthand. " By this time my little joke was
over, and I was almost ashamed; so I took the typewritten copy from my
work-basket and handed it to him.
"Forgive me," I said: "I could not help it; but I had been thinking
that it was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you might
not have to wait--not on my account, but because I know your time must
be precious--I have written it out on the typewriter for you. "
He took it, and his eyes glistened. "You are so good," he said. "And may
I read it now? I may want to ask you some things when I have read. "
"By all means," I said, "read it over whilst I order lunch; and then you
can ask me questions whilst we eat. " He bowed and settled himself in a
chair with his back to the light, and became absorbed in the papers,
whilst I went to see after lunch, chiefly in order that he might not be
disturbed. When I came back I found him walking hurriedly up and down
the room, his face all ablaze with excitement. He rushed up to me and
took me by both hands.
"Oh, Madam Mina," he said, "how can I say what I owe to you? This paper
is as sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I am daze, I am dazzle, with so
much light; and yet clouds roll in behind the light every time. But that
you do not, cannot, comprehend. Oh, but I am grateful to you, you so
clever woman. Madam"--he said this very solemnly--"if ever Abraham Van
Helsing can do anything for you or yours, I trust you will let me know.
It will be pleasure and delight if I may serve you as a friend; as a
friend, but all I have ever learned, all I can ever do, shall be for you
and those you love. There are darknesses in life, and there are lights;
you are one of the lights. You will have happy life and good life, and
your husband will be blessed in you. "
"But, doctor, you praise me too much, and--and you do not know me. "
"Not know you--I, who am old, and who have studied all my life men and
women; I, who have made my speciality the brain and all that belongs
to him and all that follow from him! And I have read your diary that
you have so goodly written for me, and which breathes out truth in
every line. I, who have read your so sweet letter to poor Lucy of your
marriage and your trust, not know you! Oh, Madam Mina, good women tell
all their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute, such things that
angels can read; and we men who wish to know have in us something of
angels' eyes. Your husband is noble nature, and you are noble too, for
you trust, and trust cannot be where there is mean nature. And your
husband--tell me of him. Is he quite well? Is all that fever gone,
and is he strong and hearty? " I saw here an opening to ask him about
Jonathan, so I said:--
"He has almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by Mr.
Hawkins's death. " He interrupted:--
"Oh yes, I know, I know. I have read your last two letters. " I went
on:--
"I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on Thursday last he
had a sort of shock. "
"A shock, and after brain fever so soon! That was not good. What kind of
shock was it? "
"He thought he saw some one who recalled something terrible, something
which led to his brain fever. " And here the whole thing seemed to
overwhelm me in a rush. The pity for Jonathan, the horror which he
experienced, the whole fearful mystery of his diary, and the fear that
has been brooding over me ever since, all came in a tumult. I suppose I
was hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees and held up my hands to
him, and implored him to make my husband well again. He took my hands
and raised me up, and made me sit on the sofa, and sat by me; he held my
hand in his, and said to me with, oh, such infinite sweetness:--
"My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that I have not
had much time for friendships; but since I have been summoned to here
by my friend John Seward I have known so many good people and seen such
nobility that I feel more than ever--and it has grown with my advancing
years--the loneliness of my life. Believe me, then, that I come here
full of respect for you, and you have given me hope--hope, not in what
I am seeking of, but that there are good women still left to make life
happy--good women, whose lives and whose truths may make good lesson for
the children that are to be. I am glad, glad, that I may here be of some
use to you; for if your husband suffer, he suffer within the range of my
study and experience. I promise you that I will gladly do _all_ for him
that I can--all to make his life strong and manly, and your life a happy
one. Now you must eat. You are overwrought and perhaps over-anxious.
Husband Jonathan would not like to see you so pale; and what he like
not where he love, is not to his good. Therefore for his sake you must
eat and smile. You have told me all about Lucy, and so now we shall not
speak of it, lest it distress. I shall stay in Exeter to-night, for I
want to think over what you have told me, and when I have thought I will
ask you questions, if I may. And then, too, you will tell me of husband
Jonathan's trouble so far as you can, but not yet. You must eat now;
afterwards you shall tell me all. "
After lunch, when we went back to the drawing-room, he said to me:--
"And now tell me all about him. " When it came to speaking to this great,
learned man, I began to fear that he would think me a weak fool, and
Jonathan a madman--that journal is all so strange--and I hesitated to
go on. But he was so sweet and kind, and he had promised to help, and I
trusted him, so I said:--
"Dr. Van Helsing, what I have to tell you is so queer that you must not
laugh at me or at my husband. I have been since yesterday in a sort of
fever of doubt; you must be kind to me, and not think me foolish that I
have even half believed some very strange things. " He reassured me by
his manner as well as his words when he said:--
"Oh, my dear, if you only knew how strange is the matter regarding which
I am here, it is you who would laugh. I have learned not to think little
of any one's belief, no matter how strange it be. I have tried to keep
an open mind; and it is not the ordinary things of life that could close
it, but the strange things, the extraordinary things, the things that
make one doubt if they be mad or sane. "
"Thank you, thank you, a thousand times! You have taken a weight off
my mind. If you will let me, I shall give you a paper to read. It is
long, but I have typewritten it out. It will tell you my trouble and
Jonathan's. It is the copy of his journal when abroad, and all that
happened. I dare not say anything of it; you will read for yourself and
judge. And then when I see you, perhaps, you will be very kind and tell
me what you think. "
"I promise," he said as I gave him the papers; "I shall in the morning,
so soon as I can, come to see you and your husband, if I may. "
"Jonathan will be here at half-past eleven, and you must come to lunch
with us and see him then; you could catch the quick 3. 34 train, which
will leave you at Paddington before eight. " He was surprised at my
knowledge of the trains offhand, but he does not know that I have made
up all the trains to and from Exeter, so that I may help Jonathan in
case he is in a hurry.
So he took the papers with him and went away, and I sit here
thinking--thinking I don't know what.
_Letter (by hand), Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker. _
"_25 September, 6 o'clock. _
"Dear Madam Mina,--
"I have read your husband's so wonderful diary. You may sleep without
doubt. Strange and terrible as it is, it is _true_! I will pledge my
life on it. It may be worse for others; but for him and you there is
no dread. He is a noble fellow; and let me tell you from experience of
men, that one who would do as he did in going down that wall and to
that room--ay, and going a second time--is not one to be injured in
permanence by a shock. His brain and his heart are all right; this I
swear, before I have even seen him; so be at rest. I shall have much to
ask him of other things. I am blessed that to-day I come to see you, for
I have learn all at once so much that again I am dazzle--dazzle more
than ever, and I must think.
"Yours the most faithful,
"/Abraham Van Helsing. /"
_Letter, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing. _
"_25 September_, 6. 30 _p. m. _
"My dear Dr. Van Helsing,--
"A thousand thanks for your kind letter, which has taken a great weight
off my mind. And yet, if it be true, what terrible things there are
in the world, and what an awful thing if that man, that monster, be
really in London! I fear to think. I have this moment, whilst writing,
had a wire from Jonathan, saying that he leaves by the 6. 25 to-night
from Launceston and will be here at 10. 18, so that I shall have no fear
to-night. Will you therefore, instead of lunching with us, please come
to breakfast, at eight o'clock, if this be not too early for you? You
can get away, if you are in a hurry, by the 10. 30 train, which will
bring you to Paddington by 2. 35. Do not answer this, as I shall take it
that, if I do not hear, you will come to breakfast.
"Believe me,
"Your faithful and grateful friend,
"/Mina Harker. /"
/Jonathan Harker's Journal. /
_26 September. _--I thought never to write in this diary again, but the
time has come. When I got home last night Mina had supper ready, and
when we had supped she told me of Van Helsing's visit, and of her having
given him the two diaries copied out, and of how anxious she had been
about me. She showed me in the doctor's letter that all I wrote down was
true. It seems to have made a new man of me. It was the doubt as to the
reality of the whole thing that knocked me over. I felt impotent, and in
the dark, and distrustful. But, now that I _know_, I am not afraid, even
of the Count. He has succeeded after all, then, in his design in getting
to London, and it was he I saw. He has got younger, and how? Van Helsing
is the man to unmask him and hunt him out, if he is anything like what
Mina says. We sat late, and talked it all over. Mina is dressing, and I
shall call at the hotel in a few minutes and bring him over. . . .
He was, I think, surprised to see me. When I came into the room where
he was, and introduced myself, he took me by the shoulder and turned my
face round to the light, and said, after a sharp scrutiny:--
"But Madam Mina told me you were ill, that you had had a shock. " It
was so funny to hear my wife called "Madam Mina" by this kindly,
strong-faced old man. I smiled, and said:--
"I _was_ ill, I _have_ had a shock; but you have cured me already. "
"And how? "
"By your letter to Mina last night. I was in doubt, and then everything
took a hue of unreality, and I did not know what to trust, even the
evidence of my own senses. Not knowing what to trust, I did not know
what to do; and so had only to keep on working in what had hitherto been
the groove of my life. The groove ceased to avail me, and I mistrusted
myself. Doctor, you don't know what it is to doubt everything, even
yourself. No, you don't; you couldn't with eyebrows like yours. " He
seemed pleased, and laughed as he said:--
"So! You are physiognomist. I learn more here with each hour. I am with
so much pleasure coming to you to breakfast; and, oh, sir, you will
pardon praise from an old man, but you are blessed in your wife. " I
would listen to him go on praising Mina for a day, so I simply nodded
and stood silent.
"She is one of God's women, fashioned by His own hand to show us men
and other women that there is a heaven where we can enter, and that its
light can be here on earth. So true, so sweet, so noble, so little an
egoist--and that, let me tell you, is much in this age, so sceptical and
selfish. And you, sir--I have read all the letters to poor Miss Lucy
and some of them speak of you, so I know you since some days from the
knowing of others; but I have seen your true self since last night. You
will give me your hand, will you not? And let us be friends for all our
lives. "
We shook hands, and he was so earnest and so kind that it made me quite
choky.
"And now," he said, "may I ask you for some more help? I have a great
task to do, and at the beginning it is to know. You can help me here.
Can you tell me what went before your going to Transylvania? Later on I
may ask more help, and of a different kind; but at first this will do. "
"Look here, sir," I said, "does what you have to do concern the Count? "
"It does," he said solemnly.
"Then I am with you heart and soul. As you go by the 10. 30 train, you
will not have time to read them; but I shall get the bundle of papers.
You can take them with you and read them in the train.
