No More Learning

I stood still and silent till his sobs died away, and then I said
softly to him:--

"Come and look at her. "

Together we moved over to the bed, and I lifted the lawn from her face.
God! how beautiful she was. Every hour seemed to be enhancing her
loveliness. It frightened and amazed me somewhat; and as for Arthur, he
fell a-trembling, and finally was shaken with doubt as with an ague. At
last, after a long pause, he said to me in a faint whisper:--

"Jack, is she really dead? "

I assured him sadly that it was so, and went on to suggest--for I felt
that such a horrible doubt should not have life for a moment longer
than I could help--that it often happened that after death faces became
softened and even resolved into their youthful beauty; that this was
especially so when death had been preceded by any acute or prolonged
suffering. It seemed to quite do away with any doubt, and, after
kneeling beside the couch for a while and looking at her lovingly and
long, he turned aside. I told him that that must be good-bye, as the
coffin had to be prepared; so he went back and took her dead hand in
his and kissed it, and bent over and kissed her forehead. He came away,
fondly looking back over his shoulder at her as he came.

I left him in the drawing-room, and told Van Helsing that he had said
good-bye; so the latter went to the kitchen to tell the undertaker's
men to proceed with the preparations and to screw up the coffin. When
he came out of the room again I told him of Arthur's question, and he
replied:--

"I am not surprised. Just now I doubted for a moment myself! "

We all dined together, and I could see that poor Art was trying to make
the best of things. Van Helsing had been silent all dinner-time, but
when we had lit our cigars he said:--

"Lord----;" but Arthur interrupted him:--

"No, no, not that, for God's sake! not yet at any rate. Forgive me, sir:
I did not mean to speak offensively; it is only because my loss is so
recent. "

The Professor answered very sweetly:--

"I only used that name because I was in doubt. I must not call you
'Mr. ,' and I have grown to love you--yes, my dear boy, to love you--as
Arthur. "

Arthur held out his hand, and took the old man's warmly.

"Call me what you will," he said. "I hope I may always have the title of
a friend. And let me say that I am at a loss for words to thank you for
your goodness to my poor dear. " He paused a moment, and went on: "I know
that she understood your goodness even better than I do; and if I was
rude or in any way wanting at that time you acted so--you remember"--the
Professor nodded--"you must forgive me. "

He answered with a grave kindness:--

"I know it was hard for you to quite trust me then, for to trust such
violence needs to understand; and I take it that you do not--that you
cannot--trust me now, for you do not yet understand. And there may be
more times when I shall want you to trust when you cannot--and may
not--and must not yet understand. But the time will come when your trust
shall be whole and complete in me, and when you shall understand as
though the sunlight himself shone through. Then you shall bless me from
first to last for your own sake, and for the sake of others, and for her
dear sake to whom I swore to protect. "

"And, indeed, indeed, sir," said Arthur warmly, "I shall in all ways
trust you. I know and believe you have a very noble heart, and you are
Jack's friend, and you were hers. You shall do what you like. "

The Professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as though about to
speak, and finally said:--

"May I ask you something now? "

"Certainly. "

"You know that Mrs. Westenra left you all her property? "

"No, poor dear; I never thought of it. "

"And as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with it as you will.
I want you to give me permission to read all Miss Lucy's papers and
letters. Believe me, it is no idle curiosity. I have a motive of which,
be sure, she would have approved. I have them all here. I took them
before we knew that all was yours, so that no strange hand might touch
them--no strange eye look through words into her soul. I shall keep
them, if I may; even you may not see them yet, but I shall keep them
safe. No word shall be lost; and in the good time I shall give them back
to you. It's a hard thing I ask, but you will do it, will you not, for
Lucy's sake? "

Arthur spoke out heartily, like his old self:--

"Dr. Van Helsing, you may do what you will. I feel that in saying this I
am doing what my dear one would have approved. I shall not trouble you
with questions till the time comes. "

The old Professor stood up as he said solemnly:--

"And you are right. There will be pain for us all; but it will not be
all pain, nor will this pain be the last. We and you too--you most of
all, my dear boy--will have to pass through the bitter water before we
reach the sweet. But we must be brave of heart and unselfish, and do our
duty, and all will be well! "

I slept on a sofa in Arthur's room that night. Van Helsing did not go
to bed at all. He went to and fro, as if patrolling the house, and was
never out of sight of the room where Lucy lay in her coffin, strewn with
the wild garlic flowers, which sent, through the odour of lily and rose,
a heavy, overpowering smell into the night.


_Mina Harker's Journal. _

_22 September. _--In the train to Exeter. Jonathan sleeping.

It seems only yesterday that the last entry was made, and yet how much
between them, in Whitby and all the world before me, Jonathan away and
no news of him; and now, married to Jonathan, Jonathan a solicitor, a
partner, rich, master of his business, Mr. Hawkins dead and buried, and
Jonathan with another attack that may harm him. Some day he may ask
me about it. Down it all goes. I am rusty in my shorthand--see what
unexpected prosperity does for us--so it may be as well to freshen it up
again with an exercise anyhow. . . .

The service was very simple and very solemn. There were only ourselves
and the servants there, one or two old friends of his from Exeter,
his London agent, and a gentleman representing Sir John Paxton, the
President of the Incorporated Law Society. Jonathan and I stood hand in
hand, and we felt that our best and dearest friend was gone from us. . . .

We came back to town quietly, taking a 'bus to Hyde Park Corner.
Jonathan thought it would interest me to go into the Row for a while,
so we sat down; but there were very few people there, and it was
sad-looking and desolate to see so many empty chairs. It made us think
of the empty chair at home; so we got up and walked down Piccadilly.
Jonathan was holding me by the arm, the way he used to in old days
before I went to school. I felt it very improper, for you can't go on
for some years teaching etiquette and decorum to other girls without
the pedantry of it biting into yourself a bit; but it was Jonathan, and
he was my husband, and we didn't know anybody who saw us--and we didn't
care if they did--so on we walked. I was looking at a very beautiful
girl, in a big cartwheel hat, sitting in a victoria outside Giuliano's
when I felt Jonathan clutch my arm so tight that he hurt me, and he said
under his breath: "My God! " I am always anxious about Jonathan, for
I fear that some nervous fit may upset him again; so I turned to him
quickly, and asked him what it was that disturbed him.

He was very pale, and his eyes seemed bulging out as, half in terror and
half in amazement, he gazed at a tall, thin man, with a beaky nose and
black moustache and pointed beard, who was also observing the pretty
girl. He was looking at her so hard that he did not see either of us,
and so I had a good view of him. His face was not a good face; it was
hard, and cruel, and sensual, and his big white teeth, that looked all
the whiter because his lips were so red, were pointed like an animal's.
Jonathan kept staring at him, till I was afraid he would notice. I
feared he might take it ill, he looked so fierce and nasty. I asked
Jonathan why he was so disturbed, and he answered, evidently thinking
that I knew as much about it as he did: "Do you see who it is? "

"No, dear," I said; "I don't know him; who is it? " His answer seemed to
shock and thrill me, for it was said as if he did not know that it was
to me, Mina, to whom he was speaking:--

"It is the man himself! "

The poor dear was evidently terrified at something--very greatly
terrified; I do believe that if he had not had me to lean on and to
support him, he would have sunk down. He kept staring; a man came out of
the shop with a small parcel, and gave it to the lady, who then drove
off. The dark man kept his eyes fixed on her, and when the carriage
moved up Piccadilly he followed in the same direction, and hailed a
hansom. Jonathan kept looking after him, and said, as if to himself:--

"I believe it is the Count, but he has grown young. My God, if this
be so! Oh, my God! my God! If I only knew! if I only knew! " He was
distressing himself so much that I feared to keep his mind on the
subject by asking him any questions, so I remained silent. I drew him
away quietly, and he, holding my arm, came easily. We walked a little
further, and then went in and sat for a while in the Green Park. It was
a hot day for autumn, and there was a comfortable seat in a shady place.
After a few minutes' staring at nothing, Jonathan's eyes closed, and
he went quietly into a sleep, with his head on my shoulder. I thought
it was the best thing for him, so did not disturb him. In about twenty
minutes he woke up, and said to me quite cheerfully:--

"Why, Mina, have I been asleep? Oh, do forgive me for being so rude.
Come, and we'll have a cup of tea somewhere. " He had evidently forgotten
all about the dark stranger, as in his illness he had forgotten all
that this episode had reminded him of. I don't like this lapsing into
forgetfulness; it may make or continue some injury to the brain. I must
not ask him, for fear I shall do more harm than good; but I must somehow
learn the facts of his journey abroad. The time is come, I fear, when I
must open that parcel and know what is written. Oh, Jonathan, you will,
I know, forgive me if I do wrong but it is for your own dear sake.

_Later. _--A sad home-coming in every way--the house empty of the dear
soul who was so good to us; Jonathan still pale and dizzy under a slight
relapse of his malady; and now a telegram from Van Helsing, whoever he
may be:--

"You will be grieved to hear that Mrs. Westenra died five days ago, and
that Lucy died the day before yesterday. They were both buried to-day. "

Oh, what a wealth of sorrow in a few words! Poor Mrs. Westenra! poor
Lucy! Gone, gone, never to return to us! And poor, poor Arthur, to
have lost such sweetness out of his life! God help us all to bear our
troubles.


_Dr. Seward's Diary. _

_22 September. _--It is all over. Arthur has gone back to Ring, and has
taken Quincey Morris with him. What a fine fellow is Quincey! I believe
in my heart of hearts that he suffered as much about Lucy's death as
any of us; but he bore himself through it like a moral Viking. If
America can go on breeding men like that, she will be a power in the
world indeed. Van Helsing is lying down, having a rest preparatory to
his journey. He goes over to Amsterdam to-night, but says he returns
to-morrow night; that he only wants to make some arrangements which
can only be made personally. He is to stop with me then, if he can; he
says he has work to do in London which may take him some time. Poor
old fellow! I fear that the strain of the past week has broken down
even his iron strength. All the time of the burial he was, I could
see, putting some terrible restraint on himself. When it was all over,
we were standing beside Arthur, who, poor fellow, was speaking of his
part in the operation where his blood had been transfused to his Lucy's
veins; I could see Van Helsing's face grow white and purple by turns.
Arthur was saying that he felt since then as if they two had been really
married, and that she was his wife in the sight of God. None of us said
a word of the other operations, and none of us ever shall. Arthur and
Quincey went away together to the station, and Van Helsing and I came on
here. The moment we were alone in the carriage he gave way to a regular
fit of hysterics. He has denied to me since that it was hysterics, and
insisted that it was only his sense of humour asserting itself under
very terrible conditions. He laughed till he cried and I had to draw
down the blinds lest any one should see us and misjudge; and then he
cried till he laughed again; and laughed and cried together, just as a
woman does. 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.