MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL
Same day, 11 o'clock p. m..--Oh,
but I am tired! If it were not
that I had made my diary a duty
I should not open it tonight.
We had a lovely walk. Lucy, after
a while, was in gay spirits,
owing, I think, to some dear
cows who came nosing towards
us in a field close to the lighthouse,
and frightened the wits out of
us. I believe we forgot everything,
except of course, personal fear,
and it seemed to wipe the slate
clean and give us a fresh start.
We had a capital `severe tea'
at Robin Hood's Bay in a sweet
little oldfashioned inn, with
a bow window right over the seaweedcovered
rocks of the strand. I believe
we should have shocked the `New
Woman' with our appetites. Men
are more tolerant, bless them!
Then we walked home with some,
or rather many, stoppages to
rest, and with our hearts full
of a constant dread of wild bulls.
Lucy was really tired, and
we intended to creep off to bed
as soon as we could. The young
curate came in, however, and
Mrs. Westenra asked him to stay
for supper. Lucy and I had both
a fight for it with the dusty
miller. I know it was a hard
fight on my part, and I am quite
heroic. I think that some day
the bishops must get together
and see about breeding up a new
class of curates, who don't take
supper, no matter how hard they
may be pressed to, and who will
know when girls are tired.
Lucy is asleep and breathing
softly. She has more color in
her cheeks than usual, and looks,
oh so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood
fell in love with her seeing
her only in the drawing room,
I wonder what he would say if
he saw her now. Some of the `New
Women' writers will some day
start an idea that men and women
should be allowed to see each
other asleep before proposing
or accepting. But I suppose the
`New Woman' won't condescend
in future to accept. She will
do the proposing herself. And
a nice job she will make of it
too! There's some consolation
in that. I am so happy tonight,
because dear Lucy seems better.
I really believe she has turned
the corner, and that we are over
her troubles with dreaming. I
should be quite happy if I only
knew if Jonathan . . . God bless
and keep him.
11 August.--Diary
again. No sleep now, so I may
as well write.
I am too agitated to sleep. We
have had such an adventure, such
an agonizing experience. I fell
asleep as soon as I had closed
my diary . . .Suddenly I became
broad awake, and sat up, with
a horrible sense of fear upon
me, and of some feeling of emptiness
around me. The room was dark,
so I could not see Lucy's bed.
I stole across and felt for her.
The bed was empty. I lit a match
and found that she was not in
the room. The door was shut,
but not locked, as I had left
it. I feared to wake her mother,
who has been more than usually
ill lately, so threw on some
clothes and got ready to look
for her. As I was leaving the
room it struck me that the clothes
she wore might give me some clue
to her dreaming intention. Dressing-gown
would mean house, dress outside.
Dressing-gown and dress were
both in their places. "Thank
God," I said to myself, "she
cannot be far, as she is only
in her nightdress."
I ran downstairs and looked
in the sitting room. Not there!
Then I looked in all the other
rooms of the house, with an ever-growing
fear chilling my heart. Finally,
I came to the hall door and found
it open. It was not wide open,
but the catch of the lock had
not caught. The people of the
house are careful to lock the
door every night, so I feared
that Lucy must have gone out
as she was. There was no time
to think of what might happen.
A vague over-mastering fear obscured
all details.
I took a big, heavy shawl and
ran out. The clock was striking
one as I was in the Crescent,
and there was not a soul in sight.
I ran along the North Terrace,
but could see no sign of the
white figure which I expected.
At the edge of the West Cliff
above the pier I looked across
the harbour to the East Cliff,
in the hope or fear, I don't
know which, of seeing Lucy in
our favorite seat.
There was a bright full moon,
with heavy black, driving clouds,
which threw the whole scene into
a fleeting diorama of light and
shade as they sailed across.
For a moment or two I could see
nothing, as the shadow of a cloud
obscured St. Mary's Church and
all around it. Then as the cloud
passed I could see the ruins
of the abbey coming into view,
and as the edge of a narrow band
of light as sharp as a sword-cut
moved along, the church and churchyard
became gradually visible. Whatever
my expectation was, it was not
disappointed, for there, on our
favorite seat, the silver light
of the moon struck a half-reclining
figure, snowy white. The coming
of the cloud was too quick for
me to see much, for shadow shut
down on light almost immediately,
but it seemed to me as though
something dark stood behind the
seat where the white figure shone,
and bent over it. What it was,
whether man or beast, I could
not tell.
I did not wait to catch another
glance, but flew down the steep
steps to the pier and along by
the fish-market to the bridge,
which was the only way to reach
the East Cliff. The town seemed
as dead, for not a soul did I
see. I rejoiced that it was so,
for I wanted no witness of poor
Lucy's condition. The time and
distance seemed endless, and
my knees trembled and my breath
came laboured as I toiled up
the endless steps to the abbey.
I must have gone fast, and yet
it seemed to me as if my feet
were weighted with lead, and
as though every joint in my body
were rusty.
When I got
almost to the top I could see
the seat and the
white figure, for I was now close
enough to distinguish it even
through the spells of shadow.
There was undoubtedly something,
long and black, bending over
the half-reclining white figure.
I called in fright, "Lucy! Lucy!" and
something raised a head, and
from where I was I could see
a white face and red, gleaming
eyes.
Lucy did not answer, and I
ran on to the entrance of the
churchyard. As I entered, the
church was between me and the
seat, and for a minute or so
I lost sight of her. When I came
in view again the cloud had passed,
and the moonlight struck so brilliantly
that I could see Lucy half reclining
with her head lying over the
back of the seat. She was quite
alone, and there was not a sign
of any living thing about.
When I bent over her I could
see that she was still asleep.
Her lips were parted, and she
was breathing, not softly as
usual with her, but in long,
heavy gasps, as though striving
to get her lungs full at every
breath. As I came close, she
put up her hand in her sleep
and pulled the collar of her
nightdress close around her,
as though she felt the cold.
I flung the warm shawl over her,
and drew the edges tight around
her neck, for I dreaded lest
she should get some deadly chill
from the night air, unclad as
she was. I feared to wake her
all at once, so, in order to
have my hands free to help her,
I fastened the shawl at her throat
with a big safety pin. But I
must have been clumsy in my anxiety
and pinched or pricked her with
it, for by-and-by, when her breathing
became quieter, she put her hand
to her throat again and moaned.
When I had her carefully wrapped
up I put my shoes on her feet,
and then began very gently to
wake her.
At first she did not respond,
but gradually she became more
and more uneasy in her sleep,
moaning and sighing occasionally.
At last, as time was passing
fast, and for many other reasons,
I wished to get her home at once,
I shook her forcibly, till finally
she opened her eyes and awoke.
She did not seem surprised to
see me, as, of course, she did
not realize all at once where
she was.
Lucy always wakes prettily,
and even at such a time,when
her body must have been chilled
with cold, and her mind somewhat
appalled at waking unclad in
a churchyard at night, she did
not lose her grace. She trembled
a little, and clung to me. When
I told her to come at once with
me home, she rose without a word,
with the obedience of a child.
As we passed along, the gravel
hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed
me wince. She stopped and wanted
to insist upon my taking my shoes,
but I would not. However, when
we got to the pathway outside
the chruchyard, where there was
a puddle of water, remaining
from the storm, I daubed my feet
with mud, using each foot in
turn on the other, so that as
we went home, no one, in case
we should meet any one, should
notice my bare feet.
Fortune favoured us, and we
got home without meeting a soul.
Once we saw a man, who seemed
not quite sober, passing along
a street in front of us. But
we hid in a door till he had
disappeared up an opening such
as there are here, steep little
closes, or `wynds', as they call
them in Scotland. My heart beat
so loud all the time sometimes
I thought I should faint. I was
filled with anxiety about Lucy,
not only for her health, lest
she should suffer from the exposure,
but for her reputation in case
the story should get wind. When
we got in, and had washed our
feet, and had said a prayer of
thankfulness together, I tucked
her into bed. Before falling
asleep she asked, even implored,
me not to say a word to any one,
even her mother, about her sleepwalking
adventure.
I hesitated at first, to promise,
but on thinking of the state
of her mother's health, and how
the knowledge of such a thing
would fret her, and think too,
of how such a story might become
distorted, nay, infallibly would,
in case it should leak out, I
thought it wiser to do so. I
hope I did right. I have locked
the door, and the key is tied
to my wrist, so perhaps I shall
not be again disturbed. Lucy
is sleeping soundly. The reflex
of the dawn is high and far over
the sea . . .
Same day, noon.--All goes well.
Lucy slept till I woke her and
seemed not to have even changed
her side. The adventure of the
night does not seem to have harmed
her, on the contrary, it has
benefited her, for she looks
better this morning than she
has done for weeks. I was sorry
to notice that my clumsiness
with the safety-pin hurt her.
Indeed, it might have been serious,
for the skin of her throat was
pierced. I must have pinched
up a piece of loose skin and
have transfixed it, for there
are two little red points like
pin-pricks, and on the band of
her nightdress was a drop of
blood. When I apologised and
was concerned about it, she laughed
and petted me, and said she did
not even feel it. Fortunately
it cannot leave a scar, as it
is so tiny.
Same day, night.--We passed
a happy day. The air was clear,
and the sun bright, and there
was a cool breeze. We took our
lunch to Mulgrave Woods, Mrs.
Westenra driving by the road
and Lucy and I walking by the
cliff-path and joining her at
the gate. I felt a little sad
myself, for I could not but feel
how absolutely happy it would
have been had Jonathan been with
me. But there! I must only be
patient. In the evening we strolled
in the Casino Terrace, and heard
some good music by Spohr and
Mackenzie, and went to bed early.
Lucy seems more restful than
she has been for some time, and
fell asleep at once. I shall
lock the door and secure the
key the same as before, though
I do not expect any trouble tonight.
12 August.--My expectations
were wrong, for twice during
the night I was wakened by Lucy
trying to get out. She seemed,
even in her sleep, to be a little
impatient at finding the door
shut, and went back to bed under
a sort of protest. I woke with
the dawn, and heard the birds
chirping outside of the window.
Lucy woke, too, and I was glad
to see, was even better than
on the previous morning. All
her old gaiety of manner seemed
to have come back, and she came
and snuggled in beside me and
told me all about Arthur. I told
her how anxious I was about Jonathan,
and then she tried to comfort
me. Well, she succeeded somewhat,
for, though sympathy can't alter
facts, it can make them more
bearable.
13 August.--Another quiet day,
and to bed with the key on my
wrist as before. Again I awoke
in the night, and found Lucy
sitting up in bed, still asleep,
pointing to the window. I got
up quietly, and pulling aside
the blind, looked out. It was
brilliant moonlight, and the
soft effect of the light over
the sea and sky, merged together
in one great silent mystery,
was beautiful beyond words. Between
me and the moonlight flitted
a great bat, coming and going
in great whirling circles. Once
or twice it came quite close,
but was, I suppose, frightened
at seeing me, and flitted away
across the harbour towards the
abbey. When I came back from
the window Lucy had lain down
again, and was sleeping peacefully.
She did not stir again all night.
14 August.--On the East Cliff,
reading and writing all day.
Lucy seems to have become as
much in love with the spot as
I am, and it is hard to get her
away from it when it is time
to come home for lunch or tea
or dinner. This afternoon she
made a funny remark. We were
coming home for dinner, and had
come to the top of the steps
up from the West Pier and stopped
to look at the view, as we generally
do. The setting sun, low down
in the sky, was just dropping
behind Kettleness. The red light
was thrown over on the East Cliff
and the old abbey, and seemed
to bathe everything in a beautiful
rosy glow. We were silent for
a while, and suddenly Lucy murmured
as if to herself . . .
"His red eyes again! They are
just the same." It was such an
odd expression, coming apropos
of nothing, that it quite startled
me. I slewed round a little,
so as to see Lucy well without
seeming to stare at her, and
saw that she was in a half dreamy
state, with an odd look on her
face that I could not quite make
out, so I said nothing, but followed
her eyes. She appeared to be
looking over at our own seat,
whereon was a dark figure seated
alone. I was quite a little startled
myself, for it seemed for an
instant as if the stranger had
great eyes like burning flames,
but a second look dispelled the
illusion. The red sunlight was
shining on the windows of St.
Mary's Church behind our seat,
and as the sun dipped there was
just sufficient change in the
refraction and reflection to
make it appear as if the light
moved. I called Lucy's attention
to the peculiar effect, and she
became herself with a start,
but she looked sad all the same.
It may have been that she was
thinking of that terrible night
up there. We never refer to it,
so I said nothing, and we went
home to dinner. Lucy had a headache
and went early to bed. I saw
her asleep, and went out for
a little stroll myself.
I walked along the cliffs to
the westward, and was full of
sweet sadness, for I was thinking
of Jonathan. When coming home,
it was then bright moonlight,
so bright that, though the front
of our part of the Crescent was
in shadow, everything could be
well seen, I threw a glance up
at our window, and saw Lucy's
head leaning out. I opened my
handkerchief and waved it. She
did not notice or make any movement
whatever. Just then, the moonlight
crept round an angle of the building,
and the light fell on the window.
There distinctly was Lucy with
her head lying up against the
side of the window sill and her
eyes shut. She was fast asleep,
and by her, seated on the window
sill, was something that looked
like a good-sized bird. I was
afraid she might get a chill,
so I ran upstairs, but as I came
into the room she was moving
back to her bed, fast asleep,
and breathing heavily. She was
holding her hand to her throat,
as though to protect if from
the cold.
I did not wake her, but tucked
her up warmly. I have taken care
that the door is locked and the
window securely fastened.
She looks so sweet as she sleeps,
but she is paler than is her
wont, and there is a drawn, haggard
look under her eyes which I do
not like. I fear she is fretting
about something. I wish I could
find out what it is.
15 August.--Rose later than
usual. Lucy was languid and tired,
and slept on after we had been
called. We had a happy surprise
at breakfast. Arthur's father
is better, and wants the marriage
to come off soon. Lucy is full
of quiet joy, and her mother
is glad and sorry at once. Later
on in the day she told me the
cause. She is grieved to lose
Lucy as her very own, but she
is rejoiced that she is soon
to have some one to protect her.
Poor dear, sweet lady! She confided
to me that she has got her death
warrant. She has not told Lucy,
and made me promise secrecy.
Her doctor told her that within
a few months, at most, she must
die, for her heart is weakening.
At any time, even now, a sudden
shock would be almost sure to
kill her. Ah, we were wise to
keep from her the affair of the
dreadful night of Lucy's sleep-walking.
17 August.--No diary for two
whole days. I have not had the
heart to write. Some sort of
shadowy pall seems to be coming
over our happiness. No news from
Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be
growing weaker, whilst her mother's
hours are numbering to a close.
I do not understand Lucy's fading
away as she is doing. She eats
well and sleeps well, and enjoys
the fresh air, but all the time
the roses in her cheeks are fading,
and she gets weaker and more
languid day by day. At night
I hear her gasping as if for
air.
I keep the key of our door
always fastened to my wrist at
night, but she gets up and walks
about the room, and sits at the
open window. Last night I found
her leaning out when I woke up,
and when I tried to wake her
I could not.
She was in a faint. When I
managed to restore her, she was
weak as water, and cried silently
between long, painful struggles
for breath. When I asked her
how she came to be at the window
she shook her head and turned
away.
I trust her feeling ill may
not be from that unlucky prick
of the safety-pin. I looked at
her throat just now as she lay
asleep, and the tiny wounds seem
not to have healed. They are
still open, and, if anything,
larger than before, and the edges
of them are faintly white. They
are like little white dots with
red centres. Unless they heal
within a day or two, I shall
insist on the doctor seeing about
them.
LETTER, SAMUEL
F. BILLINGTON & SON,
SOLICITORS WHITBY, TO MESSRS.
CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON.
17 August
"Dear Sirs,
--
"Herewith please
receive invoice of goods sent
by Great Northern
Railway. Same are to be delivered
at Carfax, near Purfleet, immediately
on receipt at goods station King's
Cross. The house is at present
empty, but enclosed please find
keys, all of which are labelled.
"You will please
deposit the boxes, fifty in
number, which
form the consignment, in the
partially ruined building forming
part of the house and marked
`A' on rough diagrams enclosed.
Your agent will easily recognize
the locality, as it is the ancient
chapel of the mansion. The goods
leave by the train at 9:30 tonight,
and will be due at King's Cross
at 4:30 tomorrow afternoon. As
our client wishes the delivery
made as soon as possible, we
shall be obliged by your having
teams ready at King's Cross at
the time named and forthwith
conveying the goods to destination.
In order to obviate any delays
possible through any routine
requirements as to payment in
your departments, we enclose
cheque herewith for ten pounds,
receipt of which please acknowledge.
Should the charge be less than
this amount, you can return balance,
if greater, we shall at once
send cheque for difference on
hearing from you. You are to
leave the keys on coming away
in the main hall of the house,
where the proprietor may get
them on his entering the house
by means of his duplicate key.
"Pray do not take us as exceeding
the bounds of business courtesy
in pressing you in all ways to
use the utmost expedition. "We
are, dear Sirs, "Faithfully yours, "SAMUEL
F. BILLINGTON & SON"
LETTER, MESSRS.
CARTER, PATERSON & CO.,
LONDON, TO MESSRS. BILLINGTON & SON,
WHITBY.
21 August.
"Dear Sirs,--
"We beg to acknowledge 10 pounds
received and to return cheque
of 1 pound, 17s, 9d, amount of
overplus, as shown in receipted
account herewith. Goods are delivered
in exact accordance with instructions,
and keys left in parcel in main
hall, as directed. "We are, dear
Sirs, "Yours respectfully, "Pro
CARTER, PATERSON & CO."
MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL.
18 August.--I am happy today,
and write sitting on the seat
in the churchyard. Lucy is ever
so much better. Last night she
slept well all night, and did
not disturb me once.
The roses seem coming back
already to her cheeks, though
she is still sadly pale and wan-looking.
If she were in any way anemic
I could understand it, but she
is not. She is in gay spirits
and full of life and cheerfulness.
All the morbid reticence seems
to have passed from her, and
she has just reminded me, as
if I needed any reminding, of
that night, and that it was here,
on this very seat, I found her
asleep.
As she told me she tapped playfully
with the heel of her boot on
the stone slab and said,
"My poor little
feet didn't make much noise
then! I daresay
poor old Mr. Swales would have
told me that it was because I
didn't want to wake up Geordie."
As she was in such a communicative
humour, I asked her if she had
dreamed at all that night.
Before she answered, that sweet,
puckered look came into her forehead,
which Arthur, I call him Arthur
from her habit, says he loves,
and indeed, I don't wonder that
he does. Then she went on in
a half-dreaming kind of way,
as if trying to recall it to
herself.
"I didn't quite
dream, but it all seemed to
be real. I only
wanted to be here in this spot.
I don't know why, for I was afraid
of something, I don't know what.
I remember, though I suppose
I was asleep, passing through
the streets and over the bridge.
A fish leaped as I went by, and
I leaned over to look at it,
and I heard a lot of dogs howling.
The whole town seemed as if it
must be full of dogs all howling
at once, as I went up the steps.
Then I had a vague memory of
something long and dark with
red eyes, just as we saw in the
sunset, and something very sweet
and very bitter all around me
at once. And then I seemed sinking
into deep green water, and there
was a singing in my ears, as
I have heard there is to drowning
men, and then everything seemed
passing away from me. My soul
seemed to go out from my body
and float about the air. I seem
to remember that once the West
Lighthouse was right under me,
and then there was a sort of
agonizing feeling, as if I were
in an earthquake, and I came
back and found you shaking my
body. I saw you do it before
I felt you."
Then she began to laugh. It
seemed a little uncanny to me,
and I listened to her breathlessly.
I did not quite like it, and
thought it better not to keep
her mind on the subject, so we
drifted on to another subject,
and Lucy was like her old self
again. When we got home the fresh
breeze had braced her up, and
her pale cheeks were really more
rosy. Her mother rejoiced when
she saw her, and we all spent
a very happy evening together.
19 August.--Joy, joy, joy!
Although not all joy. At last,
news of Jonathan. The dear fellow
has been ill, that is why he
did not write. I am not afraid
to think it or to say it, now
that I know. Mr. Hawkins sent
me on the letter, and wrote himself,
oh so kindly. I am to leave in
the morning and go over to Jonathan,
and to help to nurse him if necessary,
and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins
says it would not be a bad thing
if we were to be married out
there. I have cried over the
good Sister's letter till I can
feel it wet against my bosom,
where it lies. It is of Jonathan,
and must be near my heart, for
he is in my heart. My journey
is all mapped out, and my luggage
ready. I am only taking one change
of dress. Lucy will bring my
trunk to London and keep it till
I send for it, for it may be
that . . . I must write no more.
I must keep it to say to Jonathan,
my husband. The letter that he
has seen and touched must comfort
me till we meet.
LETTER, SISTER AGATHA, HOSPITAL
OF ST. JOSEPH AND STE. MARY BUDA-PESTH,
TO MISS WILLHELMINA MURRAY
12 August,
"Dear Madam.
"I write by
desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker,
who is himself not strong
enough to write, though progressing
well, thanks to God and St. Joseph
and Ste. Mary. He has been under
our care for nearly six weeks,
suffering from a violent brain
fever. He wishes me to convey
his love, and to say that by
this post I write for him to
Mr. Peter Hawkins, Exeter, to
say, with his dutiful respects,
that he is sorry for his delay,
and that all of his work is completed.
He will require some few weeks'
rest in our sanatorium in the
hills, but will then return.
He wishes me to say that he has
not sufficient money with him,
and that he would like to pay
for his staying here, so that
others who need shall not be
wanting for belp.
Believe me,
Yours, with sympathy
and all blessings.
Sister Agatha"
"P. S.--My
patient being asleep, I open
this to let you know something
more. He has told me all about
you, and that you are shortly
to be his wife. All blessings
to you both! He has had some
fearful shock, so says our doctor,
and in his delirium his ravings
have been dreadful, of wolves
and poison and blood, of ghosts
and demons, and I fear to say
of what. Be careful of him always
that there may be nothing to
excite him of this kind for a
long time to come. The traces
of such an illness as his do
not lightly die away. We should
have written long ago, but we
knew nothing of his friends,
and there was nothing on him,
nothing that anyone could understand.
He came in the train from Klausenburg,
and the guard was told by the
station master there that he
rushed into the station shouting
for a ticket for home. Seeing
from his violent demeanor that
he was English, they gave him
a ticket for the furthest station
on the way thither that the train
reached.
"Be assured
that he is well cared for.
He has won all hearts
by his sweetness and gentleness.
He is truly getting on well,
and I have no doubt will in a
few weeks be all himself. But
be careful of him for safety's
sake. There are, I pray God and
St. Joseph and Ste.Mary, many,
many, happy years for you both."
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY
19 Agust.--Strange and sudden
change in Renfield last night.
About eight o'clock he began
to get excited and sniff about
as a dog does when setting. The
attendant was struck by his manner,
and knowing my interest in him,
encouraged him to talk. He is
usually respectful to the attendant
and at times servile, but tonight,
the man tells me, he was quite
haughty. Would not condescend
to talk with him at all.
All he would
say was, "I don't
want to talk to you. You don't
count now. The master is at hand."
The attendant thinks it is
some sudden form of religious
mania which has seized him. If
so, we must look out for squalls,
for a strong man with homicidal
and religious mania at once might
be dangerous. The combination
is a dreadful one.
At Nine o'clock I visited him
myself. His attitude to me was
the same as that to the attendant.
In his sublime selffeeling the
difference between myself and
the attendant seemed to him as
nothing. It looks like religious
mania, and he will soon think
that he himself is God.
These infinitesimal distinctions
between man and man are too paltry
for an Omnipotent Being. How
these madmen give themselves
away! The real God taketh heed
lest a sparrow fall. But the
God created from human vanity
sees no difference between an
eagle and a sparrow. Oh, if men
only knew!
For half an hour or more Renfield
kept getting excited in greater
and greater degree. I did not
pretend to be watching him, but
I kept strict observation all
the same. All at once that shifty
look came into his eyes which
we always see when a madman has
seized an idea, and with it the
shifty movement of the head and
back which asylum attendants
come to know so well. He became
quite quiet, and went and sat
on the edge of his bed resignedly,
and looked into space with lack-luster
eyes.
I thought I would find out
if his apathy were real or only
assumed, and tried to lead him
to talk of his pets, a theme
which had never failed to excite
his attention.
At first he
made no reply, but at length
said testily, "Bother
them all! I don't care a pin
about them."
"What" I said. "You don't mean
to tell me you don't care about
spiders?" (Spiders at present
are his hobby and the notebook
is filling up with columns of
small figures.)
To this he
answered enigmatically, "The
Bride maidens rejoice the eyes
that wait the coming of the bride.
But when the bride draweth nigh,
then the maidens shine not to
the eyes that are filled."
He would not explain himself,
but remained obstinately seated
on his bed all the time I remained
with him.
I am weary tonight and low
in spirits. I cannot but think
of Lucy, and how different things
might have been. If I don't sleep
at once, chloral, the modern
Morpheus! I must be careful not
to let it grow into a habit.
No, I shall take none tonight!
I have thought of Lucy, and I
shall not dishonour her by mixing
the two. If need by, tonight
shall be sleepless.
Later.--Glad I made the resolution,
gladder that I kept to it. I
had lain tossing about, and had
heard the clock strike only twice,
when the night watchman came
to me, sent up from the ward,
to say that Renfield had escaped.
I threw on my clothes and ran
down at once. My patient is too
dangerous a person to be roaming
about. Those ideas of his might
work out dangerously with strangers.
The attendant was waiting for
me. He said he had seen him not
ten minutes before, seemingly
asleep in his bed, when he had
looked through the observation
trap in the door. His attention
was called by the sound of the
window being wrenched out. He
ran back and saw his feet disappear
through the window, and had at
once sent up for me. He was only
in his night gear, and cannot
be far off.
The attendant thought it would
be more useful to watch where
he should go than to follow him,
as he might lose sight of him
whilst getting out of the building
by the door. He is a bulky man,
and couldn't get through the
window.
I am thin, so, with his aid,
I got out, but feet foremost,
and as we were only a few feet
above ground landed unhurt.
The attendant told me the patient
had gone to the left, and had
taken a straight line, so I ran
as quickly as I could. As I got
through the belt of trees I saw
a white figure scale the high
wall which separates our grounds
from those of the deserted house.
I ran back at once, told the
watchman to get three or four
men immediately and follow me
into the grounds of Carfax, in
case our friend might be dangerous.
I got a ladder myself, and crossing
the wall, dropped down on the
other side. I could see Renfield's
figure just disappearing behind
the angle of the house, so I
ran after him. On the far side
of the house I found him pressed
close against the old ironbound
oak door of the chapel.
He was talking, apparently
to some one, but I was afraid
to go near enough to hear what
he was saying, les t I might
frighten him, and he should run
off.
Chasing an errant swarm of
bees is nothing to following
a naked lunatic, when the fit
of escaping is upon him! After
a few minutes, however, I could
see that he did not take note
of anything around him, and so
ventured to draw nearer to him,
the more so as my men had now
crossed the wall and were closing
him in. I heard him say . . .
"I am here
to do your bidding, Master.
I am your slave, and
you will reward me, for I shall
be faithful. I have worshipped
you long and afar off. Now that
you are near, I await your commands,
and you will not pass me by,
will you, dear Master, in your
distribution of good things?"
He is a selfish old beggar
anyhow. He thinks of the loaves
and fishes even when he believes
his is in a real Presence. His
manias make a startling combination.
When we closed in on him he fought
like a tiger. He is immensely
strong, for he was more like
a wild beast than a man.
I never saw a lunatic in such
a paroxysm of rage before, and
I hope I shall not again. It
is a mercy that we have found
out his strength and his danger
in good time. With strength and
determination like his, he might
have done wild work before he
was caged.
He is safe now, at any rate.
Jack Sheppard himself couldn't
get free from the strait waistcoat
that keeps him restrained, and
he's chained to the wall in the
padded room.
His cries are at times awful,
but the silences that follow
are more deadly still, for he
means murder in every turn and
movement.
Just now he
spoke coherent words for the
first time. "I
shall be patient, Master. It
is coming, coming, coming!"
So I took the hint, and came
too. I was too excited to sleep,
but this diary has quieted me,
and I feel I shall get some sleep
tonight. |