wohnzimmer eiche sand

wohnzimmer eiche sand

chapter 5.letter from miss mina murray to miss lucy westenra 9 may.my dearest lucy, forgive my long delay in writing, but ihave been simply overwhelmed with work. the life of an assistant schoolmistress issometimes trying. i am longing to be with you, and by thesea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air. i have been working very hard lately,because i want to keep up with jonathan's studies, and i have been practicingshorthand very assiduously.

when we are married i shall be able to beuseful to jonathan, and if i can stenograph well enough i can take down what he wantsto say in this way and write it out for him on the typewriter, at which also i ampracticing very hard. he and i sometimes write letters inshorthand, and he is keeping a stenographic journal of his travels abroad. when i am with you i shall keep a diary inthe same way. i don't mean one of those two-pages-to-the-week-with-sunday-squeezed- in-a-corner diaries, but a sort of journal which i canwrite in whenever i feel inclined. i do not suppose there will be much ofinterest to other people, but it is not

intended for them. i may show it to jonathan some day if thereis in it anything worth sharing, but it is really an exercise book. i shall try to do what i see ladyjournalists do, interviewing and writing descriptions and trying to rememberconversations. i am told that, with a little practice, onecan remember all that goes on or that one hears said during a day.however, we shall see. i will tell you of my little plans when wemeet. i have just had a few hurried lines fromjonathan from transylvania.

he is well, and will be returning in abouta week. i am longing to hear all his news.it must be nice to see strange countries. i wonder if we, i mean jonathan and i,shall ever see them together. there is the ten o'clock bell ringing.goodbye. your loving mina tell me all the news when you write.you have not told me anything for a long time.i hear rumours, and especially of a tall, handsome, curly-haired man???

letter, lucy westenra to mina murray17, chatham street wednesdaymy dearest mina, i must say you tax me very unfairly withbeing a bad correspondent. i wrote you twice since we parted, and yourlast letter was only your second. besides, i have nothing to tell you. there is really nothing to interest you.town is very pleasant just now, and we go a great deal to picture-galleries and forwalks and rides in the park. as to the tall, curly-haired man, i supposeit was the one who was with me at the last pop.someone has evidently been telling tales.

that was mr. holmwood. he often comes to see us, and he and mammaget on very well together, they have so many things to talk about in common. we met some time ago a man that would justdo for you, if you were not already engaged to jonathan.he is an excellent parti, being handsome, well off, and of good birth. he is a doctor and really clever.just fancy! he is only nine-and twenty, and he has animmense lunatic asylum all under his own care.

mr. holmwood introduced him to me, and hecalled here to see us, and often comes now. i think he is one of the most resolute meni ever saw, and yet the most calm. he seems absolutely imperturbable. i can fancy what a wonderful power he musthave over his patients. he has a curious habit of looking onestraight in the face, as if trying to read one's thoughts. he tries this on very much with me, but iflatter myself he has got a tough nut to crack.i know that from my glass. do you ever try to read your own face?

i do, and i can tell you it is not a badstudy, and gives you more trouble than you can well fancy if you have never tried it. he says that i afford him a curiouspsychological study, and i humbly think i do. i do not, as you know, take sufficientinterest in dress to be able to describe the new fashions.dress is a bore. that is slang again, but never mind. arthur says that every day.there, it is all out, mina, we have told all our secrets to each other since we werechildren.

we have slept together and eaten together,and laughed and cried together, and now, though i have spoken, i would like to speakmore. oh, mina, couldn't you guess? i love him.i am blushing as i write, for although i think he loves me, he has not told me so inwords. but, oh, mina, i love him. i love him!there, that does me good. i wish i were with you, dear, sitting bythe fire undressing, as we used to sit, and i would try to tell you what i feel.

i do not know how i am writing this even toyou. i am afraid to stop, or i should tear upthe letter, and i don't want to stop, for i do so want to tell you all. let me hear from you at once, and tell meall that you think about it. mina, pray for my happiness.lucy p.s.--i need not tell you this is a secret. goodnight again.l. letter, lucy westenra to mina murray24 may my dearest mina,thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for

your sweet letter. it was so nice to be able to tell you andto have your sympathy. my dear, it never rains but it pours.how true the old proverbs are. here am i, who shall be twenty inseptember, and yet i never had a proposal till today, not a real proposal, and todayi had three. just fancy! three proposals in one day!isn't it awful! i feel sorry, really and truly sorry, fortwo of the poor fellows. oh, mina, i am so happy that i don't knowwhat to do with myself.

and three proposals! but, for goodness' sake, don't tell any ofthe girls, or they would be getting all sorts of extravagant ideas, and imaginingthemselves injured and slighted if in their very first day at home they did not get sixat least. some girls are so vain! you and i, mina dear, who are engaged andare going to settle down soon soberly into old married women, can despise vanity. well, i must tell you about the three, butyou must keep it a secret, dear, from every one except, of course, jonathan.you will tell him, because i would, if i

were in your place, certainly tell arthur. a woman ought to tell her husbandeverything. don't you think so, dear?and i must be fair. men like women, certainly their wives, tobe quite as fair as they are. and women, i am afraid, are not alwaysquite as fair as they should be. well, my dear, number one came just beforelunch. i told you of him, dr. john seward, thelunatic asylum man, with the strong jaw and the good forehead. he was very cool outwardly, but was nervousall the same.

he had evidently been schooling himself asto all sorts of little things, and remembered them, but he almost managed tosit down on his silk hat, which men don't generally do when they are cool, and then when he wanted to appear at ease he keptplaying with a lancet in a way that made me nearly scream.he spoke to me, mina, very straightforwardly. he told me how dear i was to him, though hehad known me so little, and what his life would be with me to help and cheer him. he was going to tell me how unhappy hewould be if i did not care for him, but

when he saw me cry he said he was a bruteand would not add to my present trouble. then he broke off and asked if i could lovehim in time, and when i shook my head his hands trembled, and then with somehesitation he asked me if i cared already for any one else. he put it very nicely, saying that he didnot want to wring my confidence from me, but only to know, because if a woman'sheart was free a man might have hope. and then, mina, i felt a sort of duty totell him that there was some one. i only told him that much, and then hestood up, and he looked very strong and very grave as he took both my hands in hisand said he hoped i would be happy, and

that if i ever wanted a friend i must counthim one of my best. oh, mina dear, i can't help crying, and youmust excuse this letter being all blotted. being proposed to is all very nice and allthat sort of thing, but it isn't at all a happy thing when you have to see a poorfellow, whom you know loves you honestly, going away and looking all broken hearted, and to know that, no matter what he may sayat the moment, you are passing out of his life.my dear, i must stop here at present, i feel so miserable, though i am so happy. evening.arthur has just gone, and i feel in better

spirits than when i left off, so i can goon telling you about the day. well, my dear, number two came after lunch. he is such a nice fellow, an american fromtexas, and he looks so young and so fresh that it seems almost impossible that he hasbeen to so many places and has such adventures. i sympathize with poor desdemona when shehad such a stream poured in her ear, even by a black man. i suppose that we women are such cowardsthat we think a man will save us from fears, and we marry him.i know now what i would do if i were a man

and wanted to make a girl love me. no, i don't, for there was mr. morristelling us his stories, and arthur never told any, and yet...my dear, i am somewhat previous. mr. quincy p. morris found me alone. it seems that a man always does find a girlalone. no, he doesn't, for arthur tried twice tomake a chance, and i helping him all i could, i am not ashamed to say it now. i must tell you beforehand that mr. morrisdoesn't always speak slang, that is to say, he never does so to strangers or beforethem, for he is really well educated and

has exquisite manners, but he found out that it amused me to hear him talk americanslang, and whenever i was present, and there was no one to be shocked, he saidsuch funny things. i am afraid, my dear, he has to invent itall, for it fits exactly into whatever else he has to say.but this is a way slang has. i do not know myself if i shall ever speakslang. i do not know if arthur likes it, as i havenever heard him use any as yet. well, mr. morris sat down beside me andlooked as happy and jolly as he could, but i could see all the same that he was verynervous.

he took my hand in his, and said ever sosweetly... "miss lucy, i know i ain't good enough toregulate the fixin's of your little shoes, but i guess if you wait till you find a manthat is you will go join them seven young women with the lamps when you quit. won't you just hitch up alongside of me andlet us go down the long road together, driving in double harness?" well, he did look so good humoured and sojolly that it didn't seem half so hard to refuse him as it did poor dr. seward. so i said, as lightly as i could, that idid not know anything of hitching, and that

i wasn't broken to harness at all yet. then he said that he had spoken in a lightmanner, and he hoped that if he had made a mistake in doing so on so grave, somomentous, and occasion for him, i would forgive him. he really did look serious when he wassaying it, and i couldn't help feeling a sort of exultation that he was number twoin one day. and then, my dear, before i could say aword he began pouring out a perfect torrent of love-making, laying his very heart andsoul at my feet. he looked so earnest over it that i shallnever again think that a man must be

playful always, and never earnest, becausehe is merry at times. i suppose he saw something in my face whichchecked him, for he suddenly stopped, and said with a sort of manly fervour that icould have loved him for if i had been free... "lucy, you are an honest hearted girl, iknow. i should not be here speaking to you as iam now if i did not believe you clean grit, right through to the very depths of yoursoul. tell me, like one good fellow to another,is there any one else that you care for? and if there is i'll never trouble you ahair's breadth again, but will be, if you

will let me, a very faithful friend." my dear mina, why are men so noble when wewomen are so little worthy of them? here was i almost making fun of this greathearted, true gentleman. i burst into tears, i am afraid, my dear,you will think this a very sloppy letter in more ways than one, and i really felt verybadly. why can't they let a girl marry three men,or as many as want her, and save all this trouble?but this is heresy, and i must not say it. i am glad to say that, though i was crying,i was able to look into mr. morris' brave eyes, and i told him out straight..."yes, there is some one i love, though he

has not told me yet that he even loves me." i was right to speak to him so frankly, forquite a light came into his face, and he put out both his hands and took mine, ithink i put them into his, and said in a hearty way... "that's my brave girl.it's better worth being late for a chance of winning you than being in time for anyother girl in the world. don't cry, my dear. if it's for me, i'm a hard nut to crack,and i take it standing up. if that other fellow doesn't know hishappiness, well, he'd better look for it

soon, or he'll have to deal with me. little girl, your honesty and pluck havemade me a friend, and that's rarer than a lover, it's more selfish anyhow.my dear, i'm going to have a pretty lonely walk between this and kingdom come. won't you give me one kiss?it'll be something to keep off the darkness now and then. you can, you know, if you like, for thatother good fellow, or you could not love him, hasn't spoken yet." that quite won me, mina, for it was braveand sweet of him, and noble too, to a

rival, wasn't it?and he so sad, so i leant over and kissed him. he stood up with my two hands in his, andas he looked down into my face, i am afraid i was blushing very much, he said, "littlegirl, i hold your hand, and you've kissed me, and if these things don't make usfriends nothing ever will. thank you for your sweet honesty to me, andgoodbye." he wrung my hand, and taking up his hat,went straight out of the room without looking back, without a tear or a quiver ora pause, and i am crying like a baby. oh, why must a man like that be madeunhappy when there are lots of girls about

who would worship the very ground he trodon? i know i would if i were free, only i don'twant to be free. my dear, this quite upset me, and i feel icannot write of happiness just at once, after telling you of it, and i don't wishto tell of the number three until it can be all happy. ever your loving...lucy p.s.--oh, about number three, i needn'ttell you of number three, need i? besides, it was all so confused. it seemed only a moment from his cominginto the room till both his arms were round

me, and he was kissing me.i am very, very happy, and i don't know what i have done to deserve it. i must only try in the future to show thati am not ungrateful to god for all his goodness to me in sending to me such alover, such a husband, and such a friend. goodbye. dr. seward's diary (kept in phonograph)25 may.--ebb tide in appetite today. cannot eat, cannot rest, so diary instead.since my rebuff of yesterday i have a sort of empty feeling. nothing in the world seems of sufficientimportance to be worth the doing.

as i knew that the only cure for this sortof thing was work, i went amongst the patients. i picked out one who has afforded me astudy of much interest. he is so quaint that i am determined tounderstand him as well as i can. today i seemed to get nearer than everbefore to the heart of his mystery. i questioned him more fully than i had everdone, with a view to making myself master of the facts of his hallucination. in my manner of doing it there was, i nowsee, something of cruelty. i seemed to wish to keep him to the pointof his madness, a thing which i avoid with

the patients as i would the mouth of hell. (mem., under what circumstances would i notavoid the pit of hell?) omnia romae venalia sunt.hell has its price! if there be anything behind this instinctit will be valuable to trace it afterwards accurately, so i had better commence to doso, therefore... r. m, renfield, age 59. sanguine temperament, great physicalstrength, morbidly excitable, periods of gloom, ending in some fixed idea which icannot make out. i presume that the sanguine temperamentitself and the disturbing influence end in

a mentally-accomplished finish, a possiblydangerous man, probably dangerous if unselfish. in selfish men caution is as secure anarmour for their foes as for themselves. what i think of on this point is, when selfis the fixed point the centripetal force is balanced with the centrifugal. when duty, a cause, etc., is the fixedpoint, the latter force is paramount, and only accident or a series of accidents canbalance it. letter, quincey p. morris to hon.arthur holmood 25 may.my dear art,

we've told yarns by the campfire in theprairies, and dressed one another's wounds after trying a landing at the marquesas,and drunk healths on the shore of titicaca. there are more yarns to be told, and otherwounds to be healed, and another health to be drunk.won't you let this be at my campfire tomorrow night? i have no hesitation in asking you, as iknow a certain lady is engaged to a certain dinner party, and that you are free.there will only be one other, our old pal at the korea, jack seward. he's coming, too, and we both want tomingle our weeps over the wine cup, and to

drink a health with all our hearts to thehappiest man in all the wide world, who has won the noblest heart that god has made andbest worth winning. we promise you a hearty welcome, and aloving greeting, and a health as true as your own right hand. we shall both swear to leave you at home ifyou drink too deep to a certain pair of eyes.come! yours, as ever and always, quincey p. morris telegram from arthur holmwoodto quincey p. morris

26 maycount me in every time. i bear messages which will make both yourears tingle. art > chapter 6.mina murray's journal 24 july.whitby.--lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter and lovelier than ever, andwe drove up to the house at the crescent in which they have rooms. this is a lovely place.the little river, the esk, runs through a

deep valley, which broadens out as it comesnear the harbour. a great viaduct runs across, with highpiers, through which the view seems somehow further away than it really is. the valley is beautifully green, and it isso steep that when you are on the high land on either side you look right across it,unless you are near enough to see down. the houses of the old town--the side awayfrom us, are all red-roofed, and seem piled up one over the other anyhow, like thepictures we see of nuremberg. right over the town is the ruin of whitbyabbey, which was sacked by the danes, and which is the scene of part of "marmion,"where the girl was built up in the wall.

it is a most noble ruin, of immense size,and full of beautiful and romantic bits. there is a legend that a white lady is seenin one of the windows. between it and the town there is anotherchurch, the parish one, round which is a big graveyard, all full of tombstones. this is to my mind the nicest spot inwhitby, for it lies right over the town, and has a full view of the harbour and allup the bay to where the headland called kettleness stretches out into the sea. it descends so steeply over the harbourthat part of the bank has fallen away, and some of the graves have been destroyed.

in one place part of the stonework of thegraves stretches out over the sandy pathway far below. there are walks, with seats beside them,through the churchyard, and people go and sit there all day long looking at thebeautiful view and enjoying the breeze. i shall come and sit here often myself andwork. indeed, i am writing now, with my book onmy knee, and listening to the talk of three old men who are sitting beside me. they seem to do nothing all day but sithere and talk. the harbour lies below me, with, on the farside, one long granite wall stretching out

into the sea, with a curve outwards at theend of it, in the middle of which is a lighthouse. a heavy seawall runs along outside of it.on the near side, the seawall makes an elbow crooked inversely, and its end toohas a lighthouse. between the two piers there is a narrowopening into the harbour, which then suddenly widens. it is nice at high water, but when the tideis out it shoals away to nothing, and there is merely the stream of the esk, runningbetween banks of sand, with rocks here and there.

outside the harbour on this side thererises for about half a mile a great reef, the sharp of which runs straight out frombehind the south lighthouse. at the end of it is a buoy with a bell,which swings in bad weather, and sends in a mournful sound on the wind.they have a legend here that when a ship is lost bells are heard out at sea. i must ask the old man about this.he is coming this way... he is a funny old man. he must be awfully old, for his face isgnarled and twisted like the bark of a tree.

he tells me that he is nearly a hundred,and that he was a sailor in the greenland fishing fleet when waterloo was fought. he is, i am afraid, a very scepticalperson, for when i asked him about the bells at sea and the white lady at theabbey he said very brusquely, "i wouldn't fash masel' about them, miss. them things be all wore out.mind, i don't say that they never was, but i do say that they wasn't in my time. they be all very well for comers andtrippers, an' the like, but not for a nice young lady like you.

them feet-folks from york and leeds that bealways eatin' cured herrin's and drinkin' tea an' lookin' out to buy cheap jet wouldcreed aught. i wonder masel' who'd be bothered tellin'lies to them, even the newspapers, which is full of fool-talk." i thought he would be a good person tolearn interesting things from, so i asked him if he would mind telling me somethingabout the whale fishing in the old days. he was just settling himself to begin whenthe clock struck six, whereupon he laboured to get up, and said,"i must gang ageeanwards home now, miss. my grand-daughter doesn't like to be keptwaitin' when the tea is ready, for it takes

me time to crammle aboon the grees, forthere be a many of 'em, and miss, i lack belly-timber sairly by the clock." he hobbled away, and i could see himhurrying, as well as he could, down the steps.the steps are a great feature on the place. they lead from the town to the church,there are hundreds of them, i do not know how many, and they wind up in a delicatecurve. the slope is so gentle that a horse couldeasily walk up and down them. i think they must originally have hadsomething to do with the abbey. i shall go home too.

lucy went out, visiting with her mother,and as they were only duty calls, i did not go. 1 august.--i came up here an hour ago withlucy, and we had a most interesting talk with my old friend and the two others whoalways come and join him. he is evidently the sir oracle of them, andi should think must have been in his time a most dictatorial person.he will not admit anything, and down faces everybody. if he can't out-argue them he bullies them,and then takes their silence for agreement with his views.lucy was looking sweetly pretty in her

white lawn frock. she has got a beautiful colour since shehas been here. i noticed that the old men did not lose anytime in coming and sitting near her when we sat down. she is so sweet with old people, i thinkthey all fell in love with her on the spot. even my old man succumbed and did notcontradict her, but gave me double share instead. i got him on the subject of the legends,and he went off at once into a sort of sermon.i must try to remember it and put it down.

"it be all fool-talk, lock, stock, andbarrel, that's what it be and nowt else. these bans an' wafts an' boh-ghosts an'bar-guests an' bogles an' all anent them is only fit to set bairns an' dizzy womena'belderin'. they be nowt but air-blebs. they, an' all grims an' signs an' warnin's,be all invented by parsons an' illsome berk-bodies an' railway touters to skeeran' scunner hafflin's, an' to get folks to do somethin' that they don't other inclineto. it makes me ireful to think o' them. why, it's them that, not content withprintin' lies on paper an' preachin' them

out of pulpits, does want to be cuttin'them on the tombstones. look here all around you in what airt yewill. all them steans, holdin' up their heads aswell as they can out of their pride, is acant, simply tumblin' down with the weighto' the lies wrote on them, 'here lies the body' or 'sacred to the memory' wrote on all of them, an' yet in nigh half of themthere bean't no bodies at all, an' the memories of them bean't cared a pinch ofsnuff about, much less sacred. lies all of them, nothin' but lies of onekind or another! my gog, but it'll be a quare scowderment atthe day of judgment when they come tumblin'

up in their death-sarks, all joupedtogether an' trying' to drag their tombsteans with them to prove how good they was, some of them trimmlin' an' dithering,with their hands that dozzened an' slippery from lyin' in the sea that they can't evenkeep their gurp o' them." i could see from the old fellow's self-satisfied air and the way in which he looked round for the approval of hiscronies that he was "showing off," so i put in a word to keep him going. "oh, mr. swales, you can't be serious.surely these tombstones are not all wrong?" "yabblins!

there may be a poorish few not wrong,savin' where they make out the people too good, for there be folk that do think abalm-bowl be like the sea, if only it be their own. the whole thing be only lies.now look you here. you come here a stranger, an' you see thiskirkgarth." i nodded, for i thought it better toassent, though i did not quite understand his dialect.i knew it had something to do with the church. he went on, "and you consate that all thesesteans be aboon folk that be haped here,

snod an' snog?"i assented again. "then that be just where the lie comes in. why, there be scores of these laybeds thatbe toom as old dun's 'baccabox on friday night."he nudged one of his companions, and they all laughed. "and, my gog!how could they be otherwise? look at that one, the aftest abaft thebier-bank, read it!" i went over and read, "edward spencelagh,master mariner, murdered by pirates off the coast of andres, april, 1854, age 30."when i came back mr. swales went on,

"who brought him home, i wonder, to hap himhere? murdered off the coast of andres!an' you consated his body lay under! why, i could name ye a dozen whose boneslie in the greenland seas above," he pointed northwards, "or where the currantsmay have drifted them. there be the steans around ye. ye can, with your young eyes, read thesmall print of the lies from here. this braithwaite lowery, i knew his father,lost in the lively off greenland in '20, or andrew woodhouse, drowned in the same seasin 1777, or john paxton, drowned off cape farewell a year later, or old john

rawlings, whose grandfather sailed with me,drowned in the gulf of finland in '50. do ye think that all these men will have tomake a rush to whitby when the trumpet sounds? i have me antherums aboot it! i tell ye that when they got here they'd bejommlin' and jostlin' one another that way that it 'ud be like a fight up on the icein the old days, when we'd be at one another from daylight to dark, an' tryin'to tie up our cuts by the aurora borealis." this was evidently local pleasantry, forthe old man cackled over it, and his cronies joined in with gusto.

"but," i said, "surely you are not quitecorrect, for you start on the assumption that all the poor people, or their spirits,will have to take their tombstones with them on the day of judgment. do you think that will be reallynecessary?" "well, what else be they tombstones for?answer me that, miss!" "to please their relatives, i suppose." "to please their relatives, you suppose!"this he said with intense scorn. "how will it pleasure their relatives toknow that lies is wrote over them, and that everybody in the place knows that they belies?"

he pointed to a stone at our feet which hadbeen laid down as a slab, on which the seat was rested, close to the edge of the cliff."read the lies on that thruff-stone," he said. the letters were upside down to me fromwhere i sat, but lucy was more opposite to them, so she leant over and read, "sacredto the memory of george canon, who died, in the hope of a glorious resurrection, on july 29, 1873, falling from the rocks atkettleness. this tomb was erected by his sorrowingmother to her dearly beloved son. 'he was the only son of his mother, and shewas a widow.'

really, mr. swales, i don't see anythingvery funny in that!" she spoke her comment very gravely andsomewhat severely. "ye don't see aught funny!ha-ha! but that's because ye don't gawm thesorrowin' mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was acrewk'd, a regularlamiter he was, an' he hated her so that he committed suicide in order that she mightn't get an insurance she put on hislife. he blew nigh the top of his head off withan old musket that they had for scarin' crows with.

'twarn't for crows then, for it brought theclegs and the dowps to him. that's the way he fell off the rocks. and, as to hopes of a gloriousresurrection, i've often heard him say masel' that he hoped he'd go to hell, forhis mother was so pious that she'd be sure to go to heaven, an' he didn't want toaddle where she was. now isn't that stean at any rate," hehammered it with his stick as he spoke, "a pack of lies? and won't it make gabriel keckle whengeordie comes pantin' ut the grees with the tompstean balanced on his hump, and asks tobe took as evidence!"

i did not know what to say, but lucy turnedthe conversation as she said, rising up, "oh, why did you tell us of this? it is my favourite seat, and i cannot leaveit, and now i find i must go on sitting over the grave of a suicide." "that won't harm ye, my pretty, an' it maymake poor geordie gladsome to have so trim a lass sittin' on his lap.that won't hurt ye. why, i've sat here off an' on for nightwenty years past, an' it hasn't done me no harm.don't ye fash about them as lies under ye, or that doesn' lie there either!

it'll be time for ye to be getting scartwhen ye see the tombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as a stubble-field. there's the clock, and i must gang. my service to ye, ladies!"and off he hobbled. lucy and i sat awhile, and it was all sobeautiful before us that we took hands as we sat, and she told me all over againabout arthur and their coming marriage. that made me just a little heart-sick, fori haven't heard from jonathan for a whole month.the same day. i came up here alone, for i am very sad.

there was no letter for me.i hope there cannot be anything the matter with jonathan.the clock has just struck nine. i see the lights scattered all over thetown, sometimes in rows where the streets are, and sometimes singly.they run right up the esk and die away in the curve of the valley. to my left the view is cut off by a blackline of roof of the old house next to the abbey. the sheep and lambs are bleating in thefields away behind me, and there is a clatter of donkeys' hoofs up the paved roadbelow.

the band on the pier is playing a harshwaltz in good time, and further along the quay there is a salvation army meeting in aback street. neither of the bands hears the other, butup here i hear and see them both. i wonder where jonathan is and if he isthinking of me! i wish he were here. dr. seward's diary5 june.--the case of renfield grows more interesting the more i get to understandthe man. he has certain qualities very largelydeveloped, selfishness, secrecy, and purpose.i wish i could get at what is the object of

the latter. he seems to have some settled scheme of hisown, but what it is i do not know. his redeeming quality is a love of animals,though, indeed, he has such curious turns in it that i sometimes imagine he is onlyabnormally cruel. his pets are of odd sorts. just now his hobby is catching flies.he has at present such a quantity that i have had myself to expostulate. to my astonishment, he did not break outinto a fury, as i expected, but took the matter in simple seriousness.he thought for a moment, and then said,

"may i have three days? i shall clear them away."of course, i said that would do. i must watch him. 18 june.--he has turned his mind now tospiders, and has got several very big fellows in a box. he keeps feeding them his flies, and thenumber of the latter is becoming sensibly diminished, although he has used half hisfood in attracting more flies from outside to his room. 1 july.--his spiders are now becoming asgreat a nuisance as his flies, and today i

told him that he must get rid of them.he looked very sad at this, so i said that he must some of them, at all events. he cheerfully acquiesced in this, and igave him the same time as before for reduction. he disgusted me much while with him, forwhen a horrid blowfly, bloated with some carrion food, buzzed into the room, hecaught it, held it exultantly for a few moments between his finger and thumb, and before i knew what he was going to do, putit in his mouth and ate it. i scolded him for it, but he argued quietlythat it was very good and very wholesome,

that it was life, strong life, and gavelife to him. this gave me an idea, or the rudiment ofone. i must watch how he gets rid of hisspiders. he has evidently some deep problem in hismind, for he keeps a little notebook in which he is always jotting down something. whole pages of it are filled with masses offigures, generally single numbers added up in batches, and then the totals added inbatches again, as though he were focussing some account, as the auditors put it. 8 july.--there is a method in his madness,and the rudimentary idea in my mind is

growing. it will be a whole idea soon, and then, oh,unconscious cerebration, you will have to give the wall to your conscious brother. i kept away from my friend for a few days,so that i might notice if there were any change. things remain as they were except that hehas parted with some of his pets and got a new one.he has managed to get a sparrow, and has already partially tamed it. his means of taming is simple, for alreadythe spiders have diminished.

those that do remain, however, are wellfed, for he still brings in the flies by tempting them with his food. 19 july--we are progressing.my friend has now a whole colony of sparrows, and his flies and spiders arealmost obliterated. when i came in he ran to me and said hewanted to ask me a great favour, a very, very great favour.and as he spoke, he fawned on me like a dog. i asked him what it was, and he said, witha sort of rapture in his voice and bearing, "a kitten, a nice, little, sleek playfulkitten, that i can play with, and teach,

and feed, and feed, and feed!" i was not unprepared for this request, fori had noticed how his pets went on increasing in size and vivacity, but i didnot care that his pretty family of tame sparrows should be wiped out in the samemanner as the flies and spiders. so i said i would see about it, and askedhim if he would not rather have a cat than a kitten. his eagerness betrayed him as he answered,"oh, yes, i would like a cat! i only asked for a kitten lest you shouldrefuse me a cat. no one would refuse me a kitten, wouldthey?"

i shook my head, and said that at present ifeared it would not be possible, but that i would see about it. his face fell, and i could see a warning ofdanger in it, for there was a sudden fierce, sidelong look which meant killing.the man is an undeveloped homicidal maniac. i shall test him with his present cravingand see how it will work out, then i shall know more.10 pm.--i have visited him again and found him sitting in a corner brooding. when i came in he threw himself on hisknees before me and implored me to let him have a cat, that his salvation dependedupon it.

i was firm, however, and told him that hecould not have it, whereupon he went without a word, and sat down, gnawing hisfingers, in the corner where i had found i shall see him in the morning early.20 july.--visited renfield very early, before attendant went his rounds.found him up and humming a tune. he was spreading out his sugar, which hehad saved, in the window, and was manifestly beginning his fly catchingagain, and beginning it cheerfully and with a good grace. i looked around for his birds, and notseeing them, asked him where they were. he replied, without turning round, thatthey had all flown away.

there were a few feathers about the roomand on his pillow a drop of blood. i said nothing, but went and told thekeeper to report to me if there were anything odd about him during the day. 11 am.--the attendant has just been to seeme to say that renfield has been very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of feathers. "my belief is, doctor," he said, "that hehas eaten his birds, and that he just took and ate them raw!" 11 pm.--i gave renfield a strong opiatetonight, enough to make even him sleep, and took away his pocketbook to look at it.

the thought that has been buzzing about mybrain lately is complete, and the theory proved.my homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. i shall have to invent a new classificationfor him, and call him a zoophagous (life- eating) maniac. what he desires is to absorb as many livesas he can, and he has laid himself out to achieve it in a cumulative way. he gave many flies to one spider and manyspiders to one bird, and then wanted a cat to eat the many birds.what would have been his later steps? it would almost be worth while to completethe experiment.

it might be done if there were only asufficient cause. men sneered at vivisection, and yet look atits results today! why not advance science in its mostdifficult and vital aspect, the knowledge of the brain? had i even the secret of one such mind, didi hold the key to the fancy of even one lunatic, i might advance my own branch ofscience to a pitch compared with which burdon-sanderson's physiology or ferrier'sbrain knowledge would be as nothing. if only there were a sufficient cause!i must not think too much of this, or i may be tempted.

a good cause might turn the scale with me,for may not i too be of an exceptional brain, congenitally?how well the man reasoned. lunatics always do within their own scope. i wonder at how many lives he values a man,or if at only one. he has closed the account most accurately,and today begun a new record. how many of us begin a new record with eachday of our lives? to me it seems only yesterday that my wholelife ended with my new hope, and that truly i began a new record. so it shall be until the great recordersums me up and closes my ledger account

with a balance to profit or loss. oh, lucy, lucy, i cannot be angry with you,nor can i be angry with my friend whose happiness is yours, but i must only wait onhopeless and work. work! work!if i could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there, a good, unselfishcause to make me work, that would be indeed happiness. mina murray's journal26 july.--i am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here.it is like whispering to one's self and

listening at the same time. and there is also something about theshorthand symbols that makes it different from writing.i am unhappy about lucy and about jonathan. i had not heard from jonathan for sometime, and was very concerned, but yesterday dear mr. hawkins, who is always so kind,sent me a letter from him. i had written asking him if he had heard,and he said the enclosed had just been received. it is only a line dated from castledracula, and says that he is just starting for home.that is not like jonathan.

i do not understand it, and it makes meuneasy. then, too, lucy, although she is so well,has lately taken to her old habit of walking in her sleep. her mother has spoken to me about it, andwe have decided that i am to lock the door of our room every night. mrs. westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs and then getsuddenly wakened and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes all over theplace. poor dear, she is naturally anxious aboutlucy, and she tells me that her husband,

lucy's father, had the same habit, that hewould get up in the night and dress himself and go out, if he were not stopped. lucy is to be married in the autumn, andshe is already planning out her dresses and how her house is to be arranged. i sympathise with her, for i do the same,only jonathan and i will start in life in a very simple way, and shall have to try tomake both ends meet. mr. holmwood, he is the hon. arthurholmwood, only son of lord godalming, is coming up here very shortly, as soon as hecan leave town, for his father is not very well, and i think dear lucy is counting themoments till he comes.

she wants to take him up in the seat on thechurchyard cliff and show him the beauty of whitby. i daresay it is the waiting which disturbsher. she will be all right when he arrives.27 july.--no news from jonathan. i am getting quite uneasy about him, thoughwhy i should i do not know, but i do wish that he would write, if it were only asingle line. lucy walks more than ever, and each night iam awakened by her moving about the room. fortunately, the weather is so hot that shecannot get cold. but still, the anxiety and the perpetuallybeing awakened is beginning to tell on me,

and i am getting nervous and wakefulmyself. thank god, lucy's health keeps up. mr. holmwood has been suddenly called toring to see his father, who has been taken seriously ill.lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it does not touch her looks. she is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks area lovely rose-pink. she has lost the anemic look which she had.i pray it will all last. 3 august.--another week gone by, and nonews from jonathan, not even to mr. hawkins, from whom i have heard.oh, i do hope he is not ill.

he surely would have written. i look at that last letter of his, butsomehow it does not satisfy me. it does not read like him, and yet it ishis writing. there is no mistake of that. lucy has not walked much in her sleep thelast week, but there is an odd concentration about her which i do notunderstand, even in her sleep she seems to be watching me. she tries the door, and finding it locked,goes about the room searching for the key. 6 august.--another three days, and no news.this suspense is getting dreadful.

if i only knew where to write to or whereto go to, i should feel easier. but no one has heard a word of jonathansince that last letter. i must only pray to god for patience. lucy is more excitable than ever, but isotherwise well. last night was very threatening, and thefishermen say that we are in for a storm. i must try to watch it and learn theweather signs. today is a gray day, and the sun as i writeis hidden in thick clouds, high over kettleness. everything is gray except the green grass,which seems like emerald amongst it, gray

earthy rock, gray clouds, tinged with thesunburst at the far edge, hang over the gray sea, into which the sandpoints stretchlike gray figures. the sea is tumbling in over the shallowsand the sandy flats with a roar, muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. the horizon is lost in a gray mist.all vastness, the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and there is a 'brool' overthe sea that sounds like some passage of doom. dark figures are on the beach here andthere, sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem 'men like trees walking'.

the fishing boats are racing for home, andrise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep into the harbour, bending to thescuppers. here comes old mr. swales. he is making straight for me, and i cansee, by the way he lifts his hat, that he wants to talk.i have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. when he sat down beside me, he said in avery gentle way, "i want to say something to you, miss." i could see he was not at ease, so i tookhis poor old wrinkled hand in mine and

asked him to speak fully. so he said, leaving his hand in mine, "i'mafraid, my deary, that i must have shocked you by all the wicked things i've beensayin' about the dead, and such like, for weeks past, but i didn't mean them, and iwant ye to remember that when i'm gone. we aud folks that be daffled, and with onefoot abaft the krok-hooal, don't altogether like to think of it, and we don't want tofeel scart of it, and that's why i've took to makin' light of it, so that i'd cheer upmy own heart a bit. but, lord love ye, miss, i ain't afraid ofdyin', not a bit, only i don't want to die if i can help it.

my time must be nigh at hand now, for i beaud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to expect.and i'm so nigh it that the aud man is already whettin' his scythe. ye see, i can't get out o' the habit ofcaffin' about it all at once. the chafts will wag as they be used to.some day soon the angel of death will sound his trumpet for me. but don't ye dooal an' greet, my deary!"--for he saw that i was crying--"if he should come this very night i'd not refuse toanswer his call. for life be, after all, only a waitin' forsomethin' else than what we're doin', and

death be all that we can rightly depend on.but i'm content, for it's comin' to me, my deary, and comin' quick. it may be comin' while we be lookin' andwonderin'. maybe it's in that wind out over the seathat's bringin' with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. look!look!" he cried suddenly. "there's something in that wind and in thehoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. it's in the air.i feel it comin'.

lord, make me answer cheerful, when my callcomes!" he held up his arms devoutly, and raisedhis hat. his mouth moved as though he were praying. after a few minutes' silence, he got up,shook hands with me, and blessed me, and said goodbye, and hobbled off.it all touched me, and upset me very much. i was glad when the coastguard came along,with his spyglass under his arm. he stopped to talk with me, as he alwaysdoes, but all the time kept looking at a strange ship. "i can't make her out," he said."she's a russian, by the look of her.

but she's knocking about in the queerestway. she doesn't know her mind a bit. she seems to see the storm coming, butcan't decide whether to run up north in the open, or to put in here.look there again! she is steered mighty strangely, for shedoesn't mind the hand on the wheel, changes about with every puff of wind.we'll hear more of her before this time tomorrow." chapter 7.cutting from "the dailygraph", 8 august. (pasted in mina murray's journal)

from a correspondent.whitby. one of the greatest and suddenest storms onrecord has just been experienced here, with results both strange and unique. the weather had been somewhat sultry, butnot to any degree uncommon in the month of august. saturday evening was as fine as was everknown, and the great body of holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits to mulgravewoods, robin hood's bay, rig mill, runswick, staithes, and the various tripsin the neighborhood of whitby. the steamers emma and scarborough madetrips up and down the coast, and there was

an unusual amount of 'tripping' both to andfrom whitby. the day was unusually fine till theafternoon, when some of the gossips who frequent the east cliff churchyard, andfrom the commanding eminence watch the wide sweep of sea visible to the north and east, called attention to a sudden show of 'marestails' high in the sky to the northwest. the wind was then blowing from the south-west in the mild degree which in barometrical language is ranked 'no. 2,light breeze.' the coastguard on duty at once made report,and one old fisherman, who for more than half a century has kept watch on weathersigns from the east cliff, foretold in an

emphatic manner the coming of a suddenstorm. the approach of sunset was so verybeautiful, so grand in its masses of splendidly coloured clouds, that there wasquite an assemblage on the walk along the cliff in the old churchyard to enjoy thebeauty. before the sun dipped below the black massof kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western sky, its downward way was marked bymyriad clouds of every sunset colour, flame, purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of gold, with here and theremasses not large, but of seemingly absolute blackness, in all sorts of shapes, as welloutlined as colossal silhouettes.

the experience was not lost on thepainters, and doubtless some of the sketches of the 'prelude to the greatstorm' will grace the r.a and r.i. walls in may next. more than one captain made up his mind thenand there that his 'cobble' or his 'mule', as they term the different classes ofboats, would remain in the harbour till the storm had passed. the wind fell away entirely during theevening, and at midnight there was a dead calm, a sultry heat, and that prevailingintensity which, on the approach of thunder, affects persons of a sensitivenature.

there were but few lights in sight at sea,for even the coasting steamers, which usually hug the shore so closely, kept wellto seaward, and but few fishing boats were in sight. the only sail noticeable was a foreignschooner with all sails set, which was seemingly going westwards. the foolhardiness or ignorance of herofficers was a prolific theme for comment whilst she remained in sight, and effortswere made to signal her to reduce sail in the face of her danger. before the night shut down she was seenwith sails idly flapping as she gently

rolled on the undulating swell of the sea."as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean." shortly before ten o'clock the stillness ofthe air grew quite oppressive, and the silence was so marked that the bleating ofa sheep inland or the barking of a dog in the town was distinctly heard, and the band on the pier, with its lively french air,was like a dischord in the great harmony of nature's silence. a little after midnight came a strangesound from over the sea, and high overhead the air began to carry a strange, faint,hollow booming.

then without warning the tempest broke. with a rapidity which, at the time, seemedincredible, and even afterwards is impossible to realize, the whole aspect ofnature at once became convulsed. the waves rose in growing fury, each over-topping its fellow, till in a very few minutes the lately glassy sea was like aroaring and devouring monster. white-crested waves beat madly on the levelsands and rushed up the shelving cliffs. others broke over the piers, and with theirspume swept the lanthorns of the lighthouses which rise from the end ofeither pier of whitby harbour. the wind roared like thunder, and blew withsuch force that it was with difficulty that

even strong men kept their feet, or clungwith grim clasp to the iron stanchions. it was found necessary to clear the entirepier from the mass of onlookers, or else the fatalities of the night would haveincreased manifold. to add to the difficulties and dangers ofthe time, masses of sea-fog came drifting inland. white, wet clouds, which swept by inghostly fashion, so dank and damp and cold that it needed but little effort ofimagination to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were touching their living brethren with the clammy hands ofdeath, and many a one shuddered as the

wreaths of sea-mist swept by. at times the mist cleared, and the sea forsome distance could be seen in the glare of the lightning, which came thick and fast,followed by such peals of thunder that the whole sky overhead seemed trembling underthe shock of the footsteps of the storm. some of the scenes thus revealed were ofimmeasurable grandeur and of absorbing interest. the sea, running mountains high, threwskywards with each wave mighty masses of white foam, which the tempest seemed tosnatch at and whirl away into space. here and there a fishing boat, with a ragof sail, running madly for shelter before

the blast, now and again the white wings ofa storm-tossed seabird. on the summit of the east cliff the newsearchlight was ready for experiment, but had not yet been tried. the officers in charge of it got it intoworking order, and in the pauses of onrushing mist swept with it the surface ofthe sea. once or twice its service was mosteffective, as when a fishing boat, with gunwale under water, rushed into theharbour, able, by the guidance of the sheltering light, to avoid the danger ofdashing against the piers. as each boat achieved the safety of theport there was a shout of joy from the mass

of people on the shore, a shout which for amoment seemed to cleave the gale and was then swept away in its rush. before long the searchlight discovered somedistance away a schooner with all sails set, apparently the same vessel which hadbeen noticed earlier in the evening. the wind had by this time backed to theeast, and there was a shudder amongst the watchers on the cliff as they realized theterrible danger in which she now was. between her and the port lay the great flatreef on which so many good ships have from time to time suffered, and, with the windblowing from its present quarter, it would be quite impossible that she should fetchthe entrance of the harbour.

it was now nearly the hour of high tide,but the waves were so great that in their troughs the shallows of the shore werealmost visible, and the schooner, with all sails set, was rushing with such speed that, in the words of one old salt, "shemust fetch up somewhere, if it was only in hell". then came another rush of sea-fog, greaterthan any hitherto, a mass of dank mist, which seemed to close on all things like agray pall, and left available to men only the organ of hearing, for the roar of the tempest, and the crash of the thunder, andthe booming of the mighty billows came

through the damp oblivion even louder thanbefore. the rays of the searchlight were kept fixedon the harbour mouth across the east pier, where the shock was expected, and menwaited breathless. the wind suddenly shifted to the northeast,and the remnant of the sea fog melted in the blast. and then, mirabile dictu, between thepiers, leaping from wave to wave as it rushed at headlong speed, swept the strangeschooner before the blast, with all sail set, and gained the safety of the harbour. the searchlight followed her, and a shudderran through all who saw her, for lashed to

the helm was a corpse, with drooping head,which swung horribly to and fro at each motion of the ship. no other form could be seen on the deck atall. a great awe came on all as they realisedthat the ship, as if by a miracle, had found the harbour, unsteered save by thehand of a dead man! however, all took place more quickly thanit takes to write these words. the schooner paused not, but rushing acrossthe harbour, pitched herself on that accumulation of sand and gravel washed bymany tides and many storms into the southeast corner of the pier jutting under

the east cliff, known locally as tate hillpier. there was of course a considerableconcussion as the vessel drove up on the sand heap. every spar, rope, and stay was strained,and some of the 'top-hammer' came crashing down. but, strangest of all, the very instant theshore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck from below, as if shot up by theconcussion, and running forward, jumped from the bow on the sand. making straight for the steep cliff, wherethe churchyard hangs over the laneway to

the east pier so steeply that some of theflat tombstones, thruffsteans or through- stones, as they call them in whitby vernacular, actually project over where thesustaining cliff has fallen away, it disappeared in the darkness, which seemedintensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight. it so happened that there was no one at themoment on tate hill pier, as all those whose houses are in close proximity wereeither in bed or were out on the heights above. thus the coastguard on duty on the easternside of the harbour, who at once ran down

to the little pier, was the first to climbaboard. the men working the searchlight, afterscouring the entrance of the harbour without seeing anything, then turned thelight on the derelict and kept it there. the coastguard ran aft, and when he camebeside the wheel, bent over to examine it, and recoiled at once as though under somesudden emotion. this seemed to pique general curiosity, andquite a number of people began to run. it is a good way round from the west cliffby the draw-bridge to tate hill pier, but your correspondent is a fairly good runner,and came well ahead of the crowd. when i arrived, however, i found alreadyassembled on the pier a crowd, whom the

coastguard and police refused to allow tocome on board. by the courtesy of the chief boatman, iwas, as your correspondent, permitted to climb on deck, and was one of a small groupwho saw the dead seaman whilst actually lashed to the wheel. it was no wonder that the coastguard wassurprised, or even awed, for not often can such a sight have been seen. the man was simply fastened by his hands,tied one over the other, to a spoke of the wheel. between the inner hand and the wood was acrucifix, the set of beads on which it was

fastened being around both wrists andwheel, and all kept fast by the binding cords. the poor fellow may have been seated at onetime, but the flapping and buffeting of the sails had worked through the rudder of thewheel and had dragged him to and fro, so that the cords with which he was tied hadcut the flesh to the bone. accurate note was made of the state ofthings, and a doctor, surgeon j. m. caffyn, of 33, east elliot place, who cameimmediately after me, declared, after making examination, that the man must havebeen dead for quite two days. in his pocket was a bottle, carefullycorked, empty save for a little roll of

paper, which proved to be the addendum tothe log. the coastguard said the man must have tiedup his own hands, fastening the knots with his teeth. the fact that a coastguard was the first onboard may save some complications later on, in the admiralty court, for coastguardscannot claim the salvage which is the right of the first civilian entering on aderelict. already, however, the legal tongues arewagging, and one young law student is loudly asserting that the rights of theowner are already completely sacrificed, his property being held in contravention of

the statues of mortmain, since the tiller,as emblemship, if not proof, of delegated possession, is held in a dead hand. it is needless to say that the deadsteersman has been reverently removed from the place where he held his honourablewatch and ward till death, a steadfastness as noble as that of the young casabianca, and placed in the mortuary to awaitinquest. already the sudden storm is passing, andits fierceness is abating. crowds are scattering backward, and the skyis beginning to redden over the yorkshire wolds.

i shall send, in time for your next issue,further details of the derelict ship which found her way so miraculously into harbourin the storm. 9 august.--the sequel to the strangearrival of the derelict in the storm last night is almost more startling than thething itself. it turns out that the schooner is russianfrom varna, and is called the demeter. she is almost entirely in ballast of silversand, with only a small amount of cargo, a number of great wooden boxes filled withmould. this cargo was consigned to a whitbysolicitor, mr. s.f. billington, of 7, the crescent, who this morning went aboard andtook formal possession of the goods

consigned to him. the russian consul, too, acting for thecharter-party, took formal possession of the ship, and paid all harbour dues, etc.nothing is talked about here today except the strange coincidence. the officials of the board of trade havebeen most exacting in seeing that every compliance has been made with existingregulations. as the matter is to be a 'nine dayswonder', they are evidently determined that there shall be no cause of other complaint. a good deal of interest was abroadconcerning the dog which landed when the

ship struck, and more than a few of themembers of the s.p.c.a., which is very strong in whitby, have tried to befriendthe animal. to the general disappointment, however, itwas not to be found. it seems to have disappeared entirely fromthe town. it may be that it was frightened and madeits way on to the moors, where it is still hiding in terror. there are some who look with dread on sucha possibility, lest later on it should in itself become a danger, for it is evidentlya fierce brute. early this morning a large dog, a half-bredmastiff belonging to a coal merchant close

to tate hill pier, was found dead in theroadway opposite its master's yard. it had been fighting, and manifestly hadhad a savage opponent, for its throat was torn away, and its belly was slit open asif with a savage claw. later.--by the kindness of the board oftrade inspector, i have been permitted to look over the log book of the demeter,which was in order up to within three days, but contained nothing of special interestexcept as to facts of missing men. the greatest interest, however, is withregard to the paper found in the bottle, which was today produced at the inquest. and a more strange narrative than the twobetween them unfold it has not been my lot

to come across. as there is no motive for concealment, i ampermitted to use them, and accordingly send you a transcript, simply omitting technicaldetails of seamanship and supercargo. it almost seems as though the captain hadbeen seized with some kind of mania before he had got well into blue water, and thatthis had developed persistently throughout the voyage. of course my statement must be taken cumgrano, since i am writing from the dictation of a clerk of the russian consul,who kindly translated for me, time being short.

log of the "demeter" varna to whitby written 18 july, things so strangehappening, that i shall keep accurate note henceforth till we land. on 6 july we finished taking in cargo,silver sand and boxes of earth. at noon set sail.east wind, fresh. crew, five hands... two mates, cook, andmyself, (captain). on 11 july at dawn entered bosphorus.boarded by turkish customs officers. backsheesh.all correct. under way at 4 p.m.

on 12 july through dardanelles.more customs officers and flagboat of guarding squadron.backsheesh again. work of officers thorough, but quick. want us off soon.at dark passed into archipelago. on 13 july passed cape matapan.crew dissatisfied about something. seemed scared, but would not speak out. on 14 july was somewhat anxious about crew.men all steady fellows, who sailed with me before.mate could not make out what was wrong. they only told him there was something, andcrossed themselves.

mate lost temper with one of them that dayand struck him. expected fierce quarrel, but all was quiet. on 16 july mate reported in the morningthat one of the crew, petrofsky, was missing.could not account for it. took larboard watch eight bells last night,was relieved by amramoff, but did not go to bunk.men more downcast than ever. all said they expected something of thekind, but would not say more than there was something aboard.mate getting very impatient with them. feared some trouble ahead.

on 17 july, yesterday, one of the men,olgaren, came to my cabin, and in an awestruck way confided to me that hethought there was a strange man aboard the ship. he said that in his watch he had beensheltering behind the deckhouse, as there was a rain storm, when he saw a tall, thinman, who was not like any of the crew, come up the companionway, and go along the deckforward and disappear. he followed cautiously, but when he got tobows found no one, and the hatchways were all closed. he was in a panic of superstitious fear,and i am afraid the panic may spread.

to allay it, i shall today search theentire ship carefully from stem to stern. later in the day i got together the wholecrew, and told them, as they evidently thought there was some one in the ship, wewould search from stem to stern. first mate angry, said it was folly, and toyield to such foolish ideas would demoralise the men, said he would engage tokeep them out of trouble with the handspike. i let him take the helm, while the restbegan a thorough search, all keeping abreast, with lanterns.we left no corner unsearched. as there were only the big wooden boxes,there were no odd corners where a man could

hide.men much relieved when search over, and went back to work cheerfully. first mate scowled, but said nothing. 22 july.--rough weather last three days,and all hands busy with sails, no time to be frightened.men seem to have forgotten their dread. mate cheerful again, and all on good terms. praised men for work in bad weather.passed gibraltar and out through straits. all well. 24 july.--there seems some doom over thisship.

already a hand short, and entering the bayof biscay with wild weather ahead, and yet last night another man lost, disappeared. like the first, he came off his watch andwas not seen again. men all in a panic of fear, sent a roundrobin, asking to have double watch, as they fear to be alone. mate angry.fear there will be some trouble, as either he or the men will do some violence. 28 july.--four days in hell, knocking aboutin a sort of maelstrom, and the wind a tempest.no sleep for any one.

men all worn out. hardly know how to set a watch, since noone fit to go on. second mate volunteered to steer and watch,and let men snatch a few hours sleep. wind abating, seas still terrific, but feelthem less, as ship is steadier. 29 july.--another tragedy.had single watch tonight, as crew too tired to double.when morning watch came on deck could find no one except steersman. raised outcry, and all came on deck.thorough search, but no one found. are now without second mate, and crew in apanic.

mate and i agreed to go armed henceforthand wait for any sign of cause. 30 july.--last night.rejoiced we are nearing england. weather fine, all sails set. retired worn out, slept soundly, awakenedby mate telling me that both man of watch and steersman missing.only self and mate and two hands left to work ship. 1 august.--two days of fog, and not a sailsighted. had hoped when in the english channel to beable to signal for help or get in somewhere.

not having power to work sails, have to runbefore wind. dare not lower, as could not raise themagain. we seem to be drifting to some terribledoom. mate now more demoralised than either ofmen. his stronger nature seems to have workedinwardly against himself. men are beyond fear, working stolidly andpatiently, with minds made up to worst. they are russian, he roumanian. 2 august, midnight.--woke up from fewminutes sleep by hearing a cry, seemingly outside my port.could see nothing in fog.

rushed on deck, and ran against mate. tells me he heard cry and ran, but no signof man on watch. one more gone.lord, help us! mate says we must be past straits of dover,as in a moment of fog lifting he saw north foreland, just as he heard the man cry out. if so we are now off in the north sea, andonly god can guide us in the fog, which seems to move with us, and god seems tohave deserted us. 3 august.--at midnight i went to relievethe man at the wheel and when i got to it found no one there.the wind was steady, and as we ran before

it there was no yawing. i dared not leave it, so shouted for themate. after a few seconds, he rushed up on deckin his flannels. he looked wild-eyed and haggard, and igreatly fear his reason has given way. he came close to me and whispered hoarsely,with his mouth to my ear, as though fearing the very air might hear. "it is here.i know it now. on the watch last night i saw it, like aman, tall and thin, and ghastly pale. it was in the bows, and looking out.

i crept behind it, and gave it my knife,but the knife went through it, empty as the air."and as he spoke he took the knife and drove it savagely into space. then he went on, "but it is here, and i'llfind it. it is in the hold, perhaps in one of thoseboxes. i'll unscrew them one by one and see. you work the helm."and with a warning look and his finger on his lip, he went below.there was springing up a choppy wind, and i could not leave the helm.

i saw him come out on deck again with atool chest and lantern, and go down the forward hatchway.he is mad, stark, raving mad, and it's no use my trying to stop him. he can't hurt those big boxes, they areinvoiced as clay, and to pull them about is as harmless a thing as he can do.so here i stay and mind the helm, and write these notes. i can only trust in god and wait till thefog clears. then, if i can't steer to any harbour withthe wind that is, i shall cut down sails, and lie by, and signal for help...

it is nearly all over now. just as i was beginning to hope that themate would come out calmer, for i heard him knocking away at something in the hold, andwork is good for him, there came up the hatchway a sudden, startled scream, which made my blood run cold, and up on the deckhe came as if shot from a gun, a raging madman, with his eyes rolling and his faceconvulsed with fear. "save me! save me!" he cried, and then looked roundon the blanket of fog. his horror turned to despair, and in asteady voice he said, "you had better come

too, captain, before it is too late. he is there!i know the secret now. the sea will save me from him, and it isall that is left!" before i could say a word, or move forwardto seize him, he sprang on the bulwark and deliberately threw himself into the sea.i suppose i know the secret too, now. it was this madman who had got rid of themen one by one, and now he has followed them himself.god help me! how am i to account for all these horrorswhen i get to port? when i get to port!will that ever be?

4 august.--still fog, which the sunrisecannot pierce, i know there is sunrise because i am a sailor, why else i know not. i dared not go below, i dared not leave thehelm, so here all night i stayed, and in the dimness of the night i saw it, him!god, forgive me, but the mate was right to jump overboard. it was better to die like a man.to die like a sailor in blue water, no man can object.but i am captain, and i must not leave my but i shall baffle this fiend or monster,for i shall tie my hands to the wheel when my strength begins to fail, and along withthem i shall tie that which he, it, dare

not touch. and then, come good wind or foul, i shallsave my soul, and my honour as a captain. i am growing weaker, and the night iscoming on. if he can look me in the face again, i maynot have time to act... if we are wrecked, mayhap this bottle maybe found, and those who find it may understand. if not... well, then all men shall knowthat i have been true to my trust. god and the blessed virgin and the saintshelp a poor ignorant soul trying to do his duty...

of course the verdict was an open one.there is no evidence to adduce, and whether or not the man himself committed themurders there is now none to say. the folk here hold almost universally thatthe captain is simply a hero, and he is to be given a public funeral. already it is arranged that his body is tobe taken with a train of boats up the esk for a piece and then brought back to tatehill pier and up the abbey steps, for he is to be buried in the churchyard on thecliff. the owners of more than a hundred boatshave already given in their names as wishing to follow him to the grave.

no trace has ever been found of the greatdog, at which there is much mourning, for, with public opinion in its present state,he would, i believe, be adopted by the town. tomorrow will see the funeral, and so willend this one more 'mystery of the sea'. mina murray's journal8 august.--lucy was very restless all night, and i too, could not sleep. the storm was fearful, and as it boomedloudly among the chimney pots, it made me shudder.when a sharp puff came it seemed to be like a distant gun.

strangely enough, lucy did not wake, butshe got up twice and dressed herself. fortunately, each time i awoke in time andmanaged to undress her without waking her, and got her back to bed. it is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as her will is thwarted in any physical way, herintention, if there be any, disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to theroutine of her life. early in the morning we both got up andwent down to the harbour to see if anything had happened in the night. there were very few people about, andthough the sun was bright, and the air

clear and fresh, the big, grim-lookingwaves, that seemed dark themselves because the foam that topped them was like snow, forced themselves in through the mouth ofthe harbour, like a bullying man going through a crowd.somehow i felt glad that jonathan was not on the sea last night, but on land. but, oh, is he on land or sea?where is he, and how? i am getting fearfully anxious about him.if i only knew what to do, and could do anything! 10 august.--the funeral of the poor seacaptain today was most touching.

every boat in the harbour seemed to bethere, and the coffin was carried by captains all the way from tate hill pier upto the churchyard. lucy came with me, and we went early to ourold seat, whilst the cortege of boats went up the river to the viaduct and came downagain. we had a lovely view, and saw theprocession nearly all the way. the poor fellow was laid to rest near ourseat so that we stood on it, when the time came and saw everything. poor lucy seemed much upset.she was restless and uneasy all the time, and i cannot but think that her dreaming atnight is telling on her.

she is quite odd in one thing. she will not admit to me that there is anycause for restlessness, or if there be, she does not understand it herself. there is an additional cause in that poormr. swales was found dead this morning on our seat, his neck being broken. he had evidently, as the doctor said,fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, for there was a look of fear andhorror on his face that the men said made them shudder. poor dear old man!lucy is so sweet and sensitive that she

feels influences more acutely than otherpeople do. just now she was quite upset by a littlething which i did not much heed, though i am myself very fond of animals.one of the men who came up here often to look for the boats was followed by his dog. the dog is always with him.they are both quiet persons, and i never saw the man angry, nor heard the dog bark. during the service the dog would not cometo its master, who was on the seat with us, but kept a few yards off, barking andhowling. its master spoke to it gently, and thenharshly, and then angrily.

but it would neither come nor cease to makea noise. it was in a fury, with its eyes savage, andall its hair bristling out like a cat's tail when puss is on the war path. finally the man too got angry, and jumpeddown and kicked the dog, and then took it by the scruff of the neck and half draggedand half threw it on the tombstone on which the seat is fixed. the moment it touched the stone the poorthing began to tremble. it did not try to get away, but croucheddown, quivering and cowering, and was in such a pitiable state of terror that itried, though without effect, to comfort

it. lucy was full of pity, too, but she did notattempt to touch the dog, but looked at it in an agonised sort of way. i greatly fear that she is of too supersensitive a nature to go through the world without trouble.she will be dreaming of this tonight, i am sure. the whole agglomeration of things, the shipsteered into port by a dead man, his attitude, tied to the wheel with a crucifixand beads, the touching funeral, the dog, now furious and now in terror, will allafford material for her dreams.

i think it will be best for her to go tobed tired out physically, so i shall take her for a long walk by the cliffs to robinhood's bay and back. she ought not to have much inclination forsleep-walking then. chapter 8.mina murray's journal same day, 11 o'clock p.m.--oh, but i amtired! if it were not that i had made my diary aduty 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 thelighthouse, and frightened the wits out of

us. i believe we forgot everything, except ofcourse, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe the slate clean and give us a freshstart. we had a capital 'severe tea' at robinhood's bay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a bow window right over theseaweed-covered rocks of the strand. i believe we should have shocked the 'newwoman' with our appetites. men are more tolerant, bless them! then we walked home with some, or rathermany, stoppages to rest, and with our hearts full of a constant dread of wildbulls.

lucy was really tired, and we intended tocreep 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 thedusty miller. i know it was a hard fight on my part, andi am quite heroic. i think that some day the bishops must gettogether and see about breeding up a new class of curates, who don't take supper, nomatter how hard they may be pressed to, and who will know when girls are tired. lucy is asleep and breathing softly.she has more colour in her cheeks than usual, and looks, oh so sweet.

if mr. holmwood fell in love with herseeing her only in the drawing room, i wonder what he would say if he saw her now. some of the 'new women' writers will someday start an idea that men and women should be allowed to see each other asleep beforeproposing or accepting. but i suppose the 'new woman' won'tcondescend 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 lucyseems 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 ifjonathan... 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 inthe room. the door was shut, but not locked, as i hadleft it. i feared to wake her mother, who has beenmore 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 thatthe 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 theirplaces. "thank god," i said to myself, "she cannotbe far, as she is only in her nightdress." i ran downstairs and looked in the sittingroom. not there! then i looked in all the other rooms of thehouse, 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 thelock had not caught. the people of the house are careful to lockthe door every night, so i feared that lucy

must have gone out as she was. there was no time to think of what mighthappen. a vague over-mastering fear obscured alldetails. i took a big, heavy shawl and ran out. the clock was striking one as i was in thecrescent, and there was not a soul in sight. i ran along the north terrace, but couldsee no sign of the white figure which i expected. at the edge of the west cliff above thepier i looked across the harbour to the

east cliff, in the hope or fear, i don'tknow which, of seeing lucy in our favourite seat. there was a bright full moon, with heavyblack, driving clouds, which threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama oflight and shade as they sailed across. for a moment or two i could see nothing, asthe shadow of a cloud obscured st. mary's church and all around it. then as the cloud passed i could see theruins of the abbey coming into view, and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharpas a sword-cut moved along, the church and churchyard became gradually visible.

whatever my expectation was, it was notdisappointed, for there, on our favourite seat, the silver light of the moon struck ahalf-reclining figure, snowy white. the coming of the cloud was too quick forme to see much, for shadow shut down on light almost immediately, but it seemed tome as though something dark stood behind the seat where the white figure shone, andbent over it. what it was, whether man or beast, i couldnot tell. i did not wait to catch another glance, butflew 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 didi see. i rejoiced that it was so, for i wanted nowitness of poor lucy's condition. the time and distance seemed endless, andmy knees trembled and my breath came laboured as i toiled up the endless stepsto the abbey. i must have gone fast, and yet it seemed tome as if my feet were weighted with lead, and as though every joint in my body wererusty. when i got almost to the top i could seethe seat and the white figure, for i was now close enough to distinguish it eventhrough the spells of shadow. there was undoubtedly something, long andblack, bending over the half-reclining

white figure.i called in fright, "lucy! lucy!" and something raised a head, andfrom 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 andthe seat, and for a minute or so i lost sight of her. when i came in view again the cloud hadpassed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly that i could see lucy halfreclining with her head lying over the back of the seat.

she was quite alone, and there was not asign of any living thing about. when i bent over her i could see that shewas still asleep. her lips were parted, and she wasbreathing, not softly as usual with her, but in long, heavy gasps, as thoughstriving to get her lungs full at every breath. as i came close, she put up her hand in hersleep and pulled the collar of her nightdress close around her, as though shefelt the cold. i flung the warm shawl over her, and drewthe edges tight around her neck, for i dreaded lest she should get some deadlychill from the night air, unclad as she

was. i feared to wake her all at once, so, inorder to have my hands free to help her, i fastened the shawl at her throat with a bigsafety pin. but i must have been clumsy in my anxietyand 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 putmy shoes on her feet, and then began very gently to wake her. at first she did not respond, but graduallyshe became more and more uneasy in her

sleep, moaning and sighing occasionally. at last, as time was passing fast, and formany other reasons, i wished to get her home at once, i shook her forcibly, tillfinally 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 atsuch a time, when her body must have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhatappalled 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 theobedience of a child. as we passed along, the gravel hurt myfeet, and lucy noticed me wince. she stopped and wanted to insist upon mytaking my shoes, but i would not. however, when we got to the pathway outsidethe churchyard, where there was a puddle of water, remaining from the storm, i daubedmy 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, shouldnotice my bare feet. fortune favoured us, and we got homewithout meeting a soul. once we saw a man, who seemed not quitesober, passing along a street in front of

but we hid in a door till he haddisappeared up an opening such as there are here, steep little closes, or 'wynds', asthey call them in scotland. my heart beat so loud all the timesometimes i thought i should faint. i was filled with anxiety about lucy, notonly for her health, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her reputationin 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, evenimplored, me not to say a word to any one, even her mother, about her sleep-walkingadventure.

i hesitated at first, to promise, but onthinking of the state of her mother's health, and how the knowledge of such athing would fret her, and think too, of how such a story might become distorted, nay, infallibly would, in case it should leakout, i thought it wiser to do so. i hope i did right. i have locked the door, and the key is tiedto my wrist, so perhaps i shall not be again disturbed.lucy is sleeping soundly. the reflex of the dawn is high and far overthe 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 tohave harmed her, on the contrary, it has benefited her, for she looks better thismorning than she has done for weeks. i was sorry to notice that my clumsinesswith the safety-pin hurt her. indeed, it might have been serious, for theskin of her throat was pierced. i must have pinched up a piece of looseskin and have transfixed it, for there are two little red points like pin-pricks, andon the band of her nightdress was a drop of blood. when i apologised and was concerned aboutit, 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 herat the gate. i felt a little sad myself, for i could notbut 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 casinoterrace, 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 keythe same as before, though i do not expect any trouble tonight. 12 august.--my expectations were wrong, fortwice during the night i was wakened by lucy trying to get out. she seemed, even in her sleep, to be alittle impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bed under a sort ofprotest.

i woke with the dawn, and heard the birdschirping outside of the window. lucy woke, too, and i was glad to see, waseven better than on the previous morning. all her old gaiety of manner seemed to havecome 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, thoughsympathy 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 lucysitting 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 softeffect of the light over the sea and sky, merged together in one great silentmystery, was beautiful beyond words. between me and the moonlight flitted agreat 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 theabbey. when i came back from the window lucy hadlain down again, and was sleeping

peacefully.she did not stir again all night. 14 august.--on the east cliff, reading andwriting all day. lucy seems to have become as much in lovewith the spot as i am, and it is hard to get her away from it when it is time tocome home for lunch or tea or dinner. this afternoon she made a funny remark. we were coming home for dinner, and hadcome 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, wasjust dropping behind kettleness. the red light was thrown over on the eastcliff and the old abbey, and seemed to

bathe everything in a beautiful rosy glow. we were silent for a while, and suddenlylucy murmured as if to herself... "his red eyes again!they are just the same." it was such an odd expression, comingapropos of nothing, that it quite startled me. i slewed round a little, so as to see lucywell 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, butfollowed her eyes. she appeared to be looking over at our ownseat, whereon was a dark figure seated

alone. i was quite a little startled myself, forit seemed for an instant as if the stranger had great eyes like burning flames, but asecond look dispelled the illusion. the red sunlight was shining on the windowsof st. mary's church behind our seat, and as the sun dipped there was just sufficientchange in the refraction and reflection to make it appear as if the light moved. i called lucy's attention to the peculiareffect, 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 brightmoonlight, 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'shead leaning out. i opened my handkerchief and waved it.she did not notice or make any movement

whatever. just then, the moonlight crept round anangle of the building, and the light fell on the window. there distinctly was lucy with her headlying up against the side of the window sill and her eyes shut. she was fast asleep, and by her, seated onthe window sill, was something that looked like a good-sized bird. i was afraid she might get a chill, so iran upstairs, but as i came into the room she was moving back to her bed, fastasleep, and breathing heavily.

she was holding her hand to her throat, asthough to protect if from the cold. i did not wake her, but tucked her upwarmly. i have taken care that the door is lockedand the window securely fastened. she looks so sweet as she sleeps, but sheis paler than is her wont, and there is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes which ido 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 onafter we had been called. we had a happy surprise at breakfast.

arthur's father is better, and wants themarriage to come off soon. lucy is full of quiet joy, and her motheris glad and sorry at once. later on in the day she told me the cause. she is grieved to lose lucy as her veryown, 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 herdeath warrant. she has not told lucy, and made me promisesecrecy. her doctor told her that within a fewmonths, 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 theaffair 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 becoming over our happiness. no news from jonathan, and lucy seems to begrowing weaker, whilst her mother's hours are numbering to a close. i do not understand lucy's fading away asshe is doing. she eats well and sleeps well, and enjoysthe fresh air, but all the time the roses

in her cheeks are fading, and she getsweaker and more languid day by day. at night i hear her gasping as if for air. i keep the key of our door always fastenedto my wrist at night, but she gets up and walks about the room, and sits at the openwindow. last night i found her leaning out when iwoke up, and when i tried to wake her i could not.she was in a faint. when i managed to restore her, she was weakas 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 fromthat unlucky prick of the safety-pin. i looked at her throat just now as she layasleep, 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, ishall 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 receiveinvoice of goods sent by great northern railway. same are to be delivered at carfax, nearpurfleet, immediately on receipt at goods station king's cross. the house is at present empty, but enclosedplease find keys, all of which are labelled. "you will please deposit the boxes, fiftyin number, which form the consignment, in the partially ruined building forming partof the house and marked 'a' on rough

diagrams enclosed. your agent will easily recognize thelocality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. the goods leave by the train at 9:30tonight, and will be due at king's cross at 4:30 tomorrow afternoon. as our client wishes the delivery made assoon as possible, we shall be obliged by your having teams ready at king's cross atthe time named and forthwith conveying the goods to destination. in order to obviate any delays possiblethrough any routine requirements as to

payment in your departments, we enclosecheque 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 onhearing from you. you are to leave the keys on coming away inthe main hall of the house, where the proprietor may get them on his entering thehouse by means of his duplicate key. "pray do not take us as exceeding thebounds 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 10pounds received and to return cheque of 1 pound, 17s, 9d, amount of overplus, asshown in receipted account herewith. goods are delivered in exact accordancewith 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, anddid not disturb me once. the roses seem coming back already to hercheeks, though she is still sadly pale and wan-looking. if she were in any way anemic i couldunderstand it, but she is not. she is in gay spirits and full of life andcheerfulness. all the morbid reticence seems to havepassed from her, and she has just reminded

me, as if i needed any reminding, of thatnight, and that it was here, on this very seat, i found her asleep. as she told me she tapped playfully withthe 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 havetold 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, puckeredlook came into her forehead, which arthur, i call him arthur from her habit, says heloves, and indeed, i don't wonder that he does. then she went on in a half-dreaming kind ofway, as if trying to recall it to herself. "i didn't quite dream, but it all seemed tobe real. i only wanted to be here in this spot. i don't know why, for i was afraid ofsomething, 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 leanedover to look at it, and i heard a lot of dogs howling. the whole town seemed as if it must be fullof dogs all howling at once, as i went up the steps. then i had a vague memory of something longand dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and something very sweet andvery bitter all around me at once. and then i seemed sinking into deep greenwater, 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 andfloat about the air. i seem to remember that once the westlighthouse was right under me, and then there was a sort of agonizing feeling, asif 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 ilistened to her breathlessly. i did not quite like it, and thought itbetter not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to another subject, andlucy was like her old self again. when we got home the fresh breeze hadbraced 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, andwrote himself, oh so kindly. i am to leave in the morning and go over tojonathan, 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 lettertill 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 myluggage ready. i am only taking one change of dress. lucy will bring my trunk to london and keepit till i send for it, for it may be that...i must write no more. i must keep it to say to jonathan, myhusband.

the letter that he has seen and touchedmust comfort me till we meet. letter, sister agatha, hospitalof st. joseph and ste. mary buda-pesth, to misswillhelmina 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 sixweeks, suffering from a violent brain fever.

he wishes me to convey his love, and to saythat by this post i write for him to mr. peter hawkins, exeter, to say, with hisdutiful respects, that he is sorry for his delay, and that all of his work iscompleted. he will require some few weeks' rest in oursanatorium in the hills, but will then return. he wishes me to say that he has notsufficient money with him, and that he would like to pay for his staying here, sothat others who need shall not be wanting for help. "believe me,"yours, with sympathy and all blessings.

sister agatha"p.s.--my patient being asleep, i open this to let you know something more. he has told me all about you, and that youare shortly to be his wife. all blessings to you both! he has had some fearful shock, so says ourdoctor, and in his delirium his ravings have been dreadful, of wolves and poisonand blood, of ghosts and demons, and i fear to say of what. be careful of him always that there may benothing 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 weknew nothing of his friends, and there was nothing on him, nothing that anyone couldunderstand. he came in the train from klausenburg, andthe guard was told by the station master there that he rushed into the stationshouting for a ticket for home. seeing from his violent demeanour that hewas english, they gave him a ticket for the furthest station on the way thither thatthe train reached. "be assured that he is well cared for. he has won all hearts by his sweetness andgentleness.

he is truly getting on well, and i have nodoubt 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 andste. mary, many, many, happy years for you both." dr. seward's diary19 august.--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, andknowing my interest in him, encouraged him to talk.

he is usually respectful to the attendantand 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 talkto you. you don't count now.the master is at hand." the attendant thinks it is some sudden formof religious mania which has seized him. if so, we must look out for squalls, for astrong 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 tothe attendant. in his sublime self-feeling the differencebetween 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 betweenman and man are too paltry for an omnipotent being.how these madmen give themselves away! the real god taketh heed lest a sparrowfall. but the god created from human vanity seesno 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 greaterdegree. i did not pretend to be watching him, but ikept strict observation all the same. all at once that shifty look came into hiseyes which we always see when a madman has seized an idea, and with it the shiftymovement of the head and back which asylum attendants come to know so well. he became quite quiet, and went and sat onthe edge of his bed resignedly, and looked into space with lack-luster eyes. i thought i would find out if his apathywere real or only assumed, and tried to

lead him to talk of his pets, a theme whichhad never failed to excite his attention. at first he made no reply, but at lengthsaid 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 careabout spiders?" (spiders at present are his hobby and thenotebook is filling up with columns of small figures.) to this he answered enigmatically, "thebride maidens rejoice the eyes that wait the coming of the bride.

but when the bride draweth nigh, then themaidens shine not to the eyes that are filled." he would not explain himself, but remainedobstinately 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 howdifferent things might have been. if i don't sleep at once, chloral, themodern morpheus! i must be careful not to let it grow into ahabit. no, i shall take none tonight!i have thought of lucy, and i shall not dishonour her by mixing the two.

if need be, tonight shall be sleepless.later.--glad i made the resolution, gladder that i kept to it. i had lain tossing about, and had heard theclock 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 beroaming about. those ideas of his might work outdangerously with strangers. the attendant was waiting for me. he said he had seen him not ten minutesbefore, seemingly asleep in his bed, when

he had looked through the observation trapin the door. his attention was called by the sound ofthe window being wrenched out. he ran back and saw his feet disappearthrough the window, and had at once sent up for me. he was only in his night gear, and cannotbe far off. the attendant thought it would be moreuseful to watch where he should go than to follow him, as he might lose sight of himwhilst getting out of the building by the door. he is a bulky man, and couldn't get throughthe window.

i am thin, so, with his aid, i got out, butfeet foremost, and as we were only a few feet above ground landed unhurt. the attendant told me the patient had goneto 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 awhite figure scale the high wall which separates our grounds from those of thedeserted house. i ran back at once, told the watchman toget three or four men immediately and follow me into the grounds of carfax, incase our friend might be dangerous. i got a ladder myself, and crossing thewall, dropped down on the other side.

i could see renfield's figure justdisappearing behind the angle of the house, so i ran after him. on the far side of the house i found himpressed close against the old iron-bound oak door of the chapel. he was talking, apparently to some one, buti was afraid to go near enough to hear what he was saying, lest i might frighten him,and he should run off. chasing an errant swarm of bees is nothingto following a naked lunatic, when the fit of escaping is upon him! after a few minutes, however, i could seethat he did not take note of anything

around him, and so ventured to draw nearerto 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 yourcommands, and you will not pass me by, will you, dear master, in your distribution ofgood things?" he is a selfish old beggar anyhow. he thinks of the loaves and fishes evenwhen he believes he is in a real presence.

his manias make a startling combination.when we closed in on him he fought like a tiger. he is immensely strong, for he was morelike a wild beast than a man. i never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm ofrage before, and i hope i shall not again. it is a mercy that we have found out hisstrength 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 himrestrained, and he's chained to the wall in

the padded room. his cries are at times awful, but thesilences that follow are more deadly still, for he means murder in every turn andmovement. just now he spoke coherent words for thefirst 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 diaryhas quieted me, and i feel i shall get some sleep tonight.

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