DRACULA
Bram
Stoker
CHAPTER
VIII.
MINA
MURRAY'S JOURNAL.
Same day, 11 o'clock p.m.- Oh, but I am tired! if it were not
that I had made my diary a duty I should not open it tonight. We had a
lovely walk. Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing, I think,
to some dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field close to the
lighthouse, and frightened the wits out of us. I believe we forgot
everything, except, of course, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe
there slate clean and give us a fresh start. We had a capital
"severe tea" at Robin Hood's Bay in a sweet little
old-fashioned inn, with a bow-window right over the seaweed-covered
rocks of the strand. I believe we should have shocked the "New
Woman" with our appetites. Men are more tolerant, bless them!
Then we walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages to rest, and
with our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls. Lucy was
really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as soon as we could.
The young curate came in, however, and Mrs. Westenra asked him to stay
for supper. Lucy and I had both a fight for it with the dusty miller;
I know it was a hard fight on my part, and I am quite heroic. I think
that some day the bishops must get together and see about breeding up
a new class of curates, who don't take supper, no matter how 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 her seeing
her only in the drawingroom, I wonder what he would say if he saw her
now. Some of the "New Women" writers will some day start an
idea that men and women should be allowed to see each other asleep
before proposing or accepting. But I suppose the New Woman won't
condescend in future to accept; she will do the proposing herself And
a nice job she will make of it, too! There's some consolation in that.
I am so happy to-night, because dear Lucy seems better. I really
believe she has turned the corner, and that we are over her troubles
with dreaming. I should be quite happy if I only knew if Jonathan...
God bless and keep him.
11 August, 3 a.m.- 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 agonising experience. I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my
diary... Suddenly I became broad awake, and sat up, with a horrible
sense of fear upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness around me. The
room was dark, so I could not see Lucy's bed; I stole across and felt
for her. The bed was empty. I lit a match, and found that she was not
in the room. The door was shut, but not locked, as I had left it. I
feared to wake her mother, who has been more than usually ill lately,
so threw on some clothes and got ready to look for her. As I was
leaving the room it struck me that the clothes she wore might give me
some clue to her dreaming intention. Dressing-gown would mean house;
dress, outside. Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places.
"Thank God," I said to myself, "she cannot be far, as
she is only in her nightdress." I ran downstairs and looked in
the sitting-room. Not there! Then I looked in all the other open rooms
of the house, with an ever-growing fear chilling my heart. Finally I
came to the hall-door and found it open. It was not wide open, but the
catch of the lock had not caught. The people of the house are careful
to lock the door every night, so I feared that Lucy must have gone out
as she was. There was no time to think of what might happen; a vague,
overmastering fear obscured all details. I took a big, heavy shawl and
ran out. The clock was striking one as I was in the Crescent, and
there was not a soul in sight. I ran along the North Terrace, but
could see no sign of the white figure which I expected.
At the edge of the West Cliff above the pier I looked across
the harbour to the East Cliff, in the hope or fear- I don't know
which- of seeing Lucy in our favourite seat. There was a bright full
moon, with heavy black, driving clouds, which threw the whole scene
into a fleeting diorama of light and shade as they sailed across. For
a moment or two I could see nothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured
St. Mary's Church and all around it. Then as the cloud passed I could
see the ruins of the abbey coming into view; and as the edge of a
narrow band of light as sharp as a sword-cut moved along, the church
and the churchyard became gradually visible. Whatever my expectation
was, it was not disappointed, for there, on our favourite seat, the
silver light of the moon struck a half-reclining figure, snowy white.
The coming of the cloud was too quick for me to see much, for shadow
shut down on light almost immediately; but it seemed to me as though
something dark stood behind the seat where the white figure shone, and
bent over it. What it was, whether man or beast, I could not tell; I
did not wait to catch another glance, but flew down the steep steps to
the pier and along by the fish-market to the bridge, which was the
only way to reach the East Cliff. The town seemed as dead, for not a
soul did I see; I rejoiced that it was so, for I wanted no witness of
poor Lucy's condition. The time and distance seemed endless, and my
knees trembled and my breath came laboured as I toiled up the endless
steps to the abbey. I must have gone fast, and yet it seemed to me as
if my feet were weighted with lead, and as though every joint in my
body were rusty. When I got almost to the top I could see the seat and
the white figure, for I was now close enough to distinguish it even
through the spells of shadow. There was undoubtedly something, long
and black, bending over the half-reclining white figure. I called in
fright, "Lucy! Lucy!"
and something raised a head, and from where I was I could see a white
face and red, gleaming eyes. Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to the
entrance of the churchyard. As I entered, the church was between me
and the seat, and for a minute or so I lost sight of her. When I came in view again the cloud had passed, and the
moonlight struck so brilliantly that I could see Lucy half reclining
with her head lying over the back of the seat. She was quite alone,
and there was not a sign of any living thing about.
When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her
lips were parted, and she was breathing- not softly, as usual with
her, but in long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs
full at every breath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her
sleep and pulled the collar of her nightdress close around her throat.
Whilst she did so there came a little shudder through her, as though
she felt the cold. I flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges
tight round her neck, for I dreaded lest she should get some deadly
chill from the night air, unclad as she was I feared to wake her all
at once, so, in order to have my hands free that I might help her. I
fastened the shawl at her throat with a big safety-pin; but I must
have been clumsy in my anxiety and pinched or pricked her with it, for
by-and-by, when her breathing became quieter, she put her hand to her
throat again and moaned. When I had her carefully wrapped up I put my
shoes on her feet, and then began very gently to wake her. At first
she did not respond; but gradually she became more and more uneasy in
her sleep, moaning and sighing occasionally. At last, as time was
passing fast, and, for many other reasons, I wished to get her home at
once, I shook her more forcibly, till finally she opened her eyes and
awoke. She did not seem surprised to see me, as, of course, she did
not realise all at once where she was. Lucy always wakes prettily, and
even at such a time, when her body must have been chilled with cold,
and her mind somewhat appalled at waking unclad in a churchyard at
night, she did not lose her grace. She trembled a little, and clung to
me; when I told her to come at once with me home she rose without a
word, with the obedience of a child. As we passed along, the gravel
hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince.
She stopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes; but I
would not. However, when we got to the pathway outside the churchyard,
where there was a puddle of water remaining from the storm, I daubed
my feet with mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we
went home no one, in case we should meet any one, should notice my
bare feet.
Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul.
Once we saw a man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a street
in front of us; but we hid in a door till he had disappeared up an
opening such as there are here, steep little closes, or "wynds,"
as they call them in Scotland. My heart beat so loud all the time that
sometimes I thought I should faint. I was filled with anxiety about
Lucy, not only for her health, lest she should suffer from the
exposure, but for her reputation in case the story should get wind.
When we got in, and had washed our feet, and had said a prayer of
thankfulness together, I tucked her into bed. Before falling asleep
she asked- even implored- me not to say a word to any one, even her
mother, about her sleep-walking adventure. I hesitated at first to
promise; but on thinking of the state of her mother's health, and how
the knowledge of such a thing would fret her, and thinking, too, of
how such a story might become distorted- may, infallibly would- in
case it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do so. I hope I did
right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied to my wrist, so
perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is sleeping soundly; the
reflex of the dawn is high and far over the sea...
Same day, noon.- All goes well. Lucy slept till I woke her, and
seemed not to have even changed her side. The adventure of the night
does not seem to have harmed her; on the contrary, it has benefited
her, for she looks better this morning than she has done for weeks.
I was sorry to notice that my clumsiness with the safety-pin
hurt her. Indeed, it
might have been serious, for the skin of her throat was pierced. I
must have pinched up a piece of loose skin and have transfixed it, for
there are two little red points like pin-pricks, and on the band of
her nightdress was a drop of blood. When I apologised and was
concerned about it, she laughed and petted me, and said she did not
even feel it. Fortunately it cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny.
Same day, night.- We passed a happy day. The air was clear, and
the sun bright, and there was a cool breeze. We took our lunch to
Mulgrave Woods, Mrs. Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I
walking by the cliff-path and joining her at the gate. I felt a little
sad myself, for I could not but feel how absolutely happy it would
have been had Jonathan been with me. But there! I must only be
patient. In the evening we strolled in the Casino Terrace, and heard
some good music by Spohr and Mackenzie, and went to bed early. Lucy
seems more restful than she has been for some time, and fell asleep at
once. I shall lock the door and secure the key the same as before,
though I do not expect any trouble to-night.
12 August.- My expectations were wrong, for twice during the
night I was wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in her
sleep, to be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and went
back to bed under a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and heard
the birds chirping outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and, I was
glad to see, was even better than on the previous morning. All her old
gaiety of manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled
in beside me, and told me all about Arthur. I told her how anxious I
was about Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she
succeeded somewhat, for, though sympathy can't alter facts, it can
help to make them more bearable.
13 August.- Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my
wrist as before. Again I awoke in the night, and found Lucy sitting up
in bed, still asleep, pointing to the window. I got up quietly, and
pulling aside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant moonlight, and
the soft effect of the light over the sea and sky- merged together in
one great, silent mystery- was beautiful beyond words. Between me and
the moonlight flitted a great bat, coming and going in great, whirling
circles. Once or twice it came quite close, but was, I suppose,
frightened at seeing me, and flitted away across the harbour towards
the abbey. When I came back from the window Lucy had lain down again,
and was sleeping peacefully. She did not stir again all night.
14 August.- On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day.
Lucy seems to have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and
it is hard to get her away from it when it is time to come home for
lunch or tea or dinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We
were coming home for dinner, and had come to the top of the steps up
from the West Pier and stopped to look at the view, as we generally
do. The setting sun, low down in the sky, was just dropping behind
Kettleness; the red light was thrown over on the East Cliff and the
old abbey, and seemed to bathe everything in a beautiful rosy glow. We
were silent for a while, and suddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself:-
"His red eyes again! They are just the same." It was
such an odd expression, coming apropos of nothing, that it quite
startled me. I slewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without
seeming to stare at her, and saw that she was in a half-dreamy state,
with an odd look on her face that I could not quite make out; so I
said nothing, but followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over
at our own seat, whereon was a dark figure seated alone. I was a
little startled myself, for it seemed for an instant as if the
stranger had great eyes like burning flames; but a second look
dispelled the illusion. The red sunlight was shining on the windows of
St. Mary's Church behind our seat, and as the sun dipped there was
just sufficient change in the refraction and reflection to make it
appear as if the light moved. I called Lucy's attention to the
peculiar effect, and she became herself with a start, but she looked
sad all the same; it may have been that she was thinking of that
terrible night up there. We never refer to it; so I said nothing, and
we went home to dinner. Lucy had a headache and went early to bed. I
saw her asleep, and went out for a little stroll myself, I walked
along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet sadness, for I
was thinking of Jonathan. When coming home- it was then bright
moonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part of the
Crescent was in shadow, everything could be well seen- I threw a
glance up at our window, and saw Lucy's head leaning out. I thought
that perhaps she was looking out for me, so I opened my handkerchief
and waved it. She did not notice or make any movement whatever. Just
then, the moonlight crept round an angle of the building, and the
light fell on the window. There distinctly was Lucy with her head
lying up against the side of the window-sill and her eyes shut. She
was fast asleep, and by her, seated on the window-sill, was something
that looked like a good-sized bird. I was afraid she might get a
chill, so I ran upstairs, but as I came into the room she was moving
back to her bed, fast asleep, and breathing heavily; she was holding
her hand to her throat, as though to protect it from cold.
I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly; I have taken care
that the door is locked and the window securely fastened.
She looks so sweet as she sleeps; but she is paler than is her
wont, and there is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes which I do not
like. I fear she is
fretting about something. I wish I could find out what it is.
15 August.- Rose later than usual. Lucy was languid and tired,
and slept on after we had been called. We had a happy surprise at
breakfast. Arthur's father is better, and wants the marriage to come
off soon. Lucy is full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad and sorry
at once. Later on in the day she told me the cause. She is grieved to
lose Lucy as her very own, but she is rejoiced that she is soon to
have some one to protect her. Poor dear, sweet lady! She confided to
me that she has got her death-warrant. She has not told Lucy, and made
me promise secrecy; her doctor told her that within a few months, at
most, she must die, for her heart is weakening. At any time, even now,
a sudden shock would be almost sure to kill her.
Ah, we were wise to keep from her the affair of the dreadful
night of Lucy's sleep-walking.
17 August.- No diary for two whole days. I have not had the
heart to write. Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our
happiness. No news from Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be growing weaker,
whilst her mother's hours are numbering to a close. I do not
understand Lucy's fading away as she is doing. She eats well and
sleeps well, and enjoys the fresh air; but all the time the roses in
her cheeks are fading, and she gets weaker and more languid day by
day; at night I hear her gasping as if for air. I keep the key of our
door always fastened to my wrist at night, but she gets up and walks
about the room, and sits at the open window. Last night I found her
leaning out when I woke up, and when I tried to wake her I could not;
she was in a faint. When I managed to restore her she was as weak as
water, and cried silently between long, painful struggles for breath.
When I asked her how she came to be at the window she shook her head
and turned away. I trust her feeling ill may not be from that unlucky
prick of the safety pin. I looked at her throat just now as she lay
asleep, and the tiny wounds seem not to have healed. They are still open, and, if anything, larger than before,
and the edges of them are faintly white. They are like little white
dots with red centres. Unless they heal within a day or two, I shall
insist on the doctor seeing about them.
Letter, Samuel F. Billington & Son, Solicitors, Whitby, to
Messrs. Carter, Paterson & Co., London.
"17 August.
"Dear Sirs,-
"Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great
Northern Railway. Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near Purfleet,
immediately on receipt at goods station King's Cross. The house is at
present empty, but enclosed please find keys, all of which are
labelled.
"You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which
form the consignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of
the house and marked 'A' on rough diagram enclosed. Your agent will
easily recognise the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the
mansion. The goods leave by the train at 9:30 to-night, and will be
due at King's Cross at 4:30 to-morrow afternoon. As our client wishes
the delivery made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by your
having teams ready at King's Cross at the time named and forthwith
conveying the goods to destination. In order to obviate any delays
possible through any routine requirements as to payment in your
departments, we enclose cheque herewith for ten pounds (L10), receipt
of which please acknowledge. Should the charge be less than this
amount, you can return balance; if greater, we shall at once send
cheque for difference on hearing from you. You are to leave the keys
on coming away in the main hall of the house, where the proprietor may
get them on his entering the house by means of his duplicate key.
"Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business
courtesy in pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition.
"We are, dear Sirs, "Faithfully yours, "Samuel
F. Billington & Son."
Letter, Messrs. Carter, Paterson & Co., London, to Messrs.
Billington
& Son, Whitby.
"21 August.
"Dear Sirs,-
"We beg to acknowledge 10 pounds (L10) received and to
return cheque L1 17s. 9d., amount of overplus, as shown in receipted
account herewith. Goods are delivered in exact accordance with
instructions, and keys left in parcel in main hall, as directed.
"We are, dear Sirs, "Yours respectfully, "Pro
Carter, Paterson & Co."
18 August.- I am happy to-day, and write sitting on the
seat in the churchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last night she
slept well all night, and did not disturb me once. The roses seem
coming back already to her cheeks, though she is still sadly pale and
wan-looking. If she were in any way anaemic I could understand it, but
she is not. She is in gay spirits and full of life and cheerfulness.
All the morbid reticence seems to have passed from her, and she has
just reminded me, as if I needed any reminding, of that night, and
that it was here, on this very seat, I found her asleep. As he told me
she tapped playfully with the heel of her boot on the stone slab and
said:-
"My poor little feet didn't make much noise then! I
daresay poor old Mr. Swales would have told me that it was because I
didn't want to wake up Geordie." As she was in such a
communicative humour, I asked her if she had dreamed at all that
night. Before she answered, that sweet, puckered look came into her
forehead, which Arthur- I call him Arthur from her habit- says he
loves; and, indeed, I don't wonder that he does. Then she went on in a
half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it to herself:-
"I didn't quite dream; but it all seemed to be real. I
only wanted to be here in this spot- I don't know why, for I was
afraid of something- I don't know what. I remember though I suppose I
was asleep, passing through the streets and over the bridge. A fish
leaped as I went by, and I leaned over to look at it, and I heard a
lot of dogs howling- the whole town seemed as if it must be full of
dogs all howling at once- as I went up the steps. Then I had a vague
memory of something long and dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the
sunset, and something very sweet and very bitter all around me at
once; and then I seemed sinking into deep green water, and there was a
singing in my ears, as I have heard there is to drowning men; and then
everything seemed passing away from me; my soul seemed to go out from
my body and float about the air. I seem to remember that once the West
Lighthouse was right under me, and then there was a sort of agonising
feeling, as if I were in an earthquake, and I came back and found you
shaking my body. I saw you do it before I felt you."
Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and
I listened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and thought
it better not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to
other subjects, and Lucy was like her old self again. When we got home
the fresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were really
more rosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a
very happy evening together.
19 August.- Joy, joy, joy! although not all joy. At last, news
of Jonathan. The dear fellow has been ill; that is why he did not
write. I am not afraid to think it or say it, now that I know. Mr.
Hawkins sent me on the letter, and wrote himself, oh, so
kindly. I am to leave in the morning and go over to Jonathan, and to
help to nurse him if necessary, and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins
says it would not be a bad thing if we were to be married out there. I
have cried over the good Sister's letter till I can feel it wet
against my bosom, where it lies. It is of Jonathan, and must be next
my heart, for he is in my heart. My journey is all mapped out, and my
luggage ready. I am only taking one change of dress; Lucy All bring my
trunk to London and keep it till I send for it, for it may be that...
I must write no more; I must keep it to say to Jonathan, my husband.
The letter that he has seen and touched must comfort me till we meet.
Letter, Sister Agatha, Hospital of SL Joseph and Ste. Mary,
Buda-Pesth, to Miss Wilhelmina Murray.
"12
August.
"Dear Madam,-
"I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is himself
not strong enough to write, though progressing well, thanks to God and
St. Joseph and Ste. Mary. He has been under our care for nearly six
weeks, suffering from a violent brain fever. He wishes me to convey
his love, and to say that by this post I write for him to Mr. Peter
Hawkins, Exeter, to say, with his dutiful respects, that he is sorry
for his delay, and that all of his work is completed. He will require
some few weeks' rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but will then
return. He wishes me to say that he has not sufficient money with him,
and that he would like to pay for his staying here, so that others who
need shall not be wanting for help. "Believe me,
"Yours, with sympathy and all blessings,
"Sister Agatha.
"P.S.- My patient being asleep, I open this to let you
know something more. He has told me all about you, and that you are
sortly to be his wife. All blessings to you both! He has had some
fearful shock- so says our doctor- and in his delirium his ravings
have been dreadful; of wolves and poison and blood; of ghosts and
demons; and I fear to say of what. Be careful with him always that
there may be nothing to excite him of this kind for a long time to
come; the traces of such an illness as his do not lightly die away. We
should have written long ago, but we knew nothing of his friends, and
there was on him nothing that any one could understand. He came in the
train from Klausenburg, and the guard was told by the station-master
there that he rushed into the station shouting for a ticket for home.
Seeing from his violent demeanour that he was English, they gave him a
ticket for the furthest station on the way thither that the train
reached.
"Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all
hearts by his sweetness and gentleness. He is truly getting on well,
and I have no doubt will in a few weeks be all himself But be careful
of him for safety's sake. There are, I pray God and St. Joseph and
Ste. Mary, many, many, happy years for you both."
Dr. Seward's Diary.
19 August.- Strange and sudden change in Renfield last night.
About eight o'clock he began to get excited and to sniff about as a
dog does when setting. The attendant was struck by his manner, and
knowing my interest in him, encouraged him to talk. He is usually
respectful to the attendant, and at times servile; but to-night, the
man tells me, he was quite haughty. Would not condescend to talk with
him at all. All he would say was:-
"I don't want to talk to you: you don't count now; the
Master is at hand."
The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania
which has seized him. If so, we must look out for squalls, for a
strong man with homicidal and religious mania at once might be
dangerous. The combination is a dreadful one. At nine o'clock I
visited him myself. His
attitude to me was the same as that to the attendant; in his sublime
self-feeling the difference between myself and attendant seemed to him
as nothing. It looks like religious mania, and he will soon think that
he himself is God. These infinitesimal distinctions between man and
man are too paltry for an Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give
themselves away! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall; but the
God created from human vanity sees no difference between an eagle and
a sparrow. Oh, if men only knew!
For half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in
greater and greater degree. I did not pretend to be watching him, but
I kept strict observation all the same. All at once that shifty look
came into his eyes which we always see when a madman has seized an
idea, and with it the shifty movement of the head and back which
asylum attendants come to know so well. He became quite quiet, and
went and sat on the edge of his bed resignedly, and looked into space
with lack-lustre eyes. I thought I would find out if his apathy were
real or only assumed, and tried to lead him to talk of his pets, a
theme which had never failed to excite his attention. At first he made
no reply, but at length said testily:-
"Bother them all! I don't care a pin about them."
"What?" I said. "You don't mean to tell me you
don't care about spiders?" (Spiders at present are his hobby, and
the note-book is filling up with columns of small figures.) To this he
answered enigmatically:-
"The bride-maidens rejoice the eyes that wait the coming
of the bride; but when the bride draweth nigh, then the maidens shine
not to the eyes that are filled."
He would not explain himself, but remained obstinately seated
on his bed all the time I remained with him.
I am weary to-night and low in spirits. I cannot but think of
Lucy, and how different things might have been. If I don't sleep at
once, chloral, the modern Morpheus- C(2) HCL(3)O: H(2)O! I must be
careful not to let it grow into a habit. No, I shall take none
ton-night! I have thought of Lucy, and I shall not dishonour her by
mixing the two. If need be, to-night shall be sleepless.
Later.- Glad I made the resolution; gladder that I kept to it.
I had lain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice,
when the night-watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that
Renfield had escaped. I threw on my clothes and ran down at once; my
patient is too dangerous a person to be roaming about. Those ideas of
his might work out dangerously with strangers. The attendant was
waiting for me. He said he had seen him not ten minutes before,
seemingly asleep in his bed, when he had looked through the
observation-trap in the door. His attention was called by the sound of
the window being wrenched out. He ran back and saw his feet disappear
through the window, and had at once sent up for me. He was only in his
night-gear, and cannot be far off. The attendant thought it would be
more useful to watch where he should go than to follow him, as he
might lose sight of him whilst getting out of the building by the
door. He is a bulky man, and couldn't get through the window. I am
thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feet foremost, and, as we were
only a few feet above ground, landed unhurt. The attendant told me the
patient had gone to the left, and had taken a straight line, so I ran
as quickly as I could. As I got through the belt of trees I saw a
white figure scale the high wall which separates our grounds from
those of the deserted house.
I ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four men
immediately and follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case our
friend might be dangerous. I got a ladder myself, and crossing the
wall, dropped down on the other side. I could see Renfield's figure
just disappearing behind the angle of the house, so I ran after him.
On the far side of the house I found him pressed close against the old
iron-bound oak door of the chapel. He was talking, apparently to some
one, but I was afraid to go near enough to hear what he was saying,
lest I might frighten him, and he should run off. Chasing an errant
swarm of bees is nothing to following a naked lunatic, when the fit of
escaping is upon him! After a few minutes, however, I could see that
he did not take note of anything around him, and so ventured to draw
nearer to him- the more so as my men had now crossed the wall and were
closing him in. I heard him say:-
"I am here to do Your bidding, Master. I am Your slave,
and You will reward me, for I shall be faithful. I have worshipped You
long and afar off. Now that You are near, I await Your commands, and
You will not pass me by, will You, dear Master, in Your distribution
of good things?"
He is a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the loaves and
fishes even when he believes he is in a Real Presence. His manias make
a startling combination. When we closed in on him he fought like a
tiger. He is immensely strong, and he was more like a wild beast than
a man. I never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before; and I
hope I shall not again. It is a mercy that we have found out his
strength and his danger in good time. With strength, and determination
like his, he might have done wild work before he was caged. He is safe
now at any rate. Jack Sheppard himself couldn't get free from the
strait-waistcoat that keeps him restrained, and he's chained to the
wall in the padded room. His cries are at times awful, but the
silences that follow are more deadly still, for he means murder in
every turn and movement.
Just now he spoke coherent words for the first time:-"I
shall be patient, Master. It is coming- coming- coming!"
So I took the hint, and came too. I was too excited to sleep,
but this diary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get some sleep
to-night.
