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