all day but sit here and talk.
The harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one long
granite wall stretching out into the sea, with a curve outwards at
the end 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 too has a lighthouse.
Between the two piers there is a narrow opening into the harbour,
which then suddenly widens.
It is nice at high water, but when the tide is out it shoals
away to nothing, and there is merely the stream of the Esk, running
between banks of sand, with rocks here and there. Outside the
harbour on this side there rises for about half a mile a great
reef, the sharp of which runs straight out from behind 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 is
gnarled 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
sceptical person, for when I asked him about the bells at sea and
the White Lady at the abbey 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 and
trippers, an' the like, but not for a nice young lady like you.
Them feet-folks from York and Leeds that be always eatin'cured
herrin's and drinkin' tea an' lookin' out to buy cheap jet would
creed 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 to learn interesting things
from, so I asked him if he would mind telling me something aboutfrom, so I asked him if he would mind telling me something about
the whale fishing in the old days. He was just settling himself to
begin when the clock struck six, whereupon he laboured to get up,
and said,
"I must gang ageeanwards home now, miss. My granddaughter
doesn't like to be kept waitin' when the tea is ready, for it takes
me time to crammle aboon the grees, for there be a many of `em, and
miss, I lack belly-timber sairly by the clock."
He hobbled away, and I could see him hurrying, 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 delicate curve. The
slope is so gentle that a horse could easily walk up and down them.
I think they must originally have had something 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 with Lucy, and we had a
most interesting talk with my old friend and the two others who
always come and join him. He is evidently the Sir Oracle of them,
and I 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 she has been here.
I noticed that the old men did not lose any time in coming and
sitting near her when we sat down. She is so sweet with old people,
I think they all fell in love with her on the spot. Even my old man
succumbed and did not contradict 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, and barrel, that's what it be
and nowt else. These bans an' wafts an' boh-ghosts an' bar-guestsand 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
women a'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 skeer an' scunner hafflin's, an'
to get folks to do somethin' that they don't other incline to. It
makes me ireful to think o' them. Why, it's them that, not content
with printin' lies on paper an' preachin' them ou t of pulpits,
does want to be cuttin' them on the tombstones. Look here all
around you in what airt ye will. All them steans, holdin' up their
heads as well as they can out of their pride, is acant, simply
tumblin' down with the weight o' 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 them there bean't no bodies at all, an' the
memories of them bean't cared a pinch of snuff about, much less
sacred. Lies all of them, nothin' but lies of one kind or another!
My gog, but it'll be a quare scowderment at the Day of Judgment
when they come tumblin' up in their death-sarks, all jouped
together 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 even keep 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 his cronies 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
a balm-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 this kirkgarth."
I nodded, for I thought it better to assent, though I did not


an' you see this kirkgarth."
I nodded, for I thought it better to assent, 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 these steans 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
that be 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 the bier-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 him here? Murdered off
the coast of Andres! An' you consated his body lay under! Why, I
could name ye a dozen whose bones lie in the Greenland seas above,"
he pointed northwards, "or where the currants may have drifted
them. There be the steans around ye. Ye can, with your young eyes,
read the small 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 seas in 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 to make a
rush to Whitby when the trumpet sounds? I have me antherums aboot
it! I tell ye that when they got here they'd be jommlin' and
jostlin' one another that way that it `ud be like a fight up on the
ice in 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, for the old man cackled over it,
and his cronies joined in with gusto.
"But," I said, "surely you are not quite correct, for you start
on the assumption that all the poor people, or their spirits, willon 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 really necessary?"
"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 to know that
lies is wrote over them, and that everybody in the place knows that
they be lies?"
He pointed to a stone at our feet which had been 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 from where I sat, but Lucy
was more opposite to them, so she leant over and read, "Sacred to
the memory of George Canon, who died, in the hope of a glorious
resurrection, on July 29,1873,falling from the rocks at Kettleness.
This tomb was erected by his sorrowing mother to her dearly beloved
son.`He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.'
Really, Mr. Swales, I don't see anything very funny in that!" She
spoke her comment very gravely and somewhat severely.
"Ye don't see aught funny! Ha-ha! But that's because ye don't
gawm the sorrowin'mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he
was acrewk'd, a regular lamiter he was, an' he hated her so that he
committed suicide in order that she mightn't get an insurance she
put on his life. He blew nigh the top of his head off with an old
musket that they had for scarin' crows with. `twarn't for crows
then, for it brought the clegs and the dowps to him. That's the way
he fell off the rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection,
I've often heard him say masel' that he hoped he'd go to hell, for
his mother was so pious that she'd be sure to go to heaven, an' he
didn't want to addle where she was. Now isn't that stean at any
rate,"he hammered it with his stick as he spoke, "a pack of lies?
And won't it make Gabriel keckle when Geordie comes pantin' ut theAnd won't it make Gabriel keckle when Geordie comes pantin' ut the
grees with the tompstean balanced on his hump, and asks to be took
as evidence!"
I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conversation as
she said, rising up, "Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my
favorite seat, and I cannot leave it, and now I find I must go on
sitting over the grave of a suicide."
"That won't harm ye, my pretty, an' it may make 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 nigh twenty 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 scart when 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 so beautiful before us
that we took hands as we sat, and she told me all over again about
Arthur and their coming marriage. That made me just a little
heart-sick, for I 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 the town, 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
black line of roof of the old house next to the abbey. The sheep
and lambs are bleating in the fields away behind me, and there is a
clatter of donkeys' hoofs up the paved road below. The band on the
pier is playing a harsh waltz in good time, and further along the
quay there is a Salvation Army meeting in a back street. Neither of
the bands hears the other, but up here I hear and see them both. I
wonder where Jonathan is and if he is thinking of me! I wish he
were here.
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY


wonder where Jonathan is and if he is thinking of me! I wish he
were here.
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY
5 June.—The case of Renfield grows more interesting the more I
get to understand the man. He has certain qualities very largely
developed, 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 his own, 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 only
abnormally 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 out into 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 to spiders, and has got
several very big fellows in a box. He keeps feeding them his flies,
and the number of the latter is becoming sensibly diminished,
although he has used half his food in attracting more flies from
outside to his room.
1 July.—His spiders are now becoming as great 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 I gave him the
same time as before for reduction.
He disgusted me much while with him, for when a horrid blowfly,
bloated with some carrion food, buzzed into the room, he caught it,
held it exultantly for a few moments between his finger and thumb,
and before I knew what he was going to do, put it in his mouth and
ate it.
I scolded him for it, but he argued quietly that it was very
good and very wholesome, that it was life, strong life, and gave
life to him. This gave me an idea, or the rudiment of one. I must
watch how he gets rid of his spiders.watch how he gets rid of his spiders.
He has evidently some deep problem in his mind, for he keeps a
little notebook in which he is always jotting down something. whole
pages of it are filled with masses of figures, generally single
numbers added up in batches, and then the totals added in batches
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 he has 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 already the spiders have
diminshed. Those that do remain, however, are well fed, 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 are almost obliterated. When I
came in he ran to me and said he wanted 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, with a sort of rapture in
his voice and bearing, "A kitten, a nice, little, sleek playful
kitten, that I can play with, and teach, and feed, and feed, and
feed!"
I was not unprepared for this request, for I had noticed how his
pets went on increasing in size and vivacity, but I did not care
that his pretty family of tame sparrows should be wiped out in the
same manner as the flies and spiders. So I said I would see about
it, and asked him 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 should refuse me a
cat. No one would refuse me a kitten, would they?"cat. No one would refuse me a kitten, would they?"
I shook my head, and said that at present I feared it would not
be possible, but that I would see about it. His face fell, and I
could see a warning of danger 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 craving and 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 his knees
before me and implored me to let him have a cat, that his salvation
depended upon it.
I was firm, however, and told him that he could not have it,
whereupon he went without a word, and sat down, gnawing his
fingers, in the corner where I had found him. 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 he had saved, in the window, and was manifestly
beginning his fly catching again, and beginning it cheerfully and
with a good grace.
I looked around for his birds, and not seeing them,asked him
where they were. He replied, without turning round, that they had
all flown away. There were a few feathers about the room and on his
pillow a drop of blood. I said nothing, but went and told the
keeper to report to me if there were anything odd about him during
the day.
11 am.—The attendant has just been to see me to say that
Renfield has been very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of
feathers. "My belief is, doctor," he said, "that he has eaten his
birds, and that he just took and ate them raw!"
11 pm.—I gave Renfield a strong opiate tonight, enough to make
even him sleep, and took away his pocketbook to look at it. The
thought that has been buzzing about my brain lately is complete,
and the theory proved.
My homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. I shall have to
invent a new classification for him, and call him a zoophagous


invent a new classification for him, and call him a zoophagous
(life-eating) maniac. What he desires is to absorb as many lives as
he can, and he has laid himself out to achieve it in a cumulative
way. He gave many flies to one spider and many spiders 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 complete the experiment. It
might be done if there were only a sufficient cause. Men sneered at
vivisection, and yet look at its results today! Why not advance
science in its most difficult and vital aspect, the knowledge of
the brain?
Had I even the secret of one such mind, did I hold the key to
the fancy of even one lunatic, I might advance my own branch of
science to a pitch compared with which Burdon-Sanderson's
physiology or Ferrier's brain 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 each day of our
lives?
To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my
new hope, and that truly I began a new record. So it shall be until
the Great Recorder sums 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 on
hopeless and work. Work! Work!
If I could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there, a
good, unselfish cause to make me work, that would be indeed
happiness.
MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL
26 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.It is like whispering to one's self and listening at the same time.
And there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes
it different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy and about
Jonathan. I had not heard from Jonathan for some time, 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 Castle Dracula, and says that he is just starting
for home. That is not like Jonathan. I do not understand it, and it
makes me uneasy.
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, and we 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 get
suddenly wakened and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes
all over the place.
Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me
that her husband, Lucy's father, had the same habit, that he would
get up in the night and dress himself and go out, if he were not
stopped.
Lucy is to be married in the autumn, and she 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 to make both ends
meet.
Mr. Holmwood, he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord
Godalming, is coming up here very shortly, as soon as he can leave
town, for his father is not very well, and I think dear Lucy is
counting the moments till he comes.
She wants to take him up in the seat on the churchyard cliff and
show him the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it is the waiting which
disturbs her. She will be all right when he arrives.
27 July.—No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about27 July.—No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about
him, though why I should I do not know, but I do wish that he would
write, if it were only a single line.
Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I am awakened by her
moving about the room. Fortunately, the weather is so hot that she
cannot get cold. But still, the anxiety and the perpetually being
awakened is beginning to tell on me, and I am getting nervous and
wakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy's health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has
been suddenly called to Ring 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
are a 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 no news 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, but somehow it does not satisfy me. It does not read like
him, and yet it is his writing. There is no mistake of that.
Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last week, but there
is an odd concentration about her which I do not understand, 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 where to go
to, I should feel easier. But no one has heard a word of Jonathan
since that last letter. I must only pray to God for patience.
Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well. Last
night was very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in
for a storm. I must try to watch it and learn the weather
signs.
Today is a gray day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick
clouds, high over Kettleness. Everything is gray except the green
grass, which seems like emerald amongst it, gray earthy rock, gray


grass, which seems like emerald amongst it, gray earthy rock, gray
clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the
gray sea, into which the sandpoints stretch like gray figures. The
sea is tumbling in over the shallows and 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' over the sea that sounds like some
passage of doom. Dark figures are on the beach here and there,
sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem `men like trees
walking'. The fishing boats are racing for home, and rise and dip
in the ground swell as they sweep into the harbour, bending to the
scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is making straight for me,
and I can see, 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 a very gentle way, "I want
to say something to you, miss."
I could see he was not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled
hand in mine and asked him to speak fully.
So he said, leaving his hand in mine, "I'm afraid, my deary,
that I must have shocked you by all the wicked things I've been
sayin' about the dead, and such like, for weeks past, but I didn't
mean them, and I want ye to remember that when I'm gone. We aud
folks that be daffled, and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal,
don't altogether like to think of it, and we don't want to feel
scart of it, and that's why I've took to makin' light of it, so
that I'd cheer up my own heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I
ain't afraid of dyin', 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 be aud, 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 of caffin' about it all at once. The chafts
will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the Angel of Death willwill 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 to answer his call. For life be, after all,
only a waitin' for somethin' 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' and wonderin'. Maybe it's in that wind out over the sea
that'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 the hoast 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 call comes!" He held up his arms
devoutly, and raised his 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 good-bye, 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 always does, 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 queerest way. She doesn't
know her mind a bit. She seems to see the storm coming, but can't
decide whether to run up north in the open, or to put in here. Look
there again! She is steered mighty strangely, for she doesn't mind
the hand on the wheel, changes about with every puff of wind. We'll
hear more of her before this time tomorrow."(PASTED IN MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL)
From a correspondent.
Whitby.
One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been
experienced here, with results both strange and unique. The weather
had been somewhat sultry, but not to any degree uncommon in the
month of August. Saturday evening was as fine as was ever known,
and the great body of holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits
to Mulgrave Woods, Robin Hood's Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes,
and the various trips in the neighborhood of Whitby. The steamers
Emma and Scarborough made trips up and down the coast, and there
was an unusual amount of `tripping' both to and from Whitby. The
day was unusually fine till the afternoon, when some of the gossips
who frequent the East Cliff churchyard, and from the commanding
eminence watch the wide sweep of sea visible to the north and east,
called attention to a sudden show of `mares tails' high in the sky
to the northwest. The wind was then blowing from the southwest 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
weather signs from the East Cliff, foretold in an emphatic manner
the coming of a sudden storm. The approach of sunset was so very
beautiful, so grand in its masses of splendidly coloured clouds,
that there was quite an assemblage on the walk along the cliff in
the old churchyard to enjoy the beauty. Before the sun dipped below
the black mass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western
sky, its downward was was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset
colour, flame, purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of
gold, with here and there masses not large, but of seemingly
absolute blackness, in all sorts of shapes, as well outlined as
colossal silhouettes. The experience was not lost on the painters,
and doubtless some of the sketches of the `Prelude to the Great
Storm' will grace the R. A and R. I. walls in May next.


Storm' will grace the R. A and R. I. walls in May next.
More than one captain made up his mind then and there that his
`cobble' or his `mule', as they term the different classes of
boats, would remain in the harbour till the storm had passed. The
wind fell away entirely during the evening, and at midnight there
was a dead calm, a sultry heat, and that prevailing intensity
which, on the approach of thunder, affects persons of a sensitive
nature.
There were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the coasting
steamers, which usually hug the shore so closely, kept well to
seaward, and but few fishing boats were in sight. The only sail
noticeable was a foreign schooner with all sails set, which was
seemingly going westwards. The foolhardiness or ignorance of her
officers was a prolific theme for comment whilst she remained in
sight, and efforts were made to signal her to reduce sail in the
face of her danger. Before the night shut down she was seen with
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 of the air grew quite
oppressive, and the silence was so marked that the bleating of a
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 strange sound 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, seemed incredible, and even afterwards is impossible
to realize, the whole aspect of nature at once became convulsed.
The waves rose in growing fury, each overtopping its fellow, till
in a very few minutes the lately glassy sea was like a roaring and
devouring monster. Whitecrested waves beat madly on the level sands
and rushed up the shelving cliffs. Others broke over the piers, andand rushed up the shelving cliffs. Others broke over the piers, and
with their spume swept the lanthorns of the lighthouses which rise
from the end of either pier of Whitby Harbour.
The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such force that it
was with difficulty that even strong men kept their feet, or clung
with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. It was found necessary to
clear the entire pier from the mass of onlookers, or else the
fatalities of the night would have increased manifold. To add to
the difficulties and dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog came
drifting inland. White, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly
fashion, so dank and damp and cold that it needed but little effort
of imagination to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were
touching their living brethren with the clammy hands of death, and
many a one shuddered at the wreaths of sea-mist swept by.
At times the mist cleared, and the sea for some 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 under the shock of the footsteps of the storm.
Some of the scenes thus revealed were of immeasurable grandeur
and of absorbing interest. The sea, running mountains high, threw
skywards with each wave mighty masses of white foam, which the
tempest seemed to snatch at and whirl away into space. Here and
there a fishing boat, with a rag of sail, running madly for shelter
before the blast, now and again the white wings of a storm-tossed
seabird. On the summit of the East Cliff the new searchlight was
ready for experiment, but had not yet been tried. The officers in
charge of it got it into working order, and in the pauses of
onrushing mist swept with it the surface of the sea. Once or twice
its service was most effective, as when a fishing boat, with
gunwale under water, rushed into the harbour, able, by the guidance
of the sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against theof the sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against the
piers. As each boat achieved the safety of the port there was a
shout of joy from the mass of people on the shore, a shout which
for a moment seemed to cleave the gale and was then swept away in
its rush.
Before long the searchlight discovered some distance away a
schooner with all sails set, apparently the same vessel which had
been noticed earlier in the evening. The wind had by this time
backed to the east, and there was a shudder amongst the watchers on
the cliff as they realized the terrible danger in which she now
was.
Between her and the port lay the great flat reef on which so
many good ships have from time to time suffered, and, with the wind
blowing from its present quarter, it would be quite impossible that
she should fetch the 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 were almost
visible, and the schooner, with all sails set, was rushing with
such speed that, in the words of one old salt, "she must fetch up
somewhere, if it was only in hell". Then came another rush of
sea-fog, greater than any hitherto, a mass of dank mist, which
seemed to close on all things like a gray pall, and left available
to men only the organ of hearing, for the roar of the tempest, and
the crash of the thunder, and the booming of the mighty billows
came through the damp oblivion even louder than before. The rays of
the searchlight were kept fixed on the harbour mouth across the
East Pier, where the shock was expected, and men waited
breathless.
The wind suddenly shifted to the northeast, and the remnant of
the sea fog melted in the blast. And then, mirabile dictu, between
the piers, leaping from wave to wave as it rushed at headlong
speed, swept the strange schooner before the blast, with all sail
set, and gained the safety of the harbour. The searchlight followed
her, and a shudder ran through all who saw her, for lashed to the


her, and a shudder ran 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 at all.
A great awe came on all as they realised that the ship, as if by
a miracle, had found the harbour, unsteered save by the hand of a
dead man! However, all took place more quickly than it takes to
write these words. The schooner paused not, but rushing across the
harbour, pitched herself on that accumulation of sand and gravel
washed by many tides and many storms into the southeast corner of
the pier jutting under the East Cliff, known locally as Tate Hill
Pier.
There was of course a considerable concussion 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 the shore was touched, an immense dog sprang
up on deck from below, as if shot up by the concussion, and running
forward, jumped from the bow on the sand.
Making straight for the steep cliff, where the churchyard hangs
over the laneway to the East Pier so steeply that some of the flat
tombstones, thruffsteans or through-stones, as they call them in
Whitby vernacular, actually project over where the sustaining cliff
has fallen away, it disappeared in the darkness, which seemed
intensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight.
It so happened that there was no one at the moment on Tate Hill
Pier, as all those whose houses are in close proximity were either
in bed or were out on the heights above. Thus the coastguard on
duty on the eastern side of the harbour, who at once ran down to
the little pier, was the first to climb aboard. The men working the
searchlight, after scouring the entrance of the harbour without
seeing anything, then turned the light on the derelict and kept it
there. The coastguard ran aft, and when he came beside the wheel,
bent over to examine it, and recoiled at once as though under somebent over to examine it, and recoiled at once as though under some
sudden emotion. This seemed to pique general curiosity, and quite a
number of people began to run.
It is a good way round from the West Cliff by the Drawbridge 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
already assembled on the pier a crowd, whom the coastguard and
police refused to allow to come on board. By the courtesy of the
chief boatman, I was, as your correspondent, permitted to climb on
deck, and was one of a small group who saw the dead seaman whilst
actually lashed to the wheel.
It was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, 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 a crucifix,
the set of beads on which it was fastened being around both wrists
and wheel, and all kept fast by the binding cords. The poor fellow
may have been seated at one time, but the flapping and buffeting of
the sails had worked through the rudder of the wheel and had
dragged him to and fro, so that the cords with which he was tied
had cut the flesh to the bone.
Accurate note was made of the state of things, and a doctor,
Surgeon J. M. Caffyn, of 33, East Elliot Place, who came
immediately after me, declared, after making examination, that the
man must have been dead for quite two days.
In his pocket was a bottle, carefully corked, empty save for a
little roll of paper, which proved to be the addendum to the
log.
The coastguard said the man must have tied up his own hands,
fastening the knots with his teeth. The fact that a coastguard was
the first on board may save some complications later on, in the
Admiralty Court, for coastguards cannot claim the salvage which is
the right of the first civilian entering on a derelict. Already,
however, the legal tongues are wagging, and one young law studenthowever, the legal tongues are wagging, and one young law student
is loudly asserting that the rights of the owner 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 dead steersman has been
reverently removed from the place where he held his honourable
watch and ward till death, a steadfastness as noble as that of the
young Casabianca, and placed in the mortuary to await inquest.
Already the sudden storm is passing, and its fierceness is
abating. Crowds are scattering backward, and the sky is 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 harbour
in the storm.
9 August.—The sequel to the strange arrival of the derelict in
the storm last night is almost more startling than the thing
itself. It turns out that the schooner is Russian from Varna, and
is called the Demeter. She is almost entirely in ballast of silver
sand, with only a small amount of cargo, a number of great wooden
boxes filled with mould.
This cargo was consigned to a Whitby solicitor, Mr. S. F.
Billington, of 7, The Crescent, who this morning went aboard and
took formal possession of the goods consigned to him.
The Russian consul, too, acting for the charter-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 have been most
exacting in seeing that every compliance has been made with
existing regulations. As the matter is to be a `nine days wonder',
they are evidently determined that there shall be no cause of other
complaint.
A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog which
landed when the ship struck, and more than a few of the members of
the S. P.C.A., which is very strong in Whitby, have tried to


the S. P.C.A., which is very strong in Whitby, have tried to
befriend the animal. To the general disappointment, however, it was
not to be found. It seems to have disappeared entirely from the
town. It may be that it was frightened and made its way on to the
moors, where it is still hiding in terror.
There are some who look with dread on such a possibility, lest
later on it should in itself become a danger, for it is evidently a
fierce brute. Early this morning a large dog, a half-bred mastiff
belonging to a coal merchant close to Tate Hill Pier, was found
dead in the roadway opposite its master's yard. It had been
fighting, and manifestly had had a savage opponent, for its throat
was torn away, and its belly was slit open as if with a savage
claw.
Later.—By the kindness of the Board of Trade 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
interest except as to facts of missing men. The greatest interest,
however, is with regard to the paper found in the bottle, which was
today produced at the inquest. And a more strange narrative than
the two between them unfold it has not been my lot to come
across.
As there is no motive for concealment, I am permitted to use
them, and accordingly send you a transcript, simply omitting
technical details of seamanship and supercargo. It almost seems as
though the captain had been seized with some kind of mania before
he had got well into blue water, and that this had developed
persistently throughout the voyage. Of course my statement must be
taken cum grano, 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 strange happening, 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 …earth. At noon set sail. East wind, fresh. Crew, five hands …
two mates, cook, and myself, (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 SOME- THING, and crossed
themselves. Mate lost temper with one of them that day and struck
him. Expected fierce quarrel, but all was quiet.
On 16 July mate reported in the morning that 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 the kind, 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 he thought there
was a strange man aboard the ship. He said that in his watch he had
been sheltering behind the deckhouse, as there was a rain storm,
when he saw a tall, thin man, who was not like any of the crew,
come up the companionway, and go along the deck forward and
disappear. He followed cautiously, but when he got to bows 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 the entire ship carefully from stem to
stern.
Later in the day I got together the whole crew, and told them,
as they evidently thought there was some one in the ship, we wouldas they evidently thought there was some one in the ship, we would
search from stem to stern. First mate angry, said it was folly, and
to yield to such foolish ideas would demoralise the men, said he
would engage to keep them out of trouble with the handspike. I let
him take the helm, while the rest began 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 this ship. Already a hand
short, and entering the Bay of Biscay with wild weather ahead, and
yet last night another man lost, disappeared. Like the first, he
came off his watch and was not seen again. Men all in a panic of
fear, sent a round robin, 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 about in a sort of
malestrom, and the wind a tempest. No sleep for any one. Men all
worn out. Hardly know how to set a watch, since no one 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 feel them
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
a panic. Mate and I agreed to go armed henceforth and wait for any
sign of cause.
30 July.—Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England. Weather


sign of cause.
30 July.—Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England. Weather
fine, all sails set. Retired worn out, slept soundly, awakened by
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 sail sighted. Had hoped
when in the English Channel to be able to signal for help or get in
somewhere. Not having power to work sails, have to run before wind.
Dare not lower, as could not raise them again. We seem to be
drifting to some terrible doom. Mate now more demoralised than
either of men. His stronger nature seems to have worked inwardly
against himself. Men are beyond fear, working stolidly and
patiently, with minds made up to worst. They are Russian, he
Roumanian.
2 August, midnight.—Woke up from few minutes 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
sign of 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, and only God can guide us in the fog, which
seems to move with us, and God seems to have deserted us.
3 August.—At midnight I went to relieve the 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 the mate. After a few seconds, he rushed up on deck in his
flannels. He looked wild-eyed and haggard, and I greatly 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 a man, 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 tookknife 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'll find It. It is in the hold, perhaps in one of
those boxes. 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 a tool 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 are invoiced 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 the
fog clears. Then, if I can't steer to any harbour with the 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
the mate would come out calmer, for I heard him knocking away at
something in the hold, and work is good for him, there came up the
hatchway a sudden, startled scream, which made my blood run cold,
and up on the deck he came as if shot from a gun, a raging madman,
with his eyes rolling and his face convulsed with fear. "Save me!
Save me!" he cried, and then looked round on the blanket of fog.
His horror turned to despair, and in a steady 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 is all
that is left!" Before I could say a word, or move forward to 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 the men one by one, and now he has followed them
himself. God help me! How am I to account for all these horrors
when I get to port? When I get to port! Will that ever be?
4 August.—Still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce, I know4 August.—Still fog, which the sunrise cannot 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 the helm, 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 ship. 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 with them I shall tie that
which He, It, dare not touch. And then, come good wind or foul, I
shall save my soul, and my honour as a captain. I am growing
weaker, and the night is coming on. If He can look me in the face
again, I may not have time to act … If we are wrecked, mayhap
this bottle may be found, and those who find it may understand. If
not … well, then all men shall know that I have been true to
my trust. God and the Blessed Virgin and the Saints help 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 the murders
there is now none to say. The folk here hold almost universally
that the captain is simply a hero, and he is to be given a public
funeral. Already it is arranged that his body is to be taken with a
train of boats up the Esk for a piece and then brought back to Tate
Hill Pier and up the abbey steps, for he is to be buried in the
churchyard on the cliff. The owners of more than a hundred boats
have already given in their names as wishing to follow him to the
grave.
No trace has ever been found of the great dog, 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 will end this one more `mystery of the sea'.
MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL
8 August.—Lucy was very restless all night, and I too, could not


MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL
8 August.—Lucy was very restless all night, and I too, could not
sleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly 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, but
she got up twice and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I
awoke in time and managed 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, her intention, if there be any, disappears, and she yields
herself almost exactly to the routine of her life.
Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the harbour
to see if anything had happened in the night. There were very few
people about, and though the sun was bright, and the air clear and
fresh, the big, grim-looking waves, that seemed dark themselves
because the foam that topped them was like snow, forced themselves
in through the mouth of the 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 sea captain today was most
touching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to be there, and the
coffin was carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up
to the churchyard. Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old
seat, whilst the cortege of boats went up the river to the Viaduct
and came down again. We had a lovely view, and saw the procession
nearly all the way. The poor fellow was laid to rest near our seat
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 at night is telling
on her. She is quite odd in one thing. She will not admit to meon her. She is quite odd in one thing. She will not admit to me
that there is any cause for restlessness, or if there be, she does
not understand it herself.
There is an additional cause in that poor Mr. 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 and horror 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 other people do. Just now she was quite upset by a
little thing 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 come to its master, who
was on the seat with us, but kept a few yards off, barking and
howling. Its master spoke to it gently, and then harshly, and then
angrily. But it would neither come nor cease to make a noise. It
was in a fury, with its eyes savage, and all its hair bristling out
like a cat's tail when puss is on the war path.
Finally the man too got angry, and jumped down and kicked the
dog, and then took it by the scruff of the neck and half dragged
and half threw it on the tombstone on which the seat is fixed. The
moment it touched the stone the poor thing began to tremble. It did
not try to get away, but crouched down, quivering and cowering, and
was in such a pitiable state of terror that I tried, though without
effect, to comfort it.
Lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt to touch the
dog, but looked at it in an agonised sort of way. I greatly fear
that she is of too super sensitive 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 ship steered into port by aThe whole agglomeration of things, the ship steered into port by a
dead man, his attitude, tied to the wheel with a crucifix and
beads, the touching funeral, the dog, now furious and now in
terror, will all afford material for her dreams.
I think it will be best for her to go to bed tired out
physically, so I shall take her for a long walk by the cliffs to
Robin Hood's Bay and back. She ought not to have much inclination
for sleep-walking then.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


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.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 theLucy 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


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 hasnight 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.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


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.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,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"


"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 aleaped 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, forwill bring my trunk to London and keep it till I send for it, for
it may be that … I must write no more. I must keep it to say
to Jonathan, my husband. The letter that he has seen and touched
must comfort me till we meet.
LETTER, SISTER AGATHA, HOSPITAL OF ST. JOSEPH AND STE. MARY
BUDA-PESTH, TO MISS WILLHELMINA MURRAY
12 August,
"Dear Madam.
"I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is himself not
strong enough to write, though progressing well, thanks to God and
St. Joseph and Ste. Mary. He has been under our care for nearly six
weeks, suffering from a violent brain fever. He wishes me to convey
his love, and to say that by this post I write for him to Mr. Peter
Hawkins, Exeter, to say, with his dutiful respects, that he is
sorry for his delay, and that all of his work is completed. He will
require some few weeks' rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but
will then return. He wishes me to say that he has not sufficient
money with him, and that he would like to pay for his staying here,
so that others who need shall not be wanting for belp.
Believe me,
Yours, with sympathy
and all blessings. Sister Agatha"
"P. S.—My patient being asleep, I open this to let you know
something more. He has told me all about you, and that you are
shortly to be his wife. All blessings to you both! He has had some
fearful shock, so says our doctor, and in his delirium his ravings
have been dreadful, of wolves and poison and blood, of ghosts and
demons, and I fear to say of what. Be careful of him always that
there may be nothing to excite him of this kind for a long time to
come. The traces of such an illness as his do not lightly die away.
We should have written long ago, but we knew nothing of his
friends, and there was nothing on him, nothing that anyone could
understand. He came in the train from Klausenburg, and the guard
was told by the station master there that he rushed into the
station shouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from his violent
demeanor that he was English, they gave him a ticket for the


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 haslook 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 calledthrough 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 youand 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.


Buda-Pesth, 24 August.
"My dearest Lucy,
"I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened since
we parted at the railway station at Whitby.
"Well, my dear, I got to Hull all right, and caught the boat to
Hamburg, and then the train on here. I feel that I can hardly
recall anything of the journey, except that I knew I was coming to
Jonathan, and that as I should have to do some nursing, I had
better get all the sleep I could. I found my dear one, oh, so thin
and pale and weaklooking. All the resolution has gone out of his
dear eyes, and that quiet dignity which I told you was in his face
has vanished. He is only a wreck of himself, and he does not
remember anything that has happened to him for a long time past. At
least, he wants me to believe so, and I shall never ask.
"He has had some terrible shock, and I fear it might tax his
poor brain if he were to try to recall it. Sister Agatha, who is a
good creature and a born nurse, tells me that he wanted her to tell
me what they were, but she would only cross herself, and say she
would never tell. That the ravings of the sick were the secrets of
God, and that if a nurse through her vocation should hear them, she
should respect her trust..
"She is a sweet, good soul, and the next day, when she saw I was
troubled, she opened up the subject my poor dear raved about,
added, `I can tell you this much, my dear. That it was not about
anything which he has done wrong himself, and you, as his wife to
be, have no cause to be concerned. He has not forgotten you or what
he owes to you. His fear was of great and terrible things, which no
mortal can treat of.'
"I do believe the dear soul thought I might be jealous lest my
poor dear should have fallen in love with any other girl. The idea
of my being jealous about Jonathan! And yet, my dear, let me
whisper, I felt a thrill of joy through me when I knew that no
other woman was a cause for trouble. I am now sitting by his
bedside, where I can see his face while he sleeps. He is
waking!bedside, where I can see his face while he sleeps. He is
waking!
"When he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to get
something from the pocket. I asked Sister Agatha, and she brought
all his things. I saw amongst them was his notebook, and was was
going to ask him to let me look at it, for I knew that I might find
some clue to his trouble, but I suppose he must have seen my wish
in my eyes, for he sent me over to the window, saying he wanted to
be quite alone for a moment.
"Then he called me back, and he said to me very solemnly,
`Wilhelmina', I knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for he has
never called me by that name since he asked me to marry him, `You
know, dear, my ideas of the trust between husband and wife. There
should be no secret, no concealment. I have had a great shock, and
when I try to think of what it is I feel my head spin round, and I
do not know if it was real of the dreaming of a madman. You know I
had brain fever, and that is to be mad. The secret is here, and I
do not want to know it. I want to take up my life here, with our
marriage.' For, my dear, we had decided to be married as soon as
the formalities are complete. `Are you willing, Wilhelmina, to
share my ignorance? Here is the book. Take it and keep it, read it
if you will,but never let me know unless, indeed, some solemn duty
should come upon me to go back to the bitter hours, asleep or
awake, sane or mad, recorded here.' He fell back exhausted, and I
put the book under his pillow, and kissed him. have asked Sister
Agatha to beg the Superior to let our wedding be this afternoon,
and am waiting her reply … "
"She has come and told me that the Chaplain of the English
mission church has been sent for. We are to be married in an hour,
or as soon after as Jonathan awakes."
"Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but very,
very happy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all was
ready, and he sat up in bed, propped up with pillows. He answeredready, and he sat up in bed, propped up with pillows. He answered
his `I will' firmly and strong. I could hardly speak. My heart was
so full that even those words seemed to choke me.
"The dear sisters were so kind. Please, God, I shall never,
never forget them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities I have
taken upon me. I must tell you of my wedding present. When the
chaplain and the sisters had left me alone with my husband—oh,
Lucy, it is the first time I have written the words `my
husband'—left me alone with my husband, I took the book from under
his pillow, and wrapped it up in white paper, and tied it with a
little bit of pale blue ribbon which was round my neck, and sealed
it over the knot with sealing wax, and for my seal I used my
wedding ring. Then I kissed it and showed it to my husband, and
told him that I would keep it so, and then it would be an outward
and visible sign for us all our lives that we trusted each other,
that I would never open it unless it were for his own dear sake or
for the sake of some stern duty. Then he took my hand in his, and
oh, Lucy, it was the first time he took his wifes' hand, and said
that it was the dearest thing in all the wide world, and that he
would go through all the past again to win it, if need be. The poor
dear meant to have said a part of the past, but he cannot think of
time yet, and I shall not wonder if at first he mixes up not only
the month, but the year.
"Well, my dear, could I say? I could only tell him that I was
the happiest woman in all the wide world, and that I had nothing to
give him except myself, my life, and my trust, and that with these
went my love and duty for all the days of my life. And, my dear,
when he kissed me, and drew me to him with his poor weak hands, it
was like a solemn pledge between us.
"Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is not only
because it is all sweet to me, but because you have been, and are,
very dear to me. It was my privilege to be your friend and guide