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Dracula by Bram Stoker

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"Abraham Van Helsing."


25 September, 6:30 P.M.

"My dear Dr. Van Helsing,

"A thousand thanks for your kind letter, which has taken a
great weight off my mind. And yet, if it be true, what
terrible things there are in the world, and what an awful
thing if that man, that monster, be really in London! I
fear to think. I have this moment, whilst writing, had a
wire from Jonathan, saying that he leaves by the 6:25 tonight
from Launceston and will be here at 10:18, so that I shall have
no fear tonight. Will you, therefore, instead of lunching with
us, please come to breakfast at eight o'clock, if this be not too
early for you? You can get away, if you are in a hurry, by the
10:30 train, which will bring you to Paddington by 2:35. Do not
answer this, as I shall take it that, if I do not hear, you will
come to breakfast.

"Believe me,

"Your faithful and grateful friend,

"Mina Harker."


26 September.--I thought never to write in this diary again, but the
time has come. When I got home last night Mina had supper ready, and
when we had supped she told me of Van Helsing's visit, and of her
having given him the two diaries copied out, and of how anxious she
has been about me. She showed me in the doctor's letter that all I
wrote down was true. It seems to have made a new man of me. It was
the doubt as to the reality of the whole thing that knocked me over.
I felt impotent, and in the dark, and distrustful. But, now that I
know, I am not afraid, even of the Count. He has succeeded after all,
then, in his design in getting to London, and it was he I saw. He has
got younger, and how? Van Helsing is the man to unmask him and hunt
him out, if he is anything like what Mina says. We sat late, and
talked it over. Mina is dressing, and I shall call at the hotel in a
few minutes and bring him over.

He was, I think, surprised to see me. When I came into the room where
he was, and introduced myself, he took me by the shoulder, and turned
my face round to the light, and said, after a sharp scrutiny,

"But Madam Mina told me you were ill, that you had had a shock."

It was so funny to hear my wife called 'Madam Mina' by this kindly,
strong-faced old man. I smiled, and said, "I was ill, I have had a
shock, but you have cured me already."

"And how?"

"By your letter to Mina last night. I was in doubt, and then
everything took a hue of unreality, and I did not know what to trust,
even the evidence of my own senses. Not knowing what to trust, I did
not know what to do, and so had only to keep on working in what had
hitherto been the groove of my life. The groove ceased to avail me,
and I mistrusted myself. Doctor, you don't know what it is to doubt
everything, even yourself. No, you don't, you couldn't with eyebrows
like yours."

He seemed pleased, and laughed as he said, "So! You are a
physiognomist. I learn more here with each hour. I am with so much
pleasure coming to you to breakfast, and, oh, sir, you will pardon
praise from an old man, but you are blessed in your wife."

I would listen to him go on praising Mina for a day, so I simply
nodded and stood silent.

"She is one of God's women, fashioned by His own hand to show us men
and other women that there is a heaven where we can enter, and that
its light can be here on earth. So true, so sweet, so noble, so
little an egoist, and that, let me tell you, is much in this age, so
sceptical and selfish. And you, sir . . . I have read all the letters
to poor Miss Lucy, and some of them speak of you, so I know you since
some days from the knowing of others, but I have seen your true self
since last night. You will give me your hand, will you not? And let
us be friends for all our lives."

We shook hands, and he was so earnest and so kind that it made me
quite choky.

"And now," he said, "may I ask you for some more help? I have a great
task to do, and at the beginning it is to know. You can help me
here. Can you tell me what went before your going to Transylvania?
Later on I may ask more help, and of a different kind, but at first
this will do."

"Look here, Sir," I said, "does what you have to do concern the

"It does," he said solemnly.

"Then I am with you heart and soul. As you go by the 10:30 train, you
will not have time to read them, but I shall get the bundle of papers.
You can take them with you and read them in the train."

After breakfast I saw him to the station. When we were parting he
said, "Perhaps you will come to town if I send for you, and take Madam
Mina too."

"We shall both come when you will," I said.

I had got him the morning papers and the London papers of the previous
night, and while we were talking at the carriage window, waiting for
the train to start, he was turning them over. His eyes suddenly
seemed to catch something in one of them, "The Westminster Gazette", I
knew it by the colour, and he grew quite white. He read something
intently, groaning to himself, "Mein Gott! Mein Gott! So soon! So
soon!" I do not think he remembered me at the moment. Just then the
whistle blew, and the train moved off. This recalled him to himself,
and he leaned out of the window and waved his hand, calling out, "Love
to Madam Mina. I shall write so soon as ever I can."


26 September.--Truly there is no such thing as finality. Not a week
since I said "Finis," and yet here I am starting fresh again, or
rather going on with the record. Until this afternoon I had no cause
to think of what is done. Renfield had become, to all intents, as
sane as he ever was. He was already well ahead with his fly business,
and he had just started in the spider line also, so he had not been of
any trouble to me. I had a letter from Arthur, written on Sunday, and
from it I gather that he is bearing up wonderfully well. Quincey
Morris is with him, and that is much of a help, for he himself is a
bubbling well of good spirits. Quincey wrote me a line too, and from
him I hear that Arthur is beginning to recover something of his old
buoyancy, so as to them all my mind is at rest. As for myself, I was
settling down to my work with the enthusiasm which I used to have for
it, so that I might fairly have said that the wound which poor Lucy
left on me was becoming cicatrised.

Everything is, however, now reopened, and what is to be the end God
only knows. I have an idea that Van Helsing thinks he knows, too, but
he will only let out enough at a time to whet curiosity. He went to
Exeter yesterday, and stayed there all night. Today he came back, and
almost bounded into the room at about half-past five o'clock, and
thrust last night's "Westminster Gazette" into my hand.

"What do you think of that?" he asked as he stood back and folded his

I looked over the paper, for I really did not know what he meant, but
he took it from me and pointed out a paragraph about children being
decoyed away at Hampstead. It did not convey much to me, until I
reached a passage where it described small puncture wounds on their
throats. An idea struck me, and I looked up.

"Well?" he said.

"It is like poor Lucy's."

"And what do you make of it?"

"Simply that there is some cause in common. Whatever it was that
injured her has injured them." I did not quite understand his answer.

"That is true indirectly, but not directly."

"How do you mean, Professor?" I asked. I was a little inclined to
take his seriousness lightly, for, after all, four days of rest and
freedom from burning, harrowing, anxiety does help to restore one's
spirits, but when I saw his face, it sobered me. Never, even in the
midst of our despair about poor Lucy, had he looked more stern.

"Tell me!" I said. "I can hazard no opinion. I do not know what to
think, and I have no data on which to found a conjecture."

"Do you mean to tell me, friend John, that you have no suspicion as to
what poor Lucy died of, not after all the hints given, not only by
events, but by me?"

"Of nervous prostration following a great loss or waste of blood."

"And how was the blood lost or wasted?" I shook my head.

He stepped over and sat down beside me, and went on, "You are a clever
man, friend John. You reason well, and your wit is bold, but you are
too prejudiced. You do not let your eyes see nor your ears hear, and
that which is outside your daily life is not of account to you. Do
you not think that there are things which you cannot understand, and
yet which are, that some people see things that others cannot? But
there are things old and new which must not be contemplated by men's
eyes, because they know, or think they know, some things which other
men have told them. Ah, it is the fault of our science that it wants
to explain all, and if it explain not, then it says there is nothing
to explain. But yet we see around us every day the growth of new
beliefs, which think themselves new, and which are yet but the old,
which pretend to be young, like the fine ladies at the opera. I
suppose now you do not believe in corporeal transference. No? Nor in
materialization. No? Nor in astral bodies. No? Nor in the reading
of thought. No? Nor in hypnotism . . ."

"Yes," I said. "Charcot has proved that pretty well."

He smiled as he went on, "Then you are satisfied as to it. Yes? And
of course then you understand how it act, and can follow the mind of
the great Charcot, alas that he is no more, into the very soul of the
patient that he influence. No? Then, friend John, am I to take it
that you simply accept fact, and are satisfied to let from premise to
conclusion be a blank? No? Then tell me, for I am a student of the
brain, how you accept hypnotism and reject the thought reading. Let
me tell you, my friend, that there are things done today in electrical
science which would have been deemed unholy by the very man who
discovered electricity, who would themselves not so long before been
burned as wizards. There are always mysteries in life. Why was it
that Methuselah lived nine hundred years, and 'Old Parr' one hundred
and sixty-nine, and yet that poor Lucy, with four men's blood in her
poor veins, could not live even one day? For, had she live one more
day, we could save her. Do you know all the mystery of life and
death? Do you know the altogether of comparative anatomy and can say
wherefore the qualities of brutes are in some men, and not in others?
Can you tell me why, when other spiders die small and soon, that one
great spider lived for centuries in the tower of the old Spanish
church and grew and grew, till, on descending, he could drink the oil
of all the church lamps? Can you tell me why in the Pampas, ay and
elsewhere, there are bats that come out at night and open the veins of
cattle and horses and suck dry their veins, how in some islands of the
Western seas there are bats which hang on the trees all day, and those
who have seen describe as like giant nuts or pods, and that when the
sailors sleep on the deck, because that it is hot, flit down on them
and then, and then in the morning are found dead men, white as even
Miss Lucy was?"

"Good God, Professor!" I said, starting up. "Do you mean to tell me
that Lucy was bitten by such a bat, and that such a thing is here in
London in the nineteenth century?"

He waved his hand for silence, and went on, "Can you tell me why the
tortoise lives more long than generations of men, why the elephant
goes on and on till he have sees dynasties, and why the parrot never
die only of bite of cat of dog or other complaint? Can you tell me
why men believe in all ages and places that there are men and women
who cannot die? We all know, because science has vouched for the
fact, that there have been toads shut up in rocks for thousands of
years, shut in one so small hole that only hold him since the youth of
the world. Can you tell me how the Indian fakir can make himself to
die and have been buried, and his grave sealed and corn sowed on it,
and the corn reaped and be cut and sown and reaped and cut again, and
then men come and take away the unbroken seal and that there lie the
Indian fakir, not dead, but that rise up and walk amongst them as

Here I interrupted him. I was getting bewildered. He so crowded on
my mind his list of nature's eccentricities and possible
impossibilities that my imagination was getting fired. I had a dim
idea that he was teaching me some lesson, as long ago he used to do in
his study at Amsterdam. But he used them to tell me the thing, so
that I could have the object of thought in mind all the time. But now
I was without his help, yet I wanted to follow him, so I said,

"Professor, let me be your pet student again. Tell me the thesis, so
that I may apply your knowledge as you go on. At present I am going
in my mind from point to point as a madman, and not a sane one,
follows an idea. I feel like a novice lumbering through a bog in a
midst, jumping from one tussock to another in the mere blind effort to
move on without knowing where I am going."

"That is a good image," he said. "Well, I shall tell you. My thesis
is this, I want you to believe."

"To believe what?"

"To believe in things that you cannot. Let me illustrate. I heard
once of an American who so defined faith, 'that faculty which enables
us to believe things which we know to be untrue.' For one, I follow
that man. He meant that we shall have an open mind, and not let a
little bit of truth check the rush of the big truth, like a small rock
does a railway truck. We get the small truth first. Good! We keep
him, and we value him, but all the same we must not let him think
himself all the truth in the universe."

"Then you want me not to let some previous conviction inure the
receptivity of my mind with regard to some strange matter. Do I read
your lesson aright?"

"Ah, you are my favourite pupil still. It is worth to teach you. Now
that you are willing to understand, you have taken the first step to
understand. You think then that those so small holes in the
children's throats were made by the same that made the holes in Miss

"I suppose so."

He stood up and said solemnly, "Then you are wrong. Oh, would it were
so! But alas! No. It is worse, far, far worse."

"In God's name, Professor Van Helsing, what do you mean?" I cried.

He threw himself with a despairing gesture into a chair, and placed
his elbows on the table, covering his face with his hands as he spoke.

"They were made by Miss Lucy!"



For a while sheer anger mastered me. It was as if he had during her
life struck Lucy on the face. I smote the table hard and rose up as I
said to him, "Dr. Van Helsing, are you mad?"

He raised his head and looked at me, and somehow the tenderness of his
face calmed me at once. "Would I were!" he said. "Madness were easy
to bear compared with truth like this. Oh, my friend, why, think
you, did I go so far round, why take so long to tell so simple a
thing? Was it because I hate you and have hated you all my life? Was
it because I wished to give you pain? Was it that I wanted, now so
late, revenge for that time when you saved my life, and from a fearful
death? Ah no!"

"Forgive me," said I.

He went on, "My friend, it was because I wished to be gentle in the
breaking to you, for I know you have loved that so sweet lady. But
even yet I do not expect you to believe. It is so hard to accept at
once any abstract truth, that we may doubt such to be possible when we
have always believed the 'no' of it. It is more hard still to accept
so sad a concrete truth, and of such a one as Miss Lucy. Tonight I go
to prove it. Dare you come with me?"

This staggered me. A man does not like to prove such a truth, Byron
excepted from the category, jealousy.

"And prove the very truth he most abhorred."

He saw my hesitation, and spoke, "The logic is simple, no madman's
logic this time, jumping from tussock to tussock in a misty bog. If
it not be true, then proof will be relief. At worst it will not harm.
If it be true! Ah, there is the dread. Yet every dread should help my
cause, for in it is some need of belief. Come, I tell you what I
propose. First, that we go off now and see that child in the
hospital. Dr. Vincent, of the North Hospital, where the papers say
the child is, is a friend of mine, and I think of yours since you were
in class at Amsterdam. He will let two scientists see his case, if he
will not let two friends. We shall tell him nothing, but only that we
wish to learn. And then . . ."

"And then?"

He took a key from his pocket and held it up. "And then we spend the
night, you and I, in the churchyard where Lucy lies. This is the key
that lock the tomb. I had it from the coffin man to give to Arthur."

My heart sank within me, for I felt that there was some fearful ordeal
before us. I could do nothing, however, so I plucked up what heart I
could and said that we had better hasten, as the afternoon was

We found the child awake. It had had a sleep and taken some food, and
altogether was going on well. Dr. Vincent took the bandage from its
throat, and showed us the punctures. There was no mistaking the
similarity to those which had been on Lucy's throat. They were
smaller, and the edges looked fresher, that was all. We asked Vincent
to what he attributed them, and he replied that it must have been a
bite of some animal, perhaps a rat, but for his own part, he was
inclined to think it was one of the bats which are so numerous on the
northern heights of London. "Out of so many harmless ones," he said,
"there may be some wild specimen from the South of a more malignant
species. Some sailor may have brought one home, and it managed to
escape, or even from the Zoological Gardens a young one may have got
loose, or one be bred there from a vampire. These things do occur,
you, know. Only ten days ago a wolf got out, and was, I believe,
traced up in this direction. For a week after, the children were
playing nothing but Red Riding Hood on the Heath and in every alley in
the place until this 'bloofer lady' scare came along, since then it
has been quite a gala time with them. Even this poor little mite,
when he woke up today, asked the nurse if he might go away. When she
asked him why he wanted to go, he said he wanted to play with the
'bloofer lady'."

"I hope," said Van Helsing, "that when you are sending the child home
you will caution its parents to keep strict watch over it. These
fancies to stray are most dangerous, and if the child were to remain
out another night, it would probably be fatal. But in any case I
suppose you will not let it away for some days?"

"Certainly not, not for a week at least, longer if the wound is not

Our visit to the hospital took more time than we had reckoned on, and
the sun had dipped before we came out. When Van Helsing saw how dark
it was, he said,

"There is not hurry. It is more late than I thought. Come, let us
seek somewhere that we may eat, and then we shall go on our way."

We dined at 'Jack Straw's Castle' along with a little crowd of
bicyclists and others who were genially noisy. About ten o'clock we
started from the inn. It was then very dark, and the scattered lamps
made the darkness greater when we were once outside their individual
radius. The Professor had evidently noted the road we were to go, for
he went on unhesitatingly, but, as for me, I was in quite a mixup as
to locality. As we went further, we met fewer and fewer people, till
at last we were somewhat surprised when we met even the patrol of
horse police going their usual suburban round. At last we reached the
wall of the churchyard, which we climbed over. With some little
difficulty, for it was very dark, and the whole place seemed so
strange to us, we found the Westenra tomb. The Professor took the
key, opened the creaky door, and standing back, politely, but quite
unconsciously, motioned me to precede him. There was a delicious
irony in the offer, in the courtliness of giving preference on such a
ghastly occasion. My companion followed me quickly, and cautiously
drew the door to, after carefully ascertaining that the lock was a
falling, and not a spring one. In the latter case we should have been
in a bad plight. Then he fumbled in his bag, and taking out a
matchbox and a piece of candle, proceeded to make a light. The tomb
in the daytime, and when wreathed with fresh flowers, had looked grim
and gruesome enough, but now, some days afterwards, when the flowers
hung lank and dead, their whites turning to rust and their greens to
browns, when the spider and the beetle had resumed their accustomed
dominance, when the time-discoloured stone, and dust-encrusted mortar,
and rusty, dank iron, and tarnished brass, and clouded silver-plating
gave back the feeble glimmer of a candle, the effect was more
miserable and sordid than could have been imagined. It conveyed
irresistibly the idea that life, animal life, was not the only thing
which could pass away.

Van Helsing went about his work systematically. Holding his candle so
that he could read the coffin plates, and so holding it that the sperm
dropped in white patches which congealed as they touched the metal, he
made assurance of Lucy's coffin. Another search in his bag, and he
took out a turnscrew.

"What are you going to do?" I asked.

"To open the coffin. You shall yet be convinced."

Straightway he began taking out the screws, and finally lifted off the
lid, showing the casing of lead beneath. The sight was almost too
much for me. It seemed to be as much an affront to the dead as it
would have been to have stripped off her clothing in her sleep whilst
living. I actually took hold of his hand to stop him.

He only said, "You shall see," and again fumbling in his bag took out
a tiny fret saw. Striking the turnscrew through the lead with a swift
downward stab, which made me wince, he made a small hole, which was,
however, big enough to admit the point of the saw. I had expected a
rush of gas from the week-old corpse. We doctors, who have had to
study our dangers, have to become accustomed to such things, and I
drew back towards the door. But the Professor never stopped for a
moment. He sawed down a couple of feet along one side of the lead
coffin, and then across, and down the other side. Taking the edge of
the loose flange, he bent it back towards the foot of the coffin, and
holding up the candle into the aperture, motioned to me to look.

I drew near and looked. The coffin was empty. It was certainly a
surprise to me, and gave me a considerable shock, but Van Helsing was
unmoved. He was now more sure than ever of his ground, and so
emboldened to proceed in his task. "Are you satisfied now, friend
John?" he asked.

I felt all the dogged argumentativeness of my nature awake within me as
I answered him, "I am satisfied that Lucy's body is not in that
coffin, but that only proves one thing."

"And what is that, friend John?"

"That it is not there."

"That is good logic," he said, "so far as it goes. But how do you,
how can you, account for it not being there?"

"Perhaps a body-snatcher," I suggested. "Some of the undertaker's
people may have stolen it." I felt that I was speaking folly, and yet
it was the only real cause which I could suggest.

The Professor sighed. "Ah well!" he said, "we must have more proof.
Come with me."

He put on the coffin lid again, gathered up all his things and placed
them in the bag, blew out the light, and placed the candle also in the
bag. We opened the door, and went out. Behind us he closed the door
and locked it. He handed me the key, saying, "Will you keep it? You
had better be assured."

I laughed, it was not a very cheerful laugh, I am bound to say, as I
motioned him to keep it. "A key is nothing," I said, "there are many
duplicates, and anyhow it is not difficult to pick a lock of this

He said nothing, but put the key in his pocket. Then he told me to
watch at one side of the churchyard whilst he would watch at the

I took up my place behind a yew tree, and I saw his dark figure move
until the intervening headstones and trees hid it from my sight.

It was a lonely vigil. Just after I had taken my place I heard a
distant clock strike twelve, and in time came one and two. I was
chilled and unnerved, and angry with the Professor for taking me on
such an errand and with myself for coming. I was too cold and too
sleepy to be keenly observant, and not sleepy enough to betray my
trust, so altogether I had a dreary, miserable time.

Suddenly, as I turned round, I thought I saw something like a white
streak, moving between two dark yew trees at the side of the
churchyard farthest from the tomb. At the same time a dark mass moved
from the Professor's side of the ground, and hurriedly went towards
it. Then I too moved, but I had to go round headstones and railed-off
tombs, and I stumbled over graves. The sky was overcast, and
somewhere far off an early cock crew. A little ways off, beyond a
line of scattered juniper trees, which marked the pathway to the
church, a white dim figure flitted in the direction of the tomb. The
tomb itself was hidden by trees, and I could not see where the figure
had disappeared. I heard the rustle of actual movement where I had
first seen the white figure, and coming over, found the Professor
holding in his arms a tiny child. When he saw me he held it out to
me, and said, "Are you satisfied now?"

"No," I said, in a way that I felt was aggressive.

"Do you not see the child?"

"Yes, it is a child, but who brought it here? And is it wounded?"

"We shall see," said the Professor, and with one impulse we took our
way out of the churchyard, he carrying the sleeping child.

When we had got some little distance away, we went into a clump of
trees, and struck a match, and looked at the child's throat. It was
without a scratch or scar of any kind.

"Was I right?" I asked triumphantly.

"We were just in time," said the Professor thankfully.

We had now to decide what we were to do with the child, and so
consulted about it. If we were to take it to a police station we
should have to give some account of our movements during the night.
At least, we should have had to make some statement as to how we had
come to find the child. So finally we decided that we would take it
to the Heath, and when we heard a policeman coming, would leave it
where he could not fail to find it. We would then seek our way home
as quickly as we could. All fell out well. At the edge of Hampstead
Heath we heard a policeman's heavy tramp, and laying the child on the
pathway, we waited and watched until he saw it as he flashed his
lantern to and fro. We heard his exclamation of astonishment, and
then we went away silently. By good chance we got a cab near the
'Spainiards,' and drove to town.

I cannot sleep, so I make this entry. But I must try to get a few
hours' sleep, as Van Helsing is to call for me at noon. He insists
that I go with him on another expedition.

27 September.--It was two o'clock before we found a suitable
opportunity for our attempt. The funeral held at noon was all
completed, and the last stragglers of the mourners had taken
themselves lazily away, when, looking carefully from behind a clump of
alder trees, we saw the sexton lock the gate after him. We knew that
we were safe till morning did we desire it, but the Professor told me
that we should not want more than an hour at most. Again I felt that
horrid sense of the reality of things, in which any effort of
imagination seemed out of place, and I realized distinctly the perils
of the law which we were incurring in our unhallowed work. Besides, I
felt it was all so useless. Outrageous as it was to open a leaden
coffin, to see if a woman dead nearly a week were really dead, it now
seemed the height of folly to open the tomb again, when we knew, from
the evidence of our own eyesight, that the coffin was empty. I
shrugged my shoulders, however, and rested silent, for Van Helsing had
a way of going on his own road, no matter who remonstrated. He took
the key, opened the vault, and again courteously motioned me to
precede. The place was not so gruesome as last night, but oh, how
unutterably mean looking when the sunshine streamed in. Van Helsing
walked over to Lucy's coffin, and I followed. He bent over and again
forced back the leaden flange, and a shock of surprise and dismay shot
through me.

There lay Lucy, seemingly just as we had seen her the night before her
funeral. She was, if possible, more radiantly beautiful than ever,
and I could not believe that she was dead. The lips were red, nay
redder than before, and on the cheeks was a delicate bloom.

"Is this a juggle?" I said to him.

"Are you convinced now?" said the Professor, in response, and as he
spoke he put over his hand, and in a way that made me shudder, pulled
back the dead lips and showed the white teeth. "See," he went on,
"they are even sharper than before. With this and this," and he
touched one of the canine teeth and that below it, "the little
children can be bitten. Are you of belief now, friend John?"

Once more argumentative hostility woke within me. I could not accept
such an overwhelming idea as he suggested. So, with an attempt to
argue of which I was even at the moment ashamed, I said, "She may have
been placed here since last night."

"Indeed? That is so, and by whom?"

"I do not know. Someone has done it."

"And yet she has been dead one week. Most peoples in that time would
not look so."

I had no answer for this, so was silent. Van Helsing did not seem to
notice my silence. At any rate, he showed neither chagrin nor
triumph. He was looking intently at the face of the dead woman,
raising the eyelids and looking at the eyes, and once more opening the
lips and examining the teeth. Then he turned to me and said,

"Here, there is one thing which is different from all recorded. Here
is some dual life that is not as the common. She was bitten by the
vampire when she was in a trance, sleep-walking, oh, you start. You
do not know that, friend John, but you shall know it later, and in
trance could he best come to take more blood. In trance she dies, and
in trance she is UnDead, too. So it is that she differ from all
other. Usually when the UnDead sleep at home," as he spoke he made a
comprehensive sweep of his arm to designate what to a vampire was
'home', "their face show what they are, but this so sweet that was
when she not UnDead she go back to the nothings of the common dead.
There is no malign there, see, and so it make hard that I must kill
her in her sleep."

This turned my blood cold, and it began to dawn upon me that I was
accepting Van Helsing's theories. But if she were really dead, what
was there of terror in the idea of killing her?

He looked up at me, and evidently saw the change in my face, for he
said almost joyously, "Ah, you believe now?"

I answered, "Do not press me too hard all at once. I am willing to
accept. How will you do this bloody work?"

"I shall cut off her head and fill her mouth with garlic, and I shall
drive a stake through her body."

It made me shudder to think of so mutilating the body of the woman
whom I had loved. And yet the feeling was not so strong as I had
expected. I was, in fact, beginning to shudder at the presence of
this being, this UnDead, as Van Helsing called it, and to loathe it.
Is it possible that love is all subjective, or all objective?

I waited a considerable time for Van Helsing to begin, but he stood as
if wrapped in thought. Presently he closed the catch of his bag with
a snap, and said,

"I have been thinking, and have made up my mind as to what is best.
If I did simply follow my inclining I would do now, at this moment,
what is to be done. But there are other things to follow, and things
that are thousand times more difficult in that them we do not know.
This is simple. She have yet no life taken, though that is of time,
and to act now would be to take danger from her forever. But then we
may have to want Arthur, and how shall we tell him of this? If you,
who saw the wounds on Lucy's throat, and saw the wounds so similar on
the child's at the hospital, if you, who saw the coffin empty last
night and full today with a woman who have not change only to be more
rose and more beautiful in a whole week, after she die, if you know of
this and know of the white figure last night that brought the child to
the churchyard, and yet of your own senses you did not believe, how
then, can I expect Arthur, who know none of those things, to believe?

"He doubted me when I took him from her kiss when she was dying. I
know he has forgiven me because in some mistaken idea I have done
things that prevent him say goodbye as he ought, and he may think that
in some more mistaken idea this woman was buried alive, and that in
most mistake of all we have killed her. He will then argue back that
it is we, mistaken ones, that have killed her by our ideas, and so he
will be much unhappy always. Yet he never can be sure, and that is
the worst of all. And he will sometimes think that she he loved was
buried alive, and that will paint his dreams with horrors of what she
must have suffered, and again, he will think that we may be right, and
that his so beloved was, after all, an UnDead. No! I told him once,
and since then I learn much. Now, since I know it is all true, a
hundred thousand times more do I know that he must pass through the
bitter waters to reach the sweet. He, poor fellow, must have one hour
that will make the very face of heaven grow black to him, then we can
act for good all round and send him peace. My mind is made up. Let
us go. You return home for tonight to your asylum, and see that all
be well. As for me, I shall spend the night here in this churchyard
in my own way. Tomorrow night you will come to me to the Berkeley
Hotel at ten of the clock. I shall send for Arthur to come too, and
also that so fine young man of America that gave his blood. Later we
shall all have work to do. I come with you so far as Piccadilly and
there dine, for I must be back here before the sun set."

So we locked the tomb and came away, and got over the wall of the
churchyard, which was not much of a task, and drove back to

JOHN SEWARD, M. D. (Not Delivered)

27 September

"Friend John,

"I write this in case anything should happen. I go alone to
watch in that churchyard. It pleases me that the UnDead,
Miss Lucy, shall not leave tonight, that so on the morrow
night she may be more eager. Therefore I shall fix some
things she like not, garlic and a crucifix, and so seal up
the door of the tomb. She is young as UnDead, and will
heed. Moreover, these are only to prevent her coming out.
They may not prevail on her wanting to get in, for then the
UnDead is desperate, and must find the line of least resistance,
whatsoever it may be. I shall be at hand all the night from
sunset till after sunrise, and if there be aught that may be
learned I shall learn it. For Miss Lucy or from her, I have no
fear, but that other to whom is there that she is UnDead, he have
not the power to seek her tomb and find shelter. He is cunning,
as I know from Mr. Jonathan and from the way that all along he
have fooled us when he played with us for Miss Lucy's life, and
we lost, and in many ways the UnDead are strong. He have always
the strength in his hand of twenty men, even we four who gave our
strength to Miss Lucy it also is all to him. Besides, he can
summon his wolf and I know not what. So if it be that he came
thither on this night he shall find me. But none other shall,
until it be too late. But it may be that he will not attempt the
place. There is no reason why he should. His hunting ground is
more full of game than the churchyard where the UnDead woman
sleeps, and the one old man watch.

"Therefore I write this in case . . . Take the papers that
are with this, the diaries of Harker and the rest, and read
them, and then find this great UnDead, and cut off his head
and burn his heart or drive a stake through it, so that the
world may rest from him.

"If it be so, farewell.



28 September.--It is wonderful what a good night's sleep will do for
one. Yesterday I was almost willing to accept Van Helsing's monstrous
ideas, but now they seem to start out lurid before me as outrages on
common sense. I have no doubt that he believes it all. I wonder if
his mind can have become in any way unhinged. Surely there must be
some rational explanation of all these mysterious things. Is it
possible that the Professor can have done it himself? He is so
abnormally clever that if he went off his head he would carry out his
intent with regard to some fixed idea in a wonderful way. I am loathe
to think it, and indeed it would be almost as great a marvel as the
other to find that Van Helsing was mad, but anyhow I shall watch him
carefully. I may get some light on the mystery.

29 September.--Last night, at a little before ten o'clock, Arthur and
Quincey came into Van Helsing's room. He told us all what he wanted
us to do, but especially addressing himself to Arthur, as if all our
wills were centred in his. He began by saying that he hoped we would
all come with him too, "for," he said, "there is a grave duty to be
done there. You were doubtless surprised at my letter?" This query
was directly addressed to Lord Godalming.

"I was. It rather upset me for a bit. There has been so much trouble
around my house of late that I could do without any more. I have been
curious, too, as to what you mean.

"Quincey and I talked it over, but the more we talked, the more
puzzled we got, till now I can say for myself that I'm about up a tree
as to any meaning about anything."

"Me too," said Quincey Morris laconically.

"Oh," said the Professor, "then you are nearer the beginning, both of
you, than friend John here, who has to go a long way back before he
can even get so far as to begin."

It was evident that he recognized my return to my old doubting frame
of mind without my saying a word. Then, turning to the other two, he
said with intense gravity,

"I want your permission to do what I think good this night. It is, I
know, much to ask, and when you know what it is I propose to do you
will know, and only then how much. Therefore may I ask that you
promise me in the dark, so that afterwards, though you may be angry
with me for a time, I must not disguise from myself the possibility
that such may be, you shall not blame yourselves for anything."

"That's frank anyhow," broke in Quincey. "I'll answer for the
Professor. I don't quite see his drift, but I swear he's honest, and
that's good enough for me."

"I thank you, Sir," said Van Helsing proudly. "I have done myself the
honour of counting you one trusting friend, and such endorsement is
dear to me." He held out a hand, which Quincey took.

Then Arthur spoke out, "Dr. Van Helsing, I don't quite like to 'buy a
pig in a poke', as they say in Scotland, and if it be anything in
which my honour as a gentleman or my faith as a Christian is
concerned, I cannot make such a promise. If you can assure me that
what you intend does not violate either of these two, then I give my
consent at once, though for the life of me, I cannot understand what
you are driving at."

"I accept your limitation," said Van Helsing, "and all I ask of you is
that if you feel it necessary to condemn any act of mine, you will
first consider it well and be satisfied that it does not violate your

"Agreed!" said Arthur. "That is only fair. And now that the
pourparlers are over, may I ask what it is we are to do?"

"I want you to come with me, and to come in secret, to the churchyard
at Kingstead."

Arthur's face fell as he said in an amazed sort of way,

"Where poor Lucy is buried?"

The Professor bowed.

Arthur went on, "And when there?"

"To enter the tomb!"

Arthur stood up. "Professor, are you in earnest, or is it some
monstrous joke? Pardon me, I see that you are in earnest." He sat
down again, but I could see that he sat firmly and proudly, as one who
is on his dignity. There was silence until he asked again, "And when
in the tomb?"

"To open the coffin."

"This is too much!" he said, angrily rising again. "I am willing to
be patient in all things that are reasonable, but in this, this
desecration of the grave, of one who . . ." He fairly choked with

The Professor looked pityingly at him. "If I could spare you one pang,
my poor friend," he said, "God knows I would. But this night our feet
must tread in thorny paths, or later, and for ever, the feet you love
must walk in paths of flame!"

Arthur looked up with set white face and said, "Take care, sir, take

"Would it not be well to hear what I have to say?" said Van Helsing.
"And then you will at least know the limit of my purpose. Shall I go

"That's fair enough," broke in Morris.

After a pause Van Helsing went on, evidently with an effort, "Miss
Lucy is dead, is it not so? Yes! Then there can be no wrong to her.
But if she be not dead . . ."

Arthur jumped to his feet, "Good God!" he cried. "What do you mean?
Has there been any mistake, has she been buried alive?" He groaned in
anguish that not even hope could soften.

"I did not say she was alive, my child. I did not think it. I go no
further than to say that she might be UnDead."

"UnDead! Not alive! What do you mean? Is this all a nightmare, or
what is it?"

"There are mysteries which men can only guess at, which age by age
they may solve only in part. Believe me, we are now on the verge of
one. But I have not done. May I cut off the head of dead Miss Lucy?"

"Heavens and earth, no!" cried Arthur in a storm of passion. "Not for
the wide world will I consent to any mutilation of her dead body. Dr.
Van Helsing, you try me too far. What have I done to you that you
should torture me so? What did that poor, sweet girl do that you
should want to cast such dishonour on her grave? Are you mad, that you
speak of such things, or am I mad to listen to them? Don't dare think
more of such a desecration. I shall not give my consent to anything
you do. I have a duty to do in protecting her grave from outrage, and
by God, I shall do it!"

Van Helsing rose up from where he had all the time been seated, and
said, gravely and sternly, "My Lord Godalming, I too, have a duty to
do, a duty to others, a duty to you, a duty to the dead, and by God, I
shall do it! All I ask you now is that you come with me, that you
look and listen, and if when later I make the same request you do not
be more eager for its fulfillment even than I am, then, I shall do my
duty, whatever it may seem to me. And then, to follow your Lordship's
wishes I shall hold myself at your disposal to render an account to
you, when and where you will." His voice broke a little, and he went
on with a voice full of pity.

"But I beseech you, do not go forth in anger with me. In a long life
of acts which were often not pleasant to do, and which sometimes did
wring my heart, I have never had so heavy a task as now. Believe me
that if the time comes for you to change your mind towards me, one
look from you will wipe away all this so sad hour, for I would do what
a man can to save you from sorrow. Just think. For why should I give
myself so much labor and so much of sorrow? I have come here from my
own land to do what I can of good, at the first to please my friend
John, and then to help a sweet young lady, whom too, I come to love.
For her, I am ashamed to say so much, but I say it in kindness, I gave
what you gave, the blood of my veins. I gave it, I who was not, like
you, her lover, but only her physician and her friend. I gave her my
nights and days, before death, after death, and if my death can do her
good even now, when she is the dead UnDead, she shall have it freely."
He said this with a very grave, sweet pride, and Arthur was much
affected by it.

He took the old man's hand and said in a broken voice, "Oh, it is hard
to think of it, and I cannot understand, but at least I shall go with
you and wait."



It was just a quarter before twelve o'clock when we got into the
churchyard over the low wall. The night was dark with occasional
gleams of moonlight between the dents of the heavy clouds that scudded
across the sky. We all kept somehow close together, with Van Helsing
slightly in front as he led the way. When we had come close to the
tomb I looked well at Arthur, for I feared the proximity to a place
laden with so sorrowful a memory would upset him, but he bore himself
well. I took it that the very mystery of the proceeding was in some
way a counteractant to his grief. The Professor unlocked the door,
and seeing a natural hesitation amongst us for various reasons, solved
the difficulty by entering first himself. The rest of us followed,
and he closed the door. He then lit a dark lantern and pointed to a
coffin. Arthur stepped forward hesitatingly. Van Helsing said to me,
"You were with me here yesterday. Was the body of Miss Lucy in that

"It was."

The Professor turned to the rest saying, "You hear, and yet there is
no one who does not believe with me."

He took his screwdriver and again took off the lid of the coffin.
Arthur looked on, very pale but silent. When the lid was removed he
stepped forward. He evidently did not know that there was a leaden
coffin, or at any rate, had not thought of it. When he saw the rent
in the lead, the blood rushed to his face for an instant, but as
quickly fell away again, so that he remained of a ghastly whiteness.
He was still silent. Van Helsing forced back the leaden flange, and
we all looked in and recoiled.

The coffin was empty!

For several minutes no one spoke a word. The silence was broken by
Quincey Morris, "Professor, I answered for you. Your word is all I
want. I wouldn't ask such a thing ordinarily, I wouldn't so dishonour
you as to imply a doubt, but this is a mystery that goes beyond any
honour or dishonour. Is this your doing?"

"I swear to you by all that I hold sacred that I have not removed or
touched her. What happened was this. Two nights ago my friend Seward
and I came here, with good purpose, believe me. I opened that coffin,
which was then sealed up, and we found it as now, empty. We then
waited, and saw something white come through the trees. The next day
we came here in daytime and she lay there. Did she not, friend John?


"That night we were just in time. One more so small child was
missing, and we find it, thank God, unharmed amongst the graves.
Yesterday I came here before sundown, for at sundown the UnDead can
move. I waited here all night till the sun rose, but I saw nothing.
It was most probable that it was because I had laid over the clamps of
those doors garlic, which the UnDead cannot bear, and other things
which they shun. Last night there was no exodus, so tonight before
the sundown I took away my garlic and other things. And so it is we
find this coffin empty. But bear with me. So far there is much that
is strange. Wait you with me outside, unseen and unheard, and things
much stranger are yet to be. So," here he shut the dark slide of his
lantern, "now to the outside." He opened the door, and we filed out,
he coming last and locking the door behind him.

Oh! But it seemed fresh and pure in the night air after the terror of
that vault. How sweet it was to see the clouds race by, and the
passing gleams of the moonlight between the scudding clouds crossing
and passing, like the gladness and sorrow of a man's life. How sweet
it was to breathe the fresh air, that had no taint of death and decay.
How humanizing to see the red lighting of the sky beyond the hill, and
to hear far away the muffled roar that marks the life of a great
city. Each in his own way was solemn and overcome. Arthur was
silent, and was, I could see, striving to grasp the purpose and the
inner meaning of the mystery. I was myself tolerably patient, and
half inclined again to throw aside doubt and to accept Van Helsing's
conclusions. Quincey Morris was phlegmatic in the way of a man who
accepts all things, and accepts them in the spirit of cool bravery,
with hazard of all he has at stake. Not being able to smoke, he cut
himself a good-sized plug of tobacco and began to chew. As to Van
Helsing, he was employed in a definite way. First he took from his
bag a mass of what looked like thin, wafer-like biscuit, which was
carefully rolled up in a white napkin. Next he took out a double
handful of some whitish stuff, like dough or putty. He crumbled the
wafer up fine and worked it into the mass between his hands. This he
then took, and rolling it into thin strips, began to lay them into the
crevices between the door and its setting in the tomb. I was somewhat
puzzled at this, and being close, asked him what it was that he was
doing. Arthur and Quincey drew near also, as they too were curious.

He answered, "I am closing the tomb so that the UnDead may not enter."

"And is that stuff you have there going to do it?"

"It is."

"What is that which you are using?" This time the question was by
Arthur. Van Helsing reverently lifted his hat as he answered.

"The Host. I brought it from Amsterdam. I have an Indulgence."

It was an answer that appalled the most sceptical of us, and we felt
individually that in the presence of such earnest purpose as the
Professor's, a purpose which could thus use the to him most sacred of
things, it was impossible to distrust. In respectful silence we took
the places assigned to us close round the tomb, but hidden from the
sight of any one approaching. I pitied the others, especially Arthur.
I had myself been apprenticed by my former visits to this watching
horror, and yet I, who had up to an hour ago repudiated the proofs,
felt my heart sink within me. Never did tombs look so ghastly white.
Never did cypress, or yew, or juniper so seem the embodiment of
funeral gloom. Never did tree or grass wave or rustle so ominously.
Never did bough creak so mysteriously, and never did the far-away
howling of dogs send such a woeful presage through the night.

There was a long spell of silence, big, aching, void, and then from
the Professor a keen "S-s-s-s!" He pointed, and far down the avenue of
yews we saw a white figure advance, a dim white figure, which held
something dark at its breast. The figure stopped, and at the moment a
ray of moonlight fell upon the masses of driving clouds, and showed in
startling prominence a dark-haired woman, dressed in the cerements of
the grave. We could not see the face, for it was bent down over what
we saw to be a fair-haired child. There was a pause and a sharp
little cry, such as a child gives in sleep, or a dog as it lies before
the fire and dreams. We were starting forward, but the Professor's
warning hand, seen by us as he stood behind a yew tree, kept us back.
And then as we looked the white figure moved forwards again. It was
now near enough for us to see clearly, and the moonlight still held.
My own heart grew cold as ice, and I could hear the gasp of Arthur, as
we recognized the features of Lucy Westenra. Lucy Westenra, but yet
how changed. The sweetness was turned to adamantine, heartless
cruelty, and the purity to voluptuous wantonness.

Van Helsing stepped out, and obedient to his gesture, we all advanced
too. The four of us ranged in a line before the door of the tomb. Van
Helsing raised his lantern and drew the slide. By the concentrated
light that fell on Lucy's face we could see that the lips were crimson
with fresh blood, and that the stream had trickled over her chin and
stained the purity of her lawn death-robe.

We shuddered with horror. I could see by the tremulous light that
even Van Helsing's iron nerve had failed. Arthur was next to me, and
if I had not seized his arm and held him up, he would have fallen.

When Lucy, I call the thing that was before us Lucy because it bore
her shape, saw us she drew back with an angry snarl, such as a cat
gives when taken unawares, then her eyes ranged over us. Lucy's eyes
in form and colour, but Lucy's eyes unclean and full of hell fire,
instead of the pure, gentle orbs we knew. At that moment the remnant
of my love passed into hate and loathing. Had she then to be killed,
I could have done it with savage delight. As she looked, her eyes
blazed with unholy light, and the face became wreathed with a
voluptuous smile. Oh, God, how it made me shudder to see it! With a
careless motion, she flung to the ground, callous as a devil, the
child that up to now she had clutched strenuously to her breast,
growling over it as a dog growls over a bone. The child gave a sharp
cry, and lay there moaning. There was a cold-bloodedness in the act
which wrung a groan from Arthur. When she advanced to him with
outstretched arms and a wanton smile he fell back and hid his face in
his hands.

She still advanced, however, and with a languorous, voluptuous grace,
said, "Come to me, Arthur. Leave these others and come to me. My
arms are hungry for you. Come, and we can rest together. Come, my
husband, come!"

There was something diabolically sweet in her tones, something of the
tinkling of glass when struck, which rang through the brains even of
us who heard the words addressed to another.

As for Arthur, he seemed under a spell, moving his hands from his
face, he opened wide his arms. She was leaping for them, when Van
Helsing sprang forward and held between them his little golden
crucifix. She recoiled from it, and, with a suddenly distorted face,
full of rage, dashed past him as if to enter the tomb.

When within a foot or two of the door, however, she stopped, as if
arrested by some irresistible force. Then she turned, and her face
was shown in the clear burst of moonlight and by the lamp, which had
now no quiver from Van Helsing's nerves. Never did I see such baffled
malice on a face, and never, I trust, shall such ever be seen again by
mortal eyes. The beautiful colour became livid, the eyes seemed to
throw out sparks of hell fire, the brows were wrinkled as though the
folds of flesh were the coils of Medusa's snakes, and the lovely,
blood-stained mouth grew to an open square, as in the passion masks of
the Greeks and Japanese. If ever a face meant death, if looks could
kill, we saw it at that moment.

And so for full half a minute, which seemed an eternity, she remained
between the lifted crucifix and the sacred closing of her means of

Van Helsing broke the silence by asking Arthur, "Answer me, oh my
friend! Am I to proceed in my work?"

"Do as you will, friend. Do as you will. There can be no horror like
this ever any more." And he groaned in spirit.

Quincey and I simultaneously moved towards him, and took his arms. We
could hear the click of the closing lantern as Van Helsing held it
down. Coming close to the tomb, he began to remove from the chinks
some of the sacred emblem which he had placed there. We all looked on
with horrified amazement as we saw, when he stood back, the woman,
with a corporeal body as real at that moment as our own, pass through
the interstice where scarce a knife blade could have gone. We all
felt a glad sense of relief when we saw the Professor calmly restoring
the strings of putty to the edges of the door.

When this was done, he lifted the child and said, "Come now, my
friends. We can do no more till tomorrow. There is a funeral at
noon, so here we shall all come before long after that. The friends
of the dead will all be gone by two, and when the sexton locks the
gate we shall remain. Then there is more to do, but not like this of
tonight. As for this little one, he is not much harmed, and by
tomorrow night he shall be well. We shall leave him where the police
will find him, as on the other night, and then to home."

Coming close to Arthur, he said, "My friend Arthur, you have had a sore
trial, but after, when you look back, you will see how it was
necessary. You are now in the bitter waters, my child. By this time
tomorrow you will, please God, have passed them, and have drunk of the
sweet waters. So do not mourn over-much. Till then I shall not ask
you to forgive me."

Arthur and Quincey came home with me, and we tried to cheer each other
on the way. We had left behind the child in safety, and were tired.
So we all slept with more or less reality of sleep.

29 September, night.--A little before twelve o'clock we three, Arthur,
Quincey Morris, and myself, called for the Professor. It was odd to
notice that by common consent we had all put on black clothes. Of
course, Arthur wore black, for he was in deep mourning, but the rest
of us wore it by instinct. We got to the graveyard by half-past one,
and strolled about, keeping out of official observation, so that when
the gravediggers had completed their task and the sexton, under the
belief that every one had gone, had locked the gate, we had the place
all to ourselves. Van Helsing, instead of his little black bag, had
with him a long leather one, something like a cricketing bag. It was
manifestly of fair weight.

When we were alone and had heard the last of the footsteps die out up
the road, we silently, and as if by ordered intention, followed the
Professor to the tomb. He unlocked the door, and we entered, closing
it behind us. Then he took from his bag the lantern, which he lit,
and also two wax candles, which, when lighted, he stuck by melting
their own ends, on other coffins, so that they might give light
sufficient to work by. When he again lifted the lid off Lucy's coffin
we all looked, Arthur trembling like an aspen, and saw that the corpse
lay there in all its death beauty. But there was no love in my own
heart, nothing but loathing for the foul Thing which had taken Lucy's
shape without her soul. I could see even Arthur's face grow hard as
he looked. Presently he said to Van Helsing, "Is this really Lucy's
body, or only a demon in her shape?"

"It is her body, and yet not it. But wait a while, and you shall see
her as she was, and is."

She seemed like a nightmare of Lucy as she lay there, the pointed
teeth, the blood stained, voluptuous mouth, which made one shudder to
see, the whole carnal and unspirited appearance, seeming like a
devilish mockery of Lucy's sweet purity. Van Helsing, with his usual
methodicalness, began taking the various contents from his bag and
placing them ready for use. First he took out a soldering iron and
some plumbing solder, and then small oil lamp, which gave out, when
lit in a corner of the tomb, gas which burned at a fierce heat with a
blue flame, then his operating knives, which he placed to hand, and
last a round wooden stake, some two and a half or three inches thick
and about three feet long. One end of it was hardened by charring in
the fire, and was sharpened to a fine point. With this stake came a
heavy hammer, such as in households is used in the coal cellar for
breaking the lumps. To me, a doctor's preparations for work of any
kind are stimulating and bracing, but the effect of these things on
both Arthur and Quincey was to cause them a sort of consternation.
They both, however, kept their courage, and remained silent and quiet.

When all was ready, Van Helsing said, "Before we do anything, let me
tell you this. It is out of the lore and experience of the ancients
and of all those who have studied the powers of the UnDead. When they
become such, there comes with the change the curse of immortality.
They cannot die, but must go on age after age adding new victims and
multiplying the evils of the world. For all that die from the preying
of the Undead become themselves Undead, and prey on their kind. And
so the circle goes on ever widening, like as the ripples from a stone
thrown in the water. Friend Arthur, if you had met that kiss which
you know of before poor Lucy die, or again, last night when you open
your arms to her, you would in time, when you had died, have become
nosferatu, as they call it in Eastern Europe, and would for all time
make more of those Un-Deads that so have filled us with horror. The
career of this so unhappy dear lady is but just begun. Those children
whose blood she sucked are not as yet so much the worse, but if she
lives on, UnDead, more and more they lose their blood and by her power
over them they come to her, and so she draw their blood with that so
wicked mouth. But if she die in truth, then all cease. The tiny
wounds of the throats disappear, and they go back to their play
unknowing ever of what has been. But of the most blessed of all, when
this now UnDead be made to rest as true dead, then the soul of the
poor lady whom we love shall again be free. Instead of working
wickedness by night and growing more debased in the assimilating of it
by day, she shall take her place with the other Angels. So that, my
friend, it will be a blessed hand for her that shall strike the blow
that sets her free. To this I am willing, but is there none amongst
us who has a better right? Will it be no joy to think of hereafter in
the silence of the night when sleep is not, 'It was my hand that sent
her to the stars. It was the hand of him that loved her best, the
hand that of all she would herself have chosen, had it been to her to
choose?' Tell me if there be such a one amongst us?"

We all looked at Arthur. He saw too, what we all did, the infinite
kindness which suggested that his should be the hand which would
restore Lucy to us as a holy, and not an unholy, memory. He stepped
forward and said bravely, though his hand trembled, and his face was
as pale as snow, "My true friend, from the bottom of my broken heart I
thank you. Tell me what I am to do, and I shall not falter!"

Van Helsing laid a hand on his shoulder, and said, "Brave lad! A
moment's courage, and it is done. This stake must be driven through
her. It well be a fearful ordeal, be not deceived in that, but it
will be only a short time, and you will then rejoice more than your
pain was great. From this grim tomb you will emerge as though you
tread on air. But you must not falter when once you have begun. Only
think that we, your true friends, are round you, and that we pray for
you all the time."

"Go on," said Arthur hoarsely. "Tell me what I am to do."

"Take this stake in your left hand, ready to place to the point over
the heart, and the hammer in your right. Then when we begin our
prayer for the dead, I shall read him, I have here the book, and the
others shall follow, strike in God's name, that so all may be well
with the dead that we love and that the UnDead pass away."

Arthur took the stake and the hammer, and when once his mind was set
on action his hands never trembled nor even quivered. Van Helsing
opened his missal and began to read, and Quincey and I followed as
well as we could.

Arthur placed the point over the heart, and as I looked I could see its
dint in the white flesh. Then he struck with all his might.

The thing in the coffin writhed, and a hideous, blood-curdling screech
came from the opened red lips. The body shook and quivered and
twisted in wild contortions. The sharp white teeth champed together till
the lips were cut, and the mouth was smeared with a crimson foam. But
Arthur never faltered. He looked like a figure of Thor as his
untrembling arm rose and fell, driving deeper and deeper the
mercy-bearing stake, whilst the blood from the pierced heart welled
and spurted up around it. His face was set, and high duty seemed to
shine through it. The sight of it gave us courage so that our voices
seemed to ring through the little vault.

And then the writhing and quivering of the body became less, and the
teeth seemed to champ, and the face to quiver. Finally it lay still.
The terrible task was over.

The hammer fell from Arthur's hand. He reeled and would have fallen
had we not caught him. The great drops of sweat sprang from his
forehead, and his breath came in broken gasps. It had indeed been an
awful strain on him, and had he not been forced to his task by more
than human considerations he could never have gone through with it.
For a few minutes we were so taken up with him that we did not look
towards the coffin. When we did, however, a murmur of startled
surprise ran from one to the other of us. We gazed so eagerly that
Arthur rose, for he had been seated on the ground, and came and looked
too, and then a glad strange light broke over his face and dispelled
altogether the gloom of horror that lay upon it.

There, in the coffin lay no longer the foul Thing that we had so
dreaded and grown to hate that the work of her destruction was yielded
as a privilege to the one best entitled to it, but Lucy as we had seen
her in life, with her face of unequalled sweetness and purity. True
that there were there, as we had seen them in life, the traces of care
and pain and waste. But these were all dear to us, for they marked
her truth to what we knew. One and all we felt that the holy calm
that lay like sunshine over the wasted face and form was only an
earthly token and symbol of the calm that was to reign for ever.

Van Helsing came and laid his hand on Arthur's shoulder, and said to
him, "And now, Arthur my friend, dear lad, am I not forgiven?"

The reaction of the terrible strain came as he took the old man's hand
in his, and raising it to his lips, pressed it, and said, "Forgiven!
God bless you that you have given my dear one her soul again, and me
peace." He put his hands on the Professor's shoulder, and laying his
head on his breast, cried for a while silently, whilst we stood

When he raised his head Van Helsing said to him, "And now, my child,
you may kiss her. Kiss her dead lips if you will, as she would have
you to, if for her to choose. For she is not a grinning devil now,
not any more a foul Thing for all eternity. No longer she is the
devil's UnDead. She is God's true dead, whose soul is with Him!"

Arthur bent and kissed her, and then we sent him and Quincey out of the
tomb. The Professor and I sawed the top off the stake, leaving the
point of it in the body. Then we cut off the head and filled the
mouth with garlic. We soldered up the leaden coffin, screwed on the
coffin lid, and gathering up our belongings, came away. When the
Professor locked the door he gave the key to Arthur.

Outside the air was sweet, the sun shone, and the birds sang, and it
seemed as if all nature were tuned to a different pitch. There was
gladness and mirth and peace everywhere, for we were at rest ourselves
on one account, and we were glad, though it was with a tempered joy.

Before we moved away Van Helsing said, "Now, my friends, one step of
our work is done, one the most harrowing to ourselves. But there
remains a greater task: to find out the author of all this our sorrow
and to stamp him out. I have clues which we can follow, but it is a
long task, and a difficult one, and there is danger in it, and pain.
Shall you not all help me? We have learned to believe, all of us, is
it not so? And since so, do we not see our duty? Yes! And do we not
promise to go on to the bitter end?"

Each in turn, we took his hand, and the promise was made. Then said
the Professor as we moved off, "Two nights hence you shall meet with
me and dine together at seven of the clock with friend John. I shall
entreat two others, two that you know not as yet, and I shall be ready
to all our work show and our plans unfold. Friend John, you come with
me home, for I have much to consult you about, and you can help me.
Tonight I leave for Amsterdam, but shall return tomorrow night. And
then begins our great quest. But first I shall have much to say, so
that you may know what to do and to dread. Then our promise shall be
made to each other anew. For there is a terrible task before us, and
once our feet are on the ploughshare we must not draw back."



When we arrived at the Berkely Hotel, Van Helsing found a telegram
waiting for him.

"Am coming up by train. Jonathan at Whitby. Important news. Mina

The Professor was delighted. "Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina," he
said, "pearl among women! She arrive, but I cannot stay. She must go
to your house, friend John. You must meet her at the station.
Telegraph her en route so that she may be prepared."

When the wire was dispatched he had a cup of tea. Over it he told me
of a diary kept by Jonathan Harker when abroad, and gave me a
typewritten copy of it, as also of Mrs. Harker's diary at Whitby.
"Take these," he said, "and study them well. When I have returned you
will be master of all the facts, and we can then better enter on our
inquisition. Keep them safe, for there is in them much of treasure.
You will need all your faith, even you who have had such an experience
as that of today. What is here told," he laid his hand heavily and
gravely on the packet of papers as he spoke, "may be the beginning of
the end to you and me and many another, or it may sound the knell of
the UnDead who walk the earth. Read all, I pray you, with the open
mind, and if you can add in any way to the story here told do so, for
it is all important. You have kept a diary of all these so strange
things, is it not so? Yes! Then we shall go through all these
together when we meet." He then made ready for his departure and
shortly drove off to Liverpool Street. I took my way to Paddington,
where I arrived about fifteen minutes before the train came in.

The crowd melted away, after the bustling fashion common to arrival
platforms, and I was beginning to feel uneasy, lest I might miss my
guest, when a sweet-faced, dainty looking girl stepped up to me, and
after a quick glance said, "Dr. Seward, is it not?"

"And you are Mrs. Harker!" I answered at once, whereupon she held out
her hand.

"I knew you from the description of poor dear Lucy, but . . ." She
stopped suddenly, and a quick blush overspread her face.

The blush that rose to my own cheeks somehow set us both at ease, for
it was a tacit answer to her own. I got her luggage, which included a
typewriter, and we took the Underground to Fenchurch Street, after I
had sent a wire to my housekeeper to have a sitting room and a bedroom
prepared at once for Mrs. Harker.

In due time we arrived. She knew, of course, that the place was a
lunatic asylum, but I could see that she was unable to repress a
shudder when we entered.

She told me that, if she might, she would come presently to my study,
as she had much to say. So here I am finishing my entry in my
phonograph diary whilst I await her. As yet I have not had the chance
of looking at the papers which Van Helsing left with me, though they
lie open before me. I must get her interested in something, so that I
may have an opportunity of reading them. She does not know how
precious time is, or what a task we have in hand. I must be careful
not to frighten her. Here she is!


29 September.--After I had tidied myself, I went down to Dr. Seward's
study. At the door I paused a moment, for I thought I heard him
talking with some one. As, however, he had pressed me to be quick, I
knocked at the door, and on his calling out, "Come in," I entered.

To my intense surprise, there was no one with him. He was quite
alone, and on the table opposite him was what I knew at once from the
description to be a phonograph. I had never seen one, and was much

"I hope I did not keep you waiting," I said, "but I stayed at the door
as I heard you talking, and thought there was someone with you."

"Oh," he replied with a smile, "I was only entering my diary."

"Your diary?" I asked him in surprise.

"Yes," he answered. "I keep it in this." As he spoke he laid his
hand on the phonograph. I felt quite excited over it, and blurted
out, "Why, this beats even shorthand! May I hear it say something?"

"Certainly," he replied with alacrity, and stood up to put it in train
for speaking. Then he paused, and a troubled look overspread his

"The fact is," he began awkwardly, "I only keep my diary in it, and as
it is entirely, almost entirely, about my cases it may be awkward,
that is, I mean . . ." He stopped, and I tried to help him out of his

"You helped to attend dear Lucy at the end. Let me hear how she died,
for all that I know of her, I shall be very grateful. She was very,
very dear to me."

To my surprise, he answered, with a horrorstruck look in his face,
"Tell you of her death? Not for the wide world!"

"Why not?" I asked, for some grave, terrible feeling was coming over me.

Again he paused, and I could see that he was trying to invent an
excuse. At length, he stammered out, "You see, I do not know how to
pick out any particular part of the diary."

Even while he was speaking an idea dawned upon him, and he said with
unconscious simplicity, in a different voice, and with the naivete of
a child, "that's quite true, upon my honour. Honest Indian!"

I could not but smile, at which he grimaced. "I gave myself away that
time!" he said. "But do you know that, although I have kept the diary
for months past, it never once struck me how I was going to find any
particular part of it in case I wanted to look it up?"

By this time my mind was made up that the diary of a doctor who
attended Lucy might have something to add to the sum of our knowledge
of that terrible Being, and I said boldly, "Then, Dr. Seward, you had
better let me copy it out for you on my typewriter."

He grew to a positively deathly pallor as he said, "No! No! No! For
all the world. I wouldn't let you know that terrible story!"

Then it was terrible. My intuition was right! For a moment, I
thought, and as my eyes ranged the room, unconsciously looking for
something or some opportunity to aid me, they lit on a great batch of
typewriting on the table. His eyes caught the look in mine, and
without his thinking, followed their direction. As they saw the
parcel he realized my meaning.

"You do not know me," I said. "When you have read those papers, my
own diary and my husband's also, which I have typed, you will know me
better. I have not faltered in giving every thought of my own heart
in this cause. But, of course, you do not know me, yet, and I must
not expect you to trust me so far."

He is certainly a man of noble nature. Poor dear Lucy was right about
him. He stood up and opened a large drawer, in which were arranged in
order a number of hollow cylinders of metal covered with dark wax, and

"You are quite right. I did not trust you because I did not know
you. But I know you now, and let me say that I should have known you
long ago. I know that Lucy told you of me. She told me of you too.
May I make the only atonement in my power? Take the cylinders and
hear them. The first half-dozen of them are personal to me, and they
will not horrify you. Then you will know me better. Dinner will by
then be ready. In the meantime I shall read over some of these
documents, and shall be better able to understand certain things."

He carried the phonograph himself up to my sitting room and adjusted
it for me. Now I shall learn something pleasant, I am sure. For it
will tell me the other side of a true love episode of which I know one
side already.


29 September.--I was so absorbed in that wonderful diary of Jonathan
Harker and that other of his wife that I let the time run on without
thinking. Mrs. Harker was not down when the maid came to announce
dinner, so I said, "She is possibly tired. Let dinner wait an hour,"
and I went on with my work. I had just finished Mrs. Harker's diary,
when she came in. She looked sweetly pretty, but very sad, and her
eyes were flushed with crying. This somehow moved me much. Of late I
have had cause for tears, God knows! But the relief of them was
denied me, and now the sight of those sweet eyes, brightened by recent
tears, went straight to my heart. So I said as gently as I could, "I
greatly fear I have distressed you."

"Oh, no, not distressed me," she replied. "But I have been more
touched than I can say by your grief. That is a wonderful machine,
but it is cruelly true. It told me, in its very tones, the anguish of
your heart. It was like a soul crying out to Almighty God. No one
must hear them spoken ever again! See, I have tried to be useful. I
have copied out the words on my typewriter, and none other need now
hear your heart beat, as I did."

"No one need ever know, shall ever know," I said in a low voice. She
laid her hand on mine and said very gravely, "Ah, but they must!"

"Must! But why?" I asked.

"Because it is a part of the terrible story, a part of poor Lucy's
death and all that led to it. Because in the struggle which we have
before us to rid the earth of this terrible monster we must have all
the knowledge and all the help which we can get. I think that the
cylinders which you gave me contained more than you intended me to
know. But I can see that there are in your record many lights to this
dark mystery. You will let me help, will you not? I know all up to a
certain point, and I see already, though your diary only took me to 7
September, how poor Lucy was beset, and how her terrible doom was
being wrought out. Jonathan and I have been working day and night
since Professor Van Helsing saw us. He is gone to Whitby to get more
information, and he will be here tomorrow to help us. We need have no
secrets amongst us. Working together and with absolute trust, we can
surely be stronger than if some of us were in the dark."

She looked at me so appealingly, and at the same time manifested such
courage and resolution in her bearing, that I gave in at once to her
wishes. "You shall," I said, "do as you like in the matter. God
forgive me if I do wrong! There are terrible things yet to learn of,
but if you have so far traveled on the road to poor Lucy's death, you
will not be content, I know, to remain in the dark. Nay, the end, the
very end, may give you a gleam of peace. Come, there is dinner. We
must keep one another strong for what is before us. We have a cruel
and dreadful task. When you have eaten you shall learn the rest, and
I shall answer any questions you ask, if there be anything which you
do not understand, though it was apparent to us who were present."


29 September.--After dinner I came with Dr. Seward to his study. He
brought back the phonograph from my room, and I took a chair, and
arranged the phonograph so that I could touch it without getting up,
and showed me how to stop it in case I should want to pause. Then he
very thoughtfully took a chair, with his back to me, so that I might
be as free as possible, and began to read. I put the forked metal to
my ears and listened.

When the terrible story of Lucy's death, and all that followed, was
done, I lay back in my chair powerless. Fortunately I am not of a
fainting disposition. When Dr. Seward saw me he jumped up with a
horrified exclamation, and hurriedly taking a case bottle from the
cupboard, gave me some brandy, which in a few minutes somewhat
restored me. My brain was all in a whirl, and only that there came
through all the multitude of horrors, the holy ray of light that my
dear Lucy was at last at peace, I do not think I could have borne it
without making a scene. It is all so wild and mysterious, and strange
that if I had not known Jonathan's experience in Transylvania I could
not have believed. As it was, I didn't know what to believe, and so
got out of my difficulty by attending to something else. I took the
cover off my typewriter, and said to Dr. Seward,

"Let me write this all out now. We must be ready for Dr. Van Helsing
when he comes. I have sent a telegram to Jonathan to come on here
when he arrives in London from Whitby. In this matter dates are
everything, and I think that if we get all of our material ready, and
have every item put in chronological order, we shall have done much.

"You tell me that Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris are coming too. Let
us be able to tell them when they come."

He accordingly set the phonograph at a slow pace, and I began to
typewrite from the beginning of the seventeenth cylinder. I used
manifold, and so took three copies of the diary, just as I had done
with the rest. It was late when I got through, but Dr. Seward went
about his work of going his round of the patients. When he had
finished he came back and sat near me, reading, so that I did not feel
too lonely whilst I worked. How good and thoughtful he is. The world
seems full of good men, even if there are monsters in it.

Before I left him I remembered what Jonathan put in his diary of the
Professor's perturbation at reading something in an evening paper at
the station at Exeter, so, seeing that Dr. Seward keeps his
newspapers, I borrowed the files of 'The Westminster Gazette' and 'The
Pall Mall Gazette' and took them to my room. I remember how much the
'Dailygraph' and 'The Whitby Gazette', of which I had made cuttings,
had helped us to understand the terrible events at Whitby when Count
Dracula landed, so I shall look through the evening papers since then,
and perhaps I shall get some new light. I am not sleepy, and the work
will help to keep me quiet.


30 September.--Mr. Harker arrived at nine o'clock. He got his wife's
wire just before starting. He is uncommonly clever, if one can judge
from his face, and full of energy. If this journal be true, and
judging by one's own wonderful experiences, it must be, he is also a
man of great nerve. That going down to the vault a second time was a
remarkable piece of daring. After reading his account of it I was
prepared to meet a good specimen of manhood, but hardly the quiet,
businesslike gentleman who came here today.

LATER.--After lunch Harker and his wife went back to their own room,
and as I passed a while ago I heard the click of the typewriter. They
are hard at it. Mrs. Harker says that they are knitting together in
chronological order every scrap of evidence they have. Harker has got
the letters between the consignee of the boxes at Whitby and the
carriers in London who took charge of them. He is now reading his
wife's transcript of my diary. I wonder what they make out of it.
Here it is . . .

Strange that it never struck me that the very next house might be the
Count's hiding place! Goodness knows that we had enough clues from
the conduct of the patient Renfield! The bundle of letters relating
to the purchase of the house were with the transcript. Oh, if we had
only had them earlier we might have saved poor Lucy! Stop! That way
madness lies! Harker has gone back, and is again collecting material.
He says that by dinner time they will be able to show a whole
connected narrative. He thinks that in the meantime I should see
Renfield, as hitherto he has been a sort of index to the coming and
going of the Count. I hardly see this yet, but when I get at the
dates I suppose I shall. What a good thing that Mrs. Harker put my
cylinders into type! We never could have found the dates otherwise.

I found Renfield sitting placidly in his room with his hands folded,
smiling benignly. At the moment he seemed as sane as any one I ever
saw. I sat down and talked with him on a lot of subjects, all of
which he treated naturally. He then, of his own accord, spoke of
going home, a subject he has never mentioned to my knowledge during
his sojourn here. In fact, he spoke quite confidently of getting his
discharge at once. I believe that, had I not had the chat with Harker
and read the letters and the dates of his outbursts, I should have
been prepared to sign for him after a brief time of observation. As
it is, I am darkly suspicious. All those out-breaks were in some way
linked with the proximity of the Count. What then does this absolute
content mean? Can it be that his instinct is satisfied as to the
vampire's ultimate triumph? Stay. He is himself zoophagous, and in
his wild ravings outside the chapel door of the deserted house he
always spoke of 'master'. This all seems confirmation of our idea.
However, after a while I came away. My friend is just a little too
sane at present to make it safe to probe him too deep with questions.
He might begin to think, and then . . . So I came away. I mistrust
these quiet moods of of his, so I have given the attendant a hint to
look closely after him, and to have a strait waistcoat ready in case
of need.


29 September, in train to London.--When I received Mr. Billington's
courteous message that he would give me any information in his power I
thought it best to go down to Whitby and make, on the spot, such
inquiries as I wanted. It was now my object to trace that horrid
cargo of the Count's to its place in London. Later, we may be able to
deal with it. Billington junior, a nice lad, met me at the station,
and brought me to his father's house, where they had decided that I
must spend the night. They are hospitable, with true Yorkshire
hospitality, give a guest everything and leave him to do as he likes.
They all knew that I was busy, and that my stay was short, and Mr.
Billington had ready in his office all the papers concerning the
consignment of boxes. It gave me almost a turn to see again one of
the letters which I had seen on the Count's table before I knew of his
diabolical plans. Everything had been carefully thought out, and done
systematically and with precision. He seemed to have been prepared
for every obstacle which might be placed by accident in the way of his
intentions being carried out. To use an Americanism, he had 'taken no
chances', and the absolute accuracy with which his instructions were
fulfilled was simply the logical result of his care. I saw the
invoice, and took note of it. 'Fifty cases of common earth, to be used
for experimental purposes'. Also the copy of the letter to Carter
Paterson, and their reply. Of both these I got copies. This was all
the information Mr. Billington could give me, so I went down to the
port and saw the coastguards, the Customs Officers and the harbour
master, who kindly put me in communication with the men who had
actually received the boxes. Their tally was exact with the list, and
they had nothing to add to the simple description 'fifty cases of
common earth', except that the boxes were 'main and mortal heavy', and
that shifting them was dry work. One of them added that it was hard
lines that there wasn't any gentleman 'such like as like yourself,
squire', to show some sort of appreciation of their efforts in a
liquid form. Another put in a rider that the thirst then generated
was such that even the time which had elapsed had not completely
allayed it. Needless to add, I took care before leaving to lift,
forever and adequately, this source of reproach.

30 September.--The station master was good enough to give me a line to
his old companion the station master at King's Cross, so that when I
arrived there in the morning I was able to ask him about the arrival
of the boxes. He, too put me at once in communication with the proper
officials, and I saw that their tally was correct with the original
invoice. The opportunities of acquiring an abnormal thirst had been
here limited. A noble use of them had, however, been made, and again
I was compelled to deal with the result in ex post facto manner.

From thence I went to Carter Paterson's central office, where I met
with the utmost courtesy. They looked up the transaction in their day
book and letter book, and at once telephoned to their King's Cross
office for more details. By good fortune, the men who did the teaming
were waiting for work, and the official at once sent them over,
sending also by one of them the way-bill and all the papers connected
with the delivery of the boxes at Carfax. Here again I found the
tally agreeing exactly. The carriers' men were able to supplement the
paucity of the written words with a few more details. These were, I
shortly found, connected almost solely with the dusty nature of the
job, and the consequent thirst engendered in the operators. On my
affording an opportunity, through the medium of the currency of the
realm, of the allaying, at a later period, this beneficial evil, one
of the men remarked,

"That 'ere 'ouse, guv'nor, is the rummiest I ever was in. Blyme! But
it ain't been touched sence a hundred years. There was dust that
thick in the place that you might have slep' on it without 'urtin' of
yer bones. An' the place was that neglected that yer might 'ave
smelled ole Jerusalem in it. But the old chapel, that took the cike,
that did! Me and my mate, we thort we wouldn't never git out quick
enough. Lor', I wouldn't take less nor a quid a moment to stay there
arter dark."

Having been in the house, I could well believe him, but if he knew
what I know, he would, I think have raised his terms.

Of one thing I am now satisfied. That all those boxes which arrived at
Whitby from Varna in the Demeter were safely deposited in the old
chapel at Carfax. There should be fifty of them there, unless any
have since been removed, as from Dr. Seward's diary I fear.

Later.--Mina and I have worked all day, and we have put all the papers
into order.


30 September.--I am so glad that I hardly know how to contain myself.
It is, I suppose, the reaction from the haunting fear which I have
had, that this terrible affair and the reopening of his old wound
might act detrimentally on Jonathan. I saw him leave for Whitby with
as brave a face as could, but I was sick with apprehension. The
effort has, however, done him good. He was never so resolute, never
so strong, never so full of volcanic energy, as at present. It is
just as that dear, good Professor Van Helsing said, he is true grit,
and he improves under strain that would kill a weaker nature. He came
back full of life and hope and determination. We have got everything
in order for tonight. I feel myself quite wild with excitement. I
suppose one ought to pity anything so hunted as the Count. That is
just it. This thing is not human, not even a beast. To read Dr.
Seward's account of poor Lucy's death, and what followed, is enough to
dry up the springs of pity in one's heart.

Later.--Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris arrived earlier than we
expected. Dr. Seward was out on business, and had taken Jonathan with
him, so I had to see them. It was to me a painful meeting, for it
brought back all poor dear Lucy's hopes of only a few months ago. Of
course they had heard Lucy speak of me, and it seemed that Dr. Van
Helsing, too, had been quite 'blowing my trumpet', as Mr. Morris
expressed it. Poor fellows, neither of them is aware that I know all
about the proposals they made to Lucy. They did not quite know what
to say or do, as they were ignorant of the amount of my knowledge. So
they had to keep on neutral subjects. However, I thought the matter
over, and came to the conclusion that the best thing I could do would
be to post them on affairs right up to date. I knew from Dr. Seward's
diary that they had been at Lucy's death, her real death, and that I
need not fear to betray any secret before the time. So I told them,
as well as I could, that I had read all the papers and diaries, and
that my husband and I, having typewritten them, had just finished
putting them in order. I gave them each a copy to read in the
library. When Lord Godalming got his and turned it over, it does make
a pretty good pile, he said, "Did you write all this, Mrs. Harker?"

I nodded, and he went on.

"I don't quite see the drift of it, but you people are all so good and
kind, and have been working so earnestly and so energetically, that
all I can do is to accept your ideas blindfold and try to help you. I
have had one lesson already in accepting facts that should make a man
humble to the last hour of his life. Besides, I know you loved my
Lucy . . ."

Here he turned away and covered his face with his hands. I could hear
the tears in his voice. Mr. Morris, with instinctive delicacy, just
laid a hand for a moment on his shoulder, and then walked quietly out
of the room. I suppose there is something in a woman's nature that
makes a man free to break down before her and express his feelings on
the tender or emotional side without feeling it derogatory to his
manhood. For when Lord Godalming found himself alone with me he sat
down on the sofa and gave way utterly and openly. I sat down beside
him and took his hand. I hope he didn't think it forward of me, and
that if he ever thinks of it afterwards he never will have such a
thought. There I wrong him. I know he never will. He is too true a
gentleman. I said to him, for I could see that his heart was
breaking, "I loved dear Lucy, and I know what she was to you, and what
you were to her. She and I were like sisters, and now she is gone,
will you not let me be like a sister to you in your trouble? I know
what sorrows you have had, though I cannot measure the depth of them.
If sympathy and pity can help in your affliction, won't you let me be
of some little service, for Lucy's sake?"

In an instant the poor dear fellow was overwhelmed with grief. It
seemed to me that all that he had of late been suffering in silence
found a vent at once. He grew quite hysterical, and raising his open
hands, beat his palms together in a perfect agony of grief. He stood
up and then sat down again, and the tears rained down his cheeks. I
felt an infinite pity for him, and opened my arms unthinkingly. With
a sob he laid his head on my shoulder and cried like a wearied child,
whilst he shook with emotion.

We women have something of the mother in us that makes us rise above
smaller matters when the mother spirit is invoked. I felt this big
sorrowing man's head resting on me, as though it were that of a baby
that some day may lie on my bosom, and I stroked his hair as though he
were my own child. I never thought at the time how strange it all

After a little bit his sobs ceased, and he raised himself with an
apology, though he made no disguise of his emotion. He told me that
for days and nights past, weary days and sleepless nights, he had been
unable to speak with any one, as a man must speak in his time of
sorrow. There was no woman whose sympathy could be given to him, or
with whom, owing to the terrible circumstance with which his sorrow
was surrounded, he could speak freely.

"I know now how I suffered," he said, as he dried his eyes, "but I do
not know even yet, and none other can ever know, how much your sweet
sympathy has been to me today. I shall know better in time, and
believe me that, though I am not ungrateful now, my gratitude will
grow with my understanding. You will let me be like a brother, will
you not, for all our lives, for dear Lucy's sake?"

"For dear Lucy's sake," I said as we clasped hands. "Ay, and for your
own sake," he added, "for if a man's esteem and gratitude are ever
worth the winning, you have won mine today. If ever the future should
bring to you a time when you need a man's help, believe me, you will
not call in vain. God grant that no such time may ever come to you to
break the sunshine of your life, but if it should ever come, promise
me that you will let me know."

He was so earnest, and his sorrow was so fresh, that I felt it would
comfort him, so I said, "I promise."

As I came along the corridor I saw Mr. Morris looking out of a window.
He turned as he heard my footsteps. "How is Art?" he said. Then
noticing my red eyes, he went on, "Ah, I see you have been comforting
him. Poor old fellow! He needs it. No one but a woman can help a
man when he is in trouble of the heart, and he had no one to comfort

He bore his own trouble so bravely that my heart bled for him. I saw
the manuscript in his hand, and I knew that when he read it he would
realize how much I knew, so I said to him, "I wish I could comfort all
who suffer from the heart. Will you let me be your friend, and will
you come to me for comfort if you need it? You will know later why I

He saw that I was in earnest, and stooping, took my hand, and raising
it to his lips, kissed it. It seemed but poor comfort to so brave and
unselfish a soul, and impulsively I bent over and kissed him. The
tears rose in his eyes, and there was a momentary choking in his
throat. He said quite calmly, "Little girl, you will never forget
that true hearted kindness, so long as ever you live!" Then he went
into the study to his friend.

"Little girl!" The very words he had used to Lucy, and, oh, but he
proved himself a friend.



30 September.--I got home at five o'clock, and found that Godalming
and Morris had not only arrived, but had already studied the
transcript of the various diaries and letters which Harker had not yet
returned from his visit to the carriers' men, of whom Dr. Hennessey
had written to me. Mrs. Harker gave us a cup of tea, and I can
honestly say that, for the first time since I have lived in it, this
old house seemed like home. When we had finished, Mrs. Harker said,

"Dr. Seward, may I ask a favour? I want to see your patient, Mr.
Renfield. Do let me see him. What you have said of him in your diary
interests me so much!"

She looked so appealing and so pretty that I could not refuse her, and
there was no possible reason why I should, so I took her with me.
When I went into the room, I told the man that a lady would like to see
him, to which he simply answered, "Why?"

"She is going through the house, and wants to see every one in it," I

"Oh, very well," he said, "let her come in, by all means, but just
wait a minute till I tidy up the place."

His method of tidying was peculiar, he simply swallowed all the flies
and spiders in the boxes before I could stop him. It was quite
evident that he feared, or was jealous of, some interference. When he
had got through his disgusting task, he said cheerfully, "Let the lady
come in," and sat down on the edge of his bed with his head down, but
with his eyelids raised so that he could see her as she entered. For
a moment I thought that he might have some homicidal intent. I
remembered how quiet he had been just before he attacked me in my own
study, and I took care to stand where I could seize him at once if he
attempted to make a spring at her.

She came into the room with an easy gracefulness which would at once
command the respect of any lunatic, for easiness is one of the
qualities mad people most respect. She walked over to him, smiling
pleasantly, and held out her hand.

"Good evening, Mr. Renfield," said she. "You see, I know you, for Dr.
Seward has told me of you." He made no immediate reply, but eyed her
all over intently with a set frown on his face. This look gave way to
one of wonder, which merged in doubt, then to my intense astonishment
he said, "You're not the girl the doctor wanted to marry, are you? You
can't be, you know, for she's dead."

Mrs. Harker smiled sweetly as she replied, "Oh no! I have a husband
of my own, to whom I was married before I ever saw Dr. Seward, or he
me. I am Mrs. Harker."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"My husband and I are staying on a visit with Dr. Seward."

"Then don't stay."

"But why not?"

I thought that this style of conversation might not be pleasant to
Mrs. Harker, any more than it was to me, so I joined in, "How did you
know I wanted to marry anyone?"

His reply was simply contemptuous, given in a pause in which he turned
his eyes from Mrs. Harker to me, instantly turning them back again,
"What an asinine question!"

"I don't see that at all, Mr. Renfield," said Mrs. Harker, at once
championing me.

He replied to her with as much courtesy and respect as he had shown
contempt to me, "You will, of course, understand, Mrs. Harker, that
when a man is so loved and honoured as our host is, everything
regarding him is of interest in our little community. Dr. Seward is
loved not only by his household and his friends, but even by his
patients, who, being some of them hardly in mental equilibrium, are
apt to distort causes and effects. Since I myself have been an inmate
of a lunatic asylum, I cannot but notice that the sophistic tendencies
of some of its inmates lean towards the errors of non causa and
ignoratio elenche."

I positively opened my eyes at this new development. Here was my own

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