very dear to me. It was my privilege to be your friend and guide
when you came from the schoolroom to prepare for the world of life.
I want you to see now, and with the eyes of a very happy wife,
whither duty has led me, so that in your own married life you too
may be all happy, as I am. My dear, please Almighty God, your life
may be all it promises, a long day of sunshine, with no harsh wind,
no forgetting duty, no distrust. I must not wish you no pain, for
that can never be, but I do hope you will be always as happy as I
am now. Goodbye, my dear. I shall post this at once, and perhaps,
write you very soon again. I must stop, for Jonathan is waking. I
must attend my husband! "Your ever-loving "Mina Harker."
LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA HARKER.
Whitby, 30 August.
"My dearest Mina,
"Oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you soon be in
your own home with your husband. I wish you were coming home soon
enough to stay with us here. The strong air would soon restore
Jonathan. It has quite restored me. I have an appetite like a
cormorant, am full of life, and sleep well. You will be glad to
know that I have quite given up walking in my sleep. I think I have
not stirred out of my bed for a week, that is when I once got into
it at night. Arthur says I am getting fat. By the way, I forgot to
tell you that Arthur is here. We have such walks and drives, and
rides, and rowing, and tennis, and fishing together, and I love him
more than ever. He tells me that he loves me more, but I doubt
that, for at first he told me that he couldn't love me more than he
did then. But this is nonsense. There he is, calling to me. So no
more just at present from your loving, "Lucy.
"P. S.—Mother sends her love. She seems better, poor dear.
"P. P.S.—We are to be married on 28 September."
DR. SEWARDS DIARY
20 August.—The case of Renfield grows even more interesting. He
has now so far quieted that there are spells of cessation from his
passion. For the first week after his attack he was perpetuallypassion. For the first week after his attack he was perpetually
violent. Then one night, just as the moon rose, he grew quiet, and
kept murmuring to himself. "Now I can wait. Now I can wait."
The attendant came to tell me, so I ran down at once to have a
look at him. He was still in the strait waistcoat and in the padded
room, but the suffused look had gone from his face, and his eyes
had something of their old pleading. I might almost say, cringing,
softness. I was satisfied with his present condition, and directed
him to be relieved. The attendants hesitated, but finally carried
out my wishes without protest.
It was a strange thing that the patient had humour enough to see
their distrust, for, coming close to me, he said in a whisper, all
the while looking furtively at them, "They think I could hurt you!
Fancy me hurting you! The fools!"
It was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself
disassociated even in the mind of this poor madman from the others,
but all the same I do not follow his thought. Am I to take it that
I have anything in common with him, so that we are, as it were, to
stand together. Or has he to gain from me some good so stupendous
that my well being is needful to Him? I must find out later on.
Tonight he will not speak. Even the offer of a kitten or even a
full-grown cat will not tempt him.
He will only say, "I don't take any stock in cats. I have more
to think of now, and I can wait. I can wait."
After a while I left him. The attendant tells me that he was
quiet until just before dawn, and that then he began to get uneasy,
and at length violent, until at last he fell into a paroxysm which
exhausted him so that he swooned into a sort of coma.
 … Three nights has the same thing happened, violent all
day then quiet from moonrise to sunrise. I wish I could get some
clue to the cause. It would almost seem as if there was some
influence which came and went. Happy thought! We shall tonight play
sane wits against mad ones. He escaped before without our help.sane wits against mad ones. He escaped before without our help.
Tonight he shall escape with it. We shall give him a chance, and
have the men ready to follow in case they are required.
23 August.—"The expected always happens." How well Disraeli knew
life. Our bird when he found the cage open would not fly, so all
our subtle arrangements were for nought. At any rate, we have
proved one thing, that the spells of quietness last a reasonable
time. We shall in future be able to ease his bonds for a few hours
each day. I have given orders to the night attendant merely to shut
him in the padded room, when once he is quiet, until the hour
before sunrise. The poor soul's body will enjoy the relief even if
his mind cannot appreciate it. Hark! The unexpected again! I am
called. The patient has once more escaped.
Later.—Another night adventure. Renfield artfully waited until
the attendant was entering the room to inspect. Then he dashed out
past him and flew down the passage. I sent word for the attendants
to follow. Again he went into the grounds of the deserted house,
and we found him in the same place, pressed against the old chapel
door. When he saw me he became furious, and had not the attendants
seized him in time, he would have tried to kill me. As we sere
holding him a strange thing happened. He suddenly redoubled his
efforts, and then as suddenly grew calm. I looked round
instinctively, but could see nothing. Then I caught the patient's
eye and followed it, but could trace nothing as it looked into the
moonlight sky, except a big bat, which was flapping its silent and
ghostly way to the west. Bats usually wheel about, but this one
seemed to go straight on, as if it knew where it was bound for or
had some intention of its own.
The patient grew calmer every instant, and presently said, "You
needn't tie me. I shall go quietly!" Without trouble, we came back
to the house. I feel there is something ominous in his calm, and
shall not forget this night.
LUCY WESTENRA'S DIARY