invent a new classification for him, and call him a zoophagous
(life-eating) maniac. What he desires is to absorb as many lives as
he can, and he has laid himself out to achieve it in a cumulative
way. He gave many flies to one spider and many spiders to one bird,
and then wanted a cat to eat the many birds. What would have been
his later steps?
It would almost be worth while to complete the experiment. It
might be done if there were only a sufficient cause. Men sneered at
vivisection, and yet look at its results today! Why not advance
science in its most difficult and vital aspect, the knowledge of
the brain?
Had I even the secret of one such mind, did I hold the key to
the fancy of even one lunatic, I might advance my own branch of
science to a pitch compared with which Burdon-Sanderson's
physiology or Ferrier's brain knowledge would be as nothing. If
only there were a sufficient cause! I must not think too much of
this, or I may be tempted. A good cause might turn the scale with
me, for may not I too be of an exceptional brain, congenitally?
How well the man reasoned. Lunatics always do within their own
scope. I wonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at only
one. He has closed the account most accurately, and today begun a
new record. How many of us begin a new record with each day of our
lives?
To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my
new hope, and that truly I began a new record. So it shall be until
the Great Recorder sums me up and closes my ledger account with a
balance to profit or loss.
Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be angry
with my friend whose happiness is yours, but I must only wait on
hopeless and work. Work! Work!
If I could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there, a
good, unselfish cause to make me work, that would be indeed
happiness.
MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL
26 July.—I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here.
It is like whispering to one's self and listening at the same time.It is like whispering to one's self and listening at the same time.
And there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes
it different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy and about
Jonathan. I had not heard from Jonathan for some time, and was very
concerned, but yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind,
sent me a letter from him. I had written asking him if he had
heard, and he said the enclosed had just been received. It is only
a line dated from Castle Dracula, and says that he is just starting
for home. That is not like Jonathan. I do not understand it, and it
makes me uneasy.
Then, too, Lucy , although she is so well, has lately taken to
her old habit of walking in her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me
about it, and we have decided that I am to lock the door of our
room every night.
Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out
on roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs and then get
suddenly wakened and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes
all over the place.
Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me
that her husband, Lucy's father, had the same habit, that he would
get up in the night and dress himself and go out, if he were not
stopped.
Lucy is to be married in the autumn, and she is already planning
out her dresses and how her house is to be arranged. I sympathise
with her, for I do the same, only Jonathan and I will start in life
in a very simple way, and shall have to try to make both ends
meet.
Mr. Holmwood, he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord
Godalming, is coming up here very shortly, as soon as he can leave
town, for his father is not very well, and I think dear Lucy is
counting the moments till he comes.
She wants to take him up in the seat on the churchyard cliff and
show him the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it is the waiting which
disturbs her. She will be all right when he arrives.
27 July.—No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about27 July.—No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about
him, though why I should I do not know, but I do wish that he would
write, if it were only a single line.
Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I am awakened by her
moving about the room. Fortunately, the weather is so hot that she
cannot get cold. But still, the anxiety and the perpetually being
awakened is beginning to tell on me, and I am getting nervous and
wakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy's health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has
been suddenly called to Ring to see his father, who has been taken
seriously ill. Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it
does not touch her looks. She is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks
are a lovely rose-pink. She has lost the anemic look which she had.
I pray it will all last.
3 August.—Another week gone by, and no news from Jonathan, not
even to Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do hope he is
not ill. He surely would have written. I look at that last letter
of his, but somehow it does not satisfy me. It does not read like
him, and yet it is his writing. There is no mistake of that.
Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last week, but there
is an odd concentration about her which I do not understand, even
in her sleep she seems to be watching me. She tries the door, and
finding it locked, goes about the room searching for the key.
6 August.—Another three days, and no news. This suspense is
getting dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go
to, I should feel easier. But no one has heard a word of Jonathan
since that last letter. I must only pray to God for patience.
Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well. Last
night was very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in
for a storm. I must try to watch it and learn the weather
signs.
Today is a gray day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick
clouds, high over Kettleness. Everything is gray except the green
grass, which seems like emerald amongst it, gray earthy rock, gray