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 said,
"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.
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY
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 sweetrelief 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 toGod 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."
MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL
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