prompt:
Chapter: _23 September_.--Jonathan is better after a bad night. I am so glad that
he has plenty of work to do, for that keeps his mind off the terrible
things; and oh, I am rejoiced that he is not now weighed down with the
responsibility of his new position. I knew he would be true to himself,
and now how proud I am to see my Jonathan rising to the height of his
advancement and keeping pace in all ways with the duties that come upon
him. He will be away all day till late, for he said he could not lunch
at home. My household work is done, so I shall take his foreign journal,
and lock myself up in my room and read it....

_24 September_.--I hadn't the heart to write last night; that terrible
record of Jonathan's upset me so. Poor dear! How he must have suffered,
whether it be true or only imagination. I wonder if there is any truth
in it at all. Did he get his brain fever, and then write all those
terrible things, or had he some cause for it all? I suppose I shall
never know, for I dare not open the subject to him.... And yet that man
we saw yesterday! He seemed quite certain of him.... Poor fellow! I
suppose it was the funeral upset him and sent his mind back on some
train of thought.... He believes it all himself. I remember how on our
wedding-day he said: "Unless some solemn duty come upon me to go back to
the bitter hours, asleep or awake, mad or sane." There seems to be
through it all some thread of continuity.... That fearful Count was
coming to London.... If it should be, and he came to London, with his
teeming millions.... There may be a solemn duty; and if it come we must
not shrink from it.... I shall be prepared. I shall get my typewriter
this very hour and begin transcribing. Then we shall be ready for other
eyes if required. And if it be wanted; then, perhaps, if I am ready,
poor Jonathan may not be upset, for I can speak for him and never let
him be troubled or worried with it at all. If ever Jonathan quite gets
over the nervousness he may want to tell me of it all, and I can ask him
questions and find out things, and see how I may comfort him.

_Letter, Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker._

"_24 September._

(_Confidence_)

"Dear Madam,--

"I pray you to pardon my writing, in that I am so far friend as that I
sent to you sad news of Miss Lucy Westenra's death. By the kindness of
Lord Godalming, I am empowered to read her letters and papers, for I am
deeply concerned about certain matters vitally important. In them I find
some letters from you, which show how great friends you were and how you
love her. Oh, Madam Mina, by that love, I implore you, help me. It is
for others' good that I ask--to redress great wrong, and to lift much
and terrible troubles--that may be more great than you can know. May it
be that I see you? You can trust me. I am friend of Dr. John Seward and
of Lord Godalming (that was Arthur of Miss Lucy). I must keep it private
for the present from all. I should come to Exeter to see you at once if
you tell me I am privilege to come, and where and when. I implore your
pardon, madam. I have read your letters to poor Lucy, and know how good
you are and how your husband suffer; so I pray you, if it may be,
enlighten him not, lest it may harm. Again your pardon, and forgive me.

"VAN HELSING."

_Telegram, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing._

"_25 September._--Come to-day by quarter-past ten train if you can catch
it. Can see you any time you call.

"WILHELMINA HARKER."

MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL.

_25 September._--I cannot help feeling terribly excited as the time
draws near for the visit of Dr. Van Helsing, for somehow I expect that
it will throw some light upon Jonathan's sad experience; and as he
attended poor dear Lucy in her last illness, he can tell me all about
her. That is the reason of his coming; it is concerning Lucy and her
sleep-walking, and not about Jonathan. Then I shall never know the real
truth now! How silly I am. That awful journal gets hold of my
imagination and tinges everything with something of its own colour. Of
course it is about Lucy. That habit came back to the poor dear, and that
awful night on the cliff must have made her ill. I had almost forgotten
in my own affairs how ill she was afterwards. She must have told him
of her sleep-walking adventure on the cliff, and that I knew all about
it; and now he wants me to tell him what she knows, so that he may
understand. I hope I did right in not saying anything of it to Mrs.
Westenra; I should never forgive myself if any act of mine, were it even
a negative one, brought harm on poor dear Lucy. I hope, too, Dr. Van
Helsing will not blame me; I have had so much trouble and anxiety of
late that I feel I cannot bear more just at present.

I suppose a cry does us all good at times--clears the air as other rain
does. Perhaps it was reading the journal yesterday that upset me, and
then Jonathan went away this morning to stay away from me a whole day
and night, the first time we have been parted since our marriage. I do
hope the dear fellow will take care of himself, and that nothing will
occur to upset him. It is two o'clock, and the doctor will be here soon
now. I shall say nothing of Jonathan's journal unless he asks me. I am
so glad I have type-written out my own journal, so that, in case he asks
about Lucy, I can hand it to him; it will save much questioning.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--He has come and gone. Oh, what a strange meeting, and how it
all makes my head whirl round! I feel like one in a dream. Can it be all
possible, or even a part of it? If I had not read Jonathan's journal
first, I should never have accepted even a possibility. Poor, poor, dear
Jonathan! How he must have suffered. Please the good God, all this may
not upset him again. I shall try to save him from it; but it may be even
a consolation and a help to him--terrible though it be and awful in its
consequences--to know for certain that his eyes and ears and brain did
not deceive him, and that it is all true. It may be that it is the doubt
which haunts him; that when the doubt is removed, no matter
which--waking or dreaming--may prove the truth, he will be more
satisfied and better able to bear the shock. Dr. Van Helsing must be a
good man as well as a clever one if he is Arthur's friend and Dr.
Seward's, and if they brought him all the way from Holland to look after
Lucy. I feel from having seen him that he _is_ good and kind and of a
noble nature. When he comes to-morrow I shall ask him about Jonathan;
and then, please God, all this sorrow and anxiety may lead to a good
end. I used to think I would like to practise interviewing; Jonathan's
friend on "The Exeter News" told him that memory was everything in such
work--that you must be able to put down exactly almost every word
spoken, even if you had to refine some of it afterwards. Here was a rare
interview; I shall try to record it _verbatim_.

It was half-past two o'clock when the knock came. I took my courage _a
deux mains_ and waited. In a few minutes Mary opened the door, and
announced "Dr. Van Helsing."

I rose and bowed, and he came towards me; a man of medium weight,
strongly built, with his shoulders set back over a broad, deep chest and
a neck well balanced on the trunk as the head is on the neck. The poise
of the head strikes one at once as indicative of thought and power; the
head is noble, well-sized, broad, and large behind the ears. The face,
clean-shaven, shows a hard, square chin, a large, resolute, mobile
mouth, a good-sized nose, rather straight, but with quick, sensitive
nostrils, that seem to broaden as the big, bushy brows come down and the
mouth tightens. The forehead is broad and fine, rising at first almost
straight and then sloping back above two bumps or ridges wide apart;
such a forehead that the reddish hair cannot possibly tumble over it,
but falls naturally back and to the sides. Big, dark blue eyes are set
widely apart, and are quick and tender or stern with the man's moods. He
said to me:--

"Mrs. Harker, is it not?" I bowed assent.

"That was Miss Mina Murray?" Again I assented.

"It is Mina Murray that I came to see that was friend of that poor dear
child Lucy Westenra. Madam Mina, it is on account of the dead I come."

"Sir," I said, "you could have no better claim on me than that you were
a friend and helper of Lucy Westenra." And I held out my hand. He took
it and said tenderly:--

"Oh, Madam Mina, I knew that the friend of that poor lily girl must be
good, but I had yet to learn----" He finished his speech with a courtly
bow. I asked him what it was that he wanted to see me about, so he at
once began:--

"I have read your letters to Miss Lucy. Forgive me, but I had to begin
to inquire somewhere, and there was none to ask. I know that you were
with her at Whitby. She sometimes kept a diary--you need not look
surprised, Madam Mina; it was begun after you had left, and was in
imitation of you--and in that diary she traces by inference certain
things to a sleep-walking in which she puts down that you saved her. In
great perplexity then I come to you, and ask you out of your so much
kindness to tell me all of it that you can remember."

"I can tell you, I think, Dr. Van Helsing, all about it."

"Ah, then you have good memory for facts, for details? It is not always
so with young ladies."

"No, doctor, but I wrote it all down at the time. I can show it to you
if you like."

"Oh, Madam Mina, I will be grateful; you will do me much favour." I
could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit--I suppose it is
some of the taste of the original apple that remains still in our
mouths--so I handed him the shorthand diary. He took it with a grateful
bow, and said:--

"May I read it?"

"If you wish," I answered as demurely as I could. He opened it, and for
an instant his face fell. Then he stood up and bowed.

"Oh, you so clever woman!" he said. "I knew long that Mr. Jonathan was a
man of much thankfulness; but see, his wife have all the good things.
And will you not so much honour me and so help me as to read it for me?
Alas! I know not the shorthand." By this time my little joke was over,
and I was almost ashamed; so I took the typewritten copy from my
workbasket and handed it to him.

"Forgive me," I said: "I could not help it; but I had been thinking that
it was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you might not
have time to wait--not on my account, but because I know your time must
be precious--I have written it out on the typewriter for you."

He took it and his eyes glistened. "You are so good," he said. "And may
I read it now? I may want to ask you some things when I have read."

"By all means," I said, "read it over whilst I order lunch; and then you
can ask me questions whilst we eat." He bowed and settled himself in a
chair with his back to the light, and became absorbed in the papers,
whilst I went to see after lunch chiefly in order that he might not be
disturbed. When I came back, I found him walking hurriedly up and down
the room, his face all ablaze with excitement. He rushed up to me and
took me by both hands.

"Oh, Madam Mina," he said, "how can I say what I owe to you? This paper
is as sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I am daze, I am dazzle, with so
much light, and yet clouds roll in behind the light every time. But that
you do not, cannot, comprehend. Oh, but I am grateful to you, you so
clever woman. Madam"--he said this very solemnly--"if ever Abraham Van
Helsing can do anything for you or yours, I trust you will let me know.
It will be pleasure and delight if I may serve you as a friend; as a
friend, but all I have ever learned, all I can ever do, shall be for you
and those you love. There are darknesses in life, and there are lights;
you are one of the lights. You will have happy life and good life, and
your husband will be blessed in you."

"But, doctor, you praise me too much, and--and you do not know me."

"Not know you--I, who am old, and who have studied all my life men and
women; I, who have made my specialty the brain and all that belongs to
him and all that follow from him! And I have read your diary that you
have so goodly written for me, and which breathes out truth in every
line. I, who have read your so sweet letter to poor Lucy of your
marriage and your trust, not know you! Oh, Madam Mina, good women tell
all their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute, such things that
angels can read; and we men who wish to know have in us something of
angels' eyes. Your husband is noble nature, and you are noble too, for
you trust, and trust cannot be where there is mean nature. And your
husband--tell me of him. Is he quite well? Is all that fever gone, and
is he strong and hearty?" I saw here an opening to ask him about
Jonathan, so I said:--

"He was almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by Mr. Hawkins's
death." He interrupted:--

"Oh, yes, I know, I know. I have read your last two letters." I went
on:--

"I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on Thursday last he
had a sort of shock."

"A shock, and after brain fever so soon! That was not good. What kind of
a shock was it?"

"He thought he saw some one who recalled something terrible, something
which led to his brain fever." And here the whole thing seemed to
overwhelm me in a rush. The pity for Jonathan, the horror which he
experienced, the whole fearful mystery of his diary, and the fear that
has been brooding over me ever since, all came in a tumult. I suppose I
was hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees and held up my hands to
him, and implored him to make my husband well again. He took my hands
and raised me up, and made me sit on the sofa, and sat by me; he held my
hand in his, and said to me with, oh, such infinite sweetness:--

"My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that I have not
had much time for friendships; but since I have been summoned to here by
my friend John Seward I have known so many good people and seen such
nobility that I feel more than ever--and it has grown with my advancing
years--the loneliness of my life. Believe, me, then, that I come here
full of respect for you, and you have given me hope--hope, not in what I
am seeking of, but that there are good women still left to make life
happy--good women, whose lives and whose truths may make good lesson for
the children that are to be. I am glad, glad, that I may here be of some
use to you; for if your husband suffer, he suffer within the range of my
study and experience. I promise you that I will gladly do _all_ for him
that I can--all to make his life strong and manly, and your life a happy
one. Now you must eat. You are overwrought and perhaps over-anxious.
Husband Jonathan would not like to see you so pale; and what he like not
where he love, is not to his good. Therefore for his sake you must eat
and smile. You have told me all about Lucy, and so now we shall not
speak of it, lest it distress. I shall stay in Exeter to-night, for I
want to think much over what you have told me, and when I have thought I
will ask you questions, if I may. And then, too, you will tell me of
husband Jonathan's trouble so far as you can, but not yet. You must eat
now; afterwards you shall tell me all."

After lunch, when we went back to the drawing-room, he said to me:--

"And now tell me all about him." When it came to speaking to this great
learned man, I began to fear that he would think me a weak fool, and
Jonathan a madman--that journal is all so strange--and I hesitated to go
on. But he was so sweet and kind, and he had promised to help, and I
trusted him, so I said:--

"Dr. Van Helsing, what I have to tell you is so queer that you must not
laugh at me or at my husband. I have been since yesterday in a sort of
fever of doubt; you must be kind to me, and not think me foolish that I
have even half believed some very strange things." He reassured me by
his manner as well as his words when he said:--

"Oh, my dear, if you only know how strange is the matter regarding which
I am here, it is you who would laugh. I have learned not to think little
of any one's belief, no matter how strange it be. I have tried to keep
an open mind; and it is not the ordinary things of life that could close
it, but the strange things, the extraordinary things, the things that
make one doubt if they be mad or sane."

"Thank you, thank you, a thousand times! You have taken a weight off my
mind. If you will let me, I shall give you a paper to read. It is long,
but I have typewritten it out. It will tell you my trouble and
Jonathan's. It is the copy of his journal when abroad, and all that
happened. I dare not say anything of it; you will read for yourself and
judge. And then when I see you, perhaps, you will be very kind and tell
me what you think."

"I promise," he said as I gave him the papers; "I shall in the morning,
so soon as I can, come to see you and your husband, if I may."

"Jonathan will be here at half-past eleven, and you must come to lunch
with us and see him then; you could catch the quick 3:34 train, which
will leave you at Paddington before eight." He was surprised at my
knowledge of the trains off-hand, but he does not know that I have made
up all the trains to and from Exeter, so that I may help Jonathan in
case he is in a hurry.

So he took the papers with him and went away, and I sit here
thinking--thinking I don't know what.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Letter (by hand), Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker._

"_25 September, 6 o'clock._

"Dear Madam Mina,--

"I have read your husband's so wonderful diary. You may sleep without
doubt. Strange and terrible as it is, it is _true_! I will pledge my
life on it. It may be worse for others; but for him and you there is no
dread. He is a noble fellow; and let me tell you from experience of men,
that one who would do as he did in going down that wall and to that
room--ay, and going a second time--is not one to be injured in
permanence by a shock. His brain and his heart are all right; this I
swear, before I have even seen him; so be at rest. I shall have much to
ask him of other things. I am blessed that to-day I come to see you, for
I have learn all at once so much that again I am dazzle--dazzle more
than ever, and I must think.

"Yours the most faithful,

"ABRAHAM VAN HELSING."

_Letter, Mrs. Harker to 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 to-night from
Launceston and will be here at 10:18, so that I shall have no fear
to-night. 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."

_Jonathan Harker's Journal._

_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 all 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 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 Count?"

"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 to 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."

_Dr. Seward's Diary._

_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 same 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. To-day 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
arms.

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 punctured 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 on great loss or waste of blood."

"And how the blood lost or waste?" I shook my head. He stepped over and
sat down beside me, and went on:--

"You are 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 contemplate 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 materialisation. 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 student of the brain--how you
accept the hypnotism and reject the thought reading. Let me tell you, my
friend, that there are things done to-day in electrical science which
would have been deemed unholy by the very men who discovered
electricity--who would themselves not so long before have 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 have 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 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 seen dynasties; and
why the parrot never die only of bite of cat or dog or other complaint?
Can you tell me why men believe in all ages and places that there are
some few who live on always if they be permit; 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 before?" 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 then to tell me the thing, so that I could have the object of
thought in mind all the time. But now I was without this 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 mad man, and not a sane one, follows an
idea. I feel like a novice lumbering through a bog in a mist, jumping
from one tussock to another in the mere blind effort to move on without
knowing where I am going."

"That is 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 a 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 injure 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 hole in Miss Lucy?"

"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!"

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Includes the September 23rd and September 24th entries of Mina Harker's journal; a letter from Van Helsing to Mina Harker, dated September 24th; a telegram from Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing, dated September 25th; letters between Van Helsing and Mrs. Harker, dated September 25th; the September 26th entry of Jonathan Harker's journal; and the September 26th entry of Dr. Seward's diary. Mina reads Jonathan's journal, and is troubled by the contents. She believes that the writings in the journal may have been influenced by the brain fever, but she is not sure. She decides to transcribe it , so that it might be made intelligible to others if the need arises. Van Helsing, who has read Mina's letters to Lucy, visits Mina to ask questions about the events leading up to Lucy's death. Mina is impressed by the doctor, and she gives him Jonathan's journal. Van Helsing reads it and comes to see the Harkers the next day. Jonathan's spirits are restored by Van Helsing's belief in him, and he is regaining his memories of the horrible events in Transylvania. Van Helsing praises Mina, her mind and her virtue, and he pledges friendship with Jonathan. He wants to ask questions to Jonathan about Transylvania at some point in the near future. As he is leaving by train, he sees the newspaper article on the "bloofer lady" and is horrified by how quickly the attacks have begun. Dr. Seward has reopened his diary. He reports that Renfield is back to his old business of flies and spiders. He meets with Van Helsing, who shows him the article about the wounded children and insinuates a connection between Lucy's death and the recent attacks. Seward is skeptical. Van Helsing launches into a long speech about the many unexplained phenomena in the world, urging him to open his mind. Seward guesses that whatever thing caused Lucy's death is now attacking children, which Van Helsing sadly denies. He tells Seward that the attacks were made by Lucy herself.


prompt:
Chapter: 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
you 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. To-night 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 be not true, then proof will be relief;
at worst it will not harm. If it be true! Ah, there is the dread; yet
very 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 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
passing....

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
that 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 Zooelogical 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 when it has been quite a gala-time with them. Even
this poor little mite, when he woke up to-day, 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
healed."

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 no 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 day-time, 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 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 may be duplicates; and anyhow it is not difficult to pick a lock
of that kind." 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 other. 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 way 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 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?" I
asked.

"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 "Spaniards," 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 shall
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 then 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 realised 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 then 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, "see, 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. Some one 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 all later--and in trance could
he best come to take more blood. In trance she died, and in trance she
is Un-Dead, too. So it is that she differ from all other. Usually when
the Un-Dead 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 Un-Dead 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 Un-Dead, 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 for ever. 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
to-day 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
good-bye 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 Un-Dead. 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 to-night 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. To-morrow 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 Piccadilly.

_Note left by Van Helsing in his portmanteau, Berkeley Hotel directed 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 Un-Dead, Miss Lucy, shall not
leave to-night, 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 Un-Dead,
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 Un-Dead 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 the 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 Un-Dead, he have now 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 Un-Dead 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 come 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
Un-Dead woman sleep, 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 Un-Dead, 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.

"VAN HELSING."

_Dr. Seward's Diary._

_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 loath 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, morning._.... Last night, at a little before ten o'clock,
Arthur and Quincey came into Van Helsing's room; he told us all that 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 recognised 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
reservations."

"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 it is 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 indignation. 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 care!"

"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
on?"

"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 Un-Dead."

"Un-Dead! 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 speak such things, or
am I mad to listen to them? Don't dare to 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
fulfilment even than I am, then--then I shall do my duty, whatever it
may seem to me. And then, to follow of 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 of labour 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 came 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 to her my nights
and days--before death, after death; and if my death can do her good
even now, when she is the dead Un-Dead, 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."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Includes the September 26th and September 27th entries of Seward's diary; a note left by Van Helsing for Seward , dated September 27th; and the September 28th and September 29th entries of Seward's diary. Seward is doubtful of Van Helsing's theory, but he agrees to accompany him to examine one of the child victims. The wounds are nearly identical to the ones Lucy had, and the doctor tells them that the child asked, on waking, if he could go and "play with the bloofer lady. That night, Seward and Van Helsing break into the Westenra family vault. Lucy's coffin is empty, but Seward remains unconvinced. They wait outside. Just before daybreak, a white figure is seen moving across the graveyard. Van Helsing finds a small child. They leave the child on a pathway for a policeman to find; the two men wait in the bushes until they are sure the child is safe. The next day, they break into the vault and find Lucy's body in the coffin. If anything, she looks more beautiful and radiant than ever. Van Helsing finally reveals to Seward, in explicit terms, that her death was caused by a vampire and she is now one of the undead. Although he wants to kill her now, he thinks it is best that Arthur learn of what has happened. He will use garlic and crucifix to keep Lucy in her tomb. After a night's sleep, Seward begins to doubt Van Helsing again. That day, Van Helsing tells Quincey and Arthur that they most go to the Westenra vault and open Lucy's tomb. He tells them that Lucy is now undead, and that he will have to decapitate her. Arthur is initially outraged, and refuses consent, but after an impassioned plea for trust from Van Helsing, he agrees to at least go to the tomb.


prompt:
Chapter: 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 rents 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 that 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 the coffin. Arthur stepped
forward hesitatingly; Van Helsing said to me:--

"You were with me here yesterday. Was the body of Miss Lucy in that
coffin?"

"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 nor
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
day-time, and she lay there. Did she not, friend John?"

"Yes."

"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 Un-Dead can move. I waited here
all the 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 Un-Dead cannot bear, and other things which they shun. Last
night there was no exodus, so to-night 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
humanising 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 to
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 Un-Dead may not enter."

"And is that stuff you have put there going to do it?" asked Quincey.
"Great Scott! Is this a game?"

"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 funereal 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, a 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 recognised 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
tingling 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 iron 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
the 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
entry. Van Helsing broke the silence by asking Arthur:--

"Answer me, oh my friend! Am I to proceed in my work?"

Arthur threw himself on his knees, and hid his face in his hands, as he
answered:--

"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 in horrified
amazement as we saw, when he stood back, the woman, with a corporeal
body as real at that moment as our own, pass in 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 to-morrow. 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 lock
the gate we shall remain. Then there is more to do; but not like this of
to-night. As for this little one, he is not much harm, and by to-morrow
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 to-morrow you will, please God, have
passed them, and have drunk of the sweet waters; so do not mourn
overmuch. 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 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 churchyard 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 body 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 all see her
as she was, and is."

She seemed like a nightmare of Lucy as she lay there; the pointed teeth,
the bloodstained, voluptuous mouth--which it made one shudder to
see--the whole carnal and unspiritual 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 a small oil-lamp, which gave out, when lit in
a corner of the tomb, gas which burned at 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 Un-Dead. 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 Un-Dead becomes themselves Un-Dead, 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
all time make more of those Un-Deads that so have fill us with horror.
The career of this so unhappy dear lady is but just begun. Those
children whose blood she suck are not as yet so much the worse; but if
she live on, Un-Dead, 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 plays
unknowing ever of what has been. But of the most blessed of all, when
this now Un-Dead 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 will 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 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 Un-Dead 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
her 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
unmoving. 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 Un-Dead. 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, 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
about, and you can help me. To-night I leave for Amsterdam, but shall
return to-morrow night. And then begins our great quest. But first I
shall have much to say, so that you may know what is 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."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Includes the September 29th morning and night entries of Dr. Seward's diary. That night, Van Helsing, Dr. Seward, Arthur, and Quincey Morris go to Lucy's tomb. As Van Helsing promised, it is empty. Van Helsing seals the Westenra vault with communion wafers and the four men hide and wait. After a while, a figure in white carrying a child appears. In the moonlight, it is unmistakably Lucyalthough far more cruel and wantonly sexual than she was in life. At Van Helsing's signal, the four men surround her. She urges Arthur to come to her, calling him "my husband," and Arthur begins to move toward her as if under a spell. Van Helsing, crucifix in hand, intercedes. Lucy tries to enter her tomb but cannot. Van Helsing asks Arthur if he can proceed with what must be done, and Arthur grants him permission. Van Helsing then removes the Host from the vault door, after which Lucy slips through the tiny opening back into her tomb. The child is hurt but still alive, and as before, they leave him on a path for a policeman. The next day, they return. After they open the tomb, Van Helsing promises that if Lucy is killed, her soul will be free and with God. He also explains that anyone who dies as the hands of the undead become vampires themselves. Arthur takes the stake and hammer, and he stakes Lucy through the heart. As it happens, the body writhes and screams. After the deed is done, Lucy once again looks as she did in life. The sharp teeth are gone, and her face shows she is at peace. Arthur and Quincey leave the vault, and the two doctors decapitate Lucy and stuff her mouth with garlic. Van Helsing then urges the three men to help him: he wants to track down Dracula himself and destroy him. All four men swear solemnly to work together until Dracula is no more.