Chapter: From a Correspondent.

_Whitby_.

One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been
experienced here, with results both strange and unique. The weather had
been somewhat sultry, but not to any degree uncommon in the month of
August. Saturday evening was as fine as was ever known, and the great
body of holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits to Mulgrave Woods,
Robin Hood's Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes, and the various trips in
the neighbourhood of Whitby. The steamers _Emma_ and _Scarborough_ made
trips up and down the coast, and there was an unusual amount of
"tripping" both to and from Whitby. The day was unusually fine till the
afternoon, when some of the gossips who frequent the East Cliff
churchyard, and from that commanding eminence watch the wide sweep of
sea visible to the north and east, called attention to a sudden show of
"mares'-tails" high in the sky to the north-west. The wind was then
blowing from the south-west in the mild degree which in barometrical
language is ranked "No. 2: light breeze." The coastguard on duty at once
made report, and one old fisherman, who for more than half a century has
kept watch on weather signs from the East Cliff, foretold in an emphatic
manner the coming of a sudden storm. The approach of sunset was so very
beautiful, so grand in its masses of splendidly-coloured clouds, that
there was quite an assemblage on the walk along the cliff in the old
churchyard to enjoy the beauty. Before the sun dipped below the black
mass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western sky, its
downward way was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset-colour--flame,
purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of gold; with here and
there masses not large, but of seemingly absolute blackness, in all
sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal silhouettes. The
experience was not lost on the painters, and doubtless some of the
sketches of the "Prelude to the Great Storm" will grace the R. A. and R.
I. walls in May next. More than one captain made up his mind then and
there that his "cobble" or his "mule," as they term the different
classes of boats, would remain in the harbour till the storm had passed.
The wind fell away entirely during the evening, and at midnight there
was a dead calm, a sultry heat, and that prevailing intensity which, on
the approach of thunder, affects persons of a sensitive nature. There
were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the coasting steamers,
which usually "hug" the shore so closely, kept well to seaward, and but
few fishing-boats were in sight. The only sail noticeable was a foreign
schooner with all sails set, which was seemingly going westwards. The
foolhardiness or ignorance of her officers was a prolific theme for
comment whilst she remained in sight, and efforts were made to signal
her to reduce sail in face of her danger. Before the night shut down she
was seen with sails idly flapping as she gently rolled on the undulating
swell of the sea,

    "As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean."

Shortly before ten o'clock the stillness of the air grew quite
oppressive, and the silence was so marked that the bleating of a sheep
inland or the barking of a dog in the town was distinctly heard, and the
band on the pier, with its lively French air, was like a discord in the
great harmony of nature's silence. A little after midnight came a
strange sound from over the sea, and high overhead the air began to
carry a strange, faint, hollow booming.

Then without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity which, at the
time, seemed incredible, and even afterwards is impossible to realize,
the whole aspect of nature at once became convulsed. The waves rose in
growing fury, each overtopping its fellow, till in a very few minutes
the lately glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring monster.
White-crested waves beat madly on the level sands and rushed up the
shelving cliffs; others broke over the piers, and with their spume swept
the lanthorns of the lighthouses which rise from the end of either pier
of Whitby Harbour. The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such
force that it was with difficulty that even strong men kept their feet,
or clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. It was found necessary
to clear the entire piers from the mass of onlookers, or else the
fatalities of the night would have been increased manifold. To add to
the difficulties and dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog came
drifting inland--white, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly fashion,
so dank and damp and cold that it needed but little effort of
imagination to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were
touching their living brethren with the clammy hands of death, and many
a one shuddered as the wreaths of sea-mist swept by. At times the mist
cleared, and the sea for some distance could be seen in the glare of the
lightning, which now came thick and fast, followed by such sudden peals
of thunder that the whole sky overhead seemed trembling under the shock
of the footsteps of the storm.

Some of the scenes thus revealed were of immeasurable grandeur and of
absorbing interest--the sea, running mountains high, threw skywards with
each wave mighty masses of white foam, which the tempest seemed to
snatch at and whirl away into space; here and there a fishing-boat, with
a rag of sail, running madly for shelter before the blast; now and again
the white wings of a storm-tossed sea-bird. On the summit of the East
Cliff the new searchlight was ready for experiment, but had not yet been
tried. The officers in charge of it got it into working order, and in
the pauses of the inrushing mist swept with it the surface of the sea.
Once or twice its service was most effective, as when a fishing-boat,
with gunwale under water, rushed into the harbour, able, by the guidance
of the sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against the
piers. As each boat achieved the safety of the port there was a shout of
joy from the mass of people on shore, a shout which for a moment seemed
to cleave the gale and was then swept away in its rush.

Before long the searchlight discovered some distance away a schooner
with all sails set, apparently the same vessel which had been noticed
earlier in the evening. The wind had by this time backed to the east,
and there was a shudder amongst the watchers on the cliff as they
realized the terrible danger in which she now was. Between her and the
port lay the great flat reef on which so many good ships have from time
to time suffered, and, with the wind blowing from its present quarter,
it would be quite impossible that she should fetch the entrance of the
harbour. It was now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves were so
great that in their troughs the shallows of the shore were almost
visible, and the schooner, with all sails set, was rushing with such
speed that, in the words of one old salt, "she must fetch up somewhere,
if it was only in hell." Then came another rush of sea-fog, greater than
any hitherto--a mass of dank mist, which seemed to close on all things
like a grey pall, and left available to men only the organ of hearing,
for the roar of the tempest, and the crash of the thunder, and the
booming of the mighty billows came through the damp oblivion even louder
than before. The rays of the searchlight were kept fixed on the harbour
mouth across the East Pier, where the shock was expected, and men waited
breathless. The wind suddenly shifted to the north-east, and the remnant
of the sea-fog melted in the blast; and then, _mirabile dictu_, between
the piers, leaping from wave to wave as it rushed at headlong speed,
swept the strange schooner before the blast, with all sail set, and
gained the safety of the harbour. The searchlight followed her, and a
shudder ran through all who saw her, for lashed to the helm was a
corpse, with drooping head, which swung horribly to and fro at each
motion of the ship. No other form could be seen on deck at all. A great
awe came on all as they realised that the ship, as if by a miracle, had
found the harbour, unsteered save by the hand of a dead man! However,
all took place more quickly than it takes to write these words. The
schooner paused not, but rushing across the harbour, pitched herself on
that accumulation of sand and gravel washed by many tides and many
storms into the south-east corner of the pier jutting under the East
Cliff, known locally as Tate Hill Pier.

There was of course a considerable concussion as the vessel drove up on
the sand heap. Every spar, rope, and stay was strained, and some of the
"top-hammer" came crashing down. But, strangest of all, the very instant
the shore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck from below, as
if shot up by the concussion, and running forward, jumped from the bow
on the sand. Making straight for the steep cliff, where the churchyard
hangs over the laneway to the East Pier so steeply that some of the flat
tombstones--"thruff-steans" or "through-stones," as they call them in
the Whitby vernacular--actually project over where the sustaining cliff
has fallen away, it disappeared in the darkness, which seemed
intensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight.

It so happened that there was no one at the moment on Tate Hill Pier, as
all those whose houses are in close proximity were either in bed or were
out on the heights above. Thus the coastguard on duty on the eastern
side of the harbour, who at once ran down to the little pier, was the
first to climb on board. The men working the searchlight, after scouring
the entrance of the harbour without seeing anything, then turned the
light on the derelict and kept it there. The coastguard ran aft, and
when he came beside the wheel, bent over to examine it, and recoiled at
once as though under some sudden emotion. This seemed to pique general
curiosity, and quite a number of people began to run. It is a good way
round from the West Cliff by the Drawbridge to Tate Hill Pier, but your
correspondent is a fairly good runner, and came well ahead of the crowd.
When I arrived, however, I found already assembled on the pier a crowd,
whom the coastguard and police refused to allow to come on board. By the
courtesy of the chief boatman, I was, as your correspondent, permitted
to climb on deck, and was one of a small group who saw the dead seaman
whilst actually lashed to the wheel.

It was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, or even awed, for
not often can such a sight have been seen. The man was simply fastened
by his hands, tied one over the other, to a spoke of the wheel. Between
the inner hand and the wood was a crucifix, the set of beads on which it
was fastened being around both wrists and wheel, and all kept fast by
the binding cords. The poor fellow may have been seated at one time, but
the flapping and buffeting of the sails had worked through the rudder of
the wheel and dragged him to and fro, so that the cords with which he
was tied had cut the flesh to the bone. Accurate note was made of the
state of things, and a doctor--Surgeon J. M. Caffyn, of 33, East Elliot
Place--who came immediately after me, declared, after making
examination, that the man must have been dead for quite two days. In his
pocket was a bottle, carefully corked, empty save for a little roll of
paper, which proved to be the addendum to the log. The coastguard said
the man must have tied up his own hands, fastening the knots with his
teeth. The fact that a coastguard was the first on board may save some
complications, later on, in the Admiralty Court; for coastguards cannot
claim the salvage which is the right of the first civilian entering on a
derelict. Already, however, the legal tongues are wagging, and one young
law student is loudly asserting that the rights of the owner are already
completely sacrificed, his property being held in contravention of the
statutes of mortmain, since the tiller, as emblemship, if not proof, of
delegated possession, is held in a _dead hand_. It is needless to say
that the dead steersman has been reverently removed from the place where
he held his honourable watch and ward till death--a steadfastness as
noble as that of the young Casabianca--and placed in the mortuary to
await inquest.

Already the sudden storm is passing, and its fierceness is abating;
crowds are scattering homeward, and the sky is beginning to redden over
the Yorkshire wolds. I shall send, in time for your next issue, further
details of the derelict ship which found her way so miraculously into
harbour in the storm.

_Whitby_

_9 August._--The sequel to the strange arrival of the derelict in the
storm last night is almost more startling than the thing itself. It
turns out that the schooner is a Russian from Varna, and is called the
_Demeter_. She is almost entirely in ballast of silver sand, with only a
small amount of cargo--a number of great wooden boxes filled with mould.
This cargo was consigned to a Whitby solicitor, Mr. S. F. Billington, of
7, The Crescent, who this morning went aboard and formally took
possession of the goods consigned to him. The Russian consul, too,
acting for the charter-party, took formal possession of the ship, and
paid all harbour dues, etc. Nothing is talked about here to-day except
the strange coincidence; the officials of the Board of Trade have been
most exacting in seeing that every compliance has been made with
existing regulations. As the matter is to be a "nine days' wonder," they
are evidently determined that there shall be no cause of after
complaint. A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog which
landed when the ship struck, and more than a few of the members of the
S. P. C. A., which is very strong in Whitby, have tried to befriend the
animal. To the general disappointment, however, it was not to be found;
it seems to have disappeared entirely from the town. It may be that it
was frightened and made its way on to the moors, where it is still
hiding in terror. There are some who look with dread on such a
possibility, lest later on it should in itself become a danger, for it
is evidently a fierce brute. Early this morning a large dog, a half-bred
mastiff belonging to a coal merchant close to Tate Hill Pier, was found
dead in the roadway opposite to its master's yard. It had been fighting,
and manifestly had had a savage opponent, for its throat was torn away,
and its belly was slit open as if with a savage claw.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--By the kindness of the Board of Trade inspector, I have been
permitted to look over the log-book of the _Demeter_, which was in order
up to within three days, but contained nothing of special interest
except as to facts of missing men. The greatest interest, however, is
with regard to the paper found in the bottle, which was to-day produced
at the inquest; and a more strange narrative than the two between them
unfold it has not been my lot to come across. As there is no motive for
concealment, I am permitted to use them, and accordingly send you a
rescript, simply omitting technical details of seamanship and
supercargo. It almost seems as though the captain had been seized with
some kind of mania before he had got well into blue water, and that
this had developed persistently throughout the voyage. Of course my
statement must be taken _cum grano_, since I am writing from the
dictation of a clerk of the Russian consul, who kindly translated for
me, time being short.

                         LOG OF THE "DEMETER."


_Varna to Whitby._

_Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I shall keep
accurate note henceforth till we land._

       *       *       *       *       *

On 6 July we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and boxes of earth.
At noon set sail. East wind, fresh. Crew, five hands ... two mates,
cook, and myself (captain).

       *       *       *       *       *

On 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus. Boarded by Turkish Customs
officers. Backsheesh. All correct. Under way at 4 p. m.

       *       *       *       *       *

On 12 July through Dardanelles. More Customs officers and flagboat of
guarding squadron. Backsheesh again. Work of officers thorough, but
quick. Want us off soon. At dark passed into Archipelago.

       *       *       *       *       *

On 13 July passed Cape Matapan. Crew dissatisfied about something.
Seemed scared, but would not speak out.

       *       *       *       *       *

On 14 July was somewhat anxious about crew. Men all steady fellows, who
sailed with me before. Mate could not make out what was wrong; they only
told him there was _something_, and crossed themselves. Mate lost temper
with one of them that day and struck him. Expected fierce quarrel, but
all was quiet.

       *       *       *       *       *

On 16 July mate reported in the morning that one of crew, Petrofsky, was
missing. Could not account for it. Took larboard watch eight bells last
night; was relieved by Abramoff, but did not go to bunk. Men more
downcast than ever. All said they expected something of the kind, but
would not say more than there was _something_ aboard. Mate getting very
impatient with them; feared some trouble ahead.

       *       *       *       *       *

On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came to my cabin, and in
an awestruck way confided to me that he thought there was a strange man
aboard the ship. He said that in his watch he had been sheltering
behind the deck-house, as there was a rain-storm, when he saw a tall,
thin man, who was not like any of the crew, come up the companion-way,
and go along the deck forward, and disappear. He followed cautiously,
but when he got to bows found no one, and the hatchways were all closed.
He was in a panic of superstitious fear, and I am afraid the panic may
spread. To allay it, I shall to-day search entire ship carefully from
stem to stern.

       *       *       *       *       *

Later in the day I got together the whole crew, and told them, as they
evidently thought there was some one in the ship, we would search from
stem to stern. First mate angry; said it was folly, and to yield to such
foolish ideas would demoralise the men; said he would engage to keep
them out of trouble with a handspike. I let him take the helm, while the
rest began thorough search, all keeping abreast, with lanterns: we left
no corner unsearched. As there were only the big wooden boxes, there
were no odd corners where a man could hide. Men much relieved when
search over, and went back to work cheerfully. First mate scowled, but
said nothing.

       *       *       *       *       *

_22 July_.--Rough weather last three days, and all hands busy with
sails--no time to be frightened. Men seem to have forgotten their dread.
Mate cheerful again, and all on good terms. Praised men for work in bad
weather. Passed Gibralter and out through Straits. All well.

       *       *       *       *       *

_24 July_.--There seems some doom over this ship. Already a hand short,
and entering on the Bay of Biscay with wild weather ahead, and yet last
night another man lost--disappeared. Like the first, he came off his
watch and was not seen again. Men all in a panic of fear; sent a round
robin, asking to have double watch, as they fear to be alone. Mate
angry. Fear there will be some trouble, as either he or the men will do
some violence.

       *       *       *       *       *

_28 July_.--Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of maelstrom,
and the wind a tempest. No sleep for any one. Men all worn out. Hardly
know how to set a watch, since no one fit to go on. Second mate
volunteered to steer and watch, and let men snatch a few hours' sleep.
Wind abating; seas still terrific, but feel them less, as ship is
steadier.

       *       *       *       *       *

_29 July_.--Another tragedy. Had single watch to-night, as crew too
tired to double. When morning watch came on deck could find no one
except steersman. Raised outcry, and all came on deck. Thorough search,
but no one found. Are now without second mate, and crew in a panic. Mate
and I agreed to go armed henceforth and wait for any sign of cause.

       *       *       *       *       *

_30 July_.--Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England. Weather fine,
all sails set. Retired worn out; slept soundly; awaked by mate telling
me that both man of watch and steersman missing. Only self and mate and
two hands left to work ship.

       *       *       *       *       *

_1 August_.--Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. Had hoped when in
the English Channel to be able to signal for help or get in somewhere.
Not having power to work sails, have to run before wind. Dare not lower,
as could not raise them again. We seem to be drifting to some terrible
doom. Mate now more demoralised than either of men. His stronger nature
seems to have worked inwardly against himself. Men are beyond fear,
working stolidly and patiently, with minds made up to worst. They are
Russian, he Roumanian.

       *       *       *       *       *

_2 August, midnight_.--Woke up from few minutes' sleep by hearing a cry,
seemingly outside my port. Could see nothing in fog. Rushed on deck, and
ran against mate. Tells me heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on
watch. One more gone. Lord, help us! Mate says we must be past Straits
of Dover, as in a moment of fog lifting he saw North Foreland, just as
he heard the man cry out. If so we are now off in the North Sea, and
only God can guide us in the fog, which seems to move with us; and God
seems to have deserted us.

       *       *       *       *       *

_3 August_.--At midnight I went to relieve the man at the wheel, and
when I got to it found no one there. The wind was steady, and as we ran
before it there was no yawing. I dared not leave it, so shouted for the
mate. After a few seconds he rushed up on deck in his flannels. He
looked wild-eyed and haggard, and I greatly fear his reason has given
way. He came close to me and whispered hoarsely, with his mouth to my
ear, as though fearing the very air might hear: "_It_ is here; I know
it, now. On the watch last night I saw It, like a man, tall and thin,
and ghastly pale. It was in the bows, and looking out. I crept behind
It, and gave It my knife; but the knife went through It, empty as the
air." And as he spoke he took his knife and drove it savagely into
space. Then he went on: "But It is here, and I'll find It. It is in the
hold, perhaps in one of those boxes. I'll unscrew them one by one and
see. You work the helm." And, with a warning look and his finger on his
lip, he went below. There was springing up a choppy wind, and I could
not leave the helm. I saw him come out on deck again with a tool-chest
and a lantern, and go down the forward hatchway. He is mad, stark,
raving mad, and it's no use my trying to stop him. He can't hurt those
big boxes: they are invoiced as "clay," and to pull them about is as
harmless a thing as he can do. So here I stay, and mind the helm, and
write these notes. I can only trust in God and wait till the fog clears.
Then, if I can't steer to any harbour with the wind that is, I shall cut
down sails and lie by, and signal for help....

       *       *       *       *       *

It is nearly all over now. Just as I was beginning to hope that the mate
would come out calmer--for I heard him knocking away at something in the
hold, and work is good for him--there came up the hatchway a sudden,
startled scream, which made my blood run cold, and up on the deck he
came as if shot from a gun--a raging madman, with his eyes rolling and
his face convulsed with fear. "Save me! save me!" he cried, and then
looked round on the blanket of fog. His horror turned to despair, and in
a steady voice he said: "You had better come too, captain, before it is
too late. _He_ is there. I know the secret now. The sea will save me
from Him, and it is all that is left!" Before I could say a word, or
move forward to seize him, he sprang on the bulwark and deliberately
threw himself into the sea. I suppose I know the secret too, now. It was
this madman who had got rid of the men one by one, and now he has
followed them himself. God help me! How am I to account for all these
horrors when I get to port? _When_ I get to port! Will that ever be?

       *       *       *       *       *

_4 August._--Still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce. I know there is
sunrise because I am a sailor, why else I know not. I dared not go
below, I dared not leave the helm; so here all night I stayed, and in
the dimness of the night I saw It--Him! God forgive me, but the mate was
right to jump overboard. It was better to die like a man; to die like a
sailor in blue water no man can object. But I am captain, and I must not
leave my ship. But I shall baffle this fiend or monster, for I shall tie
my hands to the wheel when my strength begins to fail, and along with
them I shall tie that which He--It!--dare not touch; and then, come good
wind or foul, I shall save my soul, and my honour as a captain. I am
growing weaker, and the night is coming on. If He can look me in the
face again, I may not have time to act.... If we are wrecked, mayhap
this bottle may be found, and those who find it may understand; if not,
... well, then all men shall know that I have been true to my trust. God
and the Blessed Virgin and the saints help a poor ignorant soul trying
to do his duty....

       *       *       *       *       *

Of course the verdict was an open one. There is no evidence to adduce;
and whether or not the man himself committed the murders there is now
none to say. The folk here hold almost universally that the captain is
simply a hero, and he is to be given a public funeral. Already it is
arranged that his body is to be taken with a train of boats up the Esk
for a piece and then brought back to Tate Hill Pier and up the abbey
steps; for he is to be buried in the churchyard on the cliff. The owners
of more than a hundred boats have already given in their names as
wishing to follow him to the grave.

No trace has ever been found of the great dog; at which there is much
mourning, for, with public opinion in its present state, he would, I
believe, be adopted by the town. To-morrow will see the funeral; and so
will end this one more "mystery of the sea."


_Mina Murray's Journal._

_8 August._--Lucy was very restless all night, and I, too, could not
sleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among the
chimney-pots, it made me shudder. When a sharp puff came it seemed to be
like a distant gun. Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake; but she got up
twice and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I awoke in time and
managed to undress her without waking her, and got her back to bed. It
is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as her will is
thwarted in any physical way, her intention, if there be any,
disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine of her
life.

Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the harbour to see
if anything had happened in the night. There were very few people about,
and though the sun was bright, and the air clear and fresh, the big,
grim-looking waves, that seemed dark themselves because the foam that
topped them was like snow, forced themselves in through the narrow mouth
of the harbour--like a bullying man going through a crowd. Somehow I
felt glad that Jonathan was not on the sea last night, but on land. But,
oh, is he on land or sea? Where is he, and how? I am getting fearfully
anxious about him. If I only knew what to do, and could do anything!

       *       *       *       *       *

_10 August._--The funeral of the poor sea-captain to-day was most
touching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffin
was carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to the
churchyard. Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old seat, whilst
the cortege of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came down
again. We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly all the way.
The poor fellow was laid to rest quite near our seat so that we stood on
it when the time came and saw everything. Poor Lucy seemed much upset.
She was restless and uneasy all the time, and I cannot but think that
her dreaming at night is telling on her. She is quite odd in one thing:
she will not admit to me that there is any cause for restlessness; or if
there be, she does not understand it herself. There is an additional
cause in that poor old Mr. Swales was found dead this morning on our
seat, his neck being broken. He had evidently, as the doctor said,
fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, for there was a look of
fear and horror on his face that the men said made them shudder. Poor
dear old man! Perhaps he had seen Death with his dying eyes! Lucy is so
sweet and sensitive that she feels influences more acutely than other
people do. Just now she was quite upset by a little thing which I did
not much heed, though I am myself very fond of animals. One of the men
who came up here often to look for the boats was followed by his dog.
The dog is always with him. They are both quiet persons, and I never saw
the man angry, nor heard the dog bark. During the service the dog would
not come to its master, who was on the seat with us, but kept a few
yards off, barking and howling. Its master spoke to it gently, and then
harshly, and then angrily; but it would neither come nor cease to make a
noise. It was in a sort of fury, with its eyes savage, and all its hairs
bristling out like a cat's tail when puss is on the war-path. Finally
the man, too, got angry, and jumped down and kicked the dog, and then
took it by the scruff of the neck and half dragged and half threw it on
the tombstone on which the seat is fixed. The moment it touched the
stone the poor thing became quiet and fell all into a tremble. It did
not try to get away, but crouched down, quivering and cowering, and was
in such a pitiable state of terror that I tried, though without effect,
to comfort it. Lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt to
touch the dog, but looked at it in an agonised sort of way. I greatly
fear that she is of too super-sensitive a nature to go through the world
without trouble. She will be dreaming of this to-night, I am sure. The
whole agglomeration of things--the ship steered into port by a dead
man; his attitude, tied to the wheel with a crucifix and beads; the
touching funeral; the dog, now furious and now in terror--will all
afford material for her dreams.

I think it will be best for her to go to bed tired out physically, so I
shall take her for a long walk by the cliffs to Robin Hood's Bay and
back. She ought not to have much inclination for sleep-walking then.





_Same day, 11 o'clock p. m._--Oh, but I am tired! If it were not that I
had made my diary a duty I should not open it to-night. We had a lovely
walk. Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing, I think, to some
dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field close to the lighthouse,
and frightened the wits out of us. I believe we forgot everything
except, of course, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe the slate clean
and give us a fresh start. We had a capital "severe tea" at Robin Hood's
Bay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a bow-window right over
the seaweed-covered rocks of the strand. I believe we should have
shocked the "New Woman" with our appetites. Men are more tolerant, bless
them! Then we walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages to rest,
and with our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls. Lucy was
really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as soon as we could.
The young curate came in, however, and Mrs. Westenra asked him to stay
for supper. Lucy and I had both a fight for it with the dusty miller; I
know it was a hard fight on my part, and I am quite heroic. I think that
some day the bishops must get together and see about breeding up a new
class of curates, who don't take supper, no matter how they may be
pressed to, and who will know when girls are tired. Lucy is asleep and
breathing softly. She has more colour in her cheeks than usual, and
looks, oh, so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in love with her seeing her
only in the drawing-room, I wonder what he would say if he saw her now.
Some of the "New Women" writers will some day start an idea that men and
women should be allowed to see each other asleep before proposing or
accepting. But I suppose the New Woman won't condescend in future to
accept; she will do the proposing herself. And a nice job she will make
of it, too! There's some consolation in that. I am so happy to-night,
because dear Lucy seems better. I really believe she has turned the
corner, and that we are over her troubles with dreaming. I should be
quite happy if I only knew if Jonathan.... God bless and keep him.


_11 August, 3 a. m._--Diary again. No sleep now, so I may as well write.
I am too agitated to sleep. We have had such an adventure, such an
agonising experience. I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my diary....
Suddenly I became broad awake, and sat up, with a horrible sense of fear
upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness around me. The room was dark,
so I could not see Lucy's bed; I stole across and felt for her. The bed
was empty. I lit a match and found that she was not in the room. The
door was shut, but not locked, as I had left it. I feared to wake her
mother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw on some
clothes and got ready to look for her. As I was leaving the room it
struck me that the clothes she wore might give me some clue to her
dreaming intention. Dressing-gown would mean house; dress, outside.
Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places. "Thank God," I said
to myself, "she cannot be far, as she is only in her nightdress." I ran
downstairs and looked in the sitting-room. Not there! Then I looked in
all the other open rooms of the house, with an ever-growing fear
chilling my heart. Finally I came to the hall door and found it open. It
was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not caught. The people
of the house are careful to lock the door every night, so I feared that
Lucy must have gone out as she was. There was no time to think of what
might happen; a vague, overmastering fear obscured all details. I took a
big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was striking one as I was in the
Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I ran along the North
Terrace, but could see no sign of the white figure which I expected. At
the edge of the West Cliff above the pier I looked across the harbour to
the East Cliff, in the hope or fear--I don't know which--of seeing Lucy
in our favourite seat. There was a bright full moon, with heavy black,
driving clouds, which threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama of
light and shade as they sailed across. For a moment or two I could see
nothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary's Church and all
around it. Then as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of the abbey
coming into view; and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharp as
a sword-cut moved along, the church and the churchyard became gradually
visible. Whatever my expectation was, it was not disappointed, for
there, on our favourite seat, the silver light of the moon struck a
half-reclining figure, snowy white. The coming of the cloud was too
quick for me to see much, for shadow shut down on light almost
immediately; but it seemed to me as though something dark stood behind
the seat where the white figure shone, and bent over it. What it was,
whether man or beast, I could not tell; I did not wait to catch another
glance, but flew down the steep steps to the pier and along by the
fish-market to the bridge, which was the only way to reach the East
Cliff. The town seemed as dead, for not a soul did I see; I rejoiced
that it was so, for I wanted no witness of poor Lucy's condition. The
time and distance seemed endless, and my knees trembled and my breath
came laboured as I toiled up the endless steps to the abbey. I must have
gone fast, and yet it seemed to me as if my feet were weighted with
lead, and as though every joint in my body were rusty. When I got almost
to the top I could see the seat and the white figure, for I was now
close enough to distinguish it even through the spells of shadow. There
was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over the
half-reclining white figure. I called in fright, "Lucy! Lucy!" and
something raised a head, and from where I was I could see a white face
and red, gleaming eyes. Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to the
entrance of the churchyard. As I entered, the church was between me and
the seat, and for a minute or so I lost sight of her. When I came in
view again the cloud had passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly
that I could see Lucy half reclining with her head lying over the back
of the seat. She was quite alone, and there was not a sign of any living
thing about.

When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her lips
were parted, and she was breathing--not softly as usual with her, but in
long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs full at every
breath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her sleep and pulled the
collar of her nightdress close around her throat. Whilst she did so
there came a little shudder through her, as though she felt the cold. I
flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight round her neck,
for I dreaded lest she should get some deadly chill from the night air,
unclad as she was. I feared to wake her all at once, so, in order to
have my hands free that I might help her, I fastened the shawl at her
throat with a big safety-pin; but I must have been clumsy in my anxiety
and pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her breathing
became quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and moaned. When I
had her carefully wrapped up I put my shoes on her feet and then began
very gently to wake her. At first she did not respond; but gradually she
became more and more uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing
occasionally. At last, as time was passing fast, and, for many other
reasons, I wished to get her home at once, I shook her more forcibly,
till finally she opened her eyes and awoke. She did not seem surprised
to see me, as, of course, she did not realise all at once where she was.
Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her body must
have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled at waking
unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace. She
trembled a little, and clung to me; when I told her to come at once with
me home she rose without a word, with the obedience of a child. As we
passed along, the gravel hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince. She
stopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes; but I would not.
However, when we got to the pathway outside the churchyard, where there
was a puddle of water, remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet with
mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we went home, no
one, in case we should meet any one, should notice my bare feet.

Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul. Once we saw
a man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a street in front of
us; but we hid in a door till he had disappeared up an opening such as
there are here, steep little closes, or "wynds," as they call them in
Scotland. My heart beat so loud all the time that sometimes I thought I
should faint. I was filled with anxiety about Lucy, not only for her
health, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her reputation
in case the story should get wind. When we got in, and had washed our
feet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, I tucked her into
bed. Before falling asleep she asked--even implored--me not to say a
word to any one, even her mother, about her sleep-walking adventure. I
hesitated at first to promise; but on thinking of the state of her
mother's health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her,
and thinking, too, of how such a story might become distorted--nay,
infallibly would--in case it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do
so. I hope I did right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied to
my wrist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is sleeping
soundly; the reflex of the dawn is high and far over the sea....

       *       *       *       *       *

_Same day, noon._--All goes well. Lucy slept till I woke her and seemed
not to have even changed her side. The adventure of the night does not
seem to have harmed her; on the contrary, it has benefited her, for she
looks better this morning than she has done for weeks. I was sorry to
notice that my clumsiness with the safety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it might
have been serious, for the skin of her throat was pierced. I must have
pinched up a piece of loose skin and have transfixed it, for there are
two little red points like pin-pricks, and on the band of her nightdress
was a drop of blood. When I apologised and was concerned about it, she
laughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it. Fortunately it
cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Same day, night._--We passed a happy day. The air was clear, and the
sun bright, and there was a cool breeze. We took our lunch to Mulgrave
Woods, Mrs. Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I walking by the
cliff-path and joining her at the gate. I felt a little sad myself, for
I could not but feel how _absolutely_ happy it would have been had
Jonathan been with me. But there! I must only be patient. In the evening
we strolled in the Casino Terrace, and heard some good music by Spohr
and Mackenzie, and went to bed early. Lucy seems more restful than she
has been for some time, and fell asleep at once. I shall lock the door
and secure the key the same as before, though I do not expect any
trouble to-night.

       *       *       *       *       *

_12 August._--My expectations were wrong, for twice during the night I
was wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in her sleep, to
be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bed
under a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and heard the birds
chirping outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and, I was glad to see,
was even better than on the previous morning. All her old gaiety of
manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled in beside me
and told me all about Arthur. I told her how anxious I was about
Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she succeeded
somewhat, for, though sympathy can't alter facts, it can help to make
them more bearable.

       *       *       *       *       *

_13 August._--Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist as
before. Again I awoke in the night, and found Lucy sitting up in bed,
still asleep, pointing to the window. I got up quietly, and pulling
aside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant moonlight, and the soft
effect of the light over the sea and sky--merged together in one great,
silent mystery--was beautiful beyond words. Between me and the moonlight
flitted a great bat, coming and going in great whirling circles. Once or
twice it came quite close, but was, I suppose, frightened at seeing me,
and flitted away across the harbour towards the abbey. When I came back
from the window Lucy had lain down again, and was sleeping peacefully.
She did not stir again all night.

       *       *       *       *       *

_14 August._--On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day. Lucy seems
to have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it is hard to
get her away from it when it is time to come home for lunch or tea or
dinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We were coming home for
dinner, and had come to the top of the steps up from the West Pier and
stopped to look at the view, as we generally do. The setting sun, low
down in the sky, was just dropping behind Kettleness; the red light was
thrown over on the East Cliff and the old abbey, and seemed to bathe
everything in a beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a while, and
suddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself:--

"His red eyes again! They are just the same." It was such an odd
expression, coming _apropos_ of nothing, that it quite startled me. I
slewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without seeming to stare
at her, and saw that she was in a half-dreamy state, with an odd look on
her face that I could not quite make out; so I said nothing, but
followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at our own seat,
whereon was a dark figure seated alone. I was a little startled myself,
for it seemed for an instant as if the stranger had great eyes like
burning flames; but a second look dispelled the illusion. The red
sunlight was shining on the windows of St. Mary's Church behind our
seat, and as the sun dipped there was just sufficient change in the
refraction and reflection to make it appear as if the light moved. I
called Lucy's attention to the peculiar effect, and she became herself
with a start, but she looked sad all the same; it may have been that she
was thinking of that terrible night up there. We never refer to it; so I
said nothing, and we went home to dinner. Lucy had a headache and went
early to bed. I saw her asleep, and went out for a little stroll myself;
I walked along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet
sadness, for I was thinking of Jonathan. When coming home--it was then
bright moonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part of the
Crescent was in shadow, everything could be well seen--I threw a glance
up at our window, and saw Lucy's head leaning out. I thought that
perhaps she was looking out for me, so I opened my handkerchief and
waved it. She did not notice or make any movement whatever. Just then,
the moonlight crept round an angle of the building, and the light fell
on the window. There distinctly was Lucy with her head lying up against
the side of the window-sill and her eyes shut. She was fast asleep, and
by her, seated on the window-sill, was something that looked like a
good-sized bird. I was afraid she might get a chill, so I ran upstairs,
but as I came into the room she was moving back to her bed, fast
asleep, and breathing heavily; she was holding her hand to her throat,
as though to protect it from cold.

I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly; I have taken care that the
door is locked and the window securely fastened.

She looks so sweet as she sleeps; but she is paler than is her wont, and
there is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes which I do not like. I
fear she is fretting about something. I wish I could find out what it
is.

       *       *       *       *       *

_15 August._--Rose later than usual. Lucy was languid and tired, and
slept on after we had been called. We had a happy surprise at breakfast.
Arthur's father is better, and wants the marriage to come off soon. Lucy
is full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad and sorry at once. Later on
in the day she told me the cause. She is grieved to lose Lucy as her
very own, but she is rejoiced that she is soon to have some one to
protect her. Poor dear, sweet lady! She confided to me that she has got
her death-warrant. She has not told Lucy, and made me promise secrecy;
her doctor told her that within a few months, at most, she must die, for
her heart is weakening. At any time, even now, a sudden shock would be
almost sure to kill her. Ah, we were wise to keep from her the affair of
the dreadful night of Lucy's sleep-walking.

       *       *       *       *       *

_17 August._--No diary for two whole days. I have not had the heart to
write. Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our happiness.
No news from Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be growing weaker, whilst her
mother's hours are numbering to a close. I do not understand Lucy's
fading away as she is doing. She eats well and sleeps well, and enjoys
the fresh air; but all the time the roses in her cheeks are fading, and
she gets weaker and more languid day by day; at night I hear her gasping
as if for air. I keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist at
night, but she gets up and walks about the room, and sits at the open
window. Last night I found her leaning out when I woke up, and when I
tried to wake her I could not; she was in a faint. When I managed to
restore her she was as weak as water, and cried silently between long,
painful struggles for breath. When I asked her how she came to be at the
window she shook her head and turned away. I trust her feeling ill may
not be from that unlucky prick of the safety-pin. I looked at her throat
just now as she lay asleep, and the tiny wounds seem not to have healed.
They are still open, and, if anything, larger than before, and the
edges of them are faintly white. They are like little white dots with
red centres. Unless they heal within a day or two, I shall insist on the
doctor seeing about them.


_Letter, Samuel F. Billington & Son, Solicitors, Whitby, to Messrs.
Carter, Paterson & Co., London._

"_17 August._

"Dear Sirs,--

"Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great Northern
Railway. Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near Purfleet, immediately
on receipt at goods station King's Cross. The house is at present empty,
but enclosed please find keys, all of which are labelled.

"You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form the
consignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of the house
and marked 'A' on rough diagram enclosed. Your agent will easily
recognise the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. The
goods leave by the train at 9:30 to-night, and will be due at King's
Cross at 4:30 to-morrow afternoon. As our client wishes the delivery
made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by your having teams ready
at King's Cross at the time named and forthwith conveying the goods to
destination. In order to obviate any delays possible through any routine
requirements as to payment in your departments, we enclose cheque
herewith for ten pounds (L10), receipt of which please acknowledge.
Should the charge be less than this amount, you can return balance; if
greater, we shall at once send cheque for difference on hearing from
you. You are to leave the keys on coming away in the main hall of the
house, where the proprietor may get them on his entering the house by
means of his duplicate key.

"Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business courtesy in
pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition.

_"We are, dear Sirs,

"Faithfully yours,

"SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON."_


_Letter, Messrs. Carter, Paterson & Co., London, to Messrs. Billington &
Son, Whitby._

"_21 August._

"Dear Sirs,--

"We beg to acknowledge L10 received and to return cheque L1 17s. 9d,
amount of overplus, as shown in receipted account herewith. Goods are
delivered in exact accordance with instructions, and keys left in parcel
in main hall, as directed.

"We are, dear Sirs,

"Yours respectfully.

"_Pro_ CARTER, PATERSON & CO."


_Mina Murray's Journal._

_18 August._--I am happy to-day, and write sitting on the seat in the
churchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last night she slept well all
night, and did not disturb me once. The roses seem coming back already
to her cheeks, though she is still sadly pale and wan-looking. If she
were in any way anaemic I could understand it, but she is not. She is in
gay spirits and full of life and cheerfulness. All the morbid reticence
seems to have passed from her, and she has just reminded me, as if I
needed any reminding, of _that_ night, and that it was here, on this
very seat, I found her asleep. As she told me she tapped playfully with
the heel of her boot on the stone slab and said:--

"My poor little feet didn't make much noise then! I daresay poor old Mr.
Swales would have told me that it was because I didn't want to wake up
Geordie." As she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her if she
had dreamed at all that night. Before she answered, that sweet, puckered
look came into her forehead, which Arthur--I call him Arthur from her
habit--says he loves; and, indeed, I don't wonder that he does. Then she
went on in a half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it to
herself:--

"I didn't quite dream; but it all seemed to be real. I only wanted to be
here in this spot--I don't know why, for I was afraid of something--I
don't know what. I remember, though I suppose I was asleep, passing
through the streets and over the bridge. A fish leaped as I went by, and
I leaned over to look at it, and I heard a lot of dogs howling--the
whole town seemed as if it must be full of dogs all howling at once--as
I went up the steps. Then I had a vague memory of something long and
dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and something very
sweet and very bitter all around me at once; and then I seemed sinking
into deep green water, and there was a singing in my ears, as I have
heard there is to drowning men; and then everything seemed passing away
from me; my soul seemed to go out from my body and float about the air.
I seem to remember that once the West Lighthouse was right under me,
and then there was a sort of agonising feeling, as if I were in an
earthquake, and I came back and found you shaking my body. I saw you do
it before I felt you."

Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I
listened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and thought it
better not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to other
subjects, and Lucy was like her old self again. When we got home the
fresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were really more
rosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very
happy evening together.

       *       *       *       *       *

_19 August._--Joy, joy, joy! although not all joy. At last, news of
Jonathan. The dear fellow has been ill; that is why he did not write. I
am not afraid to think it or say it, now that I know. Mr. Hawkins sent
me on the letter, and wrote himself, oh, so kindly. I am to leave in the
morning and go over to Jonathan, and to help to nurse him if necessary,
and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says it would not be a bad thing if
we were to be married out there. I have cried over the good Sister's
letter till I can feel it wet against my bosom, where it lies. It is of
Jonathan, and must be next my heart, for he is _in_ my heart. My journey
is all mapped out, and my luggage ready. I am only taking one change of
dress; Lucy will bring my trunk to London and keep it till I send for
it, for it may be that ... I must write no more; I must keep it to say
to Jonathan, my husband. The letter that he has seen and touched must
comfort me till we meet.


_Letter, Sister Agatha, Hospital of St. Joseph and Ste. Mary,
Buda-Pesth, to Miss Wilhelmina Murray._

"_12 August._

"Dear Madam,--

"I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is himself not strong
enough to write, though progressing well, thanks to God and St. Joseph
and Ste. Mary. He has been under our care for nearly six weeks,
suffering from a violent brain fever. He wishes me to convey his love,
and to say that by this post I write for him to Mr. Peter Hawkins,
Exeter, to say, with his dutiful respects, that he is sorry for his
delay, and that all of his work is completed. He will require some few
weeks' rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but will then return. He
wishes me to say that he has not sufficient money with him, and that he
would like to pay for his staying here, so that others who need shall
not be wanting for help.

"Believe me,

"Yours, with sympathy and all blessings,

"SISTER AGATHA.

"P. S.--My patient being asleep, I open this to let you know something
more. He has told me all about you, and that you are shortly to be his
wife. All blessings to you both! He has had some fearful shock--so says
our doctor--and in his delirium his ravings have been dreadful; of
wolves and poison and blood; of ghosts and demons; and I fear to say of
what. Be careful with him always that there may be nothing to excite him
of this kind for a long time to come; the traces of such an illness as
his do not lightly die away. We should have written long ago, but we
knew nothing of his friends, and there was on him nothing that any one
could understand. He came in the train from Klausenburg, and the guard
was told by the station-master there that he rushed into the station
shouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from his violent demeanour that
he was English, they gave him a ticket for the furthest station on the
way thither that the train reached.

"Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all hearts by his
sweetness and gentleness. He is truly getting on well, and I have no
doubt will in a few weeks be all himself. But be careful of him for
safety's sake. There are, I pray God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary, many,
many, happy years for you both."


_Dr. Seward's Diary._

_19 August._--Strange and sudden change in Renfield last night. About
eight o'clock he began to get excited and sniff about as a dog does when
setting. The attendant was struck by his manner, and knowing my interest
in him, encouraged him to talk. He is usually respectful to the
attendant and at times servile; but to-night, the man tells me, he was
quite haughty. Would not condescend to talk with him at all. All he
would say was:--

     "I don't want to talk to you: you don't count now; the Master is at
     hand."

The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania which has
seized him. If so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong man with
homicidal and religious mania at once might be dangerous. The
combination is a dreadful one. At nine o'clock I visited him myself. His
attitude to me was the same as that to the attendant; in his sublime
self-feeling the difference between myself and attendant seemed to him
as nothing. It looks like religious mania, and he will soon think that
he himself is God. These infinitesimal distinctions between man and man
are too paltry for an Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give themselves
away! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall; but the God created
from human vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a sparrow. Oh,
if men only knew!

For half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in greater and
greater degree. I did not pretend to be watching him, but I kept strict
observation all the same. All at once that shifty look came into his
eyes which we always see when a madman has seized an idea, and with it
the shifty movement of the head and back which asylum attendants come to
know so well. He became quite quiet, and went and sat on the edge of his
bed resignedly, and looked into space with lack-lustre eyes. I thought I
would find out if his apathy were real or only assumed, and tried to
lead him to talk of his pets, a theme which had never failed to excite
his attention. At first he made no reply, but at length said testily:--

"Bother them all! I don't care a pin about them."

"What?" I said. "You don't mean to tell me you don't care about
spiders?" (Spiders at present are his hobby and the note-book is filling
up with columns of small figures.) To this he answered enigmatically:--

"The bride-maidens rejoice the eyes that wait the coming of the bride;
but when the bride draweth nigh, then the maidens shine not to the eyes
that are filled."

He would not explain himself, but remained obstinately seated on his bed
all the time I remained with him.

I am weary to-night and low in spirits. I cannot but think of Lucy, and
how different things might have been. If I don't sleep at once, chloral,
the modern Morpheus--C_{2}HCl_{3}O. H_{2}O! I must be careful not to let
it grow into a habit. No, I shall take none to-night! I have thought of
Lucy, and I shall not dishonour her by mixing the two. If need be,
to-night shall be sleepless....

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--Glad I made the resolution; gladder that I kept to it. I had
lain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice, when the
night-watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that Renfield
had escaped. I threw on my clothes and ran down at once; my patient is
too dangerous a person to be roaming about. Those ideas of his might
work out dangerously with strangers. The attendant was waiting for me.
He said he had seen him not ten minutes before, seemingly asleep in his
bed, when he had looked through the observation-trap in the door. His
attention was called by the sound of the window being wrenched out. He
ran back and saw his feet disappear through the window, and had at once
sent up for me. He was only in his night-gear, and cannot be far off.
The attendant thought it would be more useful to watch where he should
go than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst getting out
of the building by the door. He is a bulky man, and couldn't get through
the window. I am thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feet foremost,
and, as we were only a few feet above ground, landed unhurt. The
attendant told me the patient had gone to the left, and had taken a
straight line, so I ran as quickly as I could. As I got through the belt
of trees I saw a white figure scale the high wall which separates our
grounds from those of the deserted house.

I ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four men
immediately and follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case our friend
might be dangerous. I got a ladder myself, and crossing the wall,
dropped down on the other side. I could see Renfield's figure just
disappearing behind the angle of the house, so I ran after him. On the
far side of the house I found him pressed close against the old
ironbound oak door of the chapel. He was talking, apparently to some
one, but I was afraid to go near enough to hear what he was saying, lest
I might frighten him, and he should run off. Chasing an errant swarm of
bees is nothing to following a naked lunatic, when the fit of escaping
is upon him! After a few minutes, however, I could see that he did not
take note of anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearer to
him--the more so as my men had now crossed the wall and were closing him
in. I heard him say:--

"I am here to do Your bidding, Master. I am Your slave, and You will
reward me, for I shall be faithful. I have worshipped You long and afar
off. Now that You are near, I await Your commands, and You will not pass
me by, will You, dear Master, in Your distribution of good things?"

He _is_ a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the loaves and fishes
even when he believes he is in a Real Presence. His manias make a
startling combination. When we closed in on him he fought like a tiger.
He is immensely strong, for he was more like a wild beast than a man. I
never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before; and I hope I
shall not again. It is a mercy that we have found out his strength and
his danger in good time. With strength and determination like his, he
might have done wild work before he was caged. He is safe now at any
rate. Jack Sheppard himself couldn't get free from the strait-waistcoat
that keeps him restrained, and he's chained to the wall in the padded
room. His cries are at times awful, but the silences that follow are
more deadly still, for he means murder in every turn and movement.

Just now he spoke coherent words for the first time:--

"I shall be patient, Master. It is coming--coming--coming!"

So I took the hint, and came too. I was too excited to sleep, but this
diary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get some sleep to-night.

 Utilizing the narrative device of a newspaper clipping , the story of the landing of Count Dracula's ship is presented. The report indicates that the recent storm, one of the worst storms on record, was responsible for the shipwreck of a strange Russian vessel. The article also mentions several observations which indicate the vessel's strange method of navigation; we learn that observers feel that the captain had to be mad because in the midst of the storm the ship's sails were wholly unfurled. Many people who witnessed the approach of the strange vessel were gathered on one of Whitby's piers to await the ship's arrival. By the light of a spotlight, witnesses noticed that "lashed to the helm was a corpse, with drooping head, which swung horribly to and fro" as the ship rocked. As the vessel violently ran aground, "an immense dog sprang up on deck from below," jumped from the ship, and ran off. Upon closer inspection, it was discovered that the man lashed to the wheel had a crucifix clutched in his hand. According to a local doctor, the man had been dead for at least two days. Coast Guard officials discovered a bottle in the dead man's pocket, carefully sealed, which contained a roll of paper. In a newspaper article the next day, it is revealed that the ship, a schooner, was a Russian vessel, one from Varna, called the Demeter. The only cargo on board was a "ballast of silver sand" and "a number of great wooden boxes filled with mould." It is revealed that the cargo was consigned to a Whitby solicitor, Mr. S. F. Billington, who has claimed the boxes. The bizarre circumstances of the ship's arrival have been the talk about town for the last few days, and there has also been some interest as to the whereabouts of the big dog which jumped ashore on the first night. The dog has disappeared, and some citizens are worried that the dog may be dangerous. Reportedly, a half-breed mastiff was found dead, its throat torn out and its belly split open. The narrative continues with excerpts from the Demeter's log. The log begins on the 6th of July, which would be a week after Jonathan Harker's last entry in his journal. According to the log entries, all is calm aboard the ship for several days. On the 16th of July, however, one crew member is found missing, and the log indicates that all the sailors are downcast and anxious. The next day, the 17th of July, a sailor reports seeing a "tall, thin man, who was not like any of the crew, come up the companionway, and go along the deck forward and disappear." Yet no one, upon inspection of the ship, is to be found. Five days later, on the 22nd of July, the ship passes Gibraltar and sails out through the Straits with apparently no further problems. Two days later, however, another man is reported lost, and the remaining men grow panicky and frightened. Five days later, another sailor is missing. On the 30th of July, only the captain, his mate, and two crew members are left. On the 2nd of August, another crew member disappears. At midnight on the next night, the remaining deck hand disappears, and the captain and the mate are the only remaining men aboard. The captain reports that the mate is haggard and close to madness. In a panic, the mate, a Roumanian, hisses, "It is here." The mate thinks that "it" is in the hold, perhaps "in one of the boxes." The mate descends into the hold, only to come flying from the hold moments later, screaming in terror, telling the captain, "He is there. I know the secret now." In despair, the mate throws himself overboard, preferring drowning to a confrontation with "the thing." Since the captain feels that it is his duty to remain with the ship, he vows to tie his hands to the wheel and take the ship to port. At this point, the log ends. The log of the Demeter stirs up a great deal of controversy, and most of the townsfolk regard the captain as a hero. The reporter ends his narration by stating that the great dog has not yet been found. The narrative shifts then to Mina's journal , the day of the great storm. Lucy is still sleepwalking, and Mina has yet to hear from Jonathan. On the 10th of August, Mina indicates that the burial of the sea captain was on this day and that Lucy is very upset about the events of the last few days. In a shocking revelation, we learn that old Mr. Swales was found dead this morning, near the graveyard, at the seat where Lucy and Mina would often visit with him. According to the doctor, the old man must have "fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright" because his neck was broken. Mina's journal for the 10th of August concludes with the observation that Lucy is happy and seems better in body and in spirit than she has for quite some time. The next entry is a few hours later; at 3 A.M., Mina awakened with a horrible sense of fear and discovered that Lucy's bed was empty. After satisfying herself that Lucy was nowhere to be found inside the house, she threw a heavy shawl about herself and headed outdoors to search for Lucy. While searching, it occurred to Mina that Lucy might have gone to their favorite place, the seat on the hill where old Mr. Swales was found. She looked towards the hill where the seat was located and, under the light of a "beautiful moon," she saw on the seat a half-reclining figure, "snowy white." Above the figure, "something dark" was bending over the reclining figure. Mina raced to the spot. When she approached the seat, Mina saw something "long and black" bent over the half reclining figure. Mina called to Lucy in fright, and "the thing raised a head." Mina could see "a white face and red, gleaming eyes." By the time Mina reached the seat, the moonlight was so brilliant that Mina could see that Lucy was alone. It appeared that Lucy was merely asleep, but her breathing was hesitant and coming in long, heavy gasps; then Lucy shuddered and covered her throat with her hand. Mina threw her shawl over Lucy to warm her, and Lucy pulled the shawl up about her neck as though she were cold. Mina accounts for the two puncture wounds in Lucy's throat as the result of pin pricks caused when Mina was trying to pin a shawl around Lucy's exposed neck. Mina then escorts Lucy back home and puts her back to bed. Just before falling asleep, Lucy begs Mina not to tell anyone of the incident. That morning Lucy looks better to Mina than she has for weeks. Mina berates herself for wounding Lucy with the safety pin, for again she notices the two little red pin pricks on Lucy's neck, "and on the band of her nightdress was a drop of blood." Lucy casually laughs off Mina's concern. The rest of the day is spent happily, and Mina expects a restful night. In her journal entry of the next day, however, Mina indicates that her expectations were wrong. Twice that night Mina discovered that Lucy was awake and trying to leave the room. Yet, the next morning, Lucy was, seemingly, the picture of health to Mina. The 13th of August is a quiet day, yet that night Mina discovers Lucy sitting up in bed in a dazed sleep, "pointing to the window." Mina goes to the window, and in the brilliant moonlight she notices "a great bat" flitting about in circles. Evidently the bat is frightened by the sudden appearance of Mina at the window and flies off. The next day at sunset, Mina indicates that she and Lucy spent the day at a favorite spot on the East Cliff, and, at sunset, Lucy made a most unusual remark: "His red eyes again! They are just the same." At the moment when Lucy utters this phrase, Mina notices that Lucy's eyes are directed towards their favorite seat, "whereon was a dark figure seated alone." To Mina, the stranger's eyes appeared for a moment "like burning flames." Later, the two return home and say no more about the incident. After seeing Lucy to bed that night, Mina decided to go for a short stroll. Coming home in the bright moonlight, she glanced up at their bedroom window and noticed Lucy's head leaning out. Mina thought that Lucy was looking for her, but she was not -- Lucy did not even notice Mina. She appeared, in fact, to be fast asleep. Curiously, seated on the window sill next to her was something that looked like a "good sized bird." Running upstairs to the bedroom in a panic, Mina discovered that Lucy was now back in her bed -- asleep, but holding her hand to her throat as if chilled. Mina chooses not to awaken her, yet she notices, much to her dismay, that Lucy looks pale and haggard. Mina attributes this to Lucy's fretting about something. On the next day , Mina notices that Lucy is "languid and tired" and that she slept later than normal. Mina receives a bit of unexpected and shocking news from Mrs. Westenra, Lucy's mother. Mrs. Westenra's doctor has informed her that she has only a few months to live because of a heart condition. Two days later, Mina is despondent. She has had no news from Jonathan yet, and Lucy seems to be growing weaker and weaker by the day. Mina cannot understand Lucy's decline, for she eats well and sleeps well and gets plenty of exercise. Yet at night, Mina has heard her awaken as if gasping for air, and just last night, she found Lucy leaning out of the open window again; Lucy was incredibly weak and her breath came with much difficulty. Inspecting Lucy's throat as she lay asleep, Mina noticed that the puncture wounds had not healed; if anything, they were larger than before and the edges were pale and faintly puckered. "They were like little white dots with red centers." In a letter dated the 17th of August, Mr. S. F. Billington orders the boxes to be delivered to Carfax, near Purfleet, in London. Mina's journal records that Lucy is looking better and slept well the last night. Lucy seems to have come to terms with the night when she was found sleepwalking. Lucy spends most of her time thinking of her fiance, Arthur. Lucy feels that the recent events are like a dream, yet she has a "vague memory of something long and dark with red eyes . . . and something very sweet and very bitter all around, sinking into deep green water." Her "soul seemed to go out from body and float about in the air." She tells Mina there was suddenly "a sort of agonizing feeling." And then Mina woke her. On the 19th of August, Mina receives news of Jonathan -- he is in a hospital in Budapest. Mina intends to leave the next morning to go to Budapest to be with him; Jonathan apparently has been hospitalized because of Bram fever. In a letter from a Sister Agatha, Mina is warned that she should be prepared to spend some time at the hospital, for Jonathan's illness is very serious. The narrative shifts then to Dr. Seward's diary. Renfield, it seems, has had a swift and drastic change in personality. He has periods of excitement, and he acts as if he were a caged animal. He had been respectful, but recently, he has become quite "haughty." He has told Seward that "the Master is at hand." Dr. Seward attributes Renfield's condition to a "religious mania." Renfield's pets are no longer important to him. Later that night, Renfield escapes. Dr. Seward and several attendants follow Renfield to Carfax . Following him onto the grounds, Seward finds Renfield "pressed close against the old iron-bound oak door of the chapel," apparently talking to someone. Renfield is apparently addressing someone whom he calls "Master"; Renfield seems to consider himself a slave. Dr. Seward and the attendants put a restraint on Renfield and return him to his cell. There, Renfield says that he "shall be patient, Master."

