Dracula

CHAPTER VIII

MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL

_Same day, 11 o'clock p. m._--Oh, but I am tired! If it were not that Ihad made my diary a duty I should not open it to-night. We had a lovelywalk. Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing, I think, to somedear cows who came nosing towards us in a field close to the lighthouse,and frightened the wits out of us. I believe we forgot everythingexcept, of course, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe the slate cleanand give us a fresh start. We had a capital ”severe tea” at Robin Hood'sBay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a bow-window right overthe seaweed-covered rocks of the strand. I believe we should haveshocked the ”New Woman” with our appetites. Men are more tolerant, blessthem! 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 wasreally 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 stayfor supper. Lucy and I had both a fight for it with the dusty miller; Iknow it was a hard fight on my part, and I am quite heroic. I think thatsome day the bishops must get together and see about breeding up a newclass of curates, who don't take supper, no matter how they may bepressed to, and who will know when girls are tired. Lucy is asleep andbreathing softly. She has more colour in her cheeks than usual, andlooks, oh, so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in love with her seeing heronly 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 andwomen should be allowed to see each other asleep before proposing oraccepting. But I suppose the New Woman won't condescend in future toaccept; she will do the proposing herself. And a nice job she will makeof 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 thecorner, and that we are over her troubles with dreaming. I should bequite 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 anagonising 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 fearupon 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 bedwas empty. I lit a match and found that she was not in the room. Thedoor was shut, but not locked, as I had left it. I feared to wake hermother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw on someclothes and got ready to look for her. As I was leaving the room itstruck me that the clothes she wore might give me some clue to herdreaming intention. Dressing-gown would mean house; dress, outside.Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places. ”Thank God,” I saidto myself, ”she cannot be far, as she is only in her nightdress.” I randownstairs and looked in the sitting-room. Not there! Then I looked inall the other open rooms of the house, with an ever-growing fearchilling my heart. Finally I came to the hall door and found it open. Itwas not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not caught. The peopleof the house are careful to lock the door every night, so I feared thatLucy must have gone out as she was. There was no time to think of whatmight happen; a vague, overmastering fear obscured all details. I took abig, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was striking one as I was in theCrescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I ran along the NorthTerrace, but could see no sign of the white figure which I expected. Atthe edge of the West Cliff above the pier I looked across the harbour tothe East Cliff, in the hope or fear--I don't know which--of seeing Lucyin our favourite seat. There was a bright full moon, with heavy black,driving clouds, which threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama oflight and shade as they sailed across. For a moment or two I could seenothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary's Church and allaround it. Then as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of the abbeycoming into view; and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharp asa sword-cut moved along, the church and the churchyard became graduallyvisible. Whatever my expectation was, it was not disappointed, forthere, on our favourite seat, the silver light of the moon struck ahalf-reclining figure, snowy white. The coming of the cloud was tooquick for me to see much, for shadow shut down on light almostimmediately; but it seemed to me as though something dark stood behindthe 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 anotherglance, but flew down the steep steps to the pier and along by thefish-market to the bridge, which was the only way to reach the EastCliff. The town seemed as dead, for not a soul did I see; I rejoicedthat it was so, for I wanted no witness of poor Lucy's condition. Thetime and distance seemed endless, and my knees trembled and my breathcame laboured as I toiled up the endless steps to the abbey. I must havegone fast, and yet it seemed to me as if my feet were weighted withlead, and as though every joint in my body were rusty. When I got almostto the top I could see the seat and the white figure, for I was nowclose enough to distinguish it even through the spells of shadow. Therewas undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over thehalf-reclining white figure. I called in fright, ”Lucy! Lucy!” andsomething raised a head, and from where I was I could see a white faceand red, gleaming eyes. Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to theentrance of the churchyard. As I entered, the church was between me andthe seat, and for a minute or so I lost sight of her. When I came inview again the cloud had passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantlythat I could see Lucy half reclining with her head lying over the backof the seat. She was quite alone, and there was not a sign of any livingthing about.

When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her lipswere parted, and she was breathing--not softly as usual with her, but inlong, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs full at everybreath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her sleep and pulled thecollar of her nightdress close around her throat. Whilst she did sothere came a little shudder through her, as though she felt the cold. Iflung 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 tohave my hands free that I might help her, I fastened the shawl at herthroat with a big safety-pin; but I must have been clumsy in my anxietyand pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her breathingbecame quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and moaned. When Ihad her carefully wrapped up I put my shoes on her feet and then beganvery gently to wake her. At first she did not respond; but gradually shebecame more and more uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighingoccasionally. At last, as time was passing fast, and, for many otherreasons, 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 surprisedto 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 musthave been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled at wakingunclad in a churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace. Shetrembled a little, and clung to me; when I told her to come at once withme home she rose without a word, with the obedience of a child. As wepassed along, the gravel hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince. Shestopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes; but I would not.However, when we got to the pathway outside the churchyard, where therewas a puddle of water, remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet withmud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we went home, noone, 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 sawa man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a street in front ofus; but we hid in a door till he had disappeared up an opening such asthere are here, steep little closes, or ”wynds,” as they call them inScotland. My heart beat so loud all the time that sometimes I thought Ishould faint. I was filled with anxiety about Lucy, not only for herhealth, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her reputationin case the story should get wind. When we got in, and had washed ourfeet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, I tucked her intobed. Before falling asleep she asked--even implored--me not to say aword to any one, even her mother, about her sleep-walking adventure. Ihesitated at first to promise; but on thinking of the state of hermother'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 doso. I hope I did right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied tomy wrist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is sleepingsoundly; 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 seemednot to have even changed her side. The adventure of the night does notseem to have harmed her; on the contrary, it has benefited her, for shelooks better this morning than she has done for weeks. I was sorry tonotice that my clumsiness with the safety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it mighthave been serious, for the skin of her throat was pierced. I must havepinched up a piece of loose skin and have transfixed it, for there aretwo little red points like pin-pricks, and on the band of her nightdresswas a drop of blood. When I apologised and was concerned about it, shelaughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it. Fortunately itcannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny.

* * * * *

_Same day, night._--We passed a happy day. The air was clear, and thesun bright, and there was a cool breeze. We took our lunch to MulgraveWoods, Mrs. Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I walking by thecliff-path and joining her at the gate. I felt a little sad myself, forI could not but feel how _absolutely_ happy it would have been hadJonathan been with me. But there! I must only be patient. In the eveningwe strolled in the Casino Terrace, and heard some good music by Spohrand Mackenzie, and went to bed early. Lucy seems more restful than shehas been for some time, and fell asleep at once. I shall lock the doorand secure the key the same as before, though I do not expect anytrouble to-night.

* * * * *

_12 August._--My expectations were wrong, for twice during the night Iwas wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in her sleep, tobe a little impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bedunder a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and heard the birdschirping 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 ofmanner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled in beside meand told me all about Arthur. I told her how anxious I was aboutJonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she succeededsomewhat, for, though sympathy can't alter facts, it can help to makethem more bearable.

* * * * *

_13 August._--Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist asbefore. Again I awoke in the night, and found Lucy sitting up in bed,still asleep, pointing to the window. I got up quietly, and pullingaside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant moonlight, and the softeffect of the light over the sea and sky--merged together in one great,silent mystery--was beautiful beyond words. Between me and the moonlightflitted a great bat, coming and going in great whirling circles. Once ortwice it came quite close, but was, I suppose, frightened at seeing me,and flitted away across the harbour towards the abbey. When I came backfrom 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 seemsto have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it is hard toget her away from it when it is time to come home for lunch or tea ordinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We were coming home fordinner, and had come to the top of the steps up from the West Pier andstopped to look at the view, as we generally do. The setting sun, lowdown in the sky, was just dropping behind Kettleness; the red light wasthrown over on the East Cliff and the old abbey, and seemed to batheeverything in a beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a while, andsuddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself:--

”His red eyes again! They are just the same.” It was such an oddexpression, coming _apropos_ of nothing, that it quite startled me. Islewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without seeming to stareat her, and saw that she was in a half-dreamy state, with an odd look onher face that I could not quite make out; so I said nothing, butfollowed 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 likeburning flames; but a second look dispelled the illusion. The redsunlight was shining on the windows of St. Mary's Church behind ourseat, and as the sun dipped there was just sufficient change in therefraction and reflection to make it appear as if the light moved. Icalled Lucy's attention to the peculiar effect, and she became herselfwith a start, but she looked sad all the same; it may have been that shewas thinking of that terrible night up there. We never refer to it; so Isaid nothing, and we went home to dinner. Lucy had a headache and wentearly 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 sweetsadness, for I was thinking of Jonathan. When coming home--it was thenbright moonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part of theCrescent was in shadow, everything could be well seen--I threw a glanceup at our window, and saw Lucy's head leaning out. I thought thatperhaps she was looking out for me, so I opened my handkerchief andwaved it. She did not notice or make any movement whatever. Just then,the moonlight crept round an angle of the building, and the light fellon the window. There distinctly was Lucy with her head lying up againstthe side of the window-sill and her eyes shut. She was fast asleep, andby her, seated on the window-sill, was something that looked like agood-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, fastasleep, 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 thedoor is locked and the window securely fastened.

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

* * * * *

_15 August._--Rose later than usual. Lucy was languid and tired, andslept 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. Lucyis full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad and sorry at once. Later onin the day she told me the cause. She is grieved to lose Lucy as hervery own, but she is rejoiced that she is soon to have some one toprotect her. Poor dear, sweet lady! She confided to me that she has gother 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, forher heart is weakening. At any time, even now, a sudden shock would bealmost sure to kill her. Ah, we were wise to keep from her the affair ofthe dreadful night of Lucy's sleep-walking.

* * * * *

_17 August._--No diary for two whole days. I have not had the heart towrite. Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our happiness.No news from Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be growing weaker, whilst hermother's hours are numbering to a close. I do not understand Lucy'sfading away as she is doing. She eats well and sleeps well, and enjoysthe fresh air; but all the time the roses in her cheeks are fading, andshe gets weaker and more languid day by day; at night I hear her gaspingas if for air. I keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist atnight, but she gets up and walks about the room, and sits at the openwindow. Last night I found her leaning out when I woke up, and when Itried to wake her I could not; she was in a faint. When I managed torestore 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 thewindow she shook her head and turned away. I trust her feeling ill maynot be from that unlucky prick of the safety-pin. I looked at her throatjust 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 theedges of them are faintly white. They are like little white dots withred centres. Unless they heal within a day or two, I shall insist on thedoctor 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 NorthernRailway. Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near Purfleet, immediatelyon 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 theconsignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of the houseand marked 'A' on rough diagram enclosed. Your agent will easilyrecognise the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. Thegoods leave by the train at 9:30 to-night, and will be due at King'sCross at 4:30 to-morrow afternoon. As our client wishes the deliverymade as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by your having teams readyat King's Cross at the time named and forthwith conveying the goods todestination. In order to obviate any delays possible through any routinerequirements as to payment in your departments, we enclose chequeherewith for ten pounds (L10), receipt of which please acknowledge.Should the charge be less than this amount, you can return balance; ifgreater, we shall at once send cheque for difference on hearing fromyou. You are to leave the keys on coming away in the main hall of thehouse, where the proprietor may get them on his entering the house bymeans of his duplicate key.

”Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business courtesy inpressing 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 aredelivered in exact accordance with instructions, and keys left in parcelin 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 thechurchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last night she slept well allnight, and did not disturb me once. The roses seem coming back alreadyto her cheeks, though she is still sadly pale and wan-looking. If shewere in any way anaemic I could understand it, but she is not. She is ingay spirits and full of life and cheerfulness. All the morbid reticenceseems to have passed from her, and she has just reminded me, as if Ineeded any reminding, of _that_ night, and that it was here, on thisvery seat, I found her asleep. As she told me she tapped playfully withthe 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 upGeordie.” As she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her if shehad dreamed at all that night. Before she answered, that sweet, puckeredlook came into her forehead, which Arthur--I call him Arthur from herhabit--says he loves; and, indeed, I don't wonder that he does. Then shewent on in a half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it toherself:--

”I didn't quite dream; but it all seemed to be real. I only wanted to behere in this spot--I don't know why, for I was afraid of something--Idon't know what. I remember, though I suppose I was asleep, passingthrough the streets and over the bridge. A fish leaped as I went by, andI leaned over to look at it, and I heard a lot of dogs howling--thewhole town seemed as if it must be full of dogs all howling at once--asI went up the steps. Then I had a vague memory of something long anddark with red eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and something verysweet and very bitter all around me at once; and then I seemed sinkinginto deep green water, and there was a singing in my ears, as I haveheard there is to drowning men; and then everything seemed passing awayfrom 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 anearthquake, and I came back and found you shaking my body. I saw you doit before I felt you.”

Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and Ilistened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and thought itbetter not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to othersubjects, and Lucy was like her old self again. When we got home thefresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were really morerosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a veryhappy evening together.

* * * * *

_19 August._--Joy, joy, joy! although not all joy. At last, news ofJonathan. The dear fellow has been ill; that is why he did not write. Iam not afraid to think it or say it, now that I know. Mr. Hawkins sentme on the letter, and wrote himself, oh, so kindly. I am to leave in themorning 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 ifwe were to be married out there. I have cried over the good Sister'sletter till I can feel it wet against my bosom, where it lies. It is ofJonathan, and must be next my heart, for he is _in_ my heart. My journeyis all mapped out, and my luggage ready. I am only taking one change ofdress; Lucy will bring my trunk to London and keep it till I send forit, for it may be that ... I must write no more; I must keep it to sayto Jonathan, my husband. The letter that he has seen and touched mustcomfort 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 strongenough to write, though progressing well, thanks to God and St. Josephand 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 hisdelay, and that all of his work is completed. He will require some fewweeks' rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but will then return. Hewishes me to say that he has not sufficient money with him, and that hewould like to pay for his staying here, so that others who need shallnot 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 somethingmore. He has told me all about you, and that you are shortly to be hiswife. All blessings to you both! He has had some fearful shock--so saysour doctor--and in his delirium his ravings have been dreadful; ofwolves and poison and blood; of ghosts and demons; and I fear to say ofwhat. Be careful with him always that there may be nothing to excite himof this kind for a long time to come; the traces of such an illness ashis do not lightly die away. We should have written long ago, but weknew nothing of his friends, and there was on him nothing that any onecould understand. He came in the train from Klausenburg, and the guardwas told by the station-master there that he rushed into the stationshouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from his violent demeanour thathe was English, they gave him a ticket for the furthest station on theway thither that the train reached.

”Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all hearts by hissweetness and gentleness. He is truly getting on well, and I have nodoubt will in a few weeks be all himself. But be careful of him forsafety'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. Abouteight o'clock he began to get excited and sniff about as a dog does whensetting. The attendant was struck by his manner, and knowing my interestin him, encouraged him to talk. He is usually respectful to theattendant and at times servile; but to-night, the man tells me, he wasquite haughty. Would not condescend to talk with him at all. All hewould 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 hasseized him. If so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong man withhomicidal and religious mania at once might be dangerous. Thecombination is a dreadful one. At nine o'clock I visited him myself. Hisattitude to me was the same as that to the attendant; in his sublimeself-feeling the difference between myself and attendant seemed to himas nothing. It looks like religious mania, and he will soon think thathe himself is God. These infinitesimal distinctions between man and manare too paltry for an Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give themselvesaway! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall; but the God createdfrom 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 andgreater degree. I did not pretend to be watching him, but I kept strictobservation all the same. All at once that shifty look came into hiseyes which we always see when a madman has seized an idea, and with itthe shifty movement of the head and back which asylum attendants come toknow so well. He became quite quiet, and went and sat on the edge of hisbed resignedly, and looked into space with lack-lustre eyes. I thought Iwould find out if his apathy were real or only assumed, and tried tolead him to talk of his pets, a theme which had never failed to excitehis 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 aboutspiders?” (Spiders at present are his hobby and the note-book is fillingup 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 eyesthat are filled.”

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

I am weary to-night and low in spirits. I cannot but think of Lucy, andhow 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 letit grow into a habit. No, I shall take none to-night! I have thought ofLucy, 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 hadlain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice, when thenight-watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that Renfieldhad escaped. I threw on my clothes and ran down at once; my patient istoo dangerous a person to be roaming about. Those ideas of his mightwork out dangerously with strangers. The attendant was waiting for me.He said he had seen him not ten minutes before, seemingly asleep in hisbed, when he had looked through the observation-trap in the door. Hisattention was called by the sound of the window being wrenched out. Heran back and saw his feet disappear through the window, and had at oncesent 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 shouldgo than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst getting outof the building by the door. He is a bulky man, and couldn't get throughthe 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. Theattendant told me the patient had gone to the left, and had taken astraight line, so I ran as quickly as I could. As I got through the beltof trees I saw a white figure scale the high wall which separates ourgrounds from those of the deserted house.

I ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four menimmediately and follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case our friendmight be dangerous. I got a ladder myself, and crossing the wall,dropped down on the other side. I could see Renfield's figure justdisappearing behind the angle of the house, so I ran after him. On thefar side of the house I found him pressed close against the oldironbound oak door of the chapel. He was talking, apparently to someone, but I was afraid to go near enough to hear what he was saying, lestI might frighten him, and he should run off. Chasing an errant swarm ofbees is nothing to following a naked lunatic, when the fit of escapingis upon him! After a few minutes, however, I could see that he did nottake note of anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearer tohim--the more so as my men had now crossed the wall and were closing himin. I heard him say:--

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

He _is_ a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the loaves and fisheseven when he believes he is in a Real Presence. His manias make astartling 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. Inever saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before; and I hope Ishall not again. It is a mercy that we have found out his strength andhis danger in good time. With strength and determination like his, hemight have done wild work before he was caged. He is safe now at anyrate. Jack Sheppard himself couldn't get free from the strait-waistcoatthat keeps him restrained, and he's chained to the wall in the paddedroom. His cries are at times awful, but the silences that follow aremore 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 thisdiary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get some sleep to-night.