23 September.—Jonathan is better after a bad night. I am so
glad that he has plenty of work to do, for that keeps his mind
off the terrible things; and oh, I am rejoiced that he is not now
weighed down with the responsibility of his new position. I knew
he would be true to himself, and now how proud I am to see my
Jonathan rising to the height of his advancement and keeping
pace in all ways with the duties that come upon him. He will be
away all day till late, for he said he could not lunch at home. My
household work is done, so I shall take his foreign journal, and
lock myself up in my room and read it....
24 September.—I hadn't the heart to write last night; that
terrible record of Jonathan's upset me so. Poor dear! How he
must have suffered, whether it be true or only imagination. I
wonder if there is any truth in it at all. Did he get his brain fever,
and then write all those terrible things, or had he some cause for
it all? I suppose I shall never know, for I dare not open the
subject to him.... And yet that man we saw yesterday! He
seemed quite certain of him....
Poor fellow! I suppose it was the funeral upset him and sent his
mind back on some train of thought.... He believes it all himself.
I remember how on our wedding-day he said: "Unless somesolemn duty come upon me to go back to the bitter hours,
asleep or awake, mad or sane." There seems to be through it all
some thread of continuity.... That fearful Count was coming to
London If
it should be, and he came to London, with his teeming millions....
There may be a solemn duty; and if it come we must not shrink
from it.... I shall be prepared. I shall get my typewriter this very
hour and begin transcribing. Then we shall be ready for other
eyes if required. And if it be wanted; then, perhaps, if I am
ready, poor Jonathan may not be upset, for I can speak for him
and never let him be troubled or worried with it at all. If ever
Jonathan quite gets over the nervousness he may want to tell
me of it all, and I can ask him questions and find out things,
and see how I may comfort him.
Letter, Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker. "24 September.
(Confidence) "Dear Madam,—
"I pray you to pardon my writing, in that I am so far friend as
that I sent to you sad news of Miss Lucy Westenra's death. By
the kindness of Lord Godalming, I am empowered to read her
letters and papers, for I am deeply concerned about certain
matters vitally important. In them I find some letters from you,
which show how great friends you were and how you love her.
Oh, Madam Mina, by that love, I implore you, help me. It is for
others' good that I ask—to redress great wrong, and to liftmuch and terrible troubles—that may be more great than you
can know. May it be that I see you? You can trust me. I am
friend of Dr. John Seward and of Lord Godalming (that was
Arthur of Miss Lucy). I must keep it private for the present from
all. I should come to Exeter to see you at once if you tell me I
am privilege to come, and where and when. I implore your
pardon, madam. I have read your letters to poor Lucy, and
know how good you are and how your husband suffer; so I pray
you, if it may be, enlighten him not, lest it may harm. Again your
pardon, and forgive me.
"Van Helsing."
Telegram, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing.
"25 September.—Come to-day by quarter-past ten train if you
can catch it.
Can see you any time you call. "Wilhelmina Harker."
MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL.
25 September.—I cannot help feeling terribly excited as the
time draws near for the visit of Dr. Van Helsing, for somehow I
expect that it will throw some light upon Jonathan's sad
experience; and as he attended poor dear Lucy in her last
illness, he can tell me all about her. That is the reason of his
coming; it is concerning Lucy and her sleep-walking, and not
about Jonathan. Then I shall never know the real truth now!
How silly I am. That awful journal gets hold of my imagination
and tinges everything with something of its own colour. Ofcourse it is about Lucy. That habit came back to the poor dear,
and that awful night on the cliff must have made her ill. I had
almost forgotten in my own affairs how ill she was afterwards.
She must have told him of her sleep-walking adventure on the
cliff, and that I knew all about it; and now he wants me to tell
him what she knows, so that he may understand. I hope I did
right in not saying anything of it to Mrs. Westenra; I should
never forgive myself if any act of mine, were it even a negative
one, brought harm on poor dear Lucy. I hope, too, Dr. Van
Helsing will not blame me; I have had so much trouble and
anxiety of late that I feel I cannot bear more just at present.
I suppose a cry does us all good at times—clears the air as
other rain does. Perhaps it was reading the journal yesterday
that upset me, and then Jonathan
went away this morning to stay away from me a whole day and
night, the first time we have been parted since our marriage. I
do hope the dear fellow will take care of himself, and that
nothing will occur to upset him. It is two o'clock, and the doctor
will be here soon now. I shall say nothing of Jonathan's journal
unless he asks me. I am so glad I have type-written out my own
journal, so that, in case he asks about Lucy, I can hand it to
him; it will save much questioning.
Later.—He has come and gone. Oh, what a strange meeting,
and how it all makes my head whirl round! I feel like one in adream. Can it be all possible, or even a part of it? If I had not
read Jonathan's journal first, I should never have accepted
even a possibility. Poor, poor, dear Jonathan! How he must
have suffered. Please the good God, all this may not upset him
again. I shall try to save him from it; but it may be even a
consolation and a help to him—terrible though it be and awful in
its consequences—to know for certain that his eyes and ears
and brain did not deceive him, and that it is all true. It may be
that it is the doubt which haunts him; that when the doubt is
removed, no matter which—waking or dreaming—may prove
the truth, he will be more satisfied and better able to bear the
shock. Dr. Van Helsing must be a good man as well as a clever
one if he is Arthur's friend and Dr. Seward's, and if they brought
him all the way from Holland to look after Lucy. I feel from
having seen him that he is good and kind and of a noble nature.
When he comes to-morrow I shall ask him about Jonathan; and
then, please God, all this sorrow and anxiety may lead to a
good end. I used to think I would like to practise interviewing;
Jonathan's friend on "The Exeter News" told him that memory
was everything in such work—that you must be able to put
down exactly almost every word spoken, even if you had to
refine some of it afterwards. Here was a rare interview; I shall
try to record it verbatim.
It was half-past two o'clock when the knock came. I took my
courage à deux mains and waited. In a few minutes Mary
opened the door, and announced "Dr. Van Helsing."I rose and bowed, and he came towards me; a man of medium
weight, strongly built, with his shoulders set back over a broad,
deep chest and a neck well balanced on the trunk as the head is
on the neck. The poise of the head strikes one at once as
indicative of thought and power; the head is noble, well- sized,
broad, and large behind the ears. The face, clean-shaven, shows
a hard, square chin, a large, resolute, mobile mouth, a good-
sized nose, rather straight, but with quick, sensitive nostrils, that
seem to broaden as the big, bushy brows come down and the
mouth tightens. The forehead is broad and fine, rising at first
almost straight and then sloping back above two bumps or
ridges wide apart; such a forehead that the reddish hair cannot
possibly tumble over it, but falls naturally back and to the sides.
Big, dark blue eyes are set widely apart,
and are quick and tender or stern with the man's moods. He
said to me:— "Mrs. Harker, is it not?" I bowed assent.
"That was Miss Mina Murray?" Again I assented.
"It is Mina Murray that I came to see that was friend of that
poor dear child Lucy Westenra. Madam Mina, it is on account of
the dead I come."
"Sir," I said, "you could have no better claim on me than that
you were a friend and helper of Lucy Westenra." And I held out
my hand. He took it and said tenderly:—"Oh, Madam Mina, I knew that the friend of that poor lily girl
must be good, but I had yet to learn——" He finished his speech
with a courtly bow. I asked him what it was that he wanted to
see me about, so he at once began:—
"I have read your letters to Miss Lucy. Forgive me, but I had to
begin to inquire somewhere, and there was none to ask. I know
that you were with her at Whitby. She sometimes kept a diary—
you need not look surprised, Madam Mina; it was begun after
you had left, and was in imitation of you—and in that diary she
traces by inference certain things to a sleep-walking in which
she puts down that you saved her. In great perplexity then I
come to you, and ask you out of your so much kindness to tell
me all of it that you can remember."
"I can tell you, I think, Dr. Van Helsing, all about it."
"Ah, then you have good memory for facts, for details? It is not
always so with young ladies."
"No, doctor, but I wrote it all down at the time. I can show it to
you if you like."
"Oh, Madam Mina, I will be grateful; you will do me much
favour." I could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a
bit—I suppose it is some of the taste of the original apple that
remains still in our mouths—so I handed him the shorthand
diary. He took it with a grateful bow, and said:—
"May I read it?""If you wish," I answered as demurely as I could. He opened it,
and for an instant his face fell. Then he stood up and bowed.
"Oh, you so clever woman!" he said. "I knew long that Mr.
Jonathan was a man of much thankfulness; but see, his wife
have all the good things. And will you not so much honour me
and so help me as to read it for me? Alas! I know not the
shorthand." By this time my little joke was over, and I was
almost ashamed; so I took the typewritten copy from my
workbasket and handed it to him.
"Forgive me," I said: "I could not help it; but I had been thinking
that it was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you
might not have time to wait—not on my account, but because I
know your time must be precious— I have written it out on the
typewriter for you."
He took it and his eyes glistened. "You are so good," he said.
"And may I read it now? I may want to ask you some things
when I have read."
"By all means," I said, "read it over whilst I order lunch; and
then you can ask me questions whilst we eat." He bowed and
settled himself in a chair with his back to the light, and became
absorbed in the papers, whilst I went to see after lunch chiefly
in order that he might not be disturbed. When I came back, I
found him walking hurriedly up and down the room, his face allablaze with excitement. He rushed up to me and took me by
both hands.
"Oh, Madam Mina," he said, "how can I say what I owe to you?
This paper is as sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I am daze, I
am dazzle, with so much light, and yet clouds roll in behind the
light every time. But that you do not, cannot, comprehend. Oh,
but I am grateful to you, you so clever woman. Madam"—he
said this very solemnly—"if ever Abraham Van Helsing can do
anything for you or yours, I trust you will let me know. It will be
pleasure and delight if I may serve you as a friend; as a friend,
but all I have ever learned, all I can ever do, shall be for you
and those you love. There are darknesses in life, and there are
lights; you are one of the lights. You will have happy life and
good life, and your husband will be blessed in you."
"But, doctor, you praise me too much, and—and you do not
know me." "Not know you—I, who am old, and who have
studied all my life men and
women; I, who have made my specialty the brain and all that
belongs to him
and all that follow from him! And I have read your diary that
you have so goodly written for me, and which breathes out truth
in every line. I, who have read your so sweet letter to poor Lucy
of your marriage and your trust, not know you! Oh, Madam
Mina, good women tell all their lives, and by day and by hour
and by minute, such things that angels can read; and we menwho wish to know have in us something of angels' eyes. Your
husband is noble nature, and you are noble too, for you trust,
and trust cannot be where there is mean nature. And your
husband—tell me of him. Is he quite well? Is all that fever gone,
and is he strong and hearty?" I saw here an opening to ask him
about Jonathan, so I said:—
"He was almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by Mr.
Hawkins's death." He interrupted:—
"Oh, yes, I know, I know. I have read your last two letters." I
went on:—
"I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on
Thursday last he
had a sort of shock."
"A shock, and after brain fever so soon! That was not good.
What kind of a shock was it?"
"He thought he saw some one who recalled something terrible,
something which led to his brain fever." And here the whole
thing seemed to overwhelm me in a rush. The pity for Jonathan,
the horror which he experienced, the whole fearful mystery of
his diary, and the fear that has been brooding over me ever
since, all came in a tumult. I suppose I was hysterical, for I
threw myself on my knees and held up my hands to him, and
implored him to make my husband well again. He took myhands and raised me up, and made me sit on the sofa, and sat
by me; he held my hand in his, and said to me with, oh, such
infinite sweetness:—
"My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that I
have not had much time for friendships; but since I have been
summoned to here by my friend John Seward I have known so
many good people and seen such nobility that I feel more than
ever—and it has grown with my advancing years—the loneliness
of my life. Believe, me, then, that I come here full of respect for
you, and you have given me hope—hope, not in what I am
seeking of, but that there are good women still left to make life
happy—good women, whose lives and whose truths may make
good lesson for the children that are to be. I am glad, glad, that
I may here be of some use to you; for if your husband suffer, he
suffer within the range of my study and experience. I promise
you that I will gladly do all for him that I can—all to make his
life strong and manly, and your life a happy one. Now you must
eat. You are overwrought and perhaps over-anxious. Husband
Jonathan would not like to see you so pale; and what he like not
where he love, is not to his good. Therefore for his sake you
must eat and smile. You have told me all about Lucy, and so
now we shall not speak of it, lest it distress. I shall stay in Exeter
to-night, for I want to think much over what you have told me,
and when I have thought I will ask you questions, if I may. And
then, too, you will tell me of husband Jonathan's trouble so faras you can, but not yet. You must eat now; afterwards you shall
tell me all."
After lunch, when we went back to the drawing-room, he said to
me:— "And now tell me all about him." When it came to
speaking to this great
learned man, I began to fear that he would think me a weak
fool, and Jonathan
a madman—that journal is all so strange—and I hesitated to go
on. But he was so sweet and kind, and he had promised to help,
and I trusted him, so I said:—
"Dr. Van Helsing, what I have to tell you is so queer that you
must not laugh at me or at my husband. I have been since
yesterday in a sort of fever of doubt; you must be kind to me,
and not think me foolish that I have even half believed some
very strange things." He reassured me by his manner as well as
his words when he said:—
"Oh, my dear, if you only know how strange is the matter
regarding which I am here, it is you who would laugh. I have
learned not to think little of any one's belief, no matter how
strange it be. I have tried to keep an open mind; and it is not
the ordinary things of life that could close it, but the strange
things, the extraordinary things, the things that make one doubt
if they be mad or sane.""Thank you, thank you, a thousand times! You have taken a
weight off my mind. If you will let me, I shall give you a paper
to read. It is long, but I have typewritten it out. It will tell you
my trouble and Jonathan's. It is the copy of his journal when
abroad, and all that happened. I dare not say anything of it;
you will read for yourself and judge. And then when I see you,
perhaps, you will be very kind and tell me what you think."
"I promise," he said as I gave him the papers; "I shall in the
morning, so soon as I can, come to see you and your husband,
if I may."
"Jonathan will be here at half-past eleven, and you must come
to lunch with us and see him then; you could catch the quick
3:34 train, which will leave you at Paddington before eight." He
was surprised at my knowledge of the trains off-hand, but he
does not know that I have made up all the trains to and from
Exeter, so that I may help Jonathan in case he is in a hurry.
So he took the papers with him and went away, and I sit here
thinking— thinking I don't know what.
Letter (by hand), Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker. "25 September, 6
o'clock.
"Dear Madam Mina,—
"I have read your husband's so wonderful diary. You may sleep
without doubt. Strange and terrible as it is, it is true! I will
pledge my life on it. It may be worse for others; but for him and
you there is no dread. He is a noble fellow; and let me tell youfrom experience of men, that one who would do as he did in
going down that wall and to that room—ay, and going a second
time
—is not one to be injured in permanence by a shock. His brain
and his heart are all right; this I swear, before I have even seen
him; so be at rest. I shall have much to ask him of other things. I
am blessed that to-day I come to see you, for I have learn all at
once so much that again I am dazzle—dazzle more than ever,
and I must think.
"Yours the most faithful, "Abraham Van Helsing."
Letter, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing. "25 September, 6:30 p. m.
"My dear Dr. Van Helsing,—
"A thousand thanks for your kind letter, which has taken a great
weight off my mind. And yet, if it be true, what terrible things
there are in the world, and what an awful thing if that man, that
monster, be really in London! I fear to think. I have this moment,
whilst writing, had a wire from Jonathan, saying that he leaves
by the 6:25 to-night from Launceston and will be here at 10:18,
so that I shall have no fear to-night. Will you, therefore, instead
of lunching with us, please come to breakfast at eight o'clock, if
this be not too early for you? You can get away, if you are in a
hurry, by the 10:30 train, which will bring you to Paddington by
2:35. Do not answer this, as I shall take it that, if I do not hear,
you will come to breakfast."Believe me,
"Your faithful and grateful friend, "Mina Harker."
Jonathan Harker's Journal.
26 September.—I thought never to write in this diary again,
but the time has come. When I got home last night Mina had
supper ready, and when we had supped she told me of Van
Helsing's visit, and of her having given him the two diaries
copied out, and of how anxious she has been about me. She
showed me in the doctor's letter that all I wrote down was true.
It seems to have made a new man of me. It was the doubt as
to the reality of the whole thing that knocked me over. I felt
impotent, and in the dark, and distrustful. But, now that I know,
I am not afraid, even of the Count. He has succeeded after all,
then, in his design in getting to London, and it was he I saw. He
has got younger, and how? Van Helsing is the man to unmask
him and hunt him out, if he is anything like what Mina says. We
sat late, and talked it all over. Mina is dressing, and I shall call
at the hotel in a few minutes and bring him over....
He was, I think, surprised to see me. When I came into the room
where he was, and introduced myself, he took me by the
shoulder, and turned my face round to the light, and said, after
a sharp scrutiny:—
"But Madam Mina told me you were ill, that you had had a
shock." It was so funny to hear my wife called "Madam Mina"
by this kindly, strong-faced old man. I smiled, and said:—"I was ill, I have had a shock; but you have cured me already."
"And how?"
"By your letter to Mina last night. I was in doubt, and then
everything took a hue of unreality, and I did not know what to
trust, even the evidence of my own senses. Not knowing what to
trust, I did not know what to do; and so had only to keep on
working in what had hitherto been the groove of my life. The
groove ceased to avail me, and I mistrusted myself. Doctor, you
don't know what it is to doubt everything, even yourself. No, you
don't; you couldn't with eyebrows like yours." He seemed
pleased, and laughed as he said:—
"So! You are physiognomist. I learn more here with each hour. I
am with so much pleasure coming to you to breakfast; and, oh,
sir, you will pardon praise from an old man, but you are blessed
in your wife." I would listen to him go on praising Mina for a
day, so I simply nodded and stood silent.
"She is one of God's women, fashioned by His own hand to
show us men and other women that there is a heaven where we
can enter, and that its light can be here on earth. So true, so
sweet, so noble, so little an egoist—and that, let me tell you, is
much in this age, so sceptical and selfish. And you, sir—I have
read all the letters to poor Miss Lucy, and some of them speak
of you, so I know you since some days from the knowing of
others; but I have seen your true self since last night. You will"To believe in things that you cannot. Let me illustrate. I heard
once of an American who so defined faith: 'that faculty which
enables us to believe things which we know to be untrue.' For
one, I follow that man. He meant that we shall have an open
mind, and not let a little bit of truth check the rush of a big truth,
like a small rock does a railway truck. We get the small truth
first. Good! We keep him, and we value him; but all the same we
must not let him think himself all the truth in the universe."
"Then you want me not to let some previous conviction injure
the receptivity of my mind with regard to some strange matter.
Do I read your lesson aright?"
"Ah, you are my favourite pupil still. It is worth to teach you.
Now that you are willing to understand, you have taken the first
step to understand. You think then that those so small holes in
the children's throats were made by the same that made the
hole in Miss Lucy?"
"I suppose so." He stood up and said solemnly:—
"Then you are wrong. Oh, would it were so! but alas! no. It is
worse, far, far worse."
"In God's name, Professor Van Helsing, what do you mean?" I
cried.
He threw himself with a despairing gesture into a chair, and
placed his elbows on the table, covering his face with his hands
as he spoke:—"They were made by Miss Lucy!"