CHAPTER VIII.
/Mina Murray's Journal./
_Same day, 11 o'clock p.m._--Oh, but I am tired! If it were not thatI have made my diary a duty I should not open it to-night. We had alovely 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 thelighthouse, and frightened the wits out of us. I believe we forgoteverything, except, of course, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe theslate clean and give us a fresh start. We had a capital "severe tea" atRobin Hood's Bay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a bow-windowright over the seaweed-covered rocks of the strand. I believe we shouldhave shocked the "New Woman" with our appetites. Men are more tolerant,bless them! Then we walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages torest, and with our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls. Lucywas really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as soon as wecould. The young curate came in, however, and Mrs. Westenra asked himto stay for supper. Lucy and I had both a fight for it with the dustymiller; I know it was a hard fight on my part, and I am quite heroic. Ithink that some day the bishops must get together and see about breedingup a new class of curates, who don't take supper, no matter how they maybe pressed to, and who will know when girls are tired. Lucy is asleepand breathing 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 offear upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness around me. The room wasdark, 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 theroom. The door was shut, but not locked, as I had left it. I feared towake her mother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw onsome clothes and got ready to look for her. As I was leaving the roomit struck 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 lookedin all 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.It was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not caught. Thepeople of the house are careful to lock the door every night, so Ifeared that Lucy must have gone out as she was. There was no time tothink of what might happen; a vague, overmastering fear obscured alldetails. I took a big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was strikingone as I was in the Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I ranalong the North Terrace, but could see no sign of the white figurewhich I expected. At the edge of the West Cliff above the pier I lookedacross the harbour to the East Cliff, in the hope or fear--I don't knowwhich--of seeing Lucy in our favourite seat. There was a bright fullmoon, with heavy black, driving clouds, which threw the whole sceneinto a fleeting diorama of light and shade as they sailed across. For amoment or two I could see nothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscuredSt. Mary's Church and all around it. Then as the cloud passed I couldsee the ruins of the Abbey coming into view; and as the edge of a narrowband of light as sharp as a sword-cut moved along, the church and thechurchyard became gradually visible. Whatever my expectation was, it wasnot disappointed, for there, on our favourite seat, the silver light ofthe moon struck a half-reclining figure, snowy white. The coming of thecloud was too quick for me to see much, for shadow shut down on lightalmost immediately; but it seemed to me as though something dark stoodbehind the seat where the white figure shone, and bent over it. What itwas, whether man or beast, I could not tell; I did not wait to catchanother glance, but flew down the steep steps to the pier and along bythe fish-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 musthave gone fast, and yet it seemed to me as if my feet were weightedwith lead, and as though every joint in my body were rusty. When Igot almost to the top I could see the seat and the white figure, forI was now close enough to distinguish it even through the spells ofshadow. There was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending overthe half-reclining white figure. I called in fright, "Lucy! Lucy!"and something raised a head, and from where I was I could see a whiteface and 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, butin long, 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 pulledthe collar of her nightdress close round 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 graduallyshe became 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 shewas. Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her bodymust have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled atwaking unclad 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 thoughtI should 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. Wh
en 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.I hesitated 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,for I 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 thanshe has been for some time, and fell asleep at once. I shall lock thedoor and 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 nightI was awakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in hersleep, to be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and wentback to bed under a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and heardthe birds chirping outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and, I wasglad to see, was even better than on the previous morning. All her oldgaiety of manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled inbeside me, and told me all about Arthur; I told her how anxious I wasabout Jonathan, 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 woke 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. Onceor twice it came quite close, but was, I suppose, frightened at seeingme, and flitted away across the harbour towards the Abbey. When Icame back from the window Lucy had lain down again, and was sleepingpeacefully. 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 lookon her face that I could not quite make out; so I said nothing, butfollowed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at our seat, whereonwas a dark figure seated alone. I was a little startled myself, for itseemed for an instant as if the stranger had great eyes like burningflames; but a second look dispelled the illusion. The red sunlight wasshining on the windows of St. Mary's Church behind our seat, and asthe sun dipped there was just sufficient change in the refraction andreflection to make it appear as if the light moved. I called Lucy'sattention 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 thinkingof that terrible night up there. We never refer to it; so I saidnothing, and we went home to dinner. Lucy had a headache and went earlyto bed. I saw her asleep, and went out for a little stroll myself; Iwalked along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet sadness,for I was thinking of Jonathan. When coming home--it was then brightmoonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part of the Crescentwas in shadow, everything could be well seen--I threw a glance up atour window, and saw Lucy's head leaning out. I thought that perhaps shewas looking out for me, so I opened my handkerchief and waved it. Shedid not notice or make any movement whatever. Just then, the moonlightcrept 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 thewindow-sill and her eyes shut. She was fast asleep, and by her, seatedon 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 cameinto the room she was moving back to her bed, fast asleep, and breathingheavily; she was holding her hand to her throat, as though to protect itfrom 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,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 itis.
_15 August._--Rose later than usual. Lucy was languid and tired,and slept on after we had been called. We had a happy surprise atbreakfast. Arthur's father is better, and wants the marriage to comeoff soon. Lucy is full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad and sorryat once. Later on in the day she told me the cause. She is grieved tolose Lucy as her very own, but she is rejoiced that she is soon tohave some one to protect her. Poor dear, sweet lady! She confided tome that she has got her death-warrant. She has not told Lucy, and mademe promise secrecy; her doctor told her that within a few months, atmost, 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 tokeep 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 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,and she gets weaker and more languid day by day; at night I hear hergasping as if for air. I keep the key of our door always fastened tomy wrist at night, but she gets up and walks about the room, and sitsat 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 Imanaged to restore her she was as weak as water, and cried silentlybetween long, painful struggles for breath. When I asked her how shecame to be at the window she shook her head and turned away. I trusther 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 woundsseem not to have healed. They are still open, and, if anything, larger,than before, and the edges of them are faint
ly white. They are likelittle white dots with red centres. Unless they heal within a day ortwo, 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 NorthernRailway. Same are to be delivered to 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 thehouse and 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 17_s._9_d._, amount of overplus, as shown in receipted account herewith. Goodsare delivered in exact accordance with instructions, and keys left inparcel 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 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,and I 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 have 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 seemed 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.I am not afraid to think it or to say it, now that I know. Mr. Hawkinssent me on the letter, and wrote himself oh, so kindly. I am to leavein the morning and to go over to Jonathan, and to help nurse him ifnecessary, and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says it would not be a badthing if we were to be married out there. I have cried over the goodSister'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 onechange of dress; Lucy will bring my trunk to London and keep it till Isend for it, for it may be that.... I must write no more; I must keep itto say to Jonathan, my husband. The letter that he has seen and touchedmust 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 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 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 excitehim of this kind for a long time to come; the traces of such an illnessas his 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 Klausenburgh, 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 farthest 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 to sniff about as a dog doeswhen setting. The attendant was struck by his manner, and knowing myinterest in him, encouraged him to talk. He is usually respectful tothe attendant, and at times servile; but to-night, the man tells me, hewas quite 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 athand."
The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania whichhas seized him. If so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong manwith homicidal 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 thoughtI would find out if his apathy were real or only assumed, and tried tolead him to talk of his pets, a theme which never failed to excite hisattention. 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 that you don't care aboutspiders?" (Spiders at present are his hobby, and the note-book isfilling up with columns of small figures.) To this he answeredenigmatically:--
"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 thoughtof Lucy, and I shall not dishonour her by mixing the two. If need be,to-night shall be sleepless....
Glad I made the resolution; gladder that I kept to it. I had laintossing 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 gettingout of the building by the door. He is a bulky man, and couldn't getthrough the window. I am thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feetforemost, 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 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, and told the watchman to get three or four menimmediately and follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case ourfriend might be dangerous. I got a ladder myself, and crossing thewall, dropped down on the other side. I could see Renfield's figurejust 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 oldiron-bound 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 escaping isupon him! After a few minutes, however, I could see that he did not takenote of anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearer to him--themore so as my men had now crossed the wall and were closing him in. Iheard 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, and 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 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.