The funeral was arranged for the next succeeding day, so that Lucy
and her mother might be buried together. I attended to all the ghastly
formalities, and the urbane undertaker proved that his staff were
afflicted- or blessed- with something of his own obsequious suavity.
Even the woman who performed the last offices for the dead remarked to
me, in a confidential, brother-professional way, when she had come out
from the death-chamber:-
  "She makes a very beautiful corpse, sir. It's quite a privilege to
attend on her. It's not too much to say that she will do credit to our
establishment!"
  I noticed that Van Helsing never kept far away. This was possible
from the disordered state of things in the household. There were no
relatives at hand; and as Arthur had to be back the next day to attend
at his father's funeral, we were unable to notify any one who should
have been bidden. Under the circumstances, Van Helsing and I took it
upon ourselves to examine papers, etc. He insisted upon looking over
Lucy's papers himself. I asked him why, for I feared that he, being
a foreigner, might not be quite aware of English legal requirements,
and so might in ignorance make some unnecessary trouble. He answered
me:-
  "I know; I know. You forget that I am a lawyer as well as a
doctor. But this is not altogether for the law. You knew that, when
you avoided the coroner. I have more than him to avoid. There may be
papers more- such as this."
  As he spoke he took from his pocket-book the memorandum which had
been in Lucy's breast, and which she had torn in her sleep.
  "When you find anything of the solicitor who is for the late Mrs.
Westenra, seal all her papers, and write him tonight. For me, I
watch here in the room and in Miss Lucy's old room all night, and I
myself search for what may be. It is not well that her very thoughts
go into the hands of strangers."
  I went on with my part of the work, and in another half hour had
found the name and address of Mrs. Westenra's solicitor and had
written to him. All the poor lady's papers were in order; explicit
directions regarding the place of burial were given. I had hardly
sealed the letter, when, to my surprise, Van Helsing walked into the
room, saying:-
  "Can I help you, friend John? I am free, and if I may, my service is
to you."
  "Have you got what you looked for?" I asked, to which he replied:-
  "I did not look for any specific thing. I only hoped to find, and
find I have, all that there was- only some letters and a few
memoranda, and a diary new begun. But I have them here, and we shall
for the present say nothing of them. I shall see that poor lad
to-morrow evening, and, with his sanction, I shall use some."
  When we had finished the work in hand, he said to me:-
  "And now, friend John, I think we may to bed. We want sleep, both
you and I, and rest to recuperate. To-morrow we shall have much to do,
but for the to-night there is no need of us. Alas!"
  Before turning in we went to look at poor Lucy. The undertaker had
certainly done his work well, for the room was turned into a small
chapelle ardente. There was a wilderness of beautiful white flowers,
and death was made as little repulsive as might be. The end of the
winding-sheet was laid over the face; when the Professor bent over and
turned it gently back, we both started at the beauty before us, the
tall wax candies showing a sufficient light to note it well. All
Lucy's loveliness had come back to her in death, and the hours that
had passed, instead of leaving traces of "decay's effacing fingers,"
had but restored the beauty of life, till positively I could not
believe my eyes that I was looking at a corpse.
  The Professor looked sternly grave. He had not loved her as I had,
and there was no need for tears in his eyes. He said to me: "Remain
till I return," and left the room. He came back with a handful of wild
garlic from the box waiting in the hall, but which had not been
opened, and placed the flowers amongst the others on and around the
bed. Then he took from his neck, inside his collar, a little gold
crucifix, and placed it over the mouth. He restored the sheet to its
place, and we came away.
  I was undressing in my own room, when, with a premonitory tap at the
door, he entered, and at once began to speak:-
  "To-morrow I want you to bring me, before night, a set of
post-mortem knives."
  "Must we make an autopsy?" I asked.
  "Yes and no. I want to operate, but not as you think. Let me tell
you now, but not a word to another. I want to cut off her head and
take out her heart. Ah! you a surgeon, and so shocked! You, whom I
have seen with no tremble of hand or heart, do operations of life
and death that make the rest shudder. Oh, but I must not forget, my
dear friend John, that you loved her; and I have not forgotten it, for
it is I that shall operate, and you must only help. I would like to do
it to-night, but for Arthur I must not; he will be free after his
father's funeral to-morrow, and he will want to see her- to see it.
Then, when she is coffined ready for the next day, you and I shall
come when all sleep. We shall unscrew the coffin-lid, and shall do our
operation; and then replace all, so that none know, save we alone."
  "But why do it at all? The girl is dead. Why mutilate her poor
body without need? And if there is no necessity for a post-mortem
and nothing to gain by it- no good to her, to us, to science, to human
knowledge- why do it? Without such it is monstrous."
  For answer he put his hand on my shoulder, and said, with infinite
tenderness:-
  "Friend John, I pity your poor bleeding heart; and I love you the
more because it does so bleed. If I could, I would take on myself
the burden that you do bear. But there are things that you know not,
but that you shall know, and bless me for knowing, though they are not
pleasant things. John, my child, you have been my friend now many
years, and yet did you ever know me to do any without good cause? I
may err- I am but man; but I believe in all I do. Was it not for these
causes that you send for me when the great trouble came? Yes! Were you
not amazed, nay horrified, when I would not let Arthur kiss his
love- though she was dying- and snatched him away by all my
strength? Yes! And yet you saw how she thanked me, with her so
beautiful dying eyes, her voice, too, so weak, and she kiss my rough
old hand and bless me? Yes! And did you not hear me swear promise to
her, that so she closed her eyes grateful? Yes!
  "Well, I have good reason now for all I want to do. You have for
many years trust me; you have believe me weeks past, when there be
things so strange that you might have well doubt. Believe me yet a
little, friend John. If you trust me not, then I must tell what I
think; and that is not perhaps well. And if I work- as work I shall,
no matter trust or no trust- without my friend trust in me, I work
with heavy heart and feel, oh! so lonely when I want all help and
courage that may be!" He paused a moment and went on solemnly: "Friend
John, there are strange and terrible days before us. Let us not be
two, but one, that so we work to a good end. Will you not have faith
in me?"
  I took his hand, and promised him. I held my door open as he went
away, and watched him go into his room and close the door. As I
stood without moving, I saw one of the maids pass silently along the
passage- she had her back towards me, so did not see me- and go into
the room where Lucy lay. The sight touched me. Devotion is so rare,
and we are so grateful to those who show it unasked to those we
love. Here was a poor girl putting aside the terrors which she
naturally had of death to go watch alone by the bier of the mistress
whom she loved, so that the poor clay might not be lonely till laid to
eternal rest...
  I must have slept long and soundly, for it was broad daylight when
Van Helsing waked me by coming into my room. He came over to my
bedside and said:-
  "You need not trouble about the knives; we shall not do it."
  "Why not?" I asked. For his solemnity of the night before had
greatly impressed me.
  "Because," he said sternly, "it is too late- or too early. See!"
Here he held up the little golden crucifix. "This was stolen in the
night."
  "How, stolen," I asked in wonder, "since you have it now?"
  "Because I get it back from the worthless wretch who stole it,
from the woman who robbed the dead and the living. Her punishment will
surely come, but not through me; she knew not altogether what she did,
and thus unknowing she only stole. Now we must wait."
  He went away on the word, leaving me with a new mystery to think of,
a new puzzle to grapple with.
  The forenoon was a dreary time, but at noon the solicitor came:
Mr. Marquand, of Wholeman, Sons, Marquand & Lidderdale. He was very
genial and very appreciative of what we had done, and took off our
hands all cares as to details. During lunch he told us that Mrs.
Westenra had for some time expected sudden death from her heart, and
had put her affairs in absolute order; he informed us that, with the
exception of a certain entailed property of Lucy's father's which now,
in default of direct issue, went back to a distant branch of the
family, the whole estate, real and personal, was left absolutely to
Arthur Holmwood. When he had told us so much he went on:-
  "Frankly we did our best to prevent such a testamentary disposition,
and pointed out certain contingencies that might leave her daughter
either penniless or not so free as she should be to act regarding a
matrimonial alliance. Indeed, we pressed the matter so far that we
almost came into collision, for she asked us if we were or were not
prepared to carry out her wishes. Of course, we had then no
alternative but to accept. We were right in principle, and ninety-nine
times out of a hundred we should have proved, by the logic of
events, the accuracy of our judgment. Frankly, however, I must admit
that in this case any other form of disposition would have rendered
impossible the carrying out of her wishes. For by her predeceasing her
daughter the latter would have come into possession of the property,
and, even had she only survived her mother by five minutes, her
property would, in case there were no will- and a will was a practical
impossibility in such a case- have been treated at her decease as
under intestacy. In which case Lord Godalming, though so dear a
friend, would have had no claim in the world; and the inheritors,
being remote, would not be likely to abandon their just rights, for
sentimental reasons regarding an entire stranger. I assure you, my
dear sirs, I am rejoiced at the result, perfectly rejoiced."
  He was a good fellow, but his rejoicing at the one little part- in
which he was officially interested- of so great a tragedy, was an
object-lesson in the limitations of sympathetic understanding.
  He did not remain long, but said he would look in later in the day
and see Lord Godalming. His coming, however, had been a certain
comfort to us, since it assured us that we should not have to dread
hostile criticism as to any of our acts. Arthur was expected at five
o'clock, so a little before that time we visited the death-chamber. It
was so in very truth, for now both mother and daughter lay in it.
The undertaker, true to his craft, had made the best display he
could of his goods, and there was a mortuary air about the place
that lowered our spirits at once. Van Helsing ordered the former
arrangement to be adhered to, explaining that, as Lord Godalming was
coming very soon, it would be less harrowing to his feelings to see
all that was left of his fiancee quite alone. The undertaker seemed
shocked at his own stupidity, and exerted himself to restore things to
the condition in which we left them the night before, so that when
Arthur came such shocks to his feelings as we could avoid were saved.
  Poor fellow! He looked desperately sad and broken; even his stalwart
manhood seemed to have shrunk somewhat under the strain of his
much-tried emotions. He had, I knew, been very genuinely and devotedly
attached to his father; and to lose him, and at such a time, was a
bitter blow to him. With me he was warm as ever, and to Van Helsing he
was sweetly courteous; but I could not help seeing that there was some
constraint with him. The Professor noticed it, too, and motioned me to
bring him upstairs. I did so, and left him at the door of the room, as
I felt he would like to be quite alone with her; but he took my arm
and led me in, saying huskily:-
  "You loved her too, old fellow; she told me all about it, and
there was no friend had a closer place in her heart than you. I
don't know how to thank you for all you have done for her. I can't
think yet..."
  Here he suddenly broke down, and threw his arms round my shoulders
and laid his head on my breast, crying:-
  "Oh, Jack! Jack! What shall I do? The whole of life seems gone
from me all at once, and there is nothing in the wide world for me
to live for."
  I comforted him as well as I could. In such cases men do not need
much expression. A grip of the hand, the tightening of an arm over the
shoulder, a sob in unison, are expressions of sympathy dear to a man's
heart. I stood still and silent till his sobs died away, and then I
said softly to him:-
  "Come and look at her."
  Together we moved over to the bed, and I lifted the lawn from her
face. God! how beautiful she was. Every hour seemed to be enhancing
her loveliness. It frightened and amazed me somewhat; and as for
Arthur, he fell a-trembling, and finally was shaken with doubt as with
an ague. At last, after a long pause, he said to me in a faint
whisper:-
  "Jack, is she really dead?"
  I assured him sadly that it was so, and went on to suggest- for I
felt that such a horrible doubt should not have life for a moment
longer than I could help- that it often happened that after death
faces became softened and even resolved into their youthful beauty;
that this was especially so when death had been preceded by any
acute or prolonged suffering. It seemed to quite do away with any
doubt, and, after kneeling beside the couch for a while and looking at
her lovingly and long, he turned aside. I told him that that must be
good-bye, as the coffin had to be prepared; so he went back and took
her dead hand in his and kissed it, and bent over and kissed her
forehead. He came away, fondly looking back over his shoulder at her
as he came.
  I left him in the drawing-room, and told Van Helsing that he had
said good-bye; so the latter went to the kitchen to tell the
undertaker's men to proceed with the preparations and to screw up
the coffin. When he came out of the room again I told him of
Arthur's question, and he replied:-
  "I am not surprised. Just now I doubted for a moment myself!"
  We all dined together, and I could see that poor Art was trying to
make the best of things. Van Helsing had been silent all
dinner-time; but when we had lit our cigars he said:-
  "Lord-;" but Arthur interrupted him:-
  "No, no, not that, for God's sake! not yet at any rate. Forgive
me, sir: I did not mean to speak offensively; it is only because my
loss is so recent."
  The Professor answered very sweetly:-
  "I only used that name because I was in doubt. I must not call you
'Mr.,'and I have grown to love you- yes, my dear boy, to love you-
as Arthur."
  Arthur held out his hand, and took the old man's warmly.
  "Call me what you will," he said. "I hope I may always have the
title of a friend. And let me say that I am at a loss for words to
thank you for your goodness to my poor dear." He paused a moment, and
went on: "I know that she understood your goodness even better than
I do; and if I was rude or in any way wanting at that time you acted
so- you remember"- the Professor nodded- "you must forgive me."
  He answered with a grave kindness:-
  "I know it was hard for you to quite trust me then, for to trust
such violence needs to understand; and I take it that you do not- that
you cannot- trust me now, for you do not yet understand. And there may
be more times when I shall want you to trust when you cannot- and
may not- and must not yet understand. But the time will come when your
trust shall be whole and complete in me, and when you shall understand
as though the sunlight himself shone through. Then you shall bless
me from first to last for your own sake, and for the sake of others,
and for her dear sake to whom I swore to protect."
  "And, indeed, indeed, sir," said Arthur warmly, "I shall in all ways
trust you. I know and believe you have a very noble heart, and you are
Jack's friend, and you were hers. You shall do what you like."
  The Professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as though
about to speak, and finally said:-
  "May I ask you something now?"
  "Certainly."
  "You know that Mrs. Westenra left you all her property?"
  "No, poor dear; I never thought of it."
  "And as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with it as you
will. I want you to give me permission to read all Miss Lucy's
papers and letters. Believe me, it is no idle curiosity. I have a
motive of which, be sure, she would have approved. I have them all
here. I took them before we knew that all was yours, so that no
strange hand might touch them- no strange eye look through words
into her soul. I shall keep them, if I may; even you may not see
them yet, but I shall keep them safe. No word shall be lost; and in
the good time I shall give them back to you. It's a hard thing I
ask, but you will do it, will you not, for Lucy's sake?"
  Arthur spoke out heartily, like his old self:-
  "Dr. Van Helsing, you may do what you will. I feel that in saying
this I am doing what my dear one would have approved. I shall not
trouble you with questions till the time comes."
  The old Professor stood up as he said solemnly:-
  "And you are right. There will be pain for us all; but it will not
be all pain, nor will this pain be the last. We and you too- you
most of all, my dear boy- will have to pass through the bitter water
before we reach the sweet. But we must be brave of heart and
unselfish, and do our duty, and all will be well!"
  I slept on a sofa in Arthur's room that night. Van Helsing did not
go to bed at all. He went to and fro, as if patrolling the house,
and was never out of sight of the room where Lucy lay in her coffin,
strewn with the wild garlic flowers, which sent, through the odour
of lily and rose, a heavy, overpowering smell into the night.
 

                        Mina Harker's Journal.

  22 September- In the train to Exeter. Jonathan sleeping.
  It seems only yesterday that the last entry was made, and yet how
much between then, in Whitby and all the world before me, Jonathan
away and no news of him; and now, married to Jonathan, Jonathan a
solicitor, a partner, rich, master of his business, Mr. Hawkins dead
and buried, and Jonathan with another attack that may harm him. Some
day he may ask me about it. Down it all goes. I am rusty in my
shorthand- see what unexpected prosperity does for us- so it may be as
well to freshen it up again with an exercise anyhow.
  The service was very simple and very solemn. There were only
ourselves and the servants there, one or two old friends of his from
Exeter, his London agent, and a gentleman representing Sir John
Paxton, the President of the Incorporated Law Society. Jonathan and
I stood hand in hand, and we felt that our best and dearest friend was
gone from us.
  We came back to town quietly, taking a bus to Hyde Park Corner.
Jonathan thought it would interest me to go into the Row for a
while, so we sat down; but there were very few people there, and it
was sad-looking and desolate to see so many empty chairs. It made us
think of the empty chair at home; so we got up and walked down
Piccadilly. Jonathan was holding me by the arm, the way he used to
in old days before I went to school. I felt it very improper, for
you can't go on for some years teaching etiquette and decorum to other
girls without the pedantry of it biting into yourself a bit; but it
was Jonathan, and he was my husband, and we didn't know anybody who
saw us- and we didn't care if they did- so on we walked. I was looking
at a very beautiful girl, in a big cart-wheel flat, sitting in a
victoria outside Giuliano's, when I felt Jonathan clutch my arm so
tight that he hurt me, and he said under his breath: "My God!" I am
always anxious about Jonathan, for I fear that some nervous fit may
upset him again; so I turned to him quickly, and asked him what it was
that disturbed him.
  He was very pale, and his eyes seemed bulging out as, half in terror
and half in amazement, he gazed at a tall, thin man, with a beaky nose
and black moustache and pointed beard, who was also observing the
pretty girl. He was looking at her so hard that he did not see
either of us, and so I had a good view of him. His face was not a good
face; it was hard, and cruel, and sensual, and his big white teeth,
that looked all the whiter because his lips were so red, were
pointed like an animal's. Jonathan kept staring at him, till I was
afraid he would notice. I feared he might take it ill, he looked so
fierce and nasty. I asked Jonathan why he was disturbed, and he
answered, evidently thinking I knew as much about it as he did: "Do
you see who it is?"
  "No, dear," I said; "I don't know him; who is it?" His answer seemed
to shock and thrill me, for it was said as if he did not know that
it was to me, Mina, to whom he was speaking:-
  "It is the man himself!"
  The poor dear was evidently terrified at something- very greatly
terrified; I do believe that if he had not had me to lean on and to
support him he would have sunk down. He kept staring; a man came out
of the shop with a small parcel, and gave it to the lady, who then
drove off. The dark man kept his eyes fixed on her, and when the
carriage moved up Piccadilly he followed in the same direction, and
hailed a hansom. Jonathan kept looking after him, and said, as if to
himself.-
  "I believe it is the Count, but he has grown young. My God, if
this be so! Oh, my God! my God! if I only knew! if I only knew!" He
was distressing himself so much that I feared to keep his mind on
the subject by asking him any questions, so I remained silent. I
drew him away quietly, and he, holding my arm, came easily. We
walked a little further, and then went in and sat for a while in the
Green Park. It was a hot day for autumn, and there was a comfortable
seat in a shady place. After a few minutes staring at nothing,
Jonathan's eyes closed, and he went quietly into a sleep, with his
head on my shoulder. I thought it was the best thing for him, so did
not disturb him. In about twenty minutes he woke up, and said to me
quite cheerfully:-
  "Why, Mina, I have been asleep! Oh, do forgive me for being so rude.
Come, and we'll have a cup of tea somewhere." He had evidently
forgotten all about the dark stranger, as in his illness he had
forgotten all that this episode had reminded him of. I don't like this
lapsing into forgetfulness; it may make or continue some injury to the
brain. I must not ask him, for fear I shall do more harm than good;
but I must somehow learn the facts of his journey abroad. The time
is come, I fear, when I must open that parcel and know what is
written. Oh, Jonathan, you will, I know, forgive me if I do wrong, but
it is for your own dear sake.

  Later.- A sad home-coming in every way- the house empty of the
dear soul who was so good to us; Jonathan still pale and dizzy under a
slight relapse of his malady; and now a telegram from Van Helsing,
whoever he may be:-
  "You will be grieved to hear that Mrs. Westenra died five days
ago, and that Lucy died the day before yesterday. They were both
buried to-day."
  Oh, what a wealth of sorrow in a few words! Poor Mrs. Westenra! poor
Lucy Gone, gone, never to return to us! And poor, poor Arthur, to have
lost such sweetness out of his life! God help us all to bear our
troubles.
 

                         Dr. Seward's Diary.

  22 September.- it is all over. Arthur has gone back to Ring, and has
taken Quincey Morris with him. What a fine fellow is Quincey! I
believe in my heart of hearts that he suffered as much about Lucy's
death as any of us; but he bore himself through it like a moral
Viking. If America can go on breeding men like that, she will be a
power in the world indeed. Van Helsing is lying down, having a rest
preparatory to his journey. He goes over to Amsterdam to-night, but
says he returns to-morrow night; that he only wants to make some
arrangements which can only be made personally. He is to stop with
me then, if he can; he says he has work to do in London which may take
him some time. Poor old fellow! I fear that the strain of the past
week has broken down even his iron strength. All the time of the
burial he was, I could see, putting some terrible restraint on
himself. When it was all over, we were standing beside Arthur, who,
poor fellow, was speaking of his part in the operation where his blood
had been transfused to his Lucy's veins; I could see Van Helsing's
face grow white and purple by turns. Arthur was saying that he felt
since then as if they two had been really married, and that she was
his wife in the sight of God. None of us said a word of the other
operations, and none of us ever shall. Arthur and Quincey went away
together to the station, and Van Helsing and I came on here. The
moment we were alone in the carriage he gave way to a regular fit of
hysterics. He has denied to me since that it was hysterics, and
insisted that it was only his sense of humour asserting itself under
very terrible conditions. He laughed till he cried, and I had to
draw down the blinds lest any one should see us and misjudge; and then
he cried till he laughed again; and laughed and cried together, just
as a woman does. I tried to be stern with him, as one is to a woman
under the circumstances; but it had no effect. Men and women are so
different in manifestations of nervous strength or weakness! Then
where his face grew grave and stern again I asked him why his mirth,
and why at such a time. His reply was in a way characteristic of
him, for it was logical and forceful and mysterious. He said:-
  "Ah, you don't comprehend, friend John. Do not think that I am not
sad, though I laugh. See, I have cried even when the laugh did choke
me. But no more think that I am all sorry when I cry, for the laugh he
come just the same. Keep it always with you that laughter who knock at
your door and say, 'May I come in?' is not the true laughter. No! he
is a king, and he come when and how he like. He ask no person; he
choose no time of suitability. He say, 'I am here.' Behold, in example
I grieve my heart out for that so sweet young girl; I give my blood
for her, though I am old and worn; I give my time, my skill, my sleep;
I let my other sufferers want that so she may have all. And yet I
can laugh at her very grave- laugh when the clay from the spade of the
sexton drop upon her coffin and say. 'Thud! thud!' to my heart, till
it send back the blood from my cheek. My heart bleed for that poor
boy- that dear boy, so of the age of mine own boy had I been so
blessed that he live, and with his hair and eyes the same. There,
you know now why I love him so. And yet when he say things that
touch my husband-Heart to the quick, and make my father-heart yearn to
him as to no other man- not even to you, friend John, for we are
more level in experiences than father and son- yet even at such moment
King Laugh he come to me and shout and bellow in my ear, 'Here I am!
here I am!' till the blood come dance back and bring some of the
sunshine that he carry with him to my cheek. Oh, friend John, it is
a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes,
and troubles; and yet when King Laugh come he make them all dance to
the tune he play. Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard,
and tears that burn as they fall- all dance together to the music that
he make with that smileless mouth of him. And believe me, friend John,
that he is good to come, and kind. Ah, we men and women are like ropes
drawn tight with strain that pull us different ways. Then tears
come; and, like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until perhaps
the strain become too great, and we break. But King Laugh he come like
the sunshine, and he ease off the strain again; and we bear to go on
with our labour what it may be."
  I did not like to wound him by pretending not to see his idea;
but, as I did not yet understand the cause of his laughter, I asked
him. As he answered the his face grew stern, and he said in quite a
different tone:-
  "Oh, it was the grim irony of it all- this so lovely lady
garlanded with flowers, that looked so fair as life, till one by one
we wondered if she were truly dead; she laid in that so fine marble
house in that lonely churchyard, where rest so many of her kin, laid
there with the mother who loved her, and whom she loved; and that
sacred bell going 'Toll! toll! toll!' so sad and slow; and those
holy men, with the white garments of the angel, pretending to read
books, and yet all the time their eyes never on the page; and all of
us with the bowed head. And all for what? She is dead; so! Is it not?"
  "Well, for the life of me, Professor," I said, "I can't see anything
to laugh at in all that. Why, your explanation makes it a harder
puzzle than before. But even if the burial service was comic, what
about poor Art and his trouble? Why, his heart was simply breaking."
  "Just so. Said he not that the transfusion of his blood to her veins
had made her truly his bride?"
  "Yes, and it was a sweet and comforting idea for him."
  "Quite so. But there was a difficulty, friend John. If so that, then
what about the others? Ho, ho! There this so sweet maid is a
polyandrist, and me, with my poor wife dead to me, but alive by
Church's law, though no wits, all gone- even I, who am faithful
husband to this now-no-wife, am bigamist."
  "I don't see where the joke comes in there either!" I said; and I
did not feel particularly pleased with him for saying such things.
He laid his hand on my arm, and said:-
  "Friend John, forgive me if I pain. I showed not my feeling to
others when it would wound, but only to you, my old friend, whom I can
trust. If you could have looked into my very heart then when I want to
laugh; if you could have done so when the laugh arrived; if you
could do so now, when King Laugh have pack up his crown and all that
is to him- for he go far, far away from me, and for a long, long time-
maybe you would perhaps pity me the most of all."
  I was touched by the tenderness of his tone, and asked why.
  "Because I know!"
  And now we are all scattered; and for many a long day loneliness
will sit over our roofs with brooding wings. Lucy lies in the tomb
of her kin, a lordly death-house in a lonely churchyard, away from
teeming London; where the air is fresh, and the sun rises over
Hampstead Hill, and where wild flowers grow of their own accord.
  So I can finish this diary; and God only knows if I shall ever begin
another. If I do, or I I even open this again, it will be to deal with
different people and different themes; for here at the end, where
the romance of my life is told, ere I go back to take up the thread of
my life-work, I say sadly and without hope,

                               "Finis."
 

               "The Westminister Gazette," 25 September

                         A Hampstead Mystery.
  The neighbourhood of Hampstead is just at present exercised with a
series of events which seem to run on lines parallel to those of
what was known to the writers of headlines as "The Kensington Horror,"
or "The Stabbing Woman," or "The Woman in Black." During the past
two or three days several cases have occurred of young children
straying from home or neglecting to return from their playing on the
Heath. In all these cases the children were too young to give any
properly intelligible account of themselves, but the consensus of
their excuses is that they had been with a "bloofer lady." It has
always been late in the evening when they have been missed, and on two
occasions the children have not been found until early in the
following morning. It is generally supposed in the neighbourhood that,
as the first child missed gave as his reason for being away that a
"bloofer lady" had asked him to come for a walk, the others had picked
up the phrase and used it as occasion served. This is the more natural
as the favourite game of the little ones at present is luring each
other away by wiles. A correspondent writes us that to see some of the
tiny tots pretending to be the "bloofer lady" is supremely funny. Some
of our caricaturists might, he says, take a lesson in the irony of
grotesque by comparing the reality and the picture. It is only in
accordance with general principles of human nature that the "bloofer
lady" should be the popular role at these al fresco performances.
Our correspondent naively says that even Ellen Terry could not be so
willingly attractive as some of these grubby-faced little children
pretend- and even imagine themselves- to be.
  There is, however, possibly a serious side to the question, for some
of the children, indeed all who have been missed at night, have been
slightly torn or wounded in the throat. The wounds seem such as
might be made by a rat or a small dog, and although of not much
importance individually, would tend to show that whatever animal
inflicts them has a system or method of its own. The police of the
division have been instructed to keep a sharp look-out for straying
children, especially when very young, in and around Hampstead Heath,
and for any stray dog which may be about.

              "The Westminister Gazette," 25 September.

                            Extra Special.

                        THE HAMPSTEAD HORROR.

                        Another Child injured.

                         The "Bloofer Lady."

  We have just received intelligence that another child, missed last
night, was only discovered late in the morning under a furze bush at
the Shooter's Hill side of Hampstead Heath, which is, perhaps, less
frequented than the other parts. It has the same tiny wound in the
throat as has been noticed in other cases. It was terribly weak, and
looked quite emaciated. It too, when partially restored, had the
common story to tell of being lured away by the "bloofer lady."
 

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