24 July. Whitby.- Lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter and
lovelier than ever, and we drove up to the house at the Crescent in
which they have rooms. This is a lovely place. The little river, the
Esk, runs through a deep valley, which broadens out as it comes near
the harbour. A great viaduct runs across, with high piers, through
which the view seems somehow further away than it really is. The
valley is beautifully green, and it is so steep that when you are on
the high land on either side you look right across it, unless you
are near enough to see down. The houses of the old town- the side away
from us- are all red-roofed, and seem piled up one over the other
anyhow, like the pictures we see of Nuremberg. Right over the town
is the ruin of Whitby Abbey, which was sacked by the Danes, and
which is the scene of part of "Marmion," where the girl was built up
in the wall. It is a most noble ruin, of immense size, and full of
beautiful and romantic bits; there is a legend that a white lady is
seen in one of the windows. Between it and the town there is another
church, the parish one, round which is a big graveyard, all full of
tombstones. This is to my mind the nicest spot in Whitby, for it
lies right over the town, and has a full view of the harbour and all
up the bay to where the headland called Kettleness stretches out
into the sea. it descends so steeply over the harbour that part of the
bank has fallen away, and some of the graves have been destroyed. In
one place part of the stonework of the graves stretches out over the
sandy pathway far below. There are walks, with seats beside them,
through the churchyard; and people go and sit there all day long
looking at the beautiful view and enjoying the breeze. I shall come
and sit here very often myself and work. Indeed, I am writing now,
with my book on my knee, and listening to the talk of three old men
who are sitting beside me. They seem to do nothing all day but sit
up here and talk.
  The harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one long granite
wall stretching out into the sea, with a curve outwards at the end
of it, in the middle of which is a lighthouse. A heavy sea-wall runs
along outside of it. On the near side, the sea-wall makes an elbow
crooked inversely, and its end too has a lighthouse. Between the two
piers there is a narrow opening into the harbour, which then
suddenly widens.
  It is nice at high water; but when the tide is out it shoals away to
nothing, and there is merely the stream of the Esk, running between
banks of sand, with rocks here and there. Outside the harbour on
this side there rises for about half a mile a great reef, the sharp
edge of which runs straight out from behind the south lighthouse. At
the end of it is a buoy with a bell, which swings in bad weather,
and sends in a mournful sound on the wind. They have a legend here
that when a ship is lost bells are heard out at sea. I must ask the
old man about this; he is coming this way...
  He is a funny old man. He must be awfully old, for his face is all
gnarled and twisted like the bark of a tree. He tells me that he is
nearly a hundred, and that he was a sailor in the Greenland fishing
fleet when Waterloo was fought. He is, I am afraid, a very sceptical
person, for when I asked him about the bells at sea and the White Lady
at the abbey he said very brusquely:-
  "I wouldn't fash masel' about them, miss. Them things be all wore
out. Mind, I don't say that they never was, but I do say that they
wasn't in my time. They be all very well for comers and trippers,
an' the like, but not for a nice young lady like you. Them
feet-folks from York and Leeds that be always eatin' cured herrin's
an' drinkin' tea an' lookin' out to buy cheap jet would creed aught. I
wonder masel' who'd be bothered tellin' lies to them- even the
newspapers, which is full of fool-talk." I thought he would be a
good person to learn interesting things from, so I asked him if he
would mind telling me something about the whale-fishing in the old
days. He was just settling himself to begin when the clock struck six,
whereupon he laboured to get up, and said:-
  "I must gang ageeanwards home now, miss. My grand-daughter doesn't
like to be kept waitin' when the tea is ready, for it takes me time to
crammle aboon the grees, for there be a many of 'em; an', miss, I lack
belly-timber sairly by the clock."
  He hobbled away, and I could see him hurrying, as well as he
could, down the steps. The steps are a great feature of the place.
They lead from the town up to the church; there are hundreds of
them- I do not know how many- and they wind up in a delicate curve;
the slope is so gentle that a horse could easily walk up and down
them. I think they must originally have had something to do with the
abbey. I shall go home too. Lucy went out visiting with her mother,
and as they were only duty calls, I did not go. They will be home by
this.

  1 August.- I came up here an hour ago with Lucy, and we had a most
interesting talk with my old friend and the two others who always come
and join him. He is evidently the Sir Oracle of them, and I should
think must have been in his time a most dictatorial person. He will
not admit anything, and downfaces everybody. If he can't out-argue
them he bullies them, and then takes their silence for agreement
with his views. Lucy was looking sweetly pretty in her white lawn
frock, she has got a beautiful colour since she has been here. I
noticed that the old men did not lose any time in coming up and
sitting near her when we sat down. She is so sweet with old people;
I think they all fell in love with her on the spot. Even my old man
succumbed and did not contradict her, but gave me double share
instead. I got him on the subject of the legends, and he went off at
once into a sort of sermon. I must try to remember it and put it
down:-
  "It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel; that's what it be,
an' nowt else. These bans an' wafts an' boh-ghosts an' barguests an'
bogles an' all anent them is only fit to set bairns an' dizzy women
a-belderin'. They be nowt but air-blebs. They, an' all grims an' signs
an' warnin's, be all invented by parsons an' illsome beuk-bodies an'
railway touters to skeer an' scunner hafflin's, an' to get folks to do
somethin' that they don't other incline to. It makes me ireful to
think o' them. Why, it's them that, not content with printin' lies
on paper an' preachin' them out of pulpits, does want to be cuttin'
them on the tombsteans. Look here all around you in what airt ye will;
all them steans, holdin' up their heads as well as they can out of
their pride, is acant- simply tumblin' down with the weight o' the
lies wrote on them, 'Here lies the body' or 'Sacred to the memory'
wrote on all of them, an' yet in nigh half of them there bean't no
bodies at all; an' the memories of them bean't cared a pinch of
snuff about, much less sacred. Lies all of them, nothin' but lies of
one kind or another! My gog, but it'll be a quare scowderment at the
Day of Judgment when they come tumblin' up in their death-sarks, all
jouped together an' tryin' to drag their tombsteans with them to prove
how good they was; some of them trimmlin' and ditherin', with their
hands that dozzened an' slippy from lyin' in the sea that they can't
even keep their grup o' them."
  I could see from the old fellow's self-satisfied air and the way
in which he looked round for the approval of his cronies that he was
"showing off," so I put in a word to keep him going:-
  "Oh, Mr. Swales, you can't be serious. Surely these tombstones are
not all wrong?"
  "Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin' where they
make out the people too good; for there be folk that do think a
balm-bowl be like the sea, if only it be their own. The whole thing be
only lies. Now look you here; you come here a stranger, an' you see
this kirk-garth." I nodded, for I thought it better to assent,
though I did not quite understand his dialect. I knew it had something
to do with the church. He went on: "And you consate that all these
steans be aboon folk that be happed here, snod an' snog?" I assented
again. "Then that be just where the lie comes in. Why, there be scores
of these lay-beds that be toom as old Dun's 'bacca-box on Friday
night." He nudged one of his companions, and they all laughed. "And my
gog! how could they be otherwise? Look at that one, the aftest abaft
the bier-bank; read it!" I went over and read:-
  "Edward Spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by pirates off the
coast of Andres, April, 1854, aet. 30." When I came back Mr. Swales
went on:-
  "Who brought him home, I wonder, to hap him here? Murdered off the
coast of Andres! an' you consated his body lay under! Why, I could
name ye a dozen whose bones lie in the Greenland seas above"- he
pointed northwards- "or where the currents may have drifted them.
There be the steans around ye. Ye can, with your young eyes, read
the small-print of the lies from here. This Braithwaite Lowrey- I knew
his father, lost in the Lively off Greenland in '20; or Andrew
Woodhouse, drowned in the same seas in 1777; or John Paxton, drowned
off Cape Farewell a year later; or old John Rawlings, whose
grandfather sailed with me, drowned in the Gulf of Finland in '50.
Do ye think that all these men will have to make a rush to Whitby when
the trumpet sounds? I have me antherums about it! I tell ye that
when they got here they'd be jommlin' an' jostlin' one another that
way that it 'ud be like a fight up on the ice in the old days, when
we'd be at one another from daylight to dark, an' tryin' to tie up our
cuts by the light of the aurora borealis." This was evidently local
pleasantry, for the old man cackled over it, and his cronies joined in
with gusto.
  "But," I said, "surely you are not quite correct, for you start on
the assumption that all the poor people, or their spirits, will have
to take their tombstones with them on the Day of Judgment. Do you
think that will be really necessary?"
  "Well what else be they tombstones for? Answer me that, miss!"
  "To please their relatives, I suppose."
  "To please their relatives, you suppose!" This he said with
intense scorn. "How will it pleasure their relatives to know that lies
is wrote over them, and that everybody in the place knows that they be
lies?" He pointed to a stone at our feet which had been laid down as a
slab, on which the seat was rested, close to the edge of the cliff.
"Read the lies on that thruff-stean," he said. The letters were upside
down to me from where I sat, but Lucy was more opposite to them, so
she leant over and read:-
  "Sacred to the memory of George Canon, who died, in the hope of a
glorious resurrection, on July 29, 1873, falling from the rocks at
Kettleness. This tomb is erected by his sorrowing mother to her dearly
beloved son. 'He was the only son of his mother, and she was a
widow.'" "Really, Mr. Swales, I don't see anything very funny in
that!" She spoke her comment very gravely and somewhat severely.
  "Ye don't see aught funny! Ha! ha! But that's because ye don't
gawm the sorrowin' mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was
acrewk'd- a regular lamiter he was- an' he hated her so that he
committed suicide in order that she mightn't get an insurance she
put on his life. He blew night the top of his head off with an old
musket that they had for scarin' the crows with. 'Twarn't for crows
then, for it brought the clegs and the dowps to him. That's the way he
fell off the rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection,
I've often heard him say masel' that he hoped he'd go to hell, for his
mother was so pious that she'd be sure to go to heaven, an' he
didn't wan't to addle where she was. Now isn't that stean at any
rate"- he hammered it with his stick as he spoke- "a pack of lies? and
won't it make Gabriel keckle when Geordie comes pantin' up the grees
with the tombstean balanced on his hump, and asks it to be took as
evidence!"
  I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conversation as
she said, rising up:-
  "Oh why did you tell us of this? it is my favourite seat, and I
cannot leave it; and now I find I must go on sitting over the grave of
a suicide."
  "That won't harm ye, my pretty; an' it may make poor Geordie
gladsome to have so trim a lass sittin' on his lap. That won't hurt
ye. Why, I've sat here off an' on for nigh twenty years past, an' it
hasn't done me no harm. Don't ye fash about them as lies under ye,
or that doesn' lie there either! it'll be time for ye to be getting
scart when ye see the tombsteans all run away with, and the place as
bare as a stubble-field. There's the clock, an' I must gang. My
service to ye, ladies!" And off he hobbled.
  Lucy and I sat a while, and it was all so beautiful before us that
we took hands as we sat; and she told me all over again about Arthur
and their coming marriage. That made me just a little heart-sick,
for I haven't heard from Jonathan for a whole month.

  The same day.- I came up here alone, for I am very sad. There was no
letter for me. I hope there cannot be anything the matter with
Jonathan. The clock has just struck nine. I see the lights scattered
all over the town, sometimes in rows where the streets are, and
sometimes singly; they run right up the Esk and die away in the
curve of the valley. To my left the view is cut off by a black line of
roof of the old house next the abbey. The sheep and lambs are bleating
in the fields away behind me, and there is a clatter of donkey's hoofs
up the paved road below. The band on the pier is playing a harsh waltz
in good time, and further along the quay there is a Salvation Army
meeting in a back street. Neither of the bands hears the other, but up
here I hear and see them both. I wonder where Jonathan is and if he is
thinking of me! I wish he were here.
 

                         Dr. Seward's Diary.

  5 June.- The case of Renfield grows more interesting the more I
get to understand the man. He has certain qualities very largely
developed; selfishness, secrecy, and purpose. I wish I could get at
what is the object of the latter. He seems to have some settled scheme
of his own, but what it is I do not yet know. His redeeming quality is
a love of animals, though, indeed, he has such curious turns in it
that I sometimes imagine he is only abnormally cruel. His pets are
of odd sorts. Just now his hobby is catching flies. He has at
present such a quantity that I have had myself to expostulate. To my
astonishment, he did not break out into a fury, as I expected, but
took the matter in simple seriousness. He thought for a moment, and
then said: "May I have three days? I shall clear them away." Of
course, I said that would do. I must watch him.

  18 June.- He has turned his mind now to spiders, and has got several
big fellows in a box. He keeps feeding them with his flies, and the
number of the latter is becoming sensibly diminished, although he
has used half his food in attracting more flies from outside to his
room.

  1 July.- His spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as his
flies, and to-day I told him that he must get rid of them. He looked
very sad at this, so I said that he must clear out some of them, at
all events. He cheerfully acquiesced in this, and I gave him the
same time as before for reduction. He disgusted me much while with
him, for when a horrid blow-fly, bloated with some carrion food,
buzzed into the room, he caught it, held it exultantly for a few
moments between his finger and thumb, and, before I knew what he was
going to do, put it in his mouth and ate it. I scolded him for it, but
he argued quietly that it was very good and very wholesome; that it
was life, strong life, and gave life to him. This gave me an idea,
or the rudiment of one. I must watch how he gets rid of his spiders.
He has evidently some deep problem in his mind for he keeps a little
note-book in which he is always jotting down something. Whole pages of
it are filled with masses of figures, generally single numbers added
up in batches, and then the totals added in batches again, as though
he were "focussing" some account, as the auditors put it.

  8 July.- There is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary
idea in my mind is growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and then,
oh, unconscious cerebration! you will have to give the wall to your
conscious brother. I kept away from my friend for a few days, so
that I might notice if there were any change. Things remain as they
were except that he has parted with some of his pets and got a new
one. He has managed to get a sparrow, and has already partially
tamed it. His means of taming is simple, for already the spiders
have diminished. Those that do remain, however, are well fed, for he
still brings in the flies by tempting them with his food.

  19 July.- We are progressing. My friend has now a whole colony of
sparrows, and his flies and spiders are almost obliterated. When I
came in he ran to me and said he wanted to ask me a great favour- a
very, very great favour; and as he spoke he fawned on me like a dog. I
asked him what it was, and he said, with a sort of rapture in his
voice and bearing:-
  "A kitten, a nice little, sleek, playful kitten, that I can play
with, and teach, and feed- and feed and feed!" I was not unprepared
for this request, for I had noticed how his pets went on increasing in
size and vivacity, but I did not care that his pretty family of tame
sparrows should be wiped out in the same manner as the flies and the
spiders; so I said I would see about it, and asked him if he would not
rather have a cat than a kitten. His eagerness betrayed him as he
answered:-
  "Oh, yes, I would like a cat! I only asked for a kitten lest you
should refuse me a cat. No one would refuse me a kitten, would
they?" I shook my head, and said that at present I feared it would not
be possible, but that I would see about it. His face fell, and I could
see a warning of danger in it, for there was a sudden fierce,
sidelong, look which meant killing. The man is an undeveloped
homicidal maniac. I shall test him with his present craving and see
how it will work out; then I shall know more.

  10 p.m.- I have visited him again and found him sitting in a
corner brooding. When I came in he threw himself on his knees before
me and implored me to let him have a cat; that his salvation
depended upon it. I was firm, however, and told him that he could
not have it, whereupon he went without a word, and sat down, gnawing
his fingers, in the corner where I had found him. I shall see him in
the morning early.

  20 July.- Visited Renfield very early, before the attendant went his
rounds. Found him up and humming a tune. He was spreading out his
sugar, which he had saved, in the window, and was manifestly beginning
his fly-catching again; and beginning it cheerfully and with a good
grace. I looked around for his birds, and not seeing them, asked him
where they were. He replied, without turning round, that they had
all flown away. There were a few feathers about the room and on his
pillow a drop of blood. I said nothing, but went and told the keeper
to report to me if there were anything odd about him during the day.

  11 a.m.- The attendant has just been to me to say that Renfield
has been very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of feathers. "My
belief is, doctor," he said, "that he has eaten his birds, and that he
just took and ate them raw!"

  11 p.m.- I gave Renfield a strong opiate to-night, enough to make
even him sleep, and took away his pocket-book to look at it. The
thought that has been buzzing about my brain lately is complete, and
the theory proved. My homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. I
shall have to invent a new classification for him, and call him a
zoophagous (life-eating) maniac; what he desires is to absorb as
many lives as he can, and he has laid himself out to achieve it in a
cumulative way. He gave many flies to one spider and many spiders to
one bird, and then wanted a cat to eat the many birds. What would have
been his later steps? It would almost be worth while to complete the
experiment. It might be done if there were only a sufficient cause.
Men sneered at vivisection, and yet look at its results to-day! Why
not advance science in its most difficult and vital aspect- the
knowledge of the brain? Had I even the secret of one such mind- did
I hold the key to the fancy of even one lunatic- I might advance my
own branch of science to a pitch compared with which
Burdon-Sanderson's physiology or Ferrier's brain-knowledge would be as
nothing. If only there were a sufficient cause! I must not think too
much of this, or I may be tempted; a good cause might turn the scale
with me, for may not I too be of an exceptional brain, congenitally?
  How well the man reasoned; lunatics always do within their own
scope. I wonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at only
one. He has closed the account most accurately, and to-day begun a new
record. How many of us begin a new record with each day of our lives?
  To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new
hope, and that truly I began a new record. So it will be until the
Great Recorder sums me up and closes my ledger account with a
balance to profit or loss. Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you'
nor can I be angry with my friend whose happiness is yours; but I must
only wait on hopeless and work. Work! work!
  If I only could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend
there- a good, unselfish cause to make me work- that would be indeed
happiness.
 

                        Mina Murray's Journal.

  26 July.- I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here; it
is like whispering to one's self and listening at the same time. And
there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes it
different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan.
I had not heard from Jonathan for some time, and was very concerned;
but yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind, sent me a
letter from him. I had written asking him if he had heard, and he said
the enclosed had just been received. It is only a line dated from
Castle Dracula, and says that he is just starting for home. That is
not like Jonathan; I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy.
Then, too, Lucy, although she is so well, has lately taken to her
old habit of walking in her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about
it, and we have decided that I am to lock the door of our room every
night. Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go
out on roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs, and then get
suddenly wakened and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes all
over the place. Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy, and
she tells me that her husband, Lucy's father, had the same habit; that
he would get up in the night and dress himself and go out, if he
were not stopped. Lucy is to be married in the autumn, and she is
already planning out her dresses and how her house is to be
arranged. I sympathise with her, for I do the same, only Jonathan
and I will start in life in a very simple way, and shall have to try
to make both ends meet. Mr. Holmwood- he is the Hon. Arthur
Holmwood, only son of Lord Godalming- is coming up here very
shortly- as soon as he can leave town, for his father is not very
well, and I think dear Lucy is counting the moments till he comes. She
wants to take him up to the seat on the churchyard cliff and show
him the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it is the waiting which disturbs
her; she will be all right when he arrives.

  27 July.- No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about
him, though why I should I do not know; but I do wish that he would
write, if it were only a single line. Lucy walks more than ever, and
each night I am awakened by her moving about the room. Fortunately,
the weather is so hot that she cannot get cold; but still the
anxiety and the perpetually being wakened is beginning to tell on
me, and I am getting nervous and wakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy's
health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has been suddenly called to Ring to
see his father, who has been taken seriously ill. Lucy frets at the
postponement of seeing him, but it does not touch her looks; she is
a trifle stouter, and her cheeks are a lovely rose pink. She has
lost that anaemic look which she had. I pray it will all last.

  3 August.- Another week gone, and no news from Jonathan, not even to
Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do hope he is not ill. He
surely would have written. I look at that last letter of his, but
somehow it does not satisfy me. It does not read like him, and yet
it is his writing. There is no mistake of that. Lucy has not walked
much in her sleep the last week, but there is an odd concentration
about her which I do not understand; even in her sleep she seems to be
watching me. She tries the door, and finding it locked, goes about the
room searching for the key.

  6 August.- Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting
dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I should
feel easier; but no one has heard a word of Jonathan since that last
letter. I must only pray to God for patience. Lucy is more excitable
than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night was very threatening, and
the fishermen say that we are in for a storm. I must try to watch it
and learn the weather signs. To-day is a grey day, and the sun as I
write is hidden in thick clouds, high over Kettleness. Everything is
grey- except the green grass, which seems like emerald amongst it;
grey earthy rock; grey clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far
edge, hang over the grey sea, into which the sand-points stretch
like grey fingers. The sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the
sandy flats with a roar, muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The
horizon is lost in a grey mist. All is vastness; the clouds are
piled up like giant rocks, and there is a "brool" over the sea that
sounds like some presage of doom. Dark figures are on the beach here
and there, sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem "men like
trees walking." The fishing-boats are racing for home, and rise and
dip in the ground swell as they sweep into the harbour, bending to the
scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is making straight for me, and
I can see, by the way he lifts his hat, that he wants to talk...
  I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. When he
sat down beside me, he said in a very gentle way:-
  "I want to say something to you, miss." I could see he was not at
ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine and asked him to
speak fully; so he said, leaving his hand in mine:-
  "I'm afraid, my deary, that I must have shocked you by all the
wicked things I've been sayin' about the dead, and such like, for
weeks past; but I didn't mean them, and I want ye to remember that
when I'm gone. We aud folks that be daffled, and with one foot abaft
the krok-hooal, don't altogether like to think of it, and we don't
want to feel scart of it; an' that's why I've took to makin' light
of it, so that I'd cheer up my own heart a bit. But, Lord love ye,
miss, I ain't afraid of dyin', not a bit; only I don't want to die
if I can help it. My time must be nigh at hand now, for I be aud,
and a hundred years is too much for any man to expect; and I'm so nigh
it that the Aud Man is already whettin' his scythe. Ye see, I can't
get out o' the habit of affin' about it all at once: the chafts will
wag as they be used to. Some day soon the Angel of Death will sound
his trumpet for me. But don't ye dooal an' greet, my deary!"- for he
saw that I was crying- "if he should come this very night I'd not
refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all, only a waitin'
for somethin' else than what we're doin'; and death be all that we can
rightly depend on. But I'm content, for it's comin' to me, my deary,
and comin' quick. It may be comin' while we be lookin' and
wonderin'. Maybe it's in that wind out over the sea that's bringin'
with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. Look!
look!" he cried suddenly. "There's something in that wind and in the
hoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like
death. It's in the air, I feel it comin. Lord, make me answer cheerful
when my call comes!" He held up his arms devoutly, and raised his hat.
His mouth moved as though he were praying. After a few minutes'
silence, he got up, shook hands with me, and blessed me, and said
good-bye, and hobbled off. It all touched me, and upset me very much.
  I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spyglass under
his arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the
time kept looking at a strange ship.
  "I can't make her out," he said; "she's a Russian, by the look of
her; but she's knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn't know
her mind a bit; she seems to see the storm coming, but can't decide
whether to run up north in the open, or to put in here. Look there
again! She is steered mighty strangely, for she doesn't mind the
hand on the wheel; changes about with every puff of wind. We'll hear
more of her before this time to-morrow."
 

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